Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, Volume VIII [1 ed.] 9780198829294

Table of contents :
Cover
OXFORD STUDIES IN EARLY MODERN PHILOSOPHY: VOLUME VIII
Copyright
Contents
Note from the Editors
Abbreviations
AQUINAS
DESCARTES
HOBBES
KANT
LEIBNIZ
LOCKE
MALEBRANCHE
MORE
PASCAL
SPINOZA
SUÁREZ
WOLFF
1: Imitation and ‘Infinite’ Will: Descartes on the Imago Dei
1. DESCARTES ON ANALOGY
1.1 Efficient Causation and God’s Derivation of His Own Existence: Analogy of Proportionality
1.2 The Reference to Health: Analogy of Attribution
1.3 Substance and the Denial of Univocity
1.4 Analogy and the Imago Dei
2. DESCARTES ON BEARING GOD’S IMAGE AND LIKENESS
2.1 Descartes and the Augustinian-Thomistic Tradition
2.2 Descartes’s Comparative Formulations of the Imago Dei Doctrine
3. FINITE AND INFINITE: THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THE HUMAN INTELLECT AND WILL
3.1 The Intellect’s Finitude
3.2 The Infinite Will
3.3 Why the Will Is Not Limited in the Way the Intellect Is
4. ‘INFINITE’ AND IMITATION: THE HUMAN WILL AND THE DIVINE WILL
4.1 ‘Infinite’ versus ‘Indefinite’: How the Human Will Imitates the Divine Will
4.2 Differences between Divine Will and Human Will
5. CONCLUSION
2: Descartes on the Ethical Reliability of the Passions: A Morean Reading
1. THE PASSIONS AS CONTENTFUL MENTAL STATES
2. MORE’S TWO KINDS OF AFFECTIONS
3. DESCARTES’S TWO KINDS OF AFFECTIONS
4. CONCLUSIONS
3: Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture
1. AGAINST THE SINCERE BELIEF AND IRRELIGIOUS INTERPRETATIONS
2. OUTWARD CONFORMITY AND THE AUTHORITY OF SCRIPTURE
3. OUTWARD CONFORMITY AND NATURAL PIETY
4. FURTHER INTERPRETIVE PROBLEMS SOLVED
5. THE RELIGION OF THUCYDIDES
4: Spinoza on Turning the Other Cheek
1. TTP CHAPTER 7
2. TTP CHAPTER 19
3. WHY ‘TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK’ UNDER CONDITIONS OF OPPRESSION IS PERMISSIBLE
4. WHY ‘TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK’ UNDER CONDITIONS OF OPPRESSION IS RATIONAL
5. CONCLUSION
5: Locke’s Succeeding Ideas
1. HOW LONG DO SENSORY IDEAS LAST?
2. PERCEIVING MOTION
3. RATES OF SUCCESSION
4. THE IDEA OF SUCCESSION
6: On Living Mirrors and Mites: Leibniz’s Encounter with Pascal on Infinity and Living Things Circa 1696
1. THE TEXT
2. APPROACHING INFINITY: LEIBNIZ VERSUS PASCAL
3. PASCAL’S MITE AND LEIBNIZ’S LIVING MIRROR
4. THE WONDERS OF INFINITY AND THEIR THEOLOGICAL UNDERTONES: DESPERATION VERSUS CELEBRATION
5. WHY THIS RESPONSE TO PASCAL AT THIS TIME (CIRCA 1696)? LEIBNIZ’S DEFINITION OF LIVING BEINGS IN TERMS OF THE INFINITE COMPLEXITY OF NATURAL MACHINES
6. DIVISIBILITY AND DISPARITY IN PASCAL VERSUS UNITY AND HARMONY IN LEIBNIZ
7. CONCLUSION
7: Leibniz’s Ontology of Force
1. FORCE AND POWER
2. PASSIVE POWER
3. ACTIVE POWER
4. PRIMITIVE ACTIVE FORCE
5. DERIVATIVE ACTIVE FORCE
6. APPETITIONS AND PERCEPTIONS
7. CONCLUSION
8: Leibniz on Human Finitude, Progress, and Eternal Recurrence: The Argument of the ‘Apokatastasis’ Essay Drafts and Related Texts
1. THE FINITE NUMBER OF ENUNCIABLE TRUTHS IN ‘DE L’HORIZON DE LA DOCTRINE HUMAINE’ OF 1693
2. THE HORIZON OF EVERYTHING HUMAN AND THE PLATONIC YEAR: TEXTS FROM 1693–1701
3. THE EXHAUSTION OF ‘SUFFICIENTLY’ DETAILED HISTORIES IN THE 1715 ‘APOKATASTASIS’ ESSAY DRAFTS
4. BEYOND COMBINATORY EXHAUSTION: THE PRINCIPLE OF INTERCONNECTION AND AN (EQUIVOCATING) ARGUMENT FOR TOTAL RECURRENCE
5. PROGRESS IN INFINITUM AND POST REVOLUTIONES
9: Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy
1. KANT ON WOLFF ’S METHOD IN PHILOSOPHY
2. WOLFF ’S MATHEMATICAL METHOD
3. KANT ON THE METHOD OF MATHEMATICS
4. KANT ON THE METHOD OF PHILOSOPHY
5. ANALYTIC DEFINITIONS IN WOLFF’S MATHEMATICAL METHOD
6. CONCLUSION
Notes to Contributors
Index of Names

Citation preview

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OX FOR D S TU D I ES I N E AR L Y M O D E R N P H I L O SO PH Y

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OXFORD STUDIES IN EARLY MODERN PHILOSOPHY VOLUME VIII

EDITED BY

DANIEL GARBER (Princeton University) AND

DONALD RUTHERFORD (University of California, San Diego)

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © the several contributors  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted First Edition published in  Impression:  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press  Madison Avenue, New York, NY , United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available ISBN –––– Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

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Contents Note from the Editors

vii

DANIEL GARBER AND DONALD RUTHERFORD

Abbreviations

ix

. Imitation and ‘Infinite’ Will: Descartes on the Imago Dei



MARIE JAYASEKERA

. Descartes on the Ethical Reliability of the Passions: A Morean Reading MATTHEW J . KISNER



. Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture



THOMAS HOLDEN

. Spinoza on Turning the Other Cheek



KEITH GREEN

. Locke’s Succeeding Ideas



MATTHEW STUART

. On Living Mirrors and Mites: Leibniz’s Encounter with Pascal on Infinity and Living Things Circa 



OHAD NACHTOMY

. Leibniz’s Ontology of Force



JULIA JORATI

. Leibniz on Human Finitude, Progress, and Eternal Recurrence: The Argument of the ‘Apokatastasis’ Essay Drafts and Related Texts



DAVID FORMAN

. Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy



GABRIELE GAVA

Notes to Contributors Index of Names

 

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Note from the Editors Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy covers the period that begins, very roughly, with Descartes and his contemporaries and ends with Kant. It also publishes papers on thinkers or movements outside that framework (and including Kant), as long as they are important for illuminating early modern thought. The core of the subject matter is, of course, philosophy and its history. But the volume’s papers reflect the fact that philosophy in this period was much broader in its scope than it is now taken to be, and included a great deal of what currently belongs to the natural sciences. Furthermore, philosophy in the period was closely connected with other disciplines, such as theology, and with larger questions of social, political, and religious history. While maintaining a focus on philosophy, the volume includes articles that examine the larger intellectual, social, and political context of early modern philosophy. While the articles in the volume are of importance to specialists in the various subfields of the discipline, our aim is to publish essays that appeal not only to scholars of one particular figure or another, but to the larger audience of philosophers, intellectual historians, and others who are interested in the period. Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy appears roughly once a year. While everything will be published in English, essays may also be submitted in French, German, or Italian. With this volume of Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, Daniel Garber ( Princeton University) is retiring as co-editor. Donald Rutherford (University of California, San Diego) will continue as editor. The editorial office is: Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy Philosophy Department,  University of California, San Diego  Gilman Drive La Jolla, CA - Email: [email protected]

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Abbreviations AQUINAS

ST

Summa Theologiae DESCARTES

Charles Adam and Paul Tannery (eds.), Œuvres de Descartes,  vols. (Paris: CNRS/J. Vrin, –) B Giulia Belgioioso et al. (eds. and trans.), René Descartes. Tutte le lettere. – (Milan: Bompiani, ) CSM John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (eds. and trans.), The Philosophical Writings of Descartes,  vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ) CSMK John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny (eds. and trans.), The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, iii. The Correspondence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ) First Objections First Set of Objections Meditations Meditations on First Philosophy Principles Principles of Philosophy [part in roman numeral, article in arabic numeral] First Replies Replies to First Set of Objections PS Passions of the Soul AT

HOBBES

AW B CR DCi

Jean Jacquot and Harold Whitmore Jones (eds.), Critique du De mundo de Thomas White (Paris: Vrin, ) Paul Seaward (ed.), Behemoth, or, the Long Parliament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ) Considerations upon the reputation, loyalty, manners, and religion of Thomas Hobbes, in EW iv. – Howard Warrender (ed.), De cive. The Latin Version (Oxford: Oxford University Press, )

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x DCo DH EL

EW Lev. LHT LW SL SPP

Abbreviations Karl Schuhmann (ed.), De corpore. Elementorum Philosophiae Sectio Prima (Paris: Vrin, ) De homine, in LW ii. – J. C. A. Gaskin (ed.), Human Nature and De Corpore Politico [i.e., The Elements of Law] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ) Sir William Molesworth (ed.), The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury,  vols. (London, –) Noel Malcolm (ed.), Leviathan: The English and Latin Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ) ‘On the Life and History of Thucydides’, in EW viii. xiii–xxxii Sir William Molesworth (ed.), Opera philosophica quae Latine scripsit omnia,  vols. (London, –) Six Lessons to the Professors of Mathematics, in EW vii. – Seven Philosophical Problems, in EW vii. – KANT

KGS KrV

Kants gesammelte Schriften ( Berlin: De Gruyter, Reimer, – ) Kritik der reinen Vernunft (first edition: Riga,  [A]; second editon: Riga,  [B]) LEIBNIZ

A

AG C F

GLW GM GP

Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften (ed.), Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, – ) R. Ariew and D. Garber (eds. and trans.), Philosophical Essays (Indianapolis: Hackett, ) Louis Couturat (ed.), Opuscules et fragments inédits de Leibniz (Paris: F. Alcan, ) Michel Fichant (ed. and trans.), De l’Horizon de la Doctrine Humaine (). Ἀποκατάστασις πάντων (La Restitution universelle) () (Paris: J. Vrin, ) C. I. Gerhardt (ed.), Briefwechsel zwischen Leibniz und Christian Wolff (Halle: Schmidt, ) C. I. Gerhardt (ed.), Leibnizens mathematische Schriften,  vols. (Berlin, –) C. I. Gerhardt (ed.), Die philosophischen Schriften von Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz,  vols. (Berlin, –)

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Abbreviations Gr

L LDV LOC

LS MP NE PT T WF

xi

Gaston Grua (ed.), Textes inédits d’après des manuscrits de la Bilbliothèque provinciale d’Hanovre,  vols. (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, ) Leroy E. Loemker (ed. and trans.), Philosophical Papers and Letters, nd edn. (Dordrecht: Reidel, ) Paul Lodge (ed. and trans.), The Leibniz-De Volder Correspondence (New Haven: Yale University Press, ) Richard Arthur (ed. and trans.), The Labyrinth of the Continuum: Writings on the Continuum Problem, – (New Haven: Yale University Press, ) Lloyd Strickland (ed. and trans.), The Shorter Leibniz Texts (London and New York: Continuum, ) Mary Morris and G. H. R. Parkinson (eds. and trans.), Philosophical Writings (London: J. M. Dent, ) Nouveaux essais sur l’entendement humain (), in A VI. vi. Roger Woolhouse and Richard Francks (eds. and trans.), Philosophical Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ) Theodicy (), in GP vi. R. S. Woolhouse and Richard Francks (eds. and trans.), Leibniz’s ‘New System’ and Associated Contemporary Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ) LOCKE

E

P. H. Nidditch (ed.), An Essay concerning Human Understanding (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ) MALEBRANCHE

OC

Andre Robinet (ed.), Malebranche: Œuvres complètes,  vols. (Paris: J. Vrin, –) MORE

EE

Henry More, An Account of Virtue or Dr. Henry More’s Abridgment of Morals, put into English, trans. Edward Southwell (London: printed for Benj. Tooke, ) PASCAL

Pensées

Pensées, in L. Lafuma (ed.), Œuvres complètes (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, )

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xii

Abbreviations SPINOZA

C EIIPS

G KV TP TTP

Edwin Curley (ed. and trans.), Collected Works of Spinoza,  vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, , ) Ethics [part in roman numeral followed by P (for proposition), D (for demonstration), S (for scholium), A (for axiom), App (for appendix), Cor (for corollary), Pref (for preface), etc.] Carl Gebhardt (ed.), Spinoza opera,  vols. (Heidelberg: C. Winter, ) Korte Verhandeling van God, de Mensch en deszelfs Welstand Tractatus Politicus Tractatus theologico-politicus

SUÁREZ

DM OO

Disputationes metaphysicae M. André and C. Berton (eds.), Opera omnia,  vols. (Paris: Ludovicus Vivès, –) WOLFF

GW

Jean École (ed.), Gesammelte Werke (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, – )

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 Imitation and ‘Infinite’ Will: Descartes on the Imago Dei MARIE JAYASEKERA

Descartes’s conception of the imago Dei has proven perplexing to commentators, both in his own time and in ours. After presenting his Third Meditation arguments for the existence of God, Descartes affirms the doctrine: ‘the mere fact that God created me is a very strong basis for believing that I am somehow made in his image and likeness’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ).1 Gassendi presses Descartes on this claim: You say that it is reasonable to believe that you are made in the image and likeness of God. This is certainly believable given religious faith, but how may it be understood by natural reason, unless you are putting forward an anthropomorphic picture of God? Moreover, what can that likeness consist in? (AT vii. ; CSM ii. )

And Burman objects, ‘But why do you say that? Surely God could have created you without creating you in his image?’ (AT v. ; CSMK ). Descartes’s remarks in the Fourth Meditation might seem to provide some clarification: It is only the will, or freedom of choice [voluntas, sive arbitrii libertas], which I experience within me to be so great that the idea of any greater faculty is beyond my grasp; so much so that it is above all in virtue of the will that I understand myself to bear in some way the image and likeness of God. For . . . [God’s will] does not seem any greater than mine considered in itself 1 Translations of Descartes are largely from CSM and CSMK, but with some modifications, which I indicate. Translations of Descartes for which I give no citation to a translation are my own. Citations from B give the letter number followed by the page. Translations of Suárez, DM are from Francisco Suárez, John P. Doyle (ed. and trans.), The Metaphysical Demonstration of the Existence of God: Metaphysical Disputations – (South Bend: St. Augustine’s Press, ). Translations of Aquinas, ST are from the Fathers of the English Dominican Province edition, originally published by Benzinger Brothers.

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

Marie Jayasekera

formally and precisely [in se formaliter et præcise spectata]. This is because the will simply consists in our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid); or rather, it consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we feel we are determined to it by no external force [ut a nulla vi externa nos ad id determinari sentiamus]. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified)

Descartes here singles out the will as central to his conception of the imago Dei. However, it is not at all clear what the resemblance between the divine will and the human will is supposed to be.2 Present-day commentators are likewise dubious about Descartes’s affirmation of a resemblance, and the literature has largely concluded that Descartes’s view is problematic, at best. Bernard Williams, understanding the resemblance as connected to Descartes’s conception of the will as limitless, concludes, ‘Descartes’ view of the will as limitless is not fully intelligible . . . the view is fundamentally vacuous’.3 More recently, Tad Schmaltz says, ‘Descartes’ assertion of a resemblance in the specific case of the will is deeply problematic’,4 and he argues that significant differences between the divine will and the human will provide support for Jean-Luc Marion’s view that there is a ‘disappearance of the scholastic view that there is an analogical resemblance between God’s mind and our own’.5 I think there is more to be said on Descartes’s behalf. To show this, I begin by addressing an issue that, though fundamental to this topic, has been largely neglected: Descartes’s understanding of the doctrine of the imago Dei and, in particular, how he conceives of the relation between God and human beings. I argue that although Descartes was familiar with and made use of medieval and Scholastic conceptions of analogy, when he says that human beings are made in the image and 2 The obscurities and ambiguities in this passage have been much discussed in the secondary literature. See my ‘Descartes on Human Freedom’ [‘Human Freedom’], Philosophy Compass,  (), –, for discussion of the difficulties that this passage poses for understanding Descartes’s conception of freedom. 3 Bernard Williams, Descartes: The Project of Pure Enquiry (New York: Routledge, ), . 4 Tad Schmaltz, ‘The Disappearance of Analogy in Descartes, Spinoza, and Regis’ [‘Disappearance of Analogy’], Canadian Journal of Philosophy,  (), –, at . 5 Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, . Schmaltz’s reference is to Jean-Luc Marion, Sur la théologie blanche de Descartes, nd ed. [La théologie blanche] (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, ). I discuss aspects of Marion’s views in sections . and ., below.

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Imitation and ‘Infinite’ Will



likeness of God, he is not alluding to those conceptions (section ). Instead, Descartes’s language in his discussions of the imago Dei evokes the Augustinian-Thomistic tradition of discourse on the nature of image, likeness, equality, and imitation. I also highlight a littlediscussed feature of Descartes’s formulation of the doctrine, its comparative form: Descartes thinks that it is ‘especially’ or ‘principally’ because of the will that we bear the image and likeness of God (section ). Having clarified Descartes’s conception of the doctrine, I turn to the issue of how the will figures in Descartes’s conception of the imago Dei. I argue that his conception of the infiniteness of the human will is the key to how human beings bear the image and likeness of God. I begin by comparing the human will with the human intellect, which reveals that Descartes thinks that the human will is infinite in relation to its extent and that the extent of the will is tied to the nature of the will as a faculty, or a power (section ). I then explore the issue of why Descartes uses the term ‘infinite’ to characterize the human will when he says elsewhere that he reserves the term for God alone. I show that there are similarities between the human will and God that ground Descartes’s use of the term. Finally, I explain why significant differences between the relevant powers in God and human beings, which I have claimed explains the imago Dei, do not undermine Descartes’s affirmation that ‘it is above all in virtue of the will that I understand myself to bear in some way the image and likeness of God’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ) (section ).

.

DESCARTES ON ANALOGY

Discussion in the secondary literature of Descartes’s use of analogy has centered around two issues, his use of analogical reasoning in his physics6 and his views on substance.7 But Descartes uses analogy in more than just these two contexts. As background to the question of 6 See, for example, Peter Galison, ‘Descartes’s Comparisons: From the Invisible to the Visible’, Isis,  (), –; Glenn Statile, ‘The Necessity of Analogy in Cartesian Science’, The Philosophical Forum,  (), –; Gideon Manning, ‘Analogy and Falsification in Descartes’ Physics’, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science,  (), –; and Gideon Manning, ‘Analogy’, in Lawrence Nolan (ed.), The Cambridge Descartes Lexicon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –. 7 I present references to the literature on Descartes’s use of analogy in the discussions of substance in section ., below.

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Marie Jayasekera

how Descartes conceives of the resemblance between God and human beings, I discuss four cases in which there is evidence that Descartes draws on theories of analogy: () the Replies discussions of efficient causation and God’s derivation of his own existence; () his mention of the classical example of health in a letter to More; () the discussion of substance; and, finally, () the case of the imago Dei. The discussion shows that although Descartes is familiar with and makes use of different kinds of analogy, there is good reason to think that he is not drawing on them in his discussion of the imago Dei. A very brief introduction to the medieval and Scholastic background will help set the stage. Among Descartes’s predecessors, theories of analogy were widely used and debated in logic, metaphysics, and theology.8 Theories of analogy explain how the same word can be used in more than one sense. In general, uses of words are divided into three types: (a) used in the same sense (univocal), (b) used with very different senses (purely equivocal), and (c) used with related senses (analogical).9 The two predominant types of analogy discussed in philosophical contexts10 were ‘analogy of proportionality’ and ‘analogy of attribution’.11 Analogy of proportionality compares two proportions 8 The development of theories of analogy in medieval philosophy is intricate, because the proper conception and use of different types of analogy were greatly contested in the period. For an authoritative, accessible overview, see E. Jennifer Ashworth, ‘Medieval Theories of Analogy’ [‘Medieval Theories’], in Edward N. Zalta (ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter  Edition), . 9 More precisely, analogy was normally regarded as a subdivision of equivocation in the medieval tradition. See Ashworth, ‘Medieval Theories’, and E. J. Ashworth, ‘Suárez on the Analogy of Being: Some Historical Background’ [‘Suárez on Being’], Vivarium,  (), –, at –. The way of conceptualizing the categories I present seems to be the one Descartes was working with. 10 A third type of analogy, analogy of imitation or participation, was sometimes used by theologians to explain how the same terms (e.g. ‘good’ or ‘just’) could be used to describe both God and creatures. See Ashworth, ‘Medieval Theories’ and ‘Suárez on Being’. 11 Confusingly, these two types of analogy sometimes went by different, but very similar names. Francisco Suárez, a Scholastic philosopher whom Descartes explicitly acknowledges reading (AT vii. ), explains: ‘analogy is commonly distinguished in two ways: one is called by many “analogy of proportionality” [analogia proportionalitatis] and the other “[analogy] of proportion” [proportionis]. Others, however, call the first, “analogy of proportion” [analogia proportionis] and the second, “analogy of attribution” [attributionis]’ (DM XXVIII../OO xxvi. ). The terminological usage I favor, ‘analogy of proportionality’ for the first type of analogy and ‘analogy of attribution’ for the second, traces back at least to Cardinal Cajetan’s De nominum analogia (written in , published in ), although Cajetan’s conceptions of the two types of analogy differ importantly from Suárez’s. For example, Cajetan conceives of analogy of attribution as involving only extrinsic denomination—that is, that something is

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or relations; analogy of attribution uses the same word to characterize two things, one in a primary sense and the other in a secondary sense (or ‘in a prior and a posterior sense’).12

. Efficient Causation and God’s Derivation of His Own Existence: Analogy of Proportionality Descartes’s most sustained use of analogia occurs in his First and Fourth Replies discussions of his view that God is causa sui, i.e. that God derives his existence from himself. Descartes says that to make sense of how God derives his existence from himself, we need to understand that it is analogous to efficient causation. As Descartes’s discussions will show, the type of analogy in this context is analogy of proportionality: Descartes compares God’s relation to himself with the relation between an efficient cause and its effect.13 designated with a term either in relation to something else extrinsic to it (‘as urine is called “healthy” only by its relation as a sign of health’) or because the foundation of the relation of similarity to something else is extrinsic (‘air is said to be “bright” from the brightness of the sun’). These two examples are from Cajetan’s commentary on Summa Theologiae, as discussed in Joshua P. Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy: Rereading Cajetan’s De Nominum Analogia [Semantics] (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, ), – and , note . For Cajetan’s text, see § in Cajetan, N. Zammit (ed.), De Nominum Analogia (Rome: Angelicum, ). In contrast, Suárez holds that analogy of attribution can be of two kinds, not only extrinsic but also intrinsic. See notes , , and  below for further discussion of Suárez’s conceptions of intrinsic and extrinsic analogy of attribution. See Ashworth, ‘Medieval Theories’, on the history of this phrase ( per prius et posterius). Although the primary texts seem to me to be decisive (which I will attempt to show in what follows), there is debate in the secondary literature about which type of analogy Descartes is using in his Replies discussions of God as causa sui. For instance, in his Questions cartésiennes II [Questions] (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, ), Jean-Luc Marion understands the analogy to be analogy of attribution (or, as he puts it, ‘analogy of proportion’: see note , above, for discussion of terminology): ‘en bonne rigueur théologique (et thomiste), l’analogie de proportio ou de référence se construit entre des analogues et un terme privilégié, le premier analogue’ (Marion, Questions, , emphasis in the original). But understanding the analogy in this context as analogy of attribution requires an inversion (Marion calls it a ‘counter-analogy’ [contre-analogie]): it makes the finite sense of efficient causation primary and the sense of efficient causation applicable to God or the infinite secondary: ‘Reste l’hypothèse ici envisagée par Descartes: la causalité efficiente se dit au sens strict des étants finis et se dit analogiquement de Dieu; mais il en résulte un renversement prodigieux: Dieu ne se dit selon et comme cause efficiente que par analogie, donc par référence à la causalité finie, seule strictement efficiente’ (Marion, Questions, ). It is not clear why Marion understands the analogy in this way, but it might be that he sees Descartes’s reasoning here to be similar to his reasoning regarding substance (Marion, Questions, –), and he takes the relevant analogy there to be analogy of attribution. For more on Marion on Descartes on substance, see note  below. Vincent Carraud, pace Marion, interprets Descartes as using analogy of 12 13

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Descartes’s remarks on the topic are prompted by Caterus’s questions in the First Objections about the second causal argument for the existence of God of the Third Meditation. Caterus asks Descartes to explain his claim from the Third Meditation,‘if I derived my existence from myself. . . . I should myself be God’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ), and its implication that God derives his existence from himself. Clarification is needed, Caterus explains, because the phrase ‘from itself ’ has two senses: when it is said that something derives its existence ‘from itself ’ (a se) the phrase can be taken in a positive sense, to mean ‘from itself as a cause’, or in a negative sense, to mean simply ‘not from another’ (non ab alio) (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). And Caterus thinks that only the negative sense applies in this case.14 Descartes responds with a detailed elaboration in the First Replies (AT vii. –; CSM ii. –). What is relevant for my purposes is Descartes’s use of analogy of proportionality in his explanation: There are some who attend only to the literal and strict meaning of the phrase ‘efficient cause’ and thus think it is impossible for anything to be the cause of itself. They do not see that there is any place for another kind of cause analogous to an efficient cause [aliud causae genus efficienti analogum], and hence when they say that something derives its existence ‘from itself ’ [a se] they normally mean simply that it has no cause. But if they would look at the facts rather than the words, they would readily observe that the negative sense of the phrase ‘from itself ’ comes merely from the imperfection of the human intellect and has no basis in reality. But there is a positive sense of the phrase which is derived from the true nature of things, and it is this sense alone which is employed in my argument . . . the fact that God derives his existence from

proportionality in this context. See Vincent Carraud, Causa sive ratio. La raison de la cause, de Suarez à Leibniz [Cause sive ratio] (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, ), –. Carraud seems to take the primary texts to clearly show that Descartes is employing an analogy of proportionality (as I do): after presenting the relevant excerpts, Carraud states, ‘Cette analogie s’entend comme un strict rapport (c’est du reste le mot que Clerselier choisit à plusieurs reprises), plus exactement une comparaison de rapports (égalité géométrique), ce que les scolastiques eussent appelé une analogie de proportionnalité. Rien n’autorise donc à l’interpréter comme une analogie de proportion, ou d’attribution, qui intègre le premier analogué à la série des analogues’ (Carraud, Causa sive ratio, , emphasis in the original). 14 Caterus follows the tradition, extending back to Aristotle, which denies that something can be the cause of itself in any ‘positive’ sense. For recent discussion of the Scholastic background relevant to the debate between Caterus and Arnauld and Descartes, see Richard A. Lee, Jr., ‘The Scholastic Resources for Descartes’s Concept of God as Causa Sui’, in Daniel Garber and Steven Nadler (eds.), Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, volume  (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –.

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himself, or has no cause apart from himself, depends not on nothing but on the real immensity of his power; hence, when we perceive this, we are quite entitled to think that in a sense he stands in the same relation to himself as an efficient cause does to its effect [illum quodammodo idem praestare respectu sui ipsius quod causa efficiens respectu sui effectus], and hence that he derives his existence from himself in the positive sense. (AT vii. –; CSM ii. –, my emphasis)

In this passage, Descartes explains how we are to understand God’s derivation of himself. He rejects Caterus’s suggestion that when we say something is the cause of itself we are using ‘from itself ’ only in the negative sense to mean ‘not from another’—that is, that it has no other cause (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Instead, Descartes says, we can understand ‘from itself ’ in a positive sense, i.e. in the sense of analogy of proportionality: God stands in the same relation to himself as an efficient cause stands to its effect. In the Fourth Objections, Arnauld presses Descartes on this conclusion: he says it ‘seems to me to be a hard saying, and indeed to be false’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). The main problem is that an efficient cause is distinct from its effect but God is not distinct from himself (AT vii. –; CSM ii. ). Arnauld concludes, ‘I am sure that it will scarcely be possible to find a single theologian who will not object to the proposition that God derives his existence from himself in the positive sense, and as it were causally’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Descartes, in response, reiterates his position from the First Replies. He admits that the notion of efficient cause ‘in a strict sense’ cannot be used to characterize God’s derivation of his existence of himself because the notion, strictly speaking, requires the cause to be distinct from itself. But, he maintains: It does not, however, follow that such a cause is in no sense a positive cause that can be regarded as analogous to an efficient cause [causam positivam, quæ per analogiam ad efficientem referri possit]; and this is all that my argument requires. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. )

Descartes explains that just because some aspects of the notion of an efficient cause in the strict sense do not apply to the case of God, it does not follow that the notion cannot apply to God by analogy. And he further underscores the importance of acknowledging the analogy: In refusing to allow us to say that God stands toward himself in a relation analogous to that of an efficient cause [analogiam causae efficientis], M. Arnauld

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not only fails to clarify the proof of God’s existence but actually prevents the reader from understanding it (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ).

Here, again, Descartes shows the analogy in this context to be analogy of proportionality: two relations are being compared, God’s relation to himself and the relation between a cause and its effect. To Descartes’s mind, recognizing the analogy of proportionality between efficient causation and God’s derivation of himself is central to understanding the Third Meditation proofs of God’s existence.

. The Reference to Health: Analogy of Attribution In his letter to Henry More of  February , Descartes shows that he is aware of the second type of analogy I have discussed, analogy of attribution, which uses the same word to characterize two things, one in a primary sense and the other in a secondary sense. Descartes’s use of the analogy of attribution arises in the context of his explanation of his definition of body as extended substance. More objects to Descartes’s definition: ‘God, or an angel, or any other self-subsistent thing is extended, and so your definition is too broad’ (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK ). Descartes argues in response that ‘no incorporeal substances are properly [proprie] extended’ (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK , modified). He then identifies a common misunderstanding—‘some people indeed do confuse the notion of substance with that of extended thing’—and presents an analysis of the confusion: This is because of the false preconceived opinion which makes them believe that nothing can exist or be intelligible without being also imaginable, and because it is indeed true that nothing falls under the imagination [sub imaginationem cadit], without being in some way extended. Now just as we can say that health belongs only to human beings, though by analogy [per analogiam] medicine and a temperate climate and many other things also are called healthy, so too I call extended only what is imaginable as having parts within parts, each of determinate size and shape—although other things may also be called extended by analogy [per analogiam]. (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK , modified)

Descartes raises the example of health to illustrate how the term ‘extended’ might be used not in its proper sense (his sense), but in an

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analogous sense. The example of health Descartes mentions originated with Aristotle15 and was commonly reproduced in Scholastic discussions.16 ‘Healthy’ is an analogical term as applied to human beings and medicine (and temperate climate, etc.), because while a human being is healthy in a primary sense, medicine is healthy in a secondary sense: it contributes to or causes the health of the human being. Descartes says that only what is imaginable as having parts within parts is extended in a primary sense, and the term, therefore, is true, strictly speaking, only of corporeal substance. But just as medicine is healthy by analogy, so other things may be called extended by analogy.17

. Substance and the Denial of Univocity There is another context in which Descartes might be seen as using analogy of attribution, his discussions of substance. In the Principles, Descartes defines the term ‘substance’ as ‘a thing which exists in such a way as to depend on no other thing for its existence’ (AT viii–. ; Aristotle, Metaphysics Γ , a–b. Francisco Suárez, for instance, presents it as an example of extrinsic analogy of attribution, one of his two kinds of analogy of attribution (DM XXVIII../OO xxvi. ). In extrinsic analogy of attribution, the referent of the term in question is in one thing intrinsically, and in the other extrinsically. So, regarding the classical example of health, Suárez says: ‘ “healthy” is said absolutely of an animal and of medicine by reference to an animal’ (DM XXVIII../OO xxvi. ). In contrast, in his second kind of analogy of attribution, intrinsic analogy of attribution, the referent of the term in question is in both things intrinsically, albeit in one thing absolutely and the other by relationship to the first. Suárez thinks, as a result, that with intrinsic analogy of attribution ‘there exists one common formal and objective concept, because the analogates properly and intrinsically are such and they truly agree in a certain character which the mind can conceive abstractly and precisely in one concept common to all’ (DM XXVIII../OO xxvi. ). 17 Although, as far as I can tell, he nowhere refers to Suárez’s distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic analogy of attribution (see note ). If Descartes has this distinction in mind, he surely takes the relevant analogy in his response to More to be extrinsic analogy of attribution, for at least two reasons. First, the example of health is historically a paradigm case of extrinsic analogy of attribution (in addition to Suárez, Cajetan takes it as an example of analogy of attribution (Cajetan, De Nominum Analogia, §), which he conceives of as exclusively extrinsic—see note , above), and the comparison between the two cases in this context only works if Descartes is using the same kind of analogy in both. Second, Descartes would certainly reject the claim that extension belongs to incorporeal substances such as God intrinsically, which would have to be the case if he were using intrinsic analogy of attribution. Thus, his response to More depends on understanding extension as belonging to incorporeal things extrinsically, only by reference to things that are ‘imaginable as having parts within parts’, as he puts it. 15 16

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CSM i. ). Because created substances need God’s concurrence to exist (AT viii–. , ; CSM ii. ), only God depends on no other thing. Thus, it follows, Descartes says: The term ‘substance’ does not apply univocally [univoce], as they say in the Schools, to God and to other things; that is, there is no signification in the name that can be distinctly understood to be common to God and his creatures [nulla ejus nominis significatio potest distincte intelligi, quæ Deo et creaturis sit communis]’ (Principles I.: AT viii–. ).18

Descartes’s denial that the term ‘substance’ is univocal as applied to God and created beings allows for two possibilities, either that the term is purely equivocal or that there is an analogous sense in which God and created beings are both substances.19 Because Descartes never says that the term ‘substance’ is applied analogically to God and created beings in the Principles discussion of substance or elsewhere, some commentators have suspected that ‘substance’ is purely equivocal for Descartes.20 But later remarks in a letter to Clerselier of  April  seem to support the view that Descartes thinks that ‘substance’ is analogical. Descartes says that the notion of substance itself entails infinity and that any defects are accidents:

I reproduce Tad Schmaltz’s more literal translation here (Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, ). 19 Whether ‘substance’ is purely equivocal or analogical for Descartes is a difficult and much debated issue, and I cannot do justice to it here. It is complicated by the fact that which particular background conceptions of analogy Descartes might be employing or responding to is itself a contentious issue. For example, Jean-Marie Beyssade, Jean-Luc Marion, Tad Schmaltz, and Jorge Secada take Francisco Suárez’s conception of the analogy of being to be relevant background, but they come to varying conclusions on whether Descartes agrees with Suárez or not. See Jean-Marie Beyssade, ‘La théorie cartésienne de la substance: équivocité ou analogie?’, Revue internationale de philosophie,  (), –; Jean-Luc Marion, ‘A propos de Suarez et Descartes’, Revue internationale de philosophie  (), –; Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’; and Jorge Secada, ‘The Doctrine of Substance’ [‘Substance’], in Stephen Gaukroger (ed.), The Blackwell Guide to Descartes’s Meditations (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, ), –. This is not surprising because Suárez’s position (and his relevant tradition) is itself a matter of significant debate. See John P. Doyle, ‘Suárez on the Analogy of Being’, The Modern Schoolman,  (), – and –, on Suárez’s conception of the analogy, and Ashworth, ‘Suárez on Being’, regarding the debate over the relevant background to Suárez. Even if Descartes agrees with Suárez that ‘substance’ is to be applied analogically to God and creatures, it seems that he disagrees with Suárez on the nature of the analogy involved. See note , below, for further discussion of this point. 20 See, for example, Secada, ‘Substance’, –. 18

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By ‘infinite substance’ I mean a substance which has actually infinite and immense, true and real perfections. This is not an accident added to the notion of substance, but the very essence of substance taken absolutely and bounded by no defects; these defects, in respect of substance, are accidents; but infinity or infinitude is not. (AT v. –; B , p. ; CSMK )

This suggests that for Descartes, because ‘substance’ includes infinity, the term in its strict sense applies alone to God but then may be applied secondarily to finite creatures, since finitude would presumably be a defect. Descartes continues: I say that the notion I have of the infinite is in me before that of the finite because, by the mere fact that I conceive being, or that which is, without thinking whether it is finite or infinite, what I conceive is infinite being; but in order to conceive a finite being, I have to take away something from this general notion of being, which must accordingly be there first [il faut que je retranche quelque chose de cette notion générale de l’être, laquelle par conséquent doit précéder]. (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK , my emphasis)

Here the interpretation that Descartes holds that ‘substance’ is analogical is better supported, because Descartes says that in order to conceive a finite being, we must first have a general notion of being from which we then take something away. In other words, Descartes seems to be expressing the view that analogy of attribution holds for ‘being’ or ‘substance’: ‘being’ applies primarily to God, and then in a secondary or derivative sense to finite beings.21

. Analogy and the Imago Dei Lastly, Descartes might be seen as drawing on theories of analogy in his conception of the imago Dei, because analogy appeared in medieval 21

If in his discussions of substance Descartes has in mind Suárez’s views on analogy and substance, and if Descartes is affirming that ‘substance’ can be applied analogically to God and creatures, he surely disagrees with Suárez on the kind of analogy involved. (See note , above, for Suárez’s distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic analogy of attribution.) JeanLuc Marion thinks it is the (Scotist) aspect of Suárez’s conception of intrinsic analogy of attribution that Descartes is denying in his rejection of univocity in the Principles (Marion, La théologie blanche, ) and that, Jorge Secada thinks, amounts to univocity (Secada, ‘Substance’, ). As we saw, in Principles I. (AT viii–. ) Descartes explicitly denies, regarding substance, that there is a signification common to God and creatures. If Descartes holds there is an analogy here, the kind of analogy would be extrinsic analogy of attribution, not intrinsic analogy of attribution, as Suárez holds.

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discussions of the imago Dei22 as well as in discussions of a related issue, how we can sensibly use the same terms to characterize both God and created beings (e.g. ‘good’ and ‘wise’).23 But if Descartes uses analogy to illuminate the imago Dei, as some commentators suggest,24 his claim that the will figures in some way in our resemblance to God seems to be in tension with significant commitments he holds about the nature of God. Descartes’s commitment to divine indifference seems to pose a particular difficulty.25 Descartes holds that God’s will is indifferent, that is, that God’s choices are never impelled by any prior perception of the good (AT vii. –; CSM ii. –). He explains in the Sixth Replies that this indifference is essential to the divine will and divine freedom26 and an indication of God’s perfection (AT vii. –; CSM ii. –).27 Indifference in human beings, however, is neither essential to human freedom (AT vii. –; CSM ii. ) nor a perfection but, instead, evidence ‘of a defect in knowledge or a kind of negation’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). But Descartes also maintains that the human will is ‘perfect of its kind’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Tad Schmaltz argues

22 For example, Thomas Aquinas makes a passing reference to analogy in his discussion of the imago Dei. See note , below. 23 See Ashworth, ‘Medieval Theories’, § and John F. Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, ), –, on this issue, the analogical predication of divine names. 24 References to Descartes’s use of analogy in the context of the imago Dei include: Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’; C. P. Ragland, ‘Alternative Possibilities in Descartes’s Fourth Meditation’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at ; C. P. Ragland, ‘Descartes on the Principle of Alternative Possibilities’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at ; and Noa Naaman-Zauderer, Descartes’ Deontological Turn: Reason, Will, and Virtue in the Later Writings [Descartes’ Deontological Turn] (New York: Cambridge University Press, ), e.g. at . NaamanZauderer, however, makes the reference in passing and may not be committed to anything stronger than the view that Descartes holds that there is a likeness between God and human beings. 25 Tad Schmaltz mentions a second point of disanalogy: God’s will and understanding are identical, whereas the human will and understanding are not (Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, ). I address this difference in section , below. 26 Descartes identifies the faculty of the will with arbitrii libertas (translated ‘freedom of judgment’, ‘freedom of choice’, or ‘freedom of decision’) both for human beings (AT vii. , : ‘voluntas, sive arbitrii libertas’) and for God (AT vii. ). 27 ‘The supreme indifference to be found in God is the supreme indication of his omnipotence’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). I will return to this point in section .

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that these commitments undermine a purported analogy between God and human beings because, given that Descartes holds that the divine will/freedom and human will/freedom are each perfect, they then must be different in kind. If they are different in kind, there is no essence of freedom in general that God possesses that we possess only derivatively, as can be argued in the case of substance (as we have seen). It follows, according to Schmaltz, that there must be a purely equivocal relationship between God and human beings in regard to the will and freedom.28 This argument assumes that for Descartes’s claim about the will’s role in the imago Dei to stand, it must meet the requirements of analogy of attribution. But there is reason to reconsider this assumption: in contrast to the other contexts we have seen in which Descartes clearly has in mind the framework of medieval theories of analogy, Descartes does not use the relevant terminology (analogia, equivoce, univoce, and all their variants) to clarify his conception of the imago Dei.29 Furthermore, an alternative framework can better make sense of the imago Dei: a tradition of discourse in which the notions of image, likeness, and imitation clarify how human beings bear God’s image and likeness.30

I take the basics of this argument from Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, –. So far as I know, there are only two passages in which Descartes’s language might suggest that he is alluding to theories of analogy in the context of the imago Dei. First, in the Second Replies, Descartes says ‘of all the individual attributes which, by a defect of our intellect, we assign to God in a piecemeal fashion, corresponding to the way in which we perceive them in ourselves, none belong to God and ourselves univocally [univoce]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). But Descartes here is not clarifying his conception of the way in which human beings bear the image and likeness of God, but instead, clarifying his conception of God in response to objections from Mersenne on this issue. Second, in the Sixth Replies, in his discussion of the difference between indifference in human beings and in God, Descartes says ‘no essence can belong univocally [univoce] to both God and his creatures’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ), but this reference to non-univocity is an artifact of his objector’s claim that ‘the essences of things are . . . indivisible and immutable’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ), which Descartes dismisses as irrelevant to the discussion (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). 30 The distinction I am positing here between likeness and analogy is present earlier in the history of discussions of analogia. Joshua P. Hochschild briefly traces the distinction from Aristotle to Aquinas (he calls it the distinction between ‘associated meaning and nongeneric likeness’) in Semantics –, and references work on Bonaventure as especially helpful for illustrating it. See Hochschild, Semantics, , note , for the references to Bonaventure. 28 29

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.

DESCARTES ON BEARING GOD’S IMAGE AND LIKENESS

In this section, I show that Descartes’s discussions of the imago Dei evoke the Augustinian-Thomistic31 tradition of discourse on the nature of image and, therefore, that this tradition should be used to make sense of Descartes’s conception of the doctrine.32 I then turn to the comparative nature of Descartes’s formulation of the imago Dei claim.

. Descartes and the Augustinian-Thomistic Tradition In question  of De diversis quaestionibus octoginta tribus,33 Augustine maps the relationships between the concepts imago (image), similitudino (likeness), and aequalitas (equality, also translated as ‘identity’). He focuses on those particular concepts because his larger context is the Christological-Trinitarian discussion of the relationships between God, Christ, and man, and whether man is in the image of God as Christ is, or whether man is made only in Christ’s image.34 According to Augustine, although the concepts of image, likeness, and equality are distinct from each another, they are related. The concept of image includes likeness but not necessarily equality (the image of a man in a mirror is like the man but not equal to him ‘because there is 31 I use this term to characterize the tradition because Augustine seems to initiate a new way of conceptualizing the imago Dei, and as I show, Thomas Aquinas follows Augustine to a great extent. See R. A. Markus, ‘ “Imago” and “Similitudo” in Augustine’ [‘ “Imago” and “Similitudo” ’], Revue des Études Augustiniennes,  (), –, for a discussion of how Augustine breaks from the earlier patristic tradition in his analysis of the relationships between imago and similitudo. 32 At one point in his discussion of the imago Dei in the Summa, Thomas Aquinas mentions analogy: ‘Now a thing is said to be one not only numerically, in species, or in genus, but also according to a certain analogy or proportion. In this sense a creature is one with God, or like to Him’ (ST I, q. , a.  ad ). But the discussion of image, likeness, and imitation I will focus on is distinct: Aquinas does not integrate it with any of the theories of analogy that he makes use of in other contexts. 33 Translations are from Saint Augustine, Eighty-Three Different Questions [Eighty-Three], David L. Mosher (trans.) (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, ). 34 The title of Question  is ‘On the text in Paul’s letter to the Colossians: “In whom we have redemption and remission of sins, who is the image of the invisible God” ’ (Augustine, Eighty-Three, ). But Markus argues on the basis of earlier texts that ‘Augustine’s ideas of image and likeness and their mutual relations had been formulated . . . without reference to their use in Trinitarian contexts, and that they were only introduced into such contexts already fully-fledged’ (Markus, ‘ “Imago” and “Similitudo” ’, ).

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absent from the image much that is present in that thing of which it is the copy’).35 The concept of equality entails likeness (between two identical eggs there is an equality ‘for whatever belongs to the one belongs to the other’36) but not image (the concept of image requires that the image be dependent on the original, which it expresses).37 Lastly, the concept of likeness entails neither image nor equality, because something can be like something else while being neither its image nor its equal (a partridge egg is like a chicken egg insofar as it is an egg, but is neither its image nor its equal). Augustine concludes his discussion in question  by using this conceptual map to argue that Christ is not only the image and likeness of God, but that there is equality between them. Thomas Aquinas reproduces Augustine’s discussion of the relations between the concepts to a large extent in his discussion of the imago Dei in question  of Part  of the Summa Theologiae: As Augustine says: ‘Where an image exists, there forthwith is a likeness; but where there is likeness, there is not necessarily an image’. Hence it is clear that likeness is essential to an image; and that an image adds something to likeness— namely, that it is copied from something else [sit ex alio expressum]. For an ‘image’ is so called because it is produced as an imitation of something else [agitur ad imitationem alterius]; wherefore, for instance, an egg, however much like and equal to another egg, is not called an image of the other egg, because it is not copied from it. But equality does not belong to the essence of an image, for as Augustine says: ‘Where there is an image there is not necessarily equality’ . . . now it is manifest that in man there is some likeness to God, copied from God as from an exemplar; yet this likeness is not one of equality, for such an exemplar infinitely excels its copy. Therefore there is in man a likeness to God; not indeed, a perfect likeness, but imperfect. (ST I, q. , a. resp)

Aquinas presents the same key notions of image, likeness, and equality and traces the same relationships between them. But Aquinas adds a further notion that will figure in Descartes’s discussion, imitation: ‘an “image” is so called because it is produced as an imitation of something else’. This isn’t the only instance of Aquinas using ‘imitation’. In an earlier work, Aquinas presents the same basic conception of image as 36 Augustine, Eighty-Three, . Ibid. The Latin is ‘quia de illo expressa est’. This phrase is also rendered by translators of Augustine and Aquinas in the language of ‘copying’: see the passage from ST in the next paragraph. 35 37

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the one he presents in the Summa Theologiae but frames the discussion using ‘imitation’: ‘We call image what refers to the imitation of another [imago proprie dicitur quod ad alterius imitationem est].’38 Descartes echoes the language and conceptual connections of Aquinas’s (and hence Augustine’s) view. In response to Gassendi’s objections to his Third Meditation affirmation of the imago Dei, Descartes clarifies how he conceives of the doctrine: You . . . deny that we are made in the image of God, and say that this would make God like a man; and you go on to list the ways in which human nature differs [differt] from the divine nature. Is this any cleverer than trying to deny that one of Apelles’ pictures was made in the likeness [similitudinem] of Alexander on the grounds that this would mean that Alexander was like a picture, and yet pictures are made of wood and paint, and not of flesh and bones like Alexander? It is not in the nature of an image to be the same in all respects [in omnibus eadem sit] with the thing of which it is an image, but merely to imitate it in some respects [sed tantum ut illam in aliquibus imitetur]. And it is quite clear that the wholly perfect power of thought which we understand to be in God is represented by means of that less perfect faculty of thought which we possess. (AT vii. –; CSM ii. –, modified)39

The conception of the imago Dei doctrine Descartes presents here is remarkably similar to Aquinas’s: image entails likeness; image does not require equality with its exemplar (that it is ‘the same in all respects with the thing of which it is an image’); and what makes something an image is that it imitates its exemplar.40 38 Scriptum super libros Sententiarum .., sol, in P. Mandonnet (ed.), Scriptum super libros Sententiarum magistri Petri Lombardi episcopi Parisiensis (Paris: P. Lethielleux, ). The Scriptum (Commentary on the Sentences of Peter Lombard) was written –, whereas the Summa Theologiae was written –. I discovered this reference in Dominic Olariu, ‘Thomas Aquinas’ definition of the imago Dei and the development of lifelike portraiture’, in Bulletin du centre d’études médiévales d’Auxerre, No.. (), . 39 A similar conception of the nature of image appears in the Dioptrics, one of Descartes’s earliest works, but without any language of ‘imitation’. There, in the context of rejecting the Scholastic doctrine that material objects transmit to the soul ‘forms’ or ‘images’ that resemble them, he says, ‘in no case does an image have to resemble the object it represents in all respects, for otherwise there would be no distinction between the object and its image. It is enough that the image resembles its object in a few respects’ (AT vi. ; CSM i. ). 40 The Conversation with Burman (for a discussion of its reliability, see Roger Ariew, ‘The Infinite in Descartes’ Conversation with Burman’ [‘The Infinite’], Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie,  [], –) reveals another point of similarity to Aquinas’s view. At the end of his question  discussion of the imago Dei, in clarifying the relationship between ‘likeness and image’, Aquinas says that there is a general notion of likeness which is not distinct from the notion of image: ‘Likeness is not distinct from image in the general notion of likeness

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Although Descartes seems to situate his conception of the imago Dei in the general Augustinian-Thomistic framework of image and likeness, he diverges in content from the view. Several differences are worth noting: Aquinas says that not just any likeness is enough to make something an image of something else and that likeness in species is necessary (ST I, q. , a.  resp.), but Descartes does not restrict the kind of likeness by which humans imitate God to a likeness in species. Furthermore, for Aquinas only rational creatures are made in God’s image, whereas although Descartes does point to our faculty of thought as a way in which we resemble God, he does not agree that only rational creatures bear God’s image and likeness. For Descartes, the causal relationship between God and all created things is enough to ground the likeness of image between them: Since the cause is itself being and substance, and it brings something into being, i.e. out of nothing (a method of production which is the prerogative of God), what is produced must at the very least be being and substance. To this extent at least, it will be like God and bear his image. (AT v. ; CSMK )41

Thus, Descartes does not adopt Aquinas’s distinction between likeness of image and likeness ‘by way of a trace [per modum vestigii]’, which ‘represents something by way of an effect, which represents the cause in such a way as not to attain to the likeness of species’, like ashes are a trace of fire (ST I, q. , a.  resp.). Instead, for Descartes, even things such as stones ‘do have the image and likeness of God, but it is very remote, minute and indistinct’ (AT v. ; CSMK ).

. Descartes’s Comparative Formulations of the Imago Dei Doctrine Descartes adapts the Augustinian-Thomistic conceptual apparatus in a way that is important to notice: his formulations of the imago Dei [communem rationem similitudinis] (for thus it is included in image)’ (ST I, q. , a.  ad ). Likewise, Descartes clarifies in his remarks to Burman, ‘I am not . . . taking “image” here in the ordinary sense of an effigy or picture of something, but in the broader sense of something having some likeness [similitudinem] to something else’ (AT v. ; CSMK , modified). This statement evokes Aquinas’s claim that there is sense of ‘image’ as likeness in a general sense. 41 Although this passage is from the Conversation with Burman, it is consistent with Descartes’s statements about causation in the Third Meditation. See Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, – on this issue.

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doctrine regarding the will’s role are comparative statements.42 In the Fourth Meditation, it is ‘especially’ or ‘chiefly’ or ‘above all’ (praecipue, AT vii. ) in virtue of the will that human beings bear the image and likeness of God; and in a letter to Mersenne dated during the time he was writing the Meditations,43 Descartes says, ‘it is principally [principalement] because of this infinite will [volonté infinie] within us that we can say we are created in his image’ (AT ii. ; B , p. ; CSMK –).44 As we have seen, in his replies to Gassendi Descartes says that we imitate God in our faculty of thought (vim cogitandi): ‘the wholly perfect power of thought which we understand to be in God is represented by means of that less perfect faculty of thought which we possess’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ).45 Descartes classifies all of human thought into two categories: operations of the intellect and operations of the will (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). Why Descartes ultimately takes the will, rather than the intellect, to be the way in which we especially bear the image and likeness of God therefore needs explanation, especially since he holds that each faculty is ‘perfect of its kind’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Descartes seems to provide an answer in his discussion of the two faculties in the Fourth Meditation. The human intellect is ‘extremely slight and very finite’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ), whereas the divine intellect is ‘much greater—indeed supremely great and infinite’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). But the human will and the divine will are not so vastly different: ‘it is only the will . . . which I experience within me to be so great that the idea of any greater faculty is beyond my grasp; so much that it is above all in virtue of the will that I understand myself to bear in some way the image and likeness of God’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). To understand Descartes’s conception of the imago Dei, then, it

42 Thanks to an anonymous reviewer of an earlier version of this paper for underscoring this point. 43 The letter is dated  December . Descartes was writing the Meditations from  to ; the Meditations were published in . 44 This language is echoed in the French translation of the Meditations, which Descartes did not carry out himself but approved: ‘it is principally [principalement] the will that makes me know that I bear the image and likeness of God’ (AT ix. ). 45 In Descartes’s Third Meditation statement of the imago Dei (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ) he specifies that our likeness includes the idea of God. For further discussion of Descartes’s Third Meditation claim and how Descartes’s theory of ideas generally reflects the image of God doctrine, see Nicholas Jolley’s The Light of the Soul: Theories of Ideas in Leibniz, Malebranche, and Descartes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, and chapters  and .

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is necessary to explore why Descartes conceives of the human will as so much greater than the human intellect.46

.

FINITE AND INFINITE: THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THE HUMAN INTELLECT AND WILL

Descartes is working within the Scholastic tradition of faculty psychology,47 in which a faculty is a power. I argue in this section that Descartes conceives of what I call the ‘extent’ of a faculty as set by the nature of the power, and that the difference in magnitude between the intellect and the will is related to their respective extents. A passage from the Principles suggests the latter. Under the heading, ‘[The will] extends more widely than [the intellect] does, and this is the cause of error [Hanc illo latius patere, errorumque causam inde esse]’, Descartes says: Moreover, the perception of the intellect [intellectus perceptio] extends itself [se extendit] only to the few objects presented to it, and is always very finite [valde finita]. But the will can be called infinite in a certain sense [infinita quodammodo] because we notice nothing ever which cannot be the object of some other will, or of that immeasurable will which is in God, to which our will cannot also extend itself [quia nihil unquam advertimus, quod alicujus alterius voluntatis, vel immensæ illius quæ in Deo est, objectum esse possit, ad quod etiam nostra non se extendat]. And this to such a degree that we easily extend our will [illam . . . extendamus] beyond those things which we clearly perceive. (Principles I.: AT viii–. )48

In this passage, Descartes explicitly connects the intellect’s finitude and the will’s greatness (here, ‘infinite in a certain sense’ [infinita quodammodo])49 with their extents—that is, their extending (patere) or their See Thomas Lennon, ‘Descartes and Pelagianism’ [‘Pelagianism’], Essays in Philosophy,  (), –, at –, for the significance of this comparison and, in particular, the problems for Descartes that resulted from his interlocutors taking the proper comparison class as encompassing all things, including God. 47 See Gary Hatfield, ‘The Cognitive Faculties’, in Daniel Garber and Michael Ayers (eds.), The Cambridge History of Seventeenth-Century Philosophy, volume  (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –, for an overview of the late Scholastic background on the cognitive faculties. 48 See note  for discussion of my translation of this passage. 49 I will discuss the importance and meaning of Descartes’s characterization of the will as infinite in section .. 46

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extending themselves (se extendere). But what Descartes means by this needs further discussion.

. The Intellect’s Finitude Descartes uses the term ‘intellect’ (intellectus) and its grammatical variants to characterize two different powers.50 The intellect is, at times, the power to perceive broadly speaking: ‘by the intellect alone I perceive the ideas about which I can make judgments [per solem intellectum percipio tantum ideas de quibus judicium ferre possum]’ (AT vii. ). At other times the intellect is the power to ‘understand [intelligere]’, that is, to perceive clearly and distinctly (AT vii. ; CSM ii. –, and AT vii. –; CSM ii. ).51 The extent of the intellect, I show, is therefore finite in two corresponding ways: first, it is limited in the sense that we cannot perceive everything that exists, and second, it is limited in the sense that we cannot clearly and distinctly perceive everything we perceive. In the Principles passage quoted above, Descartes presents the first sense in which the extent of the intellect is finite: the intellect is limited in the sense that our power to perceive is limited—we cannot perceive everything there is to perceive. Another way that Descartes puts this idea is that the intellect lacks some ideas:

50 Anthony Kenny also makes the point that Descartes uses the term ‘intellect’ in at least two senses, although I characterize the first sense slightly differently than he does. He says ‘in one sense the intellect is the possession of the power to recall and combine ideas . . . in another sense the intellect is the faculty which produces clear and distinct ideas and intuits their truth’. See Anthony Kenny, ‘Descartes on the Will’ [‘Descartes on the Will’], in R. J. Butler (ed.), Cartesian Studies (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, ), –, at –. 51 I further discuss the relevant Fourth Meditation passages in what follows. Here I also cite the Fifth Replies passage that Anthony Kenny references in which Descartes’s explanation of error relies on conceiving of the intellect as responsible for clear and distinct perception. In response to Gassendi’s request to explain whether the will can extend to anything that escapes the intellect, Descartes says: ‘when you judge that the mind is a rarified body, you can understand [intelligere] that it is a mind, that is, a thinking thing, and you can understand that a rarefied body is an extended thing; but you do not understand [non intelligis] that the one and the same thing is both thinking and extended; this is something you merely will to believe because you believed it before and you do not like changing your mind . . . and so I agree that we do not will anything about which we understand [intelligamus] nothing at all; but I deny that we understand [intelligere] as much as we will [velle]; because we can, about one and the same thing, will much and know very little [possumus enim de eadem re velle permulta, et perpauca tantum cognoscere]’ (Kenny, ‘Descartes on the Will’, , excerpted; AT vii. –).

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For by the intellect alone I perceive the ideas about which I can make judgments . . . although countless things may exist without there being any corresponding ideas in me, it should not, strictly speaking, be said that I am deprived [privatus] of these ideas, but merely that I lack them, in a negative sense [sed negative tantum destitutus]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified).

This sense of the intellect’s finitude is closely tied to the fact that human beings are finite creatures—unlike God, we are bounded in time and space.52 But Descartes also presents a second sense in which intellect has a finite extent: the intellect’s extent is limited in the sense that we do not have knowledge about (i.e. perceive through the ‘natural light’, or perceive clearly and distinctly) everything that we perceive. In other words, the intellect’s extent is limited in that there are a limited number of things we perceive clearly and distinctly, and we perceive everything else only confusedly and obscurely. In explaining how to avoid error, Descartes says we need ‘simply refrain from making a judgement in cases where [we] do not perceive the truth with sufficient clarity and distinctness’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). He then continues: And I have no cause for complaint on the grounds that the power of understanding or the natural light [vim intelligendi, sive . . . lumen naturale] which God gave me is no greater than it is; for it is of the nature of a finite intellect to not understand many things, and it is of the nature of a created intellect to be finite [quia est de ratione intellectus finiti ut multa non intelligat, et de ratione intellectus creati ut sit finitus]. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified)

Here he ties the finitude of the intellect to our lacking understanding, or ‘the natural light’ being ‘no greater than it is’. This is the sense of the finitude of the intellect Descartes invokes in his explanation of why we, not God, are responsible for our errors in judgment: ‘So what then is the source of my mistakes? It must be simply this: that the will extends more widely than the intellect [latius pateat voluntas quam intellectus]; but instead of restricting it within the same limits, I extend [extendo] it to matters which I do not understand’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified).

52 Strictly speaking, by the Fourth Meditation, all that Descartes can claim is that we are creatures that are bounded in time, but by the end of the Meditations, since Descartes will have ‘proved’ that bodies exist and we have them, we are finite creatures in the sense that we are bounded in both time and space.

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Descartes cannot mean here that the intellect’s extent is finite in the first sense, that it lacks some ideas, because in order to make a judgment, the will must have an idea supplied by the intellect to affirm or deny. Instead, it is the second sense of the finitude of the intellect that explains our errors in judgment: we do not confine our judgments to only what we clearly and distinctly perceive. Descartes explicitly derives this second sense of the intellect’s finite extent from our being created (‘it is of the nature of a created intellect to be finite’, above), but this cannot be his ultimate explanation. It follows from the fact that an intellect is created and thus bounded in time and space that it has a finite extent in the first sense I discussed, i.e. that it lacks some ideas. But that a created intellect lacks some ideas does not entail that it lacks ‘understanding of many things’, or that we cannot clearly and distinctly perceive everything we perceive.53 After all, human beings could have been created with the power to clearly and distinctly perceive everything that we actually perceive, while not perceiving everything there is to perceive. Descartes himself raises this very possibility later in the Fourth Meditation: God, he says, ‘could . . . have endowed my intellect [intellectui] with a clear and distinct perception of everything about which I was ever likely to deliberate’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). This hypothetical situation is one in which a created intellect is finite in the first sense, but not in the second sense. Descartes’s response to why we are not like these hypothetical beings is, unfortunately, unsatisfying.54 He appeals to the consideration that by being prone to error, and thus being less perfect than we could have been, the universe as a whole is more diverse, and thus possibly more

53 Descartes’s Principles presentation of his position likewise runs together the two senses of the finite extent of the intellect: ‘It must not in any way be imagined that, because God did not give us an omniscient intellect, this makes him the author of our errors. For it is of the nature of a created intellect to be finite; and it is of the nature of a finite intellect that it does not extend itself to everything [ac de ratione intellectus finiti, ut non ad omnia se extendat]’ (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). It follows from the fact that an intellect is created that it is finite in the first sense—that there are some things that such an intellect simply does not perceive. But the finite extent of the intellect is supposed to explain why we make errors, and that explanation needs his second sense, that we do not clearly and distinctly perceive everything. 54 See C. P. Ragland, ‘Descartes’ Theodicy’, Religious Studies  (), –, for a more detailed discussion of the role of this consideration in Descartes’s Fourth Meditation strategy of defending God.

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perfect than if we were not prone to error (AT vii. ; CSM ii. –).55 In any case, recognizing that Descartes conceives of the extent of the intellect as finite in these two ways is necessary background to clarifying why he conceives of the human will as so much greater than the intellect.

. The Infinite Will The rationale Descartes provides for why it is in virtue of the will that we bear the image and likeness of God is that the will seems to be ‘so great that the idea of any greater faculty is beyond my grasp’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Descartes here makes merely the negative point that there does not seem to be any greater faculty than the will.56 But there are two passages in which Descartes characterizes the will, positively, as infinite. In the letter to Mersenne written while Descartes was working on the Meditations, he says: The desire that everyone has to possess every perfection he can conceive of, and consequently all the perfections which we believe to be in God, is due to the fact that God has given us a will which has no limits [Dieu nous a donné une volonté qui n’a point de bornes]. It is principally because of this infinite will [volonté infinie] within us that we can say we are created in his image [nous a créés à son image]. ( December : AT ii. ; B , p. ; CSMK –) 55 The appeal to diversity as leading to greater perfection does not originate with Descartes. Michael J. Latzer calls it the ‘principle of plenitude’ and cites Augustine’s and Aquinas’s versions of the idea in his ‘Descartes’s Theodicy of Error’, in Elmar J. Kremer and Michael J. Latzer (eds.), The Problem of Evil in Early Modern Philosophy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, ), –, at –. 56 Several commentators have noted this point: see, for instance, Nicolas Grimaldi, Six études sur la volonté et liberté chez Descartes (Paris: J. Vrin, ),  and Schmaltz, ‘Disappearance of Analogy’, . Some take Descartes’s negative claim to have significant consequences: Schmaltz thinks that it ‘allows for the possibility that there is in fact a greater will that differs in kind from his own’. Noa Naaman-Zauderer takes the ‘more qualified formulation’ () of the Fourth Meditation as evidence that an infinite extent cannot be the point of similarity between the divine will and the human will and suggests the epistemic aspects of Descartes’s Fourth Meditation formulations are the key to the similarity (Naaman-Zauderer, Descartes’ Deontological Turn,  and –). In La pensée métaphysique de Descartes (Paris: J. Vrin, ), , Henri Gouhier suggests that, in trying to make sense of Descartes’s claim of a resemblance between the human will and the divine will, we should take Descartes as holding that the human will is indefinite (indéfini). I disagree with these commentators and take Descartes’s negative formulation here combined with his other characterizations of the will in the Fourth Meditation to be equivalent to the claim that the will is infinite (at least, in a certain sense). I discuss these issues in what follows, and in section , I specifically address the issue of how we should understand Descartes’s claim that the will is infinite.

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Descartes here characterizes the will as having no limits and as infinite, and says this is why we bear the imago Dei. It is important to see that what Descartes means by this is that the will is infinite in relation to its extent. In the Principles passage quoted at the start of this section, titled ‘[The will] extends more widely than [the intellect] does, and this is the cause of error [Hanc illo latius patere, errorumque causam inde esse]’ (AT viii–. ), Descartes states: The will . . . [in contrast with the intellect] can be called infinite in a certain sense [infinita quodammodo], because we notice nothing ever which cannot be the object of some other will, or of that immeasurable will which is in God, to which our will cannot57 also extend itself [quia nihil unquam advertimus, quod alicujus alterius voluntatis, vel immensæ illius quæ in Deo est, objectum esse possit, ad quod etiam nostra non se extendat]. And this to such a degree that we easily extend our will [illam . . . extendamus] beyond those things which we clearly perceive. (Principles I.: AT viii–. )58

Descartes explains that the human will is infinite in the sense that it can extend itself not only to things that can be the object of some other will, but to things that can be the object of God’s will. This is notable because Descartes famously thinks that absolutely anything can be the object of God’s will. It is worth pausing over this idea because it might seem highly implausible: for example, one might object that surely there are some things to which the human will cannot extend itself. Winning the lottery, jumping over the moon, making contradictions true, and so 57 Here I diverge from what would be a literal translation of ‘ad quod etiam nostra non se extendat’ (‘to which our will does not also extend itself ’) because the sentence that immediately follows it only makes sense if Descartes here is talking about possibility rather than actuality. In doing so I am in good company: see Elizabeth Haldane and G. R. T. Ross (eds.), The Philosophical Works of Descartes, Volume I (New York: Dover, ), . The French edition of the Principles, which Descartes did not carry out himself but lauded (AT ix–. ; CSM i. ), formulates the corresponding passage in the language of possibility: ‘au lieu que la volonté en quelque sens peut sembler infinie, parce que nous n’apercevons rien qui puisse être l’objet de quelque autre volonté, même de cette immense qui est en Dieu, à quoi la nôtre ne puisse aussi s’étendre: ce qui est cause que nous la portons ordinairement au-delà de ce que nous connaissons clairement et distinctement’ (AT ix–. , my emphasis). 58 Lex Newman also notes that the reference here to the will’s infinity should be understood in terms of the will’s scope, similar to what I am calling its ‘extent’: see Lex Newman, ‘Descartes on the Will in Judgment’, in Janet Broughton and John Carriero (eds.), Blackwell Companion to Descartes (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, ), –, at . I go on to develop this point in ways that Newman would likely not endorse, however.

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on, one might think, are not things the human will can extend itself to and thus serve as counterexamples to Descartes’s view. In the course of elaborating on what Descartes means by this implausible seeming idea and dispelling some prima facie worries, I show that they do not. Just as the intellect’s extent is tied to the powers for which the intellect is responsible, so too is the will’s extent tied to the particular power for which the will is responsible. Descartes’s Fourth Meditation definition of the will or freedom of choice (voluntas, sive arbitrii libertas) explains what that power is:59 ‘[the will or freedom of choice] simply consists in our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid) [eo consistit, quod idem vel facere vel non facere (hoc est affirmare vel negare, prosequi vel fugere) possimus]’ (AT vii. ).60 Descartes enumerates here and elsewhere that the operations, or ‘modes’ of the will, for human beings include affirming, denying, pursuing, avoiding (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ), desire, aversion, assertion, and doubt (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). ‘Willing’ for Descartes thus encompasses a variety of mental attitudes related to both belief and action.61 But willing, for human beings, does not include accomplishing things because, at least for human beings,62 accomplishing things requires the cooperation of 59 In identifying the will with freedom of choice, where freedom of choice is a particular power, Descartes, I think, is staking out a position on a long-standing question: what is the relationship between the will and this power (called ‘liberum arbitrium’ in medieval discussions)? I take Descartes not only to have an answer to this question, but a particular conception of what this power consists in. For a helpful discussion of terminology and how it bears on the background question (as well as the views of prominent thinkers of the period), see J. B. Korolec, ‘Free Will and Free Choice’, in Norman Kretzmann, Anthony Kenny, and Jan Pinborg (eds.), The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –. For a similar approach, but a different interpretation of Descartes on arbitrii libertas, see John Carriero, Between Two Worlds: A Reading of Descartes’s Meditations (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, ), at –. I am grateful to Sean Greenberg for many discussions on this point and for the reference to the Korolec article. 60 As quoted at the start of this chapter, there is a second clause to this definition: ‘or rather, it consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we feel we are determined to it by no external force [ut a nulla vi externa nos ad id determinari sentiamus]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified). The relation between the two clauses is a much-discussed issue that I cannot address here. See my ‘Human Freedom’ for discussion and references to the secondary literature. 61 On this point, see David M. Rosenthal, ‘Will and the Theory of Judgment’, in Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Essays on Descartes’ Meditations (Berkeley: University of California Press, ), –. 62 I discuss in section , below, the point that Descartes conceives of divine willing as including accomplishing.

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the world in different ways with our volition, and we don’t have any control over that.63 Descartes’s view that the will can extend to absolutely anything, then, does not entail that we can accomplish absolutely anything. That I cannot win the lottery by willing it so, therefore, is not a problem for Descartes’ view. Similarly, Descartes does not think that by possessing a will, we possess the power to make every state of affairs come into being, including states of affairs that require changing the laws of physics or the laws of logic.64 So, that we cannot jump over the moon or make contradictions true are not counterexamples to Descartes’s view. Further, because of the nonsensical statements that result, it seems unreasonable to saddle Descartes with the view that his conception of the will’s infinite extent entails that anything can be the object of every mode of the will. Certain things seem to be the wrong kind of thing for particular modes of will: ‘+=’ makes sense as the subject of doxastic attitudes, because some person could (wrongly) affirm it, deny it, doubt it, or withhold judgment about it. But the same proposition could not be the subject of practical attitudes: what would it mean to pursue or avoid it? The division of objects does not run solely along the distinction between doxastic and practical attitudes: although I may desire that the sky is clear (not cloudy), it makes no sense to avoid such a thing. Third, Descartes is not advancing the view that the will actually extends to every possible thing. Such a view is obviously false: regarding doxastic matters alone, for any given human being, there are many possible statements that he or she has never affirmed, denied, asserted, doubted, or suspended judgment about. This interpretation should not be attributed to Descartes because it conflates a will’s object and a will’s extent. 63

I think this point underlies the third maxim of Descartes’s morale par provision in his Discourse on the Method: ‘My third maxim was to try always to master myself rather than fortune, and change my desires rather than the order of the world. In general I would become accustomed to believing that nothing lies entirely within our power except our thoughts, so that after doing our best in dealing with matters external to us, whatever we fail to achieve is absolutely impossible so far as we are concerned. This alone, I thought, would be sufficient to prevent me from desiring in the future something I could not get, and so make me content’ (AT vi. ; CSM i. –). 64 This, too, is in the capacity of the divine will in some sense. How Descartes conceives of this feature of the divine will has been much discussed in the extensive literature on Descartes’s doctrine of the creation of the eternal truths.

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A will’s object is the set of things a will in fact wills, and it is in relation to its object that Descartes explicitly denies that the human will is as great as the divine will: ‘God’s will is incomparably greater than mine . . . in virtue of its object, in that it extends itself to a greater number of items [ratione objecti, quoniam ad plura se extendit]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified). The object of the human will, like the extent of the human intellect, is finite (in the first sense) because we are creatures that are bounded by time and space: there are a limited number of things that we can actually will. A will’s extent, in contrast, has to do with what a given will can will—that is, the will as a power. Thus, when Descartes immediately follows the point that God’s will is incomparably greater than ours in virtue of its object with the claim that ‘nevertheless [God’s will] does not seem any greater than mine considered in itself formally and precisely: because [the will] simply consists in our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid)’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified), he is not saying anything contradictory. God’s will is incomparably greater than ours in its object but does not seem greater than ours in its extent, because the will’s extent is set by the relevant power of the will: our power to do or not do something. In sum, with his view that the human will is infinite in extent, I have argued, Descartes means that in virtue of having a will, we possess the power to take some mental attitude towards absolutely anything.65

. Why the Will Is Not Limited in the Way the Intellect Is The connection I have argued for—between the extent of a faculty and the power that sets that extent—explains why Descartes thinks the will is not limited in the way the intellect is. As I have argued, for Descartes the intellect is finite in the first sense (our power to perceive is limited) 65 Some readers will notice that my interpretation of the will’s infinite extent and the corresponding power referred to by the first clause of the Fourth Meditation definition does not address the question of whether Descartes is a compatibilist or an incompatibilist about the relationship between freedom and determinism. See my ‘Human Freedom’ for discussion of the challenges in adjudicating this question. I follow Thomas Lennon’s position that the first clause of the definition is meant to be neutral on this issue. See Thomas Lennon, ‘Descartes’s Supposed Libertarianism: Letter to Mesland or Memorandum concerning Petau?’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at –, and Thomas Lennon, ‘No, Descartes Is Not a Libertarian’, in Daniel Garber and Donald Rutherford (eds.), Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, volume VII (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –.

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because we are located in a particular time and space. But, according to Descartes, the power to do or not do something, properly understood, is not restricted in the same way by our location in time and space. That is, our power to take some mental attitude towards something is not limited by our location in time and space because it does not depend on anything other than our minds (except, perhaps, God).66 Descartes presents this view in The Passions of the Soul, in delineating the category of ‘actions’ of the soul from other mental states: [The thoughts] I call [the soul’s] actions are all of our volitions, because we find by experience that they come directly from the soul and seem to depend only on it [semblent ne dépendre que d’elle] (AT xi. ; CSM i. , modified);

and in a letter to Christina, dated  November : The goods of the body and fortune do not depend absolutely upon us [ne dépendent point absolument de nous]; and those of the soul can all be reduced to two heads, the one being to know, and the other to will, what is good. But knowledge is often beyond our powers; and so there remains only our will, which is absolutely within our disposal [il ne reste que notre volonté, dont nous puissions absolument disposer]. (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK )67

Descartes conceives of the will and its operations as the only things that depend on our minds alone—all other things, including operations of the intellect, depend in some way on things external to the mind.68 It should be noted that our power to take some mental attitude towards something does depend in a trivial sense on something external to the will, because there must be something to take an attitude towards, which can only be supplied by something external to the will. The will depends in this trivial sense on the intellect because the intellect provides the subject matter of the will’s attitudes. Gassendi 66

Descartes’s remarks on how our volitions depend on God are ambiguous (e.g. AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). I cannot address this issue here. 67 Descartes also presents an early variant of this view in the Discourse (AT vi. ; CSM i. ). 68 Immediately following The Passions of the Soul excerpt cited above, Descartes says of operations of the intellect: ‘the various perceptions or modes of knowledge present in us may be called its passions, in a general sense, for it is often not our soul which makes them such as they are, and the soul always receives them from the things that are represented by them’ (AT xi. ; CSM i. ). See my ‘Responsibility in Descartes’s Theory of Judgment’, Ergo,  (), –, at –, for discussion of this passage and considerations in support of the interpretation that for Descartes, all operations of the intellect depend on something external to the mind.

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has this dependence of the will on the intellect in mind in the Fifth Objections when he objects to Descartes’s Fourth Meditation statement that the will extends more broadly than the intellect. Gassendi claims that the will and the intellect ‘extend equally broadly [aeque late patere], and that the intellect extends at least no more narrowly than the will [non intellectus saltem minus quam voluntas], since the will is never directed towards anything which the intellect has not already perceived’ (AT vii. ).69 But Descartes’s imago Dei claim is about the will in itself, considered separately from the contribution of the intellect. It is about the will ‘considered in itself formally and precisely [in se formaliter et praecise spectata]’ (AT vii. ), Descartes says, or the will as aforementioned power. Regarding the second sense in which the intellect is limited (in our power to perceive clearly and distinctly), I have argued that Descartes does not have a satisfying account of why it is limited. His suggestion, which appealed to the greater diversity and, hence, perfection of the universe that results from our being prone to error, does not explain why it is necessary that human beings, of all the created things in the universe, should be the ones to provide that diversity. It seems to be a basic commitment for Descartes that our finite nature entails that our power to perceive clearly and distinctly (or, in Descartes’s words, our power of ‘understanding’ [intelligere]) is limited. He says in the Meditations, simply, ‘it is of the nature of a finite intellect that it not understand many things [de ratione intellectus finiti ut multa non intelligat]’ (AT vii. ) and in the Principles, ‘it is of the nature of a finite intellect that it not extend itself to everything [de ratione intellectus finiti, ut non ad omnia se extendat]’ (AT viii–. ), where (as I have argued in the previous section) he is referring to our power to perceive clearly and distinctly. His letter to Mesland of  May  explicitly points out one way in which the finitude of the mind limits our power to understand: 69 Descartes, in response, admits the dependence of the will on the intellect in this trivial sense but denies that the intellect and the will have the same extent (AT vii. ), and reiterates his explanation of how we make errors: we make judgments about things we do not clearly and distinctly perceive. See note , above, for the text. Gassendi and Descartes here seem to be talking past one another. I diagnose the dispute as stemming from the ambiguity in Descartes’s use of ‘intellect’ that I discuss above: Gassendi’s objection relies on understanding ‘intellect’ in the first sense I discussed (as the faculty that perceives, broadly speaking), whereas Descartes’s response to Gassendi relies on understanding ‘intellect’ in the second sense (as the faculty of clear and distinct perception).

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Our mind is finite and so created as to be able to conceive [qu’il peut concevoir] as possible the things which God has willed [voulu] to be in fact possible, but not be able to conceive as possible things which God could have made possible, but which he has nevertheless willed [voulu] to make impossible. (AT iv. ; B , p.  and ; CSMK , modified)

If the connection between our finite nature and the finitude of the intellect in this second sense is indeed a basic commitment, then the finitude of our nature need not also limit the will.

. ‘INFINITE’ AND IMITATION: THE HUMAN WILL AND THE DIVINE WILL

The account I have presented of Descartes’s conception of the will as infinite illuminates his conception of the imago Dei, or so I have argued. But my strategy faces a problem: Descartes repeatedly claims that he reserves the term ‘infinite’ for God alone. By exploring the issue of why Descartes uses the term (albeit in a qualified sense) to characterize the human will, I explain in what sense he thinks human beings imitate God. I then discuss the differences between the power I have argued grounds Descartes’s use of ‘infinite’ for the will and the corresponding power in God and show how these differences do not undermine Descartes’s affirmation of the imago Dei.

. ‘Infinite’ versus ‘Indefinite’: How the Human Will Imitates the Divine Will As I have mentioned, Descartes says that the will ‘can in a certain sense be called infinite [voluntas vero infinita quodammodo dici potest]’ (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). This is notable because it seems to go against his own policy governing the use of the term ‘infinite’. Descartes says repeatedly that he reserves the term for God alone and that he uses the term ‘indefinite’ instead to describe other things that lack limits in some respect (e.g. AT vii. ; CSM ii. , and AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). I argue that Descartes extends ‘infinite’ to the human will because the very power that he conceives as constituting the will—arbitrii libertas—meets his criteria for calling

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something ‘infinite’ (although this claim too will need to be qualified, as I show). Descartes provides two criteria for his use of the term ‘infinite’ rather than ‘indefinite’: an ‘epistemological’ criterion and a ‘metaphysical’ criterion.70 Descartes presents versions of the two criteria in Principles I.: Our reason for using the term ‘indefinite’ rather than ‘infinite’ in these cases [i.e. in cases ‘such as the extension of the world, the division of the parts of matter, the number of the stars’ (AT viii–. )] is, in the first place, so as to reserve the term ‘infinite’ for God alone, because in him alone in every respect [omni ex parte], not only do we recognize no limits, but we understand positively [positive . . . intelligimus] that there are none. Secondly, in the case of other things, our understanding does not in the same way positively tell us that they lack limits in some respect [aliqua ex parte]; we merely acknowledge in a negative way [negative . . . confitemur] that any limits which they may have cannot be discovered by us. (AT viii–. ; CSM i. , modified)

First, according to the epistemological criterion, ‘infinite’ is reserved for things that we ‘understand positively’ as having no limits; ‘indefinite’ is for things in which we ‘acknowledge in a negative way’ that we cannot discover any limits.71 Descartes here says that God alone meets the epistemological criterion: for God alone do we have such positive knowledge.72 Second, according to the metaphysical criterion, ‘infinite’ is reserved for things that lack limits in every respect, whereas ‘indefinite’ is reserved for things that lack limits only in some respect.73 70 Margaret Wilson has shown this in her ‘Can I Be the Cause of My Idea of the World? (Descartes on the Infinite and the Indefinite)’ [‘Can I Be the Cause’], in Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), Essays on Descartes’ Meditations (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, ), –. 71 Roger Ariew calls this ‘Descartes’ distinction between what we positively and negatively intellect’. See Roger Ariew, ‘The Infinite’, , n. . Descartes reiterates the epistemological criterion in his letter to More of  February  (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK ). 72 Roger Ariew makes this point clearly: Ariew, ‘The Infinite’, –. 73 The metaphysical criterion is seen even more clearly in Descartes’s First Replies formulation: ‘I apply the term “infinite”, in the strict sense, only to that in which no limits of any kind can be found [in quo nulla ex parte limites inveniuntur]; and in this sense God alone is infinite. But in cases like the extension of imaginary space, or the set of numbers, or the divisibility of the parts of a quantity, there is merely some respect in which I do not recognize a limit [in quibus sub aliqua tantum ratione finem non agnosco]; so here I use the term “indefinite” rather than “infinite”, because these items are not limitless in every respect [omni ex parte]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Immediately following this passage, Descartes states his distinction between the ratio formalis infiniti and the res infinita: he distinguishes our ‘negative understanding’ of the ratio formalis infiniti from our ‘positive understanding’ (which is nonetheless

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Descartes explains that only God meets the metaphysical criterion: only God lacks limits in every respect. It is my contention that, although he nowhere states this explicitly, Descartes holds that the human will in some way meets both criteria, and this is why he extends the term ‘infinite’ in a qualified sense to the human will.74 First, the human will as arbitrii libertas clearly meets the epistemological criterion: just as we have positive knowledge that God has no limits, we have positive knowledge that our will, in some sense, is unlimited. Descartes states in the Fourth Meditation, ‘I know by experience that [my will or freedom of choice (voluntatem, sive arbitrii libertatem)] is restricted by no limits [nam sane nullis illam limitibus circumscribi experior]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified). The epistemic mechanism, however, differs between the two cases: in the case of God, our knowledge is through intellection (intelligimus, AT viii.–. ), whereas in the case of the will, our knowledge is through experience (experior, AT vii. ).75 Second, Descartes holds that the human will, in a sense, is metaphysically similar to God in its infiniteness. First, as I mentioned in the previous section, Descartes says in the letter to Mersenne dated  December : ‘God has given us a will which has no limits [Dieu nous a donné une volonté qui n’a point de bornes]’ (AT ii. ; B , p. ; CSMK ). Here Descartes states that the will simpliciter has no limits. But more commonly, Descartes seems to hold that the will, in a specific sense, is restricted by no limits: take, for example, the passage I discussed in the context of the epistemological criterion, ‘I know by experience that [my will or freedom of choice] is restricted by no limits’ (AT vii. ;

inadequate) of the res infinita (AT vii. ). As an anonymous reviewer helpfully pointed out, the Principles formulation of the distinction between ‘infinite’ and ‘indefinite’ seems to combine the First Replies distinction between ‘infinite’ and ‘indefinite’ and this distinction between ratio formalis infiniti and res infinita. 74 On my account, one small mystery remains, why Descartes describes his usage of the term ‘infinite’ in such absolute terms when he clearly uses the term to characterize the will. Perhaps he thinks his qualification of the term, ‘the will can be called infinite in a certain sense’ (AT viii–. ; CSM i. , my emphasis) is sufficient to make it true that he reserves ‘infinite’ for God alone. And as Margaret Wilson discusses in ‘Can I Be the Cause’, –, Descartes has good pragmatic reasons to unreservedly affirm his terminological policy. 75 Noa Naaman-Zauderer highlights the experiential aspect of some of Descartes’s characterizations of the will in her account of the imago Dei. See Naaman-Zauderer, Descartes’ Deontological Turn, –.

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CSM ii. , modified).76 This passage is not sufficient for showing that the will meets the metaphysical criterion, for just because the will in one respect—in its freedom of choice (arbitrii libertas)—is unlimited, it does not follow that the will is not limited in other respects.77 But Descartes seems to accept a different formulation of the metaphysical criterion that the will as arbitrii libertas does meet. In a letter to Clerselier dated  April , Descartes clarifies: It should be observed that I never use the word ‘infinite’ to signify the mere lack of limits (which is something negative, for which I have used the term ‘indefinite’) but to signify a real thing [une chose réelle], which is incomparably greater [incomparablement plus grande] than all those which have some limit [qui ont quelque fin]. (AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK , modified)

‘Infinite’, he explains, is used to signify a real thing, incomparably greater than things that have some limit. Similarly, in a letter to Henry More from about the same time, Descartes says: The reason why I say that the world is indeterminate, or indefinite, is that I recognize no boundaries in it; but I would dare not call it infinite, because I perceive that God is greater [esse majorem] than the world, not in extension [ratione extensionis], which, as I have often said, I do not understand as a property in God, but in perfection [ratione perfectionis]. ( April : AT v. ; B , p. ; CSMK , modified)

Descartes adds here that using the term ‘infinite’ makes sense for God, because God is greater than other (indefinite) things—here, the world—in virtue of his perfection. Descartes makes similar claims about the nature of the human will. He says that the will is greater and more perfect than other things that are clearly limited: There is nothing else in me which is so perfect and so great that the possibility of a further increase in its perfection or greatness [perfectiora sive majora] is beyond my understanding (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ); 76 I am grateful to an anonymous reviewer for pointing out that many of Descartes’s statements regarding the lack of limits on the human will are not about the will simpliciter but only about its freedom of choice (arbitrii libertas). 77 For example, Descartes explains in the Fourth Meditation that the human will’s object is limited (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). Descartes might say in response, however, that the will’s object is not intrinsic to the will, and thus that the will itself, or will ‘in se formaliter et praecise spectata’ (AT vii. ), remains unrestricted.

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It is only the will, or freedom of choice [voluntas, sive arbitrii libertas] which I experience within me to be so great that the idea of any greater faculty is beyond my grasp [nullius majoris ideam apprehendam]. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. )

Compared with our other mental faculties, including the intellect, memory, and imagination, which Descartes has explained are ‘finite’ ( finitus) and ‘limited’ (circumscriptus) (AT vii. ), the will as arbitrii libertas is incomparably greater and more perfect. Although the language Descartes uses to describe the will as arbitrii libertas—‘restricted by no limits’, ‘greater’, ‘more perfect’, etc.—echoes his discussion of why he uses ‘infinite’ to describe God alone, the comparison class of Descartes’s claims about the will is, of course, much smaller. Descartes compares the will to all things ‘in us’, not to all things that exist, as he does with God.78 But the comparison between the two cases does not need to be perfect, because the infiniteness of the human will is a mere imitation of the infiniteness of God. Recall the Augustinian-Thomistic conception of the imago Dei that Descartes puts forward in the Fifth Replies: ‘It is not in the nature of an image to be the same in all respects [in omnibus eadem sit] with the thing of which it is an image, but merely to imitate it in some respects [sed tantum ut illam in aliquibus imitetur]’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. –, modified). I have argued that Descartes holds that the infiniteness of the human will imitates the infiniteness of God in that the aspect of the human will that is responsible for the will’s ‘infinite’ extent, arbitrii libertas, meets Descartes’s two criteria for infiniteness. But because human beings are images of God—and thus merely imitate God rather than being equal to God—what grounds the attribution of ‘infinite’ to the human will is not a comparison of the will to all things simpliciter but a comparison of the will to all things in us.

. Differences between Divine Will and Human Will There are significant differences that might give one pause between the power in human beings I have focused on and the respective power in God. First, there is a significant difference in the nature of ‘willing’ or ‘doing’. For God, there is only one act that constitutes his doing. 78 See Lennon, ‘Pelagianism’, –, for the role that missing this point played in the accusations of Pelagianism against Descartes.

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Descartes tells Mersenne, in his letter of  May , ‘In God willing and knowing are a single thing in such a way that by the very fact of willing something he knows it and it is only for this reason that such a thing is true’ (AT i. ; B , p. ; CSMK ), and in the Principles he says, ‘there is always a single identical and perfectly simple act by means of which he simultaneously understands, wills and accomplishes everything’ (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). Furthermore, in a  letter, possibly to Mesland, Descartes says: The idea which we have of God teaches us that there is in him only a single activity [une seule action], entirely simple and entirely pure. This is well expressed by the words of St. Augustine: ‘They are so because thou see’est them to be so’; because in God seeing and willing [videre et velle] are one and the same thing. (AT iv. ; B , p. ; CSMK )

For God, willing, understanding (or seeing), and accomplishing are three ways of characterizing one and the same act of doing. Not so for human beings: understanding, willing, and accomplishing are distinct, and only willing is a kind of doing. Understanding, as we have seen, is an operation of the intellect for Descartes, and accomplishing is not an act at all for human beings, properly speaking—it is a matter of the cooperation of the world with our volition. One significant difference between God and human beings related to the power to do something, therefore, has to do with what qualifies as doing. For God, there is no difference between understanding, willing, and accomplishing: they are identical. But for human beings, understanding and accomplishing are not doings at all, because they are not the operations of the human will. A second significant difference between the divine will and the human will has to do with indifference. As I discussed early in this paper, Descartes holds that God’s will is essentially indifferent but the human will is not. The indifference of the divine will is connected to the identity between God’s intellect and will, which entails that there is no priority between the two faculties: ‘In God, willing, understanding and creating are all the same thing without one being prior to [précède] the other even in reason [ne quidem ratione]’ (AT i. ; B , p. ; CSMK –, modified).79 And if there is no priority between God’s 79 See Dan Kaufman’s argument that the doctrine of divine simplicity does not preclude there being a certain kind of conceptual distinction in God, that which holds between

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intellect and will, it follows that God’s will is never guided by any antecedent knowledge of the good because there is no fact of the matter about the good or true independent of God’s will. The lack of priority between God’s intellect and will thus entails that God’s will is essentially indifferent, where by ‘indifference’ Descartes means ‘that state of the will when it is not impelled one way rather than another by any perception of truth or goodness’ (AT iv. ; B , p. ; CSMK ). Descartes explicitly acknowledges that the essential indifference of God’s will follows from the lack of priority between God’s intellect and will: It is self-contradictory to suppose that the will of God was not indifferent from eternity with respect to everything which has happened or will ever happen; for it is impossible to imagine that anything is thought of in the divine intellect as good or true, or worthy of belief or action or omission, prior to the decision of the divine will to make it so. I am not speaking here of temporal priority: I mean that there is not even any priority of order, or nature, or of ‘rationally determined reason’ as they call it, such that God’s idea of the good impelled him to choose one thing rather than another. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. )

But Descartes also holds that the human will is not essentially indifferent. Indifference in human beings is evidence ‘of a defect in knowledge or a kind of negation’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ): human beings are ‘never indifferent except when [they do] not know which of the two alternatives is the better or truer, or at least when [they do] not see this clearly enough to rule out any possibility of doubt’ (AT vii. –; CSM ii. ). These differences in what constitutes doing and the nature of indifference are important for understanding how Descartes conceives of human beings as differing from God. However, they do not pose a problem for the account I have developed because they do not indicate any kind of limitation intrinsic to the will. They both stem from the fact that, unlike God, we are not omnipotent beings. The particular power of accomplishing all things or of making any state of affairs come into being is tied to God’s omnipotence: it is because God is allpowerful that he has this power. Likewise, divine indifference is connected to divine omnipotence: Descartes says, ‘the supreme identical things, in his ‘Divine Simplicity and the Eternal Truths in Descartes’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –.

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indifference to be found in God is the supreme indication of his omnipotence’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). But the fact that we are not omnipotent is not a limitation of the human will. Indeed, in a statement emphasizing the similarity between the divine will and the human will, Descartes characterizes God’s omnipotence as accompanying, or extrinsic, to the will: Although God’s will is incomparably greater than mine, both . . . in virtue of the knowledge and power [ potentiæ] that accompany it and make it more firm and efficacious, and also in virtue of its object, in that it ranges over a greater number of items, nevertheless it does not seem any greater than mine considered in itself formally and precisely. (AT vii. ; CSM ii. , modified).

Therefore, although we are unable to accomplish all things or act with perfect indifference, these are not limitations of the human will. These differences between the human will and the divine will stem from a feature of the divine nature that we lack, omnipotence.

.

CONCLUSION

One of the main claims I have argued for in this chapter is that in his understanding of the doctrine of the imago Dei, Descartes does not allude to the main medieval and Scholastic conceptions of analogy available to him at the time but instead draws on the notion of imitation, following Augustine and Aquinas. Recognizing that a different tradition underlies Descartes’s understanding of the doctrine is important because the medieval and Scholastic conceptions of analogy place particular constraints on the legitimacy of the comparison between God and human beings. As I have discussed, if an analogy of attribution is invoked in the imago Dei doctrine, there must be a sense in which the term in question applies to God in a primary sense and human beings in a secondary sense. But on Descartes’s own conceptions of the divine and human will, there does not seem to be any such sense of ‘will’, because there is no essence of will or freedom that God possesses that human beings possess only derivatively. If there were, then his claim that the will figures predominantly in the imago Dei looks problematic, if not outright false. But on the interpretation that Descartes alludes instead to the notion of imitation in his doctrine of the imago Dei, the constraints do not

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apply. According to the Augustinian-Thomistic tradition he draws on, imitation (imitatio) differentiates an image (imago) from a likeness (similitudo), and what makes something an imitation is that there is an original that it ‘expresses’, or copies. Furthermore, according to Aquinas, human beings are mere imitations of God in the sense that they are but imperfect copies of God: ‘this likeness is not one of equality, for such an exemplar infinitely excels its copy. Therefore there is in man a likeness to God; not indeed, a perfect likeness, but imperfect’.80 In effect, then, by using the notion of imitation, Descartes’s conception of the doctrine eases the requirements that a legitimate comparison between God and human beings must meet: as long as human beings are a copy of God, and there is a likeness between them, even if imperfect, human beings can properly be said to be made in the image and likeness of God. Like Aquinas, Descartes takes the notion of imitation in the context of the imago Dei to imply that the imitation (human being) is in some sense less perfect than what it copies (God), and therefore that the imitation bears an imperfect likeness to what it copies. Descartes cites in his response to Gassendi, as an illustration of a way in which human beings merely imitate God, ‘that the wholly perfect power of thought which we understand to be in God is represented by means of that less perfect faculty of thought which we possess’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). In particular, although the human will is in a certain sense infinite and thus is that respect in which human beings most bear a likeness to God, so too is its likeness to the divine will imperfect. But, as I have argued, the imperfection in likeness between the human will and the divine will ultimately stems from the fact that we are not omnipotent—a situation about which, as Descartes would say, we have no cause for complaint.81 California State University, Long Beach ST I, q. , a.  resp. I quote the passage in section , above. Early versions of this paper were presented at the South Central Seminar in Early Modern Philosophy at Texas A&M and at Colgate University. I am grateful to participants at these meetings for their useful feedback. I also want to thank, in particular, an extremely helpful and careful anonymous reviewer; Helen Hattab, whose skepticism about a key assumption of an early version of this paper motivated me to search for a new direction; Jacob Klein, for help translating the passage from Principles I. (AT viii–. ); and Kara Richardson, who directed me to E. J. Ashworth’s work on analogy. 80 81

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 Descartes on the Ethical Reliability of the Passions: A Morean Reading MATTHEW J. KISNER

The literature on Descartes’s view of the passions over the past twenty years or so has shown the rich and varied ways that he regarded the passions as contributing positively to cognition and practical life. This chapter is concerned with Descartes’s view of the passions’ moral value, that is, their value with respect to achieving the ethical ends of virtue and happiness. In this regard, there is no question that the passions possess a kind of conative value because of their power to move or incline us in ways that contribute to ethical ends. For example, the passions can motivate virtuous actions, as when the love of others moves ‘a truly noble and generous soul’ to behave as a true friend (PS ; AT x. ).1 Similarly, the passions can contribute to virtue by moving our thoughts—for instance, by directing our attention or inclining our judgments—as when the passion of generosity helps to cultivate the virtue of humility by countering the tendency to think excessively of oneself (PS –; AT x. –). This chapter’s question is whether the passions also contribute to ethical ends in a cognitive sense by informing us of the moral value of things, in other words, telling us whether things are good or bad with respect to the ends of virtue and happiness. There are two prima facie reasons to think that the answer is no. First, in order for the passions to inform us in this way they would have to be the sort of mental state that purports to tell us the way things are, in other words, that contains some sort of presentation or assessment of things. To borrow language from present day philosophy of mind, they would have to be contentful 1 Quotations from Descartes’s writings generally follow CSM/CSMK, though I occasionally modify the translations.

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mental states.2 But this way of thinking about the passions is opposed by a tradition, running from Descartes’s contemporaries to today, that regards Cartesian passions as purely conative or appetitive states. Secondly, even if the passions are contentful, it is not clear that their contents accurately report the value of things with respect to ethical goals. Descartes frequently warns that the passions provide unreliable ethical guidance because they report on good and evil with respect to more bodily and animalistic aims: self-preservation, bodily health, and the continuation of the species. Consequently, the little work that has focused on the question has emphasized the passions’ potential to misrepresent our good and lead us astray.3

2 Mental content is usually understood as what a mental state asserts or presents to be the case. For instance, Susanna Siegel defines content—including the content of mental states (like beliefs) and non-mental states (like newspapers)—as the conditions under which these things are true. See The Contents of Visual Experience (New York: Oxford University Press, ), . One might also describe possessing content as being ‘representational’, a term with many meanings. This is potentially misleading because of an ambiguity in the term ‘representational’: the term can refer to a mental state (a) presenting or somehow asserting that things are a certain way or (b) doing so accurately or successfully. The second notion of ‘representational’ predominates in work about whether Descartes understands sensations as representational. For instance, when Alison Simmons asks whether Descartes understands sensations as representational she takes herself to be inquiring into ‘the conditions for success’ in sensations ‘acquainting the mind with something existing in extramental reality’. See ‘Are Cartesian Sensations Representational?’, Noûs,  (), –, at . For a similar use of the term see Margaret Wilson, ‘Descartes on the Representationality of Sensation’, in Ideas and Mechanism: Essays on Early Modern Philosophy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ), –; Raffaella de Rosa, Descartes and the Puzzle of Sensory Representation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), . In debates about the passions, however, those who argue that the passions are not representational sometimes mean that the passions are purely conative and, consequently, that they do not purport to tell us the way things are. See Sean Greenberg, ‘Descartes on the Passions: Function, Representation, and Motivation’ [‘Descartes on the Passions’], Noûs,  (), –; Shoshana Brassfield, ‘Never Let the Passions Be Your Guide: Descartes and the Role of the Passions’ [‘Never Let the Passions’], British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –. To avoid confusion I will generally use ‘contentful’ to indicate that a mental state presents things as being some way and ‘accurate’ or ‘reliable’ to indicate that it does so successfully. 3 While much work considers the various ways that the passions contribute to practical life and virtue, there is little work that focuses specifically on the question of whether the passions’ representational content is accurate with respect to the ends of virtue and happiness. The closest works focusing on this question are by Rutherford and Brassfield (‘Never Let the Passions’), though the latter denies that the passions possess content. See Donald Rutherford, ‘Reading Descartes as a Stoic: Appropriate Action, Virtue, and the Passions’ [‘Stoic’], Philosophie antique,  (), –. Both emphasize that the passions tend to be inaccurate and require rational oversight, whereas my work indicates that the passions can also be accurate and can positively advise and inform rational judgment.

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This chapter aims to show that Descartes regarded the passions—at least, some of them and under the right conditions—as providing reliable ethical guidance. Making this case requires addressing the aforementioned two reasons for thinking otherwise. In response to the first, I show that the passions are in fact contentful mental states that report on the value of things. I respond to the second reason by placing Descartes’s comments about the passions’ potential to mislead in the context of his broader explanation of the ethical reliability of the passions. According to my interpretation, Descartes holds that the passions can report on the value of things either with respect to our more bodily and animalistic aims, such as self-preservation, or with respect to the distinctly human ethical aims of virtue and happiness. While Descartes complains that the former sort of passion is often unreliable and an obstacle to virtue, he allows that the latter sort of passion, which includes most notably the passion of generosity, is reliable and, indeed, that it contributes positively to virtue by informing moral reasoning about the value of things and, thereby, helping to correct and govern the morally problematic passions. In defending this interpretation, I am guided by the work of the Cambridge Platonist Henry More. A correspondent and an early proponent of Descartes, More was partly responsible for raising awareness of Descartes in England. Although More is best known for his increasingly pointed criticism of Cartesian metaphysics and theology, he offered a consistently positive assessment of Descartes’s theory of the passions.4 In fact, More’s own theory of the passions in the Enchiridion Ethicum closely follows Descartes’s. This is evident not only from the numerous similarities between the theories, but also by More’s own admission. Moore claims in the introductory epistle to the reader that ‘he had chiefly conformed to what Descartes in his Definitions of the Passions had done before him’ (EE A). He claims that ‘no man has 4 Work on the relationship between Descartes and More has focused almost exclusively on More’s increasingly negative reaction to Descartes’s metaphysics and theology. See, for example, Alan Gabbey, ‘Philosophia Cartesiana Triumphata: Henry More (–)’, in Thomas M. Lennon, John M. Nicholas, and John W. Davies (eds.), Problems of Cartesianism (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, ), –. The notable exception is Christopher Tilmouth, who emphasizes Descartes’s influence on More’s theory of the passions and ethics. For an overview of the literature see Tilmouth’s ‘Generosity and the Utility of the Passions: Cartesian Ethics in Restoration England’ [‘Generosity’], The Seventeenth Century,  (), –.

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more accurately summed up or distinctly defined the several kinds of species of passions, than the renowned philosopher Descartes’ (EE ). In handling these subjects, More claims to ‘tread, for the most part’ in Descartes’s ‘footsteps’ (EE ). Consequently, although the Enchiridion does not engage in explicit Descartes exegesis, it is clearly based on an interpretation of Descartes’s theory of the passions, an interpretation which can be discerned in More’s own theory. In this chapter, I draw on this interpretation for insight into Descartes’s views, using More’s Cartesian theory of the passions as a kind of lens for looking at Descartes. Since I regard More’s interpretation of the relevant views to be largely correct, this amounts to offering a Morean reading of Descartes. Using More in this way is justified, first, because he offers a perceptive reading of Descartes’s views on the issues at stake in this chapter: whether the passions are contentful mental states and whether they are ethically reliable. It is justified, secondly, because More’s reading helps to draw out aspects of Descartes’s views that may otherwise be overlooked. In particular, because the Enchiridion is more squarely focused on ethical questions than any of Descartes’s texts, More is concerned to identify the sometimes difficult to discern ethical consequences and underpinnings of Descartes’s theory of the passions. This approach is also worthwhile because it enriches our understanding of these interpretive issues by attending to their history. In section  I argue that Descartes conceived of the passions as contentful mental states and I consider what their contents are. I then turn to the question of whether Descartes regarded these contents as accurate. In section  I consider More’s answer to this question. I then use this answer as a guide to interpreting Descartes’s answer in section . I conclude with a few remarks on Descartes’s influence on More.

.

THE PASSIONS AS CONTENTFUL MENTAL STATES

The notion that Cartesian passions are not contentful mental states traces back to Louis de La Forge’s reconstruction of Descartes’s view of the soul and its connection to the body. According to La Forge’s reading, Cartesian passions are purely conative or appetitive states that influence the will by moving our attention to sensations, though the passions are nevertheless associated with the

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contents of sensations.5 In this respect, the Cartesian passions resemble Thomistic passions, which are movements and acts of the sensitive appetitive powers, but are nevertheless associated with the cognitions of the sensitive intellect that cause and accompany the passions.6 This way of reading Descartes likely explains Shaftesbury’s famous criticism of Descartes for focusing too narrowly on the bodily mechanisms involved in the operation of the passions. According to Shaftesbury, Descartes neglects to consider how the passions contribute to agency by informing our deliberation and action.7 This reading continues to be endorsed by a variety of commentators today.8

5 Louis de La Forge, Traité de l’esprit de l’homme (Amsterdam: Abraham Wolfgang, ), –. Two clarifications are in order here. First, claiming that the passions are appetitive states does not imply that passions are movements of the will. For instance, philosophers who conceive of desire as a non-cognitive, appetitive state usually do not understand desire as a movement of the will or necessarily volitional, though they may hold that desire can influence the will or even that desire can be a product of the will. Aquinas provides a good example of this view, as he denies that the passions belong to the will. See ST I–II, q. , a. . Secondly, I follow the potentially misleading practice in Descartes scholarship of referring to sensory perceptions as sensations. Consequently, ‘sensation’ should not be understood as referring to whatever is left in sensory perceptions after they have been exhausted of their representational content, as is commonly done in present day philosophy of mind. 6 Aquinas claims that the passions belong to the appetitive, rather than the apprehensive powers of the soul in ST I–II, q. , a. . He describes them as movements in the second objection and reply to ST I–II, q. , a. . While I take this to imply that the passions are not themselves contentful or cognitive states, this reading is controversial. 7 Anthony Ashley Cooper, the Third Earl of Shaftesbury, Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times,  volumes (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund, ), volume , . 8 In addition to Greenberg and Brassfield, this view is upheld by Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, ‘Cartesian Passions and the Union of Mind and Body’, in Essays on Descartes’ Meditations (Berkeley: University of California Press, ), –; Alison Simmons, ‘Sensible Ends: Latent Teleology in Descartes’ Account of Sensation’ [‘Latent Teleology’], Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at ; Jonathan Bennett, A Study of Spinoza’s Ethics (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, ), . The opposing view, that the passions are contentful, is more common. See Deborah Brown and Calvin Normore, ‘Traces of the Body: Cartesian Passions’ [‘Traces’], in Byron Williston and André Gombay (eds.), Passion and Virtue in Descartes (Amherst, NY: Humanity Books, ), –, at ; Amy Schmitter, ‘How to Engineer a Human Being: Passions and Functional Explanation in Descartes’ [‘Engineer’], in Janet Broughton and John Carriero (eds.), A Companion to Descartes (Malden, MA: WileyBlackwell, ), –; Lilli Alanen, Descartes’s Concept of Mind [Mind] (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ), ; Paul Hoffman, ‘Three Dualist Theories of the Passions’, Philosophical Topics,  (), –, at ; Susan James, Passions and Action: The Emotions in Seventeenth-Century Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), ; Lisa Shapiro, ‘Descartes’ Passions of the Soul and the Union of Mind and Body’ [‘Union’], Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie,  (), –, at , and Shapiro, ‘How We Experience the World: Passionate Perception in Descartes and Spinoza’ [‘Passionate Perception’], in Martin

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Henry More provides a historical example of the opposing reading. Whereas La Forge laid out Descartes’s views on the passions with an eye to making sense of the relation between mind and body, More’s Enchiridion Ethicum laid out these views with an eye to explaining ethics. According to More, the passions are sensations of the suffering of the soul, in other words, of the way that the soul is affected by things (EE ). On this basis, he claims that the passions serve not only to move, sustain, and enliven our thinking, as La Forge held, but also to ‘rate’ or construe the value of things according to the way that they are ‘felt or relished by a sort of connexion with our souls’ (EE –). Thus, on More’s view, the Cartesian passions are contentful states that present things as beneficial or harmful for the soul. At first glance, the La Forgian reading might appear to be a nonstarter since Descartes explicitly and repeatedly describes the passions as representational, which seems to imply that they possess some representational content. For instance, he claims, ‘the soul always receives passions from the things that are represented by them’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ; see also PS , , , ). However, defenders of the La Forgian reading explain these passages by pointing out that Descartes would likely not have understood ‘represent’ in the same way as present day philosophers. On their view, Descartes means that the passions present content to the mind in the loose sense of moving our attention to the content contained in sensations, in much the same way as a waiter presents a diner with a menu. Indeed, the passions literally re-present this content, since it was already available in the sensation.9 La Forgians can offer similar explanations for Descartes’s description of the passions as ‘confused and obscure’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ; see also AT viii–. ; CSM i. ), which is sometimes taken to show that the passions must be contentful states.10 Since the La Forgian reading holds that the passions direct our attention to obscure and confused sensations, it would be natural for Descartes to describe

Pickavé and Lisa Shapiro (eds.), Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, at . See Greenberg, ‘Descartes on the Passions’,  and Brassfield, ‘Never Let the Passions’, –. 10 See Brown and Normore, ‘Traces’, . 9

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the passions as obscure and confused, even though they have no content of their own. Here More is helpful, for his reading of the passions as contentful is based largely on Descartes’s definition of the passions, which poses a more difficult problem for the La Forgian reading. According to Descartes’s first broad definition, the passions are passive thoughts, which includes all ‘perceptions or modes of knowledge’ because we passively receive perceptions (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Thus, the broad definition includes, first, sensations, since these are perceptions that we receive from the body, and, secondly, intellectual perceptions that are not volitions, such as ‘perceptions of our own volitions’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Descartes’s second, more narrow definition treats passions as ‘those perceptions, sensations or emotions [des emotions] of the soul which we refer particularly to it, and which are caused, maintained and strengthened by some movement of the spirits’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. –). The subsequent explanation of the definition makes clear that the passions are supposed to be perceptions, sensations, and emotions.11 This narrow definition is the basis for More’s definition of the passions, which emphasizes the passions’ status as sensations: ‘passion then is a vehement sensation of the soul, which refers especially to the soul itself, and is accompanied with an unwonted motion of the spirits’ (EE ). These definitions cut against the La Forgian reading in two ways. First, Descartes’s broad and narrow definitions regard the passions as perceptions, which suggests that they necessarily perceive something and, consequently, possess some content. Second, as More’s definition highlights, Descartes’s narrow definition explicitly classifies the passions as kinds of sensations, a classification echoed in the title to Principles iv. , where Descartes classifies ‘animi affectibus’—‘les passions’ in the French translation (AT ix. )—as ‘internal sensations’ (AT viii–. ; CSM i. ). This classification suggests that passions and sensations are cognitively similar and, consequently, that the passions are contentful in the same way as sensations. Indeed, Descartes writes, ‘we may also call them [passions] “sensations”, because they are received This claim is defended in Paul Hoffman, ‘The Passions and Freedom of Will’ [‘Freedom’], in Byron Williston and André Gombay (eds.), Passion and Virtue in Descartes (Amherst, NY: Humanity Books, ), –, at . 11

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into the soul in the same way as the objects of the external senses, and they are not known by the soul any differently’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).12 I will mention one final difficulty with the La Forgian reading: it makes it difficult to explain Descartes’s frequent claim that the function of the passions is to dispose or to incline the will: ‘the use of the passions consists in this alone: they dispose the soul to will the things nature tells us are useful and to persist in that volition’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ; see also PS , , ).13 Although some contemporary defenders of the La Forgian reading cite these passages for emphasizing that the passions serve a motivating function, rather than a representational function, it is difficult to explain, on the La Forgian reading, how the passions can serve this motivational function.14 This is because the La Forgian reading—at least as advanced by some of its contemporary defenders—supposes that the passions serve a purely motivational function, while sensations serve a purely representational function,15 which entails that contents of sensations, by themselves, are not motivating. For instance, my sensory perception that a threatening bear is lumbering toward me does not, by itself, motivate me, say, to flee. Consequently, it is not clear how directing one’s attention to such sensations would be motivating. In contrast, reading the passions as contentful provides a straightforward explanation of how they influence the will, since Descartes clearly holds that perceptions can influence the will.16 More specifically, 12

Classifying the passions as a kind of sensation is consistent with distinguishing passions in a systematic way from other sensations, as Descartes does in PS . 13 Descartes also describes the function of the individual primary passions—love, hate, desire, and so forth—as inclining the will in some way, and he distinguishes the passions from one another on this basis (PS –, , ). 14 Here I follow defenders of the La Forgian reading in using ‘representational’ to indicate that a mental state is presentational or contentful, without implying that its content is accurate. Though I strive to avoid using the term ‘represent’, when I do so, I will use the term in this way. 15 ‘The function of sensations is to inform the mind of things that can benefit and harm the body, but they have no direct relation to the will, and so do not themselves bring about action’ (Greenberg, ‘Descartes on the Passions’, ). In conversation it has not been clear whether Brassfield wants to follow Greenberg on this point, but her paper seems to endorse Greenberg’s reading wholesale. 16 Greenberg denies my claim here on the basis of PS : ‘movements of the first kind represent to the soul the objects which stimulate the senses, or the impressions occurring in the brain; and these have no influence on the will’ (‘Descartes on the Passions’, ).

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Descartes upholds the Thomist view that the will possesses a natural disposition to the true and the good, in virtue of which perceptions of the good and the true incline the will:17 ‘our will tends to pursue or avoid only what our intellect represents as good or bad’ (AT vi. ; CSM i. ); ‘as for man, since he finds that the nature of all goodness and truth is already determined by God, and his will cannot tend toward anything else . . . ’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ; see also AT iv. ; CSMK ; AT viii–; CSM i. ). This view suggests that the passions incline the will to act by perceiving good or evil.18 Greenberg takes ‘these’ to refer to sensations or sensory perceptions and, consequently, he reads the passage as asserting that such perceptions do not move the will. However, the passage is concerned with the possibility of conflicting movements in the pineal gland and ‘these’ must refer to the movement of the pineal gland. It is not referring to mental sensory perceptions or, indeed, to anything mental at all. Presumably when Descartes claims that these movements ‘represent’ he means that they represent in the same way as other non-mental presentations, such as pictures or maps. Even if Descartes means that these movements represent in the sense of causing representing mental perceptions, the passage does not assert that such mental preception does not move the will. Such a conclusion is also difficult to square with Descartes’s remarks quoted in the rest of this paragraph as well as his repeated claim that clear and distinct perceptions move the will. 17 At this point, one might object to my reading on the grounds that it requires Descartes to uphold a Thomist account of the will, which has been controversial. The controversy concerns the proper interpretation of Descartes’s definition of the will as ‘our ability to do or not do something (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or avoid)’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). On the one hand, Alanen reads the definition as asserting that the will retains the ability to do or not do under all conditions, even at the moment when we clearly and distinctly perceive something as true. On the other hand, others, such as Carriero, argue that the will, for Descartes, cannot resist assenting to clear and distinct perceptions at the moment we perceive them, though it can do so after the fact by directing one’s attention elsewhere. The latter view tends to be held by those who read Descartes as upholding a Thomist view of the will as inclined to the true and the good, since Aquinas, contra Scotus, does not regard internal inclinations to the true and the good as threats to the will’s freedom and essential powers. My reading, however, supposes that Descartes upholds an uncontroversial and weaker Thomist claim that the will is inclined to the good and the true, which does not require taking any side on whether perceptions of the good and the true constrain the will and whether such constraint is consistent with our freedom. See John Carriero, Between Two Worlds: A Reading of Descartes’s Meditations (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ), –, and Alanen, Mind, ch. . For a discussion of these issues generally see Hoffman, ‘Freedom’, –. 18 For a defense of the view that the passions, for Descartes, incline the will by perceiving good and evil and, thus, by offering motivating reasons, rather than by mechanically causing the will to incline in some direction, see Paul Hoffman, ‘Reasons, Causes, and Inclinations’, in Martin Pickavé and Lisa Shapiro (eds.), Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –. A similar view, according to which the passions serve partly as reasons, is defended by Deborah Brown, ‘The Rationality of Cartesian Passions’ [‘Rationality’], in Henrik

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What, then, is the content of the passions? Descartes makes two important claims here, both of which figure in More’s reading. First, as the previous paragraph intimates, Descartes claims that the passions represent the value of things, in other words, good and evil, or the prospects for obtaining or encountering some good or evil. For instance, Descartes writes: ‘fear represents death as an extreme evil’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ); ‘repulsion is ordained by nature to represent to the soul a sudden and unexpected death . . . as a manifest evil’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ); ‘attraction, on the other hand, is specially ordained by nature to represent the enjoyment of that which attracts us as the greatest of all the goods belonging to mankind, and so to make us have a burning desire for this enjoyment’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ); ‘despair represents the desired thing as impossible’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). This raises the question of how Descartes understood good and evil. Descartes is referring here to good and evil broadly, what one might call ‘metaphysical good and evil’, as opposed to the moral good and evil that is distinctive to human action. While he offers precious little theoretical explanation, he appears to accept a view widely accepted among ancient and medieval philosophers that things are good in virtue of contributing to a thing’s natural ends.19 Of course, Descartes rejects the Aristotelian metaphysics that undergirds many of these views and is critical of certain sorts of teleological explanations in natural philosophy. Nevertheless he holds that living things have natural functions (usually ‘usage’), which he characterizes as aiming toward

Lagerlund and Mikko Yrjönsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes (Dordrecht: Kluwer, ), –. This conclusion supposes that mental states can only motivate in virtue of perceiving, which calls into question the dichotomy, implicit in the La Forgian reading, that mental states must be either representational or motivational. Shapiro explains the significance of Descartes’s conception of the passions as both intentional and motivational in ‘Passionate Perception’. 19 This way of thinking is evident in one of Aquinas’s arguments showing that being and goodness are interchangable: all existing things must be good because all existence involves the realization of a thing’s perfection (in the sense of its species specific natural capacities) and all things have a desire or appetitive movement toward the aim of their own perfection. See ST I, q. , a. . For an overview of this argument, see Eleanor Stump and Norman Kretzmann, ‘Being and Goodness’, in Scott MacDonald (ed.), Being and Goodness: The Concept of the Good in Metaphysics and Philosophical Theology (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, ), –, at –.

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natural ends, such as the survival of the mind–body composite, a point that Simmons has explained at length.20 In particular, the passions ‘are all ordained by nature to relate to the body, and to belong to the soul only in so far as it is joined with the body. Hence, their natural function is to move the soul to consent and contribute to actions which may serve to preserve the body or render it in some way more perfect’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM ii. ). When Descartes claims that the passions represent good and evil he usually understands good and evil as what is beneficial and harmful with respect to these natural ends.21 He explicitly equates good with what is ‘beneficial to us’, and evil with what is ‘harmful’ (PS ; CSM i. ), while he explains that these benefits and harms are judged according to the agreement of things with our nature: ‘we call something “good” or “evil” if our internal senses or our reason make us judge it agreeable or contrary to our nature’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ; see also AT iv. ; CSMK ). The notion that Descartes understands good and evil with respect to our natural ends is also evident from his tendency to treat goodness and perfection as coextensive, for this view was traditionally justified on the grounds that goodness is the realization of a thing’s enddirected natural capacities. For instance, Descartes writes, ‘I do not see anything which we can deem good unless it somehow belongs to us and our having it is a perfection’ (AT v. ; CSMK ). According to this discussion, the passions report on good and evil by reporting either (a) the value or utility of things, including external things, with respect to attaining some natural end, or (b) our success or lack of success in attaining some natural end. Descartes’s second claim about the content of the passions is found in his narrow definition of the passions as perceptions ‘referred to’

20 See Simmons, ‘Latent Teleology’. Simmons’s claim that Descartes’s notion of function is teleological is controversial. For an alternative reading, see Deborah Brown and Calvin Normore, Descartes’ Ontology of Everyday Life, forthcoming. My reading does not require that Cartesian functions be understood teleologically. On the status of teleological explanation in early modern philosophy generally, see Don Garrett, ‘Teleology in Spinoza and Early Modern Rationalism’, in Rocco J. Gennaro and Charles Huenemann (eds.), New Essays on the Rationalists (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –; Jeffrey K. McDonough, ‘The Heyday of Teleology and Early Modern Philosophy’, Midwest Studies in Philosophy,  (), –. 21 For more on this, see Rutherford, ‘Stoic’.

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(rapporter à) the soul.22 In the articles leading up to this definition, Descartes distinguished perceptions according to the different ways that we perceive some object of awareness, paradigmatically, some sensuous quality. In some sensations, we perceive a quality as being in an external thing (PS ), such as the red of the fire truck, whereas in others, we perceive a quality as being in our own body, such as the hunger in our stomach (PS ). In this respect, in these sensations we attribute or ‘refer’ the object of awareness (hunger) to some thing (the stomach). According to this reading, the narrow definition claims that in the passions we refer some object of awareness to the soul in the sense that we perceive the soul as being in some state or affected in some way. In More’s words, ‘that the soul itself is said, in this sensation, especially to suffer, is to distinguish it from other sensations; whether of odors, sounds and colors, etc. which refer to external objects; or of hunger, thirst and pain, etc., which regard our bodies’ (EE ). There is some question about how to reconcile these two claims, for the first asserts that the passions represent good and evil, which may be an external thing, such as a beloved friend or an approaching bear, whereas the second asserts that the passions represent the soul. Deborah Brown and Calvin Normore argue that the conjunction of these claims indicates a distinctive property of the passions: unlike other sensations, the intentional object of the passions (what the passions are about) can be different from the ‘subject of the sensuous quality’, what the passions are referred or attributed to. In Brown and Normore’s words, ‘the soul is afraid but the fear is of the bear. The soul is envious but the envy is of others’ good fortune.’23 On this basis, Brown and Normore conclude that the passions represent relationally, in other words, that they perceive or represent the value of things with respect to their beneficial or harmful effects on the soul (see also PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). This implies that the passions may simultaneously represent external things and states of the soul, which reconciles the two claims. One might take the notion that the passions report on good and evil in relation to the soul as implying that the passions somehow do not report on the actual or objective value of things. However, it is a

22

The interpretation of this claim is controversial. My explanation follows Deborah Brown, Descartes and the Passionate Mind [Passionate Mind] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –. 23 ‘Traces’, .

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mistake to suppose that such relational goods and evils—things that are good and evil for some thing—are somehow less objective or real. Claiming that something is good in relation to some individual does not imply that the goodness of the thing is unreal or subjective in the sense that it depends on our attitudes or thoughts about the thing. For instance, poison ivy is bad for me—whereas it is not (apparently) bad for goats, who suffer no ill effects from poison ivy—because of how it affects my health, regardless of my thoughts and attitudes. Furthermore, claiming that something is good in relation to an individual does not imply that the thing is not intrinsically good. As the notion was understood prior to the twentieth century, something is intrinsically good if it is good for its own sake (non-instrumentally), which is consistent with its being good only in relation to some individuals. For instance, in the eudaimonistic tradition, the highest good is intrinsically good in the sense of non-instrumentally good, even though it is the highest good only in relation to human beings; virtue or happiness are not the highest good for rocks or other animals. Descartes similarly holds that virtue has intrinsic (non-instrumental) value, as Naaman-Zauderer has emphasized, though he also holds that virtue is valuable for us, but not for other animals.24 The notion that the intrinsic or absolute value of things depends only on their intrinsic properties, independently of their relationships to other things, is an innovation of G. E. Moore.25 Consequently, it would be anachronistic to suppose that Descartes’s recognition of certain goods as relational implies that they are not intrinsically good.

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MORE’S TWO KINDS OF AFFECTIONS

In turning to the question of whether the contents of the passions are accurate or reliable, I will take the approach of first considering More’s See Noa Naaman-Zauderer, Descartes’ Deontological Turn: Reason, Will, and Virtue in the Later Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), ch. . 25 See G. E. Moore, Principia Ethica, nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), , and W. D. Ross, The Right and the Good (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), , –. For criticisms of this view, see Judith Thomson, Goodness and Advice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ), ; Richard Kraut, What is Good and Why: The Ethics of Well-Being (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ), ch. . For the claim that this is Moore’s innovation, see Thomas Hurka’s entry on Moore’s moral philosophy in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, . 24

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later Cartesian-inspired answer in the Enchiridion, which provides guidance in interpreting Descartes. More’s answer turns on an important distinction between the passions generally and a special category of passion or affection arising from a divine power, which More dubs the ‘boniform faculty’. With regard to the former, More emphasizes that the passions generally rate the value of things with respect to ends shared by other animals, namely self-preservation and the continuation of the species, as is evident, for example, in ‘the pleasure of eating and drinking’ (EE ). This is because the passions generally arise from bodily mechanisms directed to these ends. According to More, our nature is ‘infused’ with ‘a formative or sensible principle’, by which our ‘operations and instincts’ ‘tend to the support and preservation of the species; as (namely) the act of generating, and that also of a passionate concern in every creature toward their young’ (EE –). More takes this to show that the passions are all beneficial in some sense: ‘of their own nature they are good’ (EE ). However, he does not take this to show that the passions generally are valuable with respect to the ethical aims of virtue and happiness. More is clear that mere survival is not sufficient for happiness: ‘it is plain to every man of sense that a bare self-preservation is not a desirable thing; for such may be the scorns and scourges of this life, that none but a stupid creature would in such circumstances desire to live’ (EE ). Furthermore, he does not accept that the passions generally can be counted on to direct us virtuously: ‘how unadvised therefore have some been to say, every thing was lawful, that passion did persuade . . . none, but such as are mere slaves unto passion, can ever think at this rate’ (EE ). The problem is that, while the passions do direct us to what is good given our ends, they are ‘undetermined, or unbounded’; in other words, they direct us to these ends without restrictions or moderation (EE ). As such, the passions tend to violate a law of right reason, which dictates that the strength of our desires—our ‘zeal’—must be proportioned to the value of their particular objects (EE ). More concludes that, if the passions are to be ‘not only good’, but also to contribute to ‘the perfecting of human life’, they must ‘steer toward a proper object’, and ‘be adequate to the object or the end’ (EE ). More does not on this basis seek to eliminate the passions directing us to our animal ends: ‘it is a kind of serious and settled design of nature, that this animal station should never be abandoned by the

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mind of man’ (EE –). Rather, he recommends that we use reason to train the passions: ‘now the next principle, unto which passion is subjected, and which knows what in every case is good and bad, is right reason’ (EE ). In this training, reason corrects the passions’ mistaken reporting about the value of things so that the passions direct us appropriately; ‘the inferior part of the soul submits [testimony], and is overawed by the superior’ so that ‘the whole man is as it were in the fiery chariot of his affections, elias-like, carried up towards God and heaven’ (EE ). This training makes us virtuous because virtue amounts to possessing inclinations to good and away from evil that reflect the actual value of things: ‘it is the nature of true virtue, to love the best things, and hate the worst’ (EE ).26 More claims that once this training has been provided, the passions serve as reliable guides, ‘lamps or beacons, to conduct and excite us to our journey’s end’ (EE ). According to this discussion, the passions generally are not ethically reliable in their untutored state. However, More offers a more optimistic assessment of certain passions—or, more accurately, affections— in his view of the boniform faculty, which governs the souls of virtuous people.27 For the present purposes, I will emphasize three properties of this faculty: first, it perceives or represents good and evil. In this vein, More describes it as ‘the very eye of the soul’ (EE ). Second, it is the source of pleasure, specifically the pleasure that comes from our true or absolute good; it ‘enables us to distinguish not only what is simply and absolutely the best, but to relish it and to have pleasure in that alone’ (EE ). Third, it contains conative or appetitive movements toward our true good. According to More, it ‘resembles the part of the will which moves towards that which we judge to be absolutely the best, 26

More at one point even defines virtue as the power whereby passions are subdued (EE, epistle A; ). 27 More qualifies that the affections of the boniform faculty ‘may not so truly be termed a passion’ because they are proximately caused by intellectual perceptions rather than bodily movements and impressions (EE ). On this see Amy Schmitter, ‘Passions and Affections’, in P. Anstey (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of British Philosophy in the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, at . More may be equivocal on this point because the affections of the boniform faculty still fit his definition of the passions; he defines the passions not as perceptions caused by bodily movements, but rather as perceptions ‘accompanied with an unwonted motion of the spirits’, and it seems that even intellectual emotions would be accompanied by such a movement of the spirits.

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when, as it were with an unquenchable thirst and affection, it is hurried on towards so pleasing an objection’ (EE –). More conceives of the boniform faculty as responsible for—or, perhaps, consisting in—affections, specifically beneficence, the love of the good that motivates virtuous people (EE , –). However, unlike the general passions, the affections of the boniform faculty are less entangled in the bodily mechanisms that direct us to our animal ends. More classifies the love belonging to the boniform faculty as ‘intellectual love’ (EE ) because it is ‘not from the body, but rather from the soul’ (EE ); in other words, because it is proximately caused by intellectual perceptions, rather than bodily movements and impressions. More takes this to imply that the affections of the boniform faculty provide more reliable information about the value of things with respect to virtue. Because the passions generally are caused by bodily movements and impressions, they identify particular and, consequently, relative or situational good, ‘what may be good for this or that particular person’ (EE ). This is what makes the passions generally poor guides to virtue: ‘no man’s private inclinations are the measures of good and evil’ (EE ). In contrast, the affections of the boniform faculty identify what is ‘simply good’ or ‘absolutely good’: ‘what we hold to be the absolute good or better thing, is that which proves grateful, or more grateful to the boniform faculty of the soul’ (EE ; see also EE , ). Given that these affections serve as the measure of absolute goodness and that they motivate virtuous people, More clearly regards them as providing accurate information about the value of things with respect to virtue. Because the affections of the boniform faculty are accurate in this way, More envisions them playing an important role in the process of training and correcting the general passions. While More claims that we train the passions by subjecting them to right reason, he understands the boniform faculty as a central part of right reason.28 According to More, the boniform faculty is the source of the ‘sense and feeling’,

28 More is not clear about the precise relation between reason and the boniform faculty. On the one hand, his explanation of reason bottoms out in the boniform faculty. On the other hand, he denies that the boniform faculty is part of the intellect. This is because the boniform faculty is the seat of happiness and the seat of happiness cannot be the intellect, or else mere contemplation would be the best life, whereas the best life requires actions (EE ).

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which serves as ‘the rule or boundary whereby reason is examined and approves of her self ’ (EE ). In other words, the boniform faculty produces a sensible feeling of approval, which provides the basis for reason’s judgment. On this basis, More claims that the boniform faculty provides ‘the final judgment’ about the value of things (EE ). In light of this conception of reason, training the passions is not simply a matter of bringing them into line with reason’s judgment, but also of subjecting them to a more rarefied and reliable set of affections, which are constitutive of reason. In this respect, achieving virtue is a matter of fighting affections with affections in the sense of calibrating some affections to bring them into line with others.

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DESCARTES’S TWO KINDS OF AFFECTIONS

Now that we have More’s explanation of the ethical reliability of the passions in view, we can see what light this sheds on Descartes. While More departs from Descartes in a variety of ways with regard to both the passions and virtue, a central piece of his view on the ethical reliability of the passions is also found in Descartes (and, indeed, is likely inspired by his reading of Descartes). This piece is the distinction between two kinds of passions: the first is the passions generally, which represent value with respect to more animalistic and bodily ends. These passions are generally unreliable sources of information about the value of things with respect to ethical goals and, consequently, require rational oversight. The second is a more rarefied kind of passion that is reliable with respect to virtue and that advises and informs reason’s judgments of value. To make this case, first consider Descartes’s view of the passions generally. Descartes frequently warns that the passions tend to misrepresent the value of things, particularly in his early correspondence with Elisabeth. For instance, ‘all our passions represent to us the goods to whose pursuit they impel us as being much greater than they really are’ (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. –; CSMK ). These remarks do not imply that the passions are always inaccurate, for he explains that the passions can be ‘tamed’ and made consistent with reason, which implies that they can come to represent good and evil accurately (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ;

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CSMK ).29 Nevertheless, the remarks imply that the passions, in their untutored state, have a strong tendency to misrepresent good evil. Descartes’s concern here is not that the passions misrepresent the value of things with respect to ends like survival and self-preservation. Descartes’s theodicy of error in the Meditations indicates that sensations generally are reliable with respect to these aims, in so far as the body is operating properly (AT vii. –). Rather, his concern in these letters is that the passions misrepresent good and evil with respect to ethical aims. He cites anger (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ; CSMK ), which is traditionally seen as a threat to virtue, as an example of a passion that misrepresents the value of things. He also emphasizes that the passions misrepresent the value of things with respect to happiness, which is a central goal of Descartes’s ethics. But often passion makes us believe certain things to be much better and more desirable than they are; then, when we have taken much trouble to acquire them, and in the process lost the chance of possessing other more genuine goods, possession of them brings home to us their defects; and thence arises dissatisfaction, regret and remorse. (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ; CSMK –) They all represent the goods to which they tend with greater splendor than they deserve, and they make us imagine pleasures to be much greater, before we possess them, than our subsequence experiences show them to be. (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ; CSMK )

The letters indicate that the passions are ethically unreliable because of the way they are entangled in bodily mechanisms. In these letters, Descartes distinguishes two kinds of pleasures, ‘those that belong to the mind alone, and those that belong to the whole human being, that is to say, to the mind in so far as it is united with the body’ (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ; CSMK ). The passions are unreliable because they involve the latter pleasures, which ‘present themselves in a confused manner to the imagination and often appear much greater than they are, especially before we possess them; and this is the source of all the evils and all the errors of life’ (To Elisabeth,

29

I disagree here with Brassfield and Andrew Youpa, who hold that the passions always misrepresent the good. See Andrew Youpa, ‘Descartes’s Virtue Theory’, Essays in Philosophy,  (), –.

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 September ; AT iv. ; CSMK ). Bodily pleasures are confused in this way because the body is subject to perpetual change, and indeed its preservation and wellbeing depend on change; so all the pleasures proper to it last a very short time, since they arise from the acquisition of something useful to the body at the moment of reception, and cease as soon as it stops being useful. The pleasures of the soul, on the other hand, can be as immortal as the soul itself provided they are so solidly founded that neither the knowledge of truth nor any false conviction can destroy them. (To Elisabeth,  September ; AT iv. ; CSMK –)

Thus, the passions are unreliable with respect to happiness because they represent good and evil on the basis of bodily pleasures, which are fleeting and variable as they depend on fluctuating bodily states. This claim bears more than a passing resemblance to More’s notion that the passions generally are ethically unreliable because, being directly caused by bodily mechanisms, they indicate particular, relative, and situational goods. Descartes’s explanation of these issues in the Passions of the Soul follows the same basic contours as the letters with some important new wrinkles. In the Passions, Descartes again asserts that the passions tend to misrepresent good and evil because they tend to represent the value of things with respect to bodily welfare. He claims that the passions ‘in so far as they relate to the body’ serve the function of moving ‘the soul to consent and to contribute to actions which may serve to preserve the body or render it in some way more perfect’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). In this capacity, they are inaccurate because they tend to exagerate or overestimate the value of things: ‘the passions almost always cause the goods they represent, as well as the evils, to appear much greater and more important than they are, thus, moving us to pursue the former and flee from the latter with more ardor and zeal than is appropriate’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).30 On this basis, he concludes that the passions, serving in this capacity, require oversight from reason: ‘we must use experience and reason in

Descartes also asserts that the passions serve a good function when he claims: ‘I cannot believe that nature has given to mankind any passion which is always vicious and has no good or praiseworthy function’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). 30

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order to distinguish good from evil and know their true value, so as not to take the one for the other or rush into anything immoderately’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).31 In the Passions, however, Descartes offers a slightly different (though compatible) explanation for this unreliability. The passions tend to overestimate the value of certain things, not because they focus on fleeting or situational goods (thought this may also be the case), but rather because they fail to evaluate goods according to whether they are under our control or within our power to obtain: ‘the error we commit most commonly in respect of desires is failure to distinguish adequately the things which depend wholly on us from those which do not depend on us at all’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). From the perspective of virtue, this leads the passions to exaggerate the value of certain goods and evils because Descartes understands a virtuous will as directed to goods only to the extent that they are under our control. Descartes understands virtue as the proper direction of the will in action and judgment: ‘a firm and constant will to bring about everything we judge to be the best, and to use all the power of our intellect in judging well’ (To Elisabeth,  August ; AT iv. ; CSMK ). He elaborates that the exercise of virtue ‘comes to the same’ as ‘the possession of all those goods whose acquistion depends upon our free will’ (To Elisabeth,  October ; AT iv. ; CSMK ).32 He takes this to imply that we should not desire things beyond our control: ‘regarding the things which do not depend on us in any way, we must never desire them with passion, however good they may be’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).33 Avoiding these desires leads to happiness 31

Descartes’s claim here echoes the letters, where he claims that the unreliability of the passions generally prevents them from contributing to moral deliberation. The letters conclude that we should determine our good on the basis of reason alone, without making use of the passions: ‘the true function of reason, then, in the conduct of life is to examine and consider without passion the value of all the perfections, both of the body and the soul, which can be acquired by our conduct’ (AT iv. ; CSMK , emphasis added). 32 Descartes makes use of this claim when he argues that a well-directed will is the highest good because it is the only good completely under our control (AT iv. ; CSMK ; AT v. ; CSMK –). 33 In making this claim, Descartes sometimes writes as though a well-directed will is the only truly good thing, but this is not his view. First, this would render Descartes’s theory of virtue vacuous: since a well-directed will is directed only to goods under our control and a well-directed will is the only good under our control, it follows that a well-directed will would be a will directed only to a well-directed will, without any further specification of the

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because it protects us from the disappointment that arises from fortune and chance (e.g. PS ; AT vi. –; CSM i. –; To Elisabeth,  October ; AT iv. ; CSMK ). Consequently, the passions are also morally problematic because they render our happiness hostage to fortune. Nevertheless, Descartes, like More, recognizes that this characterization does not apply to all passions. Descartes’s criticisms from the Passions, discussed in the preceding paragraph, are directed at the passions ‘in so far as they belong to the body’, in other words, in their capacity to direct us to the preservation and perfection of the body. But Descartes denies that the passions represent good and evil only with respect to these ends. ‘This [function] would be sufficient if we had in us only a body, or if the body were our better part. But as it is only the lesser part, we should consider the passions chiefly in so far as they belong to the soul’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Consequently, the title to article  claims that the passions perform an additional function, ‘in so far as they belong to the soul’. Serving in this capacity, the passions do not suffer from the same unreliability, for Descartes claims that these passions ‘result from knowledge’ of good and evil (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).34 These passions are not subject to the same immoderate tendencies, which is evident from the fact they cannot be excessive. For instance, Descartes claims that love based on knowledge ‘cannot be too great, for all that the most excessive love can do is to join us so perfectly to these goods that the love we have especially for ourselves must apply to them as well as to us; and this, I believe, can never be bad’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).

sort of goods to which a well-directed will is directed. On this point, see Brown, Passionate Mind, . For a non-vacuous explanation of a well-directed will, see Rutherford, ‘Stoic’, . Secondly, Descartes departs from the Stoic notion that only virtue is good. He recognizes that things like bodily welfare and survival are not merely preferred indifferents, but also good. On this point, see Rutherford, ‘Stoic’. 34 At this point, Brassfield might offer an alternative reading of this passage as claiming that the passions are only reliable when they arise from reason’s judgment. However, Descartes says only that they arise from knowledge, and it would beg the question to assume that knowledge is revealed only by reason. As we will see shortly, Descartes believes that knowledge can arise from rational deliberative processes to which passions like wonder contribute. If the passions can contribute to knowledge, then claiming that reliable passions arise from knowledge does not rule out the possibility that passions can be reliable without correction from reason.

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What, then, is this additional function? While Descartes is not explicit, he seems to think that the passions in so far as they belong to the body rate the value of things on the basis of bodily inputs and processes, which are narrowly targeted to animalistic and bodily ends, whereas the passions in so far as they belong to the soul rate things on the basis of thoughts and cognitions. It follows that the latter may rate the value of things with respect to broader human ends, including virtue, which Descartes regards as our final end (To Elisabeth,  August ; AT iv. ; CSMK ). Of course, there is not a sharp distinction in Descartes between things that are good for the body and virtue, since a virtuous will is directed to aims such as survival and bodily welfare, to the extent that these things are under our control. Nevertheless, Descartes holds that virtue has intrinsic value, which means that it is valuable independently of how it contributes to survival or bodily welfare. Consequently, only the passions in so far as they belong to the soul can recognize virtue as our final end and can rate the value of things with respect to this end. This reading is supported by the following articles where Descartes explains that the passions in so far as they belong to the soul are reliable because they are based on knowledge of the value of our will and what lies within the will’s purview or control. For instance, ‘desire is always good when it conforms to true knowledge’ of the goodness of those things ‘which depend only on us—that is, on our free will’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). On this basis, Descartes regards these passions as ethically important because they direct our will properly to what is under our control, thereby contributing to our virtue and perfection.35 Descartes claims, for instance, that love in so far as it belongs to the soul ‘is extremely good because by joining real goods to us it makes us to that extent more perfect’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). The passion of generosity provides the best example of how a passion can be reliable in this way. Descartes characterizes this passion as a kind of esteem. The passion of esteem arises when wonder ‘joins with’ For Descartes, virtue leads to perfection: ‘all the actions of our soul that enable us to acquire some perfection are virtuous’ (AT iv. ; CSMK ). This is because, first, virtue involves the proper exercise of our most divine and perfect power and, secondly, virtue directs us to the good and ‘joining real goods to us makes us to that extent more perfect’ (PS ). Attaining goods increases our perfection, I have argued, because Descartes conceives of the good as what is valuable with respect to our natural ends. 35

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opinions of esteem, ‘dispassionate opinions concerning a thing’s value’, specifically its significance or importance (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ; see also PS  and ). For instance, my opinion of esteem for the Parthenon becomes a passion of esteem when I experience wonder at its significance. In the passion, one’s opinions about a thing’s significance are strengthened and maintained by movements of the animal spirits, which direct our attention to or away from thoughts of the thing (PS ). Descartes describes the passion of generosity as an esteem of ourselves in virtue of our possessing a will and exercising it properly. Consequently, generosity is an opinion about the significance of one’s own will, which is supported by wonder at the will and, thus, strengthened and maintained by animal spirits that continually direct our thoughts to the will (PS , –,). As such, generosity is clearly ethically reliable because it represents the importance or value of the will and its proper direction, which Descartes regards as equivalent to virtue. Generosity is not the only ethically reliable passion. His description of the passions ‘in so far as they belong to the soul’ from articles  to  indicates that all of the principal passions can be reliable in this way so long as they are based on cognition that takes a broader view of our ends, especially virtue. This way of thinking is supported by Descartes’s theodicy of error from the Meditations, which indicates that the natural function of our faculties is generally reliable with respect to their purposes or ends. Since, as I have shown, Descartes sees the function of the passions as directing us not only to animalistic ends like survival, but also to our final end, virtue, it follows that all passions should be generally reliable in so far as they serve this function. The notion that all the kinds of passions can be reliable in this way also follows from the fact that generosity, like all passions of esteem, is a form of wonder. Wonder is ‘the first of all the passions’ because it is the soul’s first step in a psychological process that characteristically gives rise to the other principal passions (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). In wonder, the soul directs its attention toward or away from a thing, which then leads us to judge the thing as good or evil, giving rise to passions of love or hate. The subsequent movement of the will toward or away from the object of love or hate is desire. Finally, when the object of desire is attained or avoided, the soul experiences joy or sadness. In this way, the passion of wonder sets the trajectory for a natural sequence of passions toward or away from some object. Consequently, one would expect one’s intial

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esteem for the will, as a form of wonder, to trigger the whole range of passions: esteem for the will leads one to regard it as good and, thus, to love it, which leads to a desire to exercise the will properly and joy upon doing so; the same goes for the paired negative passions (aversion, hate, and sadness) with regard to misusing the will. These subsequent emotions, since they are based on generosity, should represent our good in the same way and, thus, should also be ethically reliable.36 Descartes’s notion of ethically reliable passions is particularly evident in his theory of virtue, which assigns important roles to these passions. The principal virtue of Descartes’s ethics is generosity, which consists, first, in recognizing that our will and its proper exercise have the greatest importance, and, secondly, in the determination of the will to act in accordance with this recognition (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Descartes holds that this virtue involves managing and correcting the ethically unreliable passions, for he characterizes this virtue as ‘a remedy against all the disorders of the passions’, and as providing people ‘mastery over their desires’ and ‘complete command over their passions’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Like More, Descartes sees the ethically reliable passions as playing a critical role in achieving this virtuous self-governance. According to Descartes, the passion of generosity helps us to achieve the virtue of generosity by helping us to manage and correct the passions that direct us to goods beyond our control. If we occupy ourselves frequently in considering the nature of free will and the many advantages which proceed from a firm resolution to make good use of it—while also considering on the other hand, the many vain and useless cares which trouble ambitious people—we may arouse the passion of generosity in ourselves and then acquire the virtue. (PS ; AT xi. –; CSM i. )

This passage explains that the passion helps to cultivate the virtue by contributing to our deliberation and consideration of the value of things. The passion contributes to this deliberation not just conatively by directing our attention and thoughts to the will, but also cognitively, by representing the value of the will, thereby advising and 36 This view is evident in Descartes’s claim that whether we revere and scorn appropriately depends on whether we possess generosity, since generous people value things appropriately (PS ). Thus, the proper valuation of a thing in generosity sets the trajectory for subsequent passions of reverence and scorn.

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informing rational deliberation and judgment.37 Indeed, the passage claims that the passions can play this role when ‘considering the nature of free will’, which suggests that the passions can play this role prior to reason’s judgment of the value of the will itself. For the passions to play this role, they must be accurate prior to and independent of rational oversight, in their untutored state. Presumably the passion of generosity helps us to recognize the value of the will more effectively than mere opinions of self-esteem because the passion deploys the animal spirits to support and sustain thoughts of the will’s value. Since Descartes regards the passion of generosity as a precursor to the virtue of generosity, this greater power must be critical both to developing a habitual recognition of the will’s value and to moving us to act in accordance with this recognition, in other words, to exercise the will properly.38 Before concluding, I should elaborate on the etiology of these different kinds of passions. I have suggested that the ethically unreliable passions rate the value of things on the basis of bodily inputs, whereas the reliable passions take a wider view of our good, which raises the question of precisely how these different sorts of passions come about. Descartes provides an explanation for the causes of the unreliable passions when he claims that some passions are caused directly by pleasurable and painful sensory inputs, which, in turn, are caused directly by beneficial and harmful bodily states (PS ). He provides another explanation when he claims that passions can arise entirely from bodily movements, independently of any other mental or cognitive processes. According to Descartes’s explanation of fear, when a bodily impression is similar to impressions caused by things that have 37

This conclusion is thematically consistent with recent work emphasizing that the passions, for Descartes, contribute positively to cognition. See especially Brown, ‘Rationality’, and Passionate Mind; Shapiro, ‘Passionate Perception’; Amy Schmitter, ‘The Passionate Intellect: Reading the (Non-)Opposition of Reason and Emotions in Descartes’, in Joyce Jenkins, Jennifer Whiting, and Christopher Williams (eds.), Persons and Passions: Essays in Honor of Annette Baier (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, ), –; Amy Schmitter, ‘Descartes and the Primacy of Practice: The Role of the Passions in the Search for Truth’, Philosophical Studies,  (), –. 38 Along these lines, Brown and Sutton have argued that the passion of generosity, as a form of wonder, is particularly well equipped to change the associations between our thoughts and bodily movements, thereby altering our passionate responses. See Brown, Passionate Mind, –, and John Sutton, ‘Controlling the Passions: Passion, Memory, and the Moral Physiology of the Self in Seventeenth-Century Neurophysiology’, in Stephen Gaukroger (ed.), The Soft Underbelly of Reason (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, ), –.

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harmed the body in the past, the impression causes changes in the body that dispose it to certain behaviors and actions, for instance, priming the body for flight (PS ; AT xi. ).39 Descartes holds that these bodily changes occur independently of any mental activity, for instance, our perceiving or judging something as potentially harmful. Indeed, Descartes holds that these processes determine the behavior of animals, which lack minds. Descartes claims that the same bodily impression causes the passion of fear in the mind, which implies that we are determined to experience fear and, thus, to represent something as potentially harmful, entirely by bodily mechanisms. However, Descartes also allows for passions that arise in response to our thoughts and cognitions, which provides an explanation for the causes of ethically reliable passions. Generosity is an example of such a passion, since it must arise from our thoughts of the will. This is not to deny that generosity and passions like it are also caused by bodily mechanisms. Descartes is clear that generosity is a passion because it is supported by movements of the animal spirits. Unlike intellectual or internal emotions, which are ‘produced in the soul only by the soul itself ’, the passions ‘always depend on some movement of the animal spirit’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ).40 However, in generosity, the bodily movements serve only to sustain and intensify thoughts of the will’s value. The bodily changes do not determine us to recognize the value of the will either on the basis of bodily pain and pleasure, or independently of cognition, in the way that bodily changes determine us to fear things that resemble previously harmful things. Consequently, the passions that arise from thoughts and cognitions are not constrained to represent the value of things on the basis of bodily mechanisms that may be devoted to animalistic ends. Thus, Descartes, like More, regards the ethically reliable passions as less entangled in such bodily mechanisms. From a certain perspective, this explanation of generosity may seem mysterious. Why would a perception of the value of a well-directed

39 For a discussion of this explanation, see Gary Hatfield, ‘The Passions of the Soul and Descartes’s Machine Psychology’, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science,  (), –, at . 40 Indeed, in a letter to Chanut, he describes intellectual emotions as movements of the will, which ‘could exist in our soul even if it had no body’ ( February ; AT iv. ; CSMK ).

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will, which pertains only to the soul, incite a movement of the animal spirits at all?41 However, the explanation appears mysterious only if we suppose that bodily mechanisms are activated exclusively when the survival and welfare of the body is at stake. There is little reason to suppose that Descartes thinks this way. Descartes scholarship has amply demonstrated that he sees the body as intimately involved in cognition, since bodily movements play a central role in sustaining and directing our thoughts and attention.42 Consequently, it is unsurprising that the animal spirits would be involved in all thinking about the good, including those goods that do not directly involve the body, as Descartes explicitly claims: ‘as soon as our intellect perceives that we possess some good, even one so different from anything belonging to the body as to be wholly unimaginable, the imagination cannot fail immediately to form some impression in the brain, from which there ensues the movement of the spirits which produces the passion of joy’ (PS ; AT xi. ; CSM i. ). Furthermore, we should not think that bodily mechanisms involved in the passions are devoted solely to animalistic ends like survival. As I argued above, Descartes denies that the passions always serve narrowly animalistic ends, for he allows that they may report on the value of things with respect to a broader view of our natural ends. This implies that the bodily mechanisms involved in the passions can also serve these broader ends. Descartes supports this conclusion when he characterizes the purpose of sensations, which include the passions, as the welfare of the whole person, soul and body: ‘the proper purpose of the sensory perceptions given me by nature is simply to inform the mind of what is beneficial or harmful for the composite of which the mind is a part’ (AT vii. ; CSM ii. ). In light of this view, it is unsurprising that bodily mechanisms would be involved in reasoning about virtue, since this is a natural end of the mind–body composite.

.

CONCLUSIONS

To sum up, this chapter has defended More’s reading of Descartes in two ways. First, I have defended More’s view that Cartesian passions 41 42

Thanks to an anonymous referee for drawing my attention to this concern. See note .

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are contentful mental states, which present things as good or evil with respect to their effect on the soul. Secondly, I have defended More’s take on the ethical reliability of the passions as a reading of Descartes. According to this reading, some passions are less ethically reliable because they value things with respect to bodily and animalistic ends, whereas other passions are more ethically reliable because they take a broader view of our natural ends, which include virtue. This reliability enables these passions to play two important ethical roles: () advising and informing moral deliberation and judgment by representing the true value of things with respect to virtue and () governing our other passions, which are more prone to error in their untutored state. While this chapter has focused on what More has to teach us about Descartes’s view, my findings also have something to tell us about More. The chapter has shown that Descartes recognizes a category of passions that resemble the affections of the boniform faculty in that they are more ethically reliable and they contribute positively to moral deliberation and virtue. This suggests that More’s theory of the boniform faculty is inspired or influenced to some degree by Descartes. This conclusion, in turn, has important implications for understanding Descartes’s significance for the history of ethics.43 More conceives the boniform faculty as an affective power that provides the basis for moral judgments, thereby anticipating the moral sentimentalist view that moral judgments are grounded in affections, specifically, a special category of moral sentiments that are distinctively suited to this role. On this basis, Michael Gill writes, ‘perhaps the most important Cambridge Platonist precursor to Scottish sentimentalism was Henry More’s “boniform faculty of the soul”’.44 This chapter shows that the line of influence for this view extends further back, albeit faintly, to Descartes’s theory of the passions. Of course, Descartes’s conception of these ethically reliable passions is different from More’s in a variety of ways. First, More holds that the 43 My work extends that of Tilmouth by showing that the boniform faculty is grounded in Cartesian commitments. To this end, I also offer a different reading of Descartes. Tilmouth follows Schneewind in reading Descartes as emphasizing the passions’ utility for bodily needs (Tilmouth, ‘Generosity’, ). In contrast, I emphasize that Descartes sees the passions as also informing us of the ethical value of things, which brings him closer to More. 44 See Michael Gill, ‘From Cambridge Platonism to Scottish Sentimentalism’, The Journal of Scottish Philosophy,  (), –, at .

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boniform faculty underwrites and guarantees reason’s judgment about good and evil, whereas Descartes says nothing to indicate that the passions justify such judgments. Thus, it would be mistaken to think of Descartes as a kind of moral sentimentalist. Secondly, More conceives the affections of the boniform faculty as forms of love and beneficence, whereas Descartes allows that all passions may be ethically reliable and emphasizes the importance of generosity and wonder. Thirdly, More’s view is different because he categorizes these affections as intellectual emotions. Nevertheless, we should not overstate this departure from Descartes, for Descartes agrees with More that these passions are more ethically reliable because they are less entangled in bodily mechanisms for directing us to animal ends. Fourthly, More understands the ethically reliable affections as resulting from a special divine faculty, which Descartes does not recognize. But here again the difference is not as great as first appears, for More regards the boniform faculty as divine largely because it governs the soul in the way required for virtue, namely by correcting and training our other passions, while Descartes holds that the ethically reliable passions contribute to virtue in a similar way.45 University of South Carolina

45

This chapter is indebted to invaluable comments from Amy Schmitter, Lisa Shapiro, Sean Greenberg, Shoshana Brassfield, Chris Frey, Patrick Brissey, Don Rutherford, anonymous referees from the journal, audiences at the  meeting of the Southwest Seminar in Early Modern Philosophy, especially Don Ainslie, Sanem Soyarslan, Kristen Irwin, and Thomas Lennon, audiences at the  meeting of the Descartes Society and the  Pacific Division meeting of the American Philosophical Association, especially Deborah Brown.

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 Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture THOMAS HOLDEN

Hobbes’s treatment of Christian scripture in Part  of Leviathan is a curious affair. The longest of the four parts of Leviathan, ‘Of a Christian Common-Wealth’ presents, if not ‘a Rapsody of as strange Divinity, as since the dayes of the Gnosticks, and their several Progenies, the Sun ever saw’,1 at the very least an unconventional reading of the revealed word of God as presented in the Bible. In elaborate detail, and without any obvious trace of irony, Hobbes discovers a holy book populated by corporeal angels, a terrestrial Heaven, a Hell that lasts forever but in which the damned are mortal and can expect a second and final death, a deity that is perfectly relaxed about our offering public displays of worship to graven images and foreign gods, and a messiah who bears the person of God merely by speaking authoritatively for Him in the same unmysterious way that a lawyer bears the person of his client in court. Existing interpretations of Hobbes’s treatment of Christian scripture divide into two main camps. According to one group of commentators, Hobbes genuinely believes that he has discerned the true meaning of the revealed word of God. He holds that the Christian scriptures are authentic revelations from the deity, and that his proposed exegeses do at least plausibly capture the meaning of the various texts that he examines. Call this ‘the sincere belief interpretation’.2 According to 1 This is the contemporary assessment of the Anglican churchman Henry Hammond in A letter of resolution to six quaeres (London: J. Flesher, ), . 2 J. G. A. Pocock, Politics, Language, and Time (New York: Atheneum, ; repr. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ), –; Peter Geach, ‘The Religion of Thomas Hobbes’, Religious Studies,  (), –; F. C. Hood, The Divine Politics of Thomas Hobbes: An Interpretation of Leviathan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ); A. P. Martinich, The Two Gods of Leviathan [Two Gods] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ); Martinich, ‘On the Proper Interpretation of Hobbes’s Philosophy’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –; and Martinich, ‘On Thomas Hobbes’s English Calvinism: Necessity, Omnipotence, and Goodness’, Philosophical Readings,  (), –.

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a second group of commentators, Hobbes is engaged in a form of faux-pious performance or theological lying. His apparent regard for scripture is merely an act, a cover for some underlying non-religious agenda. Perhaps his scriptural exegeses are an attempt to lay smoke around a scandalously irreligious esoteric philosophy, or a sly burlesque of theology, or simply an ad hominem effort to persuade godly readers that his materialist metaphysics and ultra-statist ecclesiology need not contradict their favorite holy books. Call this ‘the irreligious interpretation’.3 Each of these readings faces serious problems, and I want to make the case for a different way of understanding Hobbes’s treatment of Christian scripture in Leviathan and other works such as De Cive and De Corpore. The key point to appreciate is that Hobbes’s philosophical account of religious language applies reflexively to his own religious pronouncements. By his own lights, religious pronouncements made in public—which would certainly include his own published remarks on the meaning of scripture—are properly part of a wider system of religious practice whose controlling purpose is not the expression of belief in particular doctrines, but the expression of awe and reverence before a humanly incomprehensible deity. The norms of assertion that ultimately govern this form of speech are not belief and truth, but— like the norms governing ritual, liturgy, communal prayer, and other forms of public devotion—the expression of reverence before God: a matter of displaying the appropriate worshipful attitude, not of

3 Edwin Curley, ‘ “I durst not write so boldly”, or, How to Read Hobbes’ theologicalpolitical treatise’, in Daniela Bostrenghi (ed.), Hobbes e Spinoza, Scienza e politica (Naples: Bibliopolis, ), –; Curley, ‘Calvin and Hobbes, or, Hobbes as an Orthodox Christian’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –; and Curley, ‘Religion and Morality in Hobbes’, in Jules L. Coleman and Christopher W. Morris (eds.), Rational Commitment and Social Justice: Essays for Gregory Kavka (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –; Paul Cooke, Hobbes and Christianity (Lanham, MA: Rowman and Littlefield, ), –; Douglas Jesseph, ‘Hobbes’s Atheism’, Midwest Studies in Philosophy,  (), –, at –, –; Patricia Springborg, ‘Calvin and Hobbes: A Reply to Curley, Martinich and Wright’, Philosophical Readings,  (), –; Leo Strauss, The Political Philosophy of Thomas Hobbes: Its Basis and Genesis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ), . Compare also Quentin Skinner, Reason and Rhetoric in the Philosophy of Hobbes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), , , –, . On the phenomenon of ‘theological lying’ in early modern authors, see David Berman, ‘Deism, Immortality, and the Art of Theological Lying’, in J. A. Leo Lemay (ed.), Deism, Masonry, and the Enlightenment (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, ), –.

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asserting this or that belief. Moreover, as Hobbes sees it, all but the most basic ways of expressing reverence for the deity are properly shaped by local human conventions, so that a display of religious veneration in one culture might properly invoke Christian scripture, while a display of religious veneration in another culture might properly invoke Qu’ranic or Vedic texts. It is not simply that all religious speech is rightly constrained by the local religious law, be it Christian, Islamic, or whatever. It is also that, for Hobbes, the appropriate ways of honoring God are constituted by the religious practices, however arbitrary or conventional, that are regarded as pious and honorific in the local culture, for words and actions can only give honor if they are regarded as giving honor. Proper reverence for God itself demands this embrace of local religious forms as we display our inner regard for the deity through outwardly recognizable signs of devotion. At the same time, recognizing the social power of religion, and regarding all culturally specific religious practices as matters of human convention, Hobbes hopes that his writings might help to shape the practices of his own Anglo-Protestant culture in ways that promote his own moral and political ideals, particularly if he can gain the ear of the authorities inculcating the official state religion. Working within the limits imposed by a realistic and respectful deference to the settled religious forms and the existing religious laws, he therefore offers us readings of scripture that ‘manifestly tend to Peace and Loyalty’ (Lev. ‘Review and Conclusion’ : )—and indeed toward other Hobbesian ideals, including the independence of philosophy from religion, the suppression of superstition, and his ultra-statist ecclesiology.4 But none of this means that Hobbes is not sincere in treating Christian scripture as dictating the appropriate framework for an English subject’s religious life, or that there is not a genuine piety animating his own public embrace of the established religion. There is no reason to doubt that Hobbes’s reverence for the deity is authentic, or that he sincerely holds that that reverence is best expressed, in a Christian commonwealth, 4 References to Lev. are given by chapter and paragraph number, then page number; ‘Latin version’ indicates an alteration made in the  Latin edition of the text. Translations of DCi are taken from Richard Tuck and Michael Silverthorne (eds. and trans.), On the Citizen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). Translations of DH are taken from Thomas Hobbes, Man and Citizen, ed. Bernard Gert (Indianapolis: Hackett, ). Translations of DCo are taken from the contemporary English translation in EW i. –. For each of these works, references are given by chapter and section number.

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through traditional Christian observances and a genuine respect, however creative in interpretation, for Christian holy texts.5

.

AGAINST THE SINCERE BELIEF AND IRRELIGIOUS INTERPRETATIONS

First, however: what are the shortcomings of the sincere belief interpretation and the irreligious interpretation of Hobbes’s treatment of Christian scripture? The main lines of objection against each are familiar enough, both from the original back-and-forth between Hobbes and contemporary critics of his theological liberties and from the more recent literature. Here I simply summarize what I take to be the major challenges facing each of these interpretations, together with my own reasons for thinking these objections cumulatively fatal. There are four main points to be made against the sincere belief interpretation. First, Hobbes tells us that, as part of our general duty of obedience required by the social contract, we ought to go along with whatever public religious practices the state requires and outwardly accept whatever scriptures the state declares to be God’s revealed word (Lev. .: ; .: , .: ; DH .; AW .). This outward conformity is required not only if the established religion is Christian or Protestant, but equally under ‘Heathen Princes, or Princes . . . that authorize the teaching of an Errour’ (Lev. .: ). At the same time, Hobbes is clear that we have no duty to inwardly believe in the claims made by the established religion (Lev. .: ; Lev. .: ).6 So the sincere belief interpretation requires us to accept a certain coincidence: it tells us that, as it happens, Hobbes privately believes in the divinely revealed character of just those texts that he is already obliged to outwardly accept as if they were divinely revealed, namely 5 On the central point that Hobbes regards Christian scripture as dictating the proper framework for expressing reverence for God in a Christian commonwealth, but does not regard it as conveying an authentic revelation from the deity, I am in agreement with Tuck, at least in his reading of Leviathan. See Richard Tuck, ‘The “Christian Atheism” of Thomas Hobbes’, in Michael Hunter and David Wootton (eds.), Atheism from the Reformation to the Enlightenment (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, at –. Tuck’s interpretation emphasizes Hobbes’s ecclesiology in Leviathan; my own argument focuses on the underlying philosophical account of religious language in this and other works, along with Hobbes’s analysis of the publicly performative nature of honoring and worship. 6 I examine Hobbes’s case for this thesis in section  below.

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‘those which have been commanded to be acknowledged for such, by the Authority of the Church of England’ (Lev. .: ). Hobbes got lucky. In another life, he might have been a subject of pagan or Muslim kings, and been obliged to outwardly accept holy books that he did not privately believe in. To be clear: my point is not that Hobbes’s insistence on outward conformity to the established religion explains away all the various passages in which he appears to endorse Christian scripture. It does not. After all, he did not have to bring up scripture in his writings at all, or at any rate not as often and extensively as he in fact does. My point is simply that the sincere belief interpretation does require a rather fortunate coincidence, and that it is naïve to assume that Hobbes’s outward embrace of Christian scripture provides unambiguous evidence of his inner convictions. By his own admission, if the laws had mandated acknowledgment of some other non-Christian revelation or even the explicit renunciation of belief in Christ, his own public professions should have followed suit (Lev. .: ). Second, Hobbes’s epistemology of human testimony makes it next to impossible to have any warranted belief that any purported divine revelation is in fact authentic. As we just saw, he does hold that we ought to act as if we believe in any revelation that the state tells us is authentic. But, quite explicitly, that is a matter of external behavior not inward belief. Hobbes does also grant the possibility of a genuine supernatural revelation from God: a case where the deity directly communicates with some authentic prophet or supernaturally inspired scribe. But the question for the rest of us, relying simply on our natural human reason, is whether we can responsibly believe in testimonial reports that such-and-such a supposed case of divine revelation is indeed authentic. And here, as Hobbes sees it, responsible, properly warranted belief is next to impossible. Given the human tendency toward credulity, wishful thinking, and even outright deception and pious fraud (Lev. .–: –, .: ), we ought not believe that any purported revelation actually comes from God unless it is substantiated by miracles (Lev. .: –; DH .; compare also B ). But further, Hobbes insists, human nature being what it is, testimonial reports of miracles substantiating a revelation are just as doubtful as the original testimonial reports of the supernatural revelation itself. The result is that we ought only believe that a purported revelation is genuine if it is substantiated by current miracles, miracles

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that the responsible believer cannot take on trust but must witness first-hand for him- or herself.7 The requirement is surely intended to be as good as prohibitive, particularly since Hobbes expects his readers to agree that ‘Miracles now cease’ (Lev. .: ; see also Lev. . Latin version: ; DH .)—a position that was indeed common among seventeenth-century English Protestants. So we can see why he says that ‘men can neuer by their own wisdome come to the knowledge of what God hath spoken and commanded to be obserued’ (B ): it is practically impossible to have the kind of evidence we would need to substantiate any supposed divine revelation. By Hobbes’s own lights, natural human reason cannot justify our believing that any particular putative divine revelation is in fact authentic; and if he sincerely believes that some particular putative divine revelation is in fact the authentic word of God, then he is violating his own epistemological strictures. Third, Hobbes’s particular interpretations of Christian scripture are often strained and tendentious—so much so that it is difficult to believe that he seriously takes himself to be discovering the true, original, or intended meaning of the text. It is not simply the material angels, the this-worldly character of the Kingdom of Heaven, or the peculiar economy of Hobbes’s mortalist Hell. The moral teachings of Hobbes’s scripture are no less surprising than the metaphysical. In his hands, the Old and New Testament each urge us to shun any prophet who challenges a legally established religion, to reject martyrdom and worship false gods as required, and to take our earthly sovereigns as the final authority in matters of right and wrong. Most Christians would surely be surprised to learn that . . . what [Christ] was teaching by the laws: You shall not Kill, you shall not commit Adultery, you shall not Steal, you shall honour your Parents, was simply that citizens and subjects should absolutely obey their Princes and sovereigns in all questions of mine, thine, his, and other’s. (DCi .)

7 ‘[H]ow can someone be believed who saith that the things that he saith or teacheth are confirmed by miracles unless he himself hath performed miracles? For if a private person is to be believed without a miracle, why should the various teachings of one man be any better than those of another?’ (DH .; see also Lev. .: –, and the requirement of ‘a present Miracle’ at Lev. .: ).

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

Thomas Holden

The effective result of Hobbes’s various exegeses is to neutralize Christian scripture as any sort of independent authority or practical guide that might conflict with our duty of obedience to the civil sovereign. At least where Hobbes examines it, God’s revealed word emerges not as an other-worldly call to lift our eyes beyond the passions and preoccupations of the Kingdom of Nature, but as a seamless confirmation of his own decidedly this-worldly philosophy.8 And quite apart from the sheer convenience of his particular proposed readings of scripture, we might also find Hobbes’s relentless confidence in the accuracy of his exegeses itself suspicious, for it is quite out of line with his usual cautions about the indeterminacy of meaning in written texts and the difficulty of interpreting ancient books.9 Fourth, were Christian scripture the authentic word of God, we might hope to learn truths from it, at least from those passages that seem to present us with truth-apt assertions. We might hope to appeal to this divine revelation, as we appeal to human testimony, when shaping our theories and beliefs about the nature of the created world, the facts of sacred history, and perhaps even the nature and intentions of the deity. This at least is the traditional view, and on the face of it Hobbes himself 8 The convenience of Hobbes’s interpretations of scripture for his political philosophy is widely appreciated. See especially David Johnston, The Rhetoric of Leviathan: Thomas Hobbes and the Politics of Cultural Transformation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), and Sharon Lloyd, Ideals as Interests in Hobbes’s Leviathan: The Power of Mind over Matter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). In defense of the sincere belief interpretation, Martinich points out that ‘[m]any of Hobbes’s views which may have been nonstandard were at least not unprecedented’ and can be found in one or another scriptural exegete whose sincerity is quite uncontroversial (Martinich, Two Gods, ; see also –,  n. ). But it is not just that Hobbes endorses this or that nonstandard position, which might perhaps be found in one or another perfectly sincere Christian theologian—Milton holding that angels are corporeal, Luther that humans are not conscious after death, and so on (–). It is that Hobbes’s whole fabric of exegetical positions is collectively so implausible, yet at the same time convenient, and therefore suspicious. 9 ‘Though words be the signs we have of one another’s opinions and intentions: because the equivocation of them is so frequent, according to the diversity of contexture, and of the company wherewith they go (which the presence of him that speaketh, our sight of his actions, and conjecture of his intentions, must help to discharge us of ): it must be extreme hard to find out the opinions and meaning of those men that are gone from us long ago, and have left us no other signification thereof but their books’ (EL .). Hobbes also repeatedly appeals to the endlessly contestable ambiguities of positive and revealed law when arguing for the sovereign’s right to stipulate authoritative interpretations. For discussion of these and other tensions with Hobbes’s ‘self-proclaimed hermeneutic virtuosity’ in the interpretation of scripture, see Hannah Dawson, Locke, Language and Early Modern Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), .

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Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture

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can seem to treat scripture as a source of factual information, as when he offers us his account of the nature of Heaven and Hell in the light of the scriptural sources, or when he cites scripture as confirming the existence of an original Adamite language that was subsequently lost at Babel. However, at least when he addresses the question directly, Hobbes is clear that our scientific and metaphysical theorizing about the nature of the world should not be informed by scripture, and indeed he vigorously attacks the sort of ‘Church-Philosophy’ and ‘school divinity’ that mixes science and metaphysics with scriptural interpretation (B ; DCo Epistle dedicatory; compare also B ; EL .; Lev. .: ). Hobbes’s methodological remarks at the beginning of De Corpore are particularly clear on this point. Here he casts ‘school divinity’ as an ‘Empusa’, the hybrid monster of Greek myth that stumbles along on one donkey’s leg and one prosthetic brass leg—representing, in Hobbes’s allegorical figure, a pseudoscience grotesquely combining Aristotelian metaphysics and scriptural interpretation. This hobgoblin must of course be driven away—but consider how Hobbes proposes to do it: Against this Empusa I think there cannot be invented a better exorcism, than to distinguish between the rules of religion, that is, the rules of honouring God, which we have from the laws, and the rules of philosophy, that is, the opinions of private men; and to yield what is due to religion to the Holy Scripture, and what is due to philosophy to natural reason. (DCo Epistle dedicatory)

Scripture and philosophy here are oil and water. The former can inform the religious laws and make claims on our outward behavior, but it has no proper claim on private belief. Further, even in matters of outward behavior, its proper sphere of authority is ‘the rules of honouring God’, not the assertion of philosophical or scientific doctrine. Scripture might properly shape our religious practice and rituals of worship, but not ‘philosophy [or] the opinions of private men’—the sphere where ‘natural reason’ is instead our proper guide.10 So whatever else scripture might do for us, we ought not to treat it as a compendium of revealed truths—a system of true propositions, vouched for by God, that we need to take account of when theorizing

10

Compare also Lev. . Latin version: , and DH ..

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

Thomas Holden

about the nature of the world or the attributes of the deity. I suppose one might discount the fact-stating appearances of scripture in this way while still believing that it is indeed an authentic revelation from God. Perhaps the deity simply meant to present us with rules for honoring Him, not to teach us any truths about Him or His creation. But in any case, if we consider Hobbes’s position that scripture can make no claims on ‘philosophy [or] the opinions of private men’ alongside our three previous objections, we have a compelling case against the view that his own scriptural exegeses—with their apparently truth-apt accounts of corporeal angels, a terrestrial Heaven and mortalist Hell, and the rest— are animated by a sincere conviction that he has in fact discovered the true meaning of God’s revealed word. Moreover, what I offer to explain, as the sincere belief interpretation does not, is just why Hobbes views scripture exclusively as a source of rules for honoring God, and in no part or respect as a reliable source of true propositions about the world. What of the irreligious interpretation of Hobbes’s forays into scriptural exegesis? Perhaps the implausibility of the sincere belief interpretation might seem to provide us with an argument for the irreligious reading. After all, if Hobbes does not really believe that his scriptural exegeses plausibly capture the true meaning of authentic revelations from God and yet proceeds to advance these exegeses all the same, then it might seem that he must simply be lying, and moreover treating Christian scripture in such a cavalier fashion that he cannot have any sincere regard for it. He must simply be pretending to defer to scripture for some underlying non-religious or even anti-religious purpose. Perhaps, for instance, Hobbes means to mock or subvert Christianity before an elite audience capable of reading between the lines and detecting his esoteric irreligious message. Or perhaps his scriptural exegeses are simply intended to persuade potentially censorious critics that his materialist and ultra-statist philosophy can pass the test of Christian respectability. Or perhaps he merely intends to pipe the gullible godly toward peace and civil obedience. But this is too quick. I agree that Hobbes does not actually regard Christian scripture as an authentic revelation from God. I also agree with many irreligious interpreters that Hobbes sees himself, often enough, as crafting entirely new meanings from scripture rather than as uncovering the original or intended meaning of the text before him.

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Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture

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But I do not think that we should characterize Hobbes as lying to or otherwise misleading his readers. That would be to ignore his own explicit arguments for outward religious conformity, which make it clear that the norms controlling public religious pronouncements are not truth and belief, but rather the expression of reverence for God— an expression of reverence that is properly shaped by the local religious traditions, texts, and laws, whatever they might be. Nor is the respect that Hobbes shows scripture simply a performance motivated by nonreligious ends; rather (I will argue) it is an expression, at least in part, of genuine reverence for the deity, albeit an expression that is articulated through religious forms that Hobbes regards as conventional, human, and arbitrary. Finally, as we shall see, Hobbes—a philosopher who repeatedly emphasizes the distinction between inward belief and outward conformity—never actually says that he believes in the divine authenticity of Christian scripture, and indeed refuses to engage when challenged on the point by critics. Rather, he simply accepts Christian scripture as providing the appropriate framework for expressing reverence for God in the light of England’s Christian culture and religious laws. Private belief is in fact never the issue for Hobbes when it comes to a person’s religious propriety, but rather obedience to law and conformity with the local traditions of worship. On this point his works are consistent throughout, and his refusal to engage on the question of inner belief exhibits a distinctive kind of integrity that his commentators have not properly appreciated. The irreligious interpretation fails to do justice to these complexities in Hobbes’s philosophy of religion. But pending my own positive account of that philosophy (which follows in sections  and  below), perhaps the most obvious challenge facing the irreligious interpretation is the question of why Hobbes devotes so much sustained and detailed attention to scriptural questions. He seems to go out of his way to engage these issues, at most length in Part  of Leviathan (chapters –), but also in Part  (chapters –) and in the earlier Elements of Law (chapters , –) and De Cive (chapters –). If all this is indeed a case of theological lying—the sort of insincere genuflection before scripture one finds on occasion in a Toland or a Hume—then it is by several orders of magnitude the most extensive, elaborate, and systematic such case in any early modern philosopher. Throughout the whole there is no obvious sign of irony, and for the

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

Thomas Holden

most part Hobbes seems to have suspended his usual malicious wit as inappropriate to the topic. Pocock is correct: Although esoteric reasons have been suggested why Hobbes should have written what he did not believe, the difficulty remains of imagining why a notoriously arrogant thinker, vehement in his dislike of ‘insignificant speech’, should have written and afterwards defended sixteen chapters of what he held to be nonsense, and exposed them to the scrutiny of a public which did not consider this kind of thing nonsense at all.11

The sheer level of detailed engagement that Hobbes brings to the specifics of scriptural interpretation, together with his apparent seriousness of purpose and respectful manner in handling his scriptural sources, remains something of a mystery on the irreligious reading. What is needed is an account that can explain both the sustained and to all appearances pious attention that Hobbes shows scripture and the creative liberties that he takes in its interpretation.

.

OUTWARD CONFORMITY AND THE AUTHORITY OF SCRIPTURE

To understand Hobbes’s handling of Christian scripture, we must see it in the light of his own account of the norms controlling religious practice and speech. First, in a commonwealth a person’s religious propriety is a matter of his outward behavior rather than inner belief. Nothing is required from a subject’s inner psychological life, save perhaps the bare belief in and a general attitude of reverence toward the first cause of all.12 In particular, there is no requirement of inner belief in the more specific claims of any particular religious tradition. We must obey the laws regulating external religious practice, including public religious speech and the outward acceptance of mandated religious texts as authentic revelations. But a proper religious life carries

Pocock, Politics, Language, and Time, . Pocock’s figure of ‘sixteen’ chapters includes the whole of Leviathan Part  as well as Part . 12 Or at least, the bare belief in and attitude of reverence toward the cause of the humanly comprehensible universe, a being that Hobbes holds is properly dignified with the honorific title ‘the first cause of all’ and the name ‘God’. For this latter reading, see Thomas Holden, ‘Hobbes’s First Cause’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –. 11

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Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture

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no requirement of inner belief in any specific holy books, points of doctrine, or articles of faith. We have already seen Hobbes’s injunction at the start of De Corpore that ‘the rules of religion, that is, the rules of honouring God’ are to be taken ‘from the laws’, and must be distinguished from ‘the rules of philosophy, that is the opinions of private men’, where natural reason is our proper guide (DCo Epistle dedicatory). Hobbes’s equation of the rules of religion with the rules of honoring God is important, and I will return to it. But begin by considering his claim that these rules are to be taken from the laws, and do not speak to inner belief. As Hobbes sees it, once we have left the state of nature for a commonwealth, we are obliged to obey the sovereign in matters of public religious practice, including public religious speech. At the same time, inner belief remains our own private affair: [A sovereign] may oblige me to obedience, so, as not by act or word to declare I beleeve him not; but not to think any otherwise than my reason perswades me. (Lev. .: ) [B]y [the King’s] authority, I say, it ought to be decided, not what men shall think, but what they shall say in . . . questions [concerning ‘the ordering of religion’]. (CR )

Why does a subject’s duty of obedience not extend to the regulation of his private religious beliefs? Because beliefs are not subject to voluntary control, and one cannot simply believe as commanded: [I]n every Common-wealth, they who have no supernaturall Revelation to the contrary, ought to obey the laws of their own Soveraign, in the externall acts and profession of Religion. As for the inward thought, and beleef of men, which humane Governours can take no notice of, . . . they are not voluntary, nor the effect of the laws, . . . and consequently fall not under obligation. (Lev. .: ; see also Lev. .: ; EL .)

Thus while public religious practice and speech ought to conform with the religious laws,13 inner belief is involuntary and hence cannot be 13 What about Hobbes’s qualification at the start of this extract from Lev. .: , where he seems to imply that those who do have a ‘supernaturall Revelation to the contrary’ might not be obliged to obey the laws regarding outward religious practice? There is no reason to doubt that Hobbes sincerely intends this qualification, but it is (for Hobbes) extremely hypothetical, a theoretical concession with little real world purchase. The ‘supernaturall

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

Thomas Holden

required of any subject. At the very start of Leviathan Part , Hobbes does assert that we should ‘captivate our understanding’ to the word of God as presented in scripture (Lev. .: ). But this duty to ‘captivate our understanding’ is not a duty to believe: [B]y the captivity of our Understanding, is not meant a Submission of our Intellectuall faculty, to the Opinion of any other man; but of the Will to Obedience, where Obedience is due. For Sense, Memory, Understanding, and Opinion are not in our power to change; but always, and necessarily such, as the things we see, hear, and consider suggest unto us; and therefore are not effects of our Will, but our Will of them. We then Captivate our Understanding and Reason, when we forbear contradiction; when we so speak, as (by lawfull Authority) we are commanded; and when we live accordingly (Lev. .: ).

Indeed, not only do we have no duty to obey the state in matters of private religious belief, we have no duty to obey God in this matter either. Hobbes applies the same basic argument in each case, emphasizing the involuntary character of belief as against the voluntary character of external behavior. Thus a subject of a commonwealth is ‘bound by his own act’ (in virtue of his general covenant of obedience to the sovereign) to obey the law in matters of external religious practice and public professions; but bound I say to obey it, . . . not bound to believe it: for mens beliefe and interiour cogitations, are not subject to the commands, but only to the operations of God, ordinary and extraordinary. Faith of Supernaturall Law, is . . . not a duty that we exhibite to God, but a gift that God freely giveth to whom he pleaseth. (Lev. .: )

The final clause of this passage sounds a familiar Protestant note with its invocation of faith as an unearned gift from God. But Hobbes’s underlying message is potentially more unorthodox: we will believe Revelation’ that Hobbes requires for this qualification to take effect is not simply an indirect revelation mediated by prophets, apostles, or a holy book, but—much more demanding—a personal and incorrigible revelation received immediately from God. Thus, for instance, he writes that ‘in a Common-wealth, a subject that has no certain and assured Revelation particularly to himself concerning the Will of God, is to obey for such, the Command of the Commonwealth’ (Lev. .: , emphases added); compare also B . Given Hobbes’s deep skepticism about claims to this sort of direct personal revelation, his qualification in Lev. .:  ought to be regarded as simply a theoretical concession. It is not likely that any actual subjects will qualify for this exemption.

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Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture

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or not according to God’s ‘ordinary and extraordinary’ operations— that is, through natural or supernatural causes—but violate no duty if we do not believe. Hobbes can even seem to go so far as to identify religion with a certain kind of law in his polemical apologias of the s. In An Apology for Himself and His Writings (which prefaced his Seven Philosophical Problems, delivered to the Royal Society in ) he abruptly declares that ‘religion is not philosophy, but law’ (SPP ). In Mr. Hobbes Considered in his Loyalty, Religion, Reputation, and Manners () he assures us that, unlike his adversary, the Presbyterian divine John Wallis who was recently in ‘actual rebellion’ against the Royal Supremacy, ‘Mr. Hobbes . . . holds religion to be a law’ (CR ). And in the dialogue Behemoth (, posthumously) he suggests that even when religion is considered not as a public institution but as a character trait and personal moral virtue, it can also be comprehended under the same basic account, being reducible to a disposition to obey the relevant legal statutes. Consider this exchange between ‘A’, the Hobbesian master, and ‘B’, the eager and tractable Hobbesian student: A:

. . . [I]nasmuch as I told you, that all vertue is comprehended in obedience to the Laws of the Common wealth, whereof Religion is one, I have placed Religion among the Vertues. B: Is Religion then a Law of a Common wealth? B: There is no Nation in the world whose Religion is not established, and receius not its Authority from the Laws of that Nation. (B ) So one has the virtue of religion—‘the greatest Vertue of all others’ as B calls it (B )—just in case one is disposed to obey the laws controlling religious practice, whatever those laws might be.14 Hobbes’s suggestion that religious propriety is simply a matter of obedience to the local religious laws is striking. On this view, subjects who possess the true virtue of religion will profess at public altars whatever the state demands. Their own private doctrinal convictions 14 In other passages in Behemoth the two interlocutors also reaffirm the Hobbesian position that religion in a commonwealth is a kind of law: ‘Religion in it selfe admits no controversy. Tis a Law of the Kingdome, and ought not to be disputed’ (B , B speaking). ‘[T]hough not the same in all Countries, yet in euery Country [religion ought to be] vndisputable’ (B , A speaking).

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

Thomas Holden

will be inert in the face of the established religion, having no practical weight against legal mandates regarding the profession of points of faith, oaths, or any other matter of external religious behavior. Still, however outwardly compliant, such subjects need not actually believe in the claims of the established religion, and a lack of inner belief in the doctrines of any particular religious tradition, Protestantism and Christianity not excepted, would not impugn their religious virtue. Considered against the background of religious conflict and coercion in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Hobbes’s position could serve as a brief for the Spanish converso, for the crypto-Huguenot before the Edict of Nantes, for the crypto-Catholic in Elizabethan and Stuart England, or for the temporizing politique: law-abiding subjects all willing to go along with the state religion while keeping their own private beliefs to themselves. By the same token, it could equally serve as a brief for the closet deist who privately doubts all supposed prophets and revelations, but respects the civil law and is prepared to play his part in public ceremonial. In contrast to these figures of accommodating Hobbesian religious propriety, the defiant recusant or puritan martyr who insists on displaying his inner convictions and publicly rejecting the established religion is not only a threat to civil peace, but also, for Hobbes, lacks the true virtue of religion altogether. The purity and even the truth of this sort of inflexible nonconformist’s specific doctrinal convictions (if indeed they are true) are beside the point: so long as one rejects obedience and outward conformity, one is not living a properly religious life.15 When Hobbes turns to the interpretation of scripture in Part  of Leviathan, his approach is explicitly grounded on this conformist understanding of proper religious practice. Before he gets down to his proposed readings of particular passages, he must perforce decide which specific books to treat as presenting the revealed word of God.

15 Hobbes’s contemporary audience found his implied position that the various Protestant martyrs ‘needlessly cast away their lives’ one of the most scandalous suggestions in all of Leviathan (Lev. .: ; see also Lev. .–: ). See Jon Parkin, Taming the Leviathan: The Reception of the Political and Religious Ideas of Thomas Hobbes in England – (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –. To appreciate the provocative nature of Hobbes’s position in its contemporary context, consider that after only the Bible, John Foxe’s  sectarian martyrology Actes and Monuments (i.e. his ‘Book of Martyrs’) had been the bestselling book in England in the century since its publication.

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Hobbes on the Authority of Scripture

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And here, Hobbes argues, he must simply accept whatever scriptural canon is mandated by the established religious laws: Seeing therefore . . . that Soveraigns in their own Dominions are the sole Legislators; those Books only are Canonicall, that is, Law, in every nation, which are established for such by the Soveraign Authority. It is true, that God is the Soveraign of all Soveraigns; and therefore, when he speaks to any Subject, he ought to be obeyed, whatsoever any earthly Potentate command to the contrary. But the question is not of obedience to God, but of when, and what God hath said; which to Subjects that have no supernaturall revelation, cannot be known, but by that naturall reason, which guided them, for the obtaining of Peace and Justice, to obey the authority of their severall Common-wealths; that is to say, of their lawfull Soveraigns. According to this obligation, I can acknowledge no other Books of the Old Testament, to be Holy Scripture, but those which have been commanded to be acknowledged for such, by the Authority of the Church of England. (Lev. .: )

Absent a personal and direct supernatural revelation of one’s own, all subjects, Hobbes included, must simply ‘acknowledge’ whatever scriptures are mandated by the official state religion. Given Hobbes’s position that we cannot be obliged to believe, this obligation can only be a matter of our outward behavior. What is required is that subjects profess the authority and divine authenticity of whatever scriptures are backed by law, where profession—in keeping with Hobbes’s definition in De Cive—need not involve any ‘internal mental conviction’ but only ‘external obedience’ (DCi .).16 Still, any public discussion of the meaning of God’s revealed word must take such a profession for granted, and therefore adopt whatever scriptural canon is mandated by the state as its basic framework. So Hobbes ‘acknowledge[s]’ the divine authenticity of Christian scripture. He professes it; he publicly accepts it. But he never tells us that he actually believes in it. Nor does he assume that his fellow

16 Similarly, ‘[P]ropositions are allowed for different reasons . . . Sometimes we allow propositions which, however, we do not accept in our own minds, until, in fact, we have examined their truth by seeing what would follow from them, and that is called assuming. We may also allow a proposition simply as such, perhaps from fear of the laws, and that is to profess or confess by external signs [profiteri, vel confiteri signis externis]; or from the automatic deference, which men give out of politeness to those whom they respect, and to others from love of peace, and this is to concede in the simple sense’ (DCi .).

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

Thomas Holden

subjects will all believe in it either, but merely that ‘in Christian commonwealths all men either beleeve, or at least professe the Scripture to bee the Word of God’ (Lev. .: , emphasis added). Nor does he hold that his proposed interpretations of Christian scripture will only have force and utility for those of his readers who believe that it is in fact an authentic revelation. All that is required is that his readers are prepared to go along with this scripture, outwardly acknowledging it as God’s revealed word, whether or not they inwardly believe: . . . whether men Know, or Beleeve, or Grant the Scriptures to be the Word of God; if out of such places of them, as are without obscurity, I shall shew what Articles of Faith are necessary, and only necessary for Salvation, those men must needs Know, Beleeve, or Grant the same. (Lev. .: )

In sum: Hobbes regards Christian scripture, whether or not it is in fact an authentic revelation, as a text that subjects should publicly acknowledge as if it were God’s word, and which properly shapes the communal religious life of his own Christian commonwealth. Given their ratification by the state, the various books of the Bible properly serve as the basis for public preaching and any public examination of God’s purposes and commands. But there is no need to suppose that Hobbes actually believes that Christian scripture is more than a human creation, and both the various problems facing the sincere belief interpretation and the caution of his language suggest otherwise. Consider some further evidence of that caution. As I have noted, for all the attention that Hobbes gives to the difference between outward profession and inward belief, he never specifies that his own attitude to Christian scripture involves an inward belief in its divine authenticity. Instead he seems content to express his own position, however respectfully and deferentially, in more ambiguous terms. Look at Hobbes’s closing reflections on his examination of scripture at the very end of Leviathan Part : [T]hus much shall suffice, concerning the Kingdome of God, and Policy Ecclesiasticall. Wherein I pretend not to advance any Position of my own, but onely to shew what are the Consequences that seem to me deducible from the Principles of Christian Politiques, (which are holy Scriptures,) in confirmation of the Power of Civill Soveraigns, and the Duty of their Subjects. (Lev. .: )

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Hobbes presents himself as simply working out readings of the legally established scriptural canon that promote a proper understanding of our civil obligations and the rights of the state. He treats these texts respectfully and as the authoritative source of a distinctively ‘Christian Politiques’. But if we are looking for the pulse of inner belief, or a sense of Protestant conviction that he has the inerrant word of God in his hands, the passage could scarcely be more bloodless. Nor does godly conviction shine through in any of Hobbes’s other remarks on how his scriptural exegeses ought to be received. Consider this from ’s An Apology for Himself and His Writings: That which is in [‘my Leviathan’] of theology, contrary to the general current of divines, is not put there as my opinion, but propounded with submission to those who have the power ecclesiastical. I never did after, either in writing or discourse, maintain it. (SPP )

Granted, this is Hobbes in apologetic mode, emphasizing his willingness to abandon the theology of his Interregnum Leviathan wherever it offends the newly restored Crown and Anglican Church. But when Hobbes asserts that he merely ‘propound[s]’ possible interpretations of scripture without intending to ‘maintain’ them, this is not a new development. Rather he is simply echoing the language of the  Leviathan, where he had already added the following crucial general caveat to his proposed interpretations of scripture (the immediate context here being Hobbes’s exegetical proposal that we read scriptural references to the Kingdom of God not as references to an otherworldly spiritual kingdom, but as references to a future terrestrial ‘Civil Common-wealth’): But because this doctrine (though proved out of Places of Scripture not few, nor obscure) will appear to most men a novelty; I doe but propound it; maintaining nothing in this, or any other paradox of Religion; but attending the end of that dispute of the sword, concerning the Authority, (not yet amongst my Countrey-men decided,) by which all sorts of doctrine are to bee approved, or rejected; and whose commands, both in speech, and writing, (whatsoever be the opinions of private men) must by all men, that mean to be protected by their Laws, be obeyed. (Lev. .: )

As in Lev. .: , Hobbes again stresses his interest in the practical political effect of his proposed readings of scripture. And again there

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is no sense that he means to testify to his own private religious convictions. Finally, consider how Hobbes chooses to respond when publicly challenged to confirm his belief in Christian revelation. Such questions were in the air following the publication of Leviathan, and were potentially dangerous to Hobbes’s reputation. John Wallis explicitly pressed the point in his Elenchus Geometriae Hobbianae (), wondering out loud whether Hobbes actually believed in the Bible’s account of the Fall, or whether he merely saw it as a myth that happened to be endorsed by the civil laws. Here is Hobbes quoting Wallis’s provocation in Elenchus, and then his own entire reply in Six Lessons to the Professors of Mathematiques (): And at the end of your objections to the eighteenth chapter, ‘Perhaps you take the whole history of the fall of Adam for a fable, which is no wonder, when you say the rules of honouring and worshipping of God are to be taken from the laws.’ Down, I say; you bark now at the supreme legislative power. Therefore it is not I, but the laws which must rate you off. (SL )17

For Hobbes, Wallis’s remark is impertinent and his resistance to treating the civil law as authoritative in matters of religious practice potentially criminal. But even so, nothing would have been easier than for Hobbes to have added in his reply (whether sincerely or otherwise) that, however impertinent the question might be, he did in fact believe in the Bible. Indeed, prudence might have recommended some such clarification. Yet instead Hobbes leaves the question of his own inner belief quite unaddressed—in effect, dismissing it as beside the point. The civil state properly determines our public religious practice, and that is all that needs to be said.18 To my mind, the fact that Hobbes 17 Hobbes is in fact translating and paraphrasing Wallis (from John Wallis, Elenchus Geometriae Hobbianae [Elenchus] [Oxford: H. Hall for John Crooke, ], ) rather than quoting him verbatim. But he does not misrepresent Wallis’s basic charge. For a fuller translation of Wallis’s objection, see Douglas M. Jesseph, Squaring the Circle: The War between Hobbes and Wallis [Squaring the Circle] (Chicago: Chicago University Press, ), . 18 There is a similar refusal to engage the question of truth and inner belief at another point in Hobbes’s exchange with Wallis. Wallis had taken offense at Hobbes’s assertion in De Corpore that the question of the origin of the world is properly settled ‘by those who are lawfully authorized to order the worship of God’ (DCo .)—‘as if ’, Wallis says in Elenchus, ‘this were not sufficiently agreed in the Holy Scripture, but should depend entirely on the suffrage of sovereigns whether or not the world ever had a beginning’ (Wallis, Elenchus, ; as translated in Jesseph, Squaring the Circle, ). Again, Hobbes simply ignores the issue of the

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avoids the issue of truth and inner belief does tend to confirm Wallis’s suspicion that he regards the Christian scriptures as a human creation rather than the revealed word of God. But equally this strategy of avoidance exhibits an important form of integrity, as Hobbes resists the easy path of simply claiming to inwardly believe whenever it is convenient to do so.

.

OUTWARD CONFORMITY AND NATURAL PIETY

Thus far I have been arguing that Hobbes’s respectful treatment of Christian scripture is dictated by his commitment to outward religious conformity, and that it is not at all likely that he inwardly believes that these texts in fact convey an authentic revelation from God. Hobbes is not in that sense a Christian. I now argue that his commitment to outward religious conformity is nevertheless an expression of a genuine religious piety: that Hobbes is sincere in holding that we ought to worship the first cause of all, and sincere in holding that the appropriate way to worship this awesome and incomprehensible divinity is to publicly adopt the local religious forms, including whatever scriptures are regarded as canonical. So on the proposed reading, Hobbes’s outward regard for Christian scripture is not simply a cover for some non-religious or anti-religious agenda. Rather, given the religious culture and laws of seventeenth-century England, Anglo-Protestant religious practice is the proper way of expressing reverence for the first cause of all, and a freethinker who refused to go along with this system of worship, or did so merely in a detached or contemptuous way, would thereby show a disregard for the deity that is both impious and irrational. To substantiate this interpretation, I examine Hobbes’s case for a duty of outward religious conformity, since the reasoning that reliability of Christian scripture, and instead reiterates his basic position that the state has the authority to mandate our particular doctrinal religious professions: ‘[W]hat an absurd question it is to ask me whether it be in the power of the magistrate, whether the world be eternal or not? It were fit you knew it is in the power of the supreme magistrate to make a law for the punishment of them that shall pronounce publicly of that question anything contrary to that which the law hath once pronounced’ (SL –). For useful discussion of the context of Hobbes’s exchange with Wallis, see Jesseph, Squaring the Circle, and Siegmund Probst, ‘Infinity and Creation: The Origin of the Controversy between Thomas Hobbes and the Savilian Professors Seth Ward and John Wallis’, British Journal for the History of Science,  (), –.

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he employs confirms an authentic underlying piety, and shows that he sees such outward conformity as the proper way of expressing a perfectly rational reverence for the first cause of all. At the core of Hobbes’s case for outward religious conformity is his conviction that worship of the first cause of all is already ‘dictated to men, by their Naturall Reason’ prior to any human conventions and independently of any revealed religion (Lev. .: ; see also DCi .; DH .).19 However incomprehensible the first cause of all might be, it plainly possesses awesome power, and worship of this unimaginably potent being is therefore ‘taught . . . by the light of Nature’, following from rational principles that direct the weak to venerate the more powerful (Lev. .: ). For Hobbes there is no deep mystery here, for however different in degree, the reverence that we ought to show the first cause of all is no different in kind from the reverence that we ought to show to a human more powerful than ourselves: [T]he worship we do [God], proceeds from our duty, and is directed . . . by those rules of Honour, that Reason [Latin version: natural reason] dictateth to be done by the weak to the more potent men, in hope of benefit, for fear of dammage, or in thankfulnesse for good already received from them. (Lev. .: )

There is no sign of irony in these passages, nor in Hobbes’s subsequent examination of the specific ways in which our natural reason directs us to worship the first cause, according this humanly incomprehensible being various honorific titles and displaying our devotion through humble prayers and thanksgiving (Lev. .-: –; DCi .–; DH .). Nor do I see any other reason to doubt that Hobbes is sincere in endorsing this ‘natural piety’, as he calls it (DH .), which does indeed seem to be a plausible consequence of his general view that the weak ought (rationally) to honor the strong. At least, we might note that commentators who deny that Hobbes genuinely holds that we ought to regard the first cause of the universe with awe and reverence are forced to read these several pages as layer upon layer of outright lies, which, all things being equal, seems to me a cost of their reading. 19 Or if not worship of the first cause of all, at least worship of a being properly dignified with the honorific title ‘the first cause of all’. See note .

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But how does this rational mandate for natural piety translate into a case for outward conformity with the local religious practices? Consider Hobbes’s two arguments enjoining external conformity. Hobbes’s first argument—‘the argument from the public nature of honoring’—does not require the existence of a commonwealth, and would equally apply to people living in the state of nature. According to this argument, just as our natural human reason directs us to worship God, so it also ‘and especially’ directs us to worship God ‘in Publique, and in the sight of men’, since public acts of veneration give more honor than private (Lev. .: ; compare also DCi .). But to worship God in public, we must show our inner reverence for God through outward signs of honor, and no action or speech can qualify as a sign of honor unless others regard it as such: [W]hen Free [i.e. ‘such as the Worshipper thinks fit’, rather than as commanded] . . . , Worship consists in the opinion of the beholders: for if to them the words, or actions by which we intend honour, seem ridiculous, and tending to contumely; they are no Worship; and no signes of Honour; because a signe is not a signe to him that giveth it, but to him to whom it is made; that is, to the spectator. (Lev. .: ) [If there were a disordered profusion of conflicting sectarian practices], it could not be rightly said of anybody that he was worshipping God, for no one worships God, i.e. offers external honours, unless he is offering something which others accept as honours. (DCi .)

Indeed, unfamiliar religious practices may even be seen as a positive affront, a failure to treat most sacred matters in the appropriately respectful way: [I]f individuals followed their own reason in worshipping God, worshippers are so different from each other that they would judge each other’s worship to be so unseemly or even impious; and would not accept that the others were worshipping God at all. And therefore it would not be worship, because the nature of worship is to be a sign of inward honour, but a thing is only a sign if it makes something known to others; a thing is therefore not a sign of honour, unless others accept it as a sign of honour. (DCi .)

It follows that we cannot employ idiosyncratic ways of revering God if we would worship Him in public. Instead, any public worship that goes beyond the very basic natural signs of honor (that is, signs of honor that are universally acknowledged by all humans independently of

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convention, such as a humble manner, prayers, and thanks), or would give determinate shape to these signs by enacting them in culturally specific ways, must draw on a common religious culture and a shared system of devotional practices that are understood to be honorific. To show our veneration for the first cause of all in public, as reason demands we must, we need to demonstrate our inner reverence through outwardly recognizable forms, and hence embrace the local religious practices. So it is not as if Hobbes is advocating an outward performance of religious conformity out of some oblique irreligious agenda, but rather, quite explicitly, from a conviction that the deity ought to be venerated, and venerated in a publicly intelligible way. Hobbes’s second argument—his ‘argument from the authority of the civil state’—appeals to the obligations of subjects under the social contract. As I have already had occasion to note, for Hobbes, a subject’s general duty of obedience to the civil state comprehends a duty to obey legal statutes controlling religious professions and devotional practices. If the law mandates a specific form of worship or doctrinal confession, subjects are bound to obey—at least in the typical case. But as we probe the underlying logic of Hobbes’s religious position, it is the exceptions to this general rule and the corresponding limits to the state’s authority over religious practice that are of particular interest. For Hobbes, the point of religious laws is to ensure that subjects honor God through the sort of coherent and unified civil worship that befits a unified commonwealth—for, ‘seeing a Common-wealth is but one Person, it ought also to exhibite to God but one Worship; which then it doth, when it commandeth it to be exhibited by Private men, Publiquely’ (Lev. .: ; see also DCi .). That is why, if we would honor God properly in a commonwealth, ‘those Attributes which the sovereign ordaineth, in the Worship of God, for signes of Honour, ought to be taken and used for such, by private men in their publique Worship’ (Lev. .: ). And that is why Hobbes, having identified the rules of religion with the rules of honoring God, can then take both to be fixed by the relevant civil statutes, writing (as we have seen) that ‘the rules of religion, that is the rules of honoring God, . . . we have from the laws’ (DCo Epistle dedicatory; compare also DH ., .; Lev. .: ). However, there are limits to the state’s authority in determining the rules of honoring God, and corresponding limits to the subject’s obligation to follow the law in matters of public worship. In fact the

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state can only determine forms of ‘Arbitrary Worship’—that is, points of religious practice that are intrinsically indifferent, being neither signs of honor nor signs of dishonor by the lights of natural reason prior to instruction in human conventions. It cannot dictate or overrule the standards of ‘Naturall . . . Worship’ (Lev. .: ; DCi .),20 which reflect those natural signs of honor and dishonor that all humans acknowledge independently of custom and convention: [B]ecause not all Actions are signes by Constitution [Latin version: possunt Honorificae fieri per constitutionem hominum, i.e. can be made honorific by human constitution]; but some are Naturally signes of Honour, others of Contumely, these later (which are those that men are ashamed to do in the sight of them they reverence) cannot be made by humane power a part of Divine worship; nor the former (such as decent, modest, humble Behaviour) ever be separated from it. But whereas there be an infinite number of Actions, and Gestures, of an indifferent nature; such of them as the Common-wealth shall ordain to be Publiquely and Universally in use, as signes of Honour, and part of God’s Worship, are to be taken and used for such by the Subjects. (Lev. .: ; compare also DCi .)

Or, similarly: Against [Hobbes’s own position that the commonwealth can determine the appropriate ways to worship God], one could ask . . . : does it not follow that one must obey the commonwealth if it directly commands one to pour insults upon God or forbids his worship? I say that it does not follow, and that one must not obey; for no one could take a profusion of insults or total absence of worship as a mode of worship. And again before the formation of the commonwealth no one who acknowledged the reign of God had the right to deny the honour due to him, and he could not therefore transfer the right to give such an order to the commonwealth. (DCi .)

So the state can require us to pray before this or that altar or idol (DCi .), to take instruction from this or that prophet (Lev. .: ; B ), or to acknowledge these scriptures or those (Lev. .: ). It has complete control over this sphere of arbitrary worship. But still, the state cannot require us to violate the standards of natural piety. It cannot make us act immodestly or indecently toward God, or 20 Or ‘Rationall Worship’, as Hobbes sometimes calls it (Lev. .: ; see also DH .).

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perform any other action that natural human reason would already recognize as a sign of dishonor prior to religious instruction and artificial human convention. So we can now see that the texts in which Hobbes seems to bluntly identify religion with a kind of law (cited in section  above) involve a form of shorthand. More precisely speaking, religion is ‘the external worship [cultus] of men who sincerely honour God’ (DH .), an outward display of inner reverence for the deity. This outward display might occur in or out of a commonwealth, but in a commonwealth it is properly controlled by the laws of the civil state (hence the shorthand identification of religion with a kind of law), at least so long as those laws do not violate natural standards of piety. Hobbes’s willingness to limit the state’s authority in this way again confirms that he is sincerely committed to the veneration of the first cause. He holds that we ought to revere this awesome and incomprehensible being; that we may do so through arbitrary conventional forms that the state has the authority to determine; and that we are indeed obliged to follow the religious laws of the civil state and thus far exhibit an outward religious conformity—but only insofar as those laws do not have us offend against the more fundamental rational requirement that we treat God in accordance with natural standards of honor and respect.

.

FURTHER INTERPRETIVE PROBLEMS SOLVED

Other peculiar features of Hobbes’s religious position now fall into place. First, Hobbes maintains that we owe more reverence and obedience to God than to any earthly sovereign (Lev. .: ; DCi .), and he also officially accepts Christianity; but then he also insists that any public allegiance to Christianity should be contingent on the permission of the civil state. This might sound contradictory, but it makes perfect sense on the proposed interpretation: an Englishman ought to embrace the Anglo-Protestant religious system as the proper vehicle for expressing reverence for God, but a Turk living under the Caliphate should not. Second, the proposed reading also explains the striking contrast between Hobbes’s position that one ought not obey the law when it commands a violation of natural piety, and his explicit insistence that one must violate Christian piety and publicly renounce Christ if the law

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so commands. In the latter case, Hobbes tells us that little is really at stake, and that the social contract requires our conformist compliance, for ‘Profession with the tongue is but an externall thing, and no more then any other gesture whereby we signifie our obedience’ (Lev. .: ). But as we have seen, he allows no such excuse for violations of natural piety. The difference in Hobbes’s treatment of the two cases is readily explained by my hypothesis that he accepts the standards of natural piety and the rationality of worshipping the first cause of all through locally sanctioned devotional practices, but that he has no real belief that Christianity is an authentically divinely revealed religion. Third, we can now understand how Hobbes can have a respectful and even reverential attitude to Christian scripture, to all appearances treating it without irony as a sacred text, while yet also being ready to twist its interpretation to his own ends, not only emphasizing those passages that might plausibly seem to support his own political and philosophical agenda, but also pushing his luck with several highly tendentious scriptural exegeses. Again, this makes sense if Hobbes views Christian practice as an entirely appropriate expression of rational religious piety, a form of worship that he takes seriously and enters into in a spirit of genuine veneration, but also at the same time sees it as a malleable human construct, an artificial convention that, given the ear of the sovereign or the cooperation of the universities, he might hope to shape, if only at the margins, in favor of Hobbesian ideals such as civil obedience, an ultra-statist ecclesiology, and the extirpation of belief in an immaterial spirit-world.21 And just as one would expect, all of Hobbes’s readings of scripture are proposed with ‘due submission’ to the state authorities in charge of religious law (Lev. Epistle dedicatory: ; compare also Lev. .: ), and conform with episcopacy when advanced under the Stuarts, and with Independency when under the Interregnum Commonwealth.22 Both the existing religious laws and 21 Or indeed, as unfolding circumstances require, in favor of this or that more immediate solution to the ongoing political and religious crises roiling mid-seventeenth-century England. 22 It is sometimes suggested that it is simply calculating self-interest that leads Hobbes to declare in favor of Anglican episcopacy in De Cive in , only to reject it in favor of Independency under the new republican regime in the English Leviathan of , and then to backtrack again following the Restoration, butchering the  edition’s treatment of ecclesiastical government in the Latin re-write of Leviathan of  and railing against Independency in Behemoth. But with the current interpretation it becomes possible to explain

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the more deeply-entrenched aspects of the existing religious culture will affect the ways in which Hobbes might hope to mold the interpretation of scripture and shape religious practice. It is a consequence of my view that if Hobbes had been a Spaniard, his public criticism of Catholic ecclesiology and Catholic superstition would have been modulated accordingly—and not simply out of fear of persecution, but also out of a genuine respect for the local ways of honoring God. However, that does not mean that a Spanish Hobbes might not still have hoped to shape Catholic practices, at the margins, in the direction of a more statist form of church governance and a more sober metaphysics. Fourth, we can also now appreciate why Hobbes insists on a total separation of scriptural religion and philosophy, and insists that while the former can teach us ‘the rules of honouring God’, it must not be understood as a source of factual information or philosophical doctrine (DCo Epistle dedicatory). Revealed religion is a human creation, a conventional cultural artifact that provides us with publicly intelligible ways of demonstrating our veneration for the first cause of all. It serves an important function and is not to be mocked or made light of. But it is not a reliable source of information about either the nature of God or the world.

.

THE RELIGION OF THUCYDIDES

In a brief biographical sketch ‘On the Life and History of Thucydides’ prefaced to his  translation Eight Books of the Peloponnesian Warre, Hobbes reports that Thucydides was ‘by some reputed an atheist’ (LHT xv). In Hobbes’s own assessment, Thucydides did not in fact deserve this label, even if he did most likely regard his own culture’s pagan religion as quite fantastical: these shifts in Hobbes’s outward theological posture as a principled expression of his underlying position that public religious pronouncements ought to align with the legally mandated religious settlement, whatever that settlement happens to be. On the ‘butcher[ing]’ of the  edition’s sections on ecclesiology, see Richard Tuck, Hobbes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), . More generally, on the shifts in Hobbes’s treatment of episcopacy and Independency, see Thomas Hobbes, Noel Malcolm (ed.), Leviathan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), i. –, –; Jeffrey R. Collins, The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ).

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For though [Thucydides] were [no atheist], yet it is not improbable, but by the light of natural reason he might see enough in the religion of these heathen, to make him think it vain and superstitious; which was enough to make him an atheist in the opinion of the people. (LHT xv)

Given how little internal or external evidence there is for Thucydides’s actual religious views, Hobbes’s remarks are more speculative than he cares to admit. Still, it seems important to Hobbes to urge that Thucydides was genuinely pious, and to cite his History as evidence when it approvingly draws on the predictions of an oracle, or lauds the Athenian general Nicias ‘for his worshipping of the gods’. On the other hand, it also seems important to Hobbes to insist that Thucydides had an admirable intellectual detachment from the specific beliefs and practices of the Greek religion, and was prepared, for instance, to criticize Nicias for ‘being too punctual in the observation of [religious] ceremonies . . . , when he overthrew himself and his army . . . by it’. The essay on Thucydides’s life and character was written many years before Hobbes’s philosophical treatment of natural piety and revealed religion in De Cive, Leviathan, and De Corpore. Even so, perhaps there is some projective self-identification in Hobbes’s portrait of Thucydides as an authentically pious man who could nevertheless maintain a critical distance when considering his own culture’s devotional forms and regard them as simply so many human conventions—‘[s]o that in his writings our author appeareth to be, on the one side not superstitious, on the other side not an atheist’ (LHT xv).23 University of California, Santa Barbara

23 Thanks to Michael Augustin, Robert McIntyre, and the editors and two anonymous referees for Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy.

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 Spinoza on Turning the Other Cheek KEITH GREEN

One might expect Spinoza to endorse ‘turning the other cheek’ in the face of violent attack. He claims (in Ethics EIVP and P) that hatred is always bad, and that ‘one who lives according to the guidance of reason will strive to repay the other’s Hate etc. with Love, or Nobility’. He also rejects blame and indignation as forms of hatred, injury, and even abuse.1 Spinoza furthermore wholeheartedly endorses the love commands2—‘love one’s neighbor as oneself ’ (Lev. :, Matthew :–, also Mark :, Luke :, John :–, and Romans :–, :)—and asserts that piety and ‘true worship’ consist in works of charity.3 Spinoza insists, however, that in all but the most extraordinary circumstances, it is a matter of piety not to turn the other cheek. One has a duty, in any state where justice is upheld, to see that

1 See Keith Green, ‘Spinoza on Blame and Hatred’ [‘Blame and Hatred’], Iyyun: The Jerusalem Philosophical Quarterly,  (), – for an argument that Spinoza regards blame as a form of hatred, and that he distinguishes it from attributing accountability to an agent. 2 When I speak of the love commands, I do so in the plural, since the first command is an injunction to love God, and the second enjoins one to love one’s neighbor as oneself. In subsequent discussion, it is principally Spinoza’s interpretation of the second command and its implications that is at issue. The first love command is grounded in Deuteronomic sources: Deuteronomy :, reiterated in Deut. :, :; :, , ; and I Kings :. The second appears first in Leviticus :. Hence, both occur in Torah texts; and Spinoza follows the authors of the Christian Gospels in regarding both as Mosaic law, at least by implication. It should be noted that, as far as Christian sources are concerned, Spinoza appears to have in mind the version occurring in the Gospel of Matthew, especially in conjunction with Matthew’s version of the beatitudes. See note  below. 3 See TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ): ‘obedience to God consists only in the love of your neighbor—for as Paul says in Romans :, he who loves his neighbor in order that he may obey God has fulfilled the Law. From this, it follows that the only knowledge [of God] Scripture commends is that necessary for all men if they are able to obey God according to this prescription’. See also the fifth dogma of the universal faith, TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ): ‘The worship of God and obedience to him consists only in Justice and Loving-kindness, or in love towards one’s neighbor.’

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any wrongdoing is punished, even if it means imposing death as a punishment. In the Theologico-Political Treatise (TTP), he insists that the injunction to turn the other cheek can never be regarded as law; and he claims specifically that the love commands never bind one to turn the other cheek. Failing to punish any wrongdoer aids an enemy of the civil community, and so actually amounts to a failure to follow the love commands. And it even follows that turning the other cheek amounts to a failure of piety. Yet both Jeremiah and Jesus counseled turning the other cheek, and Spinoza is at pains to demonstrate that their counsel is consistent with his principles of biblical interpretation and view of prophetic authority, as well as his interpretation of the obligations of charity. He argues that they uttered this counsel in very exceptional circumstances, where civil community has broken down, where no sovereign power can be counted upon to see that justice is upheld. Under these circumstances, one does not have power to resist oppression by force. Spinoza’s discussion of turning the other cheek takes place in two passages in the TTP, in chapters  and . His arguments in both contexts reflect his nuanced interpretation of the love commands, which he, like Jews and Christians generally, continues to regard as a practical and universal summary of the whole law, as well as a universal moral teaching. Some Jewish and Christian interpreters maintain that the love commands mandate that it is always permissible and sometimes a matter of obligation to turn the other cheek. But many, including authorities with as much weight in traditions of Christian thought as Augustine and Aquinas, do not regard turning the other cheek as obligatory, and even view it as wrong and cowardly in many circumstances. In their view, one has a duty, where one has the power to do so, to resist evil and uphold justice by punishing wickedness and undertaking limited, defensive war. Spinoza’s circumscribed interpretation of counsel to turn the other cheek, and his argument that the love commands do not broadly mandate or authorize it, places him in this line of thought. According to the Augustinian view, however, hatred is a natural response to evil—and as long as one’s natural propensity to hate is habituated to respond proportionally to vice or sin, hatred and the destruction of vice that it motivates do not contravene the love commands. Since love is always stronger than hatred, and its ‘movement’ is always a logical and phenomenological (and so, causal)

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necessary condition for a response of hatred, a response of hatred that is proportioned to the evil that evokes it can even motivate fulfilling the love commands instead of constituting a violation of them.4 For Spinoza, by contrast, the love commands mandate the total extirpation of hatred as a response to any form of wrongdoing, or to the hatred or deceit of others. He rejects the notion that any form of hatred, including righteous indignation or anger, is ever warranted by reason, or can ever be expressive of virtue.5 Any idea of an action or source of motivation as ‘evil’ is, moreover, an inadequate idea that no individual liberated from the grip of passive affects and imagination would even form as an idea.6 Overcoming and extirpating hatred from one’s affects, as far as possible, remains a fundamental condition of human flourishing, and so a guiding aim of the ethical and political life, as Spinoza understands it. Spinoza nevertheless argues that the motivation to punish wrongful actions and to conduct limited defensive war within the bounds of justice can arise entirely without any hatred, indignation, or blame.7 It is simply a natural fact about intrinsically ‘social’ human beings, necessarily in bondage to the passions and imagination, that punishing wrongdoing and securing submission to the power of the state are necessary conditions for securing the peace and maintaining conditions 4 Augustine, City of Good, trans. Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin, ), , is one exemplary passage, where Augustine speaks of God’s ‘perfect hatred’. Yet for Augustine, passional hatred is a feature of human experience and subjectivity only because of the Fall. It will have no place in the life of the redeemed and resurrected body because that body will no longer be subject to pain or loss. Nevertheless, hatred of those attributes of oneself that bring about the Fall and separate one from God and the life of the resurrected body may serve to resist and overcome threats to one’s good as a ‘fallen’ embodied creature. Such forms of ‘natural hatred’, especially hatred of sin or vice, may contribute to excellence of character in this life. See also ST I–II, q. , a.  and II–II, q. , a.  for Thomas Aquinas’s defense of the Augustinian position. 5 The longstanding folk psychology of hatred that informs most thinkers in the Augustinian tradition, such as Aquinas, is influenced by Aristotle’s distinction between anger and hatred found in Rhetoric ii.. Spinoza comes closer to the Stoic view that anger and hatred are expressions of the same passion, albeit with a caveat. Cicero claims that hatred (menis) is ‘anger stored up to age’ and (along with Seneca) describes it as ‘inveterate anger’—‘ira inveterata’—or, ‘lust of punishing the man who is thought to have inflicted an injury’ (Tusculan Disputations IV.vii.–ix.). Spinoza, however, regards anger as a derivative form of hatred. See J. Gereboff, K. Green, D. F. Cates, and M. Heim, ‘The Nature of the Beast: Hatred in Cross-Traditional Religious and Philosophical Perspective’, Journal of the Society for Christian Ethics,  (), –. 6 7 EIVPD. EIVPD.

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necessary for human flourishing.8 But human beings need not be motivated by hatred to do what reason commends to the end of securing the peace that is a necessary condition for human flourishing. So even without any response or motivation of hatred, it nonetheless follows, as for Augustine and Aquinas, that far from ‘overruling charity’, punishing wrongdoing and securing submission to the power of the state expresses charity wherever it engenders peace and general welfare. Under these circumstances, just punishment and the just conduct of war are even a matter of ‘piety’. Turning the other cheek is never authorized by the love commands where punishment or war may be justly prosecuted by legitimate authority as a way of securing the peace of the civil community. Where no prosecution of the claims of justice by a sovereign power can secure the peace and conditions of general welfare, however, turning the other cheek falls entirely outside the purview of law. Here, there is no sovereign command, and so no effective civil law in place that one can disobey; so there can be no wrong in turning the other cheek. But the prosecution of claims of justice only conforms to the always valid love commands in the perfect absence of hatred. Armed with ‘strength of mind’ (or potentia agendi) and not bound by hatred, one will be able to ‘resign’ oneself to ‘tolerating injury’ and ‘submitting totally to the wicked’ as opposed to acting futilely out of hatred.9 In the first two sections of this chapter, I examine Spinoza’s nuanced and perhaps paradoxical-seeming interpretation of the injunction to turn the other cheek in TTP chapters  and , focusing on each discussion successively. I show that Spinoza’s interpretation of injunctions to turn the other cheek in these contexts is consistent with his remarks about justice and piety in the Ethics. In section , I examine more carefully how Spinoza’s qualified rejection of turning the other cheek, under ‘normal’ social circumstances, squares with his embrace of the love commands. In section , I examine Spinoza’s argument that

8

EIVPD makes this point most directly and forcefully. It is noteworthy, and no accident, that in EIVApp this ‘bearing calmly’ circumstances under which the ‘power of external causes’ contrary to our own perseverance and power overwhelm our own, and under which submitting to injury and ‘yielding everything to the impious (or immoral)’ clearly falls, is described as acquiescentia. 9

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there is rational warrant for Jeremiah’s and Jesus’s exhortations to turn the other cheek under conditions of oppression, and that doing so can only express piety under these circumstances. In conclusion, I propose that the implications of Spinoza’s nuanced and almost universal abrogation of counsel to turn the other cheek in TTP chapters  and  subordinate the claims of love to the claims of justice to a lesser extent than do his Augustinian forebears. His arguments demonstrate the critical normative role of the love commands in his political ethics in mandating the upholding of justice through just punishment and war, where necessary. Spinoza’s interpretation of injunctions to turn the other cheek are, thus, true enough to the mandates of his Jewish roots in making liberation from the power of hatred a necessary ethical goal, yet nevertheless clearly show that he is Augustine’s progeny once removed as far as the practical mandates for just punishment and just war are concerned.

.

TTP CHAPTER 

It is in TTP chapter  that Spinoza first argues that the injunction to turn the other cheek can never be regarded as law, and that in a good commonwealth where justice is upheld, one has a duty to demand just punishment for wrongdoing—to ‘drag the wrongdoer before a judge and seek redress for injuries’. This argument occurs in the context of a discussion of hermeneutical principles governing biblical interpretation, where he uses it as an example. He asserts that ‘the first thing we must seek from the history of Scripture is what is most universal, what is the basis and the foundation for the whole of Scripture’; and he includes in this category that God exists and is alone to be worshipped, and that God ‘loves above all those who worship him, and who love their neighbors as themselves’.10 These universally applicable claims must be distinguished from counsels concerning ‘external actions’ tailored by the prophets to specific circumstances. Spinoza then insists that readers of the Bible admit that there are passages where the prophets, including Moses and Jeremiah, counsel specific ‘external actions’ on a particular occasion that appear to contradict injunctions 10

TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ).

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of Mosaic law that presumably apply without circumstantial exception, and whose clear meaning is not otherwise in question.11 So Spinoza asserts that even in cases where ‘the natural light of reason’ is clear and decisive, counsels about ‘all the particular external actions of true virtue, which can only be put into practice when the occasion for them arises’ do not bear on scriptural authority as law. Their meaning and scope is open to interpretation in light of basic, clear and universal doctrines, on the one hand, and facts about the specific circumstances under which counsel is given, on the other.12 Spinoza then cites, ‘[B]ut if a man strike you on the right cheek, turn to him the left also’ (Matthew :, :) as an example of prophetic counsel tailored to specific historical circumstance. And he asserts that if this passage is interpreted as a law given by a lawgiver, it would contradict the law of Moses. So Spinoza argues that we must consider to whom it was that Jesus (Christ) addressed this counsel concerning ‘external action’, what the circumstances were under which he uttered it and to whom, and under what circumstances the prophet Jeremiah enjoined it (in Lamentations :). The circumstances under which both Jesus and Jeremiah counseled turning the other cheek was to ‘oppressed men, who were living in a corrupt republic, where justice was completely neglected’ and where they saw that the ‘ruin of the republic’ or ‘the first destruction of [ Jerusalem]’ was imminent. Spinoza goes on to claim, however, that Jesus uttered the counsel to ‘turn the other cheek’ not as a lawgiver ordaining laws, ‘because he would have destroyed the law of Moses with this precept’. Jesus counseled it because ‘he did not want to correct external actions so much as the heart’. Spinoza then asserts that even though Moses also

11 Spinoza then [] proceeds to place passages that concern other ‘less universal things’, including ‘all the particular external actions of true virtue, which can only be put into practice when the occasion for them arises’ (G iii. /C ii. ), on the same interpretive level as issues about which the prophets do not agree. This hermeneutical principle is not, in itself, an innovation. Interpretive questions, or questions about the ‘meaning’ of a text, arise when the seeming ‘plain sense’ contradicts other received or otherwise indisputable truth-claims, or when the plain sense of two different texts within scripture appear to assert contradictory truth-claims. 12 Spinoza will assert, in TTP ch. , among other places, that even if the love commands have status as law, being promulgated by sovereign power, as Moses promulgated them for the Hebrew state, civil authorities must also have authority to interpret them—i.e. to determine what ‘external actions’ they may be deemed to require under what specific circumstances.

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‘condemned revenge and hatred against one’s neighbor’, since he ‘wasn’t writing at a time of oppression’ but was going about the business of instituting a good republic, he demanded ‘an eye for an eye’. So Moses enjoined seeing that anyone disobedient of the law is brought to justice, even if it costs the wrongdoer his life. Spinoza therefore concludes that ‘in a good republic, where justice is preserved, everyone is bound, if he wants to be thought just, to exact a penalty for injuries in the presence of a judge (see Leviticus :)’, just as he argues in EIVPS. Spinoza’s interpretation of counsel to turn the other cheek in TTP chapter  implies a positive normative claim about ‘external actions’: one must, all things being equal, hold wrongdoers accountable for their wrongdoing and punish them justly, in accord with civil law (as Moses enjoined). And it implies a negative counsel aimed at ‘the heart’: one must (as Jesus enjoined), nevertheless, never hate wrongdoers or be motivated to punish them by hatred, anger, or indignation. Spinoza provides more extensive background arguments in TTP chapter  that draw out the practical implications of these two claims, where, as he also does in EIVPS, he identifies the prosecution of claims of justice with genuine piety and devotion. It is also clear in TTP chapter  that Spinoza countenances no conflict or tension between these normative claims. He goes on to assert that in prosecuting legitimate claims of justice in a functional republic, one does so not from revenge, but ‘with the intention of defending justice and the laws of one’s native land, and so that evil should not profit from being evil’; and doing so ‘agree(s) completely with natural reason’. This claim is reiterated and extended in TTP chapter , where he claims that it is not hatred that makes a man an enemy, but his refusal to transfer his right to a state’s sovereign power or enter into an alliance with it, thus bringing about ‘the peace’.13 13 See TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ) with regard to war. In this latter text, however, he goes even further: ‘an enemy is whoever lives outside the state without recognizing the state’s sovereignty, either as an ally or as a subject. For it’s not hatred which makes a man an enemy of the state, but right. The state’s right against whoever does not recognize its sovereignty by any kind of contract is the same as its right against someone who’s done it harm. Indeed, it can rightly compel him, in whatever way it can, either to surrender or to become an ally.’ The ‘in whatever way it can’ is critical, since it implicitly acknowledges that, as love is an intrinsically stronger affect or emotion than hatred, one may counter hatred by responding with love, or, as Hobbes explicitly claims in DCi ., in giving another a reason not to attack, it can redound to one’s own benefit to turn the other cheek.

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Both claims imply that prosecuting claims of justice does not necessarily express indignation, anger, a desire for revenge, or any affect which Spinoza regards as a form or expression of hatred. He likewise suggests that one can have other sources of motivation, as well as justificatory reasons, for seeking the submission of wrongdoers to the authority of the sovereign power, and thus to civil law. Spinoza makes this claim explicitly in the Ethics. In EIVPC, he argues that ‘whatever we want because we have been affected with hate is dishonorable, and [if we live] in a state, it is unjust’. And on the basis of this claim, he goes on in EIVPS to endorse a version of Seneca’s claim that when a ‘sovereign power’, in discharging its duty to ‘safeguard peace’, punishes a citizen who has injured another, it does so legitimately, not ‘from hatred’ but ‘from duty’ (pietate).14 In endorsing this notion, Spinoza recapitulates his earlier position in the Short Treatise: a judge justly punishes a wrongdoer when he is not siding with the injured party but rather aiming to ‘so as to help and to improve the one as much as the other’.15 And in EIVPS, he argues that even a judge who has to condemn a man to death need not do so through anger or hatred, but ‘only through love of the general welfare’ and ‘guided only by reason’. In TTP chapter , Spinoza likewise claims that punishing wrongdoers is rationally warranted to the end of seeing that each is ‘given his due’, to the end of ‘upholding justice and the laws of one’s native land’, and ‘so that the evil shall not profit by being evil’.16 So Spinoza reads Lev. : 14 Spinoza reiterates this EIVPS claim as well as his claim about a judge’s motives in punishing in EIVPS. See Seneca, De Ira I.xvi. (and I.xv.). Seneca claims that a good judge condemns wrongful deeds, but does not hate them. Even if death is merited as a punishment, it can be enjoined for the betterment of ‘human society’, and must be done entirely without hatred. He also anticipates Spinoza’s unqualified rejection of any form of blame or indignation in his claim that hating the wicked, who are due punishment, is as irrational as feeling hatred for members of one’s own body which are to be excised by surgery. 15 KV II.. (G i. /C i. ). 16 Perhaps the most revealing definition of justice Spinoza gives is in TTP ch.  (G iii. /C ii. ), where he defines it as ‘a constancy of mind’ to render to each person what is hers ‘according to civil law’. In TP . (G iii. /C ii. ): ‘a person is called just if he has the constant will to give to each person his own, and unjust if he tries to make his own what belongs to someone else’. We should note that the later definition (TP) does not simply repeat the earlier (TTP) definition, since the use of ‘civil right’ in the former arguably implies ‘right’ accorded specifically by ‘the true interpretation of the laws’. Reference to ‘a constancy of mind’ and ‘a constant will’ should be understood in relation to his comment in EIVPC that anything desired in the state resulting from being affected by hatred is unjust, and his emphatic insistence in EIVPS that a sovereign power punishes not from the motivation of

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and :– as (Mosaic) legal injunctions to ‘demand justice for wrongdoing’ and ‘upholding the laws of one’s native land’. These injunctions, it turns out, also have the warrant of ‘universal reason’ even where Moses’s law no longer holds sway as the law of an existing Hebrew state. And since one’s desires may arise from reason alone, the judge’s actions, or those of others who seek to bring wrongdoers to justice by way of the law, may act ‘from reason’ (as well as ‘in accord with’ it), and not from indignation or any form of hatred. The argument that emerges in TTP chapter  is that even if one never reciprocates another’s hatred or deceit with hatred, but responds to them with love, where one lives in a functional state, ‘reason demands’ recognizing that one has an overriding duty to see that wrongful or unjust actions that ‘disturb the peace’ are justly punished.17 Since holding wrongdoers accountable, and justly punishing them may be done entirely without expressing, or being motivated by hatred, it is possible to heed the counsel never to hate and (thus) never to blame, but be moved, nevertheless, by reasonable considerations alone to fulfill one’s legal-moral duty to uphold justice, ‘so that the evil do not profit by being evil’. The suggestion is that one can love one’s neighbor and seek for others the good that one seeks for oneself, and yet prosecute just punishment for wrongdoing without conflict. It follows that the prophetic counsel to turn the other cheek cannot rise to the level of universal law that transcends the mandates and duties of the law of a specific civil community. Counsel to turn the other cheek is circumstantial counsel regarding ‘external actions’ under specific conditions that do not generally hold for most people, most of the time.

. TTP CHAPTER  Spinoza’s more developed argument for his interpretation of counsel to turn the other cheek occurs in TTP chapter . This time, it appears in indignation or hatred, but from a ‘sense of duty’ or pietas. Note also his claim, in EIVApp that though indignation ‘seems to bear an outward show of equity’, allowing individuals to ‘pass judgment’ upon each others’ actions conduces to lawlessness. Justin Steinberg, ‘Spinoza on Civil Liberation’ [‘Civil Liberation’], Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at , on ‘securitas’. Note, especially, his discussion of the significance of Spinoza’s language about not ‘disturbing the peace’. 17

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the context of arguments that ‘the well-being of the people is the supreme law’ and ‘external forms of worship’ and ‘every exercise of piety must be accommodated to the peace and preservation of the republic, if we want to obey God properly’. It is here that Spinoza expands the notion of piety, arguing that failing to punish any wrongdoer aids an enemy of the civil community, puts at risk the ‘general welfare’, and so amounts to a failure of piety. Just as the Hebrews were enjoined to love one’s neighbor as oneself (citing Lev. :–), they were nonetheless required by law (Lev. :, Deut. :–) to ‘inform the judge of anyone who had broken the law’, and even (by Deut. :) to kill the wrongdoer ‘if he is judged to be punishable by death’. Here, the rhetorical force and implication of Spinoza’s argument is that even if the second love command applies universally and without exception as an injunction of Mosaic law, ‘informing the judge’ of wrongdoing or carrying out a penalty imposed by law is no violation of the command to love one’s neighbor. Indeed, Spinoza will argue that this is the only way to ‘obey God’ or to fulfill this commandment. It is worth pointing out that Spinoza repeats this insistence in EIVPS, where he claims that the sovereign power punishes a wrongdoer ‘from a sense of piety [pietate]’ and not because it is ‘indignant’ with the wrongdoer, or ‘stirred by hatred’ to ‘destroy’ him.18 The language of piety within which Spinoza frames this argument rings with irony in modern ears, which are likely to infer from the injunction to turn the other cheek that it is always better to forgive wrongdoing, refuse to meet violence with violence, and be willing to pardon (remit punishment) at least for a penitent wrongdoer. Spinoza argues in TTP ch. [], however, that ‘it is certain that piety toward a person’s country is the supreme piety he can render’, and that ‘you can’t do anything pious to your neighbor which doesn’t become impious if some harm to the republic as a whole follows from it’, and inversely (and rather more ominously), ‘you can’t do anything impious to anyone which shouldn’t be ascribed to piety if it’s done to preserve the republic’.19 As an example, he takes up the gospel

Compare to TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ), as quoted in note  above. The Latin text makes it manifestly clear that Spinoza equates piety and devotion: ‘Certum est, quod pietas erga patriam summa sit, quam aliquis praestare potest, nam, sublato imperio, nihil boni potest consistere, sed omnia in discrimen veniunt, et sola ira, et impietas 18 19

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injunction to ‘give the quarrelsome man my cloak as well as my tunic when he only demands my tunic’ (often taken to express a mandate to turn the other cheek in other words).20 But ‘when one judges that this is harmful to the preservation of the Republic, it is, on the contrary, pious to call him to judgment, even if he’s to be condemned to death’ (emphasis added). The claim that ‘it is certain’ that devotion to one’s country is the highest form of ‘devotion [pietas]’ recalls Spinoza’s argument in TTP chapter  that even divine law, insofar as it is anything that can actually be disobeyed, derives its normative force only through the command of an actual historical human sovereign.21 Individuals, he argues, collectively transfer a measure of their natural right to a sovereign power, with the aim of securing peace and securitas; and, to this end, the

maximo omnium metu regnat; unde sequitur nihil proximo pium praestari posse, quod non impium sit, si inde damnum totius reipublicae sequatur, et contra nihil in eundem impium committi, quod pietati non tribuatur, si propter reipublicae conservationem fiat. Ex. gr. pium est, ei, qui mecum contendit, et meam tunicam vult capere, pallium etiam dare; at ubi judicatur, hoc reipublicæ conservationi perniciosum esse, pium contra est, eundum in judicum vocare, tametsi mortis damnandus sit’ (G iii. ). 20

Spinoza gives no citation. Matthew’s version of the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew :–:) contains the implicit text here (:–), in contrast to a version of the saying in Luke :. The Matthew version is clearly the version in the background of Spinoza’s remark in TTP ch.  that Jesus is not legislating ‘external’ actions, and thus not legislating laws that alter or contravene those given by Moses. Spinoza’s claim that Jesus, by contrast, is concerned with ‘the very wish’ appears to reflect the ‘Moses said to you . . . but I say to you’ passages in the Matthew version of the Sermon on the Mount. 21 See TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ): ‘Justice, then, and all the teachings of true reason, without exception (and, hence, loving-kindness towards one’s neighbor), acquire the force of law and of [divine] command only by the right of the state. . . . And because (as I’ve already shown) God’s kingdom consists only in the law of justice and of lovingkindness, or of true Religion, it follows, as we claimed, that God has no kingdom over men except through those who have sovereignty.’ See Michael Rosenthal, ‘Why Spinoza chose the Hebrews’ [‘Why the Hebrews’], History of Political Thought,  (), –, especially his discussion of Spinoza’s argument in the context of seventeenth-century Dutch conflict between different interpretations of authority to interpret biblical law and religious toleration. See also Susan James, Spinoza on Philosophy, Religion, and Politics: The TheologicoPolitical Treatise [Spinoza on Philosophy] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), – on the historical context of Spinoza’s subordinating religious law to civil law, and interpreting its origins and normative authority in terms of civil authority, and her discussion, more generally of the different senses of ‘divine law’ in Spinoza; and, Aurelia Armstrong, ‘Natural and Unnatural Communities: Spinoza beyond Hobbes’ [‘Natural and Unnatural’], British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at – on the nature of transfer of right in Spinoza as opposed to Hobbes’s conception of the transfer as the voluntary act of an individual.

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‘sovereign’ must have real power to inspire obedience through fear, if necessary.22 As Spinoza understands it, however, God’s lawgiving is not, in itself, of the prescriptive kind; and nothing can possibly occur which contravenes it.23 In Spinoza’s particular deployment of hebraicism in the context of ethical and political argument, Moses and the prophets, imaginatively construed God as a judge and lawgiver to enjoin obedience to laws that, intentionally or not, procure the ends of survival, perseverance, and security.24 Moses effected the formation of the Hebrew state from a rag-tag flock of exhausted run-away slaves by inspiring them to imagine God as lawgiver and protector. The affective power of this inspired image moved the Hebrews by means of hope (for a secure and prosperous posterity) and fear (of God’s power and will to punish disobedience) to transfer their sovereign ‘right’ to God as a nation.25 By this means, however, Moses practically acquired 22 TTP ch.  should be read alongside EIVPS, where Spinoza makes the more general argument that wrongfulness, as such, can only be ‘conceived’ (concipi) through the command of an actual sovereign, to whom ‘right’ is transferred. This claim is expanded in TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ): ‘An injury occurs when a citizen or subject is forced to suffer a harm from someone else, contrary to the civil law, or to an edict of the supreme power. For an injury cannot be conceived except in a civil state; and the supreme powers (to whom, by right, all things are permitted) cannot do an injury to their subjects. An injury can occur only among private persons who are bound by law not to harm one another.’ And in the TP . (G iii. /C ii. ), Spinoza extends this claim to sin (violations of divine law), which, he claims, ‘can be conceived (concipi) only in a state’. See Green, ‘Blame and Hatred’, –. See also Rosenthal, ‘Why the Hebrews’ on Spinoza’s argument for the subordination of religious to civil institutions—why the civil state must be understood to be the maker of law enjoined by religious institutions. 23 I make and argue more extensively for this claim in ‘Forgiveness, Pardon, and Punishment in Spinoza’s Ethical Theory and “True Religion” ’ [‘Forgiveness’], Journal of Early Modern Studies,  (), –, at . See also Susan James, ‘What Divine Law is not’ and ‘What Divine Law is’, in Spinoza on Philosophy, –; Donald Rutherford, ‘Spinoza’s Conception of Law: Metaphysics and Ethics’, in Yitzhak Y. Melamed and Michael Rosenthal (eds.), Spinoza’s Theological-Political Treatise: A Critical Guide (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –. 24 See, among other places, Letter , Spinoza to Henry Oldenburg,  February  (G iv. –/C ii. –). 25 It should be noted that Spinoza is deploying here a conception of the origin of Israelite kingship deriving from Josephus: God is initially regarded as ‘king’, but Moses is the lawgiver of law, comprehensive in scope, that engenders the Israelites’ emergence as a nation. See Jacob Abolafia, ‘Spinoza, Josephism, and the Critique of the Hebrew Republic’, History of Political Thought,  (), –. On the deployments of Josephus’s conception of Israelite kingship in the early modern context, see Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard

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unconstrained ‘right to command’, and his decrees acquired the normative force of law. The laws of Moses came, for this reason, and by additional reason of the fact that they encompassed comprehensive proscriptions for ‘ceremonial rites’ or ‘external forms’ of worship, to be embraced as divine law. So, on the one hand, Spinoza reasons that God’s ‘decrees’ ‘involve eternal truth and necessity’ and cannot actually be contravened; yet, on the other hand, ‘God has no kingdom over men except through those who have sovereignty’. So, he concludes, [] ‘even for Prophetically revealed religion to have the force of law among the Hebrews, it was necessary for each of them to surrender first his natural right’; and [] ‘it follows most clearly that among the Hebrews Religion acquired the force of law only from the right of the state’. Once the Hebrew state disappears, the law of Moses, as the law of a now-only-former Hebrew nation, can be conceived as ‘binding’ only if it can be shown to have warrant with reference to ‘universal teaching of reason’.26 Spinoza goes on to claim, however, that Moses enjoins the Hebrews to ‘love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy’ with a view to preserving their freedom from slavery and preserving the territory they had

University Press, ), –. See also Rosenthal, ‘Why the Hebrews’, – for a discussion of the philosophical aims of Spinoza’s deployment of a specific narrative of the formation of the Hebrew state. 26 It should be noted that Spinoza’s placing of Moses’s enjoining of the second love command as a law alongside Jesus’s endorsement of it to the end of ‘improving men’s minds’ in TTP ch.  underscores that Spinoza regards the second love command as something found to be ‘most universal’ through the study of scripture, based on his hermeneutical method. So it is an injunction that ‘forms the basis and foundation of all’. The critical implication is that Spinoza regards it as a ‘universal law’ that transcends its foundational place in the Mosaic law. For this reason it is a precept that holds beyond the end of the Hebrew state. In addition, it is ethically basic in a further sense. Heeding or obeying it would be a counsel of ‘natural reason’, of God’s law conceived not as the legislated decrees of a ‘personal’ God of the prophets’ imagination, but as the rational apprehension of a law ‘governing’ nature that cannot possibly be contravened and is grasped by means of intuitive knowledge. See Leora Blatnitsky, ‘Spinoza’s Critique of Miracles and its Implications for his View of Law’, Cardozo Law Review,  (), –. And so, if, as Spinoza has it in EIVPS, natural reason dictates whatever redounds to one’s survival and flourishing, and enjoins reasoned endeavoring to survive and flourish—to love oneself and promote one’s own good—then doing so cannot possibly conflict with anything enjoined by the love commands. Indeed, just as Spinoza claimed that Moses’s constitutive lawmaking, including the love commands, secured the freedom and perseverance of the Hebrews, heeding the counsels of natural reason (in promoting one’s own freedom and perseverance) amounts to heeding the love commands.

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Spinoza on Turning the Other Cheek

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conquered.27 The command to punish those who violate the law calls upon the Hebrews to act in a particular way, under a specific circumstance, and for an end specific to their situation. This requirement thus may appear to lack the warrant of universal reason. The fact that this injunction appears to contradict the Mosaic injunction to love one’s neighbor reveals it to be a peculiar kind of command. Spinoza describes the rules laid down by prophets as encouraging ‘external actions of true virtue’ that need a particular occasion for their exercise (TTP ch. []), which he distinguishes from teaching a universal doctrine or law. Yet since the welfare of the people is the highest law, and it is the prerogative of the sovereign power to decide what is necessary to this end, it is also the duty of the sovereign alone to interpret the law, and thus to decide (as Moses did) what form piety towards one’s neighbor should take []. What follows is a dense argument for the claim that only through categorical (or exceptionless) obedience to the command of the sovereign power, whose duty alone it is to decide what form piety towards one’s neighbor should take, can one be said to obey the command of God to love one’s neighbor. [] From these considerations we understand clearly in what way the supreme powers are the interpreters of religion, and again, that no one can obey God rightly if he does not accommodate to the public advantage the practice of piety by which everyone is bound, and hence, if he does not obey all the decrees of the supreme power. [] For since we are bound by God’s command to cherish [love] everyone, without exception, in accordance with piety, and to harm no one, it follows that no one is permitted to aid one person at the expense of another, much less at the expense of the whole state. So, in keeping with God’s command, no one can cherish [love] his neighbor in accordance with piety, unless he accommodates piety and religion to the public advantage. (G iii. –/C ii. )

Spinoza’s argument raises many problems. What counts, for example, as ‘aid(ing) one person at the expense of another’ or at the expense of the 27 It is admittedly a rather shameless case of special pleading that Spinoza cites Matthew :, knowing, as he must have known, that this command, imputed to Moses by the author of the Gospel of Matthew, is actually nowhere found in any text in the Jewish canon. Indeed, the love command in Leviticus  continues with an exhortation to ‘love the stranger’ since ‘you yourself were once a stranger in the land of Egypt’.

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‘whole state’? The argument comprehends, however, the ostensible tension between, on the one hand, the injunction to love every person and practice piety towards them without exception, and to harm no one, and on the other hand, the claim that since devotion to one’s country is ‘the highest form of piety’, it is an act of piety to bring wrongdoers to justice even if doing so results in their death. The trouble is that bringing wrongdoers to justice apparently entails being willing to harm them, by any honest account of harm, and to effectively communicate the threat of harm to anyone who can only be moved to obey law by fear, so as to prevent wrongdoers from ‘profiting from their evil’. And being motivated to ‘do harm’—to constrain, weaken, or diminish the power of a contrary nature—is prima facie a form of hatred, as Spinoza defines it in EIIIPS, EIIIPD, and EIIIP. Inflicting the harms constitutive of punishment looks, for all the world, like hatred, and in a way that reflects a longstanding folk psychology of hatred, stemming from Aristotle’s Rhetoric ii.. There, the motivational signature of hatred is said to be a will to destroy the target of one’s hatred. So the argument that a desire and will to diminish the power of a contrary nature can originate from sources other than affective hatred requires detaching hatred and all its expressions as an affect from actions that might appear to arise from it, but to which, according to EIVPS, ‘one may be determined by reason without that emotion’. Spinoza’s argument here also depends upon the questionable assertion that ‘no private person can know what is useful to the republic except by the decrees of the supreme powers, who are the only ones whose job it is to treat public business’ [], and thus one must categorically obey all the decrees of the supreme power. It is obvious enough that one can, in fact, sometimes know better than an irrational despot, who happens to hold the seat of sovereign power, what would in fact secure or optimize the good of the civil community. It looks as though a ruler or, say, legislative representatives, may very well make decrees that do not, in fact, redound to the good of a republic, at least if by ‘good’ we mean what actually redounds to the perseverance and flourishing of a community’s citizens or subjects. The implication, however, is that one who turns the other cheek, or who gives an assailant his cloak as well as his tunic, accepts the advantages of civil society that result from the rule of law, but then makes exceptions for

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Spinoza on Turning the Other Cheek

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himself—and fails to give the wrongdoer his due—and is, thus, guilty of injustice.28 What Spinoza’s view seems to require, at a minimum, is a convincing argument that selectively disobedient acts of resistance to tyranny or to a sovereign’s phenomenally poor and prejudicial judgment does more harm to the welfare of everyone living under that sovereign than unexceptional obedience to his unreasonable decrees.29 The closest he comes is perhaps his claim in TTP chapter  that when one obeys any law as a ‘subject’ or ‘citizen’, as opposed to a slave, he ‘does what is advantageous for the collective body—and hence, also for himself—’.30 But there is nothing here that provides any warrant for apparently rational exceptions that amount to disobedience or injustice, but redound nonetheless to one’s own good and to ‘the general welfare’. Spinoza, therefore, has not provided us with an adequate argument for the principal claim of TTP chapter : that turning the other cheek for one living under the protection of laws that forbid it diminishes the general welfare, and thus fails to live up to the mandate of the love commands. In a civil community where, all things being equal, one can count on justice being upheld, turning the other cheek is not, by Spinoza’s lights, really heeding the second love command—loving one’s neighbor as one loves oneself. Instead, it violates the command because one cannot be acting in one’s own real interest, and so ipso facto not in the real interest of others whose natures are in ‘agreement’ (in the sense of convenientia). So turning the other cheek is, all things being equal, a failure to love the neighbor and not a supreme and gracious expression of love for one’s neighbor. To some twenty-first-century ears Spinoza’s argument in TTP chapter  is likely to sound like a quintessential but unconvincing appeal to utility or agent-centered self-interest. It most emphatically is

28 See Johan Olstoorn, ‘Spinoza on Human and Divine Justice’, History of Philosophy Quarterly,  (), – for a qualified defense of Spinoza’s ‘constructivist’ conception of justice that effectively collapses divine and human justice. 29 Another argument that it is always better for the ‘free man’ to obey (that does not make the questionable ‘sovereign knows best’ assumption) is suggested in EIVPS, but only suggested. Spinoza claims there that the man ‘guided by reason’ is more free if he lives under a system of laws than in solitude where he ‘obeys only himself ’. It follows that, grasping this fact, he is therefore guided by reason to obey, and is not guided to do so out of fear. 30 TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ).

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not an appeal to either. It must be seen in light of claims in the Ethics that anything which redounds to the survival and perseverance of any one individual will also redound to the survival and perseverance of any other individual whose nature is ‘in agreement’ (convenientia), or is similar enough in its requirements for survival and flourishing that it presupposes the same necessary conditions and goods.31 As such, these natures are already in ‘agreement’—whatever their preferences. Instead of utility, or whatever preferences any agent happens to have, it is an argument grounded in a substantive conception of human good. Whatever an agent’s preferences or desires, an ‘agent’ is a finite individual mode that is animated by efficient causes bearing upon its body; and it is one more or less similar body among others. So, whatever one’s preferences, it is simply a matter of fact that some causes empower or animate one to persevere and strengthen one’s mind. Other causes diminish. And these effects are registered, however inadequately, in an individual’s affects (the joys or sorrows they happen to experience, or the desires they form) as components of their cognizance (in the sense of cognitio) or inadequate ideas of the causes of their joys, sorrows, or desires. It follows that unless the collapse of the state is imminent, and one cannot reasonably count on justice to be upheld, an individual’s power (where her ‘nature’ or ‘essence’ has the typically human features that make her dependent upon a social environment for the optimal extension of her perseverance and flourishing) is necessarily secured through unexceptional obedience to a sovereign’s commands.32 We have noted that Spinoza does not provide us with a complete or compelling argument for this claim that unconditional obedience to any law under which one happens to find oneself living is always what reason dictates—if perseverance and flourishing are an objective ‘end’. Had he done so, it would follow that even one who obeys the law only out of fear or from hope for a ‘material’ reward always acts in ‘accord’ 31 This claim is implied in EIVPD: ‘He who lives by the guidance of reason desires for another, too, the good that he seeks for himself.’ But Spinoza makes it directly in EIVPS. Having claimed that hatred is conquered by returning love, he concludes, ‘every man who is led by reason desires for others also the good he wants for himself ’. 32 Spinoza at least comes close to making this claim in EIVP: ‘A man who is guided by reason is more free in a state, where he lives according to a common decision, than in solitude where he obeys only himself.’ And in the Scholium, he claims that the strong-minded man ‘hates no one, is angry with no one, envies no one, and is indignant with no one, [and] scorns no one’.

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with reason, even if not ‘from’ reason. And it would have the unsettling implication that obeying any law ‘blindly’ would be acting with more rational warrant than anyone selectively disobeying laws one knows are ill-conceived or otherwise oppressive and inequitable. If, however, pursuing the demands of justice by obeying the law without exception, and seeing that the disobedient are always justly punished, always redounds to one’s good, and if one can know this, then it follows that enjoining obedience is always doing what redounds to the genuine good of every individual whose nature is such that society is required for her to persevere and flourish.33 Were categorical obedience always rational, it would follow that heeding the demands of justice—declining to turn the other cheek—amounts, as Spinoza suggests, to ‘loving’ oneself, and to ‘loving’ all and any others who likewise persevere and flourish because each is thereby made secure and given her due through obedience to law. In any case, if one can have both justifying reasons and the desire to punish and constrain wrongdoing without hatred—arising merely from having adequate ideas of the conditions necessary for one’s perseverance and flourishing—then an individual has justifying reasons for declining to turn the other cheek entirely apart from being subject to the motivational power of hatred. But what about the motivation to resist wrongdoing by force in exercising the prerogatives of sovereign power? As we noted above, Spinoza defines hatred as an affect that desires to destroy its object.34 Having the desire to compel obedience by inspiring fear entails at least being willing to ‘remove and destroy’ the other if necessary. And it requires determining what will inspire enough fear to compel obedience, or, as Spinoza puts it in EIIIPD, to ‘strive to imagine those things that exclude the existence of things by which the Body’s power of acting is diminished or restrained’.35 These motivations, once again, 33 Spinoza makes this point explicitly in his definition of hatred at EIIIPS and repeats it at the outset of EIVPD. 34 See EIIIPS: ‘one who hates endeavors to remove and destroy the thing that he hates’. See also EIIIPD: ‘The Mind (by P) strives to imagine those things that exclude the existence of things by which the body’s power of acting is diminished or restrained; i.e. (by PS), strives to imagine those things that exclude the existence of things it hates.’ 35 EIIIPD. Note that Spinoza equates this claim—‘that is’—with the EIIIPS description of hatred’s motivational upshot.

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are the motivational trademarks of hatred; and Spinoza claims that hatred is always bad. So Spinoza’s argument in EIVP that in ‘all actions to which passive emotion determines us, we can be determined by reason without that emotion’ bears considerable weight. Indeed, it must be possible for Spinoza to argue that where such desires and actions arise ‘from reason’, they necessarily redound to the perseverance and flourishing of individuals and may be known to do so. In such a case, the motivation to do justice amounts to ‘loving’ oneself and others, and cannot possibly conflict with one’s obligation to love one’s neighbor. And declining to ‘turn the other cheek’ is ever the way of true piety—or, what amounts to the same thing—loving one’s neighbor as oneself. We should also take note of the fact that in EIVP, where Spinoza gives his most schematic account of the origins of wrongfulness and other common moral ideas and practices, the proposition takes the form of the Leviticus  version of the love command: You shall love your neighbor as yourself, except that Spinoza tellingly shifts from ‘you shall’ to a claim about what one will do. The shift implies moving from conceiving the love command as a prophetic injunction to obey the commands of a personal and legislating God to conceiving it as a philosophical representation of God’s ‘decree’ as, essentially, a ‘law’ of nature. ‘The good which everyone who seeks virtue [i.e. perseverance and strength of mind] wants for himself, he also desires for other men’ (G ii. /C i. –; emphasis added). And what does the man who ‘seeks virtue’ desire for himself ? In EIVPS, which has often been cited to justify attributing egoism to Spinoza, he claims explicitly: Since reason demands nothing contrary to nature, it demands that everyone love himself, seek his own advantage, what is really useful to him, want what will really lead man to a greater perfection, and, absolutely, that everyone should strive to preserve his own being as far as he can. This, indeed, is as necessarily true as that the whole is greater than the part (see EIIIP). (G ii. / C i. ; emphasis added)

It follows that everyone who ‘seeks virtue’ and who acts from ‘strength of mind’ (therefore) genuinely loves himself and aims at ‘whatever leads him toward greater perfection’, and also ipso facto advances these ends

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for others and takes joy in their empowerment.36 The upshot, then, is not any ethical egoism, but a sort of derivation of the love command: ‘From this it follows that men who are governed by reason—i.e., men who, from the guidance of reason, seek their own advantage—want nothing for themselves that they do not desire for other men. Hence, they are just, honest and honorable’ (G ii. /C i. ). And it is surely no accident that in EIVP, Spinoza stipulates that the others, or anyone who counts as ‘the neighbor’ is ‘all mankind’. And so seeking the genuine good for oneself necessarily amounts to heeding or ‘obeying’ the second love command. It is actions motivated by genuine selflove and adequate knowledge of one’s real or genuine advantage—not instrumentally optimizing what one happens to desire—that redound both to one’s own ‘good’ and that of ‘the neighbor’. Spinoza does not, therefore, feel the pull of any tension between the notion that piety ‘demands’ always acting with the neighbor’s good in view, never acting from the motivation of any form of hatred, and endeavoring to overcome or overpower, even by force, what one knows is ‘contrary’ to one’s own genuine good. Whatever is genuinely ‘contrary’ to one’s own perseverance and flourishing will also, by implication, be ‘contrary’ to that of any other nature that ‘agrees’ with one’s own. It follows that the argument of TTP chapter  implies that where the sovereign power punishes or otherwise defends the civil community, it acts for the good and benefit even of those whom it compels to obey law with fear. A judge punishes the wrongdoer in order to ‘help and improve’ him as much as the person he harmed, and, thus, does not conceive punishments other than death as harm.37 So the threat of just punishment cannot be said to aim at harming wrongdoers as an end in 36

A more apt comparison would be to see Spinoza’s claim in EIVP as an anticipation of Adam Smith’s ‘invisible hand’. It is true that if one regards others with love, or exhibits what Spinoza calls generositas or nobility, one will take joy in the well-being of others, and actively desire it for them. Hence, the prophets represent the love commands precisely as commands of a personal God. We should note, however, that Spinoza’s claim in EIVP is not that one who knows her own genuine advantage will aim or desire to seek others’ good; but that even in seeking one’s own advantage (whatever one’s intentions) one will act (as a matter of necessity and fact) in a way that secures the ‘end’ of persevering and flourishing for others with a ‘nature’ similar enough to ‘agree’ with one’s own. 37 KV II.. (G i. /C i. ).

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itself, or even to subject those whom it motivates to obey to ‘servitude’ or domination, simply because it motivates them by means of fear. Spinoza clearly entertains the notion that many citizens and subjects persevere and realize some degree of flourishing precisely because they are moved by the power of another to obey the law, even sometimes from sheer fear. The just judge, therefore, acts just as the love command mandates; and her love of the public welfare can motivate a desire to punish wrongdoers and forestall their profiting from, or enjoying, the fruits of their wrongdoing, which leads her to decline ‘turning the other cheek’ ‘from piety’ alone, and not in the least from hatred.38 Notice, once again, that though both EIVPD and EIVP consist in appeals to the second love command, they shift from what one is ‘commanded’ or ‘enjoined’ to do to what one who acts from ‘strength of mind’ or from ‘the laws of one’s own nature’ will do. Behind this shift in voice lies the implication that genuine divine law is not something that one can disobey, but that it describes what comes to pass ‘from the necessity of God’s nature’. To the degree, therefore, that one acts from the power or laws of one’s own nature (the strength of one’s mind), and not from the power of another, there can be no conflict between actions warranted to secure one’s own perseverance and flourishing (self love), and actions warranted to secure those goods for others (love of neighbor). Spinoza’s appeal to the love commands derives its warrant and normative ‘force’ from a substantive conception of ‘the good’ that necessarily encompasses the ‘good’ of all finite individuals, oneself and one’s neighbors alike, and the necessity by which God ‘governs’ all of nature. Yet one may be moved to act to the end of one’s ‘good’ and that of any other individual whose nature ‘agrees’ with one’s own by heeding the love commands as the command of the God of the prophets’ inspired imaginations, or through the authority of the civil state that enjoins them in the very act of making and interpreting laws, and upholding the claims of justice. And under these circumstances, turning the other cheek in the face of

38 It should be noted that, according to EIIIP and , ‘enjoyment’ or finding something to be a source of ‘joy’ (laetitia) is to be empowered by it. So to the degree that one of the aims of punishment is to ‘prevent the wicked from rejoicing in their wickedness’, it really aims to disempower them and to prevent them from forming the idea that wrongful action is a benefit or advantage.

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wrongdoing or injustice can never, in itself, be just or have rational warrant as such.

.

WHY ‘TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK’ UNDER

CONDITIONS OF OPPRESSION IS PERMISSIBLE

Even if one accepts Spinoza’s line of argument in TTP chapter , however, it does not yet account for the rational warrant for Jeremiah’s and Jesus’s counsel to turn the other cheek under conditions of imminent civil collapse and oppression. Spinoza acknowledges in TTP chapter , after all, that turning the other cheek opens one to ‘submit(ting) to injuries’ and ‘yielding to the impious in everything’ under circumstances where one can do nothing as an individual to stop ‘the impious’ or keep them from ‘profiting from their evil’. Doing so looks, on its face, like the very antithesis of loving oneself, or being moved in every desire and action that one has to (as the conatus doctrine has it) seek to persevere in existing, and to extend one’s power, into the indefinite future. Recall, also, that Spinoza at least strongly implies that in the face of tyranny and civic collapse, the counsel to turn the other cheek must not be conceived as a normatively ‘binding’ law, even if it is a rationally warranted thing to do. Where no effective state power exists to promote and uphold the general welfare by laying down the law, turning the other cheek cannot constitute disobedience or effect ‘injury’ against the state and all whose security rests upon its power. So it cannot be conceived as wrongdoing. And if turning the other cheek is not the subject matter of an injunction of civil law, where no sovereign power exists to command or prohibit it, it also necessarily follows that it cannot constitute disobedience or ‘sin’ to fail to turn the other cheek. Yet even if failing to turn the other cheek cannot be conceived as ‘sin’, it can count as fulfilling the injunction to ‘love one’s neighbor as oneself ’ only if, on some grounds, it is rational under just these circumstances. If the law of Moses, as the law of a now-fallen Hebrew state, can be conceived as ‘binding’ after the collapse of that state only as ‘universal teachings of reason’, the injunction to love one’s neighbor ‘binds’, under the circumstances, as a rational teaching.

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Keith Green

Spinoza countenances Jeremiah’s counsel to turn the other cheek from his view of the prophetic office. When Spinoza accounts in TTP chapter  for Jeremiah’s counsel to turn the other cheek, it is clear that Spinoza regards the historical context of its utterance as having overriding significance. Unlike Moses, Jeremiah is in no position to establish a state or set up laws. He responds with inspired prophetic imagination to a situation where the fall of Jerusalem to Babylon and the collapse of the Hebrew state that Moses founded is imminent. Under these circumstances, the Hebrews are about to become subjects of Babylon and its laws through conquest. Spinoza also claims that Jeremiah and the Apostles, as opposed to the Pharisees, realize that the Mosaic Law is no longer binding as law after the fall of the Hebrew state. This is why, he claims, Jeremiah urged the exiled Israelites to honor the laws of Babylon after it conquered them.39 And Spinoza concludes that this is why Jews were no longer bound to observe ‘ceremonial rites’ enjoined by the law of Moses. So Spinoza emphasizes that Jeremiah counsels ‘that God through the Prophets asks no other knowledge of himself from men than the knowledge of his divine Justice and Loving-kindness, i.e., such attributes of God as men can imitate in a certain way of life’ (citing Jeremiah :).40 Jesus counseled turning the other cheek under circumstances relevantly similar to those under which Jeremiah counseled it—as the collapse of Jerusalem is imminent a second time. But as Spinoza understands Jesus’s mission, in contrast to Jeremiah’s or that of the prophets in general, Jesus was ‘expounding his teachings as a teacher . . . intent upon improving men’s minds’ rather than ‘ordaining laws as a lawgiver’. But not only is Jesus’s mission different from that of the prophets, he is said to be moved not by means of an inspired imagination, but by a more adequate understanding or knowledge.41 Here, it is critical to revisit Spinoza’s discussion of this difference in TTP chapter : And, of course, from the fact that God revealed himself immediately to Christ, or to his mind—and not, as he did to the Prophets, through words and images—the only thing we can understand is that Christ perceived truly, or 40 TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ). TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ). See Yitzhak Melamed, ‘ “Christus secundum spiritum”: Spinoza, Jesus, and the Infinite Intellect’, in Neta Stahl (ed.), Jesus Among the Jews: Representation and Thought (New York: Routledge, ), –. 39 41

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understood, the things revealed. For what is perceived by a pure mind, without words and images, is understood.42

In reaching for the language of ‘pure mind’ beyond ‘words and images’ Spinoza at least implicitly equates Jesus’s mind with God’s knowledge: completely adequate ideas of all things, necessarily causally and logically interconnected as they are, ‘seen’ sub specie aeternitatis.43 And so Spinoza contrasts the rational source of the normative purchase of Jesus’s prescriptive teachings to that of the law of Moses, given, as it was, in the business of founding the Hebrew state: Similarly [to Moses’ command not to kill or steal], the command not to commit adultery concerns only the advantage of the republic and the state. For if [Moses] had wanted to teach this as a moral teaching, which concerns not only the advantage of the republic, but also the peace of mind and true blessedness of each person, he would not condemn only the external action, but also the consent of the mind itself, as Christ did, who taught only universal teachings (see Matthew :). That’s why Christ promises a spiritual reward, not, as Moses does, a corporeal one. For as I’ve said, Christ was sent not to preserve the state and to institute laws, but to teach the one universal law.44

Spinoza claims that Jesus’s teaching does not abrogate the law of Moses because he was not giving law proscribing ‘external action’ as Moses did, with the aim of founding a new state or preserving a state and promoting the welfare of its citizens or subjects. Jesus is concerned, instead, to ‘improve men’s minds’, so his counsels condemn ‘the consent of the mind itself ’ (sed et ipsum animi consensum damnaret) that issues in external action rather than simply the actions themselves. TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ). Also see the contrast made between Moses and Jesus at TTP ch. [–] (G iii. /C ii. ). 43 See TTP ch. , where Spinoza imputes to Jesus perceiving the truth by ‘the mind alone, things which aren’t contained in the first foundations of our knowledge, and can’t be deduced from them’ and thus ‘more excellent’ than ordinary human understanding (G iii. –/C ii. ). Spinoza’s claim that ‘For the eyes of the mind, by which it sees and observes things, are the demonstrations themselves’ (in EVPS) is pertinent in connection with the claim that Christ’s ‘perception’ is coextensive with God’s knowledge. 44 TTP ch. [–] (G iii. –/C ii. ). It is surely no accident that Spinoza uses terms like ‘moral lessons’ or ‘moral teachings’ in explicit contrast to ‘law’ to distinguish the ‘universal’ teachings of Christ from ‘law’ as such. Throughout the TTP and the Ethics, it is clear that law that enjoins obedience can only derive its normative force through command by a real sovereign power. Moral ‘doctrines’ or ‘injunctions’, then, are not ‘law’ (as they will be, for example, for Kant) even in virtue of being universally rational. 42

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Thus Jesus, according to Spinoza, sought to counter the mistaken notion of the Pharisees that the ‘blessed life’ consists in obeying the laws of the state, i.e. the laws of Moses. The laws of a state aim to secure the ‘the public good’ of security and all other benefits of cooperative human activity that peace and security makes possible.45 And the rewards of obeying them are material, and something for which citizens or subjects may have hope. One may hope more reasonably for the fulfillment of one’s desires pursued by means of genuinely beneficial cooperative projects if fellow citizens or subjects can be counted upon to obey civil law, or be moved to do so by an expectation of just punishment if they cannot bring themselves to obey through concurrence of mind. The ‘spiritual reward’ of heeding Jesus’s counsels, on the other hand, is what Spinoza regards essentially as ‘salvific’: ‘peace of mind’ and ‘true blessedness’, as well as the power of mind to be sui iuris (a law unto oneself) without harm to others, under any circumstance.46 This, evidently, is a ‘higher’ ‘good’ that one may attain even in the absence of security provided by civil law, or the other ‘external rewards’ obedience to it makes possible. And improving one’s mind is the means to achieving this higher, and ‘salvific’, good.47 The TTP chapter  passage (quoted above) is one of very few places where Spinoza tellingly speaks of ‘universal moral teachings’ (qui documenta universalia tantum) as something distinct from rules that can only

45 See Steinberg, ‘Civil Liberation,’ – on ‘securitas’, especially on peace as more than simply the absence of violence. See Spinoza’s comment about peace in relation to the Turks in TP . (G iii. /C ii. ). 46 That ‘peace of mind’ and ‘true blessedness’ have salvific significance as aspects of acquiescentia in se ipso and acquiescentia mentis, see Donald Rutherford, ‘Salvation as a State of Mind: The Place of Acquiescentia in Spinoza’s Ethics’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –. Lest anyone doubt this imputation of salvific significance, note that the rewards for charity to one’s neighbor that Spinoza adduces in another TTP ch.  passage, include ‘the glory of the Lord even after death’ alongside another dimension of the ‘blessedness’ inhering in acquiescentia: ‘a healthy body and a healthy mind’. 47 See EIVApp. It is noteworthy that Spinoza frames his counsel to forbearance and resignation in this passage—implicitly encompassing the exposure of oneself to wickedness and injury as a result of turning the other cheek under conditions of oppression—with a comment about the limits of human power. ‘if we are conscious that we have done our duty, that the power we have could not have extended itself to the point where we could have avoided those things, and that we are a part of the whole of nature, whose order we follow. If we understand this clearly and distinctly, that part of us which is defined by understanding, i.e., the better part of us, will be entirely satisfied with this and will strive to persevere in that satisfaction’ (C i. ).

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originate in the lawgiving of a real human sovereign, in a specific historical community, disobedience of which is accounted an injury, wrongful, or ‘sinful’.48 Here, Jesus’s practical injunctions are accounted ‘moral teachings’ and implied to constitute a ‘universal doctrine’ addressing ‘the consent of the mind’ that motivates external action, and thus, acting from the power of one’s own nature, distinct from civil law, concerned with external actions (including ceremonial observances).49 It thus aims at enabling one to become sui iuris, a ‘law unto oneself ’ where one declines to harm others independently of the fear of punishment, penitence, or hope for rewards that one can only enjoy under the condition of peace. That Spinoza places the love commands in the category of ‘moral teaching’ or ‘universal law’ is already implied in TTP chapter , where he specifically equates divine law with the command to love God. Citing Isaiah  in this context, Spinoza claims that Isaiah ‘commends freedom and loving-kindness toward oneself and one’s neighbor’, promising ‘a sound mind in a sound body, and the glory of God even after death’ as opposed to the material rewards of ‘security of the state, prosperity and bodily good fortune’ that are the reward for ‘observance of ceremonies’ including, by implication, the laws of the commonwealth.50 In EIVPS, Spinoza implies that the love commands constitute ‘true morality’, which he describes as ‘the desire to do good generated in us by our living according to the guidance of reason’. And ‘true morality’ counters a condition he describes in EIVPS as one in which ‘men are drawn in different directions’ and ‘contrary to one another’, yet dependent upon one another at the same time.51 It is See especially EIVPS: ‘for everyone who is in a state of nature considers only his own advantage, and decides what is good and what is evil from his own temperament, and only insofar as he takes account of his own advantage. He is not bound by any law to submit to anyone except himself. So in the state of nature no sin can be conceived’ (C i. ). 49 Note that ‘moral precepts’, as they are implicitly construed in TTP ch.  are normative as warranted by ‘universal reason’. These precepts are not historically or communally contextual as are the laws, legislated by a real sovereign power, in reference to which wrongfulness and rightfulness are accounted in the Ethics (see especially EIVS). And Spinoza implies that motives—‘wishes’—are the concern of moral precepts grounded in universal law, not ‘external actions’. 50 TTP ch. []–[] (G iii. /C ii. –). 51 It is worth noting that Shirley translates pietas in EPS as ‘piety’ where Curley translates it as ‘morality’, and also worth pointing out that pietas, so conceived, aligns one’s aims not specifically with those of another individual, to whom one transfers one’s power 48

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noteworthy that in EIVP, Spinoza accounts for this condition in terms of the Fall. Adam (and Eve) fell into a condition of ‘contrariety’ toward one another through, ‘imitating their emotions’. This is figured as a ‘loss of freedom’, and a ‘fall’ into the condition under which conceptions of good and evil, which Spinoza otherwise claims constitute inadequate knowledge, are apt to be formed.52 And freedom from this condition is only later ‘recovered by the Patriarchs, guided by the spirit of Christ, i.e., by the idea of God, on which alone it depends that man should be free, and desire for other men the good he desires for himself (as we have demonstrated above by P)’ (G ii. /C i. ; emphasis added). The love commands, as Spinoza conceives them, are concerned with motivations of action inherent in one’s affective responses to others and their actions, and with one’s own desire and ‘consent of mind’. They address, as Spinoza construes them, one’s ‘consent’ or affirmation, and are not concerned with ‘external actions’ that constitute disobedience of civil law. But because they are authorized by ‘reason’ alone, they can be followed even where one must obey the injunction of civil law to punish wrongdoing, and can be followed under conditions of oppression, where one cannot count on civil law to constrain actions motivated by greed or hatred. ‘Improving men’s minds’, then, yields a capacity for genuine ‘morality’ (or ‘piety’) as Spinoza understands it; and that would be a condition under which humans were aware of their ‘agreement’ of natures, and self-consciously promote their own perseverance and flourishing in league with each other under any circumstance.53

(and, thus, right) by voluntary contract, but with that of a people (multitudo) which transfers its power. For Samuel Shirley’s translation of the Ethics, see Michael L. Morgan (ed.), Spinoza: Complete Works (Indianapolis: Hackett, ), . See Armstrong, ‘Natural and Unnatural Communities’, , and Etienne Balibar, ‘Spinoza, the Anti-Orwell: The Fear of the Masses’, in his Masses, Classes, Ideas: Studies on Politics and Philosophy Before and After Marx (New York and London: Routledge, ),  (as quoted by Armstrong). 52 Steven M. Nadler, Spinoza’s Ethics: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), –, argues that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ refer to abstract ‘models’, or presuppose the formation of such models, on the foundation of inadequate ideas of the actual causes of actions, thus viewed through the illusion of contra-causal freedom. 53 It is important to keep in mind Spinoza’s argument that one who promotes her own perseverance and flourishing from adequate ideas of her own nature and the conditions under which it perseveres and flourishes will take pleasure or joy in those ends. And insofar as the reasons one conceives through adequate ideas redound to one’s flourishing, what one ‘legislates’ for oneself are what any other reasoning agent, under relevantly similar circumstances (and with sufficiently similar requirements for persevering and living well), would

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Why Spinoza regards it as Christ’s purpose to counsel ‘turning the other cheek’ under conditions of tyranny and civic collapse becomes clearer in TTP chapter ; and these claims dovetail with claims in the Ethics, especially EIVP and EVPS, which are really meditations on the second love command and what is practically involved in following it. Since we lack ‘perfect knowledge of our emotions’, Spinoza urges in EVPS that we should aim ‘to conceive a right method of living’ or ‘fixed rules of life’, and aim to apply these rules consistently across different situations of life where we find ourselves confronted by the hatred and deceit of others. He then reaches back to the EIVPS injunction never to repay hatred with hatred in return. But here, he goes even further. He urges preparing oneself to respond to inevitable occasions ‘when a wrong is done to us’ by imagining ways to ‘ward it off ’ with love or nobility, reflecting the notion articulated in EIIIP and P and EIVP that gratuitous love has particular motive force to counter hatred. This preparation to respond with love to hatred counterposes the more typical response of blame: ‘to consider mens’ vices, or to disparage men, or to enjoy a false appearance of freedom’.54 His language in EVPS counterposes this hatred that is ‘wont to arise’ from suffering a wrong to a contentment of spirit that is not perturbed by the illusion that others are acting freely when they do wrong.55 We should note two implications of the response that Spinoza envisages to exposure to wrongdoing and hatred, and which his ‘fixed rules of life’ enjoins. First, it directly counters both the condition into which Adam falls, where exposure to wrong results in Adam imitating others’ hatred, and it counters a response of hatred where, within a civil community, those who are aggrieved or violated by the ‘legislate’ for herself. This reasoning yields, for Spinoza, among other things, straightforwardly scientific knowledge—a scientia of human natures—about the needs and requirements of the ‘animated’ (‘ensouled’ or ‘enminded’) body to persevere and do well through the joyful enlargement of its understanding of the world. 54 Shirley, Spinoza: Complete Works, , translates the alternative, but more typical, response to others’ wrongdoing and hatred as ‘dwelling on men’s faults and abusing mankind and deriving pleasure from a false show of freedom’. This translation makes it clear that this response encompasses blame (vituperium), as Spinoza defines it in EIVPS—‘Sadness with which we are adverse to (another’s) action’. The association of blame with ‘abuse’ or ‘castigating’ vices is perhaps clearest in EIVApp. 55 Spinoza’s language in EVPS also reflects that of EIIIPS and the exposition of EIIIApp.

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wrongdoing of others heap censure and abuse upon their oppressors rather than countering hatred with love.56 Second, since Spinoza consistently describes blame and censure as ‘abuse’ and as ‘injuries’, we must infer that EVPS implies that one who prepares oneself— that is, one who improves one’s mind so as to respond to the hatred and wrongs of others with love and nobility—will rise altogether above blame. One will not blame others for wrongful or otherwise hateful actions; nor will one be moved, or need to be moved, by exposure to blame in order to have motivations to act in ways that sustain the genuine perseverance and flourishing of oneself and others. If, however, turning the other cheek is reasonable under just the conditions under which Jeremiah and Jesus enjoined it, it must be so even though it appears to compromise one’s individual striving to persevere and flourish. Spinoza flatly acknowledges, after all, that it exposes one to ‘submitting to injuries’ and ‘submitting to the impious’.

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WHY ‘TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK’ UNDER CONDITIONS OF OPPRESSION IS RATIONAL

There are at least three reasons why Spinoza countenances ‘turning the other cheek’ as rationally warranted in the face of tyranny and imminent civic collapse, and by implication a fourth reason. The first is Spinoza’s notion (per EIVP, among other places) that emotions with destructive or disruptive power are necessarily countered by ‘contrary’ emotions. Love is more pleasurable or joyful, and thus motivationally ‘stronger’ than hatred, especially if it is gratuitous.57 Here, Spinoza’s paired counterposition of emotions within a taxonomy adapted from Descartes quite literally figures them as motions following mechanical laws in nature that apply to motion as such. It therefore applies to the conatus or striving of individual modes, in this case, on the model of motion.58 For the rationally ‘strong minded’ who can master their 56 Spinoza at least implies that responding to violence at the hands of others with hatred follows from the imitation of emotions that causes Adam to lose his freedom—in the case of Adam, imitating the emotions of animals. See EIVPS. 57 EIIIP. 58 See S. Voss, ‘How Spinoza Ennumerated the Affects’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie,  (), –, on the counterposition of passions in Spinoza’s adaptation of, and changes to, Descartes’s taxa of the passions. See Mark Jordan, ‘Aquinas’ Construction of a

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anxiety and fear of pain and death, and, indeed, their own hatred, they may reasonably counter the hatred of others with affective favor or love.59 Where there is a system of laws enjoined by a sovereign power that, all things being equal, secures the claims of justice, countering others’ hatred may take the form of defeating or subordinating them by means of just punishment or war, if their obedience to law or alliance with the state cannot otherwise be secured. But even where no system of laws holds sway, love still counters any affective motivation to act from hatred with a stronger affective motive power. So having no overriding motivation to strike out from hatred, one would quite literally have the power to turn the other cheek in the face of others’ hatred or deceit, even when there is no sovereign power to secure one’s perseverance and the peace. Spinoza realizes full well, however, that ‘countering’ hatred with love is not only impossible for any but the strongest minds/spirits, it is not at all guaranteed to secure one’s survival as an individual body—as he admits by implication in EIIIPS.60 So another rational justification Moral Account of the Passions’, Freiburger Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie,  (), –, at , and Keith Green, ‘Aquinas on Attachment, Envy, and Hatred in the Summa Theologica’ [‘Aquinas on Attachment’], Journal of Religious Ethics,  (), –, at , on the rhetoric/language of motion in Aquinas’s earlier account of ‘passion’. See David Velleman, Self to Self: Selected Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), , especially his remark about a ‘piece of folk wisdom’ dealing with mixed emotions underlying Freud’s analysis of the Rat Man case. Velleman endorses the notion that, like Spinoza’s counterposing of motionally ‘opposite’ emotions to constrain the power of hatred in passages like EIVPD, painful or potentially disruptive emotions such as hatred must be counterposed to ‘opposite’ emotions, as opposed to the idea that one can ‘externalize’ such emotions by not ‘identifying’ with them, in Frankfurt’s sense. 59 Note that Spinoza ends EIVApp with the comment that even though the limited extent of human power does not enable us to ‘adapt things outside us to our use’, it (the power of the human mind) enables one ‘to bear calmly those things which happen to us contrary to what the principle of our advantage demands, if we are conscious that we have done our duty, [and] that the power we have could not have extended itself to the point where we could have avoided those things’. And he speaks of this frame of mind as ‘resignation’ (in eo plane acquiescet et in ea acquiescentia perseverare conabitur). Spinoza’s observation that ‘turning the other cheek’ under ‘conditions of oppression’ involves ‘toleration of injury’ and ‘yielding everything to the impious’ in TTP ch. [] (G iii. /C ii. ) implies just this sort of ‘resignation’. 60 EIIIPS: ‘But if the Hate has prevailed, he will strive to do evil to the one who loves him. This affect is called Cruelty (crudelitas), especially if it is believed that the one who loves has given no ordinary cause for Hatred’ (C i. ). In TTP ch. , Spinoza’s remark that turning the other cheek envisages exposure to the ‘toleration of injury’ makes his acknowledgment of this possibility clear.

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is needed. A second reason why ‘turning the other cheek’ under conditions of oppression is rational is that, as in Hobbes’s view, doing so can create conditions under which the ‘peace’ may be secured by opening a space (as it were) for alliance or covenant-making.61 And under conditions of civic breakdown, only declining to act on the motivation of hatred can bring about these conditions, not as something merited or mandated, but as a gratuity or gift. This rational justification for turning the other cheek is implied obversely in EIVPS. Spinoza remarks: Therefore, if a man moved by Anger or Hate is determined to close his fist or move his arm, that (as we have shown in Part II) happens because one and the same action can be joined to any images of things whatever. And so we can be determined to one and the same action both from those images of things which we conceive confusedly, and [from those images of things] we conceive clearly and distinctly. (G ii. /C i. )

Even if one is motivated to defend oneself by force from hatred, and succeeds, one’s success is still a function of the fact that the inadequate ideas and associated affects that motivate one’s response cause a desire to act that would have arisen from having more adequate ideas. The ‘man stirred by anger or hatred’ is not guided by reason, and does not turn the other cheek, whatever his circumstance. But in a political community where one can rely, all things being equal, on justice being upheld, one’s not turning the other cheek is rational because it can be determined by obedience to laws that secure one’s perseverance and the possibilities for flourishing. And it is possible to know this, and for one’s desire to act to be formed through what one knows. As we saw before, whatever one’s motivations for obeying law—even if out of fear of punishment or hope for some material reward—one acts in accord with reason, even if not from rational concurrence with law.62 But without its always being reasonable to obey the law, not turning the other cheek more likely arises from apprehending another’s action as ‘free’ and ‘evil’ and responding with hatred. Where no law holds sway, Hobbes, DCi .; Spinoza, TP .. See Steinberg, ‘Civil Liberation,’ –, on the obedience of a slave or subject, as opposed to that of a citizen. See also Eugene Garver, ‘Why Can’t We All Just Get Along? The Reasonable vs. the Rational in Spinoza’, Political Theory,  (), –, on the distinction in Spinoza between acting reasonably and acting rationally. 61 62

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hatred might well motivate one to act in a way that happens to procure one’s perseverance, just as pity might motivate one to act humanely or penitence, humility, shame, fear, or hope might motivate one to obey otherwise reasonable laws and live honorably. But if it does, the outcome is merely fortuitous. One acts reasonably, and perhaps even humanely and honorably, though not ‘from reason’.63 And the fortuitous outcome is not really yielded as the causal outcome of a ‘stronger mind’ exercising reason on the grounds of more adequate ideas, and so acting autonomously (not from the power of another, but from one’s own power), i.e. ‘from the guidance of reason’. Where the state has broken down, however, and under ‘conditions of oppression’, we have seen already that a self-defender motivated by hatred disobeys no laws if she exercises the right of war, and strikes out to defend herself. She cannot any longer have the reason of obedience or duty to bring a wrongdoer to justice. It follows that her actions cannot be accounted wrong or sinful, at least as wrongfulness or sin are conceived in EIVPS and TTP chapter , among other places. Here, it is instructive to note that Spinoza concurs with Hobbes about duty not ‘binding’ or obligating one to turn the other cheek.64 But in 63 It is worth noting, especially here, another anticipation of Kantian ethics: One may be motivated to act well or rightfully either by reason, or by a passive emotional response that, in other circumstances, is as likely as not to motivate one to act wrongfully. Acting from reason, as well as in accord with it, is preferable, because it is a motivation that cannot go wrong. Spinoza even goes so far as to claim that only such actions are genuinely ‘free’. The contrast with Kant comes in (a) the ‘mechanism’ for such motivations suggested in EIVD—‘desire arising from reason’ (cupiditas, quae ex ratione oritur) and ‘desire engendered in us insofar as we are active’, and the claim in EIIIDefAff  that ‘Desire is Man’s very essence, insofar as it is conceived to be determined, from any given affection of it, to do something’ (emphasis added); (b) the denial that genuinely active motivations, arising from a mind’s exercise of its strength in reasoning to more adequate ideas, exempts such motivations from the ‘mechanism’ of necessary, efficient causation operative in all motion in ‘nature’. Hence, acting on motivations arising from reason does not signify ‘heteronomy’ of will in a Kantian sense, the will’s being an entity that is subject to ‘two laws’—that of ‘reason’ counterposed to that of ‘nature’. 64 Hobbes also countenances turning the other cheek under circumstances where others have not mutually agreed to transfer their right to attack. Thomas Hobbes, Lev. : ‘Whenever a man transferreth his right, or renounceth it; it is either in consideration of some right reciprocally transferred to himself: or for some good he hopeth for thereby. For it is a voluntary act: and of the voluntary acts of every man, the object is some good to himself.’ So if, without the other also transferring his right, one ‘turns the other cheek’, thereby effectively renouncing one’s own right, Hobbes urges that it is a case of ‘free gift’ and ‘grace’, and perfectly rational insofar as one might reasonably expect such ‘grace’ to be reciprocated. See DCi .: ‘VII. To the fourth Law of accommodating our selves, these precepts are conformable, Exod. :, . If thou meet thine enemies Oxe, or his Asse going astray, thou

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defeating an enemy who attacks out of hatred, the self-defender just happens to do what redounds to the perseverance of herself or anyone else who might be affected by the hatred of ‘the enemy’ and his refusal to transfer his right to the state. So even if the self-defender’s action cannot be conceived as wrong or sinful, and fortuitously secures her perseverance, she does not act ‘from reason’. And the motivation of hatred that ‘moves’ her this time might well, like pity or fear, move her on another occasion to act excessively, or in a way that fails to secure perseverance. For Spinoza, however, if the would-be self-defender is not at all moved by hatred, she will have no motivation to repay in kind the hatred of an attacker, even where the state has broken down. She will heed—or more properly, be able to heed—the counsel of Jesus and Jeremiah to turn the other cheek under just the circumstances under which Spinoza claims that they counsel doing so—where she can no longer count on justice to be prosecuted by ‘the judge’ or the state. It is helpful to recall, here, the third ‘use’ to which Spinoza claims the conclusions of the Short Treatise can be put: ‘[] [I]n addition to the true love of one’s fellow man which this knowledge gives us, it disposes us so that we never hate him, or are angry with him, but are instead inclined to help him and bring him to a better condition. Those are the actions of men that have a great perfection or essence.’65 So under conditions of oppression, real love of our neighbor might enable one to turn the other cheek where one has no legal obligation not to do so. By means of doing so, however, the way is opened for ‘the enemy’ to enter into alliance and covenant, and to be able to fulfill his desires without attacking. It is critically important to emphasize, however, that even though one breaks no law by turning the other cheek under conditions of shalt surely bring it back to him again; if thou see the Asse of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him. Also, vers. . Thou shalt not oppresse a stranger. Prov. :. Strive not with a man without a cause, if he have done thee no harme. Prov. :. A wrathfull man stirreth up strife, but he that is slow to anger, appeaseth strife. Prov. :. There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother. The same is confirmed, Luke , by the Parable of the Samaritan, who had compassion on the Jew that was wounded by theeves, and by Christs precept, Matth. v. . But I say unto you, that ye resist not evill, but whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ I thank Anselm Oelze for calling this text to my attention. 65

KV II. (G i. /C i. ).

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oppression, one also breaks no law by declining to do so. Should one be able to know that one can contain the violence and hatred of an otherwise unyielding assailant or oppressor by force, or by inspiring fear in him, one is arguably authorized to do so by reason, and so, also by the love command. She would act for the good—the perseverance—of others as much as for herself. Whether it is reasonable for her to turn the other cheek, and so whether the love command authorizes her doing so, must depend on the extent of her power, and what she can know about its efficacy in her field of activity.66 So though it cannot be wrong not to turn the other cheek, it is, on balance, reasonable to do so, knowing the limits of one’s power. And it follows that doing so may, given what one can know about the extent and limits of one’s own powers, amount to heeding the love command—by not responding to the hatred or deceit of another by returning hatred. A third, and implicitly fourth, reason why Spinoza can countenance counsel to turn the other cheek as rational in the face of an enemy, or a tyrant’s oppression—involving, as it does, ‘submit[ting] to injuries’ and ‘yielding to the impious in everything’—comes to light when we consider that in addition to not being moved by hatred, a more fully rational agent would also not be moved by fear of death. The relevance, or rather, irrelevance, of fear of death, becomes clearer with a return to EIVP, the proposition where Spinoza argues that the judge who condemns a man to death through ‘love of general welfare’ acts not from hatred but ‘from reason’. Spinoza claims in EIVPC that ‘By a Desire arising from reason, we directly follow the good, and indirectly flee the evil.’67 In the absence of a sovereign power that can Armstrong, ‘Natural and Unnatural Communities’, , rightly points out that Spinoza claims that an individual must, in fact, physically retain power in order to be able to act in the interests of another whose utilization of this power depends on the maintenance of the desire and, thus, on the active participation of its actual ‘possessor’. One retains this power where the state cannot effectively exercise its power on her behalf, but where she can resist and knows that her resistance can succeed. So it arguably follows from the love command that the reasonable thing to do is not to turn the other cheek, but to resist. 67 It is instructive to note that in this claim, Spinoza recapitulates a fundamental feature of the longstanding folk psychology of love and hatred, but with a twist. Compare, for example, Aquinas’s claim in ST I–II, q. , a.  that love must always ‘precede’ and ‘cause’ hatred. Spinoza’s twist, in direct contrast to Aquinas, is the notion (see EIVP and P) that since one ‘shuns evil’ just to the extent that one ‘directly aims at the good’, one may pursue the good without conceiving (i.e. inadequately understanding) its impediments as ‘evil’, and thus without being motivated to act toward those impediments from hatred or fear. Hatred, 66

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extend the power of subjects by means of law, it is possible that one might be guided by reason to resist the enemy, but just to the extent that one knows that one can succeed, and with the aim of securing perseverance and ‘the peace’ for others as well as oneself. In EIVPD, Spinoza also asserts that: a ‘free man, i.e., one who lives according to the dictates of reason alone, is not lead by Fear (by P), but desires the good directly (by Pc), i.e. (by P), acts, lives, and preserves his being from the foundation of seeking his own advantage. And so he thinks of nothing less than death. Instead, his wisdom is a meditation on life, q. e. d.’ Even where this person lives in a state governed by law, she is moved to obey reasonable laws from rational assent; but she would not be moved to act by fear of death, even where she can no longer count on the makers and enforcers of law to secure her perseverance.68 Where no law or effective power holds sway, one who does not fear death is empowered thereby either to constrain the enemy, or, where one had no reason to believe that resisting could be efficacious, to turn the other cheek, and to ‘submit to injuries’ and to ‘yield to the impious in everything’. In EIVP, however, Spinoza argues that since ‘Knowledge of evil . . . is Sadness itself, insofar as we are conscious of it’ (citing EIVP), a genuinely free person will form no conception of the actions of others as evil. And in EVPS, Spinoza claims, by contrast, that a mind ‘very much conscious of itself, of God, and of things’—a kind of beatitude in Spinoza’s way of thinking—is less ‘moved’ by memory and imagination ‘with the result that they scarcely fear death’. It follows that for such a person, exposure to the actions or hatred of others would not causally mobilize her fear or her hatred. Enabled not to respond even to the potentially lethal, hateful actions of others with either hatred or fear, she would be able, even where she has no duty to do otherwise, to counter hatred with love and to turn the other cheek.69 Finally, Spinoza argues that the adequate ideas that can constitute one’s mind concur with those ideas in the mind of God, and are thus eternal, indestructible, and not something one can ‘lose’. However obscure Spinoza’s arguments that there is an eternal part of one’s mind that survives bodily death, he figures this state or way of life as supreme however ‘natural’ or inevitable, is motivationally dispensable, and a painful affect from whose bondage one should seek deliverance. 68

See esp. EIVPS and EIVPD.

69

See EIVP and EVPS.

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contentment of spirit, in implicit contrast to the ‘weakness of spirit’ into which Adam fell by imitating the affects of beasts, and as a kind of beatitude and ‘end’ precisely for this reason. It follows that Jesus’s counsels aimed at improving minds aim, ceteris paribus, at securing one’s mind from death, and thus from suffering any pain from fear of death. And so it amounts to a fourth reason why turning the other cheek has rational warrant, in Spinoza’s terms. If turning the other cheek leads to an individual having to endure injury and submit to oppression, to the degree that one’s mind is constituted, as much as possible, by ideas constituting the third kind of knowledge, it cannot actually be undone or destroyed. So fear of death has no motivational purchase, and one is emancipated from the motive power of hatred. So, in the end, one can be moved by reason not to turn the other cheek only if, being able to count on justice to be prosecuted in a ‘good republic’, one has a duty to collude in the state’s prosecution of wrongdoing, or one sees that one can exercise one’s power to persevere on behalf of another, as well as oneself. Acting from hatred, however, is never rational, even if it motivates one to do what one is otherwise bound by duty or law to do, or what happens to accord with reason, or even to act in a way that happens to secure one’s perseverance in the absence of the sovereign’s life-defending power. In EIIIPS Spinoza defines courage (animositas) as ‘strength of mind’ (fortitudo), together with ‘the Desire by which each one strives, solely from the dictate of reason, to preserve his being’.70 Nobility (generositas) is ‘strength of mind’ together with ‘the Desire by which each one strives, solely from the dictate of reason, to aid other men and to join them to him in friendship’. Turning the other cheek under conditions of oppression, where one cannot preserve his own being or assist others by means of obeying and enforcing laws, or resisting an enemy on behalf of others as well as oneself with reasonable expectation of success, is a rational way to act, where one needs more or less just what others also need, toward the end of persevering.71 So—in the absence of a state that can use its 70 We should note, here, Spinoza’s not so subtle rejection of an Aristotelian conception of courage as a ‘mean’ of fear, between cowardice and rashness. 71 Spinoza and Hobbes broadly agree that ‘turning the other cheek’ is rational under the conditions that Spinoza regards it as rationally warranted. Hobbes’s explicit endorsement of it in DCi . occurs in the context of an argument that ‘laws’ occurring in scripture are just the ones reason warrants, and so are rightly regarded as divine law—an argument from synteresis. See DCi .. For Hobbes, a ‘gift’ or ‘gratuity’ is a kind of ‘first step’ that makes it rational for one

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power to uphold justice—if (per EIVDef and EIVPD), ‘good’ is ‘that which we certainly know to be useful to us’ with the affect of pleasure, turning the other cheek is not only reasonable, but noble, generous, and good, where it is not wrong or sinful not to do so. But where one retains power that one can efficaciously exercise on behalf of another, it can, by implication, also be noble and generous, as well as an exercise of courage and morality (or piety), not to turn the other cheek.

.

CONCLUSION

What we find, in Spinoza’s interpretation of the biblical injunction to turn the other cheek is that he believes (first of all) that doing so is not categorically mandated by the love commands, at least under ordinary circumstances where individuals live as citizens or subjects under a system of law. Spinoza, however, embraces the love commands as universally applicable and binding, not only as an injunction of Mosaic law but as a counsel of reason (a moral precept); and they play a central role in grounding the normative contents of situated moral practices—punishment and limited defensive war within the bounds of justice—which involve declining to turn the other cheek. And Spinoza indeed argues that hatred in any form, even righteous indignation, has no motive force in the desires of one who has genuine strength of mind—virtue—as Spinoza conceives it. Even so, only in the most exceptional circumstances should the virtuous person ever turn the other cheek. Doing so, all things being equal, is both wrong and a failure of morality and piety. Nor could morality or piety ever authorize who has not yet voluntarily transferred or renounced her right to transfer it. But it is good to turn the other cheek, though (arguably) not wrong not to do so, because one cannot already have a contractually grounded duty to fulfill (as it were) the terms of a contract into which others have not entered. But there is ambiguity because as rational, and as commanded as scripture, it is nonetheless enjoined. Spinoza goes further. It is rationally justified for one who, with a strong mind, sees from a ‘God’s eye’ point of view, since it is reasonable to counter hatred with an emotion (love) that is ‘stronger’ because it is pleasurable. And it is also worth noting that Spinoza can regard Christ’s enjoining ‘turning the other cheek’ as ‘divine law’ for this (different) reason: ‘turning the other cheek’ creates the conditions under which the striving (conatus) of individuals with similar reason-guiding natures best persevere and flourish, even if doing so in fact fails to do so in some specific circumstances. So it is ‘divine law’ because it is what one who has more adequate ideas (intuitive knowledge) will do ‘from the necessity of their nature’, barring desires or motivations arising from the passive affects of hatred or fear.

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pardoning or forgiving wrongdoing, if doing so involves remitting an otherwise just and efficacious punishment for an inexcusable wrong.72 Where all things are not equal, however, turning the other cheek can have rational warrant, even though failure to do so cannot be accounted wrong or sinful. Where there is no effective sovereign power to do one’s bidding, or to whose power one has transferred and joined one’s own, it is in no sense disobedient, even to God, not to turn the other cheek. Recall Spinoza’s defense of the strong claim, ‘That the practice of justice and loving-kindness acquires the force of law only from the right of the state’; and ‘God has no special kingdom over men except through those who have sovereignty.’73 It is, however, good to turn the other cheek just where there is no effective state power to secure one’s perseverance, and one’s reasons for striking out to defend oneself can only be motivated by hatred and not by any reasonable expectation that one’s action could be efficacious. Here, but only here, it is not only ‘good’, but noble and courageous to turn the other cheek. But even here, declining to turn the other cheek does not necessarily fly in the face of the command to love one’s neighbor, since where one reasonably believes that resisting can be efficacious, it can be motivated purely by a desire to do what redounds to the good of others as well as oneself. Here again, declining to turn the other cheek need not be moved by hatred. Where one cannot hope to prevail, however, one who has genuine ‘strength of mind’ will still not be moved by hatred or fear of death. One who has nobility and courage will be able to acquiesce in the face of oppression, and even to tolerate injury without hatred or fear of death where there is no hope of securing the future for oneself or others by means of resistance. Here and only here, just as Augustine and a long legacy of earlier thinkers concluded, turning the other cheek is a noble and heroic thing to do, though entirely without being, in any sense, an obligation.74 East Tennessee State University 73 See Green, ‘Forgiveness’, –. TTP ch.  (G iii. /C ii. ). Hasana Sharp, Daniel Pedersen, Jeff Gold, Matthew Kisner, as well an anonymous reviewer, read and offered many helpful comments on the issues, texts, and arguments with which this chapter deals. Whatever insights are brought to the table here, they owe much to the force and clarity of these comments and to the generosity, patience, and great insight of these colleagues. Anselm Oelze must be credited with critically educating me about Hobbes’s remarks on turning the other cheek. 72 74

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 Locke’s Succeeding Ideas MATTHEW STUART

[W]hen you simply ponder, why, your ideas just succeed each other like magic-lantern pictures and each one forces out the last.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned Toward the beginning of E II.xiv, a chapter about our idea of duration, Locke notes that it is ‘evident to any one who will but observe what passes in his own Mind, that there is a train of Ideas, which constantly succeed one another in his Understanding, as long as he is awake’ (E II.xiv.: ).1 Though he says that it is obvious that there is a constant succession of ideas in the mind of each waking person, it is not obvious just what he means by this, or what he takes its implications to be. I begin my exploration of these matters by asking, in section , whether Locke thinks of each succeeding idea as something that might persist for a while. If he does think so, how long is it before one idea succeeds another? The evidence seems to pull us in more than one direction. I resolve the puzzle by invoking the distinction between tokens and types. In section , I unearth Locke’s fascinating, and hitherto unappreciated, account of why the rate at which our idea tokens succeed one another fixes our flicker fusion threshold and keeps us from seeing slow motions as motions. In section , I consider what Locke thinks about our knowledge of the rates of idea succession. Finally, in section , I look at his claim that we get the idea of succession by attending to the succession of our ideas. I take issue with Gideon Yaffe’s account of this,2 arguing that Locke does not mean to deny that 1 All references to Locke’s An Essay Concerning Human Understanding are to the edition by Peter H. Nidditch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), cited as ‘E’ followed by book, chapter, section, colon, and the relevant page number(s). 2 Gideon Yaffe, ‘Locke on Consciousness, Personal Identity and the Idea of Duration’ [‘Locke’], Noûs,  (), –.

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sensations of motion can play a role in our acquiring the ideas of succession and duration.

.

HOW LONG DO SENSORY IDEAS LAST?

Consider the ideas that Locke says we have in virtue of having sensory experiences. He might think that most of our sensory ideas are shortlived, but that some last longer than others. He might think this because he thinks that sensory ideas succeed one another just in case some aspect of our sensory experience changes. He might think that I continue to have the same sensory ideas if my sensory experiences remain perfectly static, but that as soon as my senses detect some change—as soon as I see a leaf flutter in the breeze, hear a car pass by, or catch a whiff of wood smoke—some sensory idea has succeeded one I had previously. Let us call this ‘Reading ’. Another way to understand the suggestion that ideas constantly succeed one another in our minds is to see it as the claim that each idea lasts for but an instant. On this view, even if one’s visual experience remains qualitatively unchanged for ten or fifteen seconds (as one stares unblinkingly at some unmoving object, perhaps) this involves the passage of an infinite number of visual ideas through one’s mind. Each idea perishes in the moment that it is born. For any two moments within any span, one’s visual experiences at those moments are the product of different ideas in one’s mind. Call the reading on which this is Locke’s view ‘Reading ’. On Reading , there is some analogy between Locke’s conception of visual experience and old-style movies on film. Both can involve the appearance of fluid change that is somehow the product of a series of stills. However, the analogy is rather weak. For in the one case there is a finite number of celluloid stills, while in the other the mind has as many momentary ideas as there are real numbers. There is a third way of reading Locke’s remarks about the succession of ideas, one on which the cinematic analogy is stronger than it is on Reading . Watching an old-style film involves seeing a large but finite number of stills illuminated in succession. This is true not only when there is action in the movie, but also when the camera holds steady on an unchanging object. On what we may call ‘Reading ’, the succession of ideas in one’s mind is more like that. In any period of at least a few

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seconds, a large but finite number of ideas pass through one’s mind, and they do so whether or not one’s experience changes qualitatively. Just as one cannot tell by watching a movie how many frames are passing through the projector each second, so one cannot know by introspection the rate at which the ideas in one’s mind succeed one another.3 Which reading best captures what Locke has in mind? The evidence seems to pull us in more than one direction. We find some support for Reading  in some of Locke’s characterizations of the succession of ideas. At the beginning of the chapter, he refers to the ‘fleeting and perpetually perishing parts’ (E II.xiv.: ) of a succession that is the source of our idea of temporal distance. Later in the chapter, he describes the succession of ideas as constant (E II.xiv.: and E II.xiv.: ) and continual (E II.xiv.: ). However, this is at best weak support for Reading . Words such as ‘perpetually’, ‘constant’, and ‘continual’ can be used in more and less strict senses. To speak of ideas as perpetually perishing, and of their turnover as constant and continual, is not necessarily to say that no idea lasts even so long as a fraction of a second. In the early sections of the chapter, there is what might look like conclusive evidence in favor of Reading . First there is E II.xiv. (the passage with which I began), where Locke tells us that we have but to observe what passes in our own mind to know that ideas constantly succeed one another, at least as long as we are awake. If the fact that ideas are constantly succeeding one another is a deliverance of introspection, this seems to speak in favor of Reading . For on Readings  and , the succession of ideas need not involve any qualitative change in one’s experience, and so the fact of succession need not be introspectible. Yet this is also inconclusive. Suppose that, as Readings  and  would have it, Locke thinks that experiential change always involves the 3 One reader suggests a fourth possible reading: Locke might think that so long as there is no change in the sensory scene, the same token sensory ideas persist (as Reading  would have it); but that when the scene is changing, sensory ideas succeed one another at some rate we cannot know simply by introspecting (as Reading  would have it). I set aside this reading because it runs counter to Locke’s presumption that the rate of the succession of sensory ideas is more or less constant. He says: ‘though, perhaps it may be sometimes faster, and sometimes slower; yet, I guess varies not very much in a waking Man’ (E II.xiv.: ).

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succession of ideas, but that ideas can succeed one another without any noticeable change in the contents of experience. Still, he might think that it is an empirical fact that there is always, or nearly always, qualitative variation in our experiences from moment to moment. Put these suppositions together, and we get the result that the succession of ideas in the waking mind is always, or nearly always, introspectible. We find stronger evidence in favor of Reading  a few sections later. Locke makes the point that we notice the motions of bodies around us only when those motions produce successions of distinguishable ideas in us. He offers an example: [A] Man becalmed at Sea, out of sight of Land, in a fair Day, may look on the Sun, or Sea, or Ship, a whole hour together, and perceive no Motion at all in either; though it be certain, that two, and perhaps all of them, have moved, during that time, a great way: But as soon as he perceives either of them to have changed distance with some other Body, as soon as this Motion produces any new Idea in him, then he perceives, that there has been Motion. (E II. xiv.: –)

Locke continues to press the point in the next section, saying that relatively small changes in relative motion can go unnoticed by us, and that when this happens it is because these changes cause ‘no new Ideas in us, but a good while one after another’ (E II.xiv.: ). What he seems to mean is that eventually we notice that the scene before us has changed. At some point we notice, for instance, that the sun is lower on the horizon. When this happens, Locke implies, there has finally been a change in the sensory ideas that are being produced in us. What speaks in favor of Reading  here is Locke’s evident assumption that when one does not notice a difference in the appearances of things there has been no new visual idea produced in the mind, and hence no succession of visual ideas. Yet just a few sections later we find strong evidence running in the other direction. At E II.xiv., Locke suggests that our ideas succeed one another at a certain rate, and that there are upper and lower bounds to this rate. This rules out Reading . For on Reading , ideas succeed one another with infinite rapidity. Locke compares the succession of ideas to that of ‘the Images in the inside of a Lanthorn, turned round by the Heat of a Candle’ (E II.xiv.: ). The tentativeness with which he

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puts forward the suggestion that our ideas succeed one another at a more or less fixed rate speaks against Reading  as well. Locke says, ‘I leave it to others to judge, whether it be not probable’ that our ideas succeed one another at certain distances (E II.xiv.: ).4 Reading  would seem to imply that it will be obvious whether the rate at which ideas succeed one another falls within certain limits. That is because on Reading  the rate at which sensory ideas succeed one another is just the rate at which our sense experiences change.5 More evidence against Reading  comes at E II.xiv., where Locke considers our inability to perceive as successive a pair of events that come in very quick succession. He considers the case of a cannonball shot through a room. We know that it must crash first through one wall and then through the other, but an occupant of the room hears only a single crash. Locke’s explanation is that the speed at which the two crashes succeed one another is greater than the rate at which the occupant’s ideas succeed one another, so that the two crashes end up being captured by a single idea. Again he is treating the claim that there is an upper bound to the rate at which our ideas succeed one another as an hypothesis, rather than as a deliverance of introspection. His reasoning takes the form of an inference to the best explanation. We experience events in very quick succession as simultaneous. We can explain this fact by presuming that there is an upper bound to the rate at which our ideas succeed one another, and it is not clear how we would explain it otherwise. At E II.xiv., however, Locke returns to the case of motions too slow to be noticeable, and what he says on that score again seems to support Reading . This time he considers the slow motion of the hand of a clock. He says that the motion ‘is so slow, as not to supply a constant train of fresh Ideas to the Senses, as fast as the Mind is capable of receiving new ones into it’ (E II.xiv.: ). Once again, he assumes that when we do not notice differences in objects we sense, no new sensory ideas are being produced in our minds. Must we say that Locke is hopelessly confused about the succession of ideas? Must we say that he waffles between conceiving of succession as 4

He means temporal distances. For complications relating to the suggestion that we ought to be able to introspect rates of sensory change, see section  below. 5

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Reading  would have it, and then as Reading  would have it, without noticing that these are different conceptions? I do not think so. I think that the muddle evaporates if we allow that Locke is sometimes talking about successions of idea tokens generally, and sometimes talking about successions of idea tokens of noticeably different types. Idea tokens are always succeeding one another, so long as we are conscious. When those idea tokens are noticeably different, this makes for a succession of idea types. When succeeding idea tokens are not noticeably different from one another, we can say that there is no succession of idea types. When Locke presumes that we need only consult experience to see whether ideas succeed one another, we should understand him to be talking about the succession of ideas of noticeably different types. For that sort of succession is introspectible. When he says that very slowly moving objects do not always produce new ideas in us, he means that these objects are not, from one moment to the next, producing in us ideas of noticeably different types. However, when he invokes the cannonball case in support of an hypothesis about that rate at which our ideas succeed one another, we may understand him to be formulating an hypothesis about the succession of idea tokens, tokens that need not differ qualitatively. We do not really have two readings in competition. Reading  gives us the story about the succession of idea tokens, and Reading  that about the succession of idea types. This reading acquits Locke of the charge of being muddled about the succession of ideas, but one may worry that it does so only by making the improbable supposition that he silently moves back and forth between different topics in the same chapter. One may worry that my reading has him veering from a discussion of the succession of idea types (with the discussion of the ship at sea at E II.xiv.) to the succession of idea tokens (with the cannonball example at E II.xiv.), and then back again to a discussion of the succession of idea types (with the clock hand case at E II.xiv.). This worry is misguided. The succession of ideas tokens and the succession of idea types are not two different topics. Successions of idea types are successions of idea tokens. They are successions of dissimilar idea tokens. Locke’s topic in E II.xiv is the succession of idea tokens, and he is interested both in advancing an hypothesis about the rate of that succession, and in using that hypothesis to explain why we misperceive, or fail to perceive, certain changes.

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Sometimes these explanations point to the fact that a subject does not have noticeably different visual ideas produced in him for some period, and we can put this by saying that he is not subject to a succession of visual idea types.6

.

PERCEIVING MOTION

Locke’s explanation of our inability to perceive very slow motions is fascinating, and yet it has gone unappreciated. He says that we perceive no succession . . . where the Motion is so slow, as not to supply a constant train of fresh Ideas to the Senses, as fast as the Mind is capable of receiving new ones into it; and so other Ideas of our own Thoughts, having room to come into our Minds, between those offered to our Senses by the moving Body, there the Sense of Motion is lost; and the Body, though it really moves, yet not changing perceivable distance with some other Bodies, as fast as the Ideas of our own Minds do naturally follow one another in train, the thing seems to stand still, as is evident in the Hands of Clocks . . . (E II.xiv.: )

Locke repeats the explanation in the next section, where he observes that the succession produced by a very slow moving object ‘keeps not pace with the Ideas in our Minds, or the quickness, in which they take their turns’ (E II.xiv.: ). There is a sense in which we can perceive the movement of the hour hand on a clock: we can see the hand first at one place, and then at another. Yet there is also a sense in which we cannot perceive the movement of the hour hand. We cannot perceive the hand as moving. We cannot see a smooth, uninterrupted progress from one place to another. Locke is claiming that this fact is a consequence of the relation between () the rate at which the hour hand moves (and so the rate at which it produces noticeably different visual idea types in us), and () the rate at which idea tokens succeed one another in our minds. It is obvious that we would perceive the hand’s motion if that hand were to begin to move at a considerably higher rate—say, the rate at 6 We also need not worry that talk of the succession of idea types violates Locke’s commitment to the principle that ‘all things that exist are only particulars’ (E III.iii.: ). For we are not to think of idea types as abstract things. Talk about the succession or lack of succession of idea types is reducible to talk about the succession of dissimilar or similar idea tokens.

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which the seconds hand moves. However, Locke also seems to be implying that we would perceive the hour hand’s motion if the rate at which our ideas succeed one another were considerably lower than it is. For then too the motion of the object would keep pace with the ideas in our minds and the quickness in which they take their turns. With remarkable prescience, Locke has reasoned his way to the possibility that different kinds of creatures might have different flicker fusion thresholds. The flicker fusion threshold is the rate at which a succession of static images gives rise to the experience of motion in a viewer. In human beings, the minimum flicker fusion rate is about  images per second, though this varies with lighting conditions. Old-style films were shot at the rate of  frames per second, and shown in theaters at  frames per second, with each frame shown twice. Insectivorous birds have much higher flicker fusion thresholds than we do.7 This may be a consequence of their need to process visual information quickly, so that they can track flying insects that have evolved to favor very erratic flight paths. If these birds were to watch our movies, they would have experiences like the ones that we have when we watch slide shows. If the birds’ flicker fusion rates were considerably lower than they are, then the birds could experience the successions on our movie screens as smooth motions. Locke’s remarks imply that if the rate at which our idea tokens succeed one another were considerably lower than it is, we might experience the successions that constitute the appearances of an hour hand as smooth motions. It may seem as though there is a problem with my suggestion that Locke is making a point about flicker fusion thresholds. A movie is a succession of stills. Yet, one might object, the succession that constitutes the movement of a clock hand is not a succession of stills. The clock hand is a continuously existing thing, and so the sequence of the appearances that it presents is, at least in principle, also continuous. Indeed, Locke explicitly offers the movements of sun-dial shadows and clock hands as cases of ‘constant, but slow Motions’ (E II.xiv.: ). It might seem as though a viewer’s flicker fusion rate should have a bearing on his experience of motion only when he is observing a 7 Jerry Waldvogel, ‘The Bird’s Eye View’, American Scientist,  (), ; Roger Lederer, Beaks, Bones and Bird Songs (Portland, OR: Timber Press, ), –.

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discontinuous succession, and not when he is continuously looking at the hand of a clock. In fact, the input to our visual systems is not as smooth and continuous as it seems. The apparent steadiness of the experience of gazing at a static scene is an artifact. Our eyes saccade rapidly from one point to another in ways that we rarely notice and do not always control.8 Saccading compensates for the fact that our fovea—the parts of our retinas that provide for high resolution vision—are relatively small. Of course, Locke does not know this. Yet he does make an assumption that commits him to saying that even our visual experience of a static scene results from a discontinuous input. For him, the discontinuity comes not at the stage of retinal illumination, but at the stage at which visual stimulus produces ideas in our minds. For Locke assumes that all of our sensory experience—even that which seems to be the continuous presentation of an unchanging scene—is the product of a succession of distinct idea tokens. He assumes that cognition is digital, rather than analog. It is only because he makes this assumption that he can speak of the rate of the succession of idea tokens as having an upper bound. Let us examine more closely Locke’s explanation of why we are unable to perceive slowly moving things as moving, and why a lower rate of succession of idea tokens would entail a lower flicker fusion threshold. He offers essentially the same explanation twice—first at E II.xiv. (quoted above), and then again in the very next section: [W]here any Motion or Succession is so slow, as that it keeps not pace with the Ideas in our Minds, or the quickness, in which they take their turns; as when any one, or more Ideas in their ordinary course come into our Mind between those, which are offered to the sight, by the different perceptible distances of a Body in Motion, or between Sounds, or Smells, following one another, there also the Sense of a constant continued Succession is lost, and we perceive it not, but with certain gaps of rest between. (E II.xiv.: –)

In both passages, it might seem as though Locke reasons as follows: if the rate at which the clock hand’s motion gives rise to distinguishable idea types in a viewer is slower than that at which idea tokens succeed 8 Susana Martinez-Conde, Stephen Macknik, and David Hubel, ‘The Role of Fixational Eye Movements in Visual Perception’, Nature Reviews Neuroscience,  (), –.

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one another in the viewer’s mind, this creates the opportunity for idea tokens other than those delivered by sight to interrupt the succession of visual ideas of the clock hand, spoiling the experience of its continuous motion. If that were Locke’s thought, it would face an obvious objection. Surely it is possible for us to have visual and non-visual ideas at the same time? In that case, why think that the occurrence of the non-visual ideas would interrupt the occurrence of visual ones? One possible response is that Locke is making a point about attention. He is supposing that we cannot attend very long to a single type of visual idea without our mind wandering. He might think that if the visual scene is not changing much, our minds will wander, with the shift in attention interrupting our experience of continuous motion. The proposed reading still labors under great difficulties. One problem with it is that it has Locke presuming that our attention will not wander when the rate of the succession of visual idea types equals that of the succession of idea tokens. The reading has him assuming, for instance, that our attention will not wander if we are watching an object move at a speed just below that at which it becomes a blur to us. Yet that is clearly not so. One can lose oneself in thought even at the horse races. A deeper problem is that the proposed reading does nothing to explain why our experience of the clock hand is not one of slow motions punctuated by interruptions. What we are looking for is an explanation of why we do not perceive the clock hand as moving at all, an explanation of why we perceive only the hand’s being at different locations after certain intervals. To understand Locke’s explanation of why we cannot see the clock hand’s motion, and to see why he thinks that a creature whose idea tokens succeeded one another more slowly would be able to see that motion, we must understand his account of how we become aware of time’s passage. He offers an account of how we become aware of the durations of things, including ourselves: Reflection on these appearances of several Ideas one after another in our Minds, is that which furnishes us with the Idea of Succession: And the distance between any parts of that Succession, or between the appearance of any two Ideas in our Minds, is that we call Duration. For whilst we are thinking, or whilst we receive successively several Ideas in our Minds, we know that we do exist; and so we call the Existence, or the Continuation of the Existence of our selves, or any

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thing else, Commensurate to the succession of any Ideas in our Minds, the Duration of our selves, or any such other thing co-existing with our Thinking. (E II.xiv.: )

To notice that something endures is to notice that it exists throughout a period with some temporal extent. We do that by noticing that there is a temporal distance between ideas in succession, while also noticing that some one thing co-exists with each of those short-lived ideas. Our awareness of the passage of time depends on our awareness of the comings and goings of ideas, together with our awareness of something that is not coming or going. Locke notes that our reckoning of the duration of the persisting thing is ‘commensurate’ to the succession of ideas, which suggests that our sense of how long the thing endures is a function of how many ideas come and go while it exists. If one took E II.xiv. on its own, it would be easy to miss that Locke is offering an account of what it takes for us to be aware of time’s passage. One could take him to be saying just that we notice that we persist and that ideas parade through our minds. That he is doing more than this is shown by what comes next. In the next section, he offers two considerations in support of the claim that ‘we have our notion of Succession and Duration . . . from Reflection on the train of Ideas’ (E II.xiv.: ). Each of these considerations supports the claim that we are aware of time’s passage only when we mark it by the arrival and departure of ideas in our minds. The first consideration is that we have no sense of the passage of time during dreamless sleep: When that succession of Ideas ceases, our perception of Duration ceases with it; which every one clearly experiments in himself, whilst he sleeps soundly, whether an hour, or a day; a month, or a year: of which Duration of things, whilst he sleeps, or thinks not, he has no perception at all, but it is quite lost to him; and the moment wherein he leaves off to think, till the moment he begins to think again, seems to him to have no distance. (E II.xiv.: )

There are two points here that need to be distinguished, one more interesting than the other. The first is that while a person is in dreamless sleep, that person has no awareness of time’s passage. This is true, but hardly surprising. Locke conceives of dreamless sleep as a time when the mind has no ideas in it, and a mind without ideas in it is a mind not aware of anything. Yet when he says that the time between the

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beginning and the end of dreamless sleep seems ‘to have no distance’, Locke means not just that the sleeper is unaware of time’s passage as he sleeps, but that even in retrospect that span does not seem to him to have any extent. To wake up after a dreamless sleep of an hour is, in an important sense, no different from waking up after a dreamless sleep of six hours, or six days. Think of the first question asked by any character in a movie who recovers from a fainting spell or a coma: ‘How long was I out?’ It is not just that the sleeper is ignorant of how much time has passed. Rather, it seems to him as though no time has passed.9 Locke’s account of our awareness of time’s passage explains why this should be so. The second phenomenon that Locke thinks his account of our awareness of time explains is that we lose track of time when we focus our thoughts intently on something (E II.xiv.: ). He thinks that each of us has a limited stock of attention. If one gives a lot of one’s attention to a single object, or to a single train of reflection, one has less to give to the other ideas that parade through one’s mind (E II.xix.: ). Since he holds that attention to the parade is necessary if we are to be aware of time’s passage, his account explains why the person who concentrates intently has an inaccurate sense of how much time has passed. It also explains why that person is not altogether unaware of how much time has passed, as one awaking from a dreamless sleep is. For although the person who is concentrating pays less attention than he might to the parade of ideas in his mind, he does not pay it no attention. On Locke’s view, for ideas to be in one’s mind is necessarily to perceive them (E II.i.: ).10 9

If there is no one around to ask how long you were out, you may be able to deduce how long you were out by noting differences in the light, or in your surroundings, and by employing background knowledge about such things. This is different from being aware of time’s passage. It is one thing to calculate that a certain amount of time must have passed, another for it to seem that a certain amount of time has passed. 10 Vili Lähteenmäki raises a difficulty for Locke (personal communication). In explaining how we become aware that a period of time has elapsed, Locke presumes that one is aware of a persisting self (or of some other persisting object) that coexists with each short-lived idea. Yet knowing that currently existing self numerically identical to an earlier self would already seem to require knowing that a period of time has elapsed between now and then. So Locke seems to be presuming a knowledge of time’s passage in his explanation of how we come to know of time’s passage. I think that Locke’s reply should be that he is not offering an account of how we come to be justified in believing that time has passed—an account that would be undermined if it were to presume what it pretends to justify. He is offering an

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Now we have in hand Locke’s story about how we become aware of time’s passage, and so we are in a position to understand his explanation of why we cannot see the clock hand’s motion as smooth motion, and also why he thinks that a creature whose ideas succeeded one another more slowly could see it that way. In spelling this out, I will use tables to illustrate various successions of ideas in someone’s mind. An ‘instant’, for Locke, is a period whose temporal extent is the time a single idea token lasts (E II.xiv.: ). Let us use Arabic numerals in the top row of each table to represent successive instants. A second row will represent visual ideas had by the viewer at each instant. For the sake of simplicity, I will presume that all of a subject’s visual experiences at a moment are captured by a single, complex visual idea in his mind.11 The entry in each column on the second row corresponds to a distinct visual idea token (V, V, etc.). Where the same type of entry appears in two columns, these stand for distinct tokens of the same visual idea type. Visual idea tokens are of the same type if they are indistinguishable by the viewer. A third row on our table will represent non-visual ideas had by the viewer at each instant (NV, NV, etc.). Suppose that Steve is gazing at the seconds hand on his  Hamilton Douglas wristwatch, and at the same time having thoughts about what sort of season the Red Sox are likely to have. We might represent the succession of ideas in his mind as follows: Steve viewing the seconds hand 



















V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV

account of the psychological mechanism whereby it seems to us that time is passing. Whether or not we are justified in doing so, we believe in our own persistence from one moment to the next. We also experience momentary ideas as coming and going. We thus experience the self (or some other object) as contemporaneous with items that we do not experience as contemporaneous with one another. Locke’s theory is that it is this combination of factors that makes it seem to us that time is passing. 11

Not much hinges on this presumption. We could just as well speak of the items in the second row as standing for the totality of the information conveyed by all of a viewer’s visual ideas at a moment.

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Locke’s Succeeding Ideas

The seconds hand is moving fast enough so that at each instant Steve receives an idea of it at a noticeably different location. Thus each visual idea token in his mind is of a type distinct from those before and after it. Steve is also subject to a succession of non-visual ideas that together constitute his thoughts about the Red Sox’s prospects. His awareness of the passage of time is explained by his awareness of either of these successions of idea tokens (or both together), contrasted with his awareness that he and the watch co-exist with each short-lived idea. Though Steve’s visual experience is the product of a succession of distinct short-lived visual idea tokens, he experiences the seconds hand’s progress as smooth motion. He does so because when he is watching the hand he perceives it as successively occupying a series of different places, and at no point does he perceive it as standing still. To perceive something as standing still is to see it as being at one place while one is aware of time passing. For Steve, the opportunity for awareness of the passage of time comes once an instant, and at every such opportunity the seconds hand seems to be at a new place. Now suppose that Steve turns his attention to the minute hand on his wristwatch. That hand is moving too slowly for him to see its motion, but once in a while he notices that it seems just a little bit closer to the next line on the dial. To convey this on a reasonably sized table, let us compress things a bit, and imagine that the minute hand presents Steve with a noticeably different visual idea every fifth instant: Steve viewing the minute hand 



















V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

V

NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV NV While he stares at the minute hand, Steve is also thinking about whether Pablo Sandoval lost enough weight during the off-season to have an effective range at third base. That train of ideas is represented by the third row on the table above. Locke will explain Steve’s failure to see the motion of the minute hand as a consequence of the fact that the minute hand does not supply him with distinguishable visual ideas as fast as he is capable of having ideas in succession. That fact entails that ‘other Ideas of [Steve’s] own

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Thoughts’ have ‘room to come into [his mind], between those offered to [his] Senses by the moving Body’ (E II.xiv.: ). Consequently, the ‘Sense of Motion is lost’ and the moving body ‘seems to stand still’ (E II.xiv.: ). When Locke says that other ideas come in between those offered to the senses by the moving body, he does not mean that Steve’s non-visual ideas interrupt the flow of his visual idea tokens, as we had earlier imagined. He means that Steve has new types of nonvisual ideas during the period when he is having just one type of visual idea. He means, for example, that such idea types as NV and NV come and go in between the arrival and the departure of V. Various baseball-related ideas come and go while Steve has one sort of visual idea. Why does this keep him from seeing the minute hand’s motion? It does so because the arrival and departure of new types of non-visual ideas, together with Steve’s belief that he and the watch co-exist with each of the non-visual ideas, makes him aware of time’s passage. He perceives time as passing while his vision presents the hand as being at the same place, and so he sees the hand as standing still. Next consider Slow-Witted Steve, a fellow for whom the rate of the succession of idea tokens is just a quarter what it is for normal human beings such as Steve. Slow-Witted Steve has a watch just like Steve’s. He is looking at the minute hand of his watch and thinking about Sandoval’s girth, just as Steve was. He has a sequence of visual and nonvisual idea tokens very much like those Steve had when he was looking at the minute hand. He just has them more slowly. The table below represents the initial part of the succession of ideas in Slow-Witted Steve as he looks at the minute hand: Slow-Witted Steve viewing the minute hand 

—

—

—



—

—

—



—

V

—

—

—

V

—

—

—

V

—

NV —

—

—

NV

—

—

—

NV

—

Given that Locke defines an ‘instant’ in terms of the duration of an idea token, we can say that the instants of the slow witted are four times longer than those of normal human beings. In the table above, there is a column for every instant as we normal human beings reckon them, but

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the Arabic numerals in the top row indicate the count of instants as the slow witted reckon them. Now compare the experience that Steve has looking at the seconds hand with the experience that Slow-Witted Steve has looking at the minute hand. Steve sees the seconds hand as moving because he is presented with a visual idea of it as occupying a new location every time he has the opportunity to be aware of time’s passage. The same is true of Slow-Witted Steve as he watches the minute hand! Thus SlowWitted Steve sees the minute hand as moving, and does so for the same reason that Steve sees the seconds hand as moving. Given Locke’s account of our awareness of the passage of time, the fact that SlowWitted Steve’s idea tokens succeed one another at a considerably slower rate than ours do will mean that he has a lower flicker fusion rate, and so he can see slower motions as smooth motions.

.

RATES OF SUCCESSION

There might seem to be a respect in which Locke’s account remains confused even after we have taken account of the distinction between idea types and idea tokens. He presents the cases of the clock hand and the cannonball as each telling us something about the rate at which our ideas succeed one another. The implication would seem to be that there is one rate at issue, with the clock hand case establishing something about its lower bound, and the cannonball case establishing something about its upper bound. Yet if we read Locke as I have suggested, we can say that there are two rates to consider—that of the succession of idea tokens, and that of the succession of idea types. Moreover, it might seem that the clock hand case tells us something about the lower bound of the latter, whereas the cannonball case tells us something about the upper bound of the former. Any suspicion of confusion on Locke’s part evaporates on closer inspection. He uses both the cannonball case and the clock hand case to establish something about the rate of the succession of idea tokens. The clock hand case does tell us something about the rate of the succession of sensory idea types, but not anything that we did not already know. It tells us that the lower bound of that rate is zero, which is just to say that sometimes the things that we see do not seem to change (even if they are in fact changing). The more important role of the clock hand case is

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that of explanandum. Locke uses the case to show that if we accept his account of our awareness of time’s passage, and if we postulate that the rate of the succession of idea tokens has a lower bound, then we can explain our inability to perceive slow motions as motions. Locke invokes the cannonball case in support of the hypothesis that there is an upper bound to the rate of succession of idea tokens. This case involves hearing, and the misperception of temporal features: two sounds are close together in time, and they are misperceived as simultaneous. Locke also describes a parallel case involving vision, and the misperception of spatial features. If one is watching something speed up, there is some point at which it becomes a blur and one can no longer perceive its motion accurately. Locke gives the example of a colored material object that is moving rapidly in a circle, and that comes to be misperceived as being ‘a Circle of that Matter, or Colour, and not a part of a Circle in Motion’ (E II.xiv.: ). Think of brightly colored spokes on a wheel, and of the way that, as the wheel’s speed increases, they eventually take on the appearance of a solid and static colored surface. Locke suggests that reflection on the cases of quick moving objects supports the conclusion that there are ‘certain Bounds to the quickness and slowness of the Succession of those Ideas one to another in our Minds, beyond which they can neither delay nor hasten’ (E II.xiv.: ). He suggests that we misperceive the temporal features of the cannonball’s two crashes because they occur so close together in time that they end up being captured by a single idea token. The same reasoning applies to the case of the rotating wheel. We misperceive the location and the shape of the spokes because each is moving so quickly that its location at several distinct, non-overlapping places is captured by a single idea token. What more can we say about the rates at which idea tokens and types succeed one another? While we are awake there seems to be a constant succession of idea types. Yet if there were, over some period, no succession of idea types, Locke will say that we could not notice this, for we could not be aware of the passage of time then. We can, however, be aware when there is, for a period, no succession of idea types of a certain sort. Thus one may stare at a motionless wheel, and know that there is no succession of visual idea types in one’s mind. The detectable lower bound of the rate of the succession

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of visual idea types is zero. The upper bound of the rate of the succession of idea types cannot be higher than the rate of the succession of idea tokens. Does the rate of the succession of visual idea types increase when something is seen to increase its speed? It has been suggested that Locke thinks of visual experience as presenting us with a two-dimensional array.12 Suppose that this is right, that we conceive of the array as composed of colored points or pixels, and that each pixel corresponds to a simple visual idea. In that case, we might say that the rate of the succession of visual idea types increases as the number of pixels changing colors in a specified span of time increases. Think of a subject watching the spokes of a wheel as it is picking up speed. Assuming that the spokes and the background are different colors, then other things being equal the number of occasions in a given period when a pixel will undergo a color change will increase as the wheel’s speed increases. The color of each pixel at any instant is, in some sense, available to the person whose visual experiences the array conveys. How much of this one can attend to, and how much of this one can remember for more than an instant, is up for grabs and might vary from person to person. Perhaps some small changes in the wheel’s speed will be distinguishable by some viewers and not by others. Even if visual idea types are succeeding one another more rapidly as the wheel gains speed, it does not follow that one can tell, just by introspecting, what the overall rate of the succession of one’s sensory idea types is, or even whether that rate is increasing or decreasing. To know those things, one would need the answers to many questions. Does each color change of a pixel count as an equally big change, or do some color changes count as bigger leaps than others? How are we to incorporate into our evaluation of the overall rate of the succession of sensory idea types the changes detected by hearing, smell, touch, and taste? Is there something analogous to the two-dimensional visual array for each of these other modalities? Are the values of changes in color, sound, odor, and so forth commensurable? What sorts of changes in odor are equivalent to what sorts of

12 Michael Jacovides, ‘Locke and the Visual Array’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research,  (), –.

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changes in color? Unsurprisingly, Locke’s text does not begin to answer these questions. As for the rate of the succession of idea tokens, this ought to be empirically discoverable, at least in the case of ideas representing sights and sounds. The rate at which a subject’s token ideas succeed one another will be at or above the rate at which that subject sees a succession of still images as smooth motion. It will be just below the rate at which successive sounds are heard as simultaneous. The rate of the succession of idea tokens might be constant, or it might be variable. If we assume that there is one rate for all kinds of idea tokens, as Locke seems to, then we ought to be able to discover whether that rate is variable by seeing whether a subject’s flicker fusion thresholds vary over time, or whether they vary from one subject to another. However, it is not clear what basis we really could have for presuming that non-sensory ideas succeed one another at the same rate as sensory ideas.

.

THE IDEA OF SUCCESSION

Near the beginning of E II.xiv, Locke reminds us of St Augustine’s famous remark about the elusiveness of time: ‘the more I set my self to think of it, the less I understand it’ (E II.xiv.: ).13 Though he concedes that duration, time and eternity ‘are, not without reason, thought to have something very abstruse in their nature’, Locke is keen to show that our ideas of these things can be traced back to ‘their Originals’ in ‘Sensation and Reflection’ (E II.xiv.: ). Locke’s reflections on the succession of ideas come in a chapter about duration because of the specific account he gives of how we acquire the idea of duration. He says that we derive that idea by noticing the (temporal) distance between the elements of a succession, and that we derive our idea of succession by reflecting on the succession of ideas. Locke offers this as an alternative to an etiology that he thinks some will find tempting, namely the notion that we get ‘the Notion of Succession’ from ‘our Observation of Motion by our Senses’ (E II.xiv.: ). There is room for confusion here about just what he is asserting, what he is denying, and why he is denying what he is denying. 13

That is Locke’s paraphrase.

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To begin with, one might wonder whether Locke is giving us the origin story for the general ideas ‘succession’ and ‘duration’, or talking about the sources of our ideas of particular sequences and particular spans of time. In fact his brand of empiricism commits him to saying that our ideas of particular successions, and our general idea ‘succession’ must, in a sense, have the same ultimate source. He holds that experience supplies us with ideas of particular things and events at particular times, and that we make abstract ideas from these materials. So our general ideas ‘succession’ and ‘duration’ will be made by operations on ideas of particular successions and particular durations. We can speak of general ideas as originating when abstraction takes place, but we can also speak of them as having their sources in the material on which the mind works when it abstracts. When Locke says that ‘we have our notion of Succession and Duration from . . . Reflection on the train of Ideas’, he is talking about how we get ideas of particular successions and of particular durations (E II.xiv.: ). This is evident because he supports the claim by observing that we cease to perceive duration when the succession of ideas ceases. He surely does not mean that we lose the general idea ‘duration’ whenever we sleep deeply. Yet when, in the next section, Locke speaks of ‘a Man having from reflecting on the Succession and Number of his own Thoughts, got the Notion or Idea of Duration’ (E II.xiv.: ), he is talking about how the man acquired the general idea ‘duration’. For he goes on to make the point that the man can then apply that notion ‘to things, which exist while he does not think’, just as he can apply his idea of extension to places where no body is seen or felt (E II.xiv.: ). What is Locke rejecting when he rejects the view that we get the notion of succession by observing motion? Gideon Yaffe takes him to be ‘attacking our capacity to get the idea of succession from the sensory perception of motion’.14 I think that it is not what Locke means. He wants to insist that we acquire the general idea ‘succession’ by reflecting on successions of ideas (E II.xiv.: ; E II.xiv.: ; E II.xiv.: ); and he denies that we must perceive motion in order to acquire the idea of succession (E II.xiv.: –). However, he

14

Yaffe, ‘Locke’, .

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Matthew Stuart

does not mean to deny that successions of ideas of moving bodies might serve as the materials from which we can make the general idea of succession. On Yaffe’s reading, the challenge is to say why Locke thinks that sensory experience of moving bodies is insufficient to supply us with materials out of which we might make the general idea of succession. Yaffe’s answer draws on Locke’s remarks about the cannonball case. Yaffe says that because Locke holds that a single sensory idea records information about non-simultaneous events, sensory ideas cannot supply us with ideas of succession.15 He offers a photographic analogy. When we photograph a quickly moving ball at a relatively slow shutter speed, the image produced is that of a streak rather than a circle. Yaffe says that the photograph represents the ball as occupying several places, but as occupying them simultaneously. If we see the photograph as representing the ball’s successive occupation of different places, it is only because of what we bring to the picture. By the same token, Yaffe argues, Locke’s sensory ideas ‘represent all that takes place within (what Locke calls) an instant as non-successive’.16 Yaffe concludes that Lockean sensation cannot give us ideas of successions. I am inclined to dispute Yaffe’s analysis of the photograph case. Why say that the photograph—all by itself, independent of whatever background knowledge we might bring to our interpretation of it— represents the times at which the various places were occupied by the ball? Why not say that it is silent about whether the places were occupied simultaneously or successively? A photograph of a greenish yellow tennis ball whizzing by might look an awful lot like a photograph of a stationary greenish yellow tube. If the two photographs have different contents, this is presumably because of what caused the greenish yellow portions of each. So if we must say that a photograph represents states of affairs as simultaneous or successive, there is reason to say that a greenish yellow photographic smear caused by a tennis ball in motion represents a tennis ball in motion. Whether or not Yaffe is right about the photograph, I am prepared to grant that a Lockean sensory idea presents an instant’s worth of

15

Yaffe, ‘Locke’, .

16

Yaffe, ‘Locke’, .

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Locke’s Succeeding Ideas



successive events as though they were simultaneous. What I deny is that this shows that sensation is incapable of giving us the materials from which we might fashion a general idea of succession. It is true that Locke does not think that sensation itself delivers the idea of any particular succession. That is because he thinks that sensation delivers only simple ideas. Complex ideas of modes and substances are all made by us from simple ideas, by compounding, comparing, and abstraction, and by combinations of these operations.17 It is also true that a single Lockean sensory idea cannot by itself present successive events as successive. If one were utterly incapable of retaining any information about what one had sensed even an instant ago, one would never experience successive events as successive. However, if Locke thinks that we can retain the sensory information delivered by two, or three, or four succeeding sensory ideas, and if these ideas present an object as occupying a series of places at successive times, there is nothing to prevent him from saying that we can fashion the complex idea of the object’s motion. If we can do this on several occasions, and notice the commonalities between the resulting ideas, then we can fashion the abstract idea ‘succession’ from them. After discussing the cases of the clock hand and the cannonball, and after hypothesizing that there are bounds to the quickness and slowness of the succession of ideas, Locke remarks that it seems to him that ‘the constant and regular Succession of Ideas in a waking Man, is, as it were, the Measure and Standard of all other Successions’ (E II.xiv.: ). At least part of what he means is that the rate of the succession of ideas places constraints on which successions we can experience as successions. Yet he may mean more than this. He thinks that we must perceive the arrival and departure of ideas in order to be aware of time’s passage, and so to be in a position to measure the time that other successions take. Moreover, as I mentioned earlier, he characterizes the perceived duration of a thing as ‘Commensurate to the succession of any Ideas in our Minds’ (E II.xiv.: ), suggesting that we use our sense of how many ideas pass through our minds to judge the durations of other episodes. For a defense of this claim, see Matthew Stuart, ‘Lockean Operations’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –. Locke classifies events as modes, so he will count ideas of particular successions as complex ideas of modes. 17

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Matthew Stuart

Locke sees that the measurement of time poses a problem that the measurement of extension does not. We can use an enduring and relatively stable body as a standard by which to measure other bodies and spaces, but in the case of duration ‘we cannot keep by us any standing unvarying measure of Duration’ (E II.xiv.: ). The best we can do is to locate some kind of repeated, sensible natural phenomenon. The motions of heavenly bodies fit the bill nicely (E II.xiv.: ). How do we know that their periods are equal? Locke says that originally the regularity of (solar) days was presumed ‘only by judging of them by the train of Ideas had passed in Men’s Minds’ (E II.xiv.: ). He notes that after discovering several kinds of apparently regular phenomena in nature, we can test them against one another; but still, he says, we cannot know with certainty that any of them is perfectly regular (E II.xiv.: ). Locke thinks that the fact that we use the motions of heavenly bodies to measure time has ‘brought this mistake with it, that it has been thought, that Motion and Duration were the measure one of another’ (E II.xiv.: ). It has even led some to conclude that time should be defined as the measure of motion; whereas, Locke says, it is obvious to any who give the matter a little reflection ‘that, to measure Motion, Space is as necessary to be considered as Time’ (E II.xiv.: ). Locke’s view is that so far as the measure of time is concerned, there is nothing special about motion. Any phenomenon that, with apparent regularity, produced a recognizable kind of sensible idea in us could serve as a standard for measuring time. If there were odors or flavors that re-appeared with apparent regularity, the blind could use these to measure duration just as well as the sighted use the relative motions of the sun and stars (E II.xiv.: –). By the same token, if the motion of the sun were as unequal as that of a ship driven by unsteady winds, it would be useless for measuring time (E II.xiv.: ). Locke does not deny that our sense experiences get us ideas of the progress of the sun in the sky and the movements of constellations. Nor that we can perform the operation of abstraction on these ideas, and so derive the general idea of succession from them. What he denies is that the movements of bodies give us any idea of succession except by producing in us successions of ideas of which we are immediately

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Locke’s Succeeding Ideas

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conscious. We can see this in the passage in which Locke rejects the imagined alternative to his own account about how we get the idea of succession: Thus by reflecting on the appearing of various Ideas, one after another in our Understandings, we get the Notion of Succession; which if any one should think, we did rather get from our Observation of Motion by our Senses, he will, perhaps, be of my Mind, when he considers, that even Motion produces in his Mind an Idea of Succession, no otherwise than as it produces there a continued train of distinguishable Ideas. (E II.xiv.: )

Locke’s position here is really just the upshot of his holding a representative theory of perception. He thinks that whether one is sensing a succession of places occupied by a tennis ball, of tones played on a piano, or of flavors emerging from a fine Scotch whisky, one’s awareness will ultimately be predicated on one’s awareness of the succession of ideas in one’s own mind. We began with Locke’s observation that it is evident there is a constant succession of ideas in the waking mind. We have seen that we must understand this as a remark about the succession of ideas of noticeably different types. That succession does require a succession of idea tokens, but successions of idea tokens will be introspectible only when the ideas are of noticeably different types.18 Locke’s view that all of the diverse and changing contents of our thoughts and experiences are the product of successions of idea tokens in our minds is one central component of his so-called theory of ideas. His view that we perceive external things only indirectly, by perceiving ideas, is another. His discussion of the succession of ideas in E II.xiv nicely displays the extent to which the theory of ideas really does function for Locke as a theory. Some of his claims about succeeding ideas are supposed to be directly confirmed by experience, but others—such as the suggestion that the

18 Though Locke thinks that in fact the contents of our thoughts and experiences are constantly changing, he is, as we have seen, committed to saying that we could not notice it if they were not. We must experience a succession of idea types to be aware that time is passing, and so to be aware of any occurrence. In any case, noticing is a cognitive activity, and so one that Locke will explain in terms of a procession of ideas through the mind. We do best then to see his observation about the constant succession of ideas in our waking minds as a claim about our mental lives, rather than a claim about our minds themselves.

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Matthew Stuart

idea tokens involved in sense experience succeed one another at a certain more or less regular rate—he offers as hypotheses to be justified by the puzzling phenomena they help to explain.19 Bowdoin College

19 For discussion of earlier versions of this paper, I am very grateful to audiences at Yale University, Wichita State University, and Brandeis University. Special thanks to Sam Rickless and to Vili Lähteenmäki for helpful written comments.

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 On Living Mirrors and Mites: Leibniz’s Encounter with Pascal on Infinity and Living Things Circa  OHAD NACHTOMY

Throughout his life, Leibniz had a keen interest in Pascal’s work. The evidence collected over the past century by scholars such as Baruzi,1 Grua, Mesnard,2 and recently presented by Frédéric de Buzon and Maria Rosa Antognazza, clearly shows that, from early in his career, Leibniz was very well informed about Pascal’s work.3 For example, we know that Leibniz had already bought a copy of Pascal’s Pensées by  (just a year after its publication).4 In a letter to Graevius of , he speaks of Pensées as a ‘small book of gold’ (libellum aureolum) which ‘by the profoundness of its thought and the elegance of explication compares with any of the greatest men’ (A II. i. ). Before his arrival in Paris in , and certainly during his stay there until , Leibniz was in contact with the Jansenist circle (including Arnauld, Nicole, Saint Amour, Roannez, and Gilberte Pascal) and was also associated with a group loyal to Pascal (‘les pascalins’, as Mesnard called them). In , Leibniz conducted a study of Pascal’s Letters to A. Detonvile. Pascal’s mathematical work, referred to Leibniz by Huygens, was one of the most important sources for his mathematical studies in –, leading to his early development of the calculus.5 1 J. Baruzi, Leibniz et l’organisation religieuse de la terre [L’organisation religieuse] (Paris: Félix Alcan, ); and J. Baruzi, Leibniz (Paris: Bloud, ). 2 J. Mesnard, ‘Leibniz et les papiers de Pascal’ [‘Pascal’], in Leibniz à Paris, vol. I (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, ), –. 3 F. de Buzon, ‘Que lire dans les deux infinis? Remarques sur une lecture leibnizienne’ [‘Lecture leibnizienne’], Les Études philosophiques,  (), –; M. R. Antognazza, Leibniz: An Intellectual Biography [Intellectual Biography] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), . For more details of Leibniz’s early reception of Pascal, see Mesnard, ‘Pascal’, –. 4 See A I. i.  for the receipt of Leibniz’s purchase of Pascal’s work. 5 Antognazza, Intellectual Biography, –.

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Ohad Nachtomy

In the beginning of , Leibniz was busy developing a calculating machine expressly designed to supersede Pascal’s own calculating machine in performing automatic multiplication, division, and extraction of square and cube roots, in addition to summation and subtraction.6 In , Leibniz received Pascal’s unedited manuscripts from E. Périer (A II. i. ), which he studied with Tschirnhaus, and then recommended for publication in .7 This marks the last two years of Leibniz’s stay in Paris (–) as a particularly intense period in his reception of Pascal’s work (which was, of course, only one among his many interests during these years).8 Pascal’s work continued to play a subtle and complex role in Leibniz’s thought. Among other things, Pascal certainly was, for Leibniz, a source of inspiration, as well as a source both for comparison and a certain degree of competition. While Leibniz was clearly impressed with Pascal’s mathematical and experimental work,9 his reaction to his philosophical work and methodological remarks was much more nuanced and critical.10 The present chapter focuses on a specific text—a comment Leibniz makes on fragment  of Pascal’s Pensées in the Port-Royal edition, , then entitled Connaissance générale de l’homme. However brief, this comment is of great interest—both philosophical and historical.11 Leibniz’s comment was published by Gaston Grua under the title Double infinité chez Pascal et Monade (Gr –). In this text, Leibniz refers to Pascal’s notion of the infinitely large and infinitely small and to See A VI. ii. ; see also Antognazza, Intellectual Biography, . See Leibniz’s letter to Oldenburg in A III. i. –. See also Antognazza, Intellectual Biography, ; De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’, . 8 Mesnard even thinks that it was due to his discovery of Pascal that these years (–) were so exceptionally rich for Leibniz. See Mesnard, ‘Pascal’, . 9 De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’, . 10 For example, Leibniz was critical of Pascal’s Esprit géométrique and his theory of definition. See, for example, A VI. iv.  and ; and see De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’, ; and M. Laerke, Les lumières de Leibniz. Controverses avec Huet, Bayle, Regis, et More [Les lumières] (Paris: Classiques Garnier, ), – for more details. For Leibniz’s attitude regarding the use of mathematics in the service of theology in relation to Pascal, see Baruzi, L’organisation religieuse, –. 11 I do not pretend to analyze here the complex relations between the two philosophers, or to consider all aspects of Leibniz as a reader of Pascal. For Leibniz’s references to Pascal, see, for example, Leibniz’s letter to Burnett, February , GP iii. ; his letter to Seckendorff,  June , A II. i. . For a more thorough discussion of the way Leibniz read Pascal, see V. Carraud, ‘Leibniz lecteur des Pensées de Pascal’ [‘Pensées de Pascal’], XVIIe siècle,  (), –; De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’; and Laerke, Les lumières. 6 7

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On Living Mirrors and Mites



the way Pascal uses infinity to describe living beings through the example of a mite (ciron). In his comment, Leibniz argues that Pascal did not go far enough in employing infinity, and, in contrast to Pascal’s mite, he employs a completely different image—that of a living mirror (miroir vivant)—as an illustration of a living being. This chapter compares these evocative images and draws some conclusions concerning the similarities and differences between Leibniz’s and Pascal’s employment of infinity in capturing some essential features of living beings through their respective use of the images. Although not yet published in English (in print), this text has been the object of studies and commentaries in German and especially in French (more details in the next section). It has recently been revisited, reedited, and published by Frédéric de Buzon, with an appendix presenting a new reconstruction of the text.12 We know, for the following reasons, that Leibniz composed the text sometime around : the reference to his ‘system of pre-established harmony, which has just recently appeared on the scene’ dates the text to shortly after the New System (), and the text contains the word ‘monad’, which appears in Leibniz’s writings in this period, as well as the expression ‘living mirror’ (miroir vivant). While the figure of a mirror appears in earlier texts such as the Discourse on Metaphysics as well as in Leibniz’s Paris Notes, the term miroir vivant appears only later—in this note, in his correspondence with Sophie (), in his correspondence with De Volder, as well as in texts such as the Monadology (§) and the Principles of Nature and Grace (§), among others.13 I am unaware of earlier occurrences of the expression. The composition of this text circa , however, presents something of a puzzle: if Leibniz knew Pascal’s Pensées well from , why did he compose this reaction to Pascal only  years later? Is there anything in Leibniz’s development that could account for this text at this time, given that he had been commenting on Pascal’s work throughout his career? More specifically, what prompts him to see Pascal’s remarks on infinity as the ‘entry point’ (une entrée) into his 12 F. de Buzon, ‘Leibniz. Double infinité chez Pascal et Monade. Essai de reconstitution des deux états du texte’ [‘Double infinité’], Les Études philosophiques,  (), –. 13 See Leibniz’s letter to De Volder (GP ii. –/AG ), and Leibniz to Remond,  February  (GP iii. ).

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Ohad Nachtomy

philosophical system at this point in time?14 I will address this question towards the end of the chapter. Although the text is very short, it is extremely rich and interesting. One commentator has gone so far as to say that Leibniz’s encounter with Pascal gave him the occasion to succinctly summarize the whole of his own philosophy.15 Even if this is overstated, there is some truth to the remark. The text is indeed one of the most succinct, condensed—and I would say beautiful—expressions of Leibniz’s philosophy at the time that his monadological phase begins to take shape.16 In any event, the text certainly merits more attention than it has received in the English-speaking world.17 Indeed, part of my motivation here is to draw attention to this text, as well as to provide a new English translation of its first version. Another part of my motivation is to highlight and articulate some of the neglected philosophical significance of the text. I focus on Leibniz’s usage of infinity, in contrast to Pascal’s, and especially his attempt to capture the nature of living things—a topic that has received little attention in any of the previous commentaries on the text. I certainly do not wish to suggest that this is the exclusive significance of the text; but it is an important topic that has been neglected. In particular, I attempt to bring out the contrast between the two central images—that of Pascal’s mite (ciron), which is a standard illustration of a minute animal in the pre-microscope era, and that of Leibniz’s living mirror (miroir vivant)—to capture the way infinity figures in their respective depictions of living beings.18 In De Buzon, articulates the question as follows: ‘ . . . comment une sorte de résonance philosophique se met en place dans Double infinité et Monade, par laquelle un auteur peut faire entendre une pensée dans la sienne, à titre de commencement ou d’entrée, à un certain moment de son propre développement?’ (‘Lecture leibnizienne’, ). 15 ‘On voit comment les pages de Pascal sont, pour Leibniz, l’occasion de donner, en un raccourci saisissant, toute sa philosophie.’ E. Naërt, ‘Double infinité chez Pascal et Monade’ [‘Pascal et Monade’], Studia Leibnitiana,  (), –, at . 16 For two remarkable accounts of Leibniz’s development in this period, see Michel Fichant’s introduction to his edition of G. W. Leibniz, Discours de métaphysique suivi de Monadologie et autres textes (Paris: Gallimard, ), –; and D. Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ). 17 See Patrick Riley, Leibniz’ Universal Jurisprudence: Justice as the Charity of the Wise (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ), –. This text is translated in Lloyd Strickland’s website of Leibniz’s short texts. See . 18 In copying Pascal’s text, Leibniz makes some alterations and additions. In particular, after: ‘des cirons dans lesquels il retrouvera ce que les premiers ont donné, trouvant encore 14

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On Living Mirrors and Mites

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light of the current interest in the life sciences of the early modern period in general, and Leibniz’s views in particular, revisiting the text from this particular angle seems timely.19 In sections –, I present the text and the major differences between Pascal’s and Leibniz’s uses of infinity in describing the nature of living things. In section , I offer an account of the content of the text and its appearance around  by looking at the role Leibniz’s view of infinity plays in his definition of living beings in the New System of . In section , I argue that, in spite of superficial similarities, Leibniz’s use of infinity to define living beings stands in stark contrast to Pascal’s use of infinity. Whereas Pascal uses infinity to emphasize divisibility and disparity, alongside our inability to comprehend the infinite world surrounding us, Leibniz uses infinity to emphasize the intrinsic unity that each living being must have, the inherent harmony among all living beings, and our sense of belonging to an infinite world precisely because we, as imitations of an absolutely infinite being, are infinite too (though to a lesser degree).

.

THE TEXT

As already noted, sometime around , Leibniz was busy copying fragment  of the so-called Port-Royal edition of Pascal’s Pensées. Once he was done with what looks like a hasty (and imprecise) transcription, Leibniz turned to compose a comment. His comment begins with a dramatic and curious statement: Ce que Mons. Pascal dit de la double infinité, qui nous environne en augmentant et en diminuant, lorsque dans ses Pensées (n. ) il parle de la connaissance générale de l’homme, n’est qu’une entrée dans mon système.20 dans les autres la même chose’, Leibniz adds between parentheses: ‘ou des choses analogues’ (second line). This suggests that Leibniz takes the ciron more generally as an illustration of living things. This addition by Leibniz has been noted by both Baruzi, L’organisation religieuse, , and Naërt, ‘Pascal et Monade’, . 19 For Leibniz’s contribution to the life sciences, see F. Duchesneau, Les modèles du vivant de Descartes à Leibniz (Paris: J. Vrin, ); F. Duchesneau, Leibniz, le vivant et l’organisme [Le vivant] (Paris: J. Vrin, ); J. E. H. Smith, Divine Machines: Leibniz and the Sciences of Life [Divine Machines] (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ); J. E. H. Smith and O. Nachtomy (eds.), Machines of Nature and Corporeal Substances in Leibniz [Machines of Nature] (Dordrecht: Springer, ). 20 Version  (folio  r–v), in De Buzon, ‘Double infinité’, .

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

Ohad Nachtomy

What M. Pascal says of the double infinity, which surrounds us while increasing and decreasing, when in his Pensées (n. ) he speaks of the general knowledge of man, is but an entry point into my system.

Leibniz proceeds to write a single page comment. The importance of this text was already noted by Gerhardt in 21 and then by Baruzi in ;22 it was reedited by Grua in  under the charming title ‘Double infinité chez Pascal et Monade’, which facilitated further commentaries by Guitton,23 Costable,24 Serres,25 Naërt,26 McKenna,27 and Carraud,28 among others. While there are a fair number of commentaries on this text in French, to the best of my knowledge there is none in English. Even in French, there is very little in the existing literature on the implications of Leibniz’s comment for his view of living things. With the recent commentary by Frédéric de Buzon, this too is beginning to change.29 In , de Buzon published a commentary in which he notes the significance of Leibniz’s notion of natural machine vis-à-vis Pascal, as well as providing a new edition that presents two different versions of the text in meticulous detail. The first version is a marginal comment added to a transcription of the passage from the Pensées, with the note, ‘Was am Rande von mir addiert, habe ich besser auf ein ander Papier geschrieben’. The second version is an expansion of the marginal note, now on a separate piece of paper. While de Buzon emphasizes the similarity between Leibniz’s notion of a natural machine and Pascal’s

C. I. Gerhardt, ‘Leibniz und Pascal’, in Sitzungsberichte der Königlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Band  (Berlin: Verlag der Königlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften, ), –. 22 Baruzi, L’organisation religieuse, –. 23 J. Guitton, Pascal et Leibniz (Paris: Aubier, ). 24 P. Costabel, ‘Notes relatives à l’influence de Pascal sur Leibniz’, Revue d’histoire des sciences,  (), –. 25 M. Serres, Le système de Leibniz et ses modèles mathématiques [Le système de Leibniz], vol.  (Paris: PUF, ), –. 26 Naërt, ‘Pascal et Monade’. 27 A. McKenna, De Pascal à Voltaire. Le rôle des Pensées de Pascal dans l’histoire des idées entre  et ,  vols. (Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation, ). 28 Carraud studies the philosophical relations between Leibniz and Pascal in some detail. See Carraud, ‘Pensées de Pascal’, and V. Carraud, Pascal et la philosophie [La philosophie] (Paris: PUF, ). 29 Another commentary that does touch on this question, though indirectly, is Naërt, ‘Pascal et Monade’. 21

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view, I argue that there are significant differences in their views, which are also expressed in the images they use. De Buzon’s publication is the immediate occasion for the present article, as well as the source for the text translated into English here. Since the text is dense and difficult to translate, I first cite it in French (in De Buzon’s version) and then offer a translation. The first version of Leibniz’s response to Pascal reads as follows: Jusqu’ici M. Pascal. Ce qu’il vient de dire de la double infinité n’est qu’une entrée dans mon système. Que n’aurait-il pas dit, avec cette force d’éloquence qu’il possédait, s’il y était venu plus avant, s’il avait su que toute la matière est organique, et que la moindre portion contient, par l’infinité actuelle de ses parties, d’une infinité de façons, un miroir vivant exprimant tout l’univers infini, de sorte qu’on y pourrait lire (si on avait la vue assez perçante aussi bien que l’esprit) non seulement le présent étendu à l’infini, mais encor le passé, et tout l’avenir [infini pour chaque moment] infiniment infini, puisqu’il est infini par chaque moment, et qu’il y a une infinité de moments dans chaque partie du temps, et plus d’infinité qu’on ne saurait dire dans toute l’éternité future. Mais l’harmonie préétablie passe encore tout cela et donne cette même infinité universelle dans chaque [presque néant] c’est-à-dire dans chaque point réel, qui fait une Monade, dont moi j’en suis une, et ne périra non plus que Dieu et l’univers, qu’il doit toujours représenter, étant [un Dieu] [comme Dieu] en même temps moins qu’un Dieu et plus qu’un univers de matière: un comme-Dieu diminutif, et un comme-univers éminemment, et comme prototype, les mondes intelligibles étant en ectype les sources du monde sensible dans les idées de Dieu.30

Here is my English translation: Up until here it is Pascal. What he just said of the double infinity is nothing but an entry point to my system. What wouldn’t he have said with his powerful eloquence if he had advanced further, if he had known that all matter is organic, and that the least portion contains, through the actual infinity of its parts, a living mirror expressing all the infinite universe in an infinity of ways, so that one could read in it (if one had a sufficiently penetrating sight and mind) not only the present extended to infinity but also the past and all the 30

De Buzon, ‘Double infinité’, .

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future [infinite at each moment] infinitely infinite, since it is infinite at any moment and there are an infinity of moments in any part of time, and more infinity than one could ever say in all of future eternity? But the preestablished harmony goes beyond all that and captures this same universal infinity in each primary almost-nothing (which is at the same time the final almost-everything [presque tout] and the only thing which deserves to be called a substance after God), that is, in each real point, which makes a Monad, of which I am one, and will not perish anymore than God or the universe, which it must always represent, being at the same time, less than God and more than the material universe: as a diminutive-God and an eminent universe, and as a prototype, the intelligible worlds being in ectype the sources of the sensible world in God’s ideas.

This is obviously a complex text. It contains several astounding claims. First, Leibniz claims that Pascal does not realize that all matter is organic. This indicates that Leibniz is presupposing his panorganic view that all beings are ultimately composed of living beings.31 Second, organic matter is actually divided to infinity. This is a familiar theme, which is present in Leibniz’s work from his early writings. Third, and perhaps most remarkable as well as most novel, is the claim that, however small, each portion of matter contains a living mirror that expresses the infinitely large universe. The mirroring Leibniz notes here is due not merely to the actual division of matter to infinity but also to the existence of something living and active in each portion of matter. Fourth, such a living mirror contains ‘not only the present extended to infinity but also the past and all the future’, which is reminiscent of Leibniz’s doctrine of marks and traces that he ascribes to individual substances in the Discourse on Metaphysics (articles  and ) and elsewhere. Fifth, Leibniz’s new system of preestablished harmony goes beyond all that in showing that such a living mirror, however minute and particular, captures universal infinity: in being almost nothing but at the same time almost all, it is the only real point that makes a Monad, which (sixth) deserves to be called the only real 31

The division to infinity of organic bodies and the existence of microscopic animals comes up in a letter Leibniz writes to Malebranche in : ‘There is even room to fear that there are no elements at all, everything being effectively divided to infinity in organic bodies. For if these microscopic animals are in turn composed of animals or plants or other heterogeneous bodies, and so on to infinity, it is apparent, that there would not be any elements’ (A I. ii. , translated by Smith, Divine Machines).

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substance besides God, and (seventh) of which I am one; (eighth) it is like a diminutive-God, and thus (ninth) it will not perish and (tenth) will always represent God and the universe (in being a living mirror). Surely my dissection of this dense text into a list of claims can be contested. What cannot be contested, I think, is that Leibniz brings together here some of his familiar theses with some new ones in a remarkable and dense text. Since this is one of the earliest appearances of the term ‘monad’ as well as the expression ‘living mirror’, it is not obvious how to interpret these notions in this context. It is fairly clear, however, that, in this passage, a living mirror is likened to a substance and that it makes a monad, which is both active and representative; and, that it is exemplified through the I. The I, the Ego, or Moy, are recurrent examples of the true unity of substance that Leibniz uses in many other texts, both earlier and later than this one. I believe that this example is significant. It suggests that by ‘living mirror’ (as well as by ‘monad’), Leibniz intends here to refer to a complete and true substance, rather than to some constituent of it. But, what does the qualification of a mirror as living add to the figure of a mirror simpliciter that Leibniz had already used in earlier texts? The qualification of a mirror as living indicates something important about the way Leibniz sees the mirroring relation and the capacity of each substance, however small, to represent the world. On the reading I will develop, this representation is accounted for both () by virtue of the replication of internal structure among all living substances (in particular, their common infinite structure); and () by virtue of the active perception of each natural machine or living substance. The active representation that I ascribe to a natural machine is grounded in the form or entelechy, which is a principle of perception. One might say that there are two types of mirroring going on: () the infinite structure of the machine mirrors the universe, by changing in ways that track changes everywhere in the universe; () this mirroring is able to occur because the machine is unified by a form, which itself is a ‘living mirror’ representing the infinite structure of its body and, hence, of the universe as a whole. In this way, Leibniz’s two means of accounting for the mirroring relation are connected to one another.32 32 I am grateful to Don Rutherford for helping me to clarify the different kinds of mirroring and the strong relation that mirroring has to the notion of entelechy.

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Leibniz’s text raises other interesting questions. For example, what is the status of the term ‘monad’ in this period and how does it compare with the later usage of ‘monad’ in texts such as the Monadology and the Principles of Nature and Grace? I will touch on this question toward the end of the chapter. In the next two sections, I am mainly interested in presenting the following theme. Like Pascal, Leibniz conceives of human beings as placed between two infinities. Yet, unlike Pascal, for Leibniz, human beings (as well as other living beings) are themselves seen as infinite creatures; and, as such, they are placed between the absolute infinity of God and infinitely divisible matter. As we shall see, Leibniz’s notion of the infinite is quite different from Pascal’s. Whereas, for Pascal, humans are seen as finite creatures facing and realizing their place between the infinitely vast and the infinitely minute, for Leibniz, humans are placed high up on a graded hierarchy of infinity and perfection—‘the only thing which deserves to be called a substance after God . . . but at the same time, less than God and more than the material universe: as a diminutive-God and an eminent universe’.

.

APPROACHING INFINITY: LEIBNIZ VERSUS PASCAL

Before further developing this theme, I would like to bring out some of the general differences between Pascal’s and Leibniz’s conceptions of infinity. Pascal’s approach is clearly expressed in the passage to which Leibniz is responding. According to Pascal, the point of philosophical reflection is to make us realize the particularity of the human situation. Philosophical reflection reveals that we occupy a middle position between two infinities: on the one hand, a universe that extends to infinity; on the other hand, everything made of matter is divisible without end—ad infinitum. In his Pensées, Pascal urges us to recognize our intermediate position between the infinitely large and the infinitely small, both of which we do not fully understand. As Pascal says, we perceive the infinite but do not understand its nature.33 According to Pascal, this should lead to a realization of our true condition as finite creatures: creatures with a limited understanding facing the infinitude of the universe as well as the infinite and incomprehensible nature of its 33

Pensées, fragment : ‘Nous connaissons qu’il y a un infini, et ignorons sa nature.’

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Creator. These considerations serve as a reminder of humility in pressing the limited capacities of human reason in contrast to the infinite nature of divine wisdom and power.34 Pascal uses the mathematical (quantitative) sense of infinity to draw an analogy with the infinite wisdom and power of God. As he writes, A unit added to infinity does not add anything to it; nor does a foot to an infinite measure. The finite annuls itself in the presence of the infinite and becomes pure nothing. So is our spirit in front of God’s; so is our justice in front of divine justice. . . . We know that there is an infinite but we don’t know its nature. As we know that it is false that numbers would be finite, so it is true that there is the infinite in number. But we don’t know what it is: it is false that it would be even, it is false that it would be odd, for, in adding a unit, it does not change its nature, it is a number and each number is either even or odd. . . . Thus one can know well that there is a God without knowing what it is.35

Pascal’s aim in drawing this analogy between arithmetical infinity and the infinity of God is clear. His epistemological point, regarding the unbridgeable gap between the finite and the infinite, serves a theological purpose. The upshot of Pascal’s analogy is to cast the human relation to God as a relation between a finite/limited mind and an infinite/unlimited one—with respect to power and with respect to knowledge and wisdom. At the same time, the relation between our finite mind and God is rather subtle. We know and recognize the infinite but do not understand its nature, just as we must admit infinity of number though we cannot comprehend its nature. For Pascal, the point of contemplating the infinite is precisely to make us realize our finitude and our limited nature in the face of the infinite and incomprehensible nature of God. Thus, according to Pascal, just as we know that there is infinity by sensing it with unambiguous clarity,

34 ‘La dernière démarche de la raison est de reconnaître qu’il y a une infinité de choses qui la surpassent. Elle n’est que faible si elle ne va pas jusque là.’ Pensées, fragment . 35 ‘L’unité jointe à l’infini ne l’augmente de rien, non plus qu’un pied a une mesure infinie. Le fini s’anéantit en présence de l’infini, et devient un pur néant. Ainsi notre esprit devant Dieu; ainsi notre justice devant la justice divine. . . . Nous connaissons qu’il y a un infini et ignorons sa nature. Comme nous savons qu’il est faux que les nombres soient finis, donc il est vrai qu’il y a un infini en nombre. Mais nous ne savons ce qu’il est: il est faux qu’il soit pair, il est faux qu’il soit impair; car, en ajoutant l’unité, il ne change point de nature; cependant, c’est un nombre et tout nombre est pair ou impair. . . . Ainsi on peut bien connaître qu’il y a un Dieu sans savoir ce qu’il est.’ Pensées, fragment .

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even if we cannot comprehend it, so we sense (and thus know) that there is a God but at the same time we recognize that we cannot comprehend his nature. As Pascal famously writes, ‘we know the truth not only through reason but also through the heart’ (Pensées, fragment ). Unlike Leibniz, who demands a proof for both the existence of God, seen as an infinite being, and the impossibility of an infinite number, Pascal demands only a clear and acute perception; that is all one needs and all one can ask for. Leibniz’s attitude toward the infinite is very different. Although Leibniz is acutely aware of the paradoxes threatening infinity—and especially its quantitative variants, as clearly evidenced in his early reading of Galileo’s Dialogues on Two New Sciences—he is not opposed to using infinity in his philosophy.36 Although Leibniz argues that there is no infinite number, since this is a contradictory notion, infinity nonetheless figures in almost every aspect of his philosophy. According to Leibniz, the actual world is but one of infinitely many possible worlds; possible worlds, in turn, are conceived by God’s infinite intellect;37 and God himself is seen as an infinite and most perfect being. The actual world, too, consists of infinitely many individual substances, each of which involves relations to infinitely many others and ‘exhibits an infinite series of operations’.38 In an early note, Leibniz 36 ‘Among numbers there are infinite roots, infinite squares, infinite cubes. Moreover, there are as many square numbers as there are numbers in the universe. Which is impossible. Hence it follows either that in the infinite the whole is not greater than the part, which is the opinion of Galileo and Gregory of St. Vincent, and which I cannot accept; or that infinity itself is nothing, i.e. that it is not one and not a whole’ (Fall , ‘Notes on Galileo’s Two New Sciences’; A VI. iii. /LOC ). 37 Monadology §; Theodicy §. 38 Comments on Fardella, A VI. iv. /AG . ‘Je suis tellement pour l’infini actuel, qu’au lieu d’admettre que la nature l’abhorre, comme l’on dit vulgairement, je tiens qu’elle l’affecte partout, pour mieux marquer les perfections de son auteur. Ainsi je crois qu’il n’y a aucune partie de la matière qui ne soit, je ne dit pas divisible, mais actuellement divisée, et par conséquent, la moindre particelle doit être considérée comme un monde plein d’une infinité des créatures différentes’ (Leibniz to Foucher, GP i. ). See also Monadology §: ‘Every portion of matter is not only divisible to infinity, as the ancients realized, but is actually subdivided without end, every part into smaller parts, each part divided into parts having some motion of their own’ (AG ). Contrast this with Aristotle’s view expressed in his Generation of Animals .: ‘But nature flies from the infinite; for the infinite is imperfect, and nature always seeks an end’ (b). J. Barnes (ed.), A. Platt (trans.), The Complete Works of Aristotle, vol.  (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ), . As I argue below, there is a sense of infinity in Leibniz that means precisely absolute perfection and completion. But, of course, this is not completion in Aristotle’s teleological sense.

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writes that every part of the world, regardless of how small, ‘contains an infinity of creatures’ which itself is a kind of ‘world’ (A VI. iii. ).39 Leibniz’s confidence in using infinity is related to the success of his early mathematical work on infinite series, the development of the calculus,40 and his syncategorematic interpretation of the infinitely small.41 It goes without saying that Leibniz’s method of handling the infinitely small demonstrates that a finite mind is capable of comprehending the infinite in this context. It is worth noting that this attitude goes against the warnings of both Descartes and Pascal of the dangers of going beyond our finite capacities.42 Given this background, it is not surprising that, in his remarks on Pascal, Leibniz does not criticize Pascal for using infinity. Rather, he complains that Pascal has not gone far enough in describing nature as infinite; that he does not recognize how pervasive infinity is in nature, and how central it is for understanding the nature of living things and of reality itself. Hence, Pascal’s reflections, Leibniz says, are but an entrée to his system (‘n’est qu’une entrée dans mon système’). Thus, according to Leibniz, Pascal is not so much wrong as not sufficiently advanced in his employment and analysis of infinity. As we shall see in section , this subtle critique implies some significant differences between Leibniz and Pascal.

.

PASCAL’S MITE AND LEIBNIZ’S LIVING MIRROR

Leibniz’s general reproach in this text seems fairly clear: while Pascal did much to ascribe infinity to nature, he did not go far enough. However, since Pascal fully embraces the infinity of nature, the reasons behind Leibniz’s reproach are not so clear; they require further specification. Here is what Leibniz says in the second version of the text:

39 G. W. Leibniz, De Summa Rerum: Metaphysical Papers, –, George H. R. Parkinson (ed.) (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, ), . 40 Ironically, it owes some of its inspiration to Pascal’s mathematical work. See, for instance, Antognazza, Intellectual Biography, –. 41 For details regarding Leibniz’s approach to the infinitely small and infinitely large, see Arthur’s introduction to LOC. 42 In fact, Leibniz’s method consists in translating infinite magnitudes into finite ones, just smaller than any assignable.

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What would he have not said, with that powerful eloquence he possessed, if he had gone further, if he had known that all matter is organic throughout, and that however small a portion one takes contains, representatively, by virtue of the actual diminution to infinity that it encompasses, the actual increase to infinity that is in the universe outside that portion—that is to say, that each little portion contains, in an infinity of ways, a living mirror expressing the entire, infinite universe . . . ?43

Leibniz argues that, however small, each part of matter is organic and makes up a ‘living mirror’ that expresses the whole universe. Leibniz’s use of this image (a living mirror) is new and curious. While Leibniz refers to the notion of a mirror earlier in his career, to the best of my knowledge, this is the first time that the notion of living mirror shows up in his writings.44 Leibniz’s use of this image draws on Pascal’s reference to both the infinitely small and the infinitely large but alters it, so that each portion of matter, however small, is organic and represents the infinitely large universe around it by virtue of being a living mirror of it. This in turn implies that any such portion of matter is considered as a living thing, not an aggregate and not just matter (which is always further divisible). In this way, a living mirror, which may be smaller than any given size, expresses a universe that may be larger than any assigned magnitude, so that the infinitely small represents the infinitely large.45 It is important to stress that such a mirror is an active, living being—c’est un miroir vivant, he writes—so that the mirroring is not just the replication of structure but also the inner activity of perception, rather than the mere passive reflection of an ordinary mirror. According to Leibniz, the ontological bedrock of the real world consists of organic things. As 43 ‘Que n’aurait-il pas dit avec cette force d’éloquence qu’il possédait, s’il était venu plus avant, s’il avait su que toute la matière est organique partout, et que sa portion quelque petite qu’on la prenne, contient représentativement, en vertu de la diminution actuelle à l’infini qu’elle enferme, l’augmentation actuelle à l’infini qui est hors d’elle dans l’univers, c’est-à-dire que chaque petite portion contient d’une infinité de façons un miroir vivant exprimant tout l’univers infini . . . ’ (De Buzon, ‘Double infinité’, ). 44 For a survey and some analysis of Leibniz’s use of mirrors, see C. Marras, ‘Mirrors that mirror each other’, in Herbert Breger, Jürgen Herbst, and Sven Erdner (eds.), VIII. Internationaler Leibniz-Kongress. Einheit in der Vielheit. Vorträge Teil  u. . (Hannover: Gottfried-Wilhelm-Leibniz-Gesellschaft, ), –. 45 With much insight but without any explication Baruzi, L’organisation religieuse remarked: ‘Ainsi se transforme le “ciron” de Pascal’, . I hope my comments make the nature of this transformation more explicit.

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he writes: ‘all organic bodies are animate, and all bodies are either organic or collections of organic bodies’ (A VI. iv. /LOC ). As we know from later texts, from this period the Leibnizian universe becomes populated by infinitely many living beings for which he will adopt the term ‘monad’. In light of his view that nature consists of living beings and that an essential feature of living beings is that, however small, their inner nature represents (while being a part of) the infinitely large universe, Leibniz’s response to Pascal seems not only more specific but also to signal a radical break from Pascal’s aims of using infinity, as well as from his interpretation of the infinitely small and the infinitely large. To examine this more closely, let us compare Pascal’s depiction of a mite with Leibniz’s depiction of a living being as a living mirror. Here is what Pascal says: What is a man in the infinite? Who can comprehend it? But to show him another prodigy equally astonishing, let him examine the most delicate things he knows. Let a mite be given him, with its minute body and parts incomparably more minute, limbs with their joints, veins in the limbs, blood in the veins, humours in the blood, drops in the humours, vapours in the drops. Dividing these last things again, let him exhaust his powers and his conceptions, and let the last object at which he can arrive be now that of our discourse. Perhaps he will think that here is the smallest point in nature. I will let him see therein a new abyss. I will paint for him not only the visible universe, but also everything he is capable of conceiving of nature’s immensity in the womb of this imperceptible atom. Let him see therein an infinity of worlds, each of which has its firmament, its planets, its earth, in the same proportion as in the visible world; in this earth of animals, and ultimately of mites, in which he will find again all that the first had, finding still in these others the same thing without end and without cessation. Let him lose himself in wonders as amazing in their minuteness as [are] the others in their vastness.46

46 The passages continues thus: ‘For who will not be astounded at the fact that our body, which a little while ago was imperceptible in the universe, itself imperceptible in the bosom of the whole, is now a colossus, a world, or rather a whole, in respect of the final smallness which we cannot reach? He who regards himself in this light will be afraid of himself, and observing himself suspended in the mass given him by nature between those two abysses of the Infinite and Nothing, of which he is equally removed, will tremble at the sight of these marvels; and I think that, as his curiosity changes into admiration, he will be more disposed to contemplate them in silence than to examine them with presumption.’ Pensées, fragment . For the

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Pascal’s imagery here is quite astonishing. In fact, it seems rather similar to Leibniz’s early view that the infinitely small implies new abimes in the form of worlds within worlds to infinity.47 But there is an important difference: in Leibniz’s notion of the living mirror, the infinitely vast world is represented by virtue of both the nested structure that develops to infinity and its active perception. For Leibniz, there is an inherent, structural connection between the infinitely small and the infinitely large in the very constitution of the world. The two infinities are not disparate, as in Pascal, but rather are intrinsically connected, in the sense that they map onto one another. This is accentuated by Leibniz’s insistence that these mirrors are living mirrors. In this way, each minute constituent of the world expresses all the rest through isomorphic relations, and perception of those relations, which are at the heart of his system of pre-established harmony.48 Leibniz’s notion of the living mirror is thus consistent with the famous homomorphism Leibniz sees between each constituent of the world and the world as a whole. ‘C’est tout comme ici, partout et toujours’, as he sometimes expresses this idea.49 The inner structure of each monad resembles the structure

English cited here, see ‘Leibniz: Double Infinity in Pascal and Monad’, Lloyd Strickland, Leibniz-Translations.com, n.d., . As early as his ‘Theory of Concrete Motion’ (–), Leibniz articulates the doctrine (mentioned by Pascal as well) that, in every bit of matter, there are worlds within worlds, and that this goes on to infinity. In this context, the doctrine appears as a consequence of the infinite divisibility of the continuum. Leibniz writes: ‘any atom will be of infinite species, like a sort of world, and there will be worlds within worlds to infinity’ (A VI. ii. /LOC –). A similar view appears several years later in Leibniz’s notes from Paris (), where he writes that every part of the world, regardless of how small, ‘contains an infinity of creatures’ which is itself a kind of ‘world’ (A VI. iii. ). Similarly, in the dialogue ‘Pacidius to Philalethes’, Leibniz says: ‘in any grain of sand whatever there is not just a world, but an infinity of worlds’ (A VI. iii. /LOC ). 48 In order to avoid any misunderstandings, it is perhaps worth emphasizing that Leibniz’s view does not imply the existence of infinitely small beings, which Leibniz flatly denies. For Leibniz, infinitesimals are not entities but useful fictions. Rather, for any finite living being, no matter how small, there is a smaller one. This is what the actual infinity involves, according to Leibniz. 49 In our text this point is expressed quite explicitly as follows: ‘chaque petite portion contient d’une infinité de façons un miroir vivant exprimant tout l’univers infini qui existe avec elle; en sorte qu’un assez grand esprit, armé d’une vue assez perçante, pourrait voir ici tout ce qui est partout’ (De Buzon, ‘Double infinité’, ). See also Leibniz’s letter to Sophie Charlotte of  May , G iii. –. For this reason, ‘God sees in each portion of the universe the whole things. . . . He is infinitely more discerning than Pythagoras, who judged the height of Hercules by the size of his footprint’ (Theodicy §). 47

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of every other, so that active perception of its own structure mirrors that of the world.

.

THE WONDERS OF INFINITY AND THEIR THEOLOGICAL UNDERTONES: DESPERATION VERSUS CELEBRATION

As we have just seen, there is a sharp difference in the use of infinity between Pascal and Leibniz. For one thing, there is a strategic difference in what they use infinity for. The claim of Pascal’s reflection on the infinite is that awareness of its paradoxical nature reveals our true nature as finite, cognitively and rationally limited beings, and thus incapable of comprehending the infinity of nature surrounding us. In particular, Pascal’s aim in his description of a mite is to astound, even to shock, his readers. Obviously, Pascal’s ultimate goal here is not a cool and scientific description of the living world.50 Rather, he urges his readers to lose themselves (‘qu’il se regarde comme égaré’) in the marvels of infinity, which are astonishing in both their vastness and their minuteness. But these marvels are meant to bring out the inherent frustration and disproportion of human intelligence as it finds itself caught between them, ‘incapable of understating the infinity which surrounds us’.51 While Leibniz is obviously impressed with the wonders of infinity, he rejects Pascal’s call to lose ourselves in its wonders. Whereas in Pascal the human mind loses itself in despair between the infinitely large and the infinitely small, nothing is more foreign to Leibniz’s spirit—either being lost or being in despair. Instead, while it is well known that 50 For an elaboration of Pascal’s attitude, stressing the consideration of human beings rather than the contemplation of nature, see Carraud, La philosophie, – (secs. –). Carraud also adds the following perceptive remark: ‘Le regard pascalien est regard sur l’autre aveugle, regard sans être regardé, sans réciprocité, sans miroir’, Carraud, La philosophie, . He notes that the notion of a mirror, so typical of the Renaissance, does not appear even once in the Pensées. It is all the more striking therefore that Leibniz is contrasting the notion of a living mirror to that of Pascal’s mite. 51 ‘Car enfin qu’est-ce que l’homme dans la nature? Un néant à l’égard de l’infini, un tout à l’égard du néant, un milieu entre rien et tout, infiniment éloigné de comprendre les extrêmes. La fin des choses et leurs principes sont pour lui invinciblement cachés dans un secret impénétrable, également incapable de voir le néant d’où il est tiré et l’infini où il est englouti.’ Pascal, Pensées, fragment ; see also .

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optimism is one of Leibniz’s trademarks, the celebration of the infinite is an aspect of his optimistic spirit that has not been sufficiently appreciated.52 In contrast to Pascal’s awe and desperation in the face of the infinite,53 in Leibniz we find marvel and celebration of the infinite. As we noted above, infinity figures in almost every aspect of Leibniz’s philosophy. This is very vivid in our text: ‘through the actual infinity of parts’, Leibniz writes, ‘the least portion contains . . . a living mirror expressing all the infinite universe in an infinity of ways, so that one could read in it . . . not only the present extended to infinity but also the past and all the future [infinite at each moment] infinitely infinite’. For Leibniz, contemplation of the infinite provides no reason for despair; rather, Leibniz turns Pascal’s despairing attitude into a celebration of infinity. While Pascal attempts to make our rational aspirations more humble, Leibniz is ever optimistic about the capacity of human reason to further extend itself, in general, and with respect to the notion of infinity, in particular. As with Pascal, Leibniz’s attitude has some theological motivation. In fact, both thinkers believe that the contemplation of the infinite will lead us to God.54 But it will do so in very different ways. For Leibniz, celebrating infinity is strongly related to his conviction that infinity is an essential aspect of nature, in general, and our nature, in particular. Therefore, studying infinity constitutes a way to appreciate and admire the glory of God as its creator. Rather than despair in the labyrinthine and awesome nature of infinity and our disproportion to it, Leibniz maintains that we should study and appreciate infinity as a constitutive and positive aspect of nature, including our own. More precisely, 52

This is especially the case when contrasted with the notorious aspect of his optimism that was made infamous by Voltaire in Candide. On the contrast between Leibniz’s optimistic attitude and Pascal’s pessimistic one, though in a different context, see Naërt, ‘Pascal et Monade’, and yet in another context, see Laerke’s recent penetrating remark: ‘La situation du géomètre leibnizien se rapproche beaucoup de celle de l’“homme, dans l’infini” dont parle Pascal, et qui se trouve “suspendu dans la masse que la nature lui a donnée entre ces deux abîmes de l’infini et du néant, dont il est également éloigné” ’ (Lafuma [i.e., Pensées, fragment] ). Toutefois, et contrairement à la vision plutôt austère de Pascal, pour Leibniz, cette suspension dans l’infini n’a rien d’épistémologiquement tragique: Pascal exige trop de la science démonstrative’ (Les lumières, ). 53 ‘Que fera(-t-)il donc sinon d’apercevoir quelque apparence du milieu des choses dans un désespoir éternel de connaître ni leur principe ni leur fin.’ Pensées, fragment . 54 ‘Ces extrémités se touchent et se réunissent à force de s’être éloignées et se retrouvent en Dieu, et en Dieu seulement.’ Pensées, fragment .

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infinity is a constitutive aspect of the way created things are made in the image of God. To put it differently, for Leibniz, infinity is part of the likeness between God and his creatures, so that the infinite in nature is a manifestation of the infinity of its creator. Thus, Leibniz’s extensive use of infinity in describing the natural world derives not only from his mathematical work but also from his theological and metaphysical commitments. Leibniz’s mathematical work taught him how to treat the quantitative infinite in a rational manner, but he certainly also uses it to further his theological commitments. Some of Leibniz’s theological commitments can be illustrated by what Lea Schweitz has recently called ‘a sacramental view of nature’. According to this view, ‘the whole of the created order [can be seen] as exhibiting one of the key principles of Lutheran sacramental theology, namely, the finite is capable of the infinite (finitum capax infiniti)’.55 The finite, created world is made in the image of God and, for this reason, it is seen as capable of presenting and manifesting the infinite essence and perfection of God. This theological commitment was certainly controversial. In Malebranche, for example, we find a diametrically opposed view.56 This commitment goes some way towards explaining why Leibniz complains that Pascal, despite being one of the few to have made so much of the notion of infinity, did not go far enough. It would also explain why Leibniz finds Pascal’s description of the infinitely large and the infinitely small to be on the right track, but to

As Schweitz writes: ‘Lutheran sacramental theology affirms that finite matter in the forms of bread, wine, and water is a means of grace and a vehicle for the divine. Said another way, the sacraments are instances when the “finite is capable of the infinite”. The material elements of the sacraments are means of real and transformative encounters with the divine because they are capable of the infinite in, with, and under the finite.’ See L. Schweitz, ‘On the Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of Human Life in G. W. Leibniz’, in O. Nachtomy and J. E. H. Smith (eds.), The Life Sciences in Early Modern Philosophy [Life Sciences] (New York: Oxford University Press, ), –, at . For further information on Leibniz’s Lutheran heritage, see U. Goldenbaum, ‘Leibniz as a Lutheran’, in A. Coudert, Richard H. Popkin, and Gordon M. Weiner (eds.), Leibniz, Mysticism, and Religion (Dordrecht, NL: Kluwer, ), –. 56 ‘On ne peut concevoir que quelque chose de créé puisse représenter l’infini; que l’être sans restriction, l’être immense, l’être universel puisse être aperçu par une idée, c’est-à-dire, par un être particulier, par un être différent de l’être universel & infini. Mais pour les êtres particuliers, il n’est pas difficile de concevoir qu’ils puissent être représentés par l’être infini qui les renferme dans sa substance très efficace, et par conséquent très intelligible.’ (Recherche de la vérité, OC i. ). 55

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ultimately remain no more than the entry point to his new system of pre-established harmony. Leibniz’s ascription of infinity to the created world through the principle that the finite is capable of (perceiving/manifesting/expressing) the infinite raises, however, a serious problem. The relation between God and his creatures is commonly understood at the time as a categorical divide between an infinite entity and finite entities. If Leibniz regards creatures as infinite as well, how would he account for the difference between creatures and the Creator? In fact, Leibniz’s comment on Pascal provides us with an important clue. Most early modern philosophers—for example, Pascal, Descartes, and Spinoza— endorse this dichotomy. The gist of Leibniz’s approach is to cast the difference between creatures and the Creator not in terms of a categorical divide, but rather in terms of degrees. Leibniz’s description of a living mirror in our text as ‘being at the same time, less than God and more than the material universe: as a diminutive-God’ implies this notion of degrees. Traditionally, the categorical distinction between finite and infinite was seen as capturing the distinction between God and individual things. In sharp contrast to this tradition, our text suggests that Leibniz draws the distinction in terms of degrees: the absolute infinity of God is set above the infinity of creatures, which is set above the infinite divisibility of matter and the infinity of mathematical things. This is consistent with Leibniz’s earlier distinction between three degrees of infinity that apply to three degrees of being (found in his annotations on Spinoza’s letter on the infinite, in ).57 At the same time, this distinction has to cohere with Leibniz’s position regarding the status of infinite magnitudes, viz., his rejection of infinitely large (number, line, shape, speed) and infinitesimal magnitudes. As we have seen, Leibniz’s comment on Pascal provides some insights into Leibniz’s attitude towards infinity in general and its application to

57 ‘I usually say that there are three degrees of infinity. The lowest is, for the sake of example, like that of the asymptote of the hyperbola; and this I usually call the mere infinite [tantum infinitum]. It is greater than any assignable, as can also be said of all the other degrees. The second is that which is greatest in its own kind [maximum in suo scilicet genere], as for example the greatest of all extended things is the whole of space, the greatest of all successives is eternity. The third degree of infinity, and this is the highest degree, is everything [omnia], and this kind of infinite is in God, since he is all one; for in him are contained the requisites for existing of all the others’ (February , A VI. iii. /LOC ).

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living beings in particular. The text points to the contrast between the ways in which Leibniz and Pascal conceive of the relation between the finite and the infinite. It suggests that Leibniz understands the gap between the finite and the infinite not as a categorical distinction, as it was traditionally understood, but as one of degree. Thus, for Leibniz, every created thing is seen as infinite, to some degree.58

. WHY THIS RESPONSE TO PASCAL AT THIS TIME (CIRCA )? LEIBNIZ’S DEFINITION OF LIVING BEINGS IN TERMS OF THE INFINITE COMPLEXITY OF NATURAL MACHINES

Now let us return to the question raised at the beginning of this chapter: how do we account for the fact that this particular reaction to Pascal comes only at this stage of Leibniz’s career (circa )? As I noted at the outset, Leibniz was familiar with Pascal’s work and commented on it from very early in his career. However, Leibniz drafts this comment on Pascal shortly after his New System of . What could account for this particular response to Pascal’s piece on the double infinity at this point? Certain changes that took place in Leibniz’s views might make sense of it. My interest here is not so much in the causes that prompted Leibniz to compose the text, which, for all we know, may be accidental, but the reasons that could account for the content of his response. Attending to the development of Leibniz’s definition of living beings, and his use of infinity as part of this definition in particular, throws some light on this question. The full story of Leibniz’s development on this question would require a paper of its own. It is also not an uncontroversial story.59 But, there are some striking and noteworthy facts that stand out in this connection: the notion of a natural machine with its nested structure to infinity comes to the foreground as 58 I have begun to explore this interesting issue (in relation to degrees of perfection and degrees of being) in Nachtomy, ‘Infinity and Life: The Role of Infinity in Leibniz’s Theory of Living Beings’ [‘Infinity and Life’], in Nachtomy and Smith (eds.), Life Sciences, –, and will develop it in a forthcoming monograph. 59 For my version of the story, see O. Nachtomy, ‘Leibniz on Artificial and Natural Machines’ [‘Leibniz on Artificial and Natural Machines’], in Smith and Nachtomy, Machines of Nature, and Nachtomy, ‘Infinity and Life’.

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Leibniz’s prime model of living beings only after . This has been argued for in several articles; to my mind, it is made especially clearly by Michel Fichant.60 In the New System, Leibniz no longer uses infinity merely to describe nature as worlds within worlds to infinity, as he has done previously; instead, infinity now becomes one of the defining features of living beings. In the New System, Leibniz draws the distinction between living and non-living things in terms of the difference between natural and artificial machines. He articulates his position against Descartes’s reductionist view that living things are nothing but subtle machines, akin to artificial ones but more complex. Leibniz argues that the difference is not merely one of degree. Rather, there is a difference in kind between human-made machines and the natural machines of divine creation. The difference, Leibniz notes, is that natural machines are machines in the least of their parts, so that they are machines within machines ad infinitum. As he writes, I believe that this [Descartes’s] conception [in which the difference between natural machines and ours is merely one of degree] does not give us a sufficiently just and worthy idea of nature, and that my system alone allows us to understand the true and immense distance between the least productions and mechanisms of divine wisdom and the greatest masterpieces that derive from the craft of a limited mind; this difference is not simply a difference of degree, but a difference of kind. We must then know that the machines of nature have a truly infinite number of organs, and are so well supplied and so resistant to all accidents that it is not possible to destroy them. A natural machine still remains a machine in its least parts, and moreover, it always remains the same machine that it has been, being merely transformed through the different enfolding it undergoes, sometimes extended, sometimes compressed and concentrated as it were, when it is thought to have perished. (GP iv. /AG ).61 60 See M. Fichant, ‘Leibniz et les machines de la nature’, Studia Leibnitiana,  (), –; Duchesneau, Le vivant; Smith and Nachtomy, Machines of Nature; Smith, Divine Machines; and R. Arthur, Leibniz [Leibniz] (Cambridge: Polity Press, ). 61 In a later piece (May ) entitled by the English translators ‘On Body and Force, Against the Cartesians’, Leibniz writes: ‘a natural machine has the great advantage over an artificial machine, that, displaying the mark of an infinite creator, it is made up of an infinity of entangled organs. And thus, a natural machine can never be absolutely destroyed just as it can never absolutely begin, but it only decreases or increases, enfolds or unfolds, always preserving, to a certain extent, the very substance itself and, however transformed, preserving in itself

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By virtue of being a divine creation rather than a result of human production, a natural machine is both infinite (thus bearing the mark of its creator) as well as a single, indestructible entity, which remains one and the same as long as it acts.62 Unlike an artificial machine, a natural machine cannot be composed or decomposed; its variation and change of states do not destroy its unity as it is ‘merely transformed through the different enfolding it undergoes’. It is created as one functional unit, however complex its internal states may be. As a consequence, it remains the same as long as it lives—which is forever, unless annihilated by God. Hence, a natural machine always preserves a certain degree of life or primitive activity. In his recent book, Richard Arthur writes: what makes a natural machine the same machine in its least parts is its possession of a substantial form or monad. It does not have to have the same parts from one instant to another, so long as the parts it does have contribute to its own functions and end. For this it needs to be the source of its own actions, and also to have a law or “program” for the development and unfolding of these actions. Each of these two aspects of Leibnizian forms is crucial.63

As Arthur adds: ‘it is the internal law governing the unfolding of the states of a substance that accounts for it having a genuine unity, as opposed to the accidental unity of an artificial machine’.64 What gives a natural machine—a machine with an infinitely complex structure—its unity is an internal law of production. This internal law functions as a program for self-organization and self-regulation, so that each Leibnizian substance is also causally self-sufficient. According to Leibniz, a living being is infinite both in the sense of being ever active and in its nested some degree of life [vitalitas] or, if you prefer, some degree of primitive activity [actuositas]’ (GP iv. /AG ). This is clearly articulated later in the Monadology: ‘Thus each organized body of a living being is a kind of divine machine or natural automaton, which infinitely surpasses all artificial automata. For a machine constructed by man’s art is not a machine in each of its parts. For example, the tooth of a brass wheel has parts or fragments which, for us, are no longer artificial things, and no longer have any marks to indicate the machine for whose use the wheel was intended. But natural machines, that is, living bodies, are still machines in their least parts, to infinity. That is the difference between nature and art, that is, between the divine art and our art’ (Monadology §, AG ). 63 Arthur, Leibniz, . 64 Ibid. For some differences between Arthur’s interpretation and mine, see my review of his () book and his reply in The Leibniz Review,  (), –. 62

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structure, ad infinitum.65 The infinity and unity of living beings is intrinsically related, of course, to the fact (noted earlier in this section) that they are ‘divine machines’, created by an infinite creator.66 It is arguable that Leibniz’s view of a natural machine is very similar to Pascal’s description of a mite, in that each of its parts is further divisible to infinity. Frédéric de Buzon has noted this similarity. He writes: That the parts of living beings are also living beings, and this to infinity, is exactly Leibniz’s conception of natural machines, whose difference from artificial machines is only that they are ‘machines in the least of their parts’.67

De Buzon is right in pointing to the notion of a natural machine as the most pertinent novelty in the background of Leibniz’s comment on Pascal. He is also right to observe a similarity in the appeal to infinity by both. At the same time, there is a very significant dissimilarity in the role infinity plays in Leibniz’s and Pascal’s respective views of living beings. Whereas for Pascal the infinitely small derives from the divisibility of matter, for Leibniz, the infinity of a natural machine is related instead to the intrinsic unity and indestructibility of substances. According to Leibniz, the distinctive feature of a natural machine (in contrast to an artificial machine) is that it is not infinitely divisible. In fact, it is not divisible at all. Rather, I would argue that the infinite structure of a natural machine, produced by an internal law of generation, is what makes it an indivisible and indestructible unity. The unity and indestructibility of a natural machine is due to its internal law of development—in informing the change of its states to infinity, the law functions as a unifying principle as well. While the states change ad infinitum, the law remains one and the same. The law thus makes it

In a letter to Lady Masham from  Leibniz writes: ‘I define an organism or a natural machine, as a machine each of whose parts is a machine, and consequently the subtlety of its artifice extends to infinity, nothing being so small as to be neglected, whereas the parts of our artificial machines are not machines. This is the essential difference between nature and art, which our moderns have not considered sufficiently’ (GP iii. ). 66 See also Leibniz’s Fifth Letter to Clarke (arts. , , in AG –). 67 ‘Que les parties des êtres vivants soient aussi des êtres vivants, et ce à l’infini, est exactement la conception des machines de la nature, dont la différence avec les machines de l’art est que les premières sont “machines jusques dans leurs moindres parties” ’ (De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’, ). See also Considérations sur les principes de vie et sur les natures plastiques, GP vi. , and Smith and Nachtomy (eds.), Machines of Nature. 65

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infinite and one thing.68 In addition, infinity is also what makes a natural machine a divine machine, that is, a machine that cannot be composed or decomposed by humans but must be created or annihilated as a natural unity by God. As we have seen, Leibniz begins to articulate this conception of a natural machine in the New System of . Thus, we are now in a better position to see why this particular response to Pascal was not likely to come up earlier in Leibniz’s career, despite his long familiarity with Pascal’s work. Given this background, it should not surprise us that Leibniz would claim that Pascal did not see the full significance of infinity as a defining feature of living beings shortly after coming to define living beings through the nested structure ad infinitum of natural machines. One might wonder at this point what exactly the relation between the notion of a natural machine and that of a living mirror is. The term ‘mirror’ does not appear in the New System. Leibniz, however, comes close to implicating it in several passages in which he discusses the representative nature of the soul: This is what makes every substance represent the whole universe exactly and in its own way, from a certain point of view. . . . And since this nature that pertains to the soul is representative of the universe in a very exact manner (though more or less distinctly), the series of representations produced by the soul will correspond naturally to the series of changes in the universe itself. . . . Since every mind is like a world apart, self-sufficient, independent of any other creature, containing infinity, and expressing the universe, it is as durable, subsistent, and absolute as the universe of creatures itself. (GP iv. –/AG –)

The definition of a natural machine as a machine in the least of its parts implies a view of a living being as an infinitely complex structure of machines within machines to infinity. I called this feature a ‘nested structure’ that develops ad infinitum. Against this background, depicting a living being as a living mirror brings out a new feature of Leibniz’s view: the inner perception of its proper structure (of the infinitely small, in Pascal’s terms) allows a representation of the infinitely large, by virtue of the isomorphic relation between the inner structure of

I provide some further arguments in support of these claims in O. Nachtomy, ‘Leibniz on Nested Individuals’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –, and ‘Leibniz on Artificial and Natural Machines’. 68

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each living being and that of all others. Hence, the role of active mirroring derives from inner perception that would represent the external world. Perhaps this is why the figure of a mirror that already appears in the Discourse on Metaphysics (art. ) now becomes a living one, so that it comes to exemplify the very nature of a living being. It is worth observing that the notions of mirror and living mirror also come up in other texts circa . To see this, let us take a closer look at Leibniz’s letter to Sophie, written on  November .69 In this letter, we find Leibniz expressing many of the points just noted (while using the terms ‘mirror’, ‘living mirror’, and ‘machine of nature’), and strongly echoing some of the doctrines presented in the New System. After noting that some Cartesians have complained that he attempts to reestablish the view that animals are entitled to have souls (des ames) and that all bodies involve some vigor and life (de la vigueur et la vie), rather than being mere extended mass, he writes these famous lines: My fundamental meditations turn on two things, namely on unity and on infinity. Souls are unities and bodies are multitudes, but infinite ones, so that the slightest grain of dust contains a world of an infinity of creatures. And microscopes have revealed more than a million living animals in a drop of water. But unities, even though they are indivisible and without parts, nevertheless represent the multitudes, in much the same way as all the lines from the circumference are united in the centre of the circle, which alone faces it from all the sides even though it does not have any size at all. The admirable nature of sentiment consists in this reunion of infinity in unity [cette réunion de l’infini dans l’unité], which also makes each soul like a world apart, representing the larger world in its way and according to its point of view, and that consequently each soul, once it begins to exist, must be as durable as the world itself, of which it is a perpetual mirror. These mirrors are likewise universal, and each soul exactly expresses the universe in its entirety . . . 70

I need not stress, I believe, the striking similarity between this text and Leibniz’s comment on Pascal. A bit later in the same letter Leibniz notes that the secte Machinale has gone too far in reducing animals to machines, thus downgrading the majesty of nature. He then argues that if we had a better grasp of the infinite, we would have an altogether different idea of Nature, seeing its majesty rather than seeing it reduced to mere 69 70

A I. xiii. –. I use Strickland’s English translation of the letter in LS. Leibniz to Sophie,  November , A I. xiii. /LS .

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On Living Mirrors and Mites

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machines, or, as nothing more than a ‘workman’s shop’ (la boutique d’un ouvrier), as the otherwise clever author of the Entretiens sur la pluralité des mondes (Fontenelle) believes. Leibniz then continues: The Machines of nature are infinitely above ours. For besides the fact that they have sensation, each contains an infinity of organs, and what is even more marvelous,71 it is for that reason that every animal is resistant to all accidents and can never be destroyed, but only changed and strengthened by death, just like a snake sheds its old skin.72

The term ‘living mirror’ comes up at the very end of the letter: And it is in this that consists the advantage of minds [esprits] for which the sovereign Intelligence has made everything else, so as to make itself known and loved, multiplying itself so to speak in all these living mirrors that represent it.73

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DIVISIBILITY AND DISPARITY IN PASCAL VERSUS UNITY AND HARMONY IN LEIBNIZ

As we have seen, at this stage of Leibniz’s thought, the infinity of natural machines is not a principle indicating division, as in Pascal; rather, it is a principle of unity. This also explains why the term ‘monad’ is evoked in this context. And I say this without implying any commitment to the later connotations of the term in Leibniz’s later writings.74 As I have 71

My translation differs slightly from LS here. ‘Les Machines de la nature sont infiniment au-dessus des nôtres. Car outre qu’elles ont du sentiment, chacune contient une infinité d’organes; et ce qui est encore plus merveilleux, c’est par cela que chaque animal est à l’épreuve de tous les accidents et ne saurait être jamais détruit, mais seulement change et resserré par la mort, comme un serpent quitte sa vieille peau.’ (A I. xiii. /LS –). 73 A I. xiii. /LS . 74 Though the resemblance between Leibniz’s use of living mirrors here and his use of monads is quite striking, we need to be cautious about what Leibniz means by ‘monad’ in this context. Since our text dates from shortly after the publication of the New System it comes at the moment when Leibniz is just beginning to use the term ‘monad’ in his philosophy. When first introduced, it is unclear whether ‘monad’ is just another term for a genuine unity, in which case it could apply both to a corporeal substance and to a non-extended soul-like entity. The term ‘monad’ clearly indicates a genuine unity. I also think that the notion of a living mirror provides us with some clues as to how a genuine unity can be made compatible with infinity—that is, its having an infinitely complex structure that resembles that of the world. This line seems to be strongly supported by Leibniz’s remarks on (the union of) infinity and unity in the letter to Sophie cited above. 72

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argued elsewhere, the unity of a natural machine with its structure of machines nested one within the other to infinity derives from its inner source of activity—its entelechy, which is in turn informed by its internal law of development. Its internal law of development may also account for the infinity of a natural machine.75 Furthermore, Leibniz’s usage of infinity in his comment on Pascal does not only signal unity as opposed to divisibility but also harmony and connectedness as opposed to the disparity and disproportion emphasized by Pascal. The notion of a living mirror not only encapsulates the infinitely small but also allows a representation of the infinitely large by virtue of inner perception.76 As Leibniz writes to De Volder, a living mirror is a ‘concentrated world’, whose inner structure expresses the structure of the universe (GP ii. –/AG ). Moreover, a living mirror expresses the world through active perception whose role is to reveal the diversity of each such individual through its active principle. This, I believe, is why the notion of a living mirror is connected to that of entelechy, that is, the source of action (perception) in a substance is also what accounts for the mirroring: Entelechies must necessarily differ, that is, they must not be entirely similar to each other. Indeed, they must be sources [principia] of diversity, for different ones express the universe differently, each from its own way of viewing things; it is their duty to be so many living mirrors of things, that is, so many concentrated worlds.77

Leibniz’s use of infinity through the notion of a living mirror suggests that each individual being, no matter how minute, forms an integral part of a well-connected and harmonious system. Whereas Pascal exploits the infinite division of the organic world to stress our alienation from and incomprehension of the world surrounding us, in Leibniz, infinity serves to stress a sense of connectedness among individual substances, a sense of harmony and, for that reason, one might even say, a sense of belonging.78

See Nachtomy, ‘Leibniz on Artificial and Natural Machines’. For an interesting discussion of related issues, see Serres, Le système de Leibniz, –. 77 Leibniz to De Volder, June , GP ii. –/AG . For more on the connection between entelechies and living mirrors, see GP vi. . 78 ‘L’“homme, dans l’infini” se trouve “suspendu dans la masse que la nature lui a donnée entre ces deux abîmes de l’infini et du néant, dont il est également éloigné”.’ Pascal, Pensées, fragment ; cited in De Buzon, ‘Double infinité’, –. 75 76

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Indeed, for Leibniz, infinity need not make the world strange and incomprehensible to us. Rather, being made in the image of God, we are infinite as well, and should feel at home in a world in which every aspect bears the mark of an infinite creator.79

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CONCLUSION

Unlike most thinkers of the period (including Descartes, Malebranche, and Pascal), Leibniz ascribes infinity to created beings as one of their essential features. He rejects the sharp dichotomy between an infinite creator and finite creatures, as well as the epistemological imperative (explicit in both Descartes and Pascal) that, as finite minds, we cannot, and thus should not even attempt to, grasp the infinite. By contrast, Leibniz argues that the infinite need not be dreaded but should rather be investigated, so that the glory of God and its expression in the created world becomes more apparent and comprehensible. Thus, for him, created substances are imitations of their creator in this respect (infinity). The kind of infinity related to being is not quantitative, so creatures do not possess an infinitesimal magnitude.80 It is rather infinity related to a program of action that lasts for as long as creatures act. As Leibniz writes in the second version of his note on Pascal, . . . all these wonders are surpassed by the envelopment of what is (infinitely) above all greatnesses in what is (infinitely) below all smallnesses; that is to say, our pre-established harmony, which has only recently appeared on the scene, and which yields even more than (entirely) universal infinity, concentrated in the more than infinitely small and absolutely singular, by placing, virtually, the whole series of the universe in each real point which makes a Monad (or substantial unity), of which I am one; that is, in each substance truly one, unique, primitive subject of life and action, always endowed with perception and appetition, always containing in what it is the tendency to what it will be, to represent everything else which will be.81 79 At the same time, the kind of infinity Leibniz ascribes to created beings is not the same as the absolute infinity he ascribes to God. It is also not the (quantitative) infinity he employs in mathematics. I develop this point elsewhere (Nachtomy, ‘Infinity and Life’). 80 I argue for this in a forthcoming monograph. 81 ‘Mais toutes ces merveilles sont effacées par l’enveloppement de ce qui est au-dessus de toutes les grandeurs dans ce qui est au-dessous de toutes les petitesses; c’est-à-dire notre harmonie préétablie, qui vient de paraître aux hommes depuis peu, et qui donne

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Ohad Nachtomy

Leibniz goes on to say that this substantial unity, which is a primitive subject of life, or a ‘living mirror’, is like a ‘diminutive God’. It is like God in that it is a living, active being that will never cease to act and perceive. But, unlike God, it is a particular and thus limited expression of God, and its perceptions are often indistinct and confused. Leibniz’s response to Pascal thus clearly brings out the close and interesting relation he sees between infinity and living beings. On the face of it, Leibniz does not dispute Pascal’s description of living beings as infinite; he argues that Pascal did not go far enough in ascribing infinity to living beings. But, as we look more closely into this text and its implications, Leibniz’s turns out to be an altogether different sense and use of infinity. Had Pascal comprehended the true nature of the organic world, Leibniz thinks, he would see that infinity cuts more deeply into the nature of things—that it is the mark of living beings, which constitute the fundamental ontology of the universe. Furthermore, each living being mirrors the whole universe by virtue of being infinite itself, and it thus constitutes a living representation of the universe. Leibniz’s notion of a living mirror illustrates his view that each living being, whose inner structure develops to infinity, actively represents the infinitely large world. At the same time, it constitutes a principle of unity that stands above the infinite divisibility of matter. While the wonders of infinity invoke awe and astonishment, they also deserve admiration and contemplation and, I would go so far as to say, celebration. Thus, according to Leibniz, contemplating and studying the infinite will yield a sense of comprehension and belonging, rather than Pascal’s sense of fear, alienation, and despair.82 Bar Ilan University

cette même plus qu’infinité universelle, concentrée dans le plus qu’infiniment petit tout à fait singulier, en mettant virtuellement toute la suite de l’univers dans chaque point réel qui fait une Monade dont moi j’en suis une; c’est-à-dire dans chaque substance véritablement une, unique, sujet primitif de la vie et action, toujours doué de perception et appétition, toujours renfermant avec ce qu’il est la tendance à ce qu’il sera, pour représenter toute autre chose qui sera’ (De Buzon, ‘Lecture leibnizienne’, ). 82 Financial support for this publication was provided by grant / from the Israel Science Foundation. I would like to thank Rodolfo Garau, Liat Lavi, and Barnaby Hutchins for very useful comments and suggestions. Alexis May from the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton assisted with the final formatting issues. Earlier versions of the paper were presented at the ENS Lyon, the annual meeting of the North America Leibniz Society at Yale, and in Bran, Romania. I am very grateful to all participants in these seminars for their useful comments. The final version benefited from two perceptive referees for this journal.

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 Leibniz’s Ontology of Force JULIA JORATI

It is remarkably difficult to describe any aspect of Gottfried Leibniz’s metaphysical system in a way that is completely uncontroversial. Interpreters disagree widely, even about the most basic Leibnizian doctrines. One reason for these disagreements is the fact that Leibniz characterizes central elements of his system in multiple ways, often without telling us how to reconcile these different accounts. Leibniz’s descriptions of the most fundamental entities in his ontology are a case in point, and they will be the focus of this chapter. Even if we look only at texts from the monadological or mature period—that is, the period starting in the mid-s—we find Leibniz portraying the inhabitants of the metaphysical ground floor in at least three different ways. In some places, he describes them as mind-like, immaterial substances that perceive and strive, or possess perceptions and appetitions—analogous in many ways to Cartesian souls. Elsewhere, he presents them as hylomorphic compounds, each consisting of primary matter and a substantial form. In yet other passages, he characterizes them in terms of primitive and derivative forces. Are these three accounts merely different ways of describing the same underlying reality? Since Leibniz sometimes uses all three descriptions in the same text,1 he appears to have thought so. But it is not obvious how exactly this is supposed to work. There is no consensus on how to reconcile Leibniz’s different descriptions of the most fundamental entities

Winner of the  Marc Sanders Prize in the History of Early Modern Philosophy. 1 See e.g. ‘New System of Nature’, GP iv. f./AG ; ‘On Nature Itself ’ §, GP iv. f./AG f; letter to Bierling,  August , GP vii. . A note on translations: if an English edition is explicitly cited, translations are taken from that English edition, unless otherwise specified. In all other cases, translations are mine. Quotations include all italics from the original text, unless otherwise specified.

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in his system. Perhaps the most straightforward suggestion is that the first description is the most accurate: simple substances or monads are mind-like, immaterial substances that possess appetitions and perceptions. On that interpretation, Leibniz’s ontology is best understood as a quasiCartesian substance-mode ontology. Leibniz departs from Cartesianism mainly in claiming that all substances are mind-like and that being mindlike does not require consciousness. If this interpretation is correct, Leibniz’s description of monads in terms of primitive and derivative forces can be explained by pointing out that monads possess forces or active powers. In fact, Leibniz appears to hold that possessing active powers is a necessary condition for substancehood.2 The centrality of powers in his theory of substance might explain why he sometimes describes monads just in terms of powers, without mentioning that these powers are properties of mind-like substances. Moreover, we might be able to explain Leibniz’s use of hylomorphic terminology by pointing to the way in which what he calls the ‘law of the series’ of a substance mirrors some of the most central functions of substantial forms. Among other things, this law unifies the substance synchronically and diachronically, in addition to specifying the properties and activities that are characteristic of that substance. This chapter aims to throw a wrench into the interpretation just sketched. That wrench is a thorough and systematic examination of the ontology of Leibnizian forces as well as their relationship to monads. I will provide evidence that Leibniz’s monadological metaphysics is even more radical than it initially seems: his ontology is best understood not as a substance-mode ontology but as a force ontology.3 At the metaphysical ground floor, we do not find substances that possess force; instead, we just find forces. Indeed, each unified force constitutes what Leibniz calls a ‘monad’ or ‘substance’. This, at the very least, is a strand in Leibniz’s mature philosophy—and, I will argue, a prominent

2 See e.g. letter to De Volder,  April , LDV ; ‘On Nature Itself ’ §, GP iv. / AG f. 3 Maybe we could even call it ‘process ontology’, as Nicholas Rescher does (‘The Promise of Process Philosophy’, in Constantin V. Boundas [ed.], Columbia Companion to TwentiethCentury Philosophies [New York: Columbia University Press, ], –). Yet, I prefer ‘force ontology’ because Leibniz describes his ontology in terms of forces or powers, instead of processes. In fact, insofar as processes are temporally extended, Leibniz would presumably view processes as grounded in forces and thus less fundamental than forces.

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strand. In fact, central theoretical commitments push him toward a force ontology. Interpreting Leibniz as a force ontologist also opens the door for a new reconciliation of his three descriptions of the fundamental entities. This new reconciliation is at least as plausible as the reconciliation I briefly outlined earlier. Instead of understanding the three accounts as different ways of describing what are fundamentally substances and their states, my interpretation understands them as different ways of describing the forces that occupy the bottom level of Leibniz’s system. In fact, we will see that it makes good sense for Leibniz to describe the fundamental forces in these different ways—not just pragmatically, or to make his ontology seem less radical to his readers, but also philosophically. When he describes the fundamental entities as akin to Cartesian souls or hylomorphic compounds, he is not misdescribing them; rather, he is bringing out crucial features of his force ontology. I will show that, for Leibniz, force plays the role of matter and form as well as the role of substances and their states. The interpretation of Leibniz’s mature ontology that I will put forward is quite different from some of the interpretations that are currently most influential in the English-speaking world. For instance, it directly contradicts Daniel Garber’s account of how forces figure into Leibniz’s monadological metaphysics. This becomes clear in the following passage from Garber’s monograph Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad: . . . the primitive active and passive forces, the form and matter that in the earlier view have a fundamental metaphysical status, are, in the monadological view, understood as features of the perceptions of these monads. . . . In this way the notion of force, which seemed to be at the root of Leibniz’s metaphysics in the earlier texts . . . loses its foundational status: primitive force gets folded into the perceptual life of non-extended perceiving things.4

According to Garber, forces are not fundamental entities in Leibniz’s mature ontology; he interprets Leibniz as a straightforward substancemode ontologist. Several other interpreters appear to agree.5 In contrast, 4 Daniel Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), . 5 See for instance Bertrand Russell, who argues that we must understand Leibnizian substances as the subjects of predicates, or as the substrata in which predicates inhere (A Critical Exposition of the Philosophy of Leibniz, nd ed. [London: George Allen & Unwin, ], f.).

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some Leibniz scholars take the hylomorphic description to be most accurate.6 There are other interpreters who acknowledge that Leibniz’s ontology bottoms out in forces; I am not the first person to suggest this. A particularly explicit endorsement of this type of interpretation can be found in Martha Brandt Bolton7 and John Whipple.8 Moreover, Robert Adams claims in at least one place that primitive forces are the most fundamental items in Leibniz’s ontology.9 Yet, these other scholars who attribute a force ontology to Leibniz mention it only in passing. None of them, as far as I am aware, explore in detail what precisely the fundamentality of forces means for Leibniz’s metaphysics or how it fits together with Leibniz’s other claims about monads. These are the tasks that I aim to tackle in this chapter. My discussion will show that interpreting Leibniz as a force ontologist has far-reaching consequences: it requires us to reevaluate many other aspects of his monadology. For instance, it forces us to reconsider the status of perceptions and appetitions as well as the status of time. The claim that forces are the sole occupants of the metaphysical ground floor of Leibniz’s mature system may strike some readers as a non-starter. Antecedently, one might expect Leibniz to view forces as the properties of substances rather than what constitutes substances. Similarly, Marc E. Bobro and Kenneth Clatterbaugh appear to view primitive force as a property or attribute of monads (‘Unpacking the Monad: Leibniz’s Theory of Causality’, Monist,  [], –, at ); see also Alan Hart, ‘Leibniz on Spinoza’s Concept of Substance’, Studia Leibnitiana,  (), –, at . See e.g. Justin E. H. Smith, ‘Leibniz’s Hylomorphic Monad’, History of Philosophy Quarterly,  (), –. Interestingly, Jeffrey K. McDonough proposes a reading on which Leibniz’s ontology is a conciliation between Aristotelian hylomorphism and Platonic substance ontology (‘Leibniz’s Conciliatory Account of Substance’, Philosopher’s Imprint,  [], –). 7 ‘Locke and Leibniz on the Structure of Substance and Powers: The Metaphysis of Moral Subjects’, in Sarah Hutton and Paul Schuurmann (eds.), Studies on Locke: Sources, Contemporaries, and Legacy (Dordrecht: Springer, ), –, at f. 8 John Whipple, ‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’ [‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’], British Journal for the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at . It also appears to be (close to) Donald Rutherford’s view (Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature [Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature] [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ], ff.) as well as Jan A. Cover and John O’Leary-Hawthorne’s (Substance and Individuation in Leibniz [Substance and Individuation] [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ], ), though these three authors are less explicit about it. 9 Robert Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist [Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist] (New York: Oxford University Press, ), . 6

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In fact, it may seem that Leibniz needs a substratum of some kind— either a bare substratum or something more robust—in order to maintain the unity of substances. Without a substratum, the worry goes, monads would be like heaps or loose bundles of forces—an unacceptable consequence for Leibniz, who is particularly adamant that substancehood requires a robust type of unity. Yet, I will argue that Leibniz does not hold that substances derive their unity from a substratum that is not force-like. Instead, they derive their unity from a primitive—that is, fundamental or foundational—force.

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FORCE AND POWER

Without further ado, let us explore Leibniz’s discussions of the nature and ontological status of forces. Or, rather, with one further ado: it will help to start with a brief overview of the terminology that Leibniz uses to describe forces. This important task is difficult because—as so often—Leibniz uses many different terms without always making clear whether they are synonymous. He appears to use some of them synonymously in certain places but not in others. And, to make matters even more complicated, Leibniz acknowledges different types of forces. We will need to sort out some of those terminological and classificatory issues before looking more directly into the ontology of Leibnizian forces. In fact, this brings me to an important caveat: forces also play an important role in Leibniz’s physics but I will bracket those types of forces as far as possible. Instead, I will concentrate on the status of forces at the most fundamental metaphysical level. Among the terms that Leibniz uses most frequently to refer to forces are the French and Latin counterparts of ‘force’ (French: force; Latin: vis, sometimes virtus) and ‘power’ (French: puissance or pouvoir; Latin: potentia), which he often appears to use interchangeably.10 Yet, he also employs a number of other terms. Sometimes he refers to forces 10 In several passages, Leibniz refers to what he usually calls ‘primitive force’ and ‘derivative force’ as ‘primitive power’ and ‘derivative power’. See especially a letter to De Volder,  June , LDV f., where he speaks both of primitive or derivative force (vis) and of primitive or derivative power (potentia). For a French text that refers to primitive power (puissance), see a letter to Jaquelot,  March , GP iii. /WF . Earlier in the same letter, he uses the term ‘primitive force’ ( force) (GP iii. /WF ). For the equivalence between the Latin terms vis, virtus, and the French word force, see GP iv. /L .

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as ‘entelechies’ or ‘faculties’, which we will discuss in more detail soon. In a few other passages, he uses the French and Latin cognates of the English word ‘disposition’. For example, he says in one of the appendices to the Theodicy that any action of a soul must come from a disposition for acting (disposition d’agir) (‘Remarks on King’ §/GP vi. ).11 In other texts, Leibniz appears to equate dispositions with inclinations. For example, he says in one text that ‘we always follow the side where there is the greatest inclination or disposition [le plus d’inclination ou de disposition]’ (‘Conversation about Freedom and Fate’, Gr /LS ).12 Elsewhere, he seems to identify ‘inclination’ with ‘tendency’ (French: tendance; Latin: tendentia) and ‘force’.13 Finally, he sometimes uses the terms ‘habit’ (French: habitude), ‘effort’ (French: effort), and ‘striving’ (conatus).14 There are strong reasons for thinking that Leibniz sometimes uses these terms interchangeably, though he does not always do so. In fact, we will see that he appears to refer to primitive forces almost exclusively with the terms ‘entelechy’, ‘force’, or ‘power’, while reserving the other terms for derivative forces.15 11 Leibniz says something very similar in NE II.i., A VI. vi. : ‘There is always a particular disposition to action [une disposition particuliere à l’action].’ Translations of the NE are taken from Peter Remnant and Jonathan Bennett (trans.), New Essays on Human Understanding [New Essays] (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, ). Since this translation follows the pagination of A VI. vi., there is no need to give a separate citation. For Latin passages that use the term dispositio, see e.g. the short text ‘Mentes ipsae per se dissimiles sunt inter se’ (/?), A VI. iv. ; ‘Table of Definitions’, C , . For an additional French example, see Fifth letter to Clarke §, GP vii. . 12 Other examples include ‘Remarks on King’ §, GP vi. ; Monadology §, GP vi. /AG ; letter to Nicaise, , GP ii. /W . 13 Note, however, that Leibniz sometimes uses ‘disposition’ and ‘tendency’ slightly differently. See for instance NE II.i., A VI. vi. : ‘There is always a particular disposition to action [une disposition particuliere à l’action]. . . . And as well as the disposition there is a tendency towards action [une tendence à l’action]—indeed there is an infinity of them in any subject at any given time, and these tendencies are never without some effect’ (translation slightly altered). Here, Leibniz appears to reserve the term ‘disposition’ for the overall, all-things-considered tendency of a substance, and the term ‘tendency’ for the individual inclinations of that substance. Yet, he sometimes appears to equate these two terms; see e.g. NE Pref., A VI. vi. . There are also passages in which he uses ‘tendency’ and ‘inclination’ synonymously; see e.g. NE III.xi., A VI.vi. . 14 For a usage of ‘habit’, see NE I.i., A VI. vi. ; for ‘effort’, see NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. . Passages in which he uses conatus include T § and Leibniz’s notes on Aloys Temmik’s Philosophia vera [after ], in Massimo Mugnai, Leibniz’ Theory of Relations (Stuttgart: Steiner, ), . 15 Even ‘force’ and ‘power’ are not always used synonymously; see NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. .

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To understand the terminology better, it helps to look at Leibniz’s classification of forces. Fortunately, this also happens to be a good starting point for an exploration of their nature and ontological status. One of the most useful passages stems from the New Essays. Because I will be referring back to this passage several times, let us give it a name: ‘the classification passage’. Even though Leibniz does not always stick to the terminology he introduces in the classification passage, the typology of powers he provides there appears to be implicit in many other central texts. The passage starts with a general definition of ‘power’, followed by the first in a series of distinctions: If ‘power’ [puissance] corresponds to the Latin potentia, it is contrasted with ‘act’, and the transition from power into act is ‘change’. . . . Power in general, then, can be described as the possibility of change. But since change—or the actualization of that possibility—is action in one subject and passion in another, there will be two powers, one active and one passive. The active power can be called ‘faculty’ [faculté], and perhaps the passive one might be called ‘capacity’ or ‘receptivity’ [capacité ou receptivité]. (NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. )

Leibniz tells us here that in the most general sense, something possesses a power just in case it is possible for the thing to change in certain ways. Moreover, powers can be either active or passive because change requires an agent and a patient.16 For example, a mosquito has the active power of biting while human beings have the passive power of being bitten. Leibniz proposes to call active powers ‘faculties’ and passive powers ‘capacities’. Thus far, what Leibniz says about powers should be acceptable to mainstream Scholastic philosophers and, in fact, to many mechanists.17 Yet, the classification passage continues as follows: It is true that active power is sometimes understood in a fuller sense, in which it comprises not just a simple faculty [simple faculté] but also a tendency [tendence]; and that is how I take it in my theorizing about dynamics. One could reserve the word ‘force’ [Force] for that. And force is either ‘entelechy’ or ‘effort’ [Entelechie ou Effort], for although Aristotle takes ‘entelechy’ so generally that it 16 This is a common assumption in Scholastic philosophy; see Dennis Des Chene, Physiologia: Natural Philosophy in Late Aristotelian and Cartesian Thought [Physiologia] (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, ), ff. 17 In particular, this is very similar to John Locke’s description of powers (E II.xxi.), with which Leibniz is engaging in the New Essays.

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comprises all action and all effort, it seems to me more suitable to apply it to primitive acting forces [Forces agissantes primitives], and ‘effort’ to derivative ones. (NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. )18

In this portion of the passage, things get quite a bit more complicated and controversial. Leibniz introduces a distinction between a simple faculty and something stronger or fuller, which he proposes to call ‘force’ or ‘tendency’. And even though Leibniz does not say it here, it becomes clear in other texts that the latter is the kind of power in which he is most interested. In fact, as we will see later, he says in a few passages that simple faculties are not genuine powers at all. Force, in turn, can be either primitive or derivative, according to the passage; he calls primitive acting forces ‘entelechies’ and derivative acting forces ‘effort’. The diagram below captures the distinctions that Leibniz draws in the classification passage. In the remainder of the chapter, I will work my way through this typology of powers from left to right, exploring the types of powers distinguished by Leibniz as well as their ontological status. Simple faculty Entelechy/ primitive active force

Active power/ faculty

Power: the possibility of change

Tendency/force Passive power/ capacity/ receptivity

.

Effort/ derivative active force

PASSIVE POWER

Let us start with passive power and its relation to active power. First, we should note something that goes beyond the classification passage: Leibniz distinguishes between primitive and derivative passive powers, just as he distinguishes between primitive and derivative active powers. This becomes clear, for instance, in ‘Specimen of Dynamics’: ‘passive force is . . . twofold, either primitive or derivative’ (GM vi. /AG ). The text then goes on to equate the distinction between these two types of passive power with the Scholastic distinction between 18

I have altered the translation from the New Essays here.

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primary (or prime) matter and secondary matter: ‘the primitive force of being acted upon or of resisting constitutes that which is called primary matter in the schools, if correctly interpreted. . . . As a result, the derivative force of being acted upon later shows itself to different degrees in secondary matter’ (GM vi. f./AG f.; emphasis removed). We will examine primitive passive powers first and then turn to derivative passive powers. This examination is crucial for the purposes of this chapter, for two related reasons: (i) it is the first piece of evidence that Leibniz endorses a force ontology, and (ii) it reveals some important reasons for Leibniz’s repeated use of hylomorphic terminology. What, then, is primitive passive power? The fact that Leibniz identifies it with Scholastic primary matter in ‘Specimen of Dynamics’ is helpful. In the tradition to which Leibniz appears to be referring, primary matter is that which, when combined with a substantial form, composes a substance. Thus, Leibniz is borrowing hylomorphic terminology here. Of course, we must not assume that he is straightforwardly endorsing hylomorphism in this passage. Instead, he might merely be drawing an analogy between his conception of primitive passive power and the Scholastic conception of primary matter. The fact that he equates passive power with primary matter ‘if correctly interpreted’ already suggests that he may not embrace the traditional understanding of primary matter wholesale. Several passages reveal that Leibniz’s primitive passive power is analogous to some Scholastic conceptions of primary matter in at least two crucial ways: (i) it is the passive constituent of substances, and (ii) it does not possess any actuality independently of the active constituent of substances.19 In some texts, Leibniz adds a third characteristic that primitive passive power shares with Scholastic primary matter: (iii) it is that which makes the substance a material thing with physical properties, such as impenetrability and resistance.20 We will see later that once we dig deeper into (ii), the similarity is not extremely 19 The second point is not true on all Scholastic theories of primary matter, but it is true on some. See Maria Rosa Antognazza, ‘Primary Matter, Primitive Passive Power, and Creaturely Limitation in Leibniz’ [‘Primary Matter’], Studia Leibnitiana,  (), –, at ff. 20 This third point is not true for all hylomorphic theories. While some hylomorphists hold that only material substances possess primary matter, others hold that even immaterial substances possess primary matter. For a helpful discussion, see Paul Vincent Spade, ‘Binarium Famosissimum’, in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall ).

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profound. Leibniz understands primitive passive power as lacking actuality in a more radical sense than his Scholastic predecessors. The same applies to (i) and (iii): Leibniz’s understanding of the passive constituent of substances and the status of material things departs in fundamental ways from traditional versions of hylomorphism. Nevertheless, these analogies can help explain why Leibniz so often describes his ontology in hylomorphic terminology; they do point to genuine (albeit imperfect) similarities. To see that Leibniz views primitive passive power as the passive constituent of substances and as that which gives the substance physical properties, the following letter to Isaac Jaquelot is helpful: In all corporeal substances I recognize two primitive powers, namely entelechy or primitive active power, which is the soul in animals and mind in man, and which in general is the substantial form of the ancients; and also prime matter, or primitive passive power, which produces resistance. So properly speaking it is the entelechy which acts, and matter which is acted on [patit]; but one without the other is not a complete substance. ( March , GP iii. /WF , translation altered)21

Leibniz says here that primitive passive power and primitive active power together constitute a complete substance. Primitive passive power alone is not a substance. Moreover, their relationship is that of patient and agent. Finally, primitive passive power brings about resistance in the corporeal substance. The connection between primitive power and physical properties, like resistance, is interesting and important, but I cannot say much more about it in this chapter.22 The same is true for the relation between primary matter and secondary matter. All we need to know for my purposes here is that (a) Leibniz associates

21 Similar passages occur in ‘On Body and Force’, GP iv. /AG ; ‘On Nature Itself ’ §, GP iv. f./AG f.; a letter to Des Bosses,  March , LDB ; and a letter to De Volder,  June , LDV  and . For the connection between primitive passive force and resistance, see Leibniz’s earlier remarks in that letter to De Volder: ‘you ask for a necessary connection between matter (i.e., resistance) and active force. . . . [T]he cause of the connection is the fact that every substance is active and every finite substance is passive, and passivity is connected to resistance’ (LDV ). 22 For a helpful recent discussion of this issue, see Jeffrey K. McDonough, ‘Leibniz and the Foundations of Physics: The Later Years’ [Leibniz and the Foundations of Physics], Philosophical Review,  (), –.

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passivity in monads with the possession of a body, or with matter23 and (b) he wants to either ground the properties of bodies in forces at the metaphysical level or even equate them.24 My focus will be on that fundamental metaphysical level, which we can explore for the most part without taking a stance on the status of bodies, secondary matter, physical forces, and what Leibniz sometimes calls ‘corporeal substances’.25 Fully examining the relation between the metaphysical and the physical level would take us too far afield. Before examining the ontological status of primitive passive power and its relation to active power in more depth, it is worth pausing to note an implication of what we have seen so far. By identifying primary matter with primitive passive power and substantial forms with primitive active power, Leibniz appears to be endorsing an ontology in which forces or powers are the most fundamental entities. Substances consist of passive and active powers, and nothing else. This is the first indication that Leibniz’s ontology is a force ontology: at the metaphysical ground floor, we find only forces. In many ways, this is a radical move. Yet, it can be seen as a natural extension of traditional versions of hylomorphism. After all, some Scholastics describe primary matter as pure potentiality—that is, as passive power.26 Moreover, we will see later that it makes at least some sense to understand Scholastic substantial forms as active powers for particular kinds of activities. In this respect, Leibniz’s ontology is simply hylomorphism with a 23 See e.g. a letter to Rudolph Christian Wagner: ‘God alone is a substance truly separated from matter, since he is actus purus, endowed with no passive power, which, wherever it is, constitutes matter’ ( June , GP vii. /W ). 24 One helpful passage is from the draft of a letter to De Volder: ‘the primitive or derivative force that is conceived of in extension and bulk is not a thing outside perceivers but a phenomenon. . . . That which results from the passions of the perceivers . . . gives rise to the apparition of bulk, i.e., of the passive force of bodies. . . . [Y]ou will easily see from this that material substances are not destroyed but conserved, provided that they are sought in dynamism, . . . i.e., in the active and passive force of perceivers, not outside of them’ ( January , LDV f.). See also an earlier letter to De Volder: ‘matter is real to the extent that there is a reason in the simple substance for the passivity that is observed in the phenomena’ ( January , LDV ). 25 In fact, even commentators who resist idealist readings of the mature Leibniz can agree with (a) and (b); see e.g. Pauline Phemister, Leibniz and the Natural World: Activity, Passivity and Corporeal Substances in Leibniz’s Philosophy [Leibniz and the Natural World] (Dordrecht: Springer, ), . 26 Perhaps most famously, Aquinas understands matter as pure potentiality (e.g. ST I, q. , a. , ad ).

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twist—though the twist arguably takes Leibniz outside of the realm of hylomorphism. Despite the similarities between primitive passive power and Scholastic primary matter that we noted earlier, there is one way in which they appear to be quite different. It seems that Leibniz, unlike many Scholastics, does not view primitive passive power as the ultimate substratum of change or the fundamental subject of inherence.27 Instead, it appears to be a mere privation or limitation of primitive active force.28 Let us call this ‘the limitation reading’. If the limitation reading is correct, Leibniz is departing quite radically from hylomorphism: substances ultimately possess not two constituents, but only one. This means that his mature ontology is not genuinely hylomorphic. There is strong evidence for the limitation reading. First, there are passages that describe finite substances as consisting of an original perfection and an original imperfection, or of positive attributes and limitations. For instance, consider Leibniz’s claim in a letter to Andreas Morell that God is the primitive unity and that other spirits express God’s attributes to different degrees. In fact, he goes on, creatures are ‘varied according to the different combinations of unity and zero [l’unité avec le zero]; or rather of the positive with the privative, for the privative is nothing other than limits’ ( May , A I. xv. / LS ). This very Platonic-sounding text suggests that what Leibniz elsewhere calls ‘primitive passive force’ is merely a privation or limitation of further perfections.29 Leibniz confirms this elsewhere by closely associating activity with perfection and passivity with imperfection: he writes to Johann Bernoulli that ‘God is pure act [purus actus], since he is 27

This is what the balance of textual evidence suggests. Admittedly, in at least one text, Leibniz describes primary matter as a substratum. There, he talks of ‘primary matter or primary passive power, primary substratum, that is, primitive passive power or the principle of resistance’ (letter to Des Bosses,  March , LDB ). Interestingly, Leibniz here uses the Greek terms for ‘primary passive power’ and ‘primary substratum’. 28 Maria Rosa Antognazza convincingly argues for this (‘Primary Matter’), as does Shane Duarte, ‘Leibniz and Prime Matter’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –. See also Cover and O’Leary-Hawthorne, Substance and Individuation, , who appear to agree with Antognazza and Duarte. 29 Similarly, Leibniz says in an appendix to the Theodicy: ‘every purely positive or absolute reality is a perfection, and . . . every imperfection comes from limitation, that is, from the privative. . . . Now God is the cause of all perfections, and consequently of all realities, when they are regarded as purely positive. But limitations or privation result from the original imperfections of creatures’ (‘Summary of the Controversy’, reply to objection V, GP vi. ).

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most perfect. But imperfect things are passive’ ( December , A III. vii. /AG ). On what I take to be the most straightforward reading of this letter, Leibniz is claiming that if something is absolutely perfect, it lacks passivity, and if something is not absolutely perfect, it possesses passivity. In other words, imperfection is a necessary and sufficient condition for passivity. Combined with the evidence from the letter to Morell, this indicates that passivity just is imperfection or limitation. There are also passages that provide more overt support for the limitation reading by directly associating primary matter with limitations or privations. One of these passages is from Leibniz’s notes on William Twisse, which he appears to have composed in . There, when discussing the way in which created things are represented in the divine intellect, Leibniz says: He who knows all positive things also knows perfectly all relations and indeed all limitations. In fact, God’s knowledge of created things consists in this. . . . Positing [positio] or actuality [actus], and restriction or privation, are in things as metaphysical form and metaphysical matter.30 And thus, the matter of things is nothing, it is limitation; form is perfection. Indeed, any perfection that can constitute something complete, together with the exclusion of further perfection, is a creature. (Gr f.)

This passage is quite clear: a creature consists simply of a limited amount of perfection, that is, of a limited amount of activity or active power. Primary matter is not a genuine, additional constituent of substances; it is a mere nothing or limitation.31 A final text in which Leibniz describes created things as consisting of active force and limitations of active force—that is, of limited active force and nothing else—is a letter to Johann Christian Schulenburg: . . . boundaries or limits are of the essence of creatures, but limits are something privative and consist in the denial of further progress. At the same time it must be acknowledged that a creature . . . also contains something positive or

30 With the term ‘metaphysical matter’, Leibniz appears to be referring to primary matter, that is, matter as a metaphysical constituent of substances, as opposed to physical (or secondary) matter. A text from the mid-s confirms this: ‘Substances have metaphysical matter or passive power to the extent that they express something confusedly’ (A VI. iv. /L ). 31 Further support for the limitation reading comes from a letter to Des Bosses: ‘God . . . cannot deprive [a substance] of primary matter, for from this he would produce pure act such as he himself alone is’ ( October , LDB ).

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something beyond boundaries. . . . And this value, since it must consist of a positive, is a certain degree of created perfection, to which the power of action also belongs, which in my view constitutes the nature of substance. So much so that this value bestowed by God is in fact the energy or power [vigor, seu vis] imparted to things. . . . And this is the origin of things from God and nothing, positive and privative, perfection and imperfection, value and limits, active and passive, form (i.e., entelechy, endeavor, energy) and matter or mass. ( March , A II. iii. f./LS f.)

We could hardly have asked for more direct evidence in favor of the limitation reading. Leibniz states plainly that matter and passivity are mere privations, imperfections, or limitations; they are nothings. What is real in a creature is activity or the power of action; this positive constituent is limited, which means that there is passivity, but this passivity is merely ‘the denial of further progress’. Next, let us briefly turn to derivative passive powers. As we saw earlier, Leibniz associates them with secondary matter—that is, with mass or, according to one text, ‘matter as it actually occurs, invested with its derivative qualities’ (NE II.xxiii., A VI. vi. ).32 This type of matter plays a central part in Leibniz’s physics because it is the subject of motive forces and motions (letter to De Volder,  April , LDV ). As mentioned earlier, I will not be able to discuss physical forces in detail. Yet, there are reasons to interpret Leibniz as positing derivative passive powers at the metaphysical level of description as well. To see why, note that Leibnizian primitive powers are unchanging, though they have modifications that constantly change.33 I will argue later that these changing modifications just are derivative powers. If that is correct, it is plausible that there are changing modifications of primitive passive power at the metaphysical level. In accordance with the limitation reading, these changing modifications are the specific limitations or imperfections that are exhibited by monads at particular times. For instance, suppose that at time t, you are ten miles away from your 32 Sometimes, Leibniz describes secondary matter as ‘the organic machine, for which innumerable subordinate monads come together’ (letter to De Volder,  June , LDV ; similarly in a letter to Bernoulli,  September , LDV ). He also describes it as ‘the mass which makes up our body’ (‘Supplement to the Explanation of the New System’, GP iv. f./WF ). 33 See e.g. a letter to Masham,  June , GP iii. /WF ; letter to De Volder,  June , LDV . I will return to this topic in section  when discussing derivative active forces.

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house and thus perceive it very confusedly. At a later time t, you are standing right in front of your house, perceiving it much less confusedly. I propose that this change in the confusion of your perceptions between t and t is best understood as a change in your derivative passive power. It is not, after all, a change in your original limitation, or in your primitive passive power. The primitive power is unchanging, though it grounds the changing modifications, or the derivative powers. More specifically, your primitive passive power, or original imperfection, grounds the confusion or imperfection in your perceptions at particular times.34

.

ACTIVE POWER

Even though there is more to say about passive powers, what I have said so far is enough for present purposes. Let us now go where the real action is: active powers. The classification passage distinguishes two types of active power: simple faculties and forces. In that passage, Leibniz does not explain the difference between these two types; he merely says that forces are powers in a fuller sense than simple faculties. Luckily, he elaborates on this in other places. And the distinction turns out to be extremely important because it marks a difference between Leibnizian powers and Scholastic powers. One helpful passage concerning the distinction between simple faculties and forces occurs in the Theodicy: ‘the notion “entelechy” is not altogether to be scorned, and . . . it carries with it not only a simple active faculty [une simple faculté active], but also that which one can call “force”, “effort”, or “conatus”, from which the action itself must follow if nothing prevents it’ (T §). In a similar vein, immediately after saying that we need to ascribe force to material things, Leibniz writes in a  draft of his ‘New System’: By ‘force’ or ‘power’ [la Force ou Puissance] I do not mean the ability or the simple faculty [simple faculté] that is only a bare possibility for action and that, 34 See Donald Rutherford, who argues that Leibniz identifies primary matter, or primitive passive power, ‘with a monad’s propensity for confused perceptions, or its representation of material things’ (‘Simple Substances and Composite Bodies,’ in Hubertus Busche [ed.], Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Monadologie [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, ], –, at ). That fits well with my interpretation.

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being itself dead as it were, never produces an action without being excited from outside. Rather, I mean something midway between ability and action [un milieu entre le pouvoir et l’action], something which involves an effort, an act, an entelechy—for force passes into action by itself so long as nothing prevents it. (GP iv. /WF ; translation altered)

In other words, the difference between simple faculties and forces proper is that the former require an external stimulus in order to be manifested, while the latter are manifested without a stimulus. Forces in the fuller sense are manifested whenever they are not masked, or prevented from being manifested. In a Latin text probably written in the same year—that is, — Leibniz reiterates the distinction between bare possibilities and active forces: bare possibilities need to be stimulated from the outside, while active forces lead to an action without external stimulation, requiring merely the removal of an impediment. As a matter of fact, Leibniz associates the former with Scholastic philosophy: ‘Active force [vis activa] differs from the bare power [potentia nuda] familiar to the Schools, for the active power or faculty [potentia activa . . . seu facultas] of the Scholastics is nothing but a near possibility of acting [propinqua agendi possibilitas], which needs an external excitation or stimulus, as it were, to be transferred into action’ (‘On the Improvement of First Philosophy’, GP iv. /L ; translation altered). He associates the simple faculties or bare possibilities with Scholastic philosophy in a few other texts as well, and he contrasts that understanding with his own account, according to which no external stimulus is needed.35 What Leibniz probably has in mind when discussing simple faculties is the Scholastic doctrine that in order for something with an active power to start acting, it must be moved or acted upon by something that is already in act.36 Thomas Aquinas endorses this principle 35 See e.g. ‘On Body and Force’ (), GP iv. /AG ; ‘Reflections on the Advancement of True Metaphysics’ (), J.-B. Bossuet, C. Urbain, and E. Levesque (eds.), Correspondance de Bossuet (Paris: Hachette, ), vol. , /WF f.; ‘Reply to Objections’ (), Correspondance de Bossuet, vol. , /WF . 36 Leibniz appears to be partially wrong about Scholastic powers. Medieval Aristotelians typically acknowledge some types of powers that do not need stimuli; these powers are manifested whenever they are in suitable conditions. These include an acorn’s power to grow into an oak tree, for instance. However, Leibniz was also partially correct: the most perfect kinds of powers, such as the powers of rational souls, do indeed need stimuli, according to many medieval Aristotelian views. (I thank Stephan Schmid for pointing this out.)

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explicitly in several places. In one passage, he says that ‘everything that is at one time an agent actually, and at another time an agent in potentiality, needs to be moved by a mover’.37 Leibniz appears to reject that understanding of powers. As he says in the New Essays, ‘[t]rue powers are never simple possibilities; there is always some tendency and action’ (NE II.i., A VI. vi. ).38 This means that the third level of my diagram represents not the distinction between two different kinds of active power but rather the distinction between two different accounts of active power. Leibniz ultimately embraces only one of these accounts; he denies that a simple faculty is a genuine kind of power. Why would Leibniz think that genuine powers must be something more than simple faculties? One reason might be that, for him, substances do not interact. When a substance actualizes a power, nothing outside of the substance can be required as a stimulus.39 But why could not something inside of that same substance serve as the stimulus? After all, that is how medieval philosophers typically understand immanent causation in the human mind: one faculty acts on another, moving the other from potency to act. Leibniz does not say explicitly, in any text that I have encountered, why he rejects that picture. One possible explanation is his skepticism about treating mental faculties as separate entities that can act on one another. As he puts it in one place, ‘Faculties [of the soul] . . . do not act; rather, substances act through faculties’ (NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. ).40 If talking about a faculty’s

For references to texts by Thomas Aquinas in which he endorses that doctrine about the powers of rational souls, see footnote . 37 See e.g. ST I–II, q. , a.  c.; In Physic., lib. , l. , n. ; In Physic., lib. , l. , n. ; De Principiis Naturae, ch. . 38 See also NE II.i., A VI. vi. : ‘faculties without some act—in short, the pure powers [pures puissances] of the Schoolmen—are also mere fictions, unknown to nature and obtainable only by abstraction. For where will one ever find in the world a faculty consisting in sheer power [seule puissance] without performing any act?’ 39 God’s concurrence is of course required, but presumably that should not be considered a stimulus. 40 In fact, there are good reasons to interpret Leibniz as holding that strictly speaking, only substances can act. For instance, he says in ‘On Nature Itself ’ that ‘everything that acts is an individual substance’ (§, GP iv. /AG ). Bobro and Clatterbaugh argue for this interpretation at length (‘Unpacking the Monad’, ). See also Marc E. Bobro, ‘Leibniz on Concurrence and Efficient Causation’, Southern Journal of Philosophy,  (), –, at ; as well as Stephan Schmid, Finalursachen in der frühen Neuzeit: eine Untersuchung der Transformation teleologischer Erklärungen (Berlin: de Gruyter, ), f. and f.

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action is merely shorthand for talking about the substance’s action, it may become problematic to talk of one faculty being moved by another. What activates a power of the soul would, ultimately, be the soul itself; the soul would move itself from potency to act. In effect, that would mean that the soul has the power to act without a stimulus. Another possible reason why Leibniz denies the need for stimuli is his concern about intelligibility: invoking merely a ‘near possibility’, as he thinks the Scholastics do, does not genuinely explain change. As he puts it in one of the texts in which he contrasts his own understanding of force with Scholastic powers: ‘Possibility alone produces nothing, unless it is put into action; but force produces everything.’41 There is of course nothing new about the complaint that Scholastic faculties are unintelligible, or do not genuinely explain anything; early modern philosophers are remarkably fond of complaining that Scholastic faculties are occult.42 What is interesting about Leibniz is that, unlike some of his most prominent contemporaries, he does not want to banish powers altogether; he warns against throwing out the baby with the occult bathwater. Clearly, he believes that his own account of powers avoids the problems that he attributes to Scholastic accounts. Unfortunately, Leibniz does not appear to tell us explicitly, in any text I have encountered, why he thinks that Scholastic powers are unintelligible while his own are intelligible. Some amount of speculation is necessary here. Perhaps his worry about Scholastic powers is the following: saying that x had the power to φ in the Scholastic sense does not fully explain why x φ-ed. Instead, we additionally need to invoke some other thing that caused or stimulated x to φ. In fact, a regress appears to be looming here: the thing that stimulated x to φ presumably must have had the power to stimulate x. Why did it exercise this power? We need to invoke another thing that stimulated it, and so on. This might be problematic even if the stimulation comes from inside the substance at every step. If this is correct, Leibniz may have thought that in order for forces to genuinely explain change, they must lead to an action without a stimulus. Reply to Objections (), Correspondance de Bossuet, vol. , /WF . For a helpful discussion, see Walter Ott, Causation and Laws of Nature in Early Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), f., ff., f. 41 42

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We have arrived, then, at a rough preliminary understanding of Leibnizian active forces: they are entities that lead to a change unless there is an impediment. Leibniz himself puts it this way in a French letter to Jacques Lelong: ‘By the Force that I bestow on substances, I do not understand anything other than a state from which another state follows, if nothing prevents it.’43 A similar definition occurs in Leibniz’s notes on Aloys Temmik’s Philosophia vera, composed some time after : he there talks of ‘conatus, or a state from which an effect follows, unless something prevents it’.44

.

PRIMITIVE ACTIVE FORCE

Last but not least, consider the final distinction in the classification passage: the distinction between primitive and derivative active force. Discussing derivative active forces will allow me to address the question of how we can reconcile Leibniz’s talk of appetitions and perceptions with his force ontology. But let us start with primitive active forces. Understanding what they are and how they relate to monads is crucial for my argument that Leibniz endorses a force ontology: it will reinforce my claim that Leibniz identifies monads with forces. Or, more precisely, it is strong evidence that Leibniz identifies monads either with primitive active forces or with a combination of primitive active and primitive passive force. This means that there is nothing at the fundamental metaphysical level except forces. I already presented some textual evidence that Leibniz identifies primitive active forces with substantial forms and entelechies. In case there are still lingering doubts, here is some additional evidence. Leibniz writes in a letter to Joachim Bouvet—a Jesuit missionary who traveled to China—that ‘the forms of the Ancients or Entelechies are

43  February , A. Robinet (ed.), Malebranche et Leibniz: relations personnelles (Paris: Vrin, ), . See also a reply to Bayle, where he says that by ‘force’, he means ‘the source of modifications within a created thing, or a state of that thing from which it can be seen that there will be a change of modifications’ (GP iv. /PT ). 44 In Mugnai, Leibniz’ Theory of Relations, . An almost identical definition occurs in one of Leibniz’s tables of definitions from the mature period (C ); see also a letter to De Volder,  April , LDV . For another French definition of ‘force’ along similar lines, see a letter to Remond,  November , GP iii. .

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nothing but forces’ ( December , A I. xiv. ).45 Similarly, he tells us in the ‘New System’ in : it was necessary to restore, and, as it were, to rehabilitate the substantial forms which are in such disrepute today, but in a way that would render them intelligible. . . . I found then that their nature consists in force. . . . Aristotle called them first entelechies; I call them, perhaps more intelligibly, primitive forces. (GP iv. f./AG )

Hence, Leibniz wants force to play a role analogous to that of Aristotelian entelechies and substantial forms. As already seen, Leibniz sometimes ascribes the role of substantial forms to active forces and the role of primary matter to passive forces. Together, these two types of forces constitute a complete substance. Hence, it makes sense that Leibniz occasionally identifies substances with passive and active forces. For example, he says in ‘On Nature Itself ’ that ‘the very substance of things consists in a force for acting and being acted upon’ (§, GP iv. /AG ).46 Similarly, in a text from the mid-s, Leibniz writes that ‘since everything that can be understood in substances reduces to their actions and passions, and to the dispositions that they have for that effect, I do not see that it is possible to find in substances anything more basic [primitif] than the principle of all that—that is, than force’.47 Leibnizian simple substances or monads, then, just are combinations of passive and active force; this is clear evidence that forces are the sole occupants of the metaphysical ground floor.48 Yet, I argued earlier that passive force is best interpreted not as a genuine constituent of substances but rather as a way of referring to the limitation in active force. Saying that a substance consists of primitive passive and active force just means that it consists of a primitive active force that is limited or imperfect to some extent. When God creates a monad, he creates a finite—and hence limited—active force; he does 45 See also a letter to Remond,  November : ‘the entelechy of Aristotle . . . is nothing but force or activity’ (GP iii. /W ). 46 The original Latin reads: ‘ipsam rerum substantiam in agendi patiendique vi consistere’. 47 Reply to Objections (), Correspondance de Bossuet, vol. , /WF , translation modified. 48 In fact, Leibniz says in several places that the nature or essence of substances is force. See e.g. a letter to Jaquelot,  February , GP iii. /WF  and a letter to Masham,  June , GP iii. /WF .

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not need to create anything additional. If that is correct, Leibniz identifies monads with active forces.49 In fact, there are texts in which he does this explicitly, which is further evidence for the limitation reading. First, consider the last sentence of the New Essays paragraph from which I took the classification passage: ‘Entelechies, that is, primitive or substantial tendencies when they are accompanied by perception, are Souls’ (NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. , my translation). Here, Leibniz is claiming that souls are at bottom entelechies, that is, primitive active forces.50 Other passages are even more direct about the identification of entelechies with monads. In the Monadology, for instance, Leibniz says, ‘[o]ne can call all simple substances or created monads “entelechies”’ (§, GP vi. /AG ). And we could scarcely hope for a more explicit text than a passage from the Theodicy, in which Leibniz refers to ‘the souls, entelechies or primitive forces, substantial forms, simple substances, or monads, whatever one may call them’ (T §).51 At bottom, monads just are forces—more precisely, they are the kinds of forces that do not require stimuli but pass into action all by themselves as long as there are no impediments. It is interesting to note that in some ways, Leibniz’s claim that substantial forms are simply powers is in the spirit of medieval Aristotelianism. For many Aristotelians, having a substantial form principally means having a particular set of powers or potentialities.52 Further, these Aristotelians explain the typical activities of a substance by reference to those powers. The following passage from Aquinas’s 49

Of course, if this were incorrect—that is, if primitive passive force were a further constituent of substances—it would not undermine my argument that Leibniz is a force ontologist. Monads would still be grounded exclusively in forces. 50 The fact that this text adds ‘when they are accompanied by perception’ should not bother us; other passages make it clear that all entelechies are accompanied by perception (see e.g. NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. ). Indeed, we will see later that perceptions result from active force. 51 See also a draft of ‘New System’, in which Leibniz says that force is that which ‘constitutes substance’ (comme le constitutif de la substance; GP iv. /WF ), as well as a letter to Jaquelot: ‘God gave the soul the power of producing its own thoughts. . . . Indeed, according to me, the nature of each substance consists in this force’ ( February , GP iii. /WF ). 52 To be sure, Aristotelians do not typically appear to identify substantial forms with powers. Yet, according to Des Chene, ‘the only “analysis” [of substantial forms] Aristotelianism was willing to provide was to describe the active powers associated with a form and the dispositions required for its reception’ (Physiologia, ). Powers are, it appears, the only aspects of substantial forms to which we have access. As a result, it would make sense for someone like Leibniz to identify them with powers.

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Summa Theologiae captures this nicely: ‘from the form follows an inclination to an end, or to an action, or to something of this kind. For any thing, insofar as it is in act, acts and tends towards that which is suitable for it, in accordance with its form’ (ST I, q. , a. c). For instance, possessing the substantial form of a human being means, in part, possessing the power for rational thought; possessing the substantial form of fire means, in part, possessing the power to ignite things and to move upward.53 Leibniz agrees: like medieval Aristotelians, he thinks that each substance has an essence or nature that specifies the ways in which that substance is naturally inclined or disposed to act; essences come with potentialities for action. Leibnizian primitive forces are of course far more specific than the substantial forms described by traditional Aristotelians: a primitive force specifies everything that will ever happen in the substance. Yet, in a way, his account is simply an extension of the Scholastic account.54 A few further features of primitive active force are worth mentioning, at least in passing. Some of these features constitute additional similarities with certain Scholastic accounts of substantial forms. First, each primitive active force remains qualitatively the same over time.55 This is important to Leibniz because it is supposed to ground the diachronic identity of substances.56 Moreover, each primitive force is mereologically simple,57 which is supposed to ground the substance’s synchronic unity.58 Furthermore, each substance is individuated by the unique infinite complexity of its primitive force.59 These features See e.g. ST I, q. , a.  c. and Summa Contra Gentiles ..f. See also Eleonore Stump, Aquinas (London: Routledge, ), f. 54 For a more detailed discussion of the similarities and differences between Leibniz and Aquinas, see Julia Jorati, ‘Monadic Teleology without Goodness and without God’, The Leibniz Review,  (), –, at ff. 55 I will provide textual evidence for this in section , when discussing derivative active force. 56 See e.g. ‘On Nature Itself ’ §, GP iv. /AG ; NE f; letter to De Volder,  January , LDV . 57 See e.g. T §; ‘Philarete and Ariste’, GP vi. /AG . 58 In a letter to De Volder, Leibniz says that his substantial forms are ‘the sources of action and unity’ ( June , LDV ). This is a further parallel with Aristotelian substantial forms: according to Des Chene, medieval Aristotelians typically understand substantial forms as the ‘ground of the unity of active powers’ (Physiologia, ); demonstrations of the existence of substantial forms were typically based on ‘the necessity of a unifying ground’ of powers whose effects we observe (Physiologia, ). 59 See e.g. T §; letter to De Volder,  June , LDV ; reply to Bayle (), GP iv. /PT . 53

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provide Leibniz with additional philosophical reasons to deny the existence of a substratum that is not force-like: primitive force makes such a substratum superfluous. Primitive force is itself the unchanging, unifying, underlying entity in which all changing states inhere; it also individuates substances, which is one role attributed to the substratum in some Scholastic theories. Let me just mention one final aspect of primitive active force, namely, its relation to what Leibniz sometimes calls the ‘law of the series’. One might wonder whether this law is a further ingredient in substances and whether it is at least as fundamental as primitive force. Leibniz discusses the law of the series most extensively in his letters to Burcher de Volder. Some of his descriptions of that law do indeed make it sound like an additional, fundamental ingredient of monads. For instance, here is how he explains the persistence conditions of monads to De Volder: The substance that succeeds is taken to be the same as long as the same law of the series, i.e., of the continual simple transition, persists that gives rise to our belief in the same subject of change, i.e., the monad. I say that the fact that there is a certain persisting law, which involves the future states of that which we conceive of as the same, is the very thing that constitutes the same substance. ( January , LDV )60

Here, the law of the series plays one of the roles that I have attributed to primitive force: it is a persisting, unchanging entity that accounts for the identity of substances over time. In fact, Leibniz tells De Volder earlier in the same letter that ‘nothing is permanent in [substances] except the very law that involves the continued succession’ (LDV ). In a prior letter, Leibniz even says to De Volder that the nature of the soul ‘consists in a certain perpetual law of the same series of change, which it runs through unhindered step by step’ ( April , LDV ). Moreover, Leibniz claims in a reply to Pierre Bayle that ‘this law of order . . . constitutes the individuality of each particular substance’ (GP iv. /PT ). Based on these passages, the law of the series sounds like an excellent candidate for a fundamental entity. Indeed, it threatens to usurp many of the roles that I have so far ascribed 60 See also ‘On Nature Itself ’, where Leibniz talks of an enduring and ‘inherent law’ in all substances ‘from which both actions and passions follow’ (§, GP iv. /AG ).

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to primitive force. What, then, is the relationship between the law of the series and primitive force? Leibniz’s answer is a simple one: the law of the series just is the primitive force.61 This becomes clear in a number of texts. He tells De Volder that ‘primitive force is like [velut] the law of the series’ ( January , LDV ; similarly on  April , LDV ). Moreover, in ‘On Nature Itself ’ he argues for the existence of ‘a soul or a form analogous to a soul, or a first entelechy, that is, a certain urge [nisus] or primitive force of acting, which itself is an inherent law, impressed by divine decree’ (§, GP iv. /AG f.; similarly in §, GP iv. /AG f.).62 According to these passages, the ‘law’ that Leibniz occasionally invokes is just another name for the primitive force (or vice versa). Sometimes Leibniz appears to find it helpful to describe the fundamental nature of substances as force-like; at other times, he appears to find it helpful to describe it as law-like. This should not be surprising: one important aspect of Leibnizian primitive force is that it makes it possible in principle to predict the entire series of changes that will occur in a monad. Changing states arise from the primitive force in a deterministic, lawful fashion. Talking about a law of the series is a helpful way to emphasize this aspect of primitive force. Yet, that is not the only central aspect of primitive force: its active nature is at least as important, and that aspect is not captured very well by calling it a law. Hence, ‘primitive force’ is the more accurate label for the entities at the fundamental level.

.

DERIVATIVE ACTIVE FORCE

What I have said so far allows us already to make sense of some of the ways in which Leibniz talks about monads. He identifies them with primitive forces because they are, at bottom, forces. Likewise, he calls primitive active forces ‘substantial forms’ because they do the work that Scholastic writers assigned to substantial forms: they specify the Several other Leibniz scholars endorse this interpretation as well; see e.g. Whipple, ‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’, ff.; Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, ; Cover and O’Leary-Hawthorne, Substance and Individuation, . 62 Interestingly, Leibniz says something very similar in notes on a reply of Foucher from : ‘The essence of substances consists in the primitive force of action, or in the law of the sequence of changes’ (A VI. iii. /L ). 61

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activities that are characteristic of a substance and endow the substance with powers to perform those activities. Primitive forces also serve as the principles of the substance’s synchronic and diachronic identity. My next task in this chapter is to explore the status of derivative active forces. The results of this exploration will enable us, in the final section, to reconcile the claim that monads are fundamentally forces with one additional way in which Leibniz often describes monads: as perceivers with appetitions. The first thing to note—which I already mentioned briefly when discussing derivative passive force—is that derivative forces change, whereas primitive forces do not. Leibniz writes to De Volder that unlike primitive forces, derivative forces are ‘continually found to be one way and then another’ ( June , LDV ). That is one important difference between primitive and derivative force. In fact, in several passages Leibniz argues from the observation that derivative forces change to the existence of an underlying, unchanging primitive force. In another letter to De Volder, Leibniz says that ‘[u]nless there is something in us that is primitive and active, there cannot be derivative forces and actions in us’ ( June , LDV ).63 Changeable forces, he insists, require some underlying unchanging force—that is, they require primitive force. The reason that Leibniz typically cites for this is the following: ‘everything accidental, i.e., mutable, must be a modification of something essential, i.e., perpetual’ (ibid.). Or, as he puts it elsewhere, derivative force must be ‘something modal, since it admits of change. But every mode consists of a certain modification of something that persists, that is, of something more absolute’ (‘On Body and Force’, GP iv. /AG ). That underlying, persisting thing must itself be active, Leibniz often points out, because there cannot be more reality or perfection in a modification than in that which it modifies.64 After all, for Leibniz, modifications are

63 See also an earlier letter to De Volder: ‘corporeal substances cannot be constituted from derivative forces alone joined with resistance, i.e., from vanishing modifications. Every modification presupposes something lasting’ ( June , LDV ). See also NE Pref., A VI. vi. ; T §; ‘On Body and Force’, GP iv. /AG . 64 If he is endorsing the more general principle that active entities cannot inhere in something that lacks activity, it is an additional reason for him to deny that there is a substratum that is not force-like. The substratum or subject of change which persists through changes would itself have to be a type of force.

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limitations.65 He sometimes uses shape as an analogy: derivative force is a limitation of primitive force just as shape is a limitation of extension.66 What precisely are derivative forces, then? Saying that they are limitations of some unchanging, underlying force—that is, of primitive force—is somewhat helpful but needs to be spelled out further. The analogy with shape might suggest that derivative force is a limited portion or proper part of primitive force. Yet, that cannot be entirely correct—primitive force is supposed to be mereologically simple. But perhaps something in the vicinity is true. Consider the following passage from a letter to De Volder: derivative force is the present state itself insofar as it tends toward a following state, i.e., preinvolves a following state. . . . But the persisting thing itself, insofar as it involves [involvit] all cases, has primitive force, so that primitive force is like the law of a series, and derivative force is like a determination that designates some term in the series. ( January , LDV )

In this context, thinking of primitive force as law-like is helpful: primitive force is the ultimate ground of the entire series of changing states and makes it possible, in principle, to predict all changes that will happen in the substance. It ‘involves all cases’. The primitive force is like a law or function that dictates (and even generates) the entire series of states. Now consider a substance at some particular time. The substance’s primitive force specifies not only the state in which the substance is at that time but also the states to which it is about to transition. Some aspect of its primitive force determines it to change in a particular way at that particular time. This aspect or determinate tendency, Leibniz appears to be saying, is the substance’s derivative force at that time.67 This fits well with what Leibniz says about derivative forces in other places. For instance, he tells us in ‘On Body See e.g. letter to Bernoulli,  November , A III. vii. /AG ; letter to Jaquelot,  March , GP iii. /WF ; ‘On Body and Force’, GP iv. /AG ; letter to De Volder,  June , LDV . 66 Texts in which he uses shape as an analogy include a letter to Bernoulli ( November , A III. vii. /AG ), a letter to De Volder ( June , LDV ), a letter to Jaquelot ( March , GP iii. /WF ), ‘On the Principle of Indiscernibles’ (C /MP ), and ‘On Body and Force’ (GP iv. /AG ). 67 This appears to be Donald Rutherford’s interpretation as well: ‘From the perspective of metaphysics, derivative forces are nothing more than the primitive force of substance, conceived as determined in some particular way’ (‘Leibniz on Infinitesimals and the Reality of Force’, in Ursula Goldenbaum and Douglas Jesseph [eds.], Infinitesimal Differences: Controversies between Leibniz and his Contemporaries [Berlin: de Gruyter, ], –, at ). In a 65

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and Force’ that ‘Derivative force is what certain people call impetus, conatus, or a striving [tendentia], so to speak, toward some determinate motion’ (GP iv. /AG ). Even though this passage is about physical derivative forces, these forces seem to be structurally similar to their metaphysical cousins: both are tendencies that a thing possesses at some particular time to change in some specific way. Understanding derivative forces as aspects or determinations of primitive force is compatible with the mereological simplicity of primitive force. Consider the following analogy: a computer has been programmed to display a series of numbers, one number at a time, starting with the number one and then generating new numbers by always adding two to the preceding number. In this analogy, the primitive force is the general disposition to display numbers in accordance with the rule that any new number equals the old number plus two. Arguably, this general disposition is mereologically simple: it does not have proper parts. Moreover, derivative force is analogous to the computer’s disposition to display a specific number. An example of such a disposition is the disposition to display the number nine. This specific disposition is one aspect of the general disposition to follow the rule. My suggestion is that Leibnizian derivative forces are limitations or determinations of primitive force just as the computer’s disposition to display the number nine is a limitation of its general disposition to apply the rule. At this point, there is clearly an elephant in the room: If derivative, changing forces are nothing but determinations of the underlying, unchanging force, does this mean that change (or succession, or time) is not real for Leibniz? Are monads, at bottom, static or timeless? After all, it may seem that the determinations or aspects of an unchanging thing cannot change. It is important to acknowledge the presence of this elephant. Unfortunately, I will not be able to do much more than that here. Getting to the bottom of Leibniz’s views on time and change would require a far more thorough investigation than I am able to provide in the remainder of this chapter.68 I can merely make a few brief and admittedly underdeveloped remarks. footnote, he is even more precise: ‘derivative forces . . . indicate a substance’s tendency to change at a moment’ (, n. ). 68

The status of time in Leibniz is controversial; see e.g. John Whipple (‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’), and Michael Futch (Leibniz’s Metaphysics of Time and Space [Dordrecht: Springer, ], ff.), who argue that monads are, at the most fundamental level, atemporal.

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First, an interpretation on which the fundamental entities are forces but on which there is no genuine change seems problematic, to say the least. As we saw, Leibniz defines forces in terms of change: genuine forces lead to a change unless something impedes them. They are dynamic entities. Hence, my interpretation provides strong philosophical reasons to view monadic change as real. Second, I believe that there are ways for Leibniz to hold that monadic change is real. The computer analogy illustrates how an unchanging force can give rise to real change: the program or rule is unchanging and explains the entire series of numbers that the computer displays. Yet, what the computer displays does genuinely change. At different times, the computer manifests different aspects of its general disposition. For example, the computer does not manifest the disposition to display the number  until it has finished displaying the number . Perhaps monads function similarly. The primitive force is unchanging and explains the entire series of changes. Yet, different aspects of the primitive force are manifested at different times. Leibniz’s account of force requires that whenever some aspect of the primitive force (that is, some derivative force) is not manifested, it is masked or impeded by something—presumably by the currently manifested aspect, because the manifestations of these two aspects are incompatible. For example, ten years ago you already had the disposition to represent the current state of the world. That is an aspect of your primitive force—it is always ‘pregnant with the future’, as Leibniz sometimes puts it.69 Yet, your disposition to represent the current state of the world was masked until just now. It was masked, presumably, by all of the representations of the intervening states of the world, which are incompatible with it.

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APPETITIONS AND PERCEPTIONS

Now that we have a better understanding of what derivative forces are and how they relate to primitive forces, let us investigate why Leibniz so often describes monads as mind-like substances that possess appetitions and perceptions. For Leibniz, perceptions are representations of 69 See e.g. letter to Des Bosses,  August , LDB ; letter to De Volder,  January , LDV .

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external things and appetitions are tendencies to change those representations. He insists repeatedly that these are the only types of internal modifications in monads; sometimes he even says that ‘the nature of a simple substance consists of perception and appetite’ (‘Metaphysical Consequences of the Principle of Reason’ §, C /MP ). He also maintains that monadic perceptions change constantly, expressing everything that happens in the external world. Can we reconcile this description of monads with a force ontology—that is, can we translate Leibniz’s talk of appetitions and perceptions into talk of forces? The relation between appetitions and forces is more straightforward than the relation between perceptions and forces. Hence, let us start with the former. Leibniz defines appetitions as a monad’s ‘tendencies to go from one perception to another’ (Principles of Nature and Grace §, GP vi. /AG ), or as the ‘action of the internal principle which brings about the change or passage from one perception to another’ (Monadology §, GP vi. /AG ).70 In one way or another, then, appetitions are supposed to explain the changes in monadic perceptions. When a soul goes naturally from pleasure to pain, for instance, this change can be explained by the appetitions of that soul. This of course makes sense, given that Leibniz denies the interaction of finite substances: any natural change in a monad arises from its own depth. Most plausibly, this means that all changes in a monad are explained by the forces that the monad possesses or to which it is identical. Importantly, each momentary appetitive state is infinitely complex; at any time, each monad has infinitely many different tendencies (see NE ; letter to Masson, GP vi. /AG ). It is worthwhile to pause here and note the terminology that Leibniz employs to refer to appetitions. He often uses the terms ‘appetite’ (Latin: appetitus; French: appetit) or ‘appetition’ (Latin: appetitio; French: appetition) interchangeably (‘Table of definitions’, C ). At other times, he reserves the term ‘appetition’ for imperfect, unconscious inclinations and contrasts it with ‘volition’.71 Leibniz also uses other In another text, Leibniz defines ‘appetite’ as ‘the endeavour of acting tending towards new perception’ (GP vii. /LS ); similarly in a letter to Bourguet,  August , GP iii. /L . 71 NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. . See also NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. ; NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. ; revision note (–) to ‘New Method for Learning and Teaching Jurisprudence’ (), A VI. i. /L , n. . 70

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terms to refer to or describe appetitions, namely, the French and Latin counterparts of the terms ‘tendency’,72 ‘inclination’,73 and ‘desire’,74 as well as the French term effort,75 and the Latin terms conatus76 and percepturitio.77 Some of these terms are useful for understanding what precisely appetitions are and how they relate to forces. In particular, the terms ‘tendency’, ‘inclination’, ‘effort’, and ‘conatus’ are useful because they strongly suggest that appetitions are forces of some kind. What is the relationship between appetitions and primitive forces? Because appetitions appear to be forces, one possibility is that a monad’s appetitions are identical to the primitive force that constitutes the monad’s nature.78 If that is correct, a monad at bottom simply is the collection of all of its simultaneous inclinations to transition to new perceptions. That would make at least some sense, because Leibniz claims that a monad’s appetitions, like its fundamental nature, explain the changes that happen in that substance. Yet, it turns out that the relation between appetitions and primitive force cannot be straightforward identity; it is more complicated than that. One reason for this is Leibniz’s obsession with preserving the unity of substances. If at the most fundamental level, substances were collections of appetitions, it would be hard to see how he can ascribe substantial unity to them.79 In order to possess unity, primitive forces must be simple; they cannot be collections of appetitions. Moreover, primitive forces remain the same over time, while appetitions are constantly changing: Leibniz holds that ‘there is in each soul a series of appetites and perceptions’ (‘Metaphysical Consequences of the Principle of Reason’ §, C /MP ). Talking of a ‘series’ of appetitions implies that appetitions, like

72

f.

Letter to Wolff, GLW ; letter to Remond, GP iii. ; letter to Bourguet, GP iii. /L

Reply to Bayle, GP iv. /WF ; Gr /LS ; ‘Causa Dei’ §/GP vi. ; NE III.xi., A VI. vi. ). 74 NE III.xi., A VI. vi. ; ‘Definitions’, A VI. iv. ; P. Beeley, ‘Leibniz on Wachter’s Elucidarius cabalisticus’ [Wachter], Leibniz Review,  (), –, at . 75 NE II.xxi, A VI. vi. ; NE II.xxi., A VI. vi. . 76 77 ‘Table of Definitions’, C . Letter to Wolff, GLW . 78 Nicholas Jolley appears to endorse this: he claims that ‘the physical forces in bodies . . . are grounded in the primitive force of monads, namely appetition’ (Leibniz [London: Routledge, ], ). 79 See John Whipple, who also discusses this problem (‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’, ). 73

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perceptions, constantly change. Hence, appetitions cannot be identical to primitive force.80 I propose that appetitions are not primitive but derivative active forces. After all, derivative forces are the changing modifications of primitive force and therefore a good place to fit appetitions—which are changing modifications—into Leibniz’s force ontology. The definition of ‘appetition’ from Monadology § supports this reading because it says that appetitions are the actions of the ‘internal principle’—that is, presumably, of the monad’s primitive force. Most plausibly, this means that appetitions are derivative active forces. They are limitations or modifications of primitive active force.81 A number of other interpreters agree; Paul Lodge, for instance, defines appetitions as ‘the momentary dynamism grounded in the enduring dynamic nature of monads’ (Introduction to LDV, xc).82 What about perceptions—in what way could they be grounded in primitive force? This is less straightforward because perceptions are not This also becomes clear in Leibniz’s  comments on Spinoza: ‘[Spinoza] improperly says that the striving [conatus] is the essence itself, although the essence is always the same and the striving [conatus] varies’ (Beeley, ‘Wachter’, /AG ). The type of striving Leibniz is talking about here seems to be the striving associated with the will—that is, a kind of appetition. 81 One text that at least initially seems to suggest otherwise is a letter to De Volder, probably from January : ‘I relegate derivative forces to the phenomena, but I think that it is clear that primitive forces can be nothing other than the internal strivings of simple substances, by which they pass from perception to perception by a certain law of their nature’ (LDV ). Here it does sound as if appetitions themselves are primitive forces rather than derivative ones. Yet, I do not think that this can be what Leibniz means. Perhaps when he says that monads pass from perception to perception by primitive forces, he does not mean to say that the primitive forces do this immediately, but rather that they do so through their modifications, that is, through derivative forces or appetitions. 82 Donald Rutherford (‘Leibniz on Spontaneity’, in Donald Rutherford and Jan A. Cover [eds.], Leibniz: Nature and Freedom [Oxford: Oxford University Press, ], –, at ), Robert Adams (Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, ), and Mark Kulstad (‘Appetition in the Philosophy of Leibniz’, in Albert Heinekamp, Wolfgang Lenzen, and Martin Schneider [eds.], Mathesis Rationis: Festschrift für Heinrich Schepers [Munster: Nodus, ], –, at ) also think that appetitions are best understood as derivative active forces. Phemister disagrees, however: she claims that even though perceptions and appetitions are modifications of primitive forces, they are not what Leibniz calls derivative forces; instead, she claims, Leibniz uses the terms ‘derivative force’ exclusively for the forces attributed to bodies (Leibniz and the Natural World, , cf. ). If that were true, it would not undermine my interpretation because appetitions are still modifications of primitive force—even if Leibniz never calls them ‘derivative forces’. Yet, as McDonough shows, Leibniz does appear to use the term ‘derivative force’ for metaphysical forces in some texts (‘Leibniz and the Foundations of Physics’, ). See e.g. LDV . 80

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obviously force-like.83 They are representational states, expressing the external world. Of course, perceptions are closely connected with appetitions—for instance, a mouse’s desire to run away from an approaching cat is closely related to its perceptions of that cat. Yet, perceptions are not themselves tendencies. Or, more cautiously—since some interpreters view appetitions as aspects of perceptions84—they are more than tendencies toward an expression of a future state of the world; they are also representations of the current state. Hence, even if a perception and the corresponding appetition are ultimately one monadic state, that state possesses at least one aspect that is not force-like. There are indications that Leibniz takes perceptions to be grounded in forces—as he must, if he is indeed a force ontologist. In the ‘New System’, for instance, he claims that the nature of substantial forms ‘consists in force, and that from this there follows something analogous to sensation and appetite’ (GP iv. f./AG ). Entities that are ‘analogous to sensation’—that is, perceptions—are here described as following from the force that constitutes the nature of substantial forms. This text does not explain how exactly perceptions follow from force. Yet, here is one possibility, based on what we have learned about Leibnizian forces so far: perhaps perceptions are not themselves forces, but they are the states at which derivative forces aim. This would make sense, because when forces are manifested, they must do something, that is, lead to some change. Moreover, we saw that Leibniz defines appetitions—which are derivative forces—as the tendencies toward new perceptions. On this interpretation, perceptions are not themselves force-like, but they are grounded in forces, or result from forces. Derivative forces constantly lead to new perceptions, each of which is an internal variety in the monad that represents the current state of the external world.

83 This claim is supported by ‘On the Principle of Indiscernibles’, a short Latin text probably composed in the late s: ‘two intrinsic denominations are required, a power of transition and that to which the transition is made. In what this consists, no one has yet explained. It must be something other than active force’ (C /MP ). 84 See e.g. Robert McRae, Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, ), ; Whipple, ‘The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances’, , n. ; Martha Brandt Bolton, ‘Leibniz’s Theory of Cognition’, in Brandon Look (ed.), The Continuum Companion to Leibniz (London: Continuum, ), –, at .

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Yet, there is something problematic about the suggestion that I just sketched:85 since perceptions are changing states, they must ultimately be modifications of something unchanging, for the reasons mentioned earlier. If Leibniz is a force ontologist, the only candidate for this unchanging, underlying thing is primitive force. But if perceptions are modifications of primitive force, how could they fail to be forcelike? In one of his replies to Pierre Bayle, Leibniz makes an intriguing suggestion about the relationship between forces and perceptions: the atom (as it is assumed to be, although there is no such thing in nature), though it has parts, has nothing which causes some variety in its tendency, because we assume that its parts do not change their relations. The soul, on the other hand, though entirely indivisible, involves a composite tendency, that is to say, a multitude of present thoughts, each of which tends to a particular change according to what it involves and what is found in it at the time. (GP iv. /L , emphasis added)

This passage appears to identify the ‘composite tendency’ that a soul exhibits at a particular time with the soul’s ‘multitude of present thoughts’ and their associated tendencies to change. The term ‘thought’ is clearly used as a synonym for ‘perception’ in this text. Hence, Leibniz appears to suggest that perceptions are themselves tendencies, which would mean that they are force-like after all. There is another way to understand the passage from the reply to Bayle, however: instead of identifying perceptions with tendencies, perhaps Leibniz merely identifies perceptions with a feature of the composite tendency that a soul exhibits at a particular time. More specifically, perhaps he identifies perceptions with the structure of this infinitely complex momentary tendency. After all, for Leibniz, perceptions are ultimately nothing but the variety in a simple thing that has a particular kind of correspondence—an isomorphism, more precisely—to variety outside of the simple thing. Monads perceive the external, physical world by exhibiting an internal variety that is isomorphic to the variety of the external world.86 The passage from I thank Don Rutherford for raising this worry. See e.g. ‘Metaphysical Consequences’ §, C /MP f.; letter to Wagner,  June , GP vii. /W ; letter to Bourguet,  August  GP iii. /L . See Alison Simmons for a more detailed discussion of Leibnizian perception as an isomorphism (‘Changing the Cartesian Mind: Leibniz on Sensation, Representation and Consciousness’, 85 86

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Leibniz’s reply to Bayle appears to say that this internal variety just is the variety inherent in the composite tendency or force. If that is correct, the perception of a monad at some time just is the structure or complexity of its derivative force at that time. This structure constantly changes, always representing the present state of the external world. That would allow us to understand how perceptions can be modifications of force even though they are not themselves forces. A multiplicity of forces can be structured in complex ways, and this structure is a modification of the forces without itself being a force. By way of analogy, imagine three children fighting over a stuffed animal; each child is pulling the toy in a particular direction. These forces form a pattern that we could represent with a vector diagram. This pattern, in turn, could be isomorphic to some other object. For instance, the vector diagram could have the shape of a triangle. Hence, we could say that the forces in the stuffed animal represent a triangle. Of course, this analogy is imperfect because unlike stuffed animals, monads are immaterial and unextended. The structure of monadic forces must be a non-spatial structure. Yet, given how Leibniz defines ‘perception’, he is clearly committed to the possibility of isomorphism between non-spatial structures or varieties and the world of bodies that monads perceive. On this proposal, both perceptions and appetitions are modifications of primitive force. Yet, perceptions and appetitions are not identical to each other. Rather, they are two different aspects of each manifestation of primitive force. Saying that a monad at time t possesses an appetite for x simply means that the primitive force’s manifestation at t strives toward x. In other words, the tendency toward x, which is a determination of the monad’s primitive force, is manifested at t. Similarly, saying that at time t the monad perceives y simply means that the primitive force’s manifestation at t is structured in a way that is isomorphic to y. In other words, the structure exhibited by the infinitely

Philosophical Review,  [], –, at ff.). See also Larry Jorgensen, ‘Leibniz on Perceptual Distinctness, Activity, and Sensation’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –; Chris Swoyer, ‘Leibnizian Expression’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  (), –, at f.; Mark Kulstad, ‘Leibniz’s Conception of Expression’, Studia Leibnitiana,  (), –, at f.; Mark Kulstad, ‘Leibniz on Expression: Reflections after Three Decades’, in Herbert Breger, Jürgen Herbst, and S. Erdner (eds.), Einheit in der Vielheit: Vorträge; VIII. Internationaler Leibniz-Kongress, Hannover, . bis . Juli  (Hannover: Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Gesellschaft, ), Vol. , –, at ff.

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complex derivative force at t mirrors the structure of y. Yet, importantly, the structure of the derivative force, in virtue of which it represents y, is not identical to the strivings of this derivative force. The derivative force has two distinct properties: it is structured in a particular way and it tends toward a new structure. On the current proposal, the former property is a perceptual state, the latter an appetitive state. Moreover, the former property is not force-like while the latter is force-like.

.

CONCLUSION

I have not answered nearly all of the important questions about Leibnizian forces in this chapter. Yet, I have provided a rough account of some intriguing features of these forces that interpreters have largely neglected. First of all, Leibnizian forces pass into action, or are manifested, without needing a stimulus. Second, forces are fundamental; they are the sole inhabitants of the ground floor of Leibniz’s mature ontology. Monads do not have forces, strictly speaking—they are forces. At the most fundamental level, we find primitive forces, and each unified and simple primitive force is a monad. Moreover, primitive passive force is not a genuine constituent of substances but a mere privation or limitation. When Leibniz ascribes primitive passive force to a monad, he is merely referring to the limitation in the monad’s primitive active force. Finally, derivative forces are the changing modifications of primitive force; they are aspects of the primitive force that are manifested successively and therefore constitute a series of modifications. Interpreting Leibniz as a force ontologist has far-reaching consequences. Among other things, it requires us to reconsider the status of time in Leibniz’s system and to revise our understanding of appetitions and perceptions. Though I was not able to explore those consequences fully, I have sketched an interpretation on which it makes sense to talk of the changing modifications of an unchanging, primitive force. Likewise, I proposed to understand appetitions and perceptions as grounded in primitive force. Appetitions are the strivings exhibited by derivative forces—that is, they are tendencies toward a particular change. In contrast, perceptions are the structures or patterns of the derivative forces. Hence, we can translate Leibniz’s talk about

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appetitions and perceptions into talk about forces. That also enables us to understand why Leibniz sometimes finds it useful to describe monads as mind-like substances that perceive and strive: monads are indeed mind-like insofar as they are forces that produce representations of the external world and tend toward new representations. Because these forces also play many of the roles that Scholastic substantial forms were supposed to play, it furthermore makes sense for Leibniz to describe his ontology in hylomorphic terms. Each of Leibniz’s three descriptions of monads—as mind-like substances, as hylomorphic compounds, and as forces—is helpful in its own way, even though the last one captures the fundamental nature of monads the best.87 Ohio State University

87 I thank the participants of the workshop ‘Exploring Dispositions: Contemporary and Historical Perspectives’ (Humboldt University Berlin, March ), the  New England Colloquium in Early Modern Philosophy at Yale, and the Ohio State Modern Philosophy Workshop for enormously helpful feedback on earlier drafts of this chapter. In particular, I thank Christian Barth, Michael Della Rocca, Lisa Downing, Anna Marmodoro, Dominik Perler, Stephan Schmid, Lisa Shabel, Barbara Vetter, and Ken Winkler. I also thank Don Rutherford and Dan Garber for their insightful comments.

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 Leibniz on Human Finitude, Progress, and Eternal Recurrence: The Argument of the ‘Apokatastasis’ Essay Drafts and Related Texts DAVID FORMAN

In a draft essay from around , Leibniz argues that because humanity can express only a finite number of unique statements, it will eventually run out of new things to say. From this, Leibniz draws the further conclusion that if humanity lasts long enough, ‘there must also be a time when the same deeds would return and when nothing would be done that had not been done before, for deeds provide matter for speech’ (F ). This is a remarkable conclusion, its conditional formulation notwithstanding: it recalls the cyclical cosmology, defended by ancient Stoics and Platonists, in which future world ages will be indistinguishable from the present one. And far from distancing this conclusion from such ancient antecedents, Leibniz invites us to consider it as their rehabilitation: ‘Indeed, there would necessarily be certain periods like the Platonic year, such that in the course of one age exactly the same things would be done, as far as the senses are concerned, as were done before in another age’ (F –). One reason that this apparent rehabilitation of an ancient cyclical cosmology is remarkable is that it stands in such obvious conflict with the sacred history and prophecy contained in Christian Scripture, which contains several unique events: for example, the fall of mankind into corruption, the incarnation of God in the person of Jesus, and the redemption of the elected in the world to come after the destruction of the present world. Augustine of Hippo bitterly condemns the doctrine of periodic cycles defended by ‘physicists’ and Platonists along precisely these lines.1 But such a cyclical cosmology stands in tension not merely with 1 Concerning the City of God against the Pagans [City of God ], trans. H. Bettenson (London: Penguin Books, ), book , chapter .

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revealed religion, but also with the natural religion at the core of Leibniz’s own philosophy. The capstone of this natural religion is the doctrine that the virtuous may hope for a better life in the next world as recompense for the afflictions of this life. This hope will be dashed if the next world is an exact repetition of this one, because then there obviously cannot be any aspect of it that is better.2 All of this raises the reasonable suspicion that Leibniz cannot seriously entertain his own conclusion. This suspicion is reinforced by the fact that Leibniz seems to have the resources to quickly dispense with the conclusion and hence with the danger to piety it represents: according to the principle of the identity of indiscernibles, no two states of the world, let alone two entire world ages, could be truly identical.3 However, it would be a mistake to think that the impossibility of any strictly or metaphysically identical returns can defuse the explosive danger posed by the argument. If it were suggested to a Christian believer that future world ages will be indistinguishable from the present one, such that all the events of an alleged sacred history in our world-age will occur again and again, it would scarcely reassure him to be told that the reoccurrence of these events will not be absolutely indistinguishable from the events relayed in Scripture, but only indistinguishable to us. In short, nearly exact returns seem to have equally heretical implications as exact ones. But what about Leibniz’s commitment to a more general hope for a better and thus different future life? While a cosmology of perfectly exact returns would be straightforwardly inconsistent with such a hope for the future, a cosmology of nearly exact returns does not obviously undermine such a hope insofar as that hope does not include any specific historical events such as those promised in Christian revelation. And this fact gives us reason to take Leibniz’s argument seriously rather than as a reductio or idle thought experiment—even if it is far from clear at the outset how such a cosmology could, in fact, answer to our hope for a better future. 2

Augustine opposes the cyclical cosmology on such grounds as well. He asks regarding such views: ‘how can there be true bliss, without any certainty of its eternal continuance, when the soul in its ignorance does not know of the misery to come?’ (City of God, .). 3 Di Bella thus says that the conclusion ‘flies in the face’ of the identity of indiscernables. See Stefano Di Bella, The Science of the Individual: Leibniz’s Ontology of Individual Substance [The Science of the Individual] (Dordrecht: Springer, ), –. Also see note , below.

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The first section of the chapter begins this task by examining the argument that Leibniz presents in the essay ‘De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine’ (ca. ) for the conclusion that humanity is capable of only a finite number of truths. Starting from the premise that all human knowledge can be expressed with the letters of the alphabet, Leibniz reasons that since there are only a finite number of unique letter-strings of a readable length, there are only a finite number of statements and hence truths that could be expressed by humanity. By way of illustrating the nature of this human cognitive finitude, he adds that, unless human nature itself is transcended, humanity will of necessity eventually exhaust all that it has to say. The second section of the chapter examines the two texts (from ca. –) in which Leibniz extends this conclusion regarding the necessary exhaustion of human linguistic expression to a further conclusion regarding the exhaustion of unique ways one could lead a human life. Leibniz presents this conclusion as a version of the ancient doctrine that the same lives will return to perform the same deeds in each iteration of the world age measured by the great ‘platonic year’. But, in keeping with the aim of the essay ‘De l’horizon’, the idea of the ‘platonic year’ serves more as a vivid illustration of human finitude than as a cosmological thesis. The third section turns to the fuller development of this line of thought in the two ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts (ca. ). Contrary to his own suggestion in the first draft, Leibniz can establish only that some history or other will return in the future; he cannot establish that our own life or world age will return. The fourth section of the paper describes how Leibniz brings the argument closer to that conclusion in the second draft by adding a metaphysical principle of interconnection: if something returns, then everything must return. The argument remains inconclusive, however, since we cannot establish whether there is a perfect interconnection among things at any finite level of description. The fifth and final section examines Leibniz’s concluding suggestion in the drafts that this account of platonic periods is consistent with an imperceptible progress of minds to infinity. It is here that we can see the ultimate import of Leibniz’s meditation on the apokatastasis and platonic year: it is a reminder that the fact that we have general metaphysical reasons for supposing that the future will hold something

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better does not imply that such progress is one we could actually experience or even imagine.

. THE FINITE NUMBER OF ENUNCIABLE TRUTHS IN ‘DE L’HORIZON DE LA DOCTRINE HUMAINE’ OF  Leibniz is led to the thought of a cyclical cosmology not through a direct consideration of physical or metaphysical principles, but rather, indirectly, through a consideration of the nature and limits of human knowledge. The thought arises, in particular, from a reflection on the finite number of possible truths that could be expressed by means of signs and thus that could fall within the scope of possible human understanding or science. Leibniz first explores the implications of calculating an upper bound to the number of truths in a draft essay from around  entitled ‘De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine’ (‘On the Horizon of Human Knowledge’) (F –).4 We also have a shorter and presumably later restatement of the main principles and conclusions of the ‘horizon’ argument in French (‘Calculability’/F –)5 and what looks to be a still later fragment in Latin that reframes the argument in a way that anticipates his later consideration of a cyclical cosmology (F –). Comparing his combinatory method in these texts to Archimedes’s Sand Reckoner (F ; F /‘Calculability’, ; cf. F , ), Leibniz reasons that since all elements of human knowledge are composed of sign-strings of finite length, and since there is also a finite number of possible strings of any given finite length, there is also an upper bound to the number of truths that could be included in the totality of human knowledge. Leibniz’s argument takes the following general shape:

4 Fichant places this essay in the context of prior seventeenth-century attempts to determine the number of truths. See Michel Fichant, ‘Postface’ [‘Postface’], in F – at –. Also see Philip Beeley, ‘Leibniz on the Limits of Human Knowledge’, Leibniz Review,  (), –, at ; and Wolfgang Hübner, ‘Die notwendige Grenze des Erkenntnisfortschritts als Konsequenz der Aussagenkombinatorik nach Leibniz’ unveröffentlichtem Traktat “De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine” ’ [‘Die notwendige Grenze’], Studia Leibnitiana, Suppl. Vol.  (), –, at , n. . 5 Translation from P. Beeley, ‘On the Calculability of the Number of All Possible Truths’ [‘Calculability’], The Leibniz Review,  (), –.

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. ‘[A]ll human knowledge can be expressed by the letters of the alphabet’ (F /‘Calculability’, ; cf. ‘De l’horizon’, F –). (Leibniz supposes, to begin with, a -letter alphabet.) . A truth that could form a part of the body of human knowledge must be capable of being expressed in a book no longer than what could be read in a single lifetime (F ).6 (Leibniz generously supposes someone might read ten million letters a day during a thousand-year lifetime.) . One can calculate the total number of unique letter-strings of that extreme length based on the different possible combinations of letters composing them. (Simplifying somewhat, Leibniz calculates that the number of unique strings of that length would be somewhat less than the number written with the numeral ‘’ followed by .  12 zeros.)7 . All the unique letter-strings of that length could themselves be included in a single book of extreme but, crucially, still finite length. . All possible truths that could form part of the body of human knowledge form a proper subset of all the expressions in the book. (The truths will presumably compose only a tiny fraction of the book, the rest being composed of a large number of falsehoods and a presumably even larger number of nonsensical statements.) . Thus, the number of expressions in the book forms a horizon or upper bound for the number of truths of which human beings are capable (F –/‘Calculability’, ). Leibniz illustrates the provocative nature of this conclusion with the following corollary: even if humanity continues to make steady and

6 Rescher notes that Leibniz begins with the supposition that a proposition expressing a truth could be expressed on a page of twenty thousand letters (F ). See Nicholas Rescher, On Leibniz [On Leibniz], expanded edition (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, ), . But Leibniz goes on to lift that limitation and ‘proceed[s] to the truths or periods that a human being could barely read throughout his life’ (F ). 7 For comparison’s sake, Archimedes calculated, according to Overbeck, that the upper bound for the number of grains of sand that could fit into the ‘Pythagorean Orb’ would be written with the numeral ‘’ followed by a mere  zeros. See Overbeck’s letter to Leibniz of  August  (F ).

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unending progress in knowledge, there will come a time after which no one will discover or say anything new: . . . it would necessarily follow that eventually all the enunciable propositions would be exhausted; and what would come afterwards would be a perfect repetition, word for word, of what had already been said or enunciated before. One could produce no speech, no poem or novel, no book that has not already been produced by another. And the common saying nihil dici, quod non dictum sit prius would be literally true. (F )8

Leibniz clarifies here that ‘even if we suppose that humanity as we know it has existed for all eternity, it does not necessarily follow that everything that could be said has already been said’ (F ). Likewise: ‘humanity will be happy to have a certain small number of truths during a whole eternity, which will be no more than a part of those of which it is capable. Thus it will always leave something behind’ (F /‘Calculability’, ). Leibniz’s claim that eventually all enunciable propositions will be ‘exhausted’ should therefore be understood to mean that, given the finite number of enunciable propositions, there will necessarily come a time when humanity will in fact exhaust all that is has to say, after which time will come only repetitions. This conclusion recalls the claim from Ecclesiastes that there is nothing new to see or describe since there is ‘nothing new under the 8 Cf. F –/‘Calculability’ ; F –, . The Latin phrase (meaning ‘nothing is said that has not been said before’) is modified from a passage from the Roman playwright Terence in which he defends the use of the same character-types from other plays as unavoidable (Eunuch, Prologue ). In a short story from  Jorge Borges gives literary expression to the thought of a combinatorically generated library in which the accurate or useful books are lost among the many more false or nonsensical ones. See ‘The Library of Babel’ [‘The Library of Babel’], in A. Hurley (trans.), Collected Fictions (New York: Penguin, ), –. I owe the reference to Fichant, ‘Postface’, . Borges describes some of his inspirations (which do not include Leibniz). In a  essay Borges mentions two fictional works with a similar outlook: Lewis Carroll has one of his characters remark: ‘The day must come—if the world lasts long enough—when every possible tune will have been composed, every possible pun perpetrated, and worse than that, every possible book written! For the number of words is finite’ (Sylvie and Bruno Concluded [London: Macmillan, ], ); and Kurd Lasswitz has a character imagine a library generated from the combinations of  letters containing all historical and scientific information (‘The Universal Library’, in C. Fadiman [ed.] Fantasia Mathematica [New York: Simon & Shuster, ], –). See Jorge Borges, ‘The Total Library’, in E. Weinberger (ed.), Selected Non-Fictions (New York: Penguin, ), –, at . Here and below, I rely on the translation of the concluding paragraph of Leibniz’s essay (F –) in Allison Coudert, Leibniz and the Kaballah [Leibniz and the Kaballah] (Dordrecht: Springer, ), –.

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sun’: one cannot say ‘see this, it is new’ since ‘it has already been, in the ages before us’ (:–). According to the Church Father Origen, at least, Ecclesiastes teaches in this way that ‘there were other worlds before this one’.9 Leibniz perhaps hints that we might even unwittingly find ourselves within such a succession of worlds: he adds in the conclusion that even if humanity has existed for all eternity, we would nevertheless always appear to ourselves to be saying something new ‘on account of the immense intervals of time that would have destroyed all memory of the previous authors’ (F ).10 In fact, Leibniz’s main conclusion here that unique statements of a given finite length will necessarily eventually be exhausted will be central to his later argument for the return of individual lives and public histories. Nevertheless, Leibniz does not explicitly draw any metaphysical or cosmological conclusions in the essay on the horizon of human knowledge (or in its French restatement). In fact, Leibniz doubts whether the combinatory argument can establish the kind of exhaustion of the sayable that might serve as the basis for such metaphysical conclusions. He reminds us, first, that the argument establishes the exhaustion of the sayable not absolutely, but only for expressions limited to a given finite length, for example the length he supposes a human could read in a lifetime: ‘But perhaps the number of enunciable truths, though finite, would never be exhausted, just as the interval between a straight line and the curve of a hyperbola or conchoid, though finite, is never exhausted’ (F –). And, second, he claims that the thought of humanity saying nothing except what has already been said before conflicts with a metaphysical principle of perfection or plenitude: it would defy ‘the harmony of things’ for humanity to endure in its present state long enough to reach that point (F ). Taken together, these two points obliquely raise a possibility that becomes prominent in Leibniz’s subsequent development of these 9 On First Principles, G. W. Butterworth, trans. (New York: Harper Torchbooks, ), III.v.. Augustine, for his part, criticizes those who quote Ecclesiastes in defense of a cyclical cosmology (City of God, .). 10 The thought of such a historical rupture recalls the passage in Plato’s Timaeus describing the floods and fires that bring destruction at set astronomical periods, thereby destroying all knowledge and traditions (c–b). With each catastrophe, the Greeks ‘have to begin all over again like children and know nothing of what happened in ancient times’ (a–b). Translation by B. Jowett in E. Hamilton and H. Cairn (eds.), Plato: The Collected Dialogues (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ).

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themes in the texts discussed below: that there can be an unending progress in knowledge if and only if we suppose the future is populated by a different kind of intelligent being, presumably with a different sort of body, that could comprehend and discover truths whose complexity places them beyond the horizon of human knowledge.11 But in the present essay, Leibniz is concerned not to establish the reality or even plausibility of such progress. Here, the thoughts about a future in which unending progress might be possible serves only as a contrast with the horizon of knowledge for humans as they exist now. Leibniz thus concludes the essay by bracketing all such thoughts about the future as ‘not fully demonstrated’ and reaffirming the main point of the essay: that there is a horizon that limits (borne) human knowledge (F ). As he notes in the French restatement: ‘here it is not a matter of another life where the human mind will be raised to a more elevated state’ (F /‘Calculability’, ). That is, the thoughts regarding the future state of things serve merely to illustrate the nature of the present horizon of human knowledge: because the number of truths that are possible for humans in this world is finite, humans would eventually run out of new truths to discover even if the species were to make an unending, steady progress toward new discoveries. If such a halt to progress followed by repetition appears to conflict with metaphysical principles, this merely underscores the finitude of human knowledge: progress could continue beyond the state of exhaustion only if we suppose that human nature itself will be superseded in the future. However, there is a further difficulty with the argument, not addressed by Leibniz, that threatens the more basic conclusion regarding the horizon of human knowledge. The difficulty arises from the fact that any particular letter-string might warrant multiple and, for all

11 Leibniz thus does not aim in the essay to demonstrate in any unqualified way that future progress must necessarily come to a halt—pace Coudert, Leibniz and Kaballah, , and Maria Rosa Antognazza and Howard Hotson, Alsted and Leibniz: On God, the Magistrate, and the Millennium [Alsted and Leibniz] (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, ), . Instead, he aims to demonstrate that future progress must halt for beings who can comprehend truths only of a given length; and he explicitly doubts that minds will forever remain subject to the same cognitive limits. This is fully consistent with and even anticipates the view of the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts.

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we know, an infinite number of interpretations.12 Leibniz would be justified in concluding that the book of all letter-strings of a certain length expresses only a finite number of truths only if none of those letter-strings admits of an infinite number of interpretations. Since Leibniz’s argument in the later ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts also depends on this conclusion, we need to consider at the outset whether Leibniz can plausibly rule out such infinite interpretations. By asserting that all the truths expressible in letter-strings of a given length form a proper subset of the strings in the book of all possible strings of that length, Leibniz shows that he assumes that each string warrants only a single interpretation. But there are at least two reasons why that is a problematic assumption: () certain sentence-types in a given language have inherently context-dependent interpretive possibilities (e.g. statements with indexicals), and there is perhaps an infinity of truthconferring contexts; and () there are a great many actual and merely possible languages in which letter-strings can be interpreted, and perhaps even an infinity of such languages and hence interpretive possibilities. The root of the difficulty is that Leibniz ignores the fact that the Latin letters at the basis of his calculation are basically arbitrary indicators of vocalizable words and sentences, which themselves could, in turn, have any number of different meanings and hence express any number of different truths. The book of all possible strings of Latin letters of a certain extreme length therefore cannot be divided in any absolute way into true, false, and nonsense expressions since that division is relative to the interpretation of the strings in a particular context for speakers of a particular language. This relativity of the meaning and truth-value of the letter-strings in the book does not affect the conclusion that every possible truth expressible in a letter-string of a certain length would appear somewhere in the book (assuming that the Latin alphabet is suitable for the written form of any language). But it does undermine the argument for the conclusion that the book contains fewer true statements than unique letter-strings and potentially the more fundamental conclusion that there are a finite number of enunciable truths. 12 I am grateful to Clinton Tolley, Eric Watkins, Donald Rutherford, and other participants at the History of Philosophy Roundtable at the University of California, San Diego for raising a version of this objection to Leibniz’s procedure in response to an earlier version of this essay.

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It seems that Leibniz could overcome this objection, then, only if he could show not only () that each letter-string has only a finite number of possible interpretations in a given language, but also () that there are only a finite number of possible languages with which to interpret the book, or at least that all the truths in any possible language could be adequately translated into at least one among a finite set of languages. These points would not be easy to establish. In partial defense of Leibniz, we can speculate that despite his talk about the eventual repetition of poems and novels, he is ultimately concerned not with haphazard observations of the sort that would rely on indexicals (Spinoza’s perceptions ex communi naturae ordine), but rather with general theorems in mathematics, physics, and metaphysics that could be added to an encyclopedia of knowledge. Consider the plan for the organization of a library of arts and sciences that Leibniz describes in the final section of the New Essays (completed in ). We can abstract away from the historical facts of discovery and from the variety of languages in which these discoveries are made and presented in order to focus on the ‘general doctrines’ (doctrines generales) that can be organized systematically.13 This privileging of the general over the particular also fits with Leibniz’s view that when statements express truths by matching the nature of reality, it is by means of general terms that match general features of reality, individuals themselves being infima species whose cognition escapes us because it would involve infinity. As Leibniz remarks in the New Essays: You see, paradoxical as it may seem, it is impossible for us to know individuals or to find any way of precisely determining the individuality of anything except by keeping hold of the thing itself. For any set of circumstances could recur [revenir], with tiny differences which we would not take in; and place and time, far from being determinants by themselves, must themselves be determined by the things they contain. The most important point in this is that individuality involves infinity, and only someone who is capable of grasping the infinite could know the principle of individuation of a given thing. (NE III.iii., A VI. vi. ) NE IV. xxi, A VI. vi. –. Translations of NE passages are drawn from P. Remnant and J. Bennett (eds. and trans.), G. W. Leibniz, New Essays on Human Understanding (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). 13

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This is not a denial that statement-types necessitating a contextsensitive interpretation—such as ‘this is a fruit fly’ or just ‘that is a body’—can be truly said in a great many and perhaps even in an infinite number of different contexts. But Leibniz would presumably balk at the suggestion that tokens of those sentence-types could add to the totality of human knowledge: statements of that kind are essentially about certain individuals, and yet we cannot have knowledge of individuals per se. Significantly for our purposes, Leibniz justifies this claim by telling us that no matter how precise an idea we humans may have of individuals, events could always recur in such a way that we could not distinguish the individuals in one sequence of events from another. Thus, in response to Locke’s suggestion that the child’s idea of his mother and nurse are ‘like the persons themselves’ and that the names that the child uses ‘are confined to these individuals’ (E III.iii.), Leibniz replies that even the most foundational elements of the child’s knowledge concern general features of the world: we can see that a small child does not really have an idea of his mother qua individual at all since ‘he could easily be deceived by a moderate resemblance into mistaking some other woman for his mother’ (NE III.iii., A VI. vi. ). Conversely, ‘perfect similarity is found only in incomplete and abstract notions, where things are considered only in a certain respect’: though we might seem to find identical shapes or homogenous metals or liquids, ‘it is not true that they are in all rigor’.14 Our inability to distinguish individuals per se across possible worlds or world ages shows that individuals are beyond the horizon of human knowledge. Human knowledge must stop short of infinity and must stop somewhere in particular short of infinity. And the essay on the horizon of human knowledge is an attempt to say something about this. In sum, we might understand the purpose of the essay ‘De l’horizon’ to be to remind us that the ability to discover new truths (or even to invent fictions) is limited not merely by our powers of discovery (or imagination), but also by the more fundamental fact that our knowledge of actuality and even mere possibility must be expressible in strings of signs of a finite length. This fact about human cognition

14

‘Primary Truths’, A VI. iv. /AG .

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reveals what Pascal describes as man’s nothingness in comparison with the infinite, a state ‘which restricts our knowledge within certain limits [bornes] that we cannot surpass’.15 In this way, the argument supports Leibniz’s stated goal of showing ‘the limits of the human mind’ (les bornes de l’esprit humain) (F ; cf. ) and ‘how small man is in relation to the infinite substance’ (F /‘Calculability’, ).

.

THE HORIZON OF EVERYTHING HUMAN AND

THE PLATONIC YEAR: TEXTS FROM

–

The claim about the gulf between finite human science and the infinite substance underscores the fact that the purpose of the essay on the horizon of human knowledge is to demonstrate an aspect of the finitude of human knowledge rather than to make any claims about the future. But Leibniz announces a plan to push the investigation in that direction in the Latin fragment mentioned above (F –).16 The fragment itself looks to be an abandoned attempt to present a revised version of the essay ‘De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine’. Indeed, Leibniz at first gave the fragment the title ‘Horizon doctinae humanae’, which matches the title of the earlier French essay. But he later added ‘actionisque’ to that title and then settled on a new title that promises an essay about the ‘Horizon rerum humanarum’, that is, the horizon of ‘human things’—which is to say, the horizon of human affairs or simply the horizon of everything human.17 The lengthy full title of the fragment gives us a sense of how Leibniz planned to extend his earlier conclusions. In the first part of title, Leibniz promises to demonstrate a version of the conclusion of the earlier essay, namely that eventually ‘most’ (plerique) of what is said or written will have already been said or written by others. But in the last 15 Pensées de M. Pascal sur la religion et sur quelques autres sujets (Paris: Guillaume Desprez, ), . Leibniz approves of Pascal’s basic insight here regarding the ‘two abysses’ of the increasingly large and vanishingly small infinities, but considers it ‘only an entrance to my system’ (Gr –; translated by L. Strickland at ). 16 See my translation, ‘The Horizon of Everything Human . . . ’, at . 17 The changes to the manuscript are described by Hübner, ‘Die notwendige Grenze’, , and Fichant, ‘Introduction’, in F –, at –.

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part of the title, Leibniz promises something further, namely to demonstrate that ‘new humans would lead a whole life that appears thoroughly the same to the senses as lives that others have led’ (F ). Leibniz does not provide any explanation or argumentation for this conclusion in the fragment. But he presumably envisages it as an extension of the conclusion regarding the finitude of human linguistic expression: since human lives are centrally shaped by a series of linguistic expressions (in oral, written, or inner speech), the exhaustion of such expressions seems to imply an exhaustion of ways one could lead a life. Understood this way, the conclusion remains focused on the finitude of human expression rather than making any claims about the world itself. Although Leibniz apparently never wrote the full essay envisaged in the fragment on the horizon rerum humanarum, he develops the main innovation promised there in a short draft essay from no earlier than . Whereas the earlier essay ‘De l’horizon’ characterized his remarks about the future state of things as ‘not fully demonstrated’, the grandiose title of the draft promises ‘demonstrations’ about precisely such things: ‘Demonstrationes de Universo immenso aeternoque; de Mundis et aevis; deque rerum longiquarum et futurarum statu’, that is, ‘Demonstrations concerning the immeasurable and eternal universe; concerning worlds and ages; and concerning the state of remote and future things’ (F –).18 Leibniz presents this draft essay as an appendix to the essay on the horizon of human knowledge (F ). Accordingly, he silently assumes the main conclusion of the essay ‘De l’horizon’, namely that there are a finite number of truths and falsehoods enunciable by human beings. Leibniz begins the essay itself with the familiar corollary that if humanity persisted long enough in its current state, eventually nothing could be said that has not been said before. He also warns us that it is not certain that a day will arrive when nothing new could be said (nihil dici possit): some things might be left unsaid throughout all the eternity during which nothing new would be said (nihil dicatur). But this qualification merely serves to remind us that Leibniz’s conclusion in the 18

Strickland translates this text at ; Coudert also translates most of the essay (Leibniz and the Kaballah, –). I have drawn from both translations in quoting from this essay.

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essay ‘De l’horizon’ regarding the exhaustion of the sayable was never that everything sayable eventually will be said; his conclusion was rather that it is certain that eventually everything we in fact say—even over an indefinitely long period—will consist only of what has already been said before.19 The main innovation of the essay is the extension of this thought of the exhaustion of the sayable to res humanae, i.e. to the ‘deeds’ (gesta, facta) that our speech and written histories describe: And suppose that at some point nothing is said that had not already been said before; then there must also be a time when the same deeds would return and when nothing would be done that had not been done before, for deeds provide matter for speech. Indeed, there would necessarily be certain periods like the platonic year, such that in the course of one age exactly the same things would be done, as far as the senses are concerned, as were done before in another age. For the affairs [res] of an entire age can be considered one large deed [factum], and the history of an entire age can be considered one large statement [dictum], such that it is necessary that these affairs themselves be repeated or exhausted, i.e. after their exhaustion they are repeated again. (F –)20

Here, for the first time, Leibniz links the exhaustion of the forms of human expression to the cycle of ‘periods like the platonic year’ (periodos quasdam anno platonico similes). Leibniz’s conclusion here does, in fact, echo some of the ancient Platonists. Proclus, writing in the fifth century, argues that since changeable things can undergo only a finite number of changes ‘it is not possible that change should proceed in an infinite straight line’; instead, ‘what moves perpetually will return to its starting point so as to constitute a period [periodos]’.21 And souls follow the same pattern: each soul returns to its original condition over its infinite reinstatements Pace Coudert, Leibniz and the Kaballah, . The available translations of this text (by Fichant, Coudert, and Strickland) all speak more broadly of a return of ‘événements’ or ‘events’ rather than ‘deeds’ (gesta, facta) and of nothing happening ‘qui ne soit arrivé auparavant’ or ‘that has not happened before’ rather than of nothing being done ‘that has not been done before’ (quod non factum sit prius). I favor the narrower reading here only because Leibniz announces his intention to extend his account to a horizon of res humanae or action and, accordingly, remains focused on the content of human lives rather than on events more broadly. 21 Proclus, Elements of Theology, ed. and trans. E. R. Dodds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), prop. . 19 20

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(apokatastaseis) and periods, descending from and ascending back to the gods an infinite number of times.22 A well-known text presumed to stem from a second-century Platonist makes explicit the connection between this exhaustion of changes within a period and the return of the same lives: events extend infinitely into the past and future, but fate ‘encloses them in a cycle [en kuklo]̄ ’ measured by the period or revolution (periodos) described in Plato’s Timaeus; hence ‘everything that is found in a single entire revolution [periodos] will be repeated in similar fashion in each of the entire revolutions as well’, and indeed, ‘when the same cause returns again, we shall once more become the same persons, do the same things and in the same way, and so will all men besides’.23 Leibniz could have been aware of such views from various sources. In the treatise De Stoica mundi exustione by Jakob Thomasius, his former mentor in Leipzig, Leibniz would have encountered a wide-ranging attack on the ancient doctrine of eternal recurrence as inconsistent with God’s providential free choice and promise of salvation.24 Thomasius catalogues the various ancient and modern calculations of the astronomical ‘great year’ (annus magnus) that marks the return of all the celestial spheres to their original positions (Diss. V). (The calculations range up to . million years.) And he notes the common pagan belief that this great year or apokatastasis poluchronios measures the everrepeating cycle of destruction and regeneration of things or apokatastasis pragmaton̄ symbolized by the phoenix (Diss. IX).25 Thomasius notes, further, that many Stoics held that the resurrection thus consists in our returning merely to lead the same lives over again. He quotes Chrysippus: ‘it is evidently not impossible that we too, after our death will return again to the shape we are now after certain periods [periodoi] Proclus, Elements of Theology, props. , . Ps.-Plutarch, On Fate , a–c; referring to Plato’s account of the ‘perfect year’ at Timaeus d. Cited from P. De Lacy and B. Einarson (trans.), Plutarch’s Moralia in Fifteen Volumes. VII. c–b (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ). A doctrine of recurrence according to which exactly the same things occur during each world cycle was asserted by some Pythagoreans and, of course, by the Stoics. For an overview of these ancient doctrines, see Richard Sorabji, Time, Creation, and the Continuum (London: Duckworth, ), –. 24 Exercitatio de Stoica mundi exustione cui accesserunt argumenti varii sed inprimis ad historiam Stoicae Philosophiae facientes, Dissertationes XXI (Leipzig: Heirs of Friedrich Lanck, ). 25 Thomasius derives these Greek terms from the entry on the phoenix in Horapollo’s Hieroglyphics. See A. Cory (trans.), The Hieroglyphics of Horapollo Nilous (London: William Pickering, ), . (I thank Monte Johnson for discussion of this text.) 22 23

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of time have elapsed’ (Diss. X.).26 Leibniz would also have been aware of Clavius’s allusion to such views in his  Commentarius on Sacrobosco’s De Sphaera.27 Like Leibniz, Clavius calls such a period the ‘platonic year’ (annus Platonicus). Clavius remarks that some say that this platonic year marks the return of all the stars to the same position again with the result that ‘everything in the world no matter how small must then return to the same order seen now’ (Commentarius, –).28 Although the origin of Leibniz’s reflections on the question of the future exhaustion of the sayable points him to the claim here that such forms of human expression will necessarily repeat over time, he adds that this ‘also can be extended to diverse places of the same time’, i.e., to plural worlds in simultaneous regions of space (F ). Leibniz thereby invokes the ancient atomists’ doctrine of the plurality of inhabited worlds, a doctrine—revived by Giordano Bruno, Henry More, Fontenelle, Huygens, and others—that embodies the Copernican denial of our own unique place in the physical universe.29

26 Thomasius quotes Chrysippus apud Lactantius, Institutiones Divinae, book , ch. . Translation from A. A. Long and D. N. Sedley (eds. and trans.), The Hellenistic Philosophers,  vols. [The Hellenistic Philosophers] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), item B. 27 Christophorus Clavius, In sphaeram Ioannis de Sacro Bosco commentarius [Commentarius] (Rome: Dominicus Basa, ). 28 Clavius, for his part, discounts the thought of the return of the same on the grounds that the various celestial periods are probably incommensurable (Commentarius, ). In his Dissertatio de arte combinatoria of , Leibniz refers to Clavius’s account of the combination of elements and letters (GP iv. , ; referring to Commentarius, –) and even uses a diagram from this portion of Clavius’s text for his frontispiece (GP iv. ). I owe the Clavius reference to the discussion in Marwan Rashed, ‘Alexander of Aphrodisias on Particulars and the Stoic Criterion of Identity’, in R. W. Sharples (ed.), Particulars in Greek Philosophy (Leiden: Brill, ), –, at –. Also see note , below. 29 See Lucretius, De rerum natura II, –. Cited from F. Copley (trans.), On the Nature of Things (New York: Norton, ). Cf. Thomasius, De Stoica mundi exustione, Diss. II.–. The plurality of worlds was infamously defended by Giordano Bruno in his De l’infinito, universo et mondi (Venice, ) and De immenso et innumerabilibus, seu de universo et mundis (Frankfurt, ). The title of the latter work anticipates that of Leibniz’s own essay ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’ in a striking way. Leibniz praises Bruno’s text as early as  (A VI. iv. ). In a pair of letters from , Leibniz claims to have a copy of both the Italian and Latin texts. Tracing Bruno’s doctrine of the plurality of worlds to Leucippus and Democritus (cf. Diogenes Laertius XI.), he offers a defense of the doctrine, of a sort, by claiming that Bruno was burned for other beliefs (GP vii. , ). In his Ars combinatoria of , Leibniz quotes a remark attributed to Epicurus by Lactantius: ‘He said the atoms are assembled in a varied order and position just as the letters of the alphabet, which, although they are few, yet produce innumerable words by being variously arranged’ (GP iv. ; quoting Institutiones Divinae .). Leibniz also quotes Lucretius’s similar analogy

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Leibniz notes two important, related qualifications concerning the necessity of these platonic periods, both of which are familiar from the earlier essay ‘De l’horizon’. First, ‘it does not agree with the dignity of nature that what is past should repeat itself ’ (F ). In the earlier essay, Leibniz inferred from such a principle that humanity will never reach a point when every expression will be a repetition. But here Leibniz allows that the future could be different but still indistinguishable from the past: ‘There is neither such a thing as a perfect return such as in circles or ellipses, nor can it happen that one place or one time in the universe will resemble another perfectly; they can resemble one another rather only to the senses [sed tantum ad sensum]’ (F ). Leibniz includes the same qualification in his statement regarding the platonic year quoted above, where he concludes that the same things will be done again only as far as the senses are concerned (exacte ad sensum eadem) (F ). And we have seen that the Latin Horizon fragment promises, similarly, a demonstration that new lives will be ‘thoroughly the same to the senses’ (eadem ad sensum penitus) (F ). Leibniz obviously intends the qualification that the returns are identical only ‘ad sensum’ to remind the reader that two different human lives or parts of nature could be considered wholly identical only in accordance with the incomplete perception of things characteristic of the finite human perspective. Thus, ‘ad sensum’ could be translated as ‘in appearance’, ‘qua phenomenon’, or simply ‘as far as we can tell’. But it might seem odd for Leibniz to invoke the senses in this connection: Leibniz’s argument for the platonic periods is based on the finitude of human linguistic expression and hence abstract thinking, whereas it is precisely the perceptions of the senses that, although confused, admit of infinite variation.30 Indeed, Leibniz remarks elsewhere that we have the ability to draw distinctions among the objects

(II –). In his essay ‘De l’horizon’, Leibniz returns to this analogy, alluding to the same lines from Lucretius (F ). See note , below, for Cicero’s version of the analogy. 30

Leibniz thus ends the Latin Horizon fragment by noting that since his conclusions concern only enunciable propositions it is no objection that there are a great many confused thoughts and sensations that cannot be enumerated (F –). Leibniz remarks elsewhere that distinct concepts are those that have notae enuntiabiles (A VI. iv. /AG ). See Daniel Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad [Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –.

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of sense that we cannot articulate in speech.31 Thus, it might seem that it is in fact only ‘ad sensum’ that returns of the same are strictly impossible. However, Leibniz frequently claims in different ways that it is the coarseness of our sensory consciousness that prevents us from recognizing that our abstract perceptions are merely abstract: no matter how closely we observe nature, there will always be smaller, infinitely diversifying parts that escape the notice of our senses.32 In short, the qualification is a reminder that deeds could appear the same only when given a finite, abstract description. The second, related qualification that Leibniz adds here is that ‘progress in knowledge can go on to infinity’. In fact, Leibniz positively asserts that if we assume that intelligent substances continue to exist throughout all these times, then it follows from the impossibility of exact returns that the future will bring ‘more perfect intelligences’ who are capable of ‘longer and more complex truths’ (F ). Here, Leibniz rejects the Platonist view that changeable things cannot undergo an infinite number of changes. But he nevertheless echoes certain Platonists with the suggestion that the progress of minds ultimately requires the transcendence of human nature.33 Leibniz depicts this progress in his own

E.g. GP iv. –/AG ; and NE II.xxix., A VI. vi. . For example, it is because ‘our senses allow us to judge only superficially’ that we come to believe that a piece of marble would be intrinsically the same in all respects even if it had a different history (A II. ii. ./AG ). Also see ‘Primary Truths’, A VI. iv. /AG ; Discourse on Method §, AG ; and GP vii. . For discussion of these texts, see Samuel Levey, ‘Leibniz on Precise Shapes and the Corporeal World’, in D. Rutherford and J. A. Cover (eds.), Leibniz: Nature and Freedom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, and Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad, –. Leibniz offers a version of this account of exactness ‘ad sensum’ already in one of his earliest texts, the Hypothesis physica nova of  (§, A VI. ii. ). See Philip Beeley, ‘Mathematics and Nature in Leibniz’s Early Philosophy’, in S. Brown (ed.), The Young Leibniz and His Philosophy (–) (Dordrecht: Springer, ), –, at –, and Beeley, ‘Leibniz, Philosopher, Mathematician and Mathematical Philosopher’, in N. Goethe, P. Beeley, and D. Rabouin (eds.), G.W. Leibniz, Interrelations Between Mathematics and Philosophy (Dordrecht: Springer, ), –, at –. 33 Iamblichus (writing near the turn of the fourth century) offers the following neoPythagorean account of our choice in favor of virtue and thus in favor of our own primary, intellectual, and thus divine nature: ‘Then, if we leave the body and pass to the aetherial region, thereby changing the human nature into the purity of the gods . . . we by these acts are restored to the divine order and received into the divine circuit [eis ten̄ auten̄ ousian te apokathistasthai parechei kai meta theōn periodon], which was our condition prior to our descent into human form’ (H. Pistelli [ed.], Protrepticus. Ad fidem codicis Florentini [Leipzig: Teubner, ], –). Translation from T. Johnson, The Exhortation to Philosophy (Grand Rapids, MI: Phanes Press, ), –. 31 32

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way, of course: it would be a transcendence of the combinatorically determined horizon of human knowledge. The immediate implication of the possibility of such transcendence is that as long as a capacity for the comprehension of ever-longer strings of signs continues, knowledge can approach reality asymptotically without ever being exhausted or reaching completion, even over an indefinitely long period of time. These are obviously significant qualifications to the conclusion regarding platonic periods. But it is important to see that Leibniz does not present them as requiring a retraction of the conclusion, but only as illuminating the nature of the periods at issue. In keeping with his overarching goal of illustrating the limits of human knowledge and human affairs, Leibniz makes clear from the start that the platonic periods are not absolute but are rather always relative to a certain finite mind. Indeed: ‘it may be that some creatures have Platonic periods, while others do not’ (F ). Leibniz thus proceeds to express a commitment to the conclusion, albeit a qualified one: ‘I see that one cannot avoid Platonic periods, at least with respect to notions that must remain or that are distinct, where there is no novelty in their matter but only in their form or combination, which is limited’ (F ). For Leibniz, we can have only confused perceptions of what makes individuals unique. When we have distinct perceptions, by contrast, it is always of general features of the world that can be repeated. And if all our distinct notions are composed of a finite number of primitive notions (on analogy with the letters of the alphabet), then the only novelty in knowledge based on such notions would be in terms of the various combinations of these primitive notions, which are finite in number.34

.

THE EXHAUSTION OF ‘SUFFICIENTLY’ DETAILED

HISTORIES IN THE

 ‘APOKATASTASIS’ ESSAY DRAFTS

These points regarding the platonic periods and infinite progress come into sharper focus when Leibniz returns to the same themes in two

34 In a draft essay from around , he fondly recalls the thought from his early Ars Combinatoria ‘that a kind of alphabet of human thoughts can be worked out and that everything can be discovered and judged by a comparison of the letters of this alphabet and an analysis of the words made from them’ (GP vii. /L ; see GP iv. –).

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undated essay drafts likely from : ‘Αποκατάστασις πάντων’ (F –) and ‘Αποκατάστασις’ (F –).35 The unusual titles that Leibniz gives his drafts warrant a comment. The expression ‘apokatastasis pantōn’ that forms the basis for these titles (but which does not otherwise appear in the drafts) derives from the Scriptural prophecy of a ‘restitution of all’ (Acts :). The expression invokes, more particularly, the interpretation of that prophecy as a promise of universal salvation, an interpretation traditionally associated with the Church Father Origen. But the more immediate inspiration for Leibniz’s title is surely Johann Wilhelm Petersen’s universalist (and millenarian) tract Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων.36 Leibniz showed enough interest in this book to publish (anonymously) a long summary;37 and he later speaks of the book sympathetically, both in private correspondence and in the Theodicy (§§, ).38 Moreover, during the time of the composition of his own ‘Apokatastasis’ essay, Leibniz was engaged in guiding Petersen in the composition of an epic Latin poem about the future state of the world and the final apokatastasis pantōn.39 Given this background, Hans Blumenberg is clearly correct to say that Leibniz’s title ‘alludes’ to Origenism.40 But the drafts themselves contain no statements regarding any of the central points of contention 35 The longer ‘Αποκατάστασις’ seems to be a later reworking of material from the shorter ‘Αποκατάστασις πάντων’. For simplicity, I will refer to these as the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts. The main changes between the drafts are discussed below. My own translation of the earlier draft, as ‘Apokatastasis panton’, is available at . Lloyd Strickland has translated the longer version of the essay as ‘Revolution’ at . I have utilized this translation in what follows. Rescher (On Leibniz, ch. ) gives a very useful discussion of Leibniz’s investigation into the possibility and limits of recurrence in terms of combinatory calculations. 36 Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, das ist, das Geheimniß der Wiederbringung aller Dinge (Pamphilia [Offenbach am Main?], ). The main part of the book consists in a dialogue, ‘Gespräch . . . von der Wiederbringung aller Dinge’, in three separately paginated parts. 37 ‘Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, das ist, das Geheimniß der Wiederbringung aller Dinge’ [‘Petersen Review’], Monatlicher Auszug aus allerhand neu-herausgegebenen nützlichen und artigen Büchern, April , –. 38 In the Theodicy and correspondence, Leibniz refers to this book with the short title (appearing on its half-title page) Αποκατάστασις πάντων. See A I2. xx.  (translated by L. Strickland at ). 39 See Antognazza and Hotson, Alsted and Leibniz, –, –. 40 Hans Blumenberg, ‘Eine imaginäre Universalbibliothek’, Akzente: Zeitschrift für Literatur,  (), –, at . Fichant is likewise correct that an essay with this title would raise

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in the debate about universal salvation: e.g., whether human sins can be infinitely enduring and whether divine justice allows or requires eternal punishment—to say nothing of the finer points of Scriptural interpretation. Indeed, the drafts make no mention at all of sin, divine punishment, or salvation. Thus, despite their titles, we cannot say that the drafts represent a contribution to the debate on the doctrine of universal salvation.41 The drafts could be said to reflect the Scriptural idea of the apokatastasis pantōn only in the wide sense that they concern the basis for our hope for the future: like the earlier essay ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’, they consider the progress of minds beyond the limits of human nature in a way that allows us to conceive the future as holding something better. In fact, if the titles represent an image of the basis of our hope for the future, they equally represent the threat to this hope posed by the specter of the ‘annus Platonicus’ or platonic year. We have seen above that the term ‘apokatastasis’ can refer to long astronomical periods and to the cyclical return of the same lives often associated with those periods.42 Petersen himself notes this astronomical usage, citing Pseudo-Dionysius on the ‘periodke ̄ apokatastasis’ and equating the more comprehensive astronomical return with Plato’s ‘great year of revolution’ (grosses Revolutions-Jahr) and Cicero’s ‘year of revolution’ (vertens annus) from Scipio’s Dream.43 And Leibniz calls attention to this in his summary, where he equates the astronomical apokatastasis with the ‘annus Platonicus’.44 Thus, the titles are apt not because the drafts

the reasonable expectation among readers that the text would provide a statement on Origenism (‘Postface’, ). Di Bella’s claim that the drafts are ‘inspired by’ Origenism thus seems too strong (The Science of the Individual, ). Even Antognazza’s and Hotson’s claim that Leibniz seeks to ‘reconceptualize’ Origen’s apokatastasis pantōn is misleading in this context (Alsted and Leibniz, ). Coudert goes still further, claiming that after initially accepting the Stoic doctrine of endless cycles of repetition, Leibniz fully embraced Origenism by the time of the composition of the ‘Apokatastasis’ drafts (Leibniz and the Kaballah, ). 42 See notes , , and , above. 43 Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, ‘Gespräch’, Part I, . 44 ‘Petersen Review’, . Leibniz’s use here of the term ‘annus Platonicus’ (which is not found in Petersen) matches his usage in the contemporaneous essay ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’ and in the later ‘Apokatastasis’ drafts. Also relevant here is the account of the future state of things in Thomas Burnet, Telluris theoria sacra,  vols. (London: Kettelby, –). Petersen quotes a long passage from the end of the first volume in which Burnet refers to the future ‘apokatastasis kai palingenesia’ and expresses that vision in a poem 41

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engage with universalism, but rather because the ambiguity of the term ‘apokatastasis’ reflects Leibniz’s aim of exploring the compatibility of the hope for a better future with the progress-denying eternal return of everything that seems an inevitable corollary to the horizon of human knowledge. The essays feature the same kind of combinatory argument that Leibniz had earlier used to argue for the exhaustion of the humanly sayable. But the focus shifts here from the question whether humans will eventually repeat themselves to the question whether there are only a finite number of descriptions we could give to future periods such that the periods themselves must necessarily repeat. In the  ‘De l’horizon’ essay, Leibniz blocked the inference from the necessary exhaustion of the humanly sayable to a conclusion that, in some distant future, everything that is said will be nothing but repetition: ever-longer strings of signs could be added to science as long as there will be creatures in the future with an ever-greater capacity to comprehend such strings. And this possibility also informs Leibniz’s conclusion in ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’ that platonic periods are always relative to the minds of the beings in question. In the  ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts, by contrast, Leibniz detaches the question of the platonic periods from that of the horizon of human knowledge—at least to begin with—by simply fixing the length of the book that we would consider ‘sufficient’ to capture the history of a given timeperiod and location. Leibniz begins by supposing that a public history of a year on earth can be recorded sufficiently (sufficienter), with room to spare, in a tenthousand-page book consisting of a string of 8 Latin letters (F , ). But in case we think such a book does not have enough detail about all the common people who might fail to appear in any such public history, Leibniz allows that we could instead compose a chronicle ‘in

(Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, ‘Gespräch’ I, ; quoting Telluris theoria sacra, :–). Leibniz notes all of this in his summary of Petersen’s book (‘Petersen Review’, ), and later uses part of the poem in Theodicy §. For a preliminary consideration of the significance of Burnet in this connection, see David Forman, ‘The Apokatastasis Essays in Context: Leibniz and Thomas Burnet on the Kingdom of Grace and the Stoic/Platonic Revolutions’, in Wenchao Li (ed.), Für Unser Glück oder das Glück Anderer. Vorträge des X. Internationalen Leibniz-Kongresses (Hildesheim: Olms, ), Bd. IV, –.

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which would be described in the most detailed way what all individual people have done in the whole world within a year’. Here he supposes that there could be a billion (9) individuals and that we could grant each ‘private individual history’ the same length as seemed sufficient for the annual public history of the whole earth (such that for each individual we can devote a page of roughly ten thousand letters to each hour of their year). This collection of annual biographies would thus be a billion times longer than the public history, and would exceed in length by several orders of magnitude what Leibniz determined in ‘De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine’ to be the maximum length of an expression that could be included within the scope of human knowledge. Regarding the length of this collection of biographies, Leibniz says: ‘this of course is obviously sufficient’ (F ; cf. ). What is important, of course, is not the precise length of such a book, but rather that a ‘sufficiently’ detailed history can be contained in a book of a determinate and hence finite length. For that implies that there are also a determinate number of such possible histories that could be used to describe future periods of the same length. In this way, the stipulated length of the chronicles avoids the doubt that there could always be a more detailed history consisting of more letters and thus that there would be no necessity of an exhaustion of such histories. A second, related feature of this approach that distinguishes it from the earlier essays is the prospective nature of the annals. The essay ‘De l’horizon’ concluded with the question whether future human beings could themselves say something new and hence arrive at truths that are new for them. But in the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts, the question of the main argument is instead whether someone, an objective observer, would have to use one of the annals again in order to describe a time and place and the public history and biographies of whatever human beings might be found there. Thus, Leibniz says that he assumes the continued existence of humanity ‘so that it can produce material for the public histories’ (F ) or for the histories of private individuals (F ). In this way, the set of chronicles generated by the combinatoric functions much like Aristotle’s claim that ‘a sea battle must either take place tomorrow or not’: all the accounts of a given length one could possibly give in one’s own language (or some stipulated language such as Latin) about future time-periods are already contained somewhere in this set of annals; and hence whatever one can say, and

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thus can say truly, about a future period is already in one of these chronicles.45 Of course, even the annals in the collection that turn out to be true will remain silent regarding many minor details that an even more detailed account could have contained. But these annals would still accurately capture not only the broad outlines of the history of that year, but also a great many of its details. Nor would it matter if some far distant year contains many strange occurrences and creatures (perhaps speaking strange languages) that are difficult to describe economically in our own language. Surely we could write the history of such a place even if the additional commentary required to describe the history of such a place in our own language would necessitate sacrificing some of the detail that would be contained in the annals describing worlds more like our own. If the events of any year can, in this way, be recorded sufficiently in a book of the stipulated length, then at least one of the books generated by the combinatoric will sufficiently relate the history of any given future year in a given language.46 And since this set of combinatorically ‘For it certainly is now true that a future predicate will be’ (‘Primary Truths’, A VI. iv. /AG ). See Aristotle, De Interpretatione . To this extent, Hans Blumenberg is correct to say that the essays concern the relationship between possibility and actuality and that there are a finite number of possible histories—of a given a length (‘Eine imaginäre Universalbibliothek’, –). In this vein, Di Bella compares the possible histories to the ‘book of fates’ Leibniz describes at the end of his Theodicy (Di Bella, The Science of the Individual, –; referring to Theodicy §§–). However, whereas Aristotle’s disjunction represents all logical possibilities with respect to there being a future sea battle tomorrow, and the book of fates represents all logically possible worlds (or collections of compossible individuals), the set of combinatorically generated chronicles represents instead the possibilities for human expression with respect to a future time-period. Accordingly, more fundamental to the essays than the relation of the possible to the actual is the relation of human expression to reality and hence of the finite to the infinite. 46 This claim, fundamental to the argument, recalls Cicero’s rebuke (in the voice of Balbus the Stoic) of the Epicurean view that the order of the cosmos is the result of the chance collisions of atoms: this is akin to believing that if ‘a countless number of copies of the twenty-one letters of the alphabet . . . were . . . shaken out on the ground, it would be possible that they should produce the Annals of Ennius, all ready for the reader’ (De natura deorum .). Translation from H. Rackham (trans.), On the Nature of the Gods (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, ), . The passage is mentioned by John Ray in The Wisdom of God Manifested in the Works of the Creation (London: Samuel Smith, ), , a work praised by Leibniz (see A I2. xx. ). Borges also mentions the Cicero passage (‘Total Library’, ) and includes in his own story that the combinatorically generated library will include ‘the detailed history of the future’ and ‘the lost books of Tacitus’ (Borges, ‘The Library of Babel’, ). 45

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generated histories is finite in number, these histories will eventually be exhausted, and an old one will have to be used again: ‘it is necessary that the earlier public histories return exactly at some point’ (F ; cf. ). It could happen that after the period covered by just one such history elapses, the events of the next period are so similar to the previous one that the same exact history can be used again right away to describe the next period with complete faithfulness. Or it could happen that we need to use all the combinatorically generated histories before the need arises to use an old one again, in which case the time before the return would be the time-period covered by the history multiplied by the total number of histories generated by the combinatoric. This is the time before which a return is necessary (F , ). In the earlier draft of the essay, Leibniz comments regarding the conclusion that public histories necessarily return: ‘And so it is necessary that our Leopold and Louis and William and George would return with all their deeds [gesta] within this time span’ (F ).47 Applying the same reasoning to individual annual biographies, Leibniz concludes that as long as humanity endures in its current state: . . . the time would arrive when the same life of individuals would return, bit by bit, through the very same circumstances. I myself, for example, would be living in a city called Hannover located on the Leine river, occupied with the history of Brunswick, and writing letters to the same friends with the same meaning. (F )

In ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’, Leibniz considers such a return of individuals to be ‘equivalent to the resurrection of the body’ (F ), speculating this may have also been the view of Democritus (F ).48 Perhaps, he adds there, individuals can ‘return to pick up the thread’ (F ). In the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay, he notes only that questions about whether this future life is the same or just a similar person ‘cannot 47 Leibniz is presumably referring here to recently and currently reigning monarchs: Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I, William of Orange, Louis XIV, and George I of Great Britain. 48 Lucretius writes: ‘For when you think of the whole measureless span of time gone by, and of matter—how it moves in myriad ways, then you may well believe that these same atoms of which we are composed were often arranged just as they are today’ (III, –; also quoted in Rescher, On Leibniz, ). However, Lucretius’s aim in this passage is not so much to affirm the recurrence as to assert against the Stoics that such a recurrence would not amount to a personal resurrection ‘even if after our death time should assemble our atoms, and set them again as they now stand’ (III, –).

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be determined by the calculus and pertains to the doctrine of the fittingness of things, i.e. of what is best and most in keeping with divine wisdom’ (F ).49 In fact, the manner of resurrection imagined here is difficult to reconcile with Leibniz’s demand that an immortality that could sustain a hope for the future would have to preserve memory.50 And there is a further difficulty. The thought of a future in which Leibniz’s life returns ‘bit by bit, through the very same circumstances’ appears quite opposed to the hope that the world to come will bring something better for him. The image of the philosopher’s life returning in this way instead recalls in a dramatic way the Stoic view as related by Nemesius (a fourth-century Christian): The Stoics say that when the planets return to the same celestial sign . . . at set periods of time [chronōn periodoi] they cause conflagration and destruction of existing things. Once again the world returns anew to the same condition as before [palin ex huparches̄ eis to auto ton kosmon apokathistasthai]. . . . For again there will be Socrates and Plato and each one of mankind with the same friends and fellow citizens; they will suffer the same things and encounter the same things . . . The periodic return of everything [apokatastasis tou pantos] occurs not once but many times; or rather, the same things return indefinitely and without end . . . . [And] there will be nothing strange in comparison with what occurred previously, but everything will be just the same and indiscernible down to the smallest details.51

Although Leibniz rejects ‘metempsychosis’ or the transmigration of souls, he accepts the possibility of the ‘resuscitation’ of animals (and human beings) through what he calls their ‘metamorphosis’, ‘metaschematismis’, or transformation. Because the soul of each animal (and thus human being) exists in a preformed living seed prior to conception and continues to exist along with a ‘rarefied body’ after the ‘coarse body’ is destroyed, it is possible for it to take on a new ‘coarse body’ at a later time. Leibniz speculates that Democritus held something like this view. See Leibniz to Arnauld,  April , A II. ii. /AG ; Principles of Nature and Grace §, AG ; and NE, A VI. vi. /AG . 50 GP iv. –/A II. i. –/AG . Also see NE II.xxvii., A VI. vi. . 51 Nemesius, De Natura Homines. Graece et Latine, ed. by C. Matthaei (Halle: J. J. Gebauer, ), –. Translation from Long and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, item C. This also recalls Augustine’s characterization of the periodic cycles: ‘According to this theory, just as in our own age Plato taught his disciples at Athens in the school called the Academy, so in innumerable past ages, separated by immensely wide and yet finite intervals, the same Plato, the same city, the same school, the same disciples have appeared time after time, and are to reappear time after time, and are to reappear time after time in innumerable ages in the future’ (City of God, .). 49

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We can plausibly imagine that Leibniz had this particular text in mind when writing about himself in the Hannover of a future world age corresponding with the same friends: his mentor Jakob Thomasius cites the text several times in his book on Stoic cosmology—doing so with the express intent of repudiating the Stoic account of the restoration of the world.52 However, Leibniz is still very far from showing that he himself or any other given individual can expect to return in this way, even granting his assumption that humanity as a whole will continue throughout all these times. If we suppose that each of the annual chronicles generated by the combinatoric is equally likely to be instantiated, then any given chronicle, including one sufficiently detailing a year of our own life, would almost surely return at some point over an infinite time. Indeed, in such a universe of pure chance, it is assured that any arbitrarily long history portion will return infinitely often in an infinite future time. However, no such supposition is built into the combinatory argument. Leibniz’s argument considers only the time by which unique histories will necessarily be exhausted and is thus completely indifferent to the probability of the occurrence or reoccurrence of any of the world-age histories generated by the combinatoric.53 This serves to underline the fact that the calculation does not show the period before the necessary return of any given history, but only the period before it is necessary that some history or other (of a determinate length and detail) must return.54 In particular, the calculation cannot show regarding the histories of our own life or world when or how likely it is to return. In this way, the calculation parallels the earlier essays, which concluded not that everything it is possible to say will

52

Thomasius quotes the passage in Latin at De Stoica mundi exustione, Diss. X. and later quotes the portion of the original Greek that includes the reference to the apokatastasis tou pantos again at Diss. XI. and then a third time at Diss. IX.. 53 By contrast, an (unfounded) supposition of chance seems to be at work in David Hume’s argument for the ‘Epicurean hypothesis’ of recurrence (in Part  of his Dialogues concerning Natural Religion) as well as in the argument for the doctrine of eternal recurrence that Nietzsche offers in a posthumous fragment from early  (). 54 This is made especially clear in Overbeck’s letter to Leibniz of  July  (F f.). See Rescher, On Leibniz, . Rescher seems to follow Ettlinger in taking this letter to be written by Leibniz (cf. Hübner, ‘Die notwendige Grenze’, , n. ).

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eventually be said, but only that eventually everything that is said will already have been said before.55 Assuming that future time is infinite, the argument does establish that at least one history from the same set of combinatorically generated annals from which an accurate history of our own age is drawn will accurately describe a future age an infinite number of times. In this sense, the combinatory argument justifies the conclusion that ‘these revolutions, while humanity remains in this state, would take place not just once, but many times, indeed a greater number of times than can be assigned’ (F –; cf. ). And the conclusion of the combinatory argument thereby reflects the second main aspect of the Stoic apokatastasis as related by Nemesius, namely that the world will return again ‘indefinitely and without end’. Hence Leibniz remarks that this is what the ancients seem to have had in mind when they spoke of the ‘revolutions of the great platonic year’ (F ; cf. ). But the calculation does not tell us which history or histories will return an infinite number of times: it is consistent with our own (or any given) history repeating itself infinitely many times and also with it never repeating once even throughout an infinite time. We have seen that in the shorter version of the essay Leibniz boldly declares that the kings of his own age will return again in the future. In the longer version of the essay, Leibniz is more careful. In the process of composing this revision, he writes and then strikes out a version of the claim that these kings will return (F n.). And he also chooses not to repeat the claim from the shorter essay that he himself will return to write the history of Brunswick. He notes instead: However, it could not be demonstrated from the calculus alone that precisely Leopold I or Louis XIV or myself or another individual would return, because if some others return often it is not necessary that all return. (F )

That is, while the combinatory argument applied to biographies of determinate length demonstrates that at least one future life will be a ‘return’ of a prior one (that is, that a year of some such life would need to be described with a biography that has already been used), nothing in the argument requires that any particular individual will return.

55

See note , above.

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Leibniz might be thought to move somewhat closer to that conclusion by considering matters in terms of the whole collection of annual biographies and by expanding them from recording a single year to recording periods that are significantly longer. Then we can see that it would necessarily happen that a whole year of humanity would at some point return such as it was before, with all its circumstances. And it can be demonstrated in the same way that there would be a time in which a whole century [or ‘age’: seculum] would return; indeed, a whole millennium; or even a whole million or a millionion [i.e. 12] years. (F –)

Here the returns would not be of isolated individuals, but of whole world ages. But this expansion of the scope of the history and hence of the return obviously does not change in any fundamental way the nature of the argument or its conclusions. For even expanding the history in question to cover a trillion years does nothing to establish the probability that that trillion-year history will return. Unlike in the earlier ‘De l’horizon de la doctrine humaine’, here Leibniz makes no attempt to calculate the number of chronicles generated by the combinatoric and hence also no attempt to determine the time before which a return would be necessary. Overbeck does take it upon himself to estimate the number of books that are at issue in their discussions on apokatastasis, expressing it as the numeral ‘’ followed by 8 zeros (F ). Overbeck must be referring either to the number of possible annual biographies of a single individual or, more likely, the number of possible ‘public histories’ of a year on earth (each was stipulated to be 8 letters long). But the largest book that Leibniz considers in the essays is much longer: the collection of 12 years’ worth of 9 annual biographies each of which are 8 letters long. The length of that book is 29 letters, and hence the number of such books would contain somewhere between 29 and 30 digits. And the number also represents, approximately, the number of years before the necessity of the return of the history in one of these books. (Multiplying that number by the trillion years covered by each history adds a comparatively paltry twelve zeros.) We can thereby see that whether the history covers a year or a trillion years makes comparatively little difference to the time before the necessity of a return. An additional nine Latin letters in the history would by itself increase the number of histories by two trillion, thus surpassing the difference in

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time-to-necessity-of-return between an annual history and a trillionyear history, assuming each had the same number of letters. In short, it is the degree of detail in the history that determines the length of the combinatorically calculated ‘great platonic year’. Consider the other extreme. The minimal possible detail in a history would be such that there are just two possible histories and thus one ‘bit’ of information. For example, we might have a set of histories devoted solely to the question whether or not the temperature dropped below freezing in Hannover that day.56 In this example, the period before which the return of an identical history would be necessary would be just two days: the third day will necessarily repeat the history of one of the prior two days. Of course, the repetition could come already after the first day: the argument establishes that two days is the maximum time during which unique histories can be used, but it obviously could freeze two days in a row. Moreover, as far as the combinatory argument is concerned, it could happen that this single history is repeated an infinite number of times without the other possible history ever being accurate: it is only because of our knowledge of physical facts that we are justified in thinking that it can be sometimes above and sometimes below freezing in Hannover. In this way, the combinatory argument can establish the time before the necessity of a return of some history or other, but it cannot establish that there will be a return of the history used to accurately describe our own world age or lives. Nevertheless, the fact that there are only a finite number of such histories has definite implications for how I can conceive of a possible infinite future for myself.

.

BEYOND COMBINATORY EXHAUSTION: THE PRINCIPLE OF INTERCONNECTION AND AN (EQUIVOCATING) ARGUMENT FOR TOTAL RECURRENCE

In the earlier of the two ‘Apokatastasis’ essay drafts, Leibniz argues for the ‘revolutions’ solely in terms of combinatory exhaustion. But in the revised draft, he invokes a metaphysical principle of interconnection or harmony in order to move the argument closer to an argument for 56

The example is modified from Rescher, On Leibniz, ch. .

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a total recurrence. After acknowledging that the combinatory argument alone cannot demonstrate that any given individuals (such as the kings of Europe or Leibniz himself ) will return, Leibniz offers an alternative means to approach that conclusion. In terms the calculus of combinations, ‘it is not necessary that all return’. Nevertheless, since it is established by metaphysical reasons that the present is pregnant with the future, it can be concluded that when one age returns exactly enough [exacte satis], more will return exactly enough too, since it is fitting that nearly the same [fere eadem] effects should return when nearly the same causes return. (F )

This deployment of the principle of interconnection marks the end of the main line of argumentation of the essay. But Leibniz is silent regarding what exactly we are meant to conclude from this principle. Since he fails to state a conclusion, we should consider what principle Leibniz means to invoke here and what conclusion that principle might justify in conjunction with the combinatory argument. Leibniz expresses the basic thought behind this principle in the Discourse on Metaphysics when he claims that ‘when we consider carefully the connection of things’, we see that each thing possesses ‘traces of everything that happens in the universe’ (§§–, A VI. iv. f./AG f.). In later years, Leibniz favors the metaphor used here: the presence of all these ‘traces’ means that ‘the present is pregnant with the future; the future can be read in the past; the distant is expressed in the proximate’.57 In its fundamental form, the principle expresses the perfect harmony and mirroring among all the infinite substances in the universe. Of course, exactly how all these infinite substances are connected is beyond the horizon of human knowledge and indeed beyond any conception of things short of infinite completeness. However, Leibniz introduces the principle into the present argument to establish that there is also regularity and connection among things understood in the incomplete or abstract way that could be described in books: if A causes B, then insofar as there is a reason why A causes B, we can also conclude that a different thing that appears like A in the relevant respects will cause something that appears like B in the relevant 57 Principles of Nature and Grace §, GP vi. /AG . See Monadology §, AG ; NE, Preface, A VI. vi. ; and the letter to de Volder of  January , GP ii. /L .

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respects. Call this ‘the principle of interconnection among sensibilia’. Without assuming some such principle, reasoning would be restricted to abstract thinking and could not be applied to reality.58 Leibniz does not repeat the claim from the earlier draft that the kings of his age or he himself will return. This suggests Leibniz has not completely overcome his doubts. But Leibniz implies here that such a conclusion is at least made probable by the principle of interconnection among sensibilia: if the William of Orange of our own age returns exacte satis in the future with all his deeds, then we should expect this return to be accompanied by the return of other individuals connected to him in our age—not in all their infinity of course, but also exacte satis. Thus, if William of Orange returns, King George must return; and if George returns, Leibniz must, in turn, return too. Moreover, this thought generalizes beyond the connection among individuals of one time and even beyond human individuals. The combinatory argument establishes that at least some part of the universe will return. And Leibniz is causally connected to (or, if one prefers, stands in a pre-established harmony with) every part of the universe, no matter how small or distant. For the universe is ‘an infinity of infinities infinitely replicated’: That is, each small portion contains, in an infinity of ways, a living mirror expressing the whole infinite universe that exists with it; so that a sufficiently great mind, armed with a sufficiently penetrating view, could see here everything everywhere. But there is much more: it could even read the whole of the past there, and even the whole infinitely infinite future, since each moment contains an infinity of things, each of which envelops an infinity, and since there is an infinity of moments in each hour or other part of time, and an infinity of hours, of years, of centuries and eons in the whole of future eternity.59

58 Hence Leibniz remarks in the New Essays that humans surpass beasts insofar as they not only expect that ‘what has happened once will happen again in a case which is similar’ (i.e. a case that appears similar), but are also able to ‘judge whether the same reasons are at work’. By applying ‘necessary inferences’ based on the knowledge of such reasons, humans have ‘a way of foreseeing events without having to experience sensible links between images’ (Preface, A VI. vi. –). Hence the principle that nothing happens without a reason is confirmed by experience itself ‘to the extent that we can penetrate things’ (A VI. iv. /AG ). 59 Gr ; translated by L. Strickland at .

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Thus, if an hour of an individual life history (or even an arbitrarily small portion of that hour) reoccurs, and if that hour (or millisecond) returns not just down to the greatest detail imaginable, but also down to all the detail there is in fact, then, given Leibniz’s view that nothing in the world is explanatorily independent of anything else, we can say that the return of the history of that individual’s hour (or millisecond thereof, etc.) entails the return of the world as a whole. In short, because of the perfect interconnection of things, the return of anything at all entails the return of everything. Taken together with the combinatory argument, the principle of interconnection suggests a compelling argument for the return of the same or apokatastasis that the ancients might have been tempted to accept:60 . Given the finite number of possible written histories, it is necessary that in the infinity of future time at least one portion of history (even one covering an arbitrarily long period of time with an arbitrarily great degree of detail) will return an infinite number of times down to the smallest detail. . Given the perfect interconnection of things, if any portion of history (even one that is arbitrarily short) returns in all its details, then every other part of the universe will also return down to the smallest details. . Therefore, it is necessary that everything will return in all its details an infinite number of times. In this way, the argument from the later draft offers what Leibniz acknowledges was missing from the first: a reason to think that our world age and our lives will return.61 And, significantly, the argument does not depend on any stipulations regarding the future state of humanity. 60 Leibniz notes that we do not really understand the ancient doctrine of the eternal recurrence since the arguments in support of the doctrine are not preserved (F , ). Long and Sedley agree that this feature of Stoic cosmology is ‘asserted rather than proved in our surviving evidence’. Their suggested reconstruction of an argument from Stoic premises actually parallels the argument below fairly closely (The Hellenistic Philosophers i. ). 61 Fichant, by contrast, claims that the second and more definitive version of the essay moves away from the thought of a total return since Leibniz abandons the claim that there will be a future Leibniz. For Fichant, this ‘moderation’ is reflected in the fact that the second draft is titled simply ‘apokatastasis’ without the ‘pantō n’, i.e. ‘of all’ (‘Postface’, –).

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One way to resist the argument would be to deny the thoroughgoing interconnection of all things on which the second, totalizing premise rests. The Stoics themselves would presumably agree that the doctrine of the eternal return of all things stands or falls with their view that all things stand in a relation of ‘sympathy’, or universally mutual influence, under the governance of a single ineluctable fate.62 Leibniz, too, accepts the universal scope of fate and, more generally, what we might call the ‘co-fatedness’ or, in Leibniz’s term, ‘the Stoic connectedness [connexion]’ of all things.63 But while the second, totalizing premise rests on a principle of interconnectedness central to Leibniz’s metaphysics, the role of the principle in the argument is uncertain. As formulated above, the argument itself rests on an equivocation: the first premise appeals to the maximum detail of a history portion sub ratione doctrinae humanae, whereas the second appeals to the maximum detail of a history-portion sub ratione rigoris metaphysici.64 That is, the argument slides from the concept of a portion of history with an arbitrarily great degree of detail to the concept of a portion of history with metaphysically complete detail. See René Brouwer, ‘Stoic Sympathy’, in E. Schliesser (ed.), Sympathy: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –. In causal terms, the Stoics say ‘that it is impossible that where all the same circumstances obtain with respect to the cause . . . that a result which does not ensue on one occasion should ensue on another. For if this happened, there would be an uncaused motion’ (Alexander, On Fate, ; in Long and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, item N). 63 GP iv. –/L . For an account of the proximity of Leibniz’s views in this area to the Stoics, see David Forman ‘Leibniz and the Stoics: Fate, Freedom, and Providence’, in J. Sellars (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of the Stoic Tradition (Abingdon: Routledge, ), –, at –. The sort of determinism required to reach the conclusion of a total recurrence (i.e. a perfectly cyclical cosmology) depends on whether the world is eternal. If the past is finite, then the conclusion requires not only the principle that identical causes issue in identical effects, but also the principle that identical effects follow from identical causes. If the past is instead infinite, then the latter principle is not required. Leibniz, for his part, usually follows Christian orthodoxy in rejecting the past eternity of the world. But this will not help Leibniz avoid a cyclical cosmology of the future insofar as his account of the ‘mirroring’ of substances implies that we can infer the cause from the effect (‘Primary Truths’, A VI. iv. /AG ). Leibniz avoids a thoroughgoing cyclical cosmology instead by insisting on the infinite complexity of creation. 64 The equivocation therefore can be compared to the sophisma figurae dictionis (namely a dicto, secundum quid, ad dictum simpliticer) that Kant identifies as underlying all metaphysical illusion, namely the equivocation between ‘empirical’ and ‘transcendental’ meanings of the terms involved (or, more specifically, the equivocation between the schematized categories that figure in all possible human knowledge and the pure categories that have a wholly intellectual content). See Kant, KrV, B , and Jäsche Logik (KGS ix. f.). 62

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And the infinite detail in the account of a world age that would be needed to underwrite the totalizing second premise without qualification would increase to infinity the period before which a return of any history-portion would become statistically necessary according the first premise. In short, insofar as we consider things sub specie rigoris metaphysici, the combinatory calculation tells us that there is no necessity of a return of any history portion at all. Nevertheless, it seems that the argument could be made sound if there were a perfect interconnection among things not only sub ratione rigoris metaphysici, but also among things understood at some level of abstraction that would admit of a finite description, that is, among sensibilia. Then, the second, totalizing premise could be made to accord with the combinatory premise. This would be the case if the past and future could be read perfectly from the present not only by God, but also by some hypothetical finite being such as a Laplacean demon. Leibniz would obviously deny that such a being could predict the future in all its infinite detail; no finite being could predict even some obvious immediate future in this way. But it would not have to. All that is needed is that it be able to predict the future at some given level of abstraction from the absolute. It is true that, for Leibniz, no interconnection among sensibilia could be characterized by a demonstrative ‘certainty’: no future predicate or event is contained with certainty in any merely incomplete concept of a substance or in a substance insofar as it is conceived only sub ratione generalitatis (A II. ii. /AG ). But this implies only that a perfect interconnection among sensibilia would be a contingent feature of this world rather than a necessary feature of any world. Although Leibniz clearly thinks that a principle of interconnection among sensibilia strengthens his conclusion regarding the revolutions or returns, he remains silent on the question whether that interconnection is perfect or instead imperfect or loose. But he gives no indication in the draft that he considers it to be loose. He does not say, for example, that if a present cause were to return ‘exactly enough’, effects would return that warrant the use of a history that is somewhat like the history in which the present effects appear. Nor does he say that it is somewhat likely that effects would follow that warrant using the same history for the future effects as were used for the present ones. Instead, he says only that it is fitting that when one individual or world age returns ‘exactly enough’ that more will return ‘exactly enough’ too. Leibniz proceeds

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in the sequel, accordingly, not to deny a perfect connection between abstractly conceived causes and effects, but rather to stress that he is talking only about things returning ‘exactly enough’ to warrant using the same history to describe it: when a past age does return, it will do so not ‘completely in all respects’ (omnino quoad omnia) but only ‘with respect to what can be sensed’ (quoad sensibilia), that is, with respect to ‘what can be described in books’ (F ). It is in this context that Leibniz first introduces into the discussion his doctrine of the infinite diversity of every part of the continuum. The basic structure of the main line of argumentation leaves open the possibility that when a past age returns there will be differences between the old and new ages that could not be included in a book of the stipulated length. But the doctrine of the real infinity of things implies that there will always be differences no matter the length of the book in question. One could deny this only with very different metaphysical assumptions: Certainly, if bodies consisted of atoms, all things would return precisely into the same collection of atoms, as long as new atoms were not added from elsewhere; just as if Epicurus’s world were supposed, which is separated from other worlds by the spaces between worlds. But such a world would thus be a mechanism that a creature of finite perfection could know perfectly, which does not hold good in the real world. (F )

That is, in the atomistic world of Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius, the returns would be metaphysically exact: the old and the new ages would be literally indiscernible—as long as the stipulated length of the histories were long enough to include all the finite number of possible states of all the atoms in the universe. In short, Leibniz does not deny a perfect connection among sensibilia, and he also does not deny the implication of such a connection that returns will be total; he denies only that the returns will be metaphysically exact. It seems clear, then, that Leibniz introduces the doctrine of the infinite diversity of the continuum to ensure the proper interpretation of the conclusion regarding the revolutions, not to withdraw or undermine that conclusion.65 This is consistent with his earlier attempts at 65 Phillip Stoellger, by contrast, calls the introduction of the infinite diversity of the continuum into the argument ‘die schlagende Widerlegung der Apokatastasis’. See

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such an argument: the Latin Horizon fragment says that new human beings will lead lives that are thoroughly the same ‘ad sensum’ as those that others have lead (F ); and the essay ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’ says that prior world ages will return ‘exacte ad sensum’ (F ). Thus when Leibniz briefly recalls the conclusion of his ‘Apokatastasis’ argument in a letter to Overbeck, he emphasizes precisely this point: the differences between old and new must consist in mere imperceptibilia (F ; cf. ).66 Despite all this, Leibniz can do no more than leave open the bare logical possibility that a perfect interconnection among sensibilia obtains in the actual world. And such an interconnection might even appear doubtful. We know from experience that some of the small causes that might not be included even in the very detailed histories that Leibniz envisages can have large-scale effects that would. Insofar as such difference-making small causes are excluded from the histories, there would be no interconnection of the sort that Leibniz needs to reach the conclusion of a total return: the return of one individual or age need not be accompanied by the return of adjacent individuals and ages. Consider an example relevant to Leibniz’s implication that the return of the biography of King George would have to come together with the return of the biography of Leibniz himself spending his last years in Hannover: ‘a fly could change the whole government of the state if it buzzed around a great king’s nose just as he is occupied with important proposals’.67

‘Die Vernunft der Kontingenz: Vom Umgang der Vernunft mit Widervenünftigem und Übervernunftigem’, in I. Dalferth and P. Stoellget (eds.), Vernunft, Kontingenz und Gott: Konstellationen eines offenen Problems (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ), –. Di Bella concludes, similarly, that the main point here seems to be that the ‘combinatorial recursivity is overcome’ by the real infinity of things (The Science of the Individual, ). Also see Fichant, ‘Postface’, –, and ‘Ewige Wiederkehr oder unendlicher Fortschritt: Die Apokatastasisfrage bei Leibniz’, Studia Leibnitiana  (), –, at –. 66 Leibniz amplifies this point in the letter in a way that goes beyond the essay: ‘And these differences would themselves be lessened in the course of repeated revolutions’ (F ). Perhaps Leibniz is alluding to the fact that the less detailed and hence less exact histories have a shorter time to the necessity of a return and so ceteris paribus will happen more often. But the combinatory argument alone does not justify the conclusion that less exact histories will actually return sooner. 67 Likewise, a seemingly unnoteworthy change in the position of a cannon could make a difference in the outcome of a war and hence change all subsequent history (‘Vom Verhängnisse’, GP vii. ).

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The argument for a total return of the same thus hinges on whether there is any finite account of the world that could include all the small causes that make a difference to predicting what will be observable in the future. But Leibniz’s examples of difference-making small causes hardly rule out such a possibility. After all, the atomist could give a parallel account of human predictive fallibility: a perfect prediction of the future would require a knowledge of all the many differencemaking small causes; and that would require a knowledge reaching the atomic level, that is, a knowledge beyond any human capacity, but still finite. Leibniz does assert in one letter that no finite account of things could include all the difference-making small causes needed to predict the future appearance of things: There is no devil or angel who can foresee all these small things which give rise to such great events, because nothing is so small which does not arise from a great variety of even smaller circumstances, and these circumstances from others again, and so on to infinity. . . . [A]nd often the springs [les ressorts] are set up as in a rifle, where the slightest action that occurs makes the whole machine discharge. Therefore one could not be certain of the detail of any future event through the consideration of causes or through foresight unless one is endowed with an infinite mind.68

Leibniz may be exaggerating here his own opposition to the possibility that a finite mind could predict the future.69 He certainly does not 68 Letter to Princess Sophie, / October  (A II. ii. ). Translation from Lloyd Strickland (ed. and trans.), Leibniz and the Two Sophies: The Philosophical Correspondence [Two Sophies] (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, ), . Fichant (‘Postface’, – and ‘Ewige Wiederkehr oder unendlicher Fortschritt’, –) and Di Bella (The Science of the Individual, ) also discuss this letter in connection with the apokatastasis essays. 69 The context, after all, is his attempt to dissuade his correspondent from giving credence to contemporary alleged human prophecies. In fact, even here, Leibniz stresses that it is the detail of any future event of which no finite mind could be certain, predictions of the future in very general terms being more or less easy (A II. ii. –; cf. GP iii. ). Speaking to a different correspondent about such alleged human prophecies, Leibniz affirms again that ‘the present is pregnant with the future’, adding: ‘I would not even oppose someone who maintains that there are spheres [globes] in the universe in which prophecies are more common that in ours . . . perhaps there may also be spheres in which genii have greater leave than they have here below to interfere with the actions [se meler des actions] of rational animals. But when it is a question of reasoning about what actually happens here, our presumptive judgment must be based on what is usual in our sphere’ (GP iii. –/AG –; cf. GP vii.  and NE IV.ix., A VI. vi. –). On the predictive or divinatory power of genii, see Gr .

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introduce any convincing empirical or metaphysical reasons for such an outright denial. Nevertheless, his willingness to entertain this position in the letter underscores the fact that Leibniz also cannot positively establish that a perfect interconnection obtains among sensibilia. And this would explain why he never claims in the revised essay that he himself will return or that there will be a total return. He claims only, more modestly and vaguely, that when one individual or age will return (as they must), ‘more’ (plura) will return too.70 In the end, Leibniz cannot demonstrate that he himself or his own world age will return—even in the qualified way that can be described in books. Indeed, he cannot even demonstrate that the probability of such returns is greater than zero. However, the argument for a total return of the same outlined in this section does not rest on any premises he would consider false and does not issue in a conclusion Leibniz must reject: the conclusion that his own world age will return is consistent with his commitment to the infinite diversity of the continuum and even his considerations regarding difference-making small causes. Instead, the argument is inconclusive. That is, it seems that it remains an open possibility that total returns could be demonstrated: what is needed is a demonstration that there is a perfect interconnection of things at some finite level of comprehension that could be described in books, that is, among sensibilia. In sum, to determine whether a return of our own world age is necessary, probable, or impossible, we would need a deeper insight into nature.

.

PROGRESS IN INFINITUM AND POST REVOLUTIONES

In the concluding paragraphs of both drafts of the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay, Leibniz returns to the theme from the earlier essays ‘De l’horizon de la Doctrine’ and ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’ that he brackets in the main part of the argument: the advancement of the capacity of minds to comprehend ever-longer letter-strings. This concluding portion of the essay is even more cryptic than the main argument. But the underlying assumptions are familiar from the earlier essays: () that the progress of knowledge is a progress in discovering truths that can be 70

I am grateful to Jeff McDonough for his input on this issue.

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expressed in sentences; and () that if humanity were to continue in its present state, eventually everything that is said will have been said before. In short, if humanity or even a future more advanced species is limited to comprehending sentences of some given length, then minds will eventually reach a point when progress in knowledge would cease: new minds could discover only truths that have already been discovered and demonstrated before. Hence Leibniz remarks here that if there are to be ever-new discoveries and hence a continual progress of minds, the theorems would have to grow in size into infinity (crescere magnitudine in infinitum) (F , ). Leibniz gives us only a hint of what this new knowledge might be like: just as we can derive truths from the definition of a circle by means of demonstration, so too a future more advanced mind will be able to demonstrate truths, including future contingent truths, from the definition of a fly, or even from the definition of an individual fly (F ). In this scheme, the infinite variety in the content of sensible experience is important only insofar as it is the source of a never-ending supply of ‘new material for and new items of knowledge, i.e. in theorems of increasing length’ (F ; cf. –). Leibniz claims, further, that a metaphysical principle of fittingness allows us to believe that minds will in fact exist in the future with such an ever-increasing capacity to comprehend, discover, and demonstrate these ever-lengthier theorems: ‘things must progress towards the better, either gradually or even sometimes by leaps’ (F ).71 The claim that there is a progress in knowledge into infinity might look like a rejection of the thought of the revolutions.72 After all, the thought that the future Leibniz will write the same theorems as the

71 In a letter to Sophie (of  February ), Leibniz says that the order of the universe suggests that there are rational souls more perfect than ours that we can call ‘genii’ (i.e., demons, angels or higher spirits) and that ‘we could well be of their number one day’ (GP vii. ; cf. GP iii, /Two Sophies, ; cf. ). Cf. NE IV.xvi., A VI. vi.  and xvii., A VI. vi. . The irony here is that the power to demonstrate future contingents that Leibniz ascribes to future minds presupposes the sort of interconnection among sensibilia on which the argument for total returns rests. 72 Compare Leibniz’s comment from around  that he believes that ‘the world continually increases in perfection and does not return cyclically as if in revolution [per revolutionem]’ (A VI. iv. ; translated by D. Rutherford as ‘On the Continually Increasing Perfection of the World’ at ).

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Leibniz of our age hardly seems compatible with the kind of progress Leibniz describes here. Moreover, immediately before introducing the topic of progress, Leibniz apparently rescinds his earlier stipulation that humanity will continue to endure in its present state (F , , , , ): the argument that proceeds under the stipulation of a constancy in human nature leads to the conclusion that there will be the infinite revolutions of the platonic great year; and yet ‘it is not consonant with divine harmony always to play the same chord’ (F ). Such claims might suggest that Leibniz’s overall argument in the essay takes the form of a reductio or indirect argument: if the conclusion regarding the revolutions can be denied by appeal to a metaphysical principle of progress, then we can also positively deny the questionable stipulation on which the conclusion rests, namely that human nature will remain constant during all the times under consideration. However, the argument that the capacity of minds must make progress in infinitum is independent of the main line of argumentation for the revolutions. Indeed, in the first draft, the progressive capacity of minds to comprehend ever-longer letter-strings appears in merely hypothetical terms: such progress would be necessary if there is to be an infinite progress in the discovery of demonstrable theorems (F ). And a hypothetical claim is ill-suited to refute any part of the main argument. Alternatively, we might read the concluding paragraphs as a direct denial of the stipulation on which the argument for the revolution depends. On either of these readings, the argument for the revolutions is cancelled by the final paragraphs regarding the progress of human knowledge. However, if the essays had the ultimate aim of either denying the revolutions or rejecting the argument for the revolutions, then we would reasonably expect Leibniz to give us some indication of this. But whereas Leibniz flags the main conclusion of the combinatory portion of the argument in both drafts with a ‘Q.E.D.’ (F , ), he nowhere indicates that he has demonstrated a further conclusion in the final paragraphs that cancels an earlier one—even though this would be the dominant conclusion of the essay. More importantly, there is no straightforward contradiction between the claim that progress in knowledge can continue in infinitum and either the main conclusion regarding the revolutions or any stipulation under which alone that conclusion would follow. Even if a principle of

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divine harmony or plenitude establishes that human nature will not always remain the same, nothing in the principle itself guarantees that these differences would appear in a history of a given finite length: they might all be found among what, for us, are imperceptibilia. To be sure, some conception of the current state of humanity does shape Leibniz’s estimation of the number of letters required to relate a given history portion ‘sufficiently’. But nothing that Leibniz actually says in the drafts gives us reason to deny that we could ‘sufficiently’ describe in a book of some given finite length what these everadvancing beings are doing. For the histories do not need to include all these theorems of ever-increasing length. Summaries would be enough. And maybe even that would not be necessary, depending on one’s tolerance for exactness. In our own prospective histories of future ages populated by such beings, these ever-lengthening theorems would be akin to the small causes that escape our notice without preventing us from having a historical knowledge of the age that touches on the generalities that fit into the history. Reading Leibniz in this way also fits with his important initial statement on progress a few paragraphs earlier. Following his discussion of the fact that each of the infinite revolutions will have its own imperceptible individuating differences, Leibniz adds: And for this reason, it could happen that things gradually [paulatim] make progress toward the best, albeit imperceptibly, after the revolutions [post revolutiones]. It could even be asked whether those whose history is to be repeated more than once would be the same, equipped with a soul numerically the same (perhaps progressing gradually), or whether they would be actually different, although very similar. (F )

That is, since there will always be imperceptible differences from revolution to revolution, there could also be imperceptible progress from revolution to revolution.73 In this way, Leibniz revisits the conclusion of his earlier ‘De universo immenso aeternoque’. There, he concludes that despite the ‘platonic periods’ to which finite minds are subject, ‘knowledge will be able to

Antognozza and Hotson thus find the drafts to present an image of progress ‘as a continually ascending spiral, which reconciles the concept of a cyclical return with that of unending progress’ (Alsted and Leibniz, ). 73

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progress into infinity’ (F ). If human minds experience platonic years, then it is fitting that ‘the same human being returns, not so that he simply returns to the earth, but so that in a spiraling or coiled way, as it were, he progresses thenceforth to something greater’ (F ). Thus, the returns should be depicted not as a circle (F ), but rather as a ‘secondary cycloid’ (F ) or as ‘a spiraling progression or Platonic year with advancement, so that it is possible to believe that the same minds return to pick up the thread’ (F ).74 That is, the progress occurs not in an uninterrupted way, but rather from revolution to revolution or post revolutiones. Here we can see a further sense in which Leibniz’s presentation could be considered inspired by his engagement with Petersen’s Origenist universalism. A central feature of Petersen’s defense of universalism is his claim that we mistakenly think that Scripture refers to damnation without end where it speaks merely of punishment for ‘ages of ages’ (aion̄ es ton̄ aion̄ on̄ , saecula saeculorum, or periodorum periodi )—an ‘age’ being what we commonly call a ‘world’.75 It is with this understanding of an ‘age’ and ‘world’ in mind that Petersen endorses Origen’s provocative claim that ‘this world, which is itself called an age, is said to be the conclusion of many ages’.76 To give a sense of what salvation looks like on this view, Petersen quotes Origen’s account of the resurrection as

74 Here Leibniz contrasts the ‘direct’ progress represented by the ‘primary cycloid’ with the ‘regressive’ or ‘coiled’ advancement represented by a ‘secondary cycloid’. Leibniz must be referring, more particularly, to what John Wallis calls a ‘contracted’ secondary cycloid. See John Wallis, Tractatus Duo. Prior, de cycloide et corporibus inde gentis; posterior, epistolaris in qua agitur de cissoide, et corporibus inde gentis, et de curvarum (Oxford: Lichfield, ), ; and Mechanica, sive de motu, tractatus geometricus (London: William Godbid, ) , ; cf. A I. xiii.  and A VII. vi. –. This curve, equivalent to what is now commonly called an ‘extended’ or ‘prolate’ cycloid, progresses with respect to its linear base in a looping or, as Leibniz says here, ‘regressive’ or ‘coiled’ way: the curve regresses with each revolution of its generating circle, but still makes overall progress. Fichant supposes that by ‘secondary cycloid’, Leibniz instead means an epicycloid (‘Postface’, –; cf. A VII. iii.  and A VIII. ii. –). (I am grateful to Siegmund Probst for tracking down these references to Leibniz’s different uses of the term ‘secondary cycloid’.) 75 Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, ‘Gespräch’ II, . See Leibniz, ‘Petersen Review’, , . 76 Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, ‘Gespräch’ I, ; quoting On First Principles II. iii.. Jakob Thomasius, by contrast, approvingly quotes Jerome’s claim that Origen’s view that there are ‘innumerable worlds succeeding each other in eternal ages’ is ‘supremely heretical’ (De Stoica mundi exustione, Diss. XVII., quoting Apologia adversus Rufinus .; cf. Theses – and Diss. XVII–XIX).

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

David Forman

the transformation of the earthly body into the glory of a spiritual body when the restitution of all is attained (cum omnia restituentur): But this is to be understood as happening not suddenly but gradually [paulatim] and in piecemeal fashion, over the infinite and immeasurable elapsed ages, seeing that the process of emendation and correction takes place little by little and in each individual.77

Here Origen offers a model for Leibniz’s own reconciliation of successive world ages and a resurrection that could sustain our hope for the future. For Leibniz, however, the image of a progress occurring over infinite world ages serves a different purpose. The thought of the revolutions reminds us that while any finite history can represent moments of regress or progress, the overall trajectory of the infinite universe and its minds remains necessarily hidden from any finite mind. This is why our own meager experiences and historical knowledge of regress can never justify any conclusions about the overall trajectory of the universe. Thus, regarding the claim that principles of fittingness establish that things progress ‘gradually or even sometimes by leaps’ (vel paulatim vel etiam aliquando per saltus), Leibniz remarks here: ‘For although things constantly seem to get worse, this should be thought to happen in the same way that we sometimes step back in order to jump with a greater impetus’ (F ; cf. ). The conclusion of the ‘Apokatastasis’ essay thereby serves as a vivid illustration of a central point from the Ultimate Origination of Things of . Leibniz claims there that the afflictions suffered by the good are not contrary to divine justice: they can be considered as akin to ‘stepping back in order to leap [ut saltum facias] forward with greater force’ (GP vii. /AG ). Although the world may appear to finite knowers as so far from improving that it can even seem to be getting worse, we can conclude on general metaphysical grounds that ‘this very destruction and burying leads to the attainment of something better’ (GP vii. /AG ).78 Leibniz illustrates the significance of 77

Μυστήριον ἀποκατάστασεως πάντων, ‘Gespräch’ I, ; quoting On First Principles III.

vi.. 78

Leibniz connects this picture with an account of the next world in the letter to Sophie (of  February ) mentioned above: ‘And just as there are grounds to think that the universe itself develops more and more, and that everything tends towards some goal . . . it can

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Leibniz on Human Finitude, Progress, and Eternal Recurrence

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this abyss between our historical knowledge and the infinite universe with an image reminiscent of Plato’s cave: We know but a small part of the eternity which extends without measure, for how short is the memory of several thousand years which history gives us. But yet from such meager experience we rashly make judgments about the immense and the eternal [de immenso et aeterno], like people born and raised in prison or, if you prefer, in the subterranean salt mines of the Sarmatians, people who think that there is no light in the world but the dim light of their torches, light scarcely sufficient to guide their steps. (GP vii. /AG )

Progress established on metaphysical or theological principles cannot be confuted by any finite account of the details of the infinite universe. The thought of the revolutions sharpens this point in a dramatic way. The idea of an eternal return of the same or of platonic revolutions represents an extreme denial of progress: if everything happening now will happen again an infinite number of times in the future, then things cannot be said to be getting better overall. Taken in an absolute sense, the revolutions thus represent a naturalism that denies a wise governance of the universe and of minds by denying that injustice and other imperfections of the world here below will receive compensation, once and for all, in the world to come. But the discussion of progress post revolutiones that concludes the final ‘Apokatastasis’ essay draft shows how even the most extreme denial of progress regarding what we can experience or write in books remains consistent with a form of progress of minds in infinitum. And this has an additional important implication that Leibniz should accept: the fact that we have general metaphysical reasons for supposing that the future will hold something better for us does not itself imply that such progress is one we could actually experience or even imagine. The ‘Apokatastasis’ essay reminds us, in short, that a general conception of progress, even of a progress of minds, does not imply a progress at the level of appearance or ordinary history. The essay

likewise be believed that souls, which endure as long as the universe, also proceed to get better and better (at least physically), and that their perfections carry on growing; although more often than not this happens only insensibly, and sometimes after large steps backwards. It is often necessary to move back for a better jump: death and sufferings would not exist in the universe if they were not necessary for great changes for the better’ (GP vii. /Two Sophies, –).

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

David Forman

thereby offers an important insight into the significance and scope of the metaphysics or rational theology that Leibniz thinks can ground a hope for the future. In particular, it shows that natural explanation or ordinary history must be considered radically autonomous with respect to such theological principles: the operation of grace in nature might be hidden from us on account of the very constitution of our cognitive faculty. University of Nevada, Las Vegas

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 Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy GABRIELE GAVA

Both in his pre-critical writings and in his critical works, Kant criticizes the Wolffian tradition for its use of the mathematical method in philosophy. Kant argues that only mathematics can begin its proofs with definitions, while philosophy can only obtain definitions at the end of its investigations. By contrast, Wolff is famous for proposing a model of philosophical argumentation based on Euclidean geometrical demonstrations, where philosophy should start from clear and distinct definitions and from indisputable principles, in order to develop deductively valid conclusions by means of demonstrations. If we limited our attention to these generic statements concerning the relationship between the methods of philosophy and mathematics, it would be easy to conclude that Kant and Wolff proposed two opposing and incompatible methods of philosophical argumentation. It would thus be quite difficult to understand why Kant, in the preface to the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason, identified Wolff ’s method as the appropriate method for a future system of metaphysics (that is, the system of philosophy that the critical estimation of reason’s powers made possible) (KrV, B xxxvi).1 In fact, Kant’s and Wolff ’s general statements about the relevance of a mathematical model of demonstration for philosophy cannot be employed to obtain an accurate assessment of the relationship between their respective accounts of philosophical argumentation. There is one main reason that justifies this claim: in his prohibition on using mathematical procedures in philosophy, Kant uses his own understanding of 1 References to Kant’s KrV will be given according to the page numbers of the first [A] and second [B] original editions. References to KGS will be given by volume and page number. Translations are from P. Guyer and A. Wood (eds.), The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, –).

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

Gabriele Gava

mathematical demonstration, which is very different from Wolff ’s. An indication that Kant and Wolff have different things in mind when they speak of the mathematical method is provided by Kant’s claim that mathematics and philosophy should be distinguished because the first proceeds synthetically, whereas the second advances analytically.2 If thus, on the one hand, Kant characterizes the mathematical method by its syntheticity, on the other hand, Wolff rarely uses the terms ‘analytic’ and ‘synthetic’,3 and when he does, he stresses that some of his books on mathematics were composed using analytic, or mixed, procedures (cf. Latin Logic,4 GW, div. , vol. ., §).5 We should of course keep in mind that Wolff and Kant used the distinction between the analytic and the synthetic in quite different ways.6 However, the fact that for Wolff the distinction is not at all relevant for pointing out

2 This claim can be striking when it is read together with Kant’s contention in the Prolegomena that the Critique of Pure Reason proceeds synthetically (cf. KGS iv. –). The contrast between these claims suggests that Kant uses a different understanding of the distinction between the analytic and the synthetic method in the Prolegomena. I cannot investigate this issue further here. On the distinction between the synthetic and the analytic method in Kant, see W. de Jong, ‘How is Metaphysics as a Science Possible? Kant on the Distinction Between Philosophical and Mathematical Method’, Review of Metaphysics,  (), –; M. M. Merritt, ‘Science and the Synthetic Method of the “Critique of Pure Reason” ’, Review of Metaphysics,  (), –; and G. Gava, ‘Kant’s Synthetic and Analytic Method in the Critique of Pure Reason and the Distinction between Philosophical and Mathematical Syntheses’ [‘Kant’s Synthetic and Analytic Method’], European Journal of Philosophy,  (), –. 3 This is even more surprising if we consider that the distinction between a synthetic and an analytic method was quite common in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophy and mathematics. See G. Tonelli, ‘Der Streit über die mathematische Methode in der Philosophie in der ersten Hälfte des . Jahrhunderts und die Entstehung von Kants Schrift über die “Deutlichkeit” ’, Archiv für Philosophie,  (), –, and ‘Analysis and Synthesis in XVIIIth Century Philosophy Prior to Kant’, Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte,  (), –. 4 Philosophia rationalis sive logica, methodo scientifica pertractata. 5 References to Wolff ’s GW will be given indicating division [Abteilung], volume [Band] and either page or paragraph number. 6 For Wolff, the distinction between a synthetic, an analytic, and a mixed method has to do with the order in which the ‘dogmata’ of a science are presented (cf. Latin Logic, GW, div. , vol. ., §). Although Kant sometimes also uses the distinction between a synthetic and an analytic method for indicating the order of presentation of a science (cf. Kant, Tillmann Pinder [ed.], Logik-Vorlesung, Unveröffentlichte Nachschriften II: Logik Hechsel, Warschauer Logik [Hamburg: Meiner, ], –), for him the distinction concerns in the first instance two different ways of obtaining definitions and developing demonstrations. Moreover, in the critical period, he applies the analytic/synthetic distinction to judgments, which is something that was original to him.

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy

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characteristics of philosophy and mathematics suggests that his views on the mathematical method are different from Kant’s. Besides, Kant’s critique of Wolff ’s application of the mathematical method is also problematic because it is difficult to square with other remarks that Kant makes on Wolff ’s approach to philosophy. Given this situation, if we want to gain a proper understanding of the relationship between Kant’s and Wolff ’s philosophical methods, we must undertake various tasks. First, we must determine exactly which elements of Wolff ’s method Kant has in mind when he criticizes Wolff ’s use of mathematical models. Second, we must find out how this critique can be made consistent with other remarks Kant makes on Wolff ’s method. Third, we must establish if Kant’s criticisms are in fact justified. And fourth, we must determine whether Kant’s explicit observations conceal elements of continuity that are relevant for our discussion of Wolff ’s and Kant’s methods. I will accomplish these tasks as follows. I will begin in section  by situating Kant’s criticism of Wolff ’s application of mathematical procedures in the context of other remarks Kant makes regarding Wolff ’s approach. This will allow us to determine exactly what Kant means with his criticisms and how they can be rendered consistent. Section  will introduce some of the chief characteristics of Wolff ’s mathematical method, and sections  and  will then compare Wolff ’s account of the mathematical method to Kant’s understanding of mathematical and philosophical investigations respectively. Thanks to this comparison, we will see that, when properly understood, Kant’s criticisms are often justified, even though they conceal important elements of continuity, especially concerning the account of philosophical definitions. To conclude, in section , I will discuss in more detail the analysis of given concepts that for both Wolff and Kant seems to constitute the beginning of a philosophical investigation.

.

KANT ON WOLFF ’S METHOD IN PHILOSOPHY

Kant advances various criticisms of Wolff ’s philosophy, but an evaluation of these is difficult, since he often directs his remarks not at Wolff ’s position directly, but rather at what he calls the ‘LeibnizWolffian school’. This means that it is not easy to determine whether,

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

Gabriele Gava

when making a particular point, Kant has primarily Leibniz, Wolff, or some of Wolff ’s followers in mind.7 In this section, I will consider three criticisms that Kant advances against Wolff ’s method in the critical period. I will first analyze Kant’s attack on the application of the mathematical method in philosophy in more detail. Then, I will consider Kant’s claims that Wolff failed to distinguish between analytic and synthetic judgments, and that he gave a wrong account of the difference between sensible and intellectual cognition. After considering these criticisms, I will try to make sense of Kant’s praise of Wolff ’s method in the  Preface of the Critique of Pure Reason. I have already contended that Kant’s critique of Wolff ’s application of the mathematical method to philosophy is likely to be misleading for a proper understanding of the relationship between their methods. Still, it is interesting to see what Kant has to say in this respect because it opens a bundle of questions regarding how he actually interpreted Wolff ’s mathematical method. For example, in lecture notes from the early s, and in particular in the Dohna-Wundlacken Logic, we find the following statement: While enumerating methods earlier we forgot the mathematical. This is none other than the synthetic method, which proceeds from the first grounds of a cognition and stops at the last consequences. The first thing with this method, now, is definition, then axiom, theorem, problem, etc. . . . Wolff expounded philosophy in accordance with this method, which cannot be done (KGS xxiv. ).

Here Kant uses two features to characterize the mathematical method: () its synthetic character, and () the particular order in which certain elements are to be found in a mathematical demonstration. As we will see in section , when Kant, in the Critical period, speaks about the synthetic character of mathematics, he has different things in mind. First, he means that mathematical definitions have a certain genetic power, because they create the concept they define and are able to immediately provide an instance of this concept. Second, he means that 7 For a useful summary of Kant’s criticisms of Leibniz, which often can be extended to the Leibniz-Wolffian school in general, see A. Jauernig, ‘Kant’s Critique of the Leibnizian Philosophy: Contra the Leibnizians, but Pro Leibniz’, in D. Garber and B. Longuenesse (eds.), Kant and the Early Moderns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, ), –, at –.

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy

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mathematical principles and demonstrations do not rely only on the principle of non-contradiction, but need constructions in pure intuition to be established. So, when Kant says that Wolff expounded philosophy according to the mathematical method, it is not clear if he is attributing to Wolff the attempt to emulate both of these features. It is quite clear that Kant attributes to Wolff the attempt to imitate the order of the elements of a mathematical demonstration, since he explicitly complains that Wolff puts definitions at the beginning in philosophy (cf. KGS xxiv. –). What is unclear is whether he saw Wolff as attempting to use in philosophy a synthetic procedure—in Kant’s sense of the term. The textual evidence in this respect is inconclusive. In the Metaphysics Vigilantius we find Kant claiming that Wolff ‘built his success in philosophy at random on mathematical presuppositions, and by application of the mathematical method confused a priori cognitions from pure ideas with mathematical cognitions, because he believed himself able to operate with them by the construction of concepts from a priori intuition just as in mathematics’ (KGS xxix. ). This passage is striking in many ways, but first of all because Kant seems to ascribe a concept of pure intuition to Wolff. We could of course attribute this oddity to the inaccuracy of the student who took the notes. But still, we might think that the student at least got it right that Wolff, according to Kant, wanted to introduce some synthetic element into philosophy by means of the application of the mathematical method. This passage, however, is in sharp contrast to others where Kant criticizes Wolff for wrongly assuming that mathematics itself proceeds analytically, that is, by means of the analysis of given concepts and syllogisms. For example, Kant complains that Wolff ’s definition of the similarity of triangles is in fact more philosophical than mathematical, because it is based on the analysis of the concept (cf. KGS xxiv. , –). Thus, if we take into consideration Kant’s direct criticism of Wolff ’s application of the mathematical method to philosophy, it remains unclear whether Kant only complained that Wolff ordered the elements of a philosophical demonstration like those of a mathematical one, or whether Kant also thought that Wolff tried to use in philosophy something similar to what he called constructions of concepts. The possibility that Kant could have attributed to Wolff the attempt to introduce synthetic procedures into philosophy is rendered doubtful

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

Gabriele Gava

when we consider a second criticism advanced by Kant. In the Prolegomena to any Future Metaphysics Kant laments that Wolff, together with Baumgarten, failed to distinguish between synthetic and analytic judgments: This division [between analytic and synthetic judgments] is indispensable with regard to the critique of human understanding, and therefore deserves to be classical in it; other than that I don’t know that it has much utility anywhere else. And in this I find the reason why dogmatic philosophers . . . neglected this division, which appears to come forward of itself, and, like the famous Wolf, or the acute Baumgarten following in his footsteps, could try to find the proof of the principle of sufficient reason, which obviously is synthetic, in the principle of contradiction (KGS iv. ).

Kant argues that the distinction between synthetic and analytic judgments is essential to a critique of pure reason, where this means that its relevance is not easily grasped if one does not adopt a critical standpoint. Lacking the latter standpoint, dogmatic philosophers like Wolff and Baumgarten failed to acknowledge this distinction. Now, according to Kant, this failure to distinguish between synthetic and analytic judgments generated the misguided attempt to demonstrate that irreducibly synthetic principles, like the principle of sufficient reason, are in fact conceptual truths, which for Kant are analytic in the sense that they are based only on conceptual analysis and syllogisms. Assuming that Kant’s contention concerning Wolff ’s proof of the principle of sufficient reason could be extended to other parts of Wolff ’s philosophy, this would mean that Kant attributed to Wolff the attempt to render many, if not all, philosophical truths conceptual truths. However, this would be incompatible with ascribing to Wolff the application of mathematical synthetic procedures to philosophy. So, it seems plausible that when Kant laments that Wolff used the mathematical method, he simply meant that he wrongly assumed that he could start with definitions. The latter impression is confirmed if we take into consideration a related criticism that Kant makes against Wolff. The criticism concerns the error of treating the distinction between sensible and intellectual cognition as only dependent on the degree of clarity of the cognitions in question. According to Kant, this mistake was common to all philosophers belonging to the ‘Leibniz-Wolffian Tradition’, including

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy



Wolff (cf. KrV, A /B –). Accounting for the distinction between sensible and intellectual cognition as only a matter of clarity is tantamount to rendering conceptual clarity the paradigm of knowledge. If sensible cognition is distinguishable from intellectual cognition only because it cannot reach the degree of clarity that is possible for the latter, it means that thoroughgoing conceptual analysis is regarded as perfect and complete cognition, where knowledge is identified either with strict conceptual analysis or with further consequences logically derivable through inference. It is easy to see how this criticism is related to the previous one. As in the case of the failure to distinguish between analytic and synthetic judgments, the differentiation between sensible and intellectual cognition as merely a matter of clarity has the consequence of treating every possible philosophical truth as a conceptual truth, obtainable by conceptual analysis and the application of the principle of non-contradiction. If we consider these criticisms together, it seems plausible to conclude that, when Kant complains that Wolff was wrong in applying the mathematical method to philosophy, he simply meant that Wolff should not have started with definitions. Besides, Kant probably feared that Wolff ’s claim that philosophy should proceed mathematically could generate the false belief that it could in fact use constructions, even though this was not what Wolff meant according to him. With this criticism, he associated another more fundamental one, that is, the charge of treating all philosophical truths as analytic and conceptual truths, which resulted in the use of synthetic principles as if they were analytic. Reading Kant’s criticism in this way allows us to attribute to him a coherent position on Wolff ’s method. What we must still determine, however, is whether these criticisms are justified and whether they leave unexplored relevant elements of continuity or discontinuity between Wolff ’s and Kant’s philosophical methods. Before we move to our comparison between Wolff ’s and Kant’s positions, however, there is another issue that we must address. As I have already mentioned, in the Preface to the B edition of the Critique, Kant says that metaphysics, after the critique of pure reason is completed, should proceed according to the Wolffian method: In someday carrying out the plan that criticism prescribes, i.e., in the future system of metaphysics, we will have to follow the strict method of the famous

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

Gabriele Gava

Wolff, the greatest among all dogmatic philosophers, who gave us the first example . . . of the way in which the secure course of a science is to be taken, through the regular ascertainment of the principles, the clear determination of concepts, the attempt at strictness in the proofs, and the prevention of audacious leaps in inferences; for these reasons he had the skills for moving a science such as metaphysics into this condition, if only it had occurred to him to prepare the field for it by a critique of the organ, namely pure reason itself (KrV, B xxxvi).

How should we understand this statement in relation to Kant’s criticisms analysed above? If the metaphysics that the critique of pure reason makes possible can follow the Wolffian method, does this mean that it is only in pursuing this critique that we should be careful not to fall into Wolff ’s error? Should metaphysics instead emulate the model of mathematical demonstrations and start with definitions? Should it proceed using only conceptual analysis and syllogisms? But if this is the case, what would be the role of the critique with respect to metaphysics? In this article, I will be able to answer only some of these questions. In this connection, let me conclude this section with three brief remarks, two of which will be further developed below. First, if we consider the structure of works such as the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science—which might be considered part of Kant’s ‘metaphysics proper’—it seems that Kant in fact uses a model that is reminiscent of Wolff ’s mathematical method, starting with definitions and proceeding to principles and demonstrations (cf. KGS iv. –). However, it might be maintained that this structure has more to do with the exposition than with the method, while these two aspects were not clearly distinguished in Wolff.8 Second, one aspect of the quoted passage from the Preface to the B edition can probably be spelled out by saying that Kant fundamentally agrees with Wolff ’s idea that philosophy must be systematic.9 Third, Kant sometimes suggests that while the critical part of philosophy identifies and justifies fundamental synthetic a priori principles regarding ‘objects of experience in general’, 8 On the distinction between exposition and method, see Gava, ‘Kant’s Synthetic and Analytic Method’. 9 On the role of systematicity in Kant’s account of science, see G. Gava, ‘Kant’s Definition of Science in the Architectonic of Pure Reason and the Essential Ends of Reason’, KantStudien,  (), –.

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy

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its ‘doctrinal’ part should instead show how these principles are further specified when they are applied to some ‘given’ object. Accordingly, the metaphysics that comes after the critique could be ‘Wolffian’ in the sense that, if the synthetic principles are secured by the critique, the further consequences attainable when we use a thicker conception of the object can in fact be obtained deductively, once this new concept of the object is acquired through analysis and is added to our premises. Having said that, let us see if we can obtain some support for these remarks through a comparison of the methods that Wolff and Kant propose.

.

WOLFF ’S MATHEMATICAL METHOD

Wolff ’s mathematical method should first be distinguished from the inquiries that are actually pursued by mathematicians. The former identifies a general method of demonstration that is universally valid for the sciences. This does not mean that the sciences, including mathematics and geometry, cannot have their peculiarities and specificities. Wolff refers to this general model of demonstration of the sciences as the ‘mathematical’ method because mathematics is certainly the best example of the application of this model.10 However, it cannot be excluded that mathematics, in following the latter model, specifies its general methodological principles in ways that are different from, and incompatible with, other sciences. Wolff accordingly stresses that ‘if one wants to attain an aptitude in the exercise of logic through mathematics, this does not depend on mathematical truths, but on the way of presentation, that is, on the observance in all things of the rules of a true logic’ (German Logic,11 GW, div. , vol. , ). In what follows I will focus on Wolff ’s mathematical method understood as his general model of science, because this is the method that he urges to 10 In the Kurzer Unterricht von der mathematischen Lehrart (Short Lesson) placed at the beginning of the Anfangsgründe aller mathematischen Wissenschaften, Wolff notes: ‘[b]ut we call it [the method] mathematical, sometimes also the geometrical method [Methode oder Lehrart], because until now almost only the mathematici, particularly in geometry, made use of it in all things in the most meticulous way’ (GW, div. , vol. , §). On this point, see J. I. G. Tutor, Die wissenschaftliche Methode bei Christian Wolff (Hildesheim: Olms, ), , –. 11 Vernünftige Gedanken von den Kräften des menschlichen Verstandes und ihrem richtigen Gebrauche in Erkenntnis der Wahrheit.

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Gabriele Gava

apply in philosophy and thus the direct target of Kant’s criticisms. I will avoid considering the procedures Wolff actually applies in his mathematical works, except when this is relevant for understanding whether Wolff ’s method in mathematics is more similar to Kant’s account of mathematical demonstrations than his general account of the mathematical method. In his Short Lesson on the Mathematical Method,12 Wolff argues that this method ‘starts from the definitions, proceeds to the axioms, and from here to the theorems and the problems’ (GW, div. , vol. , §). This description exemplifies well Wolff ’s attempt to derive a methodological model from the structure of Euclid’s geometrical demonstrations. Wolff argues that the derivative structure of mathematical proofs exemplifies a logical model that should become a universal standard of scientific inquiries. In order to attain the status of science, philosophy should thus conform to this standard. Accordingly, in the German Logic Wolff reinterprets the structure of Euclidean proofs and proposes a method essentially based on three elements: definitions (Erklärungen), axioms (Grundsätze), and syllogisms (Schlüsse). Moreover, he maintains that demonstrations should always have a syllogistic form (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). In this framework, each step in the process of going from definitions to demonstrated conclusions should follow directly and necessarily from the preceding one. For the purposes of our discussion I will here focus on three fundamental characteristics of Wolff ’s mathematical method: . A demonstration should always start with definitions of concepts. These concepts can be obtained either through reflection, abstraction, or arbitrary determination; . The steps of a proof should follow by the simple application of the principle of non-contradiction; . The mathematical method requires a systematic and hierarchical ordering of cognitions. As far as point () is concerned, Wolff, in developing Leibniz’s account of cognition, identifies definitions with concepts that are clear, distinct, and complete (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). A clear concept is

12

Kurzer Unterricht von der mathematischen Lehrart.

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a concept that we are able to apply appropriately (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ), even though we might not be able to discern the essential sub-concepts—the ‘marks’ in Wolff ’s terminology—that the concept entails. If we have a clear representation of the marks that allow us to recognize the things to which our concept applies, then we have a distinct concept (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). If these marks are sufficient to correctly apply the concept in any circumstance, then our concept is complete (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). A definition of a concept is therefore obtainable by analyzing and making clear what are the fundamental marks that constitute a concept. This seems to apply in particular to what Wolff calls ‘definitions of words’ (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , –), which for him ‘give an adequate ground of proof in the sciences’ (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). This sentence should not be understood as claiming that in science we just need ‘nominal definitions’, whereas what Wolff calls ‘definitions of things’ or ‘real definitions’ is superfluous. Rather, the sentence should be understood as contending that scientific definitions must always include a ‘nominal’ part, which identifies the fundamental marks of a concept by means of analysis. If thus a real definition can show that an object is ‘really possible’, it is only in the nominal definition that we can grasp the essential marks of the concept of the object. While concepts are defined in this way, they can be obtained by following three different methods, which in the Latin Logic are called reflection, abstraction, and arbitrary determination (Latin Logic, GW, div. , vol. ., §).13 In the German Logic Wolff characterizes them 13

It should be emphasized here that Wolff, both in the German Logic and the Latin Logic, keeps separate the methods of obtaining concepts and the methods of obtaining either ‘definitions of words’ or ‘definitions of things’. By contrast, in the Short Lesson he only distinguishes between the methods of obtaining ‘definitions of words’ and ‘definitions of things’ (GW, div. , vol. , §ff.). In fact, the way in which he there characterizes the method of obtaining ‘definitions of words’ has many similarities to his descriptions of the methods of obtaining concepts in the German Logic and the Latin Logic (GW, div. , vol. , §ff.). Probably, in the Short Lesson, Wolff had not yet clearly developed his distinction between methods of obtaining concepts and methods of obtaining definitions of words, but this is a distinction we should make if we take into consideration Wolff ’s later writings. While what he calls alternatively ‘definitions of words’ or ‘nominal definitions’ seems to always involve, at least indirectly, the process of analysis just described, he recognized methods of obtaining what he calls either ‘definitions of things’ or ‘real definitions’, which sometimes are not reducible to the model of analysis (cf. German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ff.; Latin Logic,

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by saying that concepts can be obtained either through the senses (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ff. ), or by abstracting what different concepts have in common (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , –), or by modifying a concept by adding some property to it or determining some of its existing properties in a different way (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). Reflection is used to obtain the concept of a thing that we have experienced through the senses. By contrast, abstraction produces class concepts by discerning what is common to various concepts, and the arbitrary determination of a concept creates new concepts by modifying or combining in a different way previously known concepts. The concepts defined at the beginning of a demonstration can be obtained by means of each of these procedures. As I have suggested, Wolff ’s general description of the mathematical method should be distinguished from Wolff ’s views on the actual method of mathematics and geometry. It is thus here appropriate to ask whether Wolff admits the use of reflection and abstraction in mathematics and geometry, or if they are methods that are only permissible in other sciences and thus recognized as possible in Wolff ’s general account of the scientific method. In fact, there are passages which suggest that Wolff considers these methods of finding concepts permissible in mathematics and geometry. For example, in the Short Lesson, he uses examples from geometry suggesting that geometrical concepts can be obtained through abstraction (cf. Short Lesson, GW, div. , vol. , §) and he advocates that we can ascertain whether a geometrical concept is actually possible by experience (cf. Short Lesson, GW, div. , vol. , §).14 This indicates that he considered abstraction and reflection acceptable methods in mathematics. That said, we can leave this question open and concentrate on Wolff ’s understanding of the mathematical method as a general model of science, insofar as it is this understanding of the mathematical method that Wolff applies to philosophy. div. , vol. ., §ff.). But, as just stated, as far as science requires that a definition of a concept always includes its nominal definition, this means that scientific definitions are always fundamentally analytic, even though we might have to prove that the concept they define is really possible with the help of a real definition. On this point see, for example, K. Dunlop, ‘Mathematical Method and Newtonian Science in the Philosophy of Christian Wolff ’, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science,  (), –, at . 14

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Concerning point (), Wolff interpreted the procedures involved in Euclid’s proofs as purely syllogistic (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ) and as simply resting on the principle of non-contradiction (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ).15 According to Wolff, the mathematical method was thus characterized by starting with definitions of concepts and by proceeding deductively to various conclusions accessible by the simple application of the principle of non-contradiction. Given points () and (), it seems that Kant was thus right in attributing to Wolff the view that every philosophical truth must be a conceptual truth, since for Wolff these truths should be obtainable simply by means of conceptual analysis and syllogism. Now turning to point (), Wolff believes that characteristics () and () are relevant in science only if they contribute to the construction of a system of cognitions hierarchically ordered. The terms ‘system’ and ‘grounded science’ are treated as being almost synonyms. Thus, in his Ausführliche Nachricht von seinen eigenen Schrifften Wolff presents his works as a Systema veritatum, where ‘the truths are presented in such a connection to one another as is required for grounded cognition’ (GW, div. , vol. , §).16 In De Differentia intellectus systematici et non systematici, which is certainly the text where Wolff carries out his more thorough analysis of the concept of system, Wolff explicitly connects the latter concept to his deductive model of science. Accordingly, he claims that a systematic understanding ‘connects universal propositions to one another’, in such a way that ‘the truth of one proposition is only proved through other propositions that we recognize as true’ (GW, div. , vol. ., –). Wolff elucidates his understanding of a system with an analogy that will be relevant in our discussion of Kant. In the Ausführliche Nachricht, he connects the order of demonstration he used in his ontology to the idea of a system and he claims that in this discipline ‘all teachings are connected to one another as the limbs in the human body’ (GW, div. , 15 Accordingly, Lisa Shabel (‘Kant’s Philosophy of Mathematics’, in P. Guyer [ed.], The Cambridge Companion to Kant and Modern Philosophy [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ], –, at –) notes how, for Wolff, mathematical reasoning rests on syllogisms and conceptual analysis. 16 This Systema veritatum is then associated with Euclid’s model of mathematical demonstrations (GW, div. , vol. , §); see also De Differentia intellectus systematici et non systematici (GW, div. , vol. ., §).

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vol. , §).17 A similar example is used in De Differentia, where Wolff refers to an animal body in order to clarify the relationships obtaining between the parts of a system. Here he argues that ‘an animal body presents a system, in which the organs and their parts are ordered according to the same law through which truths must be ordered in a system’ (GW, div. , vol. ., ).18 As we will see, Wolff ’s description of the mathematical method presents various elements that are in contrast to Kant’s account of mathematics, to which our attention now turns. These differences will, on the one hand, help us in explaining Kant’s criticisms. On the other, they will provide some evidence for what I have already suggested: when Kant complains that Wolff should not have applied the mathematical method to philosophy, he does not attack anything substantial in Wolff ’s procedures. Since Kant’s account of the mathematical method is fundamentally different from Wolff ’s and Kant sees his position as original, Kant cannot attribute to Wolff the mistake of having applied to philosophy what he considered to be distinctive of his own approach to mathematics.

.

KANT ON THE METHOD OF MATHEMATICS

When they respectively defend and prohibit the use of the mathematical method in philosophy Wolff and Kant have different things in mind. Wolff, as we have seen, refers to a general model of demonstration for the sciences, whereas Kant is thinking of actual procedures in mathematics and geometry. In this section I will discuss the similarities and differences between Kant’s account of the method of mathematics and Wolff ’s mathematical method, understood as a general model for the sciences. I will take as a starting point the three aspects of Wolff ’s position I have discussed in the previous section. 17 V. L. Waibel, ‘Die Systemkonzeptionen bei Wolff und Lambert’ [‘Die Systemkonzeptionen’], in J. Stolzenberg and O. P. Rudolph (eds.), Christian Wolff und die europäische Aufklärung [Europäische Aufklärung] (Hildesheim: Olms, ), vol. , –, at , notices how Wolff ’s logical consideration of systematicity is grounded in his metaphysics. 18 On De Differentia intellectus systematici et non systematici, see M. Albrecht, ‘Einleitung’ [‘Einleitung’], in C. Wolff, ‘De differentia intellectus systematici & non systematici/Über den Unterschied zwischen dem systematischen und dem nicht-systematischen Verstand’, translated, introduced, and edited by M. Albrecht, Aufklärung,  (), –.

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There is one respect in which Kant’s characterization of the method of mathematics agrees with Wolff ’s account of the mathematical method, and this corresponds to what I have identified as characteristic () of Wolff ’s account. Kant thinks that the method of mathematics is necessarily systematic, and he maintains that at least in this regard the methods of mathematics and philosophy should be similar. Therefore, even though mathematics and philosophy should be sharply distinguished in their particular ways of arguing, mathematics can nonetheless provide an example of how to build a system of coherently interrelated cognitions.19 Accordingly, in the Preface to the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason Kant famously identifies mathematics as a model of scientificity for philosophy (KrV, B x–xii). Mathematics, thanks to a ‘revolution in the way of thinking’ (KrV, B xi), was able to inaugurate a new approach to the discipline which allowed the construction of a coherent system of mathematical cognitions. In the same way, philosophy should try to accomplish a similar revolution, in order to become itself a coherent system of philosophical cognitions. Therefore, it is probably partially with reference to Wolff ’s insistence on systematicity that Kant claimed, in the passage quoted at the end of section , that Wolff ’s method should be taken as a model for metaphysics (KrV, B xxxvi). Wolff ’s influence on Kant in this respect finds confirmation in Kant’s description of the characteristics of a proper system of cognitions, where he uses an analogy that we have already found in Wolff:20 I understand by a system, however, the unity of the manifold cognitions under one idea. This is the rational concept of the form of a whole, insofar as through

19 Kant claims that both mathematics and philosophy should become systems. Accordingly, in the Vienna Logic, after having stated that cognition is either from concepts or from the construction of concepts, he stresses that ‘[t]he system of the former is called philosophy, of the latter mathematics’ (KGS xxiv. ). 20 Manfred Baum, ‘Systemform und Selbsterkenntnis der Vernunft bei Kant’, in H. F. Fulda and J. Stolzenberg (eds.), Architektonik und System in der Philosophie Kants (Hamburg: Meiner, ), –, at , points out this parallelism between Wolff and Kant. On the relevance of the concept of system in Wolff ’s philosophy and its influence on Kant, see Albrecht, ‘Einleitung’; N. Hinske, Zwischen Aufklärung und Vernunftkritik: Studien zum Kantschen Logikcorpus [Zwischen Aufklärung und Vernunftkritik] (Stuttgart: FrommannHolzboog, ), –. See also: G. Zöller ‘ “Die Seele des Systems”: Systembegriff und Begriffssystem in Kants Transzendentalphilosophie’, in H. F. Fulda and J. Stolzenberg (eds.), Architektonik und System in der Philosophie Kants (Hamburg: Meiner, ), –, at –.

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this the domain of the manifold as well as the position of the parts with respect to each other is determined a priori. The scientific rational concept thus contains the end and the form of the whole that is congruent with it. . . . The whole is therefore articulated (articulatio) and not heaped together (coacervatio); it can, to be sure, grow internally (per intus susceptionem) but not externally (per appositionem), like an animal body, whose growth does not add a limb but rather makes each limb stronger and fitter for its end without any alteration of proportion (KrV, A –/B –).

Though the continuity between Kant and Wolff is thus considerable with respect to their insistence on systematicity in science, there are important differences to be pointed out. First of all, Kant does not consider systematicity as a characteristic obtainable only through the application of a method common to all the sciences. Accordingly, in the Metaphysical Foundation of Natural Science, systematicity is identified as a condition of science in a broad sense, also including empirical sciences, even if it is of course even more essential in the case of apodictic sciences, that is, sciences that are systems of a priori cognitions of reason (KGS iv. ff.). By contrast, Wolff thought that systematicity was only attainable by means of one method, that is, his mathematical method of demonstration: ‘we name systematic understanding that understanding which connects universal propositions to one another. Propositions are however connected when one is demonstrated through another, just as through principles’ (De Differentia, GW, div. , vol. ., ). Wolff thus associated systematicity with the deductive model of derivation which we analysed in section . Kant did not follow him in this respect. That is to say, he emancipated the notion of system from its link with a deductive method,21 and he described systematicity simply according to the particular part–whole relationships it requires. In this way, the hierarchical ordering of cognitions we find in a scientific system does not necessarily reflect the way in which these cognitions have been obtained. Kant could thus stress, at the same time, that every rational science must be systematic and that different sciences, as mathematics and philosophy are, must proceed according to different procedures.

21 Hinske (Zwischen Aufklärung und Vernunftkritik, ff.) notices how Kant’s notion of system is not deductive. He also claims that the originality of Kant’s notion of system lies in its essential teleological character. Waibel (‘Die Systemkonzeptionen’, ff.) insists on the similarity between Kant’s teleological account of systematicity and Lambert’s claim that Absichten constitute a relevant feature of systems.

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If Kant agreed with Wolff on the general point that science in general, and thus mathematics, required systematicity, his account of mathematical demonstrations diverges in many respects from Wolff ’s interpretation of the mathematical method. Thus, as far as characteristic () of Wolff ’s mathematical method is concerned, in a similar way Kant maintains that mathematical proofs should start with definitions of concepts, and this fact reflects his acceptance of Euclid’s model of demonstration. However, Kant’s description of the definitions of concepts at the beginning of a mathematical proof is very different from Wolff ’s account of definitions in his general account of the mathematical method. Wolff maintained that the definitions of concepts at the beginning of a demonstration should result from the analysis of the essential ‘marks’ constituting the concepts in question. Moreover, for him, these concepts could be obtained either through reflection, abstraction, or arbitrary determination. By contrast, Kant denies that in mathematics we could obtain our concepts by either reflection or abstraction. Already in the so-called Prize Essay22 of , he claims that mathematical definitions can only be obtained by the ‘arbitrary combination of concepts’ (KGS ii. ), where the continuity with Wolff ’s notion of ‘arbitrary determination’ is easy to detect: There are two ways in which one can arrive at a general concept: either by the arbitrary combination of concepts, or by separating out that cognition which has been rendered distinct by means of analysis. Mathematics only ever draws up its definitions in the first way. For example, think arbitrarily of four straight lines bounding a plane surface so that the opposite sides are not parallel to each other. Let this figure be called a trapezium. The concept which I am defining is not given prior to the definition itself; on the contrary, it only comes into existence as a result of that definition. . . . In this and in all other cases the definition obviously comes into being as a result of synthesis (KGS ii. ).

It is difficult to grasp exactly what Kant and Wolff meant by their respective formulations, but it is clear that they wanted to point out a procedure for obtaining new concepts simply by using concepts we already possess (like the concepts of line, angle, etc.).23 What is distinctive 22

Inquiry Concerning the Distinctness of the Principles of Natural Theology and Morality. H. J. Engfer suggests that the idea of arbitrary combination of concepts derives from the notion of the so-called ars combinatoria (cf. Philosophie als Analysis. Studien zur Entwicklung philosophischer Analysiskonzeptionen unter dem Einfluss mathematischer Methodenmodelle im . Und frühen . Jahrhundert [Philosophie als Analysis] [Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, ], ; 23

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in Kant’s ‘arbitrary combination’ is that it is not only a method of obtaining concepts, but also a way of defining them. That is to say, in synthetic definitions the act of creation of concepts and the act of definition exactly coincide. Here the definition does not result from a successive analysis of the essential marks of the concept at issue: ‘[i]n mathematics, namely, I have no concept of my object at all until it is furnished by the definition. In metaphysics I have a concept which is already given to me, although it is a confused one’ (KGS ii. ). In the Critique of Pure Reason Kant further characterizes this synthetic method of definition by its capacity to immediately warrant that concepts have corresponding objects: a capacity that for Kant is precluded in disciplines other than mathematics. If in other disciplines we combine concepts in order to generate new concepts, in no way would we have an immediate guarantee that the latter concepts in fact have corresponding objects (cf. KrV, A /B ). But how can mathematics provide this guarantee? According to the critical Kant, mathematics can do that because our definitions are obtained by immediately providing an instantiation of the concepts in sensible intuition. In the Prize Essay (KGS ii. ), the role of sensibility in mathematics is only partially recognized. This is due to the fact that Kant had not yet developed his concept of pure intuition. By contrast, in the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant identified mathematical syntheses with constructions of concepts and he characterized the latter by the peculiar way in which they are related to pure intuition (cf. KrV, A /B ).24 For Kant, to construct a concept means to be able to directly produce an intuition of an object corresponding to the concept we are defining. This procedure is only possible because, through our intuition of space and time as infinite magnitudes, we can exhibit relationships that are universally valid. For example, if I consider the definition of a triangle, I am able to ‘Zur Bedeutung Wolff für die Methodendiskussion der deutschen Aufklärungsphilosophie: Analytische und synthetische Methode bei Wolff und beim vorkritischen Kant’ [‘Zur Bedeutung Wolff ’], in W. Schneiders [ed.], Christian Wolff –. Interpretationen zu seiner Philosophie und deren Wirkung mit einer Bibliographie der Wolff-Literatur [Hamburg: Meiner, ], –, at ). This notion was introduced by Lullus’ ars magna, then developed by Leibniz and marginally used by Wolff. 24 On the innovations introduced by the first Critique with respect to the distinction between the mathematical and the philosophical method, see B. S. von Wolff-Metternich, Die Überwindung des mathematischen Erkenntnisideals: Kants Grenzbestimmung von Mathematik und Philosophie (Berlin: de Gruyter, ), ff.

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obtain a corresponding object by simply drawing a figure that corresponds to it (in paper or imagination, cf. KrV, A /B ), and this figure instantiates relationships between the parts of a triangle that are universally valid (at least in an Euclidean space). In mathematics we can thus be immediately sure of the objective validity of arbitrarily defined concepts because we find an immediate instantiation of them in our intuition, where this individual instantiation has the capacity to reveal universally valid relationships: Thus there remain no other concepts that are fit for being defined than those containing an arbitrary synthesis which can be constructed a priori, and thus only mathematics has definitions. For the object that it thinks it also exhibits a priori in intuition, and this can surely contain neither more nor less than the concept, since through the explanation of the concept the object is originally given (KrV, A –/B –).

If Kant’s account of the method of mathematics agrees with Wolff ’s description of the mathematical method in saying that we should begin with definitions, they nonetheless have very different views on these definitions. Wolff thought that, insofar as the definitions at the beginning of a science always have a ‘nominal’ part in which they identify the essential ‘marks’ of a concept by means of analysis, these definitions are fundamentally analytic. By contrast, for Kant, mathematical definitions are directly synthetic and create an object in the very act of defining it. To be fair, Kant’s synthetic definitions, especially in his precritical understanding of them, bear some resemblance to Wolff ’s description of the third method of obtaining concepts, that is, arbitrary determination. However, at least in the German Logic and in the Latin Logic, Wolff does not identify this act of creation with a particular method of definition. Moreover, in his critical period, Kant specifies the conditions under which an objectively valid arbitrary concept is obtainable in a more precise way, claiming that we can be immediately sure of the objective validity of an arbitrarily created concept only when we can directly construct a corresponding object in intuition.25 According to Kant, only mathematical objects are obtainable in this

25

Wolff recognizes that we need to identify conditions of validity for concepts arbitrarily determined (cf. German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ), but he does not refer to anything comparable to Kant’s construction of concepts in pure intuition.

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way. Besides, Wolff ’s mathematical method differs from Kant’s account of the method of mathematics in that it allows room for concepts obtained through reflection and abstraction, which are forbidden by Kant in mathematics. If we now turn our attention to characteristic () of Wolff ’s account of the mathematical method, we will appreciate that his views on the kind of inferential relationships that we find in scientific demonstrations are in various ways incompatible with Kant’s account of mathematical proofs. We saw that Wolff considered the steps of a demonstration developed according to the mathematical method to consist in syllogisms based on the principle of non-contradiction. Kant, in the Prize Essay, would have probably said similar things concerning proofs in mathematics and geometry, limiting the syntheticity of mathematics to its definitions.26 By contrast, in the Critique of Pure Reason, he maintains that the elements of a mathematical proof, including definitions, axioms, and demonstrations (KrV, A –/B –), cannot be reduced to an application of the principle of noncontradiction; a proof also requires constructions in intuition. Accordingly, Kant thought that we could not derive the proposition stating that the sum of the internal angles of a triangle is ° simply by using the general definition of a triangle and basic geometrical principles as premises, and then applying the principle of non-contradiction to obtain the conclusion (cf. KrV, A –/B –).27 Each element in the proof, that is, the identification of the definition, the formulation of the principles, as well as carrying out the demonstration, is dependent on a construction in intuition and thus not reducible to a simple application of the principle of non-contradiction. From this brief analysis of Kant’s account of mathematical demonstrations, it is clear that it differs from Wolff ’s mathematical method in many respects, even though there are also some elements of continuity. One of these is the systematicity that both Wolff and Kant require of every science and that is thus an essential element of the mathematical method for Wolff and a characteristic of mathematics for Kant. Moreover, definitions should be placed at the beginning according to both Kant’s account of mathematical demonstrations and Wolff ’s mathematical 26 27

Cf. Refl. , KGS xvi. . A proposition which of course he thought was necessarily true.

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method. We have also seen that Wolff ’s account of the arbitrary determination of a concept anticipates in some respects Kant’s pre-critical and critical descriptions of the synthetic definitions of mathematics. These elements of continuity notwithstanding, the differences are much broader. Both in the Prize Essay and the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant maintains that in mathematical proofs definitions are necessarily synthetic, while for Wolff the definitions of concepts at the beginning of demonstrations are essentially analytic. Even though the arbitrary determination of concepts anticipates some aspects of Kant’s synthetic definitions, it is only one possible method of obtaining concepts according to Wolff ’s mathematical method. Other methods he allows room for, like the method of reflection, seem to describe concepts given in experience, whose use for Kant cannot be permitted in mathematical proofs. Moreover, Kant’s critical account of synthetic definitions is relevantly different from Wolff ’s arbitrary determination of concepts, insofar as it specifies the conditions for obtaining this kind of definition in the possibility of a construction in pure intuition. A further relevant difference lies in their accounts of the steps of a demonstration. According to Wolff ’s mathematical method, these steps rest only on the principle of non-contradiction. By contrast, for the critical Kant, mathematical proofs essentially involve a construction in intuition at every step and they cannot be reduced to the simple application of the principle of non-contradiction. We can thus conclude that Wolff ’s account of the mathematical method differs from Kant’s views on the method of mathematics in many respects, especially if Kant’s critical position is taken into account. While these differences partially explain why for Kant mathematical procedures cannot be applied in philosophy, they reinforce our claim that when Kant complains that Wolff should not have applied the mathematical method to philosophy, he does not attack anything substantial in Wolff ’s approach. Kant could not attribute to Wolff the mistake of applying to philosophy procedures which he considered to be a distinctive feature of his own account of mathematics. Now, this opens up the question whether underlying continuities between Wolff ’s and Kant’s philosophical method can be detected once more substantial aspects of Wolff ’s mathematical method are taken into account. For, if Kant’s criticisms regarding the application of the mathematical method only concern how the elements in a demonstration

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are ordered, it might be that these criticisms conceal some deeper similarities.

.

KANT ON THE METHOD OF PHILOSOPHY

I have stressed that Kant considered systematicity a general requirement of science, and this of course applies also to philosophy. As long as we confine Wolff ’s directive to proceed in every science according to the mathematical method to what we have identified as characteristic () of his method, that is, to the need to proceed systematically, Kant has nothing to object to Wolff, even though we have to keep in mind that Kant does not think that systematicity is only obtainable by means of a deductive derivation.28 As far as characteristic () of Wolff ’s mathematical method is concerned, Kant would therefore at least agree with Wolff on the requirement that philosophy be systematic. The relevant difference between Kant’s and Wolff ’s accounts of the method we should use in philosophy seems to lie in their claims about definitions. As we have seen, Wolff claims with regard to characteristic () of the mathematical method that definitions of concepts should always come at the beginning of a science. By contrast, Kant claims that in philosophy we cannot start with definitions, because we cannot be in possession of clear and distinct concepts at the very beginning (cf. KrV, A ff./B ff.). In philosophy we always start with concepts confusedly given to us and we try to clarify them in the course of our investigation, without the possibility of being certain that the definitions we thus develop are correct and exhaustive.29 Here a clarification is required: for Kant concepts can be given either empirically or a priori and philosophy has to do with the latter.30 Concepts that are given a priori include substance, cause, right, etc. 28 As I have already stressed in section , Kant identifies systematicity also as a requirement of empirical sciences (cf. KGS iv. ff.), although these sciences of course are not deductive. 29 This seems to agree with the view defended by Merritt (‘Analysis in the Critique of Pure Reason’, Kantian Review,  [], –), who argues that much in the Critique is obtained through conceptual analysis. 30 Kant distinguishes between given concepts and concepts that are made. Both kinds of concepts can be either a priori or a posteriori. Mathematical concepts are concepts that are made a priori, whereas philosophical concepts are concepts given a priori. Cf. KGS ix. , –; KGS xxiv. –, , –.

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They are concepts that we cannot arbitrarily obtain through construction, but that nonetheless are not inductively derivable from experience. Philosophy has the task of clarifying these concepts, but, in contrast to mathematics, it cannot ever be certain that it has reached an exhaustive definition: [S]trictly speaking no concept given a priori can be defined, e.g., substance, cause, right, equity, etc. For I can never be certain that the distinct representation of a (still confused) given concept has been exhaustively developed unless I know that it is adequate to the object. But since the concept of the latter, as it is given, can contain many obscure representations, which we pass by in our analysis though we always use them in application, the exhaustiveness of the analysis of my concept is always doubtful, and by many appropriate examples can only be made probably but never apodictically certain (KrV, A –/B –).

It is thus certainly true that Wolff and Kant advance different claims about the place of definitions in a philosophical investigation. However, we must keep in mind that Kant, both in the pre-critical and critical periods, stressed that only in mathematics can we have definitions at the very beginning because he thought that only for concepts arbitrarily obtained through synthesis can we be sure that our definition is correct and exhaustive. By contrast, Wolff thought that concepts obtained by means of other methods, including reflection and abstraction, could also be made distinct and complete. Thus, in Wolff ’s own framework, definitions of concepts that are not arbitrarily obtained can be placed at the very beginning of a science. This seems to imply that Wolff could place at the beginning of a philosophical investigation definitions of concepts that were first confusedly given to us. As we saw, Kant’s criticism of Wolff ’s application of mathematical procedures was mainly directed against the way in which he organized the elements of a philosophical proof. Kant was right in emphasizing this difference between their views. However, this superficial dissimilarity in fact conceals a deeper continuity in their accounts of philosophical definitions, for they both thought that in philosophy we need to start with analyses of given concepts. I will investigate this problem in section . Turning to characteristic () of Wolff ’s method, we have seen that Wolff thought that the steps of a demonstration rest on the principle of non-contradiction. The pre-critical Kant seems to hold a similar view,

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though he distinguishes between the roles played by the principles of identity and non-contradiction (cf. KGS ii. –). By contrast, the critical Kant thinks that philosophical arguments often, but not always, proceed in this way. Accordingly, in the Critique of Pure Reason Kant stresses that ‘criticism is not opposed to the dogmatic procedure of reason’, but to dogmatism, where the latter is ‘the dogmatic procedure of pure reason, without an antecedent critique of its own capacity’ (KrV, B xxxv.). Now, Kant often associates the dogmatic method with Wolff (cf. A /B ) and he describes it by saying that it ‘lays down as a basis certain general and accepted propositions and infers the rest from them’ (KGS xxix. ). This suggests that what distinguishes the critical from the dogmatic procedure is that the former legitimates the synthetic a priori principles that are then used as premises for further inferences in the latter. Thus, what remains ‘dogmatic’ in Kant’s method seems to be the model of derivation of further consequences from given principles, a model that appears to be deductive, given its association with Wolff. If this is correct, it means that for Kant the dogmatic procedure of metaphysics (that is, the science that is made possible by the completion of the critical task) is based simply on the application of the principle of non-contradiction, while it accepts as given synthetic a priori principles demonstrated by the critique. As I have suggested in section , when Kant, in the B Preface, stresses that the future system of metaphysics should follow Wolff ’s method, he is probably also making a similar point. But what about the demonstrations that we find in the Critique of Pure Reason? These do not seem to be reducible to an application of the principle of non-contradiction, since they must prove the validity of transcendental synthetic a priori propositions. A justification of such propositions needs to show that in certain cases we can a priori ‘go beyond’ the simple meaning of the concepts involved (and the consequences we can logically derive from them), where it seems that a proof based simply on conceptual analysis and syllogisms would not suffice. Accordingly, in the ‘Discipline of Pure Reason’, Kant argues that ‘[i]n the transcendental logic . . . although of course we can never immediately go beyond the content of the concept which is given to us, nevertheless we can still cognize the law of the connection with other things completely a priori, although in relation to a third thing, namely possible experience, but still a priori’ (KrV, A /B ).

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In this context, a clarification on two issues is in order. First, we need to understand what a proof of the validity of a transcendental synthetic a priori principle looks like according to Kant. Second, we need to better explain how critique and metaphysics are related to one another. Regarding the first point, Kant sometimes describes the justification of synthetic a priori principles that we find in the first Critique as involving a particular kind of ‘analysis’. For example, in the Introduction, he claims that the Critique takes ‘the analysis only as far as is indispensably necessary in order to provide insight into the principles of a priori synthesis in their entire scope’ (KrV, A /B –). It is difficult to understand what Kant means by analysis in this context. It seems implausible that he means conceptual analysis, for the latter would be able to show relationships between concepts that rest solely on the principle of non-contradiction, but it would not show how we can, to use Kant’s expression, a priori ‘go beyond’ the meaning of the concepts involved. I take it that what Kant means by analysis here is something different. It is not simply the analysis of concepts, but the analysis of the use of some concepts in some judgments, where these judgments, without being analytic, nonetheless display a necessity in our cognition that we cannot set aside. Though through conceptual analysis we can clarify the meaning of the concepts involved, as for example cause, substance, etc., it is through this ‘analysis’ in a broader sense—which we might call transcendental analysis—that we show what enables us to use these concepts a priori in synthetic judgments. So, the method of the critique seems to involve both conceptual analysis, because we need to clarify what we can analytically derive from the concepts in questions,31 and transcendental analysis, because we need to see what enables us to use these concepts in synthetic a priori judgments. Of course, this does not explain what transcendental analysis is, but this is not my purpose here. What is relevant in the context of this section is that transcendental analysis is not reducible to the simple application of the principle of non-contradiction. Moreover, it seems to start by

31 J. Messina (‘Conceptual Analysis and the Essence of Space: Kant’s Metaphysical Exposition Revisited’ [‘Conceptual Analysis and the Essence of Space’], Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie,  [], –) clarifies how in the Critique of Pure Reason this conceptual analysis is performed for the concept of space.

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taking the use of some concepts in synthetic a priori judgments as given (cf. KrV, B ), while it asks how this use is possible and justified. Turning now to the relationship between critique and metaphysics, I think that a passage from the third Critique might be helpful:32 Thus the principle of the cognition of bodies as substances and as alterable substances is transcendental if what is meant by that is that their alteration must have a cause; it is metaphysical, however, if what is meant by that is that their alteration must have an external cause: for in the first case the body may be conceived of only through ontological predicates (pure concepts of the understanding), e.g., as substance, in order for the proposition to be cognized a priori; in the second case, however, the empirical concept of a body (as a movable thing in space) must be made the ground of this proposition, from which, however, it can then be understood fully a priori that the latter predicate (of motion only through an external cause) applies to the body (KGS v. ).

Kant introduces here a distinction between transcendental and metaphysical principles. These are different because in the former we do not take as given any empirical concept of an object. Rather, we consider the object only as an object of possible experience in general which, as such, can be thought of by means of the categories. Insofar as this object can be thought through the categories, we can use synthetic a priori judgments vindicated by the critique to judge of it. By contrast, a metaphysical principle would not consider objects only as objects of possible experience in general, but would instead attribute to these objects further characteristics which depend on a partly empirical concept. Once this ‘thicker’ concept of the object is introduced, we obtain metaphysical principles by specifying the synthetic a priori principles vindicated by the critique for the object so defined. In doing this, however, we do not introduce completely new synthetic a priori principles. Rather, we assume the synthetic a priori principles vindicated by the critique as given and we derive the consequences that follow deductively from them when a ‘thicker’ concept of the object is assumed. This thicker concept of the object seems to be obtainable through conceptual analysis. 32 I will here limit my attention to the relationship between critique and metaphysics in theoretical philosophy. It seems to me that giving an account of this relationship in practical philosophy is further complicated by the fact that the synthetic a priori principle identified by the Critique of Practical Reason is not described as a transcendental principle.

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy

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What does all this mean for our comparison of Kant’s and Wolff ’s philosophical methods? As we have seen, one of the main tasks of the critique of pure reason is that of clarifying how certain synthetic a priori judgments are possible. The reason why we need this clarification is that a number of these judgments appear to have an undisputed validity in some domains—for example, the judgment that every effect has a cause—but then give rise to unsolvable disputes when used to derive various metaphysical claims. For this reason, Kant maintains that philosophy, before venturing in any metaphysical speculation based on such synthetic a priori judgments, should first clarify the conditions for using a priori given concepts in synthetic a priori judgments of this kind.33 As is well known, in the Critique of Pure Reason, the identification of these conditions rests on indicating the domain in which these synthetic a priori judgments are valid, that is, the domain of possible experience. In section  we observed that Kant criticized Wolff for considering any philosophical truth a conceptual truth, that is, a proposition derivable through only analysis and syllogisms. In section  I suggested that Kant is right in attributing this view to Wolff. Now, for Kant, a consequence of Wolff ’s position is that synthetic a priori judgments, for example, the principle of sufficient reason, are treated as if they were analytic (cf. KGS iv. ),34 that is, as if they are analytically derivable from definitions of concepts.35 In so doing, Wolff built 33 Here, it is interesting to note that for the critical Kant the conditions of application of mathematical concepts in mathematical synthetic a priori judgments can be made immediately evident, insofar as each of these judgments rests on the construction of concepts in intuition. When we thus attribute to a mathematical concept properties that were not analytically derivable from its definition, we can be certain that our attribution is correct because our mathematical construction provides immediate evidence that this is the case (cf. KrV, A –/B –). 34 ‘A great part, perhaps the greatest part, of the business of our reason consists in analyses of the concepts that we already have of objects. . . . Now since this procedure does yield a real a priori cognition, which makes secure and useful progress, reason, without itself noticing it, under these pretenses surreptitiously makes assertions of quite another sort, in which reason adds something entirely alien to given concepts and indeed does so a priori, without one knowing how it was able to do this and without such a question even being allowed to come to mind’ (KrV, B –). 35 Accordingly, Kant stresses that the principles identified in the ‘Analogies of Experience’ could not be obtained dogmatically from mere concepts, a method he often associated with Wolff. These principles could only be justified in connection to the conditions of time determination for the objects given to us in possible experience (KrV, A –/B –).

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arguments on these judgments without respecting the conditions of their valid application. This of course marks a relevant difference between what Wolff and Kant prescribe to philosophers, one that Kant was right to point out. Wolff considered every judgment in philosophy to be based (analytically) on definitions, while the further steps of a philosophical proof had to rest on syllogisms based on the principle of non-contradiction. By contrast, for Kant, many judgments that we use as premises in philosophy are in fact synthetic a priori and for this reason require the identification of the conditions of application of the concepts they employ.36 From this comparison between the method that Kant proposes for philosophy and Wolff ’s mathematical method we can thus conclude that there are some similarities between the procedures of philosophical argumentation that the two thinkers recommend. They both think that philosophy should be systematic. In the Critique of Pure Reason Kant would also still concede that much in philosophy can be obtained by the simple application of the principle of non-contradiction. Both the critique of pure reason and the metaphysics that it makes possible obtain their concepts by analysis. Moreover, metaphysics proper seems to proceed deductively for Kant. However, it assumes as given synthetic a priori propositions. With respect to the latter, the critique has the double task of justifying them and clarifying their conditions of valid application. It is here that a first relevant difference between Wolff ’s and Kant’s accounts of the method of philosophy is to be found, since Wolff treated all philosophical truths as if they were conceptual truths. Consequently, he did not require a special kind of demonstration for synthetic a priori principles. By contrast, Kant thought that these principles needed a special kind of proof which is not reducible to an application of the principle of non-contradiction. Another difference between Wolff ’s and Kant’s accounts of philosophical argumentation, taking into consideration both the pre-critical and the critical writings, is that Wolff maintains that definitions should always be placed at the beginning of an investigation, whereas Kant claims that this is impossible in philosophy. However, we have seen that they put very different requirements on the definitions that they 36 This is why we need to ask: ‘How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?’ (KrV, B ).

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think can be placed at the beginning of a philosophical proof. This fact conceals deeper similarities between the definitions they use in their respective philosophical systems.

.

ANALYTIC DEFINITIONS IN WOLFF ’S MATHEMATICAL METHOD

As we have seen, Wolff did not think that only synthetically (or arbitrarily) obtained concepts can be defined at the beginning of a scientific proof. Rather, at the beginning of a demonstration we can also use definitions derived from concepts that are first confusedly given to us. This is the case because, unlike Kant, Wolff thought it was possible to obtain correct and exhaustive definitions by means of the analysis of confusedly given concepts. In fact, even though Wolff recognizes the possibility of obtaining concepts by means of an arbitrary determination, for him definitions are for the most part definitions of given concepts, and indeed of concepts that are empirically given.37 In this way, even if they figure at the very beginning, they can result from a process of analysis that renders unclear concepts clear and distinct. Thus, Wolff claims in the German Logic that in order to develop a distinct concept, for example of the will, we should first analyse particular cases in which we have used that concept. He stresses: ‘if we want to have a distinct concept of the will, then we must represent an example in which we have wanted something for the first time, and give accurate attention to what happens in our soul until we want it’ (German Logic, GW, div. , vol. , ). To illustrate this characteristic of Wolff ’s method I will here briefly introduce one aspect of his 37 Engfer (Philosophie als Analysis, , –; ‘Zur Bedeutung Wolff ’, –) has insisted on this characteristic of Wolff ’s definitions. L. Cataldi Madonna (Christian Wolff und das System des klassischen Rationalismus [Hildesheim: Olms, ], chs. –; ‘Erfahrung und Intuition in der Philosophie von Christian Wolff ’, in Stolzenberg and Rudolph [eds.], Europäische Aufklärung, vol. , –) has emphasized the role of experience in the formation of philosophical definitions. Rudolph (‘Das Fundament des Wolffschen Systems der Philosophie’, in Stolzenberg and Rudolph [eds.], Europäische Aufklärung, vol. , –) also recognizes the role of experience in Wolff ’s method and he connects it to a kind of coherentism, since it is not a single experience, but an ‘Erfahrungszusammenhang’ that could count as a premise in Wolff ’s proofs. Concepts could thus be first recognized as given in experience and then the role of philosophy could be considered that of obtaining definitions and further propositions by means of conceptual analysis and syllogisms.

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account of the method of philosophy in the Preliminary Discourse.38 In particular, I will discuss his claim that philosophical and mathematical cognitions rest on historical cognition. In Wolff ’s vocabulary, historical cognition is cognition of facts. It is ‘cognition of those things which are and occur either in the material world or in immaterial substances’ (Preliminary Discourse, GW, div. , vol. ., §), whereas philosophy is ‘the cognition of the reason of things which are and occur’ (Preliminary Discourse, GW, div. , vol. ., §). Wolff completes this picture by defining mathematics as the ‘cognition of the quantity of things’ (Preliminary Discourse, GW, div. , vol. ., §).39 Leaving aside Wolff ’s discussion of mathematics, it is here interesting to focus on the relationship between historical and philosophical cognition. In this context Wolff argues: Historical cognition provides the foundation for philosophical cognition insofar as experience establishes those things from which the reason can be given for other things which are and occur, or can occur (Preliminary Discourse, GW, div. , vol. ., §).

Philosophical cognition thus depends on historical cognition for its inquiries into the reasons of things. In order to obtain philosophical cognition of anything, we must start by defining our concepts, where the analysis of concepts and their essential marks is an essential step. This suggests that the analysis of concepts given in historical cognition is a crucial step in the search for the philosophical reasons of things. Although Wolff recognizes the possibility of obtaining concepts through an arbitrary determination, this way of gaining concepts is only secondary, while the main way in which concepts are given to us is through experience.40 If this is true, it means that philosophy must begin with concepts that are confusedly given in experience according to Wolff.

38

Discursus praeliminaris de philosophia in genere. This definition of mathematical cognition marks another difference with Kant. In the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant argues that those who stress that philosophical and mathematical cognition are distinguished because the former deals with qualities and the latter with quantities of things ‘have taken the effect for the cause’ (KrV, A /B ). 40 On the secondariness of other methods of obtaining concepts with respect to reflection, see Engfer, Philosophie als Analysis, . 39

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Kant, Wolff, and the Method of Philosophy

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It appears, then, that though Kant argues that philosophy analyses concepts given a priori, Wolff seems to refer to concepts as empirically given. In this context, we must keep in mind that Kant and Wolff had different understandings of the distinction between a priori and a posteriori cognitions. For Wolff, unlike Kant, a priori does not mean unjustifiable through experience. For Wolff, an a priori cognition is a cognition that is not directly derived from experience, but depends on reflection and reasoning (Latin Logic, GW, div. , vol. ., §ff.). Still, this does not imply that it cannot rest indirectly on experience. Therefore, we cannot really compare what Kant says about a priori given concepts with Wolff ’s emphasis on empirically given concepts. The most we can say is that the distinction between a priori and a posteriori cognition was not as relevant to Wolff as it was to Kant. Nevertheless, both Kant and Wolff think that in philosophy we should begin by analysing concepts that are given to us, where there seems to be an important continuity between their accounts of analysis in this regard, taking into consideration both the pre-critical and the critical Kant. Of course Kant developed the distinction between the analytic and the synthetic in relevant ways with respect to Wolff. As we have seen, unlike Wolff, already in the pre-critical writings Kant applied the term ‘synthetic’ in the discussion of mathematical definitions. Moreover, he further specified his account of synthetic definitions in the critical period, when he also began to apply the distinction between the analytic and the synthetic to judgments. Without neglecting the importance of these novelties in Kant’s use of the terms ‘synthetic’ and ‘analytic’, we must also keep in mind that Kant, when he talks about the analysis of concepts both in his pre-critical and his critical writings, describes a process of clarification of marks (cf. KrV, A /B ), which, as we have seen, was also the way in which Wolff treated the topic.41 41 In this respect, de Jong (‘Kant’s Analytic Judgments and the Traditional Theory of Concepts’, Journal of the History of Philosophy,  [], –) has emphasized that Kant’s notion of analyticity should be read against the background of the early modern discussion of the grades of clarity of concepts, which Wolff contributed to in relevant ways. On the relationship between Kant’s account of analyticity and the Wolffian tradition, see also L. Anderson, ‘The Wolffian Paradigm and its Discontents: Kant’s Containment Definition of Analyticity in Historical Context’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie,  (), –. Other scholars, like Messina (‘Conceptual Analysis and the Essence of Space’, –) have argued that Kant’s account of the analysis of concepts owes as much to Crusius as it does to

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Thus, though Wolff claims that philosophy, in following the mathematical method, should start from definitions, he also maintains that these definitions in most cases should be obtained from the analysis and clarification of concepts that are confusedly given to us in experience. This seems to be close to Kant’s claim that in philosophy we should start by analysing concepts that are given to us, where this applies to philosophy in both its critical and metaphysical parts. What is different is Wolff ’s confidence that by means of an analytic procedure of this kind we could obtain definitions that are both correct and exhaustive, a confidence that is lacking in Kant.

.

CONCLUSION

In this chapter I have shown that Kant’s critique of Wolff ’s application of the mathematical method to philosophy can mislead us in various ways. On the one hand, this critique is sometimes difficult to square with other remarks that Kant makes about Wolff ’s method. On the other, it conceals important continuities between Wolff ’s and Kant’s accounts of philosophical argument, especially their treatments of definitions. When Kant’s criticism of Wolff ’s application of the mathematical method is analysed in the context of other relevant remarks Kant makes about Wolff ’s approach, it becomes apparent that this criticism does not pick out anything substantial in Wolff ’s method. Rather, it is directed against the way in which Wolff orders the elements of a philosophical proof. In this way, Kant does not attribute to Wolff the attempt to introduce into philosophy the synthetic procedures that Kant saw as characteristic of mathematics. Instead, he simply accused him of wrongly beginning with definitions. Besides this criticism, Kant advanced a more fundamental one: he lamented that Wolff treated all philosophical truths as conceptual truths, where for Kant this resulted in the use of synthetic principles as if they were analytic. An examination of Wolff ’s account of the mathematical Wolff. In particular, Kant, like Crusius and unlike Wolff, maintains that analysis should not always employ concepts that are more abstract than the analysandum. Kant would thus use Crusius to broaden Wolff ’s conception of analysis. This is an interesting point that needs to be investigated further, but it would deviate too much from the focus of this chapter. What all these thinkers seem to agree on is the idea that philosophical inquiry should start with the analysis of given concepts.

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method and a comparison with Kant’s account of mathematical and philosophical investigations show that Kant’s criticisms, when properly understood, are justified, especially in the case of the latter charge. However, Kant’s criticisms also conceal important elements of continuity between Wolff ’s and Kant’s views on the method of philosophy. This can be maintained, with the necessary specifications, for both the pre-critical and the critical Kant. Wolff ’s use of the mathematical method in philosophy prescribed systematicity and relied for the most part on methods of definition based on the analysis of given concepts. These are both characteristics that we also find in Kant’s pre-critical and critical accounts of the method of philosophy. Moreover, while the pre-critical Kant agrees with Wolff that philosophical demonstrations are always deductive, the critical Kant still thinks that a considerable part of philosophy is deductive. In this respect, however, in the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant is right in pointing out a relevant difference between his position and Wolff ’s. Wolff considered the judgments used as premises in philosophical proofs as analytically derived from definitions. Philosophy could then derive conclusions from these premises by simply applying the principle of non-contradiction. However, for the critical Kant, many of the judgments that we ( just as Wolff ) use in philosophy are in fact synthetic a priori and need for this reason a specification of the conditions of application of a priori concepts in such judgments. Only in this way can we determine if we have made a legitimate use of these concepts and judgments. Goethe University Frankfurt

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Notes to Contributors . Articles may be submitted at any time of year, by email attachment to the editor. Normally, articles should be submitted in MS Word (either Macintosh or PC version) or in RTF format. Diagrams and illustrations can be submitted either as computer files or in hard copy. The editor should be alerted if there are any special requirements with respect to characters or fonts. Notes should be given at the end, though in the published version, they will be printed at the bottom of the page. The notes should also be double spaced with reasonable margins. Wherever possible, references should be built into the text. . The first time a book is referred to in the notes, give at least the first name or initial of the author, the place and date of publication, and, for books published after , the publisher; where you are abbreviating the title in subsequent citations, give the abbreviation in square brackets. Thus for an initial citation: Robert M. Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist [Leibniz] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), . For a later citation: Adams, Leibniz, –. Do not use the author-and-date style of reference: Adams : –. . For articles in journals, give the full citation in the first occurrence. The full extents of articles should be given, and where the reference is to a specific page or pages, that should be indicated. In subsequent citations, use only an author and a brief title, as indicated in square brackets in the original citation. Thus for an initial citation: Michael R. Ayers, ‘Mechanism, Superaddition, and the Proofs of God’s Existence in Locke’s Essay’ [‘Mechanism’], Philosophical Review,  (), –, at –. For a later citation: Ayers, ‘Mechanism’, .

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 4/10/2018, SPi



Notes to Contributors

. For articles in collected volumes, follow a similar format. Thus for an initial citation: Christia Mercer, ‘The Vitality and Importance of Early Modern Aristotelianism’ [‘Vitality and Importance’], in Tom Sorell (ed.), The Rise of Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), –, at . For a later citation: Mercer, ‘Vitality and Importance’, . . Volumes of Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy contain lists of conventional abbreviations for standard works and editions, as well as citation conventions for each work. Please consult these when preparing your text. You are welcome to add to the list of conventional abbreviations if you need to, but please indicate to the editor bibliographical information about any abbreviations you would like to add. EDITOR Donald Rutherford Philosophy Department,  University of California, San Diego  Gilman Drive La Jolla, CA - [email protected]

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 8/10/2018, SPi

Index of Names Abolafia, Jacob  Adam –,  Adams, Robert ,  Alanen, Lilli ,  Albrecht, M. – Alexander of Aphrodisias ,  Anderson, Lanier  Antognazza, Maria Rosa –, , , , , –,  Aquinas, Thomas , –, , –, , –, –, –, , , –, – Archimedes – Ariew, Roger ,  Aristotle , , , , , , , , – Armstrong, Aurelia , ,  Arnauld, Antoine –, ,  Arthur, Richard , – Ashworth, E. Jennifer –, , ,  Augustine of Hippo –, , , , –, , , –, ,  Balibar, Etienne  Baruzi, J. –, –,  Baum, Manfred  Baumgarten, Alexander  Bayle, Pierre , –, , – Beeley, Philip –, ,  Bennett, Jonathan  Berman, David  Bernoulli, Johann , ,  Beyssade, Jean-Marie  Bierling, Friedrich Wilhelm  Blatnitsky, Leora  Blumenberg, Hans ,  Bobro, Marc E. ,  Bolton, Martha Brandt ,  Bonaventure  Borges, Jorge Luis ,  Bourguet, Louis –,  Bouvet, Joachim  Brassfield, Shoshana , –, , , 

Brouwer, René  Brown, Deborah –, , –, ,  Bruno, Giordano  Burman, Frans ,  Burnet, Thomas – Burnett, Thomas  Cajetan, Thomas , ,  Carraud, Vincent , , ,  Carriero, John ,  Carroll, Lewis  Cataldi Madonna, L.  Caterus, Johannes – Cates, D. F.  Chanut, Pierre  Christina, Queen of Sweden  Chrysippus – Cicero , , ,  Clarke, Samuel ,  Clatterbaugh, Kenneth ,  Clavius, Christoph  Clerselier, Claude , ,  Collins, Jeffrey R.  Cooke, Paul  Cooper, Anthony Ashley, Third Earl of Shaftesbury  Costabel, P.  Coudert, Allison , , –,  Cover, Jan A. , ,  Crusius, Christian August – Curley, Edwin ,  Dawson, Hannah  De Buzon, Frédéric –, , , , ,  De Jong, W. ,  De La Forge, Louis – De Rosa, Raffaella  De Volder, Burcher , , , , –, , , –, , ,  Democritus , –, 

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 8/10/2018, SPi



Index of Names

Des Bosses, Bartholomew , –,  Des Chene, Dennis , – Descartes, René – passim, , , , ,  Di Bella, Stefano , , , – Doyle, John P.  Duarte, Shane  Duchesneau, F. ,  Dunlop, K.  Duns Scotus  Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia – Engfer, H. J. , ,  Epicurus ,  Ettlinger, Max  Euclid , ,  Fardella, Michelangelo  Fichant, Michel , , , , , , , –,  Fitzgerald, F. Scott  Fontenelle, Bernard Le Bovier de ,  Forman, David ,  Frankfurt, Harry  Futch, Michael  Gabbey, Alan  Galilei, Galileo  Galison, Peter  Garber, Daniel , , – Garrett, Don  Garver, Eugene  Gassendi, Pierre , , , , –,  Gava, Gabriele ,  Geach, Peter  George I , ,  Gereboff, J.  Gerhardt, C. I.  Gill, Michael  Goldenbaum, Ursula  Gouhier, Henri  Graevius, Johann Georg  Green, Keith , , , ,  Greenberg, Sean , , –, – Gregory of St. Vincent  Grimaldi, Nicolas  Grua, Gaston –,  Guitton, J. 

Hammond, Henry  Hart, Alan  Hatfield, Gary ,  Heim, M.  Hercules  Hinske, Norbert – Hobbes, Thomas – passim, , , –,  Hochschild, Joshua P. ,  Hoffman, Paul , ,  Holden, Thomas  Hood, F. C.  Horapollo  Hotson, Howard , –,  Hubel, David  Hübner, Wolfgang , ,  Hume, David ,  Hurka, Thomas  Huygens, Christiaan ,  Iamblichus  Isaiah  Jacovides, Michael  James, Susan , – Jaquelot, Isaac , , –,  Jauernig, A.  Jeremiah , –, –, ,  Jerome  Jesseph, Douglas M. , – Jesus , –, , , –, , ,  Johnston, David  Jolley, Nicholas ,  Jorati, Julia  Jordan, Mark  Jorgensen, Larry  Josephus  Kant, Immanuel , , , – passim Kaufman, Dan  Kenny, Anthony  Korolec, J. B.  Kraut, Richard  Kretzmann, Norman  Kulstad, Mark ,  Lactantius  Laerke, Mogens , 

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 8/10/2018, SPi

Index of Names Laertius, Diogenes  Lähteenmäki, Vili  Lambert, Johann Heinrich  Lasswitz, Kurd  Latzer, Michael J.  Lederer, Roger  Lee, Richard A., Jr.  Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm – passim, , ,  Lelong, Jacques  Lennon, Thomas , ,  Leopold I ,  Leucippus  Levey, Samuel  Lloyd, Sharon  Locke, John – passim, ,  Lodge, Paul  Louis XIV ,  Lucretius –, ,  Llull, Ramon  Luther, Martin  Macknik, Stephen  Malebranche, Nicolas , ,  Manning, Gideon  Marion, Jean-Luc , –, ,  Markus, R. A.  Marras, C.  Martinez-Conde, Susana  Martinich, A. P. ,  Masham, Damaris , ,  Masson, Samuel  Matthew , , , ,  McDonough, Jeffrey K. , , ,  McKenna, Antony  McRae, Robert  Melamed, Yitzhak  Merritt, M. M. ,  Mersenne, Marin , , , ,  Mesland, Denis , ,  Mesnard, J. – Messina, James ,  Milton, John  Moore, G. E.  More, Henry , , , , , – passim,  Morell, Andreas – Moses –, , –, – Mugnai, Massimo , 



Naaman-Zauderer, Noa , , ,  Nachtomy, Ohad , , – Nadler, Steven M.  Naërt, E. –,  Nelson, Eric  Nemesius ,  Newman, Lex  Nicaise, Claude  Nicias  Nicole, Pierre  Nietzsche, Friedrich  Normore, Calvin –, ,  O’Leary-Hawthorne, John , ,  Olariu, Dominic  Oldenburg, Henry ,  Olstoorn, Johan  Origen , –, – Ott, Walter  Overbeck, Adolph Theobald , ,  Parkin, Jon  Pascal, Blaise – passim,  Pascal, Gilberte  Périer, E.  Petersen, Johann Wilhelm –,  Phemister, Pauline ,  Plato , , , ,  Pocock, J. G. A. ,  Probst, Siegmund  Proclus – Pseudo-Dionysius  Pythagoras  Ragland, C. P. ,  Rashed, Marwan  Ray, John  Remond, Nicolas , –,  Rescher, Nicholas , , , , ,  Riley, Patrick  Roannez, Artus Gouffier de  Rorty, Amélie Oksenberg  Rosenthal, David M.  Rosenthal, Michael – Ross, W. D.  Rudolph, O. P. 

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 8/10/2018, SPi



Index of Names

Russell, Bertrand  Rutherford, Donald , , , , , , , , ,  Saint-Amour, Louis Gorin de  Sandoval, Pablo – Schmaltz, Tad , –, ,  Schmid, Stephan  Schmitter, Amy , ,  Schneewind, J. B.  Schulenburg, Johann Christian  Schweitz, Lea  Secada, Jorge ,  Seckendorff, Veit Ludwig von  Seneca ,  Serres, Michel ,  Shabel, Lisa  Shapiro, Lisa , ,  Shirley, Samuel – Siegel, Susanna  Simmons, Alison , , ,  Skinner, Quentin  Smith, Adam  Smith, Justin E. H. , , ,  Sophie, Electress of Hanover , –, , ,  Sophie Charlotte, Queen of Prussia  Sorabji, Richard  Spade, Paul Vincent  Spinoza, Benedict – passim, , ,  Springborg, Patricia  Statile, Glenn  Steinberg, Justin , ,  Stoellger, Phillip  Strauss, Leo  Strickland, Lloyd , , , –, , ,  Stuart, Matthew 

Stump, Eleonore ,  Suárez, Francisco , , , – Sutton, John  Swoyer, Chris  Tacitus  Temmik, Aloys ,  Terence  Thomasius, Jakob , , ,  Thomson, Judith  Thucydides – Tilmouth, Christopher ,  Toland, John  Tonelli, Giorgio  Tschirnhaus, Ehrenfried Walther von  Tuck, Richard ,  Tutor, J. I. G.  Twisse, William  Velleman, David  Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet)  Von Wolff-Metternich, B. S.  Voss, Stephen  Wagner, Rudolph Christian ,  Waibel, V. L. ,  Waldvogel, Jerry  Wallis, John , –,  Whipple, John , , , ,  William of Orange ,  Williams, Bernard  Wilson, Margaret –,  Wippel, John F.  Wolff, Christian , – passim Yaffe, Gideon , – Youpa, Andrew  Zöller, G. 