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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_philosophy
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https://library.achievingthedream.org/epccintrotophilosophy/chapter/the-origins-of-western-thought/
https://library.achievingthedream.org/fscjphilosophy/chapter/origins-of-greek-philosophy/
https://library.achievingthedream.org/fscjphilosophy/chapter/what-is-philosophy/
https://library.achievingthedream.org/pimaphilosophy/chapter/8-1-what-is-beauty-what-is-art/
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/introphil/chapter/anansi-and-other-african-tales/
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Introduction to Philosophy
Overview
Philosophy is the best training for living. Your thoughts, your convictions, and your values all exist within a framework that has developed over time. In order to understand that framework and your place in it, we will engage in thinking about the subjects and issues presented in this class through reading, discussion, and reflection.
How you live and how you prepare for death, your political views, and your religious views are all determined by your thoughts and words. Through the study of philosophy, if you take it seriously, you will come to a better understanding of yourself and this will allow you to live authentically. The subject matter of philosophy is sometimes difficult but you will find that engaging in these ways will encourage you to think more deeply and sincerely about the material.
This text was remixed from a number of sources for Introduction to Philosophy with the intent to offer readers a more comprehensive and diverse selection of readings. The text is divided thematically using (mostly) the expected branches of philosophy including logic, metaphysics, epistemology, and axiology. Within each section, readings come from a broad range of writers with the intent to include thinkers not usually included in Introductory texts like women and BIPOC.
Chapter 1: What is Philosophy? What is Rationality?
What is Philosophy? What is Rationality?
Philosophy, derived from the Greek ‘philo’ (love) and ‘sophia’ (wisdom), is literally defined as “the love of wisdom.” More broadly understood, it is the study of the most basic and profound matters of human existence. Philosophy, in the West, began in the Greek colony of Miletus.
Who are we? How can we be happy? Does the universe have a purpose? What is knowledge? What is really real? Does art have value? Are animals conscious? Ancient Greek philosophers approached the big questions of life sometimes in a genuinely scientific way, sometimes in a mystical way, but always in a rational and imaginative fashion. They dared to question traditional conventions and to challenge the prejudices of their ages; sometimes putting their own lives at stake.
"plato, aristoteles, socrates" by mararie is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
Originating in Miletus, but spreading outward in the works of subsequent thinkers and writers, Greek philosophy was to reach its heights in the works of Plato and his pupil Aristotle. But if tradition is accurate, we can thank the mathematician and mystic Pythagoras (famed for his Pythagorean Theorem) for being the first to call himself not a sage, but rather a lover of wisdom; that is, a philosopher.
What do Philosophers Do?
Many fields can be studied and learned without ever actually working with the tools in the field. Philosophy, however, is at much about the methodology behind deriving answers as it is about the answers themselves. As such, students studying philosophy must use the methodology of philosophy on the philosophy they are learning as they are learning it. Doing philosophy involves asking the right questions, critically examining the work of previous philosophers, truly understanding the works and the reasoning behind the works, and possibly building on the works of previous philosophers by expanding or testing this methodology.
Rationality in Philosophy
Can there be more than one right answer? How do we judge how we know or what to evaluate?
Thinking about how we make decisions is another aspect of philosophy to consider; there are manners in which we evaluate evidence, question assumptions, and establish frameworks for assessing knowledge through methods of questioning and critical reflection. These activities are aspects of rationality.
The Branches of Philosophy
Theoretical Philosophy
Metaphysics
The Study of Existence (named for Aristotle’s work on the subject). Far from being a definitive term in Aristotle’s day, the word ‘metaphysics’ was given to the book by his editor who placed it after his work Physics. In Greek, ‘meta’ simply means ‘after’ and the title originally reflected that it came after the book Physics. Metaphysics addresses issues related to reality vs. appearance; it attempts to answer such questions like: What is really real? What am I? Who Am I? Are we free or determined? Do computers have consciousness?
Epistemology
The Study of Knowledge (from the Greek ‘episteme’ meaning ‘knowledge’ and ‘logos’ meaning ‘word’). Epistemology asks how we know what we know, what exactly is ‘knowledge’, and why we have it. Plato attempts, in his dialogue Meno and elsewhere, to answer these questions by claiming we do not ‘learn’ but, rather, ‘remember’ what was learned in a previous existence. Epistemology addresses issues related to knowledge vs. mere opinion; it attempts questions like: What is Knowledge? What are the conditions that make knowledge possible? How do you know that you know? Is knowledge even attainable?
Practical Philosophy
Axiology (Value Theory)
In general, the area studies of ethics, political philosophy, and aesthetics all fall under the field of axiology: the study of human values.
Ethics
The Study of Behavior/Action (from the Greek ‘ta ethika’ meaning ‘on character,’ which was popularized by Aristotle in the Nichomachean Ethics that he wrote for his son, Nichomachus, as a guide to living well). Ethics is concerned with morality, how one should live, and on what basis to make decisions. What is the good life? What is the best way to conduct my life?
Politics
The Study of Governance (from the Greek ‘Polis’ meaning ‘city’). Politikos in Greek meant ‘that which has to do with the city.’ Far from simply being concerned with running a government, however, Politikos also has to do with how to be a good citizen and neighbor, and what one should contribute to one’s community. This branch, like all the others, was first definitively examined and popularized in the work by Aristotle. How does one know what is right? What is justice? Is justice possible for everyone? Can there be justice that is unjust for some?
Aesthetics
The Study of Art (from the Greek ‘aisthetikos’ meaning ‘sense/sentience’ or ‘aisthanomai’ meaning ‘to perceive or feel.’) Aesthetics concerns itself with the study of beauty, perception of beauty, culture, and even nature, asking the fundamental question, “What makes something that is beautiful or meaningful ‘beautiful’ or ‘meaningful?’” Both Plato and Aristotle give answers to this question, attempting to standardize objectively what is ‘beautiful’ while the famous Sophist Protagoras argued that if one believes something to be ‘beautiful’ then it is beautiful and that all judgments are entirely subjective. Is there value in the beautiful? What is beauty? What is aesthetic value? Can aesthetic value be objectively measured?
LICENSE
Remixed from Philosophy in the Humanities by Lumen Learning is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 1: Introduction
In this chapter, you will read about the different branches of philosophy as well as Bertrand Russell's short essay on the value of philosophy.
What is philosophy anyway?
Many answers have been offered in reply to this question and most are angling at something similar. One answer is that philosophy is that it is the love of wisdom (Philo = love, Sophos = Wisdom).
Perhaps you think science exhausts inquiry. About a hundred years ago, many philosophers, especially the Logical Positivists, thought there was nothing we could intelligibly inquire into except for scientific matters. But this view is probably not right. What branch of science addresses the question of whether or not science covers all of rational inquiry? If the question strikes you as puzzling, this might be because you already recognize that whether or not science can answer every question is not itself a scientific issue. Questions about the limits of human inquiry and knowledge are philosophical questions.
We can better understand philosophy by considering what sorts of things other than scientific issues humans might inquire into. Philosophical issues are as diverse and far ranging as those we find in the sciences, but a great many of them fall into one of four big topic areas: metaphysics, epistemology, logic, and ethics.
Remixed from A Brief Introduction to Philosophy by Southern Alberta Institution of Technology (SAIT) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 1: An Introduction to Russell's "The Value of Philosophy"
Russell’s “The Value of Philosophy” is a chapter in his book, Problems of Philosophy. Overall, “The Value of Philosophy” presents four main points to keep in mind.
- The first is that the practical person is the one who recognizes the need for food for the body, but not food for the mind. The goods of the mind are at least as important as the goods of the body. If everyone in the world had food and biological needs met, there would still be needs to produce a solid society. Russell’s point here is that we need to get away from the idea that the only needs we have are biological.
- The second point is that philosophy aims at knowledge. However, it is a type of knowledge that we are typically not accustomed to. It is a kind of knowledge that gives order to the sciences and that critically evaluates our beliefs and prejudices.
- The third point is that once an answer becomes absolute, it ceases to be philosophical; we are now in a separate science. For example, the study of the heavens used to be a point of inquiry in philosophy, but now it has moved to astronomy. Furthermore, some questions that philosophy asks cannot be answered definitely. For instance, does this universe have a plan or purpose? Are good and evil important to the universe or only to man?
- Finally, philosophical inquiry is possible to eliminate prejudice, dogmatic lines of thought, maintain curiosity, and allow us to think speculatively (into what may be, rather than what already is). It also enlarges our world, perspective, and experiences. Thus, even if we cannot have a definite answer, the inquiry itself is important.
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Remixed from An Introduction to Russell’s “The Value of Philosophy” by Heather Wilburn, Ph.D. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 1: "The Value of Philosophy"
- How is studying philosophy different from studying science?
- What do so-called “practical men” misunderstand about the value of philosophy according to Russell?
- What kind of knowledge does philosophy seek?
- What is philosophic contemplation according to Russell? What does philosophic contemplation hope to achieve?
- What does the pursuit of philosophy do for the mind and soul according to Russell?
"Bertrand Russell" by aldoaldoz is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
…[It] will be well to consider…what is the value of philosophy and why it ought to be studied. It is the more necessary to consider this question, in view of the fact that many men, under the influence of science or of practical affairs, are inclined to doubt whether philosophy is anything better than innocent but useless trifling, hair-splitting distinctions, and controversies on matters concerning which knowledge is impossible.
This view of philosophy appears to result, partly from a wrong conception of the ends of life, partly from a wrong conception of the kind of goods which philosophy strives to achieve. Physical science, through the medium of inventions, is useful to innumerable people who are wholly ignorant of it; thus the study of physical science is to be recommended, not only, or primarily, because of the effect on the student, but rather because of the effect on mankind in general. This utility does not belong to philosophy. If the study of philosophy has any value at all for others than students of philosophy, it must be only indirectly, through its effects upon the lives of those who study it. It is in these effects, therefore, if anywhere, that the value of philosophy must be primarily sought.
But further, if we are not to fail in our endeavour to determine the value of philosophy, we must first free our minds from the prejudices of what are wrongly called “practical” men. The “practical” man, as this word is often used, is one who recognises only material needs, who realises that men must have food for the body, but is oblivious of the necessity of providing food for the mind. If all men were well off, if poverty and disease had been reduced to their lowest possible point, there would still remain much to be done to produce a valuable society; and even in the existing world the goods of the mind are at least as important as the goods of the body. It is exclusively among the goods of the mind that the value of philosophy is to be found; and only those who are not indifferent to these goods can be persuaded that the study of philosophy is not a waste of time.
Philosophy, like all other studies, aims primarily at knowledge. The knowledge it aims it is the kind of knowledge which gives unity and system to the body of the sciences, and the kind which results from a critical examination of the grounds of our convictions, prejudices, and beliefs. But it cannot be maintained that philosophy has had any very great measure of success in its attempts to provide definite answers to its questions. If you ask a mathematician, a mineralogist, a historian, or any other man of learning, what definite body of truths has been ascertained by his science, his answer will last as long as you are willing to listen. But if you put the same question to a philosopher, he will, if he is candid, have to confess that his study has not achieved positive results such as have been achieved by other sciences. It is true that this is partly accounted for by the fact that, as soon as definite knowledge concerning any subject becomes possible, this subject ceases to be called philosophy, and becomes a separate science. The whole study of the heavens, which now belongs to astronomy, was once included in philosophy; Newton’s great work was called “the mathematical principles of natural philosophy.” Similarly, the study of the human mind, which was, until very lately, a part of philosophy, has now been separated from philosophy and has become the science of psychology. Thus, to a great extent, the uncertainty of philosophy is more apparent than real: those questions which are already capable of definite answers are placed in the sciences, while those only to which, at present, no definite answer can be given, remain to form the residue which is called philosophy.
This is, however, only a part of the truth concerning the uncertainty of philosophy. There are many questions—and among them those that are of the profoundest interest to our spiritual life—which, so far as we can see, must remain insoluble to the human intellect unless its powers become of quite a different order from what they are now. Has the universe any unity of plan or purpose, or is it a fortuitous concourse of atoms? Is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, giving hope of indefinite growth in wisdom, or is it a transitory accident on a small planet on which life must ultimately become impossible? Are good and evil of importance to the universe or only to man? Such questions are asked by philosophy, and variously answered by various philosophers. But it would seem that, whether answers be otherwise discoverable or not, the answers suggested by philosophy are none of them demonstrably true. Yet, however slight may be the hope of discovering an answer, it is part of the business of philosophy to continue the consideration of such questions, to make us aware of their importance, to examine all the approaches to them, and to keep alive that speculative interest in the universe which is apt to be killed by confining ourselves to definitely ascertainable knowledge.
Many philosophers, it is true, have held that philosophy could establish the truth of certain answers to such fundamental questions. They have supposed that what is of most importance in religious beliefs could be proved by strict demonstration to be true. In order to judge of such attempts, it is necessary to take a survey of human knowledge, and to form an opinion as to its methods and its limitations. On such a subject it would be unwise to pronounce dogmatically; but if the investigations of our previous chapters have not led us astray, we shall be compelled to renounce the hope of finding philosophical proofs of religious beliefs. We cannot, therefore, include as part of the value of philosophy any definite set of answers to such questions. Hence, once more, the value of philosophy must not depend upon any supposed body of definitely ascertainable knowledge to be acquired by those who study it.
The value of philosophy is, in fact, to be sought largely in its very uncertainty. The man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned in the prejudices derived from common sense, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the co-operation or consent of his deliberate reason. To such a man the world tends to become definite, finite, obvious; common objects rouse no questions, and unfamiliar possibilities are contemptuously rejected. As soon as we begin to philosophise, on the contrary, we find, as we saw in our opening chapters, that even the most everyday things lead to problems to which only very incomplete answers can be given. Philosophy, though unable to tell us with certainty what is the true answer to the doubts which it raises, is able to suggest many possibilities which enlarge our thoughts and free them from the tyranny of custom. Thus, while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, it greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be; it removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never travelled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar aspect.
Apart from its utility in showing unsuspected possibilities, philosophy has a value—perhaps its chief value— through the greatness of the objects which it contemplates, and the freedom from narrow and personal aims resulting from this contemplation. The life of the instinctive man is shut up within the circle of his private interests: family and friends may be included, but the outer world is not regarded except as it may help or hinder what comes within the circle of instinctive wishes. In such a life there is something feverish and confined, in comparison with which the philosophic life is calm and free. The private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. Unless we can so enlarge our interests as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleaguered fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. In such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of will. In one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife.
One way of escape is by philosophic contemplation. Philosophic contemplation does not, in its widest survey, divide the universe into two hostile camps—friends and foes, helpful and hostile, good and bad—it views the whole impartially. Philosophic contemplation, when it is unalloyed, does not aim at proving that the rest of the universe is akin to man. All acquisition of knowledge is an enlargement of the Self, but this enlargement is best attained when it is not directly sought. It is obtained when the desire for knowledge is alone operative, by a study which does not wish in advance that its objects should have this or that character, but adapts the Self to the characters which it finds in its objects. This enlargement of Self is not obtained when, taking the Self as it is, we try to show that the world is so similar to this Self that knowledge of it is possible without any admission of what seems alien. The desire to prove this is a form of self-assertion, and like all self-assertion, it is an obstacle to the growth of Self which it desires, and of which the Self knows that it is capable. Self-assertion, in philosophic speculation as elsewhere, views the world as a means to its own ends; thus it makes the world of less account than Self, and the Self sets bounds to the greatness of its goods. In contemplation, on the contrary, we start from the not-Self, and through its greatness the boundaries of Self are enlarged; through the infinity of the universe the mind which contemplates it achieves some share in infinity.
For this reason greatness of soul is not fostered by those philosophies which assimilate the universe to Man. Knowledge is a form of union of Self and not-Self; like all union, it is impaired by dominion, and therefore by any attempt to force the universe into conformity with what we find in ourselves. There is a widespread philosophical tendency towards the view which tells us that man is the measure of all things, that truth is man-made, that space and time and the world of universals are properties of the mind, and that, if there be anything not created by the mind, it is unknowable and of no account for us. This view, if our previous discussions were correct, is untrue; but in addition to being untrue, it has the effect of robbing philosophic contemplation of all that gives it value, since it fetters contemplation to Self. What it calls knowledge is not a union with the not-Self, but a set of prejudices, habits, and desires, making an impenetrable veil between us and the world beyond. The man who finds pleasure in such a theory of knowledge is like the man who never leaves the domestic circle for fear his word might not be law.
The true philosophic contemplation, on the contrary, finds its satisfaction in every enlargement of the not-Self, in everything that magnifies the objects contemplated, and thereby the subject contemplating. Everything, in contemplation, that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest, or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. By thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, in the sole and exclusive desire of knowledge—knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain. Hence also the free intellect will value more the abstract and universal knowledge into which the accidents of private history do not enter, than the knowledge brought by the senses, and dependent, as such knowledge must be, upon an exclusive and personal point of view and a body whose sense-organs distort as much as they reveal.
The mind which has become accustomed to the freedom and impartiality of philosophic contemplation will preserve something of the same freedom and impartiality in the world of action and emotion. It will view its purposes and desires as parts of the whole, with the absence of insistence that results from seeing them as infinitesimal fragments in a world of which all the rest is unaffected by any one man’s deeds. The impartiality which, in contemplation, is the unalloyed desire for truth, is the very same quality of mind which, in action, is justice, and in emotion is that universal love which can be given to all, and not only to those who are judged useful or admirable. Thus contemplation enlarges not only the objects of our thoughts, but also the objects of our actions and our affections: it makes us citizens of the universe, not only of one walled city at war with all the rest. In this citizenship of the universe consists man’s true freedom, and his liberation from the thraldom of narrow hopes and fears.
Thus, to sum up our discussion of the value of philosophy: Philosophy is to be studied, not for the sake of any definite answers to its questions, since no definite answers can, as a rule, be known to be true, but rather for the sake of the questions themselves; because these questions enlarge our conception of what is possible, enrich our intellectual imagination, and diminish the dogmatic assurance which closes the mind against speculation; but above all because, through the greatness of the universe which philosophy contemplates, the mind also is rendered great, and becomes capable of that union with the universe which constitutes its highest good.
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The Originals: Classic Readings in Western Philosophy by Dr. Jeff McLaughlin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 2: Reasons and Arguments
Have you ever tried to put together a desk or shelf? What's the (likely) first thing you do? If you're like me, you look for directions.
Think of arguments in philosophy as the directions - they are the guides leading us toward the conclusion, the entire point of the argument. Without instructions, trying to put something together is very difficult. When the directions are unclear, it's that much harder (Ikea, anyone?).
We can think of poorly written directions as similar to fallacies, which are just bad arguments. Somewhere along the way, the argument took a wrong turn, which means you can't trust the conclusion. A good argument is foundational to philosophy. In this section, we'll explore the elements of arguments as well as the wrong turns they might take.
Logic is the study of arguments. Informal logic involves looking at different types of arguments and distinguishing the good from the bad. Formal logic looks at arguments solely in terms of their form. It is a type of mathematics in language, where the only values are true or false, 0 or 1. It can be used to evaluate whether the argument is logically perfect and also what conclusions can be drawn from it with absolute confidence.
License:
Remixed from A Brief Introduction to Philosophy by Southern Alberta Institution of Technology (SAIT) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 2: Logos: Critical Thinking, Arguments, and Fallacies
Critical Thinking:
With respect to critical thinking, it seems that everyone uses this phrase. Yet, there is a fear that this is becoming a buzzword (i.e. a word or phrase you use because it’s popular or enticing in some way). Ultimately, this means that we may be using the phrase without a clear sense of what we even mean by it. So, here we are going to think about what this phrase might mean and look at some examples. As a former colleague of mine, Henry Imler, explains:
By critical thinking, we refer to thinking that is recursive in nature. Any time we encounter new information or new ideas, we double back and rethink our prior conclusions on the subject to see if any other conclusions are better suited. Critical thinking can be contrasted with Authoritarian thinking. This type of thinking seeks to preserve the original conclusion. Here, thinking and conclusions are policed, as to question the system is to threaten the system. And threats to the system demand a defensive response. Critical thinking is short-circuited in authoritarian systems so that the conclusions are conserved instead of being open for revision.[1]
A condition for being recursive is to be open and not arrogant. If we come to a point where we think we have a handle on what is True, we are no longer open to consider, discuss, or accept information that might challenge our Truth. One becomes closed off and rejects everything that is different or strange–out of sync with one’s own Truth. To be open and recursive entails a sense of thinking about your beliefs in a critical and reflective way, so that you have a chance to either strengthen your belief system or revise it if needed. I have been teaching philosophy and humanities classes for nearly 20 years; critical thinking is the single most important skill you can develop. In close but second place is communication, In my view, communication skills follow as a natural result of critical thinking because you are attempting to think through and articulate stronger and rationally justified views. At the risk of sounding cliche, education isn’t about instilling content; it is about learning how to think.
In your philosophy classes your own ideas and beliefs will very likely be challenged. This does not mean that you will be asked to abandon your beliefs, but it does mean that you might be asked to defend them. Additionally, your mind will probably be twisted and turned about, which can be an uncomfortable experience. Yet, if at all possible, you should cherish these experiences and allow them to help you grow as a thinker. To be challenged and perplexed is difficult; however, it is worthwhile because it compels deeper thinking and more significant levels of understanding. In turn, thinking itself can transform us not only in thought, but in our beliefs, and our actions. Hannah Arendt, a social and political philosopher that came to the United States in exile during WWII, relates the transformative elements of philosophical thinking to Socrates. She writes:
Socrates…who is commonly said to have believed in the teachability of virtue, seems to have held that talking and thinking about piety, justice, courage, and the rest were liable to make men more pious, more just, more courageous, even though they were not given definitions or “values” to direct their further conduct.[2]
Thinking and communication are transformative insofar as these activities have the potential to alter our perspectives and, thus, change our behavior. In fact, Arendt connects the ability to think critically and reflectively to morality. As she notes above, morality does not have to give a predetermined set of rules to affect our behavior. Instead, morality can also be related to the open and sometimes perplexing conversations we have with others (and ourselves) about moral issues and moral character traits. Theodor W. Adorno, another philosopher that came to the United States in exile during WWII, argues that autonomous thinking (i.e. thinking for oneself) is crucial if we want to prevent the occurrence of another event like Auschwitz, a concentration camp where over 1 million individuals died during the Holocaust.[3] To think autonomously entails reflective and critical thinking—a type of thinking rooted in philosophical activity and a type of thinking that questions and challenges social norms and the status quo. In this sense thinking is critical of what is, allowing us to think beyond what is and to think about what ought to be, or what ought not be. This is one of the transformative elements of philosophical activity and one that is useful in promoting justice and ethical living.
With respect to the meaning of education, the German philosopher Hegel uses the term bildung, which means education or upbringing, to indicate the differences between the traditional type of education that focuses on facts and memorization, and education as transformative. Allen Wood explains how Hegel uses the term bildung: it is “a process of self-transformation and an acquisition of the power to grasp and articulate the reasons for what one believes or knows.”[4] If we think back through all of our years of schooling, particularly those subject matters that involve the teacher passing on information that is to be memorized and repeated, most of us would be hard-pressed to recall anything substantial. However, if the focus of education is on how to think and the development of skills including analyzing, synthesizing, and communicating ideas and problems, most of us will use those skills whether we are in the field of philosophy, politics, business, nursing, computer programming, or education. In this sense, philosophy can help you develop a strong foundational skill set that will be marketable for your individual paths. While philosophy is not the only subject that will foster these skills, its method is one that heavily focuses on the types of activities that will help you develop such skills.
Arguments:
Let’s turn to discuss arguments. Arguments consist of a set of statements, which are claims that something is or is not the case, or is either true or false. The conclusion of your argument is a statement that is being argued for or the point of view being argued for. The other statements serve as evidence or support for your conclusion; we refer to these statements as premises. It’s important to keep in mind that a statement is either true or false, so questions, commands, or exclamations are not statements. If we are thinking critically we will not accept a statement as true or false without good reason(s), so our premises are important here. Keep in mind the idea that supporting statements are called premises and the statement that is being supported is called the conclusion. Here are a couple of examples:
Example 1: Capital punishment is morally justifiable since it restores some sense of
balance to victims or victims’ families.
Let’s break it down so it’s easier to see in what we might call a typical argument form:
Premise: Capital punishment restores some sense of balance to victims or victims’ families.
Conclusion: Capital punishment is morally justifiable.
Example 2: Because innocent people are sometimes found guilty and potentially
executed, capital punishment is not morally justifiable.
Premise: Innocent people are sometimes found guilty and potentially executed.
Conclusion: Capital punishment is not morally justifiable.
It is worth noting the use of the terms “since” and “because” in these arguments. Terms or phrases like these often serve as signifiers that we are looking at evidence, or a premise.
Check out another example:
Example 3: All human beings are mortal. Heather is a human being. Therefore,
Heather is mortal.
Premise 1: All human beings are mortal.
Premise 2: Heather is a human being.
Conclusion: Heather is mortal.
In this example, there are a couple of things worth noting: First, there can be more than one premise. In fact, you could have a rather complex argument with several premises. If you’ve written an argumentative paper you may have encountered arguments that are rather complex. Second, just as the arguments prior had signifiers to show that we are looking at the evidence, this argument has a signifier (i.e. therefore) to demonstrate the argument’s conclusion.
So many arguments!!! Are they all equally good?
No, arguments are not equally good; there are many ways to make a faulty argument. In fact, there are a lot of different types of arguments and, to some extent, the type of argument can help us figure out if the argument is a good one. For a full elaboration of arguments, take a logic class! Here’s a brief version:
Deductive Arguments: in a deductive argument the conclusion necessarily follows the premises. Take argument Example 3 above. It is absolutely necessary that Heather is a mortal, if she is a human being and if mortality is a specific condition for being human. We know that all humans die, so that’s tight evidence. This argument would be a very good argument; it is valid (i.e the conclusion necessarily follows the premises) and it is sound (i.e. all the premises are true).
Inductive Arguments: in an inductive argument the conclusion likely (at best) follows the premises. Let’s have an example:
Example 4: 98.9% of all TCC students like pizza. You are a TCC student. Thus, you like pizza.
Premise 1: 98.9% of all TCC students like pizza
Premise 2: You are a TCC student.
Conclusion: You like pizza. (*This is a conclusion indicator)
In this example, the conclusion doesn’t necessarily follow; it likely follows. But you might be part of that 1.1% for whatever reason. Inductive arguments are good arguments if they are strong. So, instead of saying an inductive argument is valid, we say it is strong. You can also use the term sound to describe the truth of the premises if they are true. Let’s suppose they are true and you absolutely love Hideaway pizza. Let’s also assume you are a TCC student. So, the argument is really strong and it is sound.
There are many types of inductive arguments, including: causal arguments, arguments based on probabilities or statistics, arguments that are supported by analogies, and arguments that are based on some type of authority figure. So, when you encounter an argument based on one of these types, think about how strong the argument is. If you want to see examples of the different types, a web search (or a logic class!) will get you where you need to go.
Fallacies:
Some arguments are faulty, not necessarily because of the truth or falsity of the premises, but because they rely on psychological and emotional ploys. These are bad arguments because people shouldn’t accept your conclusion if you are using scare tactics or distracting and manipulating reasoning. Arguments that have this issue are called fallacies. There are a lot of fallacies, so, again, if you want to know more a web search will be useful. We are going to look at several that seem to be the most relevant for our day-to-day experiences.
- Inappropriate Appeal to Authority: We are definitely going to use authority figures in our lives (e.g. doctors, lawyers, mechanics, financial advisors, etc.), but we need to make sure that the authority figure is a reliable one.
Things to look for here might include: reputation in the field, not holding widely controversial views, experience, education, and the like. So, if we take an authority figure’s word and they’re not legit, we’ve committed the fallacy of appeal to authority.
Example 5: I think I am going to take my investments to Voya. After all, Steven Adams advocates for Voya in an advertisement I recently saw.
If we look at the criteria for evaluating arguments that appeal to authority figures, it is pretty easy to see that Adams is not an expert in the finance field. Thus, this is an inappropropriate appeal to authority.
- Slippery Slope Arguments: Slippery slope arguments are found everywhere it seems. The essential characteristic of a slippery slope argument is that it uses problematic premises to argue that doing ‘x’ will ultimately lead to other actions that are extreme, unlikely, and disastrous. You can think of this type of argument as a faulty chain of events or domino effect type of argument.
Example 6: If you don’t study for your philosophy exam you will not do well on the exam. This will lead to you failing the class. The next thing you know you will have lost your scholarship, dropped out of school, and will be living on the streets without any chance of getting a job.
While you should certainly study for your philosophy exam, if you don’t it is unlikely that this will lead to your full economic demise.
One challenge to evaluating slippery slope arguments is that they are predictions, so we cannot be certain about what will or will not actually happen. But this chain of events type of argument should be assessed in terms of whether the outcome will likely follow if action ‘x” is pursued.
- Faulty Analogy: We often make arguments based on analogy and these can be good arguments. But we often use faulty reasoning with analogies and this is what we want to learn how to avoid.
When evaluating an argument that is based on an analogy here are a few things to keep in mind: you want to look at the relevant similarities and the relevant differences between the things that are being compared. As a general rule, if there are more differences than similarities the argument is likely weak.
Example 7: Alcohol is legal. Therefore, we should legalize marijuana too.
So, the first step here is to identify the two things being compared, which are alcohol and marijuana. Next, note relevant similarities and differences. These might include effects on health, community safety, economic factors, criminal justice factors, and the like.
This is probably not the best argument in support for marijuana legalization. It would seem that one could just as easily conclude that since marijuana is illegal, alcohol should be too. In fact, one might find that alcohol is an often abused and highly problematic drug for many people, so it is too risky to legalize marijuana if it is similar to alcohol.
- Appeal to Emotion: Arguments should be based on reason and evidence, not emotional tactics. When we use an emotional tactic, we are essentially trying to manipulate someone into accepting our position by evoking pity or fear, when our positions should actually be backed by reasonable and justifiable evidence.
Example 8: Officer please don’t give me a speeding ticket. My girlfriend broke up with me last night, my alarm didn’t go off this morning, and I’m late for class.
While this is a really horrible start to one’s day, being broken up with and an alarm malfunctioning is not a justifiable reason for speeding.
Example 9: Professor, I’d like you to remember that my mother is a dean here at TCC. I’m sure that she will be very disappointed if I don’t receive an A in your class.
This is a scare tactic and is not a good way to make an argument. Scare tactics can come in the form of psychological or physical threats; both forms are to be avoided.
- Appeal to Ignorance: This fallacy occurs when our argument relies on lack of evidence when evidence is actually needed to support a position.
Example 10: No one has proven that sasquatch doesn’t exist; therefore it does exist.
Example 11: No one has proven God exists; therefore God doesn’t exist.
The key here is that lack of evidence against something cannot be an argument for something. Lack of evidence can only show that we are ignorant of the facts.
- Straw Man: A straw man argument is a specific type of argument that is intended to weaken an opponent’s position so that it is easier to refute. So, we create a weaker version of the original argument (i.e. a straw man argument), so when we present it everyone will agree with us and denounce the original position.
Example 12: Women are crazy arguing for equal treatment. No one wants women hanging around men’s locker rooms or saunas.
This is a misrepresentation of arguments for equal treatment. Women (and others arguing for equal treatment) are not trying to obtain equal access to men’s locker rooms or saunas.
The best way to avoid this fallacy is to make sure that you are not oversimplifying or misrepresenting others’ positions. Even if we don’t agree with a position, we want to make the strongest case against it and this can only be accomplished if we can refute the actual argument, not a weakened version of it. So, let’s all bring the strongest arguments we have to the table!
- Red Herring: A red herring is a distraction or a change in subject matter. Sometimes this is subtle, but if you find yourself feeling lost in the argument, take a close look and make sure there is not an attempt to distract you.
Example 13: Can you believe that so many people are concerned with global warming? The real threat to our country is terrorism.
It could be the case that both global warming and terrorism are concerns for us. But the red herring fallacy is committed when someone tries to distract you from the argument at hand by bringing up another issue or side-stepping a question. Politicians are masters at this, by the way.
- Appeal to the Person: This fallacy is also referred to as the ad hominem fallacy. We commit this fallacy when we dismiss someone’s argument or position by attacking them instead of refuting the premises or support for their argument.
Example 14: I am not going to listen to what Professor ‘X’ has to say about the history of religion. He told one of his previous classes he wasn’t religious.
The problem here is that the student is dismissing course material based on the professor’s religious views and not evaluating the course content on its own ground.
To avoid this fallacy, make sure that you target the argument or their claims and not the person making the argument in your rebuttal.
- Hasty Generalization: We make and use generalizations on a regular basis and in all types of decisions. We rely on generalizations when trying to decide which schools to apply to, which phone is the best for us, which neighborhood we want to live in, what type of job we want, and so on. Generalizations can be strong and reliable, but they can also be fallacious. There are three main ways in which a generalization can commit a fallacy: your sample size is too small, your sample size is not representative of the group you are making a generalization about, or your data could be outdated.
Example 15: I had horrible customer service at the last Starbucks I was at. It is clear that Starbucks employees do not care about their customers. I will never visit another Starbucks again.
The problem with this generalization is that the claim made about all Starbucks is based on one experience. While it is tempting to not spend your money where people are rude to their customers, this is only one employee and presumably doesn’t reflect all employees or the company as a whole. So, to make this a stronger generalization we would want to have a larger sample size (multiple horrible experiences) to support the claim. Let’s look at a second hasty generalization:
Example 16: I had horrible customer service at the Starbucks on 81st street. It is clear that Starbucks employees do not care about their customers. I will never visit another Starbucks again.
The problem with this generalization mirrors the previous problem in that the claim is based on only one experience. But there’s an additional issue here as well, which is that the claim is based off of an experience at one location. To make a claim about the whole company, our sample group needs to be larger than one and it needs to come from a variety of locations.
- Begging the Question: An argument begs the question when the argument’s premises assume the conclusion, instead of providing support for the conclusion. One common form of begging the question is referred to as circular reasoning.
Example 17: Of course, everyone wants to see the new Marvel movie is because it is the most popular movie right now!
The conclusion here is that everyone wants to see the new Marvel movie, but the premise simply assumes that is the case by claiming it is the most popular movie. Remember the premise should give reasons for the conclusion, not merely assume it to be true.
- Equivocation: In the English language there are many words that have different meanings (e.g. bank, good, right, steal, etc.). When we use the same word but shift the meaning without explaining this move to your audience, we equivocate the word and this is a fallacy. So, if you must use the same word more than once and with more than one meaning you need to explain that you’re shifting the meaning you intend. Although, most of the time it is just easier to use a different word.
Example 18: Yes, philosophy helps people argue better, but should we really encourage people to argue? There is enough hostility in the world.
Here, argue is used in two different senses. The meaning of the first refers to the philosophical meaning of argument (i.e. premises and a conclusion), whereas the second sense is in line with the common use of argument (i.e. yelling between two or more people, etc.).
- Henry Imler, ed., Phronesis An Ethics Primer with Readings, (2018). 7-8. ↵
- Arendt, Hannah, “Thinking and Moral Considerations,” Social Research, 38:3 (1971: Autumn): 431. ↵
- Theodor W. Adorno, “Education After Auschwitz,” in Can One Live After Auschwitz, ed. by Rolf Tiedemann, trans. by Rodney Livingstone (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003): 23. ↵
- Allen W. Wood, “Hegel on Education,” in Philosophers on Education: New Historical Perspectives, ed. Amelie O. Rorty (London: Routledge 1998): 302. ↵
License:
LOGOS: Critical Thinking, Arguments, and Fallacies by Heather Wilburn, Ph.D is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Logic and the Study of Arguments
Logic and the Study of Arguments
If we want to study how we ought to reason (normative) we should start by looking at the primary way that we do reason (descriptive): through the use of arguments. In order to develop a theory of good reasoning, we will start with an account of what an argument is and then proceed to talk about what constitutes a “good” argument.
I. Arguments
- Arguments are a set of statements (premises and conclusion).
- The premises provide evidence, reasons, and grounds for the conclusion.
- The conclusion is what is being argued for.
- An argument attempts to draw some logical connection between the premises and the conclusion.
- And in doing so, the argument expresses an inference: a process of reasoning from the truth of the premises to the truth of the conclusion.
Premises: The premises (and there can be more than one) are the statements being offered in support for the conclusion. The premises also embody the reasons or facts providing evidence for the conclusion’s credibility.
Conclusion: The conclusion is the statement being argued for.
Example: The world will end on August 6, 2045. I know this because my dad told me so and my dad is smart.
In this instance, the conclusion is the first sentence (“The world will end…”); the premises (however dubious) are revealed in the second sentence (“I know this because…”).
II. Statements
Conclusions and premises are articulated in the form of statements. Statements are sentences that can be determined to possess or lack truth. Some examples of true-or-false statements can be found below. (Notice that while some statements are categorically true or false, others may or may not be true depending on when they are made or who is making them.)
Examples of sentences that are statements:
- It is below 40°F outside.
- Oklahoma is north of Texas.
- The Denver Broncos will make it to the Super Bowl.
- Russell Westbrook is the best point guard in the league.
- I like broccoli.
- I shouldn’t eat French fries.
- Time travel is possible.
- If time travel is possible, then you can be your own father or mother.
However, there are many sentences that cannot so easily be determined to be true or false. For this reason, these sentences identified below are not considered statements.
- Questions: “What time is it?”
- Commands: “Do your homework.”
- Requests: “Please clean the kitchen.”
- Proposals: “Let’s go to the museum tomorrow.”
Question: Why are arguments only made up of statements?
First, we only believe statements. It doesn’t make sense to talk about believing questions, commands, requests or proposals. Contrast sentences on the left that are not statements with sentences on the right that are statements:
Non-statements | Statements |
What time is it? Do your homework. | The time is 11:00 a.m. My teacher wants me to do my homework. |
It would be non-sensical to say that we believe the non-statements (e.g. “I believe what time is it?”). But it makes perfect sense to say that we believe the statements (e.g. “I believe the time is 11 a.m.”). If conclusions are the statements being argued for, then they are also ideas we are being persuaded to believe. Therefore, only statements can be conclusions.
Second, only statements can provide reasons to believe.
- Q: Why should I believe that it is 11:00 a.m.? A: Because the clock says it is 11a.m.
- Q: Why should I believe that we are going to the museum tomorrow? A: Because today we are making plans to go.
Sentences that cannot be true or false cannot provide reasons to believe. So, if premises are meant to provide reasons to believe, then only statements can be premises.
III. Representing Arguments
As we concern ourselves with arguments, we will want to represent our arguments in some way, indicating which statements are the premises and which statement is the conclusion. We shall represent arguments in two ways. For both ways, we will number the premises.
In order to identify the conclusion, we will either label the conclusion with a (c) or (conclusion). Or we will mark the conclusion with the ∴ symbol
Example Argument:
There will be a war in the next year. I know this because there has been a massive buildup in weapons. And every time there is a massive buildup in weapons, there is a war. My guru said the world will end on August 6, 2045.
- There has been a massive buildup in weapons.
- Every time there has been a massive buildup in weapons, there is a war.
(c) There will be a war in the next year.
Or
- There has been a massive buildup in weapons.
- Every time there has been a massive buildup in weapons, there is a war.
∴ There will be a war in the next year.
Of course, arguments do not come labeled as such. And so we must be able to look at a passage and identify whether the passage contains an argument and if it does, we should also be identify which statements are the premises and which statement is the conclusion. This is harder than you might think!
There was a massive stampede outside of Tulsa. Crops were trampled and some cows were killed. Officials are not sure why the stampede started, but they are in the process of investigating the cause.
Example:
There is no argument here. There is no statement being argued for. There are no statements being used as reasons to believe. This is simply a report of information.
The following are also not arguments:
Advice: Be good to your friends; your friends will be good to you.
Warnings: No lifeguard on duty. Be careful.
Associated claims: Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to the dark side.
When you have an argument, the passage will express some process of reasoning. There will be statements presented that serve to help the speaker building a case for the conclusion.
IV. How to Look for Arguments[1]
How do we identify arguments in real life? There are no easy, mechanical rules, and we usually have to rely on the context in order to determine which are the premises and the conclusions. But sometimes the job can be made easier by the presence of certain premise or conclusion indicators. For example, if a person makes a statement, and then adds “this is because …,” then it is quite likely that the first statement is presented as a conclusion, supported by the statements that come afterward. Other words in English that might be used to indicate the premises to follow include:
- since
- firstly, secondly, …
- for, as, after all
- assuming that, in view of the fact that
- follows from, as shown / indicated by
- may be inferred / deduced / derived from
Of course whether such words are used to indicate premises or not depends on the context. For example, “since” has a very different function in a statement like “I have been here since noon,” unlike “X is an even number since X is divisible by 4.” In the first instance (“since noon”) “since” means “from.” In the second instance, “since” means “because.”
Conclusions, on the other hand, are often preceded by words like:
- therefore, so, it follows that
- hence, consequently
- suggests / proves / demonstrates that
- entails, implies
Here are some examples of passages that do not contain arguments.
1. When people sweat a lot they tend to drink more water. [Just a single statement, not enough to make an argument.]
2. Once upon a time there was a prince and a princess. They lived happily together and one day they decided to have a baby. But the baby grew up to be a nasty and cruel person and they regret it very much. [A chronological description of facts composed of statements but no premise or conclusion.]
3. Can you come to the meeting tomorrow? [A question that does not contain an argument.]
Exercises
Do these passages contain arguments? If so, what are their conclusions?
- Cutting the interest rate will have no effect on the stock market this time around, as people have been expecting a rate cut all along. This factor has already been reflected in the market.
- So it is raining heavily and this building might collapse. But I don’t really care.
- Virgin would then dominate the rail system. Is that something the government should worry about? Not necessarily. The industry is regulated, and one powerful company might at least offer a more coherent schedule of services than the present arrangement has produced. The reason the industry was broken up into more than 100 companies at privatization was not operational, but political: the Conservative government thought it would thus be harder to renationalize (The Economist 12/16/2000).
- Bill will pay the ransom. After all, he loves his wife and children and would do everything to save them.
- All of Russia’s problems of human rights and democracy come back to three things: the legislature, the executive and the judiciary. None works as well as it should. Parliament passes laws in a hurry, and has neither the ability nor the will to call high officials to account. State officials abuse human rights (either on their own, or on orders from on high) and work with remarkable slowness and disorganization. The courts almost completely fail in their role as the ultimate safeguard of freedom and order (The Economist 11/25/2000).
- Most mornings, Park Chang Woo arrives at a train station in central Seoul, South Korea’s capital. But he is not commuter. He is unemployed and goes there to kill time. Around him, dozens of jobless people pass their days drinking soju, a local version of vodka. For the moment, middle-aged Mr. Park would rather read a newspaper. He used to be a bricklayer for a small construction company in Pusan, a southern port city. But three years ago the country’s financial crisis cost him that job, so he came to Seoul, leaving his wife and two children behind. Still looking for work, he has little hope of going home any time soon (The Economist 11/25/2000).
- For a long time, astronomers suspected that Europa, one of Jupiter’s many moons, might harbour a watery ocean beneath its ice-covered surface. They were right. Now the technique used earlier this year to demonstrate the existence of the Europan ocean has been employed to detect an ocean on another Jovian satellite, Ganymede, according to work announced at the recent American Geo-physical Union meeting in San Francisco (The Economist 12/16/2000).
- There are no hard numbers, but the evidence from Asia’s expatriate community is unequivocal. Three years after its handover from Britain to China, Hong Kong is unlearning English. The city’s gweilos (Cantonese for “ghost men”) must go to ever greater lengths to catch the oldest taxi driver available to maximize their chances of comprehension. Hotel managers are complaining that they can no longer find enough English-speakers to act as receptionists. Departing tourists, polled at the airport, voice growing frustration at not being understood (The Economist 1/20/2001).
V. Evaluating Arguments
Q: What does it mean for an argument to be good? What are the different ways in which arguments can be good? Good arguments:
- Are persuasive.
- Have premises that provide good evidence for the conclusion.
- Contain premises that are true.
- Reach a true conclusion.
- Provide the audience good reasons for accepting the conclusion.
The focus of logic is primarily about one type of goodness: The logical relationship between premises and conclusion.
An argument is good in this sense if the premises provide good evidence for the conclusion. But what does it mean for premises to provide good evidence? We need some new concepts to capture this idea of premises providing good logical support. In order to do so, we will first need to distinguish between two types of argument.
VI. Two Types of Arguments
The two main types of arguments are called deductive and inductive arguments. We differentiate them in terms of the type of support that the premises are meant to provide for the conclusion.
Q: What function fo the premises play?
Deductive Arguments are arguments in which the premises are meant to provide conclusive logical support for the conclusion.
Examples:
#1:
1. All humans are mortal
2. Socrates is a human.
∴ Therefore, Socrates is mortal.
#2:
1. No student in this class will fail.
2. Mary is a student in this class.
∴ Therefore, Mary will not fail.
#3:
1. A intersects lines B and C.
2. Lines A and B form a 90-degree angle
3. Lines A and C form a 90-degree angle.
∴ B and C are parallel lines.
Inductive arguments are, by their very nature, risky arguments.
Arguments in which premises provide probable support for the conclusion.
Statistical Examples:
#1:
1. Ten percent of all customers in this restaurant order soda.
2. John is a customer.
∴ John will not order Soda..
#2:
1. Some students work on campus.
2. Bill is a student.
∴ Bill works on campus.
#3:
1. Vegas has the Carolina Panthers as a six-point favorite for the super bowl.
∴ Carolina will win the Super Bowl.
VII. Good Deductive Arguments
The First Type of Goodness: Premises play their function – they provide conclusive logical support.
Deductive and inductive arguments have different aims. Deductive argument attempt to provide conclusive support or reasons; inductive argument attempt to provide probable reasons or support. So we must evaluate these two types of arguments.
Deductive arguments attempt to be valid.
An argument is valid if it is impossible for the premises to be true and the conclusion false.
To put validity in another way: if the premises are true, then the conclusion must be true.
It is very important to note that validity has nothing to do with whether or not the premises are, in fact, true and whether or not the conclusion is in fact true; it merely has to do with a certain conditional claim. If the premises are true, then the conclusion must be true.
Q: What does this mean?
- The validity of an argument does not depend upon the actual world. Rather, it depends upon the world described by the premises.
- First, consider the world described by the premises. In this world, is it logically possible for the conclusion to be false? That is, can you even imagine a world in which the conclusion is false?
Reflection Questions:
- Can you have a valid argument with false premises?
- If you cannot, then why not?
- If you can, then provide an example of a valid argument.
- Can you have a valid argument with a false conclusion?
- If you cannot, then why not?
- If you can, then provide an example of a valid argument.
You should convince yourself that validity is not just about the actual truth or falsity of the premises and conclusion. Rather, validity only has to do with a certain logical relationship between the truth of the premise and the truth of the conclusion. So the only possible combination that is ruled out by a valid argument is a set of true premises and false conclusion.
Let’s go back to example #1. Here are the premises:
1. All humans are mortal.
2. Socrates is a human.
If both of these premises are true, then every human that we find must be a mortal. And this means, that it must be the case that if Socrates is a human, that Socrates is mortal.
Reflection Questions about Invalid Arguments:
- Can you have an invalid argument with a true premise?
- Can you have an invalid argument with true premises and a true conclusion?
The second type of goodness for deductive arguments: The premises provide us the right reasons to accept the conclusion.
Soundness Versus Validity:
An argument is sound if it is valid AND the premises are true.
Our original argument is a sound one:
1. All humans are mortal.
2. Socrates is a human.
∴ Socrates is mortal.
Question: Can a sound argument have a false conclusion?
VIII. From Deductive Arguments to Inductive Arguments
Question: What happens if we mix around the premises and conclusion?
1. All humans are mortal.
2. Socrates is mortal.
∴ Socrates is a human.
1. Socrates is mortal
2. Socrates is a human.
∴ All humans are mortal.
Are these valid deductive arguments?
NO, but they are common inductive arguments.
Other examples:
Suppose that there are two opaque glass jars with different color marbles in them.
1. All the marbles in jar #1 are blue.
2. This marble is blue.
∴ This marble came from jar #1.
1. This marble came from jar #2.
2. This marble is red.
∴ All the marbles in jar #2 are red.
While this is a very risky argument, what if we drew 100 marbles from jar #2 and found that they were all red? Would this affect the second argument’s validity?
IX. Inductive Arguments:
The aim of an inductive argument is different from the aim of deductive argument because the type of reasons we are trying to provide are different. Therefore, the function of the premises is different in deductive and inductive arguments. And again, we can split up goodness into two types when considering inductive arguments:
- The premises provide the right logical support.
- The premises provide the right type of reason.
Logical Support:
Remember that for inductive arguments, the premises are intended to provide probable support for the conclusion. Thus, we shall begin by discussing a fairly rough, coarse-grained way of talking about probable support by introducing the notions of strong and weak inductive arguments.
A strong inductive argument:
- The vast majority of Europeans speak at least two languages.
- Sam is a European.
∴ Sam speaks two languages.
Weak inductive argument:
- This quarter is a fair coin.
∴ Therefore, the next coin flip will land heads.
Weak inductive argument:
- At least one dog in this town has rabies.
- Fido is a dog that lives in this town.
∴ Fido has rabies.
The Right Type of Reasons. As we noted above, the right type of reasons are true statements. So what happens when we get an inductive argument that is good in the first sense (right type of logical support) and good in the second sense (the right type of reasons)? Corresponding to the notion of soundness for deductive arguments, we call inductive arguments that are good in both senses cogent arguments.
A cogent inductive argument: a strong inductive argument with true premises
Questions:
- With which of the following types of premises and conclusions can you have a strong inductive argument?
- With which of the following types of premises and conclusions can you have a cogent inductive argument?
Premise | Conclusion |
True | True |
True | False |
False | True |
False | False |
X. Steps for Evaluating Arguments:
- Read a passage and assess whether or not it contains an argument.
- If it does contain an argument, then identify the conclusion and premises.
- Is this a valid deductive argument?
- If yes, then assess it for soundness.
- If not, then treat it as an inductive argument (step 3).
- Is the inductive argument strong or weak?
- If the inductive argument is strong, then is it cogent?
XI. Evaluating Real–World Arguments
An important part of evaluating arguments is not to represent the arguments of others in a deliberately weak way.
For example, suppose that I state the following:
All humans are mortal, so Socrates is mortal.
Is this valid? Not as it stands. But clearly, I believe that Socrates is a human being. Or I thought that was assumed in the conversation. That premise was clearly an implicit one.
So one of the things we can do in the evaluation of argument is to take an argument as it is stated, and represent it in a way such that it is a valid deductive argument or a strong inductive one. In doing so, we are making explicit what one would have to assume to provide a good argument (in the sense that the premises provide good – conclusive or probable – reason to accept the conclusion).
Example 1:
The teacher’s policy on extra credit was unfair because Sally was the only person to have a chance at receiving extra credit.
- Sally was the only person to have a chance at receiving extra credit.
- The teacher’s policy on extra credit is fair only if everyone gets a chance to receive extra credit.
Therefore, the teacher’s policy on extra credit was unfair.
Valid argument
Example 2:
Sally didn’t train very hard so she didn’t win the race.
Valid:
- Sally didn’t train very hard.
- If you don’t train hard, you won’t win the race.
Therefore, Sally didn’t win the race.
Strong (not valid):
- Sally didn’t train very hard.
- If you won the race, you trained hard.
Therefore, Sally didn’t win the race.
Strong:
- Sally didn’t train very hard.
- Those who don’t train hard are likely not to win.
Therefore, Sally didn’t win.
Example 3:
Ordinary workers receive worker’s compensation benefits if they suffer an on-the-job injury. However, universities have no obligations to pay similar compensation to student athletes if they are hurt while playing sports. So, universities are not doing what they should.
- Ordinary workers receive worker’s compensation benefits if they suffer an on-the-job injury that prevents them working.
- Student athletes are just like ordinary workers except that their job is to play sports.
- So if student athletes are injured while playing sports, they should also be provided worker’s compensation benefits.
- Universities have no obligations to provide injured student athletes compensation.
Therefore, universities are not doing what they should.
Deductively valid argument
Example 4:
If Obama couldn’t implement a single-payer healthcare system in his first term as president, then the next president will not be able to implement a single-payer healthcare system.
- Obama couldn’t implement a single-payer healthcare system.
- In Obama’s first term as president, both the House and Senate were under Democratic control.
- The next president will either be dealing with the Republican-controlled house and senate or at best, a split legislature.
- Obama’s first term as president will be much easier than the next president’s term in terms of passing legislation.
Therefore, the next president will not be able to implement a single-payer healthcare system.
Strong inductive argument
Example 5:
Sam is weaker than John. Sam is slower than John. So Sam’s time on the obstacle will be slower than John’s.
- Sam is weaker than John.
- Sam is slower than John.
- A person’s strength and speed inversely correlate with their time on the obstacle course.
Therefore, Sam’s time will be slower than John’s.
XII. Diagramming Arguments
All the arguments we’ve dealt with – except for the last two – have been fairly simple in that the premises always provided direct support for the conclusion. But in many arguments, such as the last one, there are often arguments within arguments.
Obama example:
- Obama couldn’t implement a single-payer healthcare system.
- In Obama’s first term as president, both the House and Senate were under Democratic control.
- The next president will either be dealing with the Republican controlled house and senate or at best, a split legislature.
- Obama’s first term as president will be much easier than the next president’s term in terms of passing legislation.
∴ The next president will not be able to implement a single-payer healthcare system.
It’s clear that premises #2 and #3 are used in support of #4. And #1 in combination with #4 provides support for the conclusion.
When we diagram arguments, the aim is to represent the logical relationships between premises and conclusion. More specifically, we want to identify what each premise supports and how.
This represents that 2+3 together provide support for 4
This represents that 4+1 together provide support for 5
When we say that 2+3 together or 4+1 together support some statement, we mean that the logical support of these statements are dependent upon each other. Without the other, these statements would not provide evidence for the conclusion. In order to identify when statements are dependent upon one another, we simply underline the set that are logically dependent upon one another for their evidential support. Every argument has a single conclusion, which the premises support; therefore, every argument diagram should point to the conclusion (c).
Sam Example:
- Sam is weaker than John.
- Sam is less flexible than John.
- A person’s strength and flexibility inversely correlate with their time on the obstacle course.
∴ Therefore, Sam’s time will be slower than John’s.
In some cases, different sets of premises provide evidence for the conclusion independently of one another. In the argument above, there are two logically independent arguments for the conclusion that Sam’s time will be slower than John’s. That Sam is weaker than John and that being weaker correlates with a slower time provide evidence for the conclusion that Sam will be slower than John. Completely independent of this argument is the fact that Sam is less flexible and that being less flexible corresponds with a slower time. The diagram above represent these logical relations by showing that #1 and #3 dependently provide support for #4. Independent of that argument, #2 and #3 also dependently provide support for #4. Therefore, there are two logically independent sets of premises that provide support for the conclusion.
Try diagramming the following argument for yourself. The structure of the argument has been provided below:
- All humans are mortal
- Socrates is human
- So Socrates is mortal.
- If you feed a mortal person poison, he will die.
∴ Therefore, Socrates has been fed poison, so he will die.
- This section is taken from http://philosophy.hku.hk/think/ and is in use under creative commons license. Some modifications have been made to the original content. ↵
Critical Thinking Copyright © 2019 by Brian Kim is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 2: Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Introduction to Logic and Critical Thinking, Matthew van Cleave, Except where otherwise noted, content on this site is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 License
- Form and Content, An Introduction to Formal Logic, Derek Turner Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
- Logic (philosophypages.com)
- Critical Thinking (video)
- Arguments
- Fallacies and Biases
Chapter 3: The Ancient World
Our story begins in the sixth century B.C., at the time of a profound change in the heart of Greek society. Traditional wisdom, all the knowledge handed down through generations in the form of myths, was no longer seen as certain and it was subjected to a severe critique. Cosmology, moral values, sociology, and theology were all challenged by a diverse range of thinkers, who no longer took what had gone before as certain. The range and extent of these challenges vary, each retaining different portions of the pre-philosophical culture and criticizing others.
In Africa, Obanor Osayande argues that "philosophy, like other disciplines, was not exempt in having its origin in Africa." G.M. James in his book Stolen Legacies posits that "the Greeks were not the author of Greek philosophy, but the people of North Africa, commonly called the Egyptians." The Greeks were a loose collection of city-states and territories bound together by common language and cultural ties. They distinguished themselves from non-Greeks, or barbarians, whose speech to them sounded like 'barbarbarbar', hence the name.
Although many different forms of government existed across Greece, aristocracy was prominent everywhere. The nobles, who would lead the people in times of war, were conceived as the only possessors of virtue. The Greek word for virtue (Αρετή) is often translated as excellence in an attempt to escape some of its connotations in English, many of which were introduced by Christian thought at a later stage. A man was considered especially virtuous if he possessed fame, noble ancestry and success. Failure was punished and considered shameful.
This chapter includes an overview of the beginnings of philosophy in the West, as well as a counterpoint to creation in the East and a selection of readings from Indigenous philosophers. Also included in this section is Plato's Symposium and selections from Greek Women.
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Chapter 3: The Origins of Western Thought
Philosophical Thinking
Philosophy as a discipline isn’t easy to define precisely. Issuing from a sense of wonderment about life and the world, it often involves a keen interest in major questions about ourselves, our experience, and our place in the universe as a whole. But philosophy is also reflectively concerned with the methods its practitioners employ in the effort to resolve such questions. Emerging as a central feature of Western culture, philosophy is a tradition of thinking and writing about particular issues in special ways.
Thus, philosophy must be regarded both as content and as activity: It considers alternative views of what is real and the development of reasons for accepting them. It requires both a careful, sympathetic reading of classical texts and a critical, logical examination of the arguments they express. It offers all of us the chance to create and adopt significant beliefs about life and the world, but it also requires each of us to acquire the habits of critical thinking. Philosophy is both sublime and nitpicking.
Since our personal growth in these matters naturally retraces the process of cultural development, study of the history of philosophy in our culture provides an excellent introduction to the discipline as a whole. Here our aim is to examine the appearance of Western philosophy as an interesting and valuable component of our cultural heritage.
Greek Philosophy
Abstract thought about the ultimate nature of the world and of human life began to appear in cultures all over the world during the sixth century B.C.E., as an urge to move beyond superstition toward explanation. We focus here on its embodiment among the ancient Greeks, whose active and tumultuous social life provided ample opportunities for the expression of philosophical thinking of three sorts:
- Speculative thinking expresses human curiosity about the world, striving to understand in natural (rather than super-natural) terms how things really are, what they are made of, and how they function.
- Practical thinking emphasizes the desire to guide conduct by comprehending the nature of life and the place of human beings and human behavior in the greater scheme of reality.
- Critical thinking (the hallmark of philosophy itself) involves a careful examination of the foundations upon which thinking of any sort must rely, trying to achieve an effective method for assessing the reliability of positions adopted on the significant issues.
Beginning with clear examples of thinking of the first two sorts, we will see the gradual emergence of inclinations toward the third.
Milesian Speculation
During the sixth century, in the Greek colony at Miletus, a group of thinkers began to engage in an extended exploration of the speculative issues. Although these Milesians wrote little themselves, other ancient authorities recorded some of their central tenets. Their central urge was to show that the complex world has a simple, permanent underpinning in the reality of a single kind of stuff from which all else emerges.
The philosopher Thales, for example, is remembered as having asserted that all comes from water. (Fragments) Although we have no record of the reasoning that led Thales to this conclusion, it isn’t hard to imagine what it might have been. If we suppose that the ultimate stuff of the world must be chosen from among things familiar to us, water isn’t a bad choice: most of the earth is covered with it, it appears in solid, liquid, and gaseous forms, and it is clearly essential to the existence of life. Everything is moist.
Thales’s student Anaximander, however, found this answer far too simple. Proper attention to the changing face of the universe, he supposed, requires us to consider the cyclical interaction of things of at least four sorts: the hot, the cold, the dry, and the wet. (Fragments) Anaximander held that all of these elements originally arise from a primal, turbulent mass, the the Boundless or Infinite {Gk. απειρων [apeirôn]}. It is only by a gradual process of distillation that everything else emerges—earth, air, fire, water, of course—and even living things evolve.
The next Milesian, Anaximenes, returned to the conviction that there must be a single kind of stuff at the heart of everything, and he proposed vapor or mist {Gk. αερ [aer]} as the most likely candidate. (Fragments) Not only does this warm, wet air combine two of the four elements together, but it also provides a familiar pair of processes for changes in its state: condensation and evaporation. Thus, in its most rarified form of breath or spirit, Anaximenes’s air constitutes the highest representation of life.
As interesting as Milesian speculations are, they embody only the most primitive variety of philosophical speculation. Although they disagreed with each other on many points, each of the thinkers appears to have been satisfied with the activity of proposing his own views in relative isolation from those of his teacher or contemporaries. Later generations initiated the move toward critical thinking by arguing with each other.
Pythagorean Life
The Greek colony in Italy at the same time devoted much more concern to practical matters. Followers of the legendary Pythagoras developed a comprehensive view of a human life in harmony with all of the natural world. Since the Pythagoreans persisted for many generations as a quasi-religious sect, protecting themselves behind a veil of secrecy, it is difficult to recover a detailed account of the original doctrines of their leader, but the basic outlines are clear.
Pythagoras was interested in mathematics: he discovered a proof of the geometrical theorem that still bears his name, described the relationship between the length of strings and the musical pitches they produce when plucked, and engaged in extensive observation of the apparent motion of celestial objects. In each of these aspects of the world, Pythagoras saw order, a regularity of occurrences that could be described in terms of mathematical ratios.
The aim of human life, then, must be to live in harmony with this natural regularity. Our lives are merely small portions of a greater whole. (Fragments) Since the spirit (or breath) of human beings is divine air, Pythagoras supposed, it is naturally immortal; its existence naturally outlives the relatively temporary functions of the human body. Pythagoreans therefore believed that the soul“transmigrates” into other living bodies at death, with animals and plants participating along with human beings in a grand cycle of reincarnation.
Even those who did not fully accept the religious implications of Pythagorean thought were often influenced by its thematic structure. As we’ll see later, many Western philosophers have been interested in the immortality of the human soul and in the relationship between human beings and the natural world.
During the fifth century B.C.E., Greek philosophers began to engage in extended controversies that represent a movement toward the development of genuinely critical thinking. Although they often lacked enough common ground upon which to adjudicate their disputes and rarely engaged in the self-criticism that is characteristic of genuine philosophy, these thinkers did try to defend their own positions and attack those of their rivals by providing attempts at rational argumentation.
Heraclitus and the Eleatics
Dissatisfied with earlier efforts to comprehend the world, Heraclitus of Ephesus earned his reputation as “the Riddler” by delivering his pronouncements in deliberately contradictory (or at least paradoxical) form. The structure of puzzling statements, he believed, mirrors the chaotic structure of thought, which in turn is parallel to the complex, dynamic character of the world itself.
Rejecting the Pythagorean ideal of harmony as peaceful coexistence, Heraclitus saw the natural world as an environment of perpetual struggle and strife. “All is flux,” he supposed; everything is changing all the time. As Heraclitus is often reported to have said, “Upon those who step into the same river, different waters flow.” The tension and conflict which govern everything in our experience are moderated only by the operation of a universal principle of proportionality in all things.
Against this position, the Eleatics defended the unity and stability of the universe. Their leader, Parmenides supposed that language embodies a logic of perfect immutability: “What is, is.” (Fragments) Since everything is what it is and not something else, he argued in Περι Φυσις (ON NATURE), it can never correct to say that one and the same thing both has and does not have some feature, so the supposed change from having the feature to not having it is utterly impossible. Of course, change does seem to occur, so we must distinguish sharply between the many mere appearances that are part of our experience and the one true reality that is discernible only by intellect.
Other Eleatics delighted in attacking Heraclitus with arguments designed to show the absurdityof his notion that the world is perpetual changing. Zeno of Elea in particular fashioned four paradoxes about motion, covering every possible combination of continuous or discrete intervals and the direct motion of single bodies or the relative motion of several:
- The Dichotomy: It is impossible to move around a racetrack since we must first go halfway, and before that go half of halfway, and before that half of half of halfway, and . . . . If space is infinitely divisible, we have infinitely many partial distances to cover, and cannot get under way in any finite time.
- Achilles and the Tortoise: Similarly, given a ten meter head-start, a tortoise can never be overtaken by Achilles in a race, since Achilles must catch up to where the tortoise began. But by then the tortoise has moved ahead, and Achilles must catch up to that new point, and so on. Again, the suppostition that things really move leads to an infinite regress.
- The Arrow: If, on the other hand, motion occurs in discrete intervals, then at any given moment during its flight through the air, an arrow is not moving. But since its entire flight comprises only such moments, the arrow never moves.
- The Stadium: Similarly, if three chariots of equal length, one stationary and the others travelling in opposite directions, were to pass by each other at the same time, then each of the supposedly moving ones would take only half as long to pass the other as to pass the third, making 1=2!
The patent absurdity that results in each of these cases, Zeno concluded, shows that motion (and, hence, change of any sort) is impossible. (Fragments)What all of this raises is the question of “the one and the many.” How can there be any genuine unity in a world that appears to be multiple? To the extent that a satisfactory answer involves a distinction between appearance and reality and the use of dialectical reasoning in the effort to understand what is real, this pursuit of the Eleatics set important standards for the future development of Western thought.
Empedocles and Anaxagoras
In the next generation, Empedocles introduced the plurality from the very beginning. Everything in the world, he supposed, is ultimately made up of some mixture of the four elements, considered as irreducible components. The unique character of each item depends solely upon the special balance of the four that is present only in it. Change takes place because there are two competing forces at work in the world. Love {Gk. φιλια [philia]} is always putting things together, while Strife {Gk. νεικος [neikos]} is always tearing them apart. The interplay of the two constitutes the activity we see in nature.
His rival, Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, returned in some measure to the Milesian effort to identify a common stuff out of which everything is composed. Matter is, indeed, a chaotic primordial mass, infinitely divisible in principle, yet in which nothing is differentiated. But Anaxagoras held that order is brought to this mass by the power of Mind {Gk. νους [nous]}, the source of all explanation by reference to cosmic intelligence. Although later philosophers praised Anaxagoras for this explicit introduction of mind into the description of the world, it is not clear whether he meant by his use of this word what they would suppose. (Fragments)
Greek Atomism
The inclination to regard the world as pluralistic took its most extreme form in the work of the ancient atomists. Although the basic outlines of the view were apparently developed by Leucippus, the more complete exposition by Democritus, including a discussion of its ethical implications, was more influential. Our best source of information about the atomists is the poem De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things) by the later Roman philosopher Lucretius.
For the atomists, all substance is material and the true elements of the natural world are the tiny, indivisible, unobservable solid bodies called “atoms.” Since these particles exist, packed more or less densely together, in an infinite empty space, their motion is not only possible but ineveitable. Everything that happens in the world, the atomists supposed, is a result of microscopic collisions among atoms. Thus, as Epicurus would later make clear, the actions and passions of human life are also inevitable consequences of material motions. Although atomism has a decidedly modern ring, notice that, since it could not be based on observation of microscopic particles in the way that modern science is, ancient atomism was merely another fashionable form of cosmological speculation.
The Sophists
Fifth-century Athens was a politically troubled city-state: it underwent a sequence of external attacks and internal rebellions that no social entity could envy. During several decades, however, the Athenians maintained a nominally democratic government in which (at least some) citizens had the opportunity to participate directly in important social decisions. This contributed to a renewed interest in practical philosophy. Itinerate teachers known as the sophists offered to provide their students with training in the effective exercise of citizenship.
Since the central goal of political manipulation was to outwit and publicly defeat an opponent, the rhetorical techniques of persuasion naturally played an important role. But the best of the Sophists also made use of Eleatic methods of logical argumentation in pursuit of similar aims. Driven by the urge to defend expedient solutions to particular problems, their efforts often encouraged relativism or evan an extreme skepticism about the likelihood of discovering the truth.
A Sophist named Gorgias, for example, argued (perhaps ironically) that: (a) Nothing exists; (b) If it did, we could not know it; and (c) If we knew anything, we could not talk about it. Protagoras, on the other hand, supposed that since human beings are “the measure of all things,” it follows that truth is subjectively unique to each individual. In a more political vein, Thrasymachus argued that it is better to perform unjust actions than to be the victim of the injustice committed by others. The ideas and methods of these thinkers provided the lively intellectual environment in which the greatest Athenian philosophers thrived.
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Chapter3: Another View: Creation in the Philosophy of Ancient India: Rig Veda
Another View: Creation in the Philosophy of Ancient India: Rig Veda
The philosophical question of cosmogenesis has been approached in many different ways in Greece as we have seen in the beginning of this Module; here is an example of the question’s response from another perspective. (1)
“Then was neither nonexistent nor existent: there was no realm of air, no sky beyond it. What covered in, and where? And what gave shelter? Was water there, unfathomed depth of water?
The ONE breathed without air by self-impulse; through the heat of tapas (desire) was manifest (1) Who verily knows and who can here declare it, whence it was born and whence comes this creation? The Gods are later than this world’s production. Who knows then whence it first came into being? He, the first origin of this creation, whether he formed it all or did not form it, Whose eye controls this world in highest heaven, he verily knows it, or perhaps he knows not.”
(Rig-Veda 10.129.1-7)
There is another account on how the universe started, which has no equivalent in any other tradition. The universe is actually the dream of a god who after 100 Brahma years, dissolves himself into a dreamless sleep, and the universe dissolves with him. After another 100 Brahma years, he recomposes himself and begins to dream again the great cosmic dream. Meanwhile, there are infinite other universes elsewhere, each of them being dreamt by its own god. (16)
What might each of these interpretations conclude should their arguments continue to develop? (The question is rhetorical. You need not consider it an assignment, but rather keep it in mind as we move to the next Module.) (1)
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Chapter 3: Indigenous Philosophy
Some of the best-known ancient texts, connected to many of the great civilizations around the world, are religious or mythological in nature. Examples include the Vedas of India, the earliest literature of China, and the Jewish Talmud. These texts introduce aspects of philosophical inquiry—such as questions concerning the origins of the cosmos and the nature and purpose of human life, morality, justice, human excellence, knowledge, and so forth—in terms of stories and explanations that rely on the supernatural. These stories provide context, meaning, and direction for human life within a framework that assumes that the natural world is infused with supernatural importance. Such texts are a testament to the fundamental and binding nature of religion in human societies.
When humans shift from religious answers to questions about purpose and meaning to more naturalistic and logical answers, they move from the realm of myth to the realm of reason. In Greek, this movement is described as a move from mythos to logos, where mythos signifies the supernatural stories people tell, while logos signifies the rational, logical, and scientific stories they tell. This distinction may lead one to believe that there is a clear transition from religious thought to philosophical or scientific thought, but this is not the case. The earliest philosophers in Greece, Rome, India, China, and North Africa all used mythological and analogical (analogy-based) stories to explain their rational systems, while religious texts from the same period often engage in serious, logical argumentation. Rather than seeing a decisive break between mythological thinking and rational thinking, one should understand the transition from mythos to logos as a gradual, uneven, and zig-zagging progression. This progression teaches that there are close connections between religion, philosophy, and science in terms of the desire to understand, explain, and find purpose for human existence.
Challenges in Researching Indigenous Philosophy
There is growing interest in Indigenous philosophy in contemporary academic philosophy, as a way of engaging with both the historical and present-day thought of Indigenous peoples around the world. Indigenous philosophy broadly refers to the ideas of Indigenous peoples pertaining to the nature of the world, human existence, ethics, ideal social and political structures, and other topics also considered by traditional academic philosophy. Unlike the philosophies of ancient Greece, India, and China, Indigenous philosophies did not spread across vast territorial empires or feature centers of formal learning that documented and developed philosophical ideas over hundreds or thousands of years. The study of Indigenous philosophies, or ethnophilosophy, often must rely on different methods than typical academic philosophy. Indigenous philosophy is not usually recorded in texts that can be read and analyzed. Instead, those seeking to understand Indigenous philosophical thinking must engage in the kind of research often used in ethnographic and sociological study, including identifying individuals who hold and transmit cultural knowledge about philosophical thought and recording interviews and conversations with them. Most of the philosophy of Indigenous peoples has been passed down through oral traditions, in much the same way that prehistoric thought was transmitted.
There are additional challenges to studying Indigenous philosophy. The discipline of academic philosophy has traditionally dismissed or ignored the philosophical thought of Indigenous peoples, considering it to lie outside the realm of logos. The long history of erasure of Indigenous philosophical thought in academic philosophy makes it difficult to engage in academic discussion with it. There is an absence of past scholarship in this field in the West. Indigenous peoples have also been subjected to racist practices, such as forced education in languages other than their own, that make it difficult for them to retain a lively philosophical tradition. Furthermore, many Indigenous customs have been lost because of the loss of life and cultural heritage among Indigenous peoples following colonization by Europeans and Americans.
Indigenous African Philosophy
If the transition from mythos to logos is predicated on the development of written language, then this transition may have first occurred in Africa. Africa was home to the development of many ancient writing systems, including the system of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics that developed during the fourth millennium BCE. The modern Western understanding of the deep history of philosophy is severely hampered by the lack of scholarship in English and other European languages, the loss of collective cultural knowledge exacerbated by colonialism, and the sometimes deliberate destruction of historical records, such as the burning of the Library of Alexandria. As a result, research has relied heavily on oral traditions or the rediscovery and translation of written evidence. The philosophical legacy of ancient Egypt is discussed in the chapter on classical philosophy. This chapter will examine research into ethnophilosophy from other regions of Africa.
The seizure of the city of Ceuta, bordering present-day Morocco, by the Portuguese in 1415 marks the first attempts by Europeans to colonize Africa. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, European nations were engaging in what is called the “scramble for Africa.” Prior to this period, European settlement in Africa had been limited by the mosquito-borne disease malaria, the inappropriateness of African terrain to equine (horse-based) conquest, and the power of strong coastal states. European nations now gained access to the interior of Africa with the help of the discovery of quinine to treat malaria and the development of mechanized vehicles and advanced weaponry. During the colonial era, young Africans identified as having intellectual promise were sent to study at European universities, where they read Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel, and other Western philosophers. Whether the intent was to help these communities enter the modern age or to create local administrations that would further the interests of Western parties—or both—the result was the failure to preserve knowledge about the history and thought of localities and regions.
In later decades, some Western-educated Africans began to engage directly with African philosophies. In 1910, Congolese philosopher Stefano Kaoze (c. 1885–1951) described the thought of the Bantu people pertaining to moral values, knowledge, and God in an essay entitled “The Psychology of the Bantus” (Dübgen and Skupien, 2019). Bantu is a blanket term for hundreds of different ethnic groups in Central and Southern African that speak what are referred to as Bantu languages and share many cultural features (see Figure 3.2). In later writings, Kaoze explored other African thought systems, arguing that these systems had much to teach Western thought systems grounded in Christianity (Nkulu Kabamba and Mpala Mbabula 2017).
Figure 3.2 Approximate territory of Bantu peoples. Bantu is a blanket term for hundreds of different ethnic groups that speak what are referred to as Bantu languages and share many cultural features. (attribution: Copyright Rice University, OpenStax, under CC BY 4.0 license)
It was not until 1945, when Belgian missionary Placide Tempels (1906–1977) published Bantu Philosophy, that the topic of African philosophy gained significant attention in the West. Tempels rejected the characterization of African philosophy and theology as consisting of magic, animism, and ancestor worship, instead exploring the richness of Bantu thought pertaining to individuals, society, and the divine. Tempels described Bantu peoples as believing in a “vital force,” the source of which is God. He observed that what Western thinkers envisioned as a divine being, the Bantu understood as various forces, including human forces, animal forces, and mineral forces. They viewed the universe as comprising all of these forces, and these forces could directly impact the “life force” of an individual (Okafor 1982, 84).
Later African scholars and theologians, such John Mbiti (1931–2019) and Alexis Kagame (1912–1981), indicated that Tempels was somewhat inventive in his descriptions and interpretations. They engaged in a more authentic study of Bantu philosophy, recording and analyzing African proverbs, stories, art, and music to illuminate what they presented as a shared worldview. One example of this shared worldview is the Zulu term ubuntu, which can be translated as “humanity.” Variations on the term appear in many other Bantu languages, all referring to a similar concept, expressed through maxims such as “I am because we are.” The concept of ubuntu holds that human beings have a deep natural interdependence, to the point that we are mutually dependent on one another even for our existence. The notion of ubuntu has inspired a uniquely African approach to communitarian philosophy, which refers to ideas about politics and society that privilege the community over the individual.
Nigerian philosopher Sophie Olúwọlé (1935–2018) was a practitioner and scholar of Yoruba philosophy. The Yoruba are a prominent ethnic group in Nigeria and other locations in sub-Saharan Africa. Among other accomplishments, Olúwọlé translated the Odu Ifá, the oral history concerning the pantheon and divination system of Ifá, the religion of the Yoruba peoples. Olúwọlé proposed that Ọ̀rúnmìlà, the high priest featured in the Odu Ifá, was a historical figure and the first Yoruba philosopher. She argued that Ọ̀rúnmìlà had an equal claim to that of Socrates as the founder of philosophy. In Socrates and Ọ̀rúnmìlà: Two Patron Saints of Classical Philosophy (2015), Olúwọlé compares the two philosophers and finds many similarities. Both are considered founders of philosophical traditions. Neither wrote anything down during their lifetimes. They both placed a primacy on the concepts of virtue and learning to live in keeping with virtue. Surprisingly, they shared cosmological views, such as a belief in reincarnation and predestination. Olúwọlé compiled quotes from each philosopher on specific topics, some of which are listed in Table 3.1. Olúwọlé argues that Yoruba ideas as conveyed through the Odu Ifá should be given full standing as a philosophy.
| Topic | Socrates’s Quote | Ọ̀rúnmìlà’s Quote |
|---|---|---|
| The nature of truth | “But the highest truth is that which is eternal and unchangeable.” | “Truth is what the Great Invisible God uses in organizing the world. . . . Truth is the Word that can never be corrupted.” |
| The limits of human knowledge | “And I am called wise for my hearers always imagine that I myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others. But the truth is, O men of Athens, that God only is wise. . . . And so I go about the world, obedient to the God.” | “When they turned to me and said: ‘Bàbá, we now accept that you are the only one who knows the end of everything,’ I retorted, ‘I myself do not know these things.’ For instruction on this matter, you have to go to God through divination, for He alone is the possessor of that sort of wisdom.” |
| Good and bad | “And are not all things either good or evil, or intermediate and indifferent?” | “Tribulation does not come without its good aspects. The positive and the negative constitute an inseparable pair.” |
| Human nature | “No man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human nature.” | “No one who knows that the result of honesty is always positive would choose wickedness when s/he is aware that it has a negative reward.” |
Table 3.1 Olúwọlé’s Comparison of Socrates’s and Ọ̀rúnmìlà’s Ideas. (source: Olúwọlé 2015)
Olúwọlé does identify one important distinction between the ideas of Socrates and Ọ̀rúnmìlà. Socrates held a binary metaphysical theory of matter and ideas, contrasting the unchanging eternal with the forms in which the eternal manifests itself in the physical world. By contrast, Ọ̀rúnmìlà taught that matter and ideas are inseparable. Similarly, while Socrates distinguished the concepts of good and bad, Ọ̀rúnmìlà held that they are “an inseparable pair” (Olúwọlé 2015, 64). The strict binary of the Greeks and of the West, Olúwọlé concludes, leads to an either-or perspective on truth and debate. The Yoruba, she contends, maintain a complementary dualist view of reality.
VIDEO
Watch Professor Olúwọlé discuss what Socrates and Ọ̀rúnmìlà have in common.
In the 1970s, Kenyan philosopher Henry Odera Oruka (1944–1995) launched a field study to record the philosophical thoughts of sages in modern-day Kenya. Researchers interviewed individual thinkers from various ethnic groups and questioned them about their views on central concepts in Western philosophy and issues related to applied ethics. Among other aims, this project was intended to demonstrate that philosophy is not an undertaking that is unique to the literate world. Odera Oruka’s findings were published in 1990, but no systematic attempt has been made to analyze them (Presbey 2017).
As these philosophers and their work demonstrate, African philosophy has emerged as a body of thought that stands on its own. The philosophy of African peoples, both those living on the African continent and those elsewhere in the world, is rooted in and developed out of concepts that both complement and challenge the Western tradition.
CONNECTIONS
The chapter on classical philosophy discusses Egyptian and Ethiopian philosophers who contributed to the development of classical philosophy in the ancient and early modern worlds.
Indigenous North American Philosophical Thought
Work on Native American philosophy has expanded in recent years, as philosophers, many of them Native American themselves, have engaged in collective research on Native American thought. This work has included the development of academic societies and journals devoted to the topic. Like many Indigenous African peoples, Native American peoples did not rely on written documents to preserve their history and culture but instead preserved knowledge through oral tradition. These oral traditions included rituals, ceremonies, songs, stories, and dance. What is known about Native American philosophy comes from this oral tradition as well as the experiences and thoughts of contemporary Native American people.
Any attempt to define Indigenous North American philosophical thought is further complicated by the fact that thousands of distinct societies have existed on the continent, each with their own ideas about how the world was created, what are the basic elements of reality, what constitutes the self, and other metaphysical issues. There is a rich expanse of philosophical views to synthesize—and for every possible generalization, there are exceptions. Still, some generalizations of Indigenous North American philosophy are true more often than not. One such generalization is the perception that the creative process of the universe is akin to the thought process. Another is that more than one being is responsible for the creation of the universe—and that these beings do not take on anthropomorphic forms (Forbes 2001).
Additionally, there are a number of characteristics common to Indigenous North American metaphysical concepts. Many Native American peoples, for example, emphasize balance, complementarity, and exchange between the different entities that make up the world. For instance, the Diné see breath as a fundamental force in nature, with the exchange of the internal and the external passing through all natural processes. Similarly, the Zuni note that twins, such as the twin Evening Star and the Morning Star—both of which are actually Venus – share a complementary and mirrored existence, serving as a reminder that there can be multiple manifestations of the same thing in nature. Additionally, concepts such as gender identity are understood as animated, nonbinary, and non-discrete, such that gender may develop and change over time (Waters 2004, 107). These generalizations point to a Native American metaphysics that is based on animate processes that are complementary, interactive, and integrated.
North American Indigenous peoples also have views of the self that differ from the European tradition. The Pueblo possess a sense of personal and community identity shaped by both place and time. Known as a transformative model of identity, this social identity is understood to spiral both outward and inward through expanding and retracting influences over a certain area of land (Jojola 2004). Extant petroglyphic spirals show the migration of a clan outward to the boundaries of its physical and spiritual territory as well as the inward journey homeward. These journeys also reflect a temporal component, as they were coordinated with the cycles of the solstice calendar. Such metaphysical understandings are reflected in the tendency of many Native American cultures to build moral and ethical concepts on the idea that human beings are fundamentally social rather than individual—a “we,” not an “I.”
Figure 3.3 These petroglyphic spirals created by the Ancestral Pueblo represent both physical and spiritual journeys. The boxy spiral shown here likely represents the path that many Southwestern tribes believe they took when they emerged from the earth. Many contemporary scholars identify this with the geographic feature of the Grand Canyon. (credit: “Anasazi Indian Petroglyphs (~600 to 1300 A.D.) (Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado, USA) 1” by James St. John/Flickr, CC BY 2.0)
Mesoamerican Philosophy
Mesoamerican peoples include an array of tribes and cultures, speaking multiple languages, that developed several sophisticated civilizations between 2000 BCE and the arrival of European colonialists in the 1500s CE. This area of the world developed both pictographic/hieroglyphic and alphabetic/phonetic forms of writing that allowed them to record thoughts and ideas, providing modern scholars access to some of the philosophical reflection that occurred within these societies. This section will examine some examples of the thought of Mesoamerican peoples by looking at the preserved writings of the Maya and the Aztec. Though the philosophical thought of each civilization is examined as if it were uniform, note that each encompassed many diverse tribes and cultures with a variety of languages, cultural practices, and religious beliefs.
Figure 3.4 The Maya and Aztec were powerful civilizations for centuries. The existence of written records from each of these peoples has given contemporary scholars access to their philosophy, spirituality, and scientific advances. (attribution: Copyright Rice University, OpenStax, under CC BY 4.0 license)
Mayan Writings
The Maya first settled in villages in the area that runs from southern Mexico through Guatemala and northern Belize around 1500 BCE. Between 750 and 500 BCE, large city-states arose and established a trading network. At the height of their civilization, between approximately 250 CE and 900 CE, the Maya possessed a written language that appears to have been a combination of an alphabetic/phonetic language and a pictographic/hieroglyphic language, used not only by the priesthood but also by the urban elite. This writing appears on stone slabs, pottery, and sculptures as well as in books called codices (plural of codex), written on a paper made from tree bark.
The Maya possessed advanced knowledge of mathematics and natural philosophy. However, following the Spanish conquest of this territory, Catholic priests burned almost all of the Maya codices as well as their scientific and technical manuals (Yucatan Times 2019). In the years that followed the conquest, the Maya lost their written language. However, some writings in clay did survive, providing scholars a glimpse into Maya thought. They implemented a numerical system using symbols that allowed for representation of very large numbers, and they may have been the first to use the number 0 in mathematics. This numerical system enabled the Maya to gain insights into arithmetic and geometry that surpassed those of the Egyptians. Their knowledge of astronomy was so advanced that they could correctly predict the timing of solar eclipses. Unlike other early civilizations, the Maya had a highly sophisticated calendar and a unique conception of time.
Figure 3.5 This piece of Mayan writing, known as the Dresden Codex because it was found in the city of Dresden, Germany, in the 1700s, is one of the oldest known examples of writing from the Americas. It has been dated to the 11th or 12th century. (credit: “Dresden Codex” by Chris Protopapas/Flickr, Public Domain)
Maya Calendar
The Maya developed a calendar that tracked many cycles simultaneously, including the solar year and the “calendar round,” a period of 52 years. The calendar played a central role in Maya rituals and sacred celebrations. Astronomical events, in particular the position of Venus relative to the sun and moon, have been noted to align with the dates of historical battles, causing some to hypothesize that the Maya may have scheduled battles to coincide with these cycles. The Maya placed great importance on customs and rituals surrounding the solar calendar. Using these calendars, the Maya were able to record complex histories of their civilization.
Maya Concept of Time and Divinity
The Maya had a complex understanding of time. They recognized an experiential or existential aspect of time—for instance, observing that disinterest or concentration can elongate or shorten time. The experience of “awe” was considered particularly important because of its ability to bring a person into the present moment, increasing their awareness of the immediate effect of fundamental forces such as the energy of the sun and making them more capable of clear thinking, decision-making, and understanding.
Although the Maya worshipped an array of gods, they believed in a single godlike force, the sun’s force or energy, called K’in. This force was understood in terms of the position of the sun relative to the planets and the moon during different periods of the calendar. The king served as a conduit through which this divine force, the solar energy, passed to subjects. The Maya also believed that time is the expression of K’in. The ability of rulers and priests to predict natural events, such as an eclipse or the coming of spring, and thus seemingly to control time served to secure the allegiance of their subjects and legitimized their rule.
Aztec Metaphysical Thought
For the Aztecs, the fundamental and total character of the universe was captured by the concept of teotl, a godlike force or energy that is the basis for all reality. They considered this energy to be a sacred source fueling all life, actions, and desires as well as the motion and power of inanimate objects. In this sense, Aztec metaphysics adopted a view of the world that was pantheistic and monist, meaning that it viewed all reality as composed of a single kind of thing and that thing was divine in nature. However, teotl is not an agent or moral force, like the Abrahamic God, but rather a power or energy that is entirely amoral.
Teotl is not a static substance but a process through which nature unfolds. It changes continually and develops through time toward an endpoint or goal, a view that philosophers call teleological. For the Aztecs, time was not linear but rather cyclical. Thus, even though teotl tends toward an end point and there is an end of humanity and Earth as we know it, from the point of view of the universe, this is part of a cycle, just like leaves fall from trees before winter. Moreover, because teotl is both the matter from which everything in the universe is made and the force by which things are created, change, and move, it is an all-encompassing, dynamic, and immanent force within nature (Maffie 2013).
Teotl has three different shapes, aspects, or manifestations, each with different characteristics, including different motions, powers, and goals. These three aspects of teotl have been assigned metaphorical positions related to weaving, aligning an important cultural practice of the Aztecs with their conception of fundamental reality.
Aztec Epistemological Thought
Philosophers use the term epistemology to refer to the study of knowledge involving questions such as how we know what we know, what is the nature of true knowledge, and what are the limits to what humans can know. Aztec epistemology understood the concept of knowledge and truth as “well-rootedness.” To say that someone knows or understands the truth is to say that they are well-grounded or stably founded in reality. The Aztecs understood truth not in reference to some belief or proposition of reality but as a property of one’s character when one is well-grounded. Being well-grounded means understanding the ways reality presents itself and being capable of acting according to what reality dictates. Being well-rooted in reality allows one to grow and develop, following the metaphor of a plant that is able to thrive because of its well-rootedness in the soil. This concept has both an epistemological aspect (relating to knowledge) and an ethical aspect (providing the means by which people may flourish).
In Aztec culture, rooting oneself in the constantly changing and growing power of teotl was considered necessary because existence on Earth was considered to be “slippery,” meaning that it is part of a process of cyclic change that is constantly evolving. The fundamental question for human beings is, How does one maintain balance on the slippery earth? This question motivates the need to develop the type of character that allows one to remain well-rooted and to find stability and balance, given the shifting and changing nature of Earth.
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Chapter 3: Socrates and Plato
Socrates
Socrates is widely regarded as the founder of European philosophy and rational inquiry. He was born around 470 BCE and tried and executed in 399 BCE. Socrates was the first of the three major Greek philosophers. The others were Socrates’ student Plato and Plato’s student Aristotle.
Socrates did not write anything himself. We know of his views primarily through Plato’s dialogues where Socrates is the primary character. Socrates is also known through the plays of Aristophanes and the historical writings of Xenophon. In many of Plato’s dialogues, it is difficult to determine when Socrates’ views are being represented and when the character of Socrates is used as a mouthpiece for Plato’s views.
Socrates was well-known in Athens. He was eccentric, poor, ugly, brave, stoic, and temperate. He was a distinguished veteran who fought bravely on Athens’ behalf and was apparently indifferent to the discomforts of war. Socrates claimed to hear a divine inner voice he called his daimon, and he was prone to go into catatonic states of concentration.
The conflicting views of the Presocratic philosophers of nature encouraged skepticism about our ability to obtain knowledge through rational inquiry. Among the Sophists, this skepticism is manifested in epistemic and Moral Relativism. Epistemic relativism is the view that there is no objective standard for evaluating the truth or likely truth of our beliefs. Rather, epistemic standards of reasoning are relative to one’s point of view and interests. Roughly, this is the view that what is true for me might not be true for you (when we are not just talking about ourselves). Epistemic relativism marks no distinction between knowledge, belief, or opinion on the one hand, and truth and reality on the other. To take a rather silly example, if I think it’s Tuesday, then that’s what’s true for me; and if you think it’s Thursday, then that’s what is true for you. In cases like this, epistemic relativism seems quite absurd, yet many of us have grown comfortable with the notion that, say, beliefs about the moral acceptability of capital punishment might be true for some people and not for others.
Moral relativism is the parallel doctrine about moral standards. The moral relativist takes there to be no objective grounds for judging some ethical opinions to be correct and others not. Rather, ethical judgments can only be made relative to one or another system of moral beliefs, and no system can be evaluated as objectively better than another. Since earlier attempts at rational inquiry had produced conflicting results, the Sophists held that no opinion could be said to constitute knowledge. According to the Sophists, rather than providing grounds for thinking some beliefs are true and others false, rational argument can only be fruitfully employed as rhetoric, the art of persuasion. For the epistemic relativist, the value of reason lies not in revealing the truth, but in advancing one’s interests. The epistemic and moral relativism of the Sophist has become popular again in recent years and has an academic following in much "post- modern" writing.
Socrates was not an epistemic or moral relativist. He pursued rational inquiry as a means of discovering the truth about ethical matters. But he did not advance any ethical doctrines or lay claim to any knowledge about ethical matters. Instead, his criticism of the Sophists and his contribution to philosophy and science came in the form of his method of inquiry.
As the Socratic Method is portrayed in Plato’s Socratic dialogues, an interlocutor proposes a definition or analysis of some important concept, Socrates raises an objection or offers counter-examples, then the interlocutor reformulates his position to handle the objection. Socrates raises a more refined objection. Further reformulations are offered, and so forth. Socrates uses dialectic to discredit others’ claims to knowledge. While revealing the ignorance of his interlocutors, Socrates also shows how to make progress toward more adequate understanding.
Euthyphro
A good example of the Socratic Method at work can be found in one of Plato’s early Socratic dialogues, Euthyphro. In Plato’s dialogues, we often find Socrates asking about the nature of something and then critically examining proposed answers, finding assorted illuminating objections that often suggest the next steps. In this dialogue, Socrates and Euthyphro are discussing the nature of piety or holiness. Socrates and Euthyphro never conclusively discover what piety is, but they learn much about how various attempts to define piety fail. The dialogue works the same if we substitute moral goodness for piety. Understood in this way, Euthyphro provides a classic argument against Divine Command Theory, a view about the nature of morality that says that what is right is right simply because it is commanded by God.
Socrates would not have us believe our questions have no correct answers. He is genuinely seeking the truth of the matter. But he would impress on us that inquiry is hard and that untested claims to knowledge amount to little more than vanity. Even though Euthyphro and Socrates don’t achieve full knowledge of the nature of piety, their understanding is advanced through testing the answers that Euthyphro suggests. We come to see why piety can’t be understood just by identifying examples of it. While examples of pious acts fail to give us a general understanding of piety, the fact that we can identify examples of what is pious suggests that we have some grasp of the notion even in the absence of a clear understanding of it.
After a few failed attempts to define piety, Euthyphro suggests that what is pious is what is loved by the gods (all of them, the Greeks recognized quite a few). Many religious believers continue to hold some version of Divine Command Theory. In his response to Euthyphro, Socrates points us towards a rather devastating critique of this view and any view that grounds morality in authority. Socrates asks whether what is pious is pious because the gods love it or whether the gods love what is pious because it is pious. Let’s suppose that the gods agree in loving just what is pious. The question remains whether their loving the pious explains its piety or whether some things being pious explains why the gods love them. Once this question of what is supposed to explain what is made clear, Euthyphro agrees with Socrates that the gods love what is pious because it is pious. The problem with the alternative view, that what is pious is pious because it is loved by the gods, is that this view makes piety wholly arbitrary. Anything could be pious if piety is just a matter of being loved by the gods. If the gods love puppy torture, then this would be pious. Hopefully this seems absurd. Neither Socrates nor Euthyphro is willing to accept that what is pious is completely arbitrary. At this point, Socrates points out to Euthyphro that since an act’s being pious is what explains why the gods love it, he has failed to give an account of what piety is. The explanation can’t run in both directions. In taking piety to explain being loved by the gods, we are left lacking an explanation of what piety itself is. Euthyphro gives up shortly after this failed attempt and walks off in a huff.
If we substitute talk of God making things right or wrong by way of commanding them for talk of the gods loving what is pious in this exchange of ideas, we can readily see that Divine Command Theory has the rather unsavory result that torturing innocent puppies would be right if God commanded it. We will return to this problem when we take up ethical theory later in the course. While we don’t reach the end of inquiry into piety (or goodness) in Euthyphro, we do make discernible progress in coming to see why a few faulty accounts must be set aside. Socrates does not refute the skeptic or the relativist Sophist by claiming to discover the truth about anything. What he does instead is show us how to engage in rational inquiry and show us how we can make progress by taking the possibility of rational inquiry seriously.
Apology
This dialogue by Plato is a dramatization of Socrates’ defense at his trial for corrupting the youth among other things. Socrates tells the story of his friend Chaerophon who visits the Oracle of Delphi and asks if anyone in Athens is wiser than Socrates. The Oracle answered that no one is wiser than Socrates. Socrates is astounded by this and makes it his mission in life to test and understand the Oracle’s pronouncement. He seeks out people who have a reputation for wisdom in various regards and tests their claims to knowledge through questioning. He discovers a good deal of vain ignorance and false claims to knowledge, but no one with genuine wisdom.
Ultimately, Socrates concludes that he is the wisest, but not because he possesses special knowledge not had by others. Rather, he finds that he is wisest because he recognizes his own lack of knowledge while others think they know, but do not.
Of course people generally, and alleged experts especially, are quite happy to think that what they believe is right. We tend to be content with our opinions and we rather like it when others affirm this contentment by agreeing with us, deferring to our claims to know, or at least by “respecting our opinion” (whatever that is supposed to mean). We are vain about our opinions even to the point of self-identifying with them (I’m the guy who is right about this or that). Not claiming to know, Socrates demonstrates some intellectual humility in allowing that his opinions might be wrong and being willing to subject them to examination. But in critically examining various opinions, including those of the supposed experts, he pierces the vanity of many of Athens’ prestigious citizens. Engaging in rational inquiry is dangerous business, and Socrates is eventually brought up on charges of corrupting the youth who liked to follow him around and listen to him reveal people’s claims to knowledge as false pride. The Apology documents Socrates’ defense of his of behavior and the Athenian assembly’s decision to sentence him to death anyway.
Plato
Plato (429-347 BCE) came from a family of high status in ancient Athens. He was a friend and fan of Socrates and some of his early dialogues chronicle events in Socrates’ life. Socrates is a character in all of Plato’s dialogues. But in many, the figure of Socrates is employed as a voice for Plato’s own views. Unlike Socrates, Plato offers very developed and carefully reasoned views about a great many things. Here we will briefly introduce his core metaphysical, epistemological, and ethical views.
Metaphysics and Epistemology
Plato’s metaphysics and epistemology are best summarized by his device of the divided line. The vertical line between the columns below distinguishes reality and knowledge. It is divided into levels that identify what in reality corresponds with specific modes of thought.
In saying that the forms are abstract, we are saying that while they do exist, they do not exist in space and time. They are ideals in the sense that a form, say the form of horseness, is the template or paradigm of being a horse. All the physical horses partake of the form of horseness, but exemplify it only to partial and varying degrees of perfection. No actual triangular object is perfectly triangular, for instance. But all actual triangles have something in common, triangularity. The form of triangularity is free from all of the imperfections of the various actual instances of being triangular. We get the idea of something being more or less perfectly triangular. For various triangles to come closer to perfection than others suggests that there is some ideal standard of “perfectly triangularity.” This for Plato, is the form of triangularity. Plato also takes moral standards like justice and aesthetic standards like beauty to admit of such degrees of perfection. Beautiful physical things all partake of the form of beauty to some degree or another. But all are imperfect in varying degrees and ways. The form of beauty, however, lacks the imperfections of its space and time bound instances. Perfect beauty is not something we can picture or imagine. But an ideal form of beauty is required to account for how beautiful things are similar and to make sense of how things can be beautiful to some less than perfect degree or another.
Only opinion can be had regarding the physical things, events, and states of affairs we are acquainted with through our sensory experience. With physical things constantly changing, the degree to which we can grasp how things are at any given place and time is of little consequence. Knowledge of the nature of the forms is a grasp of the universal essential natures of things. It is the intellectual perception of what various things, like horses or people, have in common that makes them things of a kind. Plato accepts Socrates’ view that to know the good is to do the good. So his notion of epistemic excellence in seeking knowledge of the forms will be a central component of his conception of moral virtue.
Ethics
Plato offers us a tripartite account of the soul. The soul consists of a rational thinking element, a motivating willful element, and a desire-generating appetitive element. Plato offers a story of the rational element of the soul falling from a state of grace (knowledge of the forms) and being dragged down into a human state by the unruly appetites. This story of the soul’s relation to the imperfect body supports Plato’s view that the knowledge of the forms is a kind of remembrance. This provides a convenient source of knowledge as an alternative to the merely empirical and imperfect support of our sense experience. Plato draws an analogy between his conception of the soul and a chariot drawn by two horses, one obedient, the other rebellious. The charioteer in this picture represents the rational element of the soul, the good horse the obedient will, and the bad horse, of course, represents those nasty earthly appetites. To each of the elements of the soul, there corresponds a virtue; for the rational element there is wisdom, for the willing element of the soul there is courage, and for the appetitive element, there is temperance. Temperance is a matter of having your appetites under control. This might sound like chronic self-denial and repression, but properly understood, it is not. Temperance and courage are cultivated through habit. In guiding our appetites by cultivating good habits, Plato holds, we can come to desire what is really good for us (you know, good diet, exercise, less cable TV, and lots more philosophy - that kind of stuff).
Wisdom is acquired through teaching, via dialectic, or “remembrance.” Perhaps, to make the epistemological point a little less metaphysically loaded, we can think of remembrance as insight. A more general virtue of justice is conceived as each thing functioning as it should.
To get Plato’s concept of justice as it applies to a person, think of the charioteer managing and controlling his team; keeping both horses running in the intended direction and at the intended speed. Justice involves the rational element of being wise and in charge. For a person to be just is simply a matter of having the other virtues and having them functioning together harmoniously.
Given Plato’s ethical view of virtue as a matter of the three elements of the soul functioning together as they should, Plato’s political philosophy is given in his view of the state as the human “writ at large.” Project the standards Plato offers for virtue in an individual human onto the aggregate of individuals in a society and you have Plato’s vision of the virtuous state. In the virtuous state, the rational element (the philosophers) are in charge. The willing element (the guardians or the military class) is obedient and courageous in carrying out the policies of the rational leadership. And the appetitive element (the profit-driven business class) functions within the rules and constraints devised by the rational element (for instance, by honestly adhering to standards of accounting). A temperate business class has the profit motive guided by the interests of the community via regulation devised by the most rational. The virtuous business class refrains from making its comfort and indulgence the overriding concern of the state. Plato, in other words, would be no fan of totally free markets, but neither would he do away with the market economy altogether.
Plato’s vision of social justice is non-egalitarian and anti-democratic. While his view would not be popular today, it is still worthwhile to consider his criticism of democracy and rule by the people. Plato has Socrates address this dialectically by asking a series of questions about who we would want to take on various jobs. Suppose we had grain and wanted it processed into flour.
We would not go to the cobbler or the horse trainer for this, we’d go to the miller. Suppose we had a horse in need of training. We obviously would not go to the miller or the baker for this important task, we’d go to the horse trainer. In general, we want important functions to be carried out by people with the expertise or wisdom to do them well. Now suppose we had a state to run. Obviously, we would not want to turn this important task over to the miller, the cobbler, or the horse trainer. We’d want someone who knows what he or she is doing in charge. Plato has a healthy regard for expertise. As Plato sees it, democracy amounts to turning over the ethically most important jobs to the people who have the least expertise and wisdom in this area. There is very little reason to expect that a state run by cobblers, millers, and horse trainers will be a virtuous state.
Ch 3: Aristotle (about)
Aristotle (384-322 BCE)
- Born at Stagira in northern Greece, Aristotle was the most notable product of the educational program devised by Plato; he spent twenty years of his life studying at the Academy. When Plato died, Aristotle returned to his native Macedonia, where he is supposed to have participated in the education of Philip’s son, Alexander (the Great). He came back to Athens with Alexander’s approval in 335 and established his own school at the Lyceum, spending most of the rest of his life engaged there in research, teaching, and writing. His students acquired the name “peripatetics” from the master’s habit of strolling about as he taught. Although the surviving works of Aristotle probably represent only a fragment of the whole, they include his investigations of an amazing range of subjects, from logic, philosophy, and ethics to physics, biology, psychology, politics, and rhetoric. Aristotle appears to have thought through his views as he wrote, returning to significant issues at different stages of his own development. The result is less a consistent system of thought than a complex record of Aristotle’s thinking about many significant issues.
The aim of Aristotle’s logical treatises (known collectively as the ORGANON) was to develop a universal method of reasoning by means of which it would be possible to learn everything there is to know about reality. Thus, the CATEGORIES proposes a scheme for the description of particular things in terms of their properties, states, and activities. ON INTERPRETATION, PRIOR ANALYTICS, and POSTERIOR ANALYTICS examine the nature of deductive inference, outlining the system of syllogistic reasoning from true propositions that later came to be known as categorical logic. Though not strictly one of the logical works, the PHYSICS contributes to the universal method by distinguishing among the four causes which may be used to explain everything, with special concern for why things are the way they are and the apparent role of chance in the operation of the world. In other treatises, Aristotle applied this method, with its characteristic emphasis on teleological explanation, to astronomical and biological explorations of the natural world
In Μεταφυσικη (METAPHYSICS) Aristotle tried to justify the entire enterprise by grounding it all in an abstract study of being QUA being. Although Aristotle rejected the Platonic theory of forms, he defended his own vision of ultimate reality, including the eternal existence of substance. ON THE SOUL uses the notion of ahylomorphic composite to provide a detailed account of the functions exhibited by living things—vegetable, animal, and human—and explains the use of sensation and reason to achieve genuine knowledge.
That Aristotle was interested in more than a strictly scientific exploration of human nature is evident from the discussion of literary art (particularly tragedy) in Περι Ποιητικης (POETICS) and the methods of persuasion in the ‘Ρητορειας(Rhetoric).
Aristotle made several efforts to explain how moral conduct contributes to the good life for human agents, including the Εθικη Ευδαιμονης (EUDEMIAN ETHICS) and the MAGNA MORALIA, but the most complete surviving statement ofhis views on morality occurs in the Εθικη Νικομαχοι (NICOMACHEAN ETHICS). There he considered the natural desire to achieve happiness, described the operation of human volition and moral deliberation, developed a theory of eachvirtue as the mean between vicious extremes, discussed the value of three kinds of friendship, and defended his conception of an ideal life of intellectual pursuit.
But on Aristotle’s view, the lives of individual human beings are invariably linked together in a social context. In the Περι Πολις (POLITICS) he speculated about the origins of the state, described and assessed the relative merits of various types of government, and listed the obligations of the individual citizen. He may also have been the author of a model Πολιτειας Αθηναων (CONSTITUTION OF ATHENS), in which the abstract notion of constitutional government is applied to the concrete life of a particular society.
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Philosophy-A Short History3 Copyright © by Lumen Learning is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Ch 3: Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics
The Reading Selection from the Nicomachean Ethics
Book I [The Good for Man]
1 [All Activity Aims at Some Good]
Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim. But a certain difference is found among ends; some are activities, others are products apart from the activities that produce them. Where there are ends apart from the actions, it is the nature of the products to be better than the activities. Now, as there are many actions, arts, and sciences, their ends also are many; the end of the medical art is health, that of shipbuilding a vessel, that of strategy victory, that of economics wealth. But where such arts fall under a single capacity—as bridle—making and the other arts concerned with the equipment of horses fall under the art of riding, and this and every military action under strategy, in the same way other arts fall under yet others—in all of these the ends of the master arts are to be preferred to all the subordinate ends; for it is for the sake of the former that the latter are pursued. It makes no difference whether the activities themselves are the ends of the actions, or something else apart from the activities, as in the case of the sciences just mentioned. …
2 [The Good for Man]
If, then, there is some end of the things we do, which we desire for its own sake (everything else being desired for the sake of this), and if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else (for at that rate the process would go on to infinity, so that our desire would be empty and vain), clearly this must be the good and the chief good. Will not the knowledge of it, then, have a great influence on life? Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what is right? If so, we must try, in outline at least to determine what it is. …
5 [Popular Notions of Happiness]
Let us resume our inquiry and state, in view of the fact that all knowledge and every pursuit aims at some good…what is the highest of all goods achievable by action. Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that it is happiness, and identifying living well and doing well with being happy; but with regard to what happiness is they differ, and the many do not give the same account as the wise. For the former think it is some plain and obvious thing, like pleasure, wealth, or honour; they differ, however, from one another—and often even the same man identifies it with different things, with health when he is ill, with wealth when he is poor; but, conscious of their ignorance, they admire those who proclaim some great ideal that is above their comprehension. Now some thought that apart from these many goods there is another which is self-subsistent and causes the goodness of all these as well. …
7 [Definition of Happiness]
Let us again return to the good we are seeking, and ask what it can be. It seems different in different actions and arts; it is different in medicine, in strategy, and in the other arts likewise. What then is the good of each? Surely that for whose sake everything else is done. In medicine this is health, in strategy victory, in architecture a house, in any other sphere something else, and in every action and pursuit the end; for it is for the sake of this that all men do whatever else they do. Therefore, if there is an end for all that we do, this will be the good achievable by action, and if there are more than one, these will be the goods achievable by action.
So the argument has by a different course reached the same point; but we must try to state this even more clearly. Since there are evidently more than one end, and we choose some of these (e.g., wealth, flutes, and in general instruments) for the sake of something else, clearly not all ends are final ends; but the chief good is evidently something final. Therefore, if there is only one final end, this will be what we are seeking, and if there are more than one, the most final of these will be what we are seeking. Now we call that which is in itself worthy of pursuit more final than that which is worthy of pursuit for the sake of something else, and that which is never desirable for the sake of something else more final than the things that are desirable both in themselves and for the sake of that other thing, and therefore we call final without qualification that which is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else.
Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honour, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them we should still choose each of them), but we choose them also for the sake of happiness, judging that by means of them we shall be happy. Happiness, on the other hand, no one chooses for the sake of these, nor, in general, for anything other than itself.
From the point of view of self-sufficiency the same result seems to follow; for the final good is thought to be self-sufficient. Now by self-sufficient we do not mean that which is sufficient for a man by himself, for one who lives a solitary life, but also for parents, children, wife, and in general for his friends and fellow citizens, since man is born for citizenship. But some limit must be set to this; for if we extend our requirements to ancestors and descendants and friends’ friends we are in for an infinite series…the self-sufficient we now define as that which when isolated makes life desirable and lacking in nothing; and such we think happiness to be; and further we think it most desirable of all things, without being counted as one good thing among others—if it were so counted it would clearly be made desirable by the addition of even the least of goods; for that which is added becomes an excess of goods, and of goods the greater is always more desirable. Happiness, then, is something final and self-sufficient, and is the end of action.
…[H]uman good turns out to be activity of soul in accordance with virtue, and if there are more than one virtue, in accordance with the best and most complete.
But we must add “in a complete life.” For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy.
13 [Kinds of Virtue]
Since happiness is an activity of soul in accordance with perfect virtue, we must consider the nature of virtue, for perhaps we shall thus see better the nature of happiness. …
Virtue too is distinguished into kinds in accordance with this difference; for we say that some of the virtues are intellectual and others moral, philosophic wisdom and understanding and practical wisdom being intellectual, liberality and temperance moral. For in speaking about a man’s character we do not say that he is wise or has understanding but that he is good-tempered or temperate; yet we praise the wise man also with respect to his state of mind; and of states of mind we call those which merit praise virtues. …
Book II [Moral Virtue]
1 [How Moral Virtue is Acquired]
Virtue, then, being of two kinds, intellectual and moral, intellectual virtue in the main owes both its birth and its growth to teaching (for which reason it requires experience and time), while moral virtue comes about as a result of habit, whence also its name ethike is one that is formed by a slight variation from the word ethos (habit). From this it is also plain that none of the moral virtues arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature. For instance the stone which by nature moves downwards cannot be habituated to move upwards, not even if one tries to train it by throwing it up ten thousand times; nor can fire be habituated to move downwards, nor can anything else that by nature behaves in one way be trained to behave in another. Neither by nature, then, nor contrary to nature do the virtues arise in us; rather we are adapted by nature to receive them, and are made perfect by habit.
Again, of all the things that come to us by nature we first acquire the potentiality and later exhibit the activity (this is plain in the case of the senses; for it was not by often seeing or often hearing that we got these senses, but on the contrary we had them before we used them. and did not come to have them by using them); but the virtues we get by first exercising them, as also happens in the case of the arts as well. For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them, e.g., men become builders by building and lyre-players by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts. …
Again, it is from the same causes and by the same means that every virtue is both produced and destroyed, and similarly every art; for it is from playing the lyre that both good and bad lyre-players are produced. And the corresponding statement is true of builders and of all the rest; men will be good or bad builders as a result of building well or badly. For if this were not so, there would have been no need of a teacher, but all men would have been born good or bad at their craft. This, then, is the case with the virtues also; by doing the acts that we do in our transactions with other men we become just or unjust, and by doing the acts that we do in the presence of danger, and being habituated to feel fear or confidence, we become brave or cowardly. The same is true of appetites and feelings of anger; some men become temperate and good tempered, others self-indulgent and irascible, by behaving in one way or the other in the appropriate circumstances. Thus, in one word, states of character arise out of like activities. This is why the activities we exhibit must be of a certain kind; it is because the states of character correspond to the differences between these. It makes no small difference, then, whether we form habits of one kind or of another from our very youth; it makes a very great difference, or rather all the difference. …
5 [Moral Virtue Is Character]
Next we must consider what virtue is. Since things that are found in the soul are of three kinds—passions, faculties, states of character—virtue must be one of these. By passions I mean appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, friendly feeling, hatred, longing, emulation, pity, and in general the feelings that are accompanied by pleasure or pain; by faculties the things in virtue of which we are said to be capable of feeling these, e.g., of becoming angry or being pained or feeling pity; by states of character the things in virtue of which we stand well or badly with reference to the passions, e.g., with reference to anger we stand badly if we feel it violently or too weakly, and well if we feel it moderately, and similarly with reference to the other passions.
Now neither the virtues nor the vices are passions, because we are not called good or bad on the ground of our passions, but are so called on the ground of our virtues and our vices, and because we are neither praised nor blamed for our passions (for the man who feels fear or anger is not praised, nor is the man who simply feels anger blamed, but the man who feels it in a certain way), but for our virtues and our vices we are praised or blamed.
Again, we feel anger and fear without choice, but the virtues are modes of choice or involve choice. Further, in respect of the passions we are said to be moved, but in respect of the virtues and the vices we are said not to be moved but to be disposed in a particular way.
For these reasons also they are not faculties; for we are neither called good nor bad, nor praised nor blamed, for the simple capacity of feeling the passions; again, we have the faculties of nature, but we are not made good or bad by nature; we have spoken of this before. If, then, the virtues are neither passions nor faculties, all that remains is that they should be states of character.
Thus we have stated what virtue is in respect of its genus.
From the reading…“The life of money-making is one under taken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful for the sake of something else.” |
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6 [Disposition to Choose the Mean]
We must, however, not only describe virtue as a state of character, but also say what sort of state it is. We may remark, then, that every virtue or excellence both brings into good condition the thing of which it is the excellence and makes the work of that thing be done well; e.g., the excellence of the eye makes both the eye and its work good; for it is by the excellence of the eye that we see well. Similarly the excellence of the horse makes a horse both good in itself and good at running and at carrying its rider and at awaiting the attack of the enemy. Therefore, if this is true in every case, the virtue of man also will be the state of character which makes a man good and which makes him do his own work well.
How this is to happen…will be made plain…by the following consideration of the specific nature of virtue. In everything that is continuous and divisible it is possible to take more, less, or an equal amount, and that either in terms of the thing itself or relatively to us; and the equal is an intermediate between excess and defect. By the intermediate in the object I mean that which is equidistant from each of the extremes, which is one and the same for all men; by the intermediate relatively to us that which is neither too much nor too little—and this is not one, nor the same for all. For instance, if ten is many and two is few, six is the intermediate, taken in terms of the object; for it exceeds and is exceeded by an equal amount; this is intermediate according to arithmetical proportion. But the intermediate relatively to us is not to be taken so; if ten pounds are too much for a particular person to eat and two too little, it does not follow that the trainer will order six pounds; for this also is perhaps too much for the person who is to take it, or too little.… Thus a master of any art avoids excess and defect, but seeks the intermediate and chooses this—the intermediate not in the object but relatively to us.
If it is thus, then, that every art does its work well—by looking to the intermediate and judging its works by this standard (so that we often say of good works of art that it is not possible either to take away or to add anything, implying that excess and defect destroy the goodness of works of art, while the mean preserves it; and good artists, as we say, look to this in their work), and if, further, virtue is more exact and better than any art, as nature also is, then virtue must have the quality of aiming at the intermediate. I mean moral virtue; for it is this that is concerned with passions and actions, and in these there is excess, defect, and the intermediate. For instance, both fear and confidence and appetite and anger and pity and in general pleasure and pain may be felt both too much and too little, and in both cases not well; but to feel them at the right times, with reference to the right objects, towards the right people, with the right motive, and in the right way, is what is both intermediate and best, and this is characteristic of virtue. Similarly with regard to actions also there is excess, defect, and the intermediate. Now virtue is concerned with passions and actions, in which excess is a form of failure, and so is defect, while the intermediate is praised and is a form of success; and being praised and being successful are both characteristics of virtue. Therefore virtue is a kind of mean, since, as we have seen, it aims at what is intermediate.
Athens, Greece, 400 BC, Book illustration by Theodor Horydazak, Library of Congress
Virtue, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean, i.e., the mean relative to us, this being determined by a rational principle,and by that principle by which the man of practical wisdom would determine it. Now it is a mean between two vices, that which depends on excess and that which depends on defect; and again it is a mean because the vices respectively fall short of or exceed what is right in both passions and actions, while virtue both finds and chooses that which is intermediate. Hence in respect of its substance and the definition which states its essence virtue is a mean, with regard to what is best and right and extreme.
But not every action nor every passion admits of a mean; for some have names that already imply badness, e.g., spite, shamelessness, envy, and in the case of actions adultery, theft, murder; for all of these and suchlike things imply by their names that they are themselves bad, and not the excesses or deficiencies of them. It is not possible, then, ever to be right with regard to them; one must always be wrong. Nor does goodness or badness with regard to such things depend on committing adultery with the right woman, at the right time, and in the right way, but simply to do any of them is to go wrong. It would be equally absurd, then, to expect that in unjust, cowardly, and voluptuous action there should be a mean, an excess, and a deficiency; for at that rate there would be a mean of excess and of deficiency, an excess of excess, and a deficiency of deficiency. But as there is no excess and deficiency of temperance and courage because what is intermediate is in a sense an extreme, so too of the actions we have mentioned there is no mean nor any excess and deficiency, but however they are done they are wrong; for in general there is neither a mean of excess and deficiency, nor excess and deficiency of a mean.
7 [The Mean Illustrated]
We must, however, not only make this general statement, but also apply it to the individual facts. For among statements about conduct those which are general apply more widely, but those which are particular are more genuine, since conduct has to do with individual cases, and our statements must harmonize with the facts in these cases. We may take these cases from our table. With regard to feelings of fear and confidence courage is the mean, of the people who exceed, he who exceeds in fearlessness has no name (many of the states have no name), while the man who exceeds in confidence is rash, and he who exceeds in fear and falls short in confidence is a coward. With regard to pleasures and pains—not all of them, and not so much with regard to the pains—the mean is temperance, the excess self-indulgence. Persons deficient with regard to the pleasures are not often found; hence such persons also have received no name. But let us call them “insensible.”
With regard to giving and taking of money the mean is liberality, the excess and the defect prodigality and meanness. In these actions people exceed and fall short in contrary ways; the prodigal exceeds in spending and falls short in taking, while the mean man exceeds in taking and falls short in spending.… With regard to money there are also other dispositions—a mean, magnificence (for the magnificent man differs from the liberal man; the former deals with large sums, the latter with small ones), and excess, tastelessness and vulgarity, and a deficiency… With regard to honour and dishonour the mean is proper pride, the excess is known as a sort of “empty vanity,” and the deficiency is undue humility; and as we said liberality was related to magnificence, differing from it by dealing with small sums, so there is a state similarly related to proper pride, being concerned with small honours while that is concerned with great. For it is possible to desire honour as one ought, and more than one ought, and less, and the man who exceeds in his desires is called ambitious, the man who falls short unambitious, while the intermediate person has no name. The dispositions also are nameless, except that that of the ambitious man is called ambition. Hence the people who are at the extremes lay claim to the middle place; and we ourselves sometimes call the intermediate person ambitious and sometimes unambitious, and sometimes praise the ambitious man and sometimes the unambitious. …
With regard to anger also there is an excess, a deficiency, and a mean. Although they can scarcely be said to have names, yet since we call the intermediate person good-tempered let us call the mean good temper; of the persons at the extremes let the one who exceeds be called irascible, and his vice irascibility, and the man who falls short an inirascible sort of person, and the deficiency inirascibility.
Book X [Pleasure; Happiness]
6 [Happiness Is Not Amusement]
…what remains is to discuss in outline the nature of , since this is what we state the end of human nature to be. Our discussion will be the more concise if we first sum up what we have said already. We said, then, that it is not a disposition; for if it were it might belong to some one who was asleep throughout his life, living the life of a plant, or, again, to some one who was suffering the greatest misfortunes. If these implications are unacceptable, and we must rather class happiness as an activity, as we have said before, and if some activities are necessary, and desirable for the sake of something else, while others are so in themselves, evidently happiness must be placed among those desirable in themselves, not among those desirable for the sake of something else; for happiness does not lack anything, but is self-sufficient. Now those activities are desirable in themselves from which nothing is sought beyond the activity. And of this nature virtuous actions are thought to be; for to do noble and good deeds is a thing desirable for its own sake.
Pleasant amusements also are thought to be of this nature; we choose them not for the sake of other things; for we are injured rather than benefited by them, since we are led to neglect our bodies and our property. …Happiness, therefore, does not lie in amusement; it would, indeed, be strange if the end were amusement, and one were to take trouble and suffer hardship all one’s life in order to amuse oneself. For, in a word, everything that we choose we choose for the sake of something else—except happiness, which is an end. Now to exert oneself and work for the sake of amusement seems silly and utterly childish. But to amuse oneself in order that one may exert oneself, as Anacharsis puts it, seems right; for amusement is a sort of relaxation, and we need relaxation because we cannot work continuously. Relaxation, then, is not an end; for it is taken for the sake of activity.
The happy life is thought to be virtuous; now a virtuous life requires exertion, and does not consist in amusement. And we say that serious things are better than laughable things and those connected with amusement, and that the activity of the better of any two things—whether it be two elements of our being or two men—is the more serious; but the activity of the better is ipso facto superior and more of the nature of happiness. And any chance person—even a slave—can enjoy the bodily pleasures no less than the best man; but no one assigns to a slave a share in happiness—unless he assigns to him also a share in human life. For happiness does not lie in such occupations, but, as we have said before, in virtuous activities.
7 [Happiness Is the Contemplative Life]
If happiness is activity in accordance with virtue, it is reasonable that it should be in accordance with the highest virtue; and this will be that of the best thing in us. Whether it be reason or something else that is this element which is thought to be our natural ruler and guide and to take thought of things noble and divine, whether it be itself also divine or only the most divine element in us, the activity of this in accordance with its proper virtue will be perfect happiness. That this activity is contemplative we have already said.
Now this would seem to be in agreement with what we said before and with the truth. For, firstly, this activity is the best (since not only is reason the best thing in us, but the objects of reason are the best of knowable objects); and, secondly, it is the most continuous, since we can contemplate truth more continuously than we can do anything. And we think happiness has pleasure mingled with it, but the activity of philosophic wisdom is admittedly the pleasantest of virtuous activities; at all events the pursuit of it is thought to offer pleasures marvellous for their purity and their enduringness, and it is to be expected that those who know will pass their time more pleasantly than those who inquire. And the self-sufficiency that is spoken of must belong most to the contemplative activity. For while a philosopher, as well as a just man or one possessing any other virtue, needs the necessaries of life, when they are sufficiently equipped with things of that sort the just man needs people towards whom and with whom he shall act justly, and the temperate man, the brave man, and each of the others is in the same case, but the philosopher, even when by himself, can contemplate truth, and the better the wiser he is; he can perhaps do so better if he has fellow-workers, but still he is the most self-sufficient. And this activity alone would seem to be loved for its own sake; for nothing arises from it apart from the contemplating, while from practical activities we gain more or less apart from the action.
…And what we said before will apply now; that which is proper to each thing is by nature best and most pleasant for each thing; for man, therefore, the life according to reason is best and pleasantest, since reason more than anything else is man. This life therefore is also the happiest.
8 [The Contemplative Life]
But in a secondary degree the life in accordance with the other kind of virtue is happy; for the activities in accordance with this befit our human estate. Just and brave acts, and other virtuous acts, we do in relation to each other, observing our respective duties with regard to contracts and services and all manner of actions and with regard to passions; and all of these seem to be typically human. Some of them seem even to arise from the body, and virtue of character to be in many ways bound up with the passions. Practical wisdom, too, is linked to virtue of character, and this to practical wisdom, since the principles of practical wisdom are in accordance with the moral virtues and rightness in morals is in accordance with practical wisdom. Being connected with the passions also, the moral virtues must belong to our composite nature; and the virtues of our composite nature are human, so, therefore, are the life and the happiness which correspond to these. The excellence of the reason is a thing apart, we must be content to say this much about it, for to describe it precisely is a task greater than our purpose requires. It would seem, however, also to need external equipment but little, or less than moral virtue does. Grant that both need the necessaries, and do so equally, even if the statesman’s work is the more concerned with the body and things of that sort; for there will be little difference there; but in what they need for the exercise of their activities there will be much difference. The liberal man will need money for the doing of his liberal deeds, and the just man too will need it for the returning of services (for wishes are hard to discern, and even people who are not just pretend to wish to act justly); and the brave man will need power if he is to accomplish any of the acts that correspond to his virtue, and the temperate man will need opportunity; for how else is either he or any of the others to be recognized? It is debated, too, whether the will or the deed is more essential to virtue, which is assumed to involve both; it is surely clear that its perfection involves both; but for deeds many things are needed, and more, the greater and nobler the deeds are. But the man who is contemplating the truth needs no such thing, at least with a view to the exercise of his activity; indeed they are, one may say, even hindrances, at all events to his contemplation; but in so far as he is a man and lives with a number of people, he chooses to do virtuous acts; he will therefore need such aids to living a human life.
But, being a man, one will also need external prosperity; for our nature is not self-sufficient for the purpose of contemplation, but our body also must be healthy and must have food and other attention. Still, we must not think that the man who is to be happy will need many things or great things, merely because he cannot be supremely happy without external goods; for self-sufficiency and action do not involve excess, and we can do noble acts without ruling earth and sea; for even with moderate advantages one can act virtuously (this is manifest enough; for private persons are thought to do worthy acts no less than despots—indeed even more); and it is enough that we should have so much as that; for the life of the man who is active in accordance with virtue will be happy…
From the reading…” Happiness, therefore, does not lie in amusement; it would, indeed, be strange if the end were amusement, and one were to take trouble and suffer hardship all one’s life in order to amuse oneself.” |
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LICENSE
Philosophy-A Short History3 Copyright © by Lumen Learning is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 3: Plato, Symposium
Plato, Symposium
by Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Contents
INTRODUCTION.
Of all the works of Plato the Symposium is the most perfect in form, and may be truly thought to contain more than any commentator has ever dreamed of; or, as Goethe said of one of his own writings, more than the author himself knew. For in philosophy as in prophecy glimpses of the future may often be conveyed in words which could hardly have been understood or interpreted at the time when they were uttered (compare Symp.)—which were wiser than the writer of them meant, and could not have been expressed by him if he had been interrogated about them. Yet Plato was not a mystic, nor in any degree affected by the Eastern influences which afterwards overspread the Alexandrian world. He was not an enthusiast or a sentimentalist, but one who aspired only to see reasoned truth, and whose thoughts are clearly explained in his language. There is no foreign element either of Egypt or of Asia to be found in his writings. And more than any other Platonic work the Symposium is Greek both in style and subject, having a beauty ‘as of a statue,’ while the companion Dialogue of the Phaedrus is marked by a sort of Gothic irregularity. More too than in any other of his Dialogues, Plato is emancipated from former philosophies. The genius of Greek art seems to triumph over the traditions of Pythagorean, Eleatic, or Megarian systems, and ‘the old quarrel of poetry and philosophy’ has at least a superficial reconcilement. (Rep.)
An unknown person who had heard of the discourses in praise of love spoken by Socrates and others at the banquet of Agathon is desirous of having an authentic account of them, which he thinks that he can obtain from Apollodorus, the same excitable, or rather ‘mad’ friend of Socrates, who is afterwards introduced in the Phaedo. He had imagined that the discourses were recent. There he is mistaken: but they are still fresh in the memory of his informant, who had just been repeating them to Glaucon, and is quite prepared to have another rehearsal of them in a walk from the Piraeus to Athens. Although he had not been present himself, he had heard them from the best authority. Aristodemus, who is described as having been in past times a humble but inseparable attendant of Socrates, had reported them to him (compare Xen. Mem.).
The narrative which he had heard was as follows:—
Aristodemus meeting Socrates in holiday attire, is invited by him to a banquet at the house of Agathon, who had been sacrificing in thanksgiving for his tragic victory on the day previous. But no sooner has he entered the house than he finds that he is alone; Socrates has stayed behind in a fit of abstraction, and does not appear until the banquet is half over. On his appearing he and the host jest a little; the question is then asked by Pausanias, one of the guests, ‘What shall they do about drinking? as they had been all well drunk on the day before, and drinking on two successive days is such a bad thing.’ This is confirmed by the authority of Eryximachus the physician, who further proposes that instead of listening to the flute-girl and her ‘noise’ they shall make speeches in honour of love, one after another, going from left to right in the order in which they are reclining at the table. All of them agree to this proposal, and Phaedrus, who is the ‘father’ of the idea, which he has previously communicated to Eryximachus, begins as follows:—
He descants first of all upon the antiquity of love, which is proved by the authority of the poets; secondly upon the benefits which love gives to man. The greatest of these is the sense of honour and dishonour. The lover is ashamed to be seen by the beloved doing or suffering any cowardly or mean act. And a state or army which was made up only of lovers and their loves would be invincible. For love will convert the veriest coward into an inspired hero.
And there have been true loves not only of men but of women also. Such was the love of Alcestis, who dared to die for her husband, and in recompense of her virtue was allowed to come again from the dead. But Orpheus, the miserable harper, who went down to Hades alive, that he might bring back his wife, was mocked with an apparition only, and the gods afterwards contrived his death as the punishment of his cowardliness. The love of Achilles, like that of Alcestis, was courageous and true; for he was willing to avenge his lover Patroclus, although he knew that his own death would immediately follow: and the gods, who honour the love of the beloved above that of the lover, rewarded him, and sent him to the islands of the blest.
Pausanias, who was sitting next, then takes up the tale:—He says that Phaedrus should have distinguished the heavenly love from the earthly, before he praised either. For there are two loves, as there are two Aphrodites—one the daughter of Uranus, who has no mother and is the elder and wiser goddess, and the other, the daughter of Zeus and Dione, who is popular and common. The first of the two loves has a noble purpose, and delights only in the intelligent nature of man, and is faithful to the end, and has no shadow of wantonness or lust. The second is the coarser kind of love, which is a love of the body rather than of the soul, and is of women and boys as well as of men. Now the actions of lovers vary, like every other sort of action, according to the manner of their performance. And in different countries there is a difference of opinion about male loves. Some, like the Boeotians, approve of them; others, like the Ionians, and most of the barbarians, disapprove of them; partly because they are aware of the political dangers which ensue from them, as may be seen in the instance of Harmodius and Aristogeiton. At Athens and Sparta there is an apparent contradiction about them. For at times they are encouraged, and then the lover is allowed to play all sorts of fantastic tricks; he may swear and forswear himself (and ‘at lovers’ perjuries they say Jove laughs’); he may be a servant, and lie on a mat at the door of his love, without any loss of character; but there are also times when elders look grave and guard their young relations, and personal remarks are made. The truth is that some of these loves are disgraceful and others honourable. The vulgar love of the body which takes wing and flies away when the bloom of youth is over, is disgraceful, and so is the interested love of power or wealth; but the love of the noble mind is lasting. The lover should be tested, and the beloved should not be too ready to yield. The rule in our country is that the beloved may do the same service to the lover in the way of virtue which the lover may do to him.
A voluntary service to be rendered for the sake of virtue and wisdom is permitted among us; and when these two customs—one the love of youth, the other the practice of virtue and philosophy—meet in one, then the lovers may lawfully unite. Nor is there any disgrace to a disinterested lover in being deceived: but the interested lover is doubly disgraced, for if he loses his love he loses his character; whereas the noble love of the other remains the same, although the object of his love is unworthy: for nothing can be nobler than love for the sake of virtue. This is that love of the heavenly goddess which is of great price to individuals and cities, making them work together for their improvement.
The turn of Aristophanes comes next; but he has the hiccough, and therefore proposes that Eryximachus the physician shall cure him or speak in his turn. Eryximachus is ready to do both, and after prescribing for the hiccough, speaks as follows:—
He agrees with Pausanias in maintaining that there are two kinds of love; but his art has led him to the further conclusion that the empire of this double love extends over all things, and is to be found in animals and plants as well as in man. In the human body also there are two loves; and the art of medicine shows which is the good and which is the bad love, and persuades the body to accept the good and reject the bad, and reconciles conflicting elements and makes them friends. Every art, gymnastic and husbandry as well as medicine, is the reconciliation of opposites; and this is what Heracleitus meant, when he spoke of a harmony of opposites: but in strictness he should rather have spoken of a harmony which succeeds opposites, for an agreement of disagreements there cannot be. Music too is concerned with the principles of love in their application to harmony and rhythm. In the abstract, all is simple, and we are not troubled with the twofold love; but when they are applied in education with their accompaniments of song and metre, then the discord begins. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair Urania and the coarse Polyhymnia, who must be indulged sparingly, just as in my own art of medicine care must be taken that the taste of the epicure be gratified without inflicting upon him the attendant penalty of disease.
There is a similar harmony or disagreement in the course of the seasons and in the relations of moist and dry, hot and cold, hoar frost and blight; and diseases of all sorts spring from the excesses or disorders of the element of love. The knowledge of these elements of love and discord in the heavenly bodies is termed astronomy, in the relations of men towards gods and parents is called divination. For divination is the peacemaker of gods and men, and works by a knowledge of the tendencies of merely human loves to piety and impiety. Such is the power of love; and that love which is just and temperate has the greatest power, and is the source of all our happiness and friendship with the gods and with one another. I dare say that I have omitted to mention many things which you, Aristophanes, may supply, as I perceive that you are cured of the hiccough.
Aristophanes is the next speaker:—
He professes to open a new vein of discourse, in which he begins by treating of the origin of human nature. The sexes were originally three, men, women, and the union of the two; and they were made round—having four hands, four feet, two faces on a round neck, and the rest to correspond. Terrible was their strength and swiftness; and they were essaying to scale heaven and attack the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils; the gods were divided between the desire of quelling the pride of man and the fear of losing the sacrifices. At last Zeus hit upon an expedient. Let us cut them in two, he said; then they will only have half their strength, and we shall have twice as many sacrifices. He spake, and split them as you might split an egg with an hair; and when this was done, he told Apollo to give their faces a twist and re-arrange their persons, taking out the wrinkles and tying the skin in a knot about the navel. The two halves went about looking for one another, and were ready to die of hunger in one another’s arms. Then Zeus invented an adjustment of the sexes, which enabled them to marry and go their way to the business of life. Now the characters of men differ accordingly as they are derived from the original man or the original woman, or the original man-woman. Those who come from the man-woman are lascivious and adulterous; those who come from the woman form female attachments; those who are a section of the male follow the male and embrace him, and in him all their desires centre. The pair are inseparable and live together in pure and manly affection; yet they cannot tell what they want of one another. But if Hephaestus were to come to them with his instruments and propose that they should be melted into one and remain one here and hereafter, they would acknowledge that this was the very expression of their want. For love is the desire of the whole, and the pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time when the two sexes were only one, but now God has halved them,—much as the Lacedaemonians have cut up the Arcadians,—and if they do not behave themselves he will divide them again, and they will hop about with half a nose and face in basso relievo. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may obtain the goods of which love is the author, and be reconciled to God, and find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world. And now I must beg you not to suppose that I am alluding to Pausanias and Agathon (compare Protag.), for my words refer to all mankind everywhere.
Some raillery ensues first between Aristophanes and Eryximachus, and then between Agathon, who fears a few select friends more than any number of spectators at the theatre, and Socrates, who is disposed to begin an argument. This is speedily repressed by Phaedrus, who reminds the disputants of their tribute to the god. Agathon’s speech follows:—
He will speak of the god first and then of his gifts: He is the fairest and blessedest and best of the gods, and also the youngest, having had no existence in the old days of Iapetus and Cronos when the gods were at war. The things that were done then were done of necessity and not of love. For love is young and dwells in soft places,—not like Ate in Homer, walking on the skulls of men, but in their hearts and souls, which are soft enough. He is all flexibility and grace, and his habitation is among the flowers, and he cannot do or suffer wrong; for all men serve and obey him of their own free will, and where there is love there is obedience, and where obedience, there is justice; for none can be wronged of his own free will. And he is temperate as well as just, for he is the ruler of the desires, and if he rules them he must be temperate. Also he is courageous, for he is the conqueror of the lord of war. And he is wise too; for he is a poet, and the author of poesy in others. He created the animals; he is the inventor of the arts; all the gods are his subjects; he is the fairest and best himself, and the cause of what is fairest and best in others; he makes men to be of one mind at a banquet, filling them with affection and emptying them of disaffection; the pilot, helper, defender, saviour of men, in whose footsteps let every man follow, chanting a strain of love. Such is the discourse, half playful, half serious, which I dedicate to the god.
The turn of Socrates comes next. He begins by remarking satirically that he has not understood the terms of the original agreement, for he fancied that they meant to speak the true praises of love, but now he finds that they only say what is good of him, whether true or false. He begs to be absolved from speaking falsely, but he is willing to speak the truth, and proposes to begin by questioning Agathon. The result of his questions may be summed up as follows:—
Love is of something, and that which love desires is not that which love is or has; for no man desires that which he is or has. And love is of the beautiful, and therefore has not the beautiful. And the beautiful is the good, and therefore, in wanting and desiring the beautiful, love also wants and desires the good. Socrates professes to have asked the same questions and to have obtained the same answers from Diotima, a wise woman of Mantinea, who, like Agathon, had spoken first of love and then of his works. Socrates, like Agathon, had told her that Love is a mighty god and also fair, and she had shown him in return that Love was neither, but in a mean between fair and foul, good and evil, and not a god at all, but only a great demon or intermediate power (compare the speech of Eryximachus) who conveys to the gods the prayers of men, and to men the commands of the gods.
Socrates asks: Who are his father and mother? To this Diotima replies that he is the son of Plenty and Poverty, and partakes of the nature of both, and is full and starved by turns. Like his mother he is poor and squalid, lying on mats at doors (compare the speech of Pausanias); like his father he is bold and strong, and full of arts and resources. Further, he is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge:—in this he resembles the philosopher who is also in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. Such is the nature of Love, who is not to be confused with the beloved.
But Love desires the beautiful; and then arises the question, What does he desire of the beautiful? He desires, of course, the possession of the beautiful;—but what is given by that? For the beautiful let us substitute the good, and we have no difficulty in seeing the possession of the good to be happiness, and Love to be the desire of happiness, although the meaning of the word has been too often confined to one kind of love. And Love desires not only the good, but the everlasting possession of the good. Why then is there all this flutter and excitement about love? Because all men and women at a certain age are desirous of bringing to the birth. And love is not of beauty only, but of birth in beauty; this is the principle of immortality in a mortal creature. When beauty approaches, then the conceiving power is benign and diffuse; when foulness, she is averted and morose.
But why again does this extend not only to men but also to animals? Because they too have an instinct of immortality. Even in the same individual there is a perpetual succession as well of the parts of the material body as of the thoughts and desires of the mind; nay, even knowledge comes and goes. There is no sameness of existence, but the new mortality is always taking the place of the old. This is the reason why parents love their children—for the sake of immortality; and this is why men love the immortality of fame. For the creative soul creates not children, but conceptions of wisdom and virtue, such as poets and other creators have invented. And the noblest creations of all are those of legislators, in honour of whom temples have been raised. Who would not sooner have these children of the mind than the ordinary human ones? (Compare Bacon’s Essays, 8:—’Certainly the best works and of greatest merit for the public have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men; which both in affection and means have married and endowed the public.’)
I will now initiate you, she said, into the greater mysteries; for he who would proceed in due course should love first one fair form, and then many, and learn the connexion of them; and from beautiful bodies he should proceed to beautiful minds, and the beauty of laws and institutions, until he perceives that all beauty is of one kindred; and from institutions he should go on to the sciences, until at last the vision is revealed to him of a single science of universal beauty, and then he will behold the everlasting nature which is the cause of all, and will be near the end. In the contemplation of that supreme being of love he will be purified of earthly leaven, and will behold beauty, not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of the mind, and will bring forth true creations of virtue and wisdom, and be the friend of God and heir of immortality.
Such, Phaedrus, is the tale which I heard from the stranger of Mantinea, and which you may call the encomium of love, or what you please.
The company applaud the speech of Socrates, and Aristophanes is about to say something, when suddenly a band of revellers breaks into the court, and the voice of Alcibiades is heard asking for Agathon. He is led in drunk, and welcomed by Agathon, whom he has come to crown with a garland. He is placed on a couch at his side, but suddenly, on recognizing Socrates, he starts up, and a sort of conflict is carried on between them, which Agathon is requested to appease. Alcibiades then insists that they shall drink, and has a large wine-cooler filled, which he first empties himself, and then fills again and passes on to Socrates. He is informed of the nature of the entertainment; and is ready to join, if only in the character of a drunken and disappointed lover he may be allowed to sing the praises of Socrates:—
He begins by comparing Socrates first to the busts of Silenus, which have images of the gods inside them; and, secondly, to Marsyas the flute-player. For Socrates produces the same effect with the voice which Marsyas did with the flute. He is the great speaker and enchanter who ravishes the souls of men; the convincer of hearts too, as he has convinced Alcibiades, and made him ashamed of his mean and miserable life. Socrates at one time seemed about to fall in love with him; and he thought that he would thereby gain a wonderful opportunity of receiving lessons of wisdom. He narrates the failure of his design. He has suffered agonies from him, and is at his wit’s end. He then proceeds to mention some other particulars of the life of Socrates; how they were at Potidaea together, where Socrates showed his superior powers of enduring cold and fatigue; how on one occasion he had stood for an entire day and night absorbed in reflection amid the wonder of the spectators; how on another occasion he had saved Alcibiades’ life; how at the battle of Delium, after the defeat, he might be seen stalking about like a pelican, rolling his eyes as Aristophanes had described him in the Clouds. He is the most wonderful of human beings, and absolutely unlike anyone but a satyr. Like the satyr in his language too; for he uses the commonest words as the outward mask of the divinest truths.
When Alcibiades has done speaking, a dispute begins between him and Agathon and Socrates. Socrates piques Alcibiades by a pretended affection for Agathon. Presently a band of revellers appears, who introduce disorder into the feast; the sober part of the company, Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others, withdraw; and Aristodemus, the follower of Socrates, sleeps during the whole of a long winter’s night. When he wakes at cockcrow the revellers are nearly all asleep. Only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon hold out; they are drinking from a large goblet, which they pass round, and Socrates is explaining to the two others, who are half-asleep, that the genius of tragedy is the same as that of comedy, and that the writer of tragedy ought to be a writer of comedy also. And first Aristophanes drops, and then, as the day is dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to rest, takes a bath and goes to his daily avocations until the evening. Aristodemus follows.
…
If it be true that there are more things in the Symposium of Plato than any commentator has dreamed of, it is also true that many things have been imagined which are not really to be found there. Some writings hardly admit of a more distinct interpretation than a musical composition; and every reader may form his own accompaniment of thought or feeling to the strain which he hears. The Symposium of Plato is a work of this character, and can with difficulty be rendered in any words but the writer’s own. There are so many half-lights and cross-lights, so much of the colour of mythology, and of the manner of sophistry adhering—rhetoric and poetry, the playful and the serious, are so subtly intermingled in it, and vestiges of old philosophy so curiously blend with germs of future knowledge, that agreement among interpreters is not to be expected. The expression ‘poema magis putandum quam comicorum poetarum,’ which has been applied to all the writings of Plato, is especially applicable to the Symposium.
The power of love is represented in the Symposium as running through all nature and all being: at one end descending to animals and plants, and attaining to the highest vision of truth at the other. In an age when man was seeking for an expression of the world around him, the conception of love greatly affected him. One of the first distinctions of language and of mythology was that of gender; and at a later period the ancient physicist, anticipating modern science, saw, or thought that he saw, a sex in plants; there were elective affinities among the elements, marriages of earth and heaven. (Aesch. Frag. Dan.) Love became a mythic personage whom philosophy, borrowing from poetry, converted into an efficient cause of creation. The traces of the existence of love, as of number and figure, were everywhere discerned; and in the Pythagorean list of opposites male and female were ranged side by side with odd and even, finite and infinite.
But Plato seems also to be aware that there is a mystery of love in man as well as in nature, extending beyond the mere immediate relation of the sexes. He is conscious that the highest and noblest things in the world are not easily severed from the sensual desires, or may even be regarded as a spiritualized form of them. We may observe that Socrates himself is not represented as originally unimpassioned, but as one who has overcome his passions; the secret of his power over others partly lies in his passionate but self-controlled nature. In the Phaedrus and Symposium love is not merely the feeling usually so called, but the mystical contemplation of the beautiful and the good. The same passion which may wallow in the mire is capable of rising to the loftiest heights—of penetrating the inmost secret of philosophy. The highest love is the love not of a person, but of the highest and purest abstraction. This abstraction is the far-off heaven on which the eye of the mind is fixed in fond amazement. The unity of truth, the consistency of the warring elements of the world, the enthusiasm for knowledge when first beaming upon mankind, the relativity of ideas to the human mind, and of the human mind to ideas, the faith in the invisible, the adoration of the eternal nature, are all included, consciously or unconsciously, in Plato’s doctrine of love.
The successive speeches in praise of love are characteristic of the speakers, and contribute in various degrees to the final result; they are all designed to prepare the way for Socrates, who gathers up the threads anew, and skims the highest points of each of them. But they are not to be regarded as the stages of an idea, rising above one another to a climax. They are fanciful, partly facetious performances, ‘yet also having a certain measure of seriousness,’ which the successive speakers dedicate to the god. All of them are rhetorical and poetical rather than dialectical, but glimpses of truth appear in them. When Eryximachus says that the principles of music are simple in themselves, but confused in their application, he touches lightly upon a difficulty which has troubled the moderns as well as the ancients in music, and may be extended to the other applied sciences. That confusion begins in the concrete, was the natural feeling of a mind dwelling in the world of ideas. When Pausanias remarks that personal attachments are inimical to despots. The experience of Greek history confirms the truth of his remark. When Aristophanes declares that love is the desire of the whole, he expresses a feeling not unlike that of the German philosopher, who says that ‘philosophy is home sickness.’ When Agathon says that no man ‘can be wronged of his own free will,’ he is alluding playfully to a serious problem of Greek philosophy (compare Arist. Nic. Ethics). So naturally does Plato mingle jest and earnest, truth and opinion in the same work.
The characters—of Phaedrus, who has been the cause of more philosophical discussions than any other man, with the exception of Simmias the Theban (Phaedrus); of Aristophanes, who disguises under comic imagery a serious purpose; of Agathon, who in later life is satirized by Aristophanes in the Thesmophoriazusae, for his effeminate manners and the feeble rhythms of his verse; of Alcibiades, who is the same strange contrast of great powers and great vices, which meets us in history—are drawn to the life; and we may suppose the less-known characters of Pausanias and Eryximachus to be also true to the traditional recollection of them (compare Phaedr., Protag.; and compare Sympos. with Phaedr.). We may also remark that Aristodemus is called ‘the little’ in Xenophon’s Memorabilia (compare Symp.).
The speeches have been said to follow each other in pairs: Phaedrus and Pausanias being the ethical, Eryximachus and Aristophanes the physical speakers, while in Agathon and Socrates poetry and philosophy blend together. The speech of Phaedrus is also described as the mythological, that of Pausanias as the political, that of Eryximachus as the scientific, that of Aristophanes as the artistic (!), that of Socrates as the philosophical. But these and similar distinctions are not found in Plato;—they are the points of view of his critics, and seem to impede rather than to assist us in understanding him.
When the turn of Socrates comes round he cannot be allowed to disturb the arrangement made at first. With the leave of Phaedrus he asks a few questions, and then he throws his argument into the form of a speech (compare Gorg., Protag.). But his speech is really the narrative of a dialogue between himself and Diotima. And as at a banquet good manners would not allow him to win a victory either over his host or any of the guests, the superiority which he gains over Agathon is ingeniously represented as having been already gained over himself by her. The artifice has the further advantage of maintaining his accustomed profession of ignorance (compare Menex.). Even his knowledge of the mysteries of love, to which he lays claim here and elsewhere (Lys.), is given by Diotima.
The speeches are attested to us by the very best authority. The madman Apollodorus, who for three years past has made a daily study of the actions of Socrates—to whom the world is summed up in the words ‘Great is Socrates’—he has heard them from another ‘madman,’ Aristodemus, who was the ‘shadow’ of Socrates in days of old, like him going about barefooted, and who had been present at the time. ‘Would you desire better witness?’ The extraordinary narrative of Alcibiades is ingeniously represented as admitted by Socrates, whose silence when he is invited to contradict gives consent to the narrator. We may observe, by the way, (1) how the very appearance of Aristodemus by himself is a sufficient indication to Agathon that Socrates has been left behind; also, (2) how the courtesy of Agathon anticipates the excuse which Socrates was to have made on Aristodemus’ behalf for coming uninvited; (3) how the story of the fit or trance of Socrates is confirmed by the mention which Alcibiades makes of a similar fit of abstraction occurring when he was serving with the army at Potidaea; like (4) the drinking powers of Socrates and his love of the fair, which receive a similar attestation in the concluding scene; or the attachment of Aristodemus, who is not forgotten when Socrates takes his departure. (5) We may notice the manner in which Socrates himself regards the first five speeches, not as true, but as fanciful and exaggerated encomiums of the god Love; (6) the satirical character of them, shown especially in the appeals to mythology, in the reasons which are given by Zeus for reconstructing the frame of man, or by the Boeotians and Eleans for encouraging male loves; (7) the ruling passion of Socrates for dialectics, who will argue with Agathon instead of making a speech, and will only speak at all upon the condition that he is allowed to speak the truth. We may note also the touch of Socratic irony, (8) which admits of a wide application and reveals a deep insight into the world:—that in speaking of holy things and persons there is a general understanding that you should praise them, not that you should speak the truth about them—this is the sort of praise which Socrates is unable to give. Lastly, (9) we may remark that the banquet is a real banquet after all, at which love is the theme of discourse, and huge quantities of wine are drunk.
The discourse of Phaedrus is half-mythical, half-ethical; and he himself, true to the character which is given him in the Dialogue bearing his name, is half-sophist, half-enthusiast. He is the critic of poetry also, who compares Homer and Aeschylus in the insipid and irrational manner of the schools of the day, characteristically reasoning about the probability of matters which do not admit of reasoning. He starts from a noble text: ‘That without the sense of honour and dishonour neither states nor individuals ever do any good or great work.’ But he soon passes on to more common-place topics. The antiquity of love, the blessing of having a lover, the incentive which love offers to daring deeds, the examples of Alcestis and Achilles, are the chief themes of his discourse. The love of women is regarded by him as almost on an equality with that of men; and he makes the singular remark that the gods favour the return of love which is made by the beloved more than the original sentiment, because the lover is of a nobler and diviner nature.
There is something of a sophistical ring in the speech of Phaedrus, which recalls the first speech in imitation of Lysias, occurring in the Dialogue called the Phaedrus. This is still more marked in the speech of Pausanias which follows; and which is at once hyperlogical in form and also extremely confused and pedantic. Plato is attacking the logical feebleness of the sophists and rhetoricians, through their pupils, not forgetting by the way to satirize the monotonous and unmeaning rhythms which Prodicus and others were introducing into Attic prose (compare Protag.). Of course, he is ‘playing both sides of the game,’ as in the Gorgias and Phaedrus; but it is not necessary in order to understand him that we should discuss the fairness of his mode of proceeding. The love of Pausanias for Agathon has already been touched upon in the Protagoras, and is alluded to by Aristophanes. Hence he is naturally the upholder of male loves, which, like all the other affections or actions of men, he regards as varying according to the manner of their performance. Like the sophists and like Plato himself, though in a different sense, he begins his discussion by an appeal to mythology, and distinguishes between the elder and younger love. The value which he attributes to such loves as motives to virtue and philosophy is at variance with modern and Christian notions, but is in accordance with Hellenic sentiment. The opinion of Christendom has not altogether condemned passionate friendships between persons of the same sex, but has certainly not encouraged them, because though innocent in themselves in a few temperaments they are liable to degenerate into fearful evil. Pausanias is very earnest in the defence of such loves; and he speaks of them as generally approved among Hellenes and disapproved by barbarians. His speech is ‘more words than matter,’ and might have been composed by a pupil of Lysias or of Prodicus, although there is no hint given that Plato is specially referring to them. As Eryximachus says, ‘he makes a fair beginning, but a lame ending.’
Plato transposes the two next speeches, as in the Republic he would transpose the virtues and the mathematical sciences. This is done partly to avoid monotony, partly for the sake of making Aristophanes ‘the cause of wit in others,’ and also in order to bring the comic and tragic poet into juxtaposition, as if by accident. A suitable ‘expectation’ of Aristophanes is raised by the ludicrous circumstance of his having the hiccough, which is appropriately cured by his substitute, the physician Eryximachus. To Eryximachus Love is the good physician; he sees everything as an intelligent physicist, and, like many professors of his art in modern times, attempts to reduce the moral to the physical; or recognises one law of love which pervades them both. There are loves and strifes of the body as well as of the mind. Like Hippocrates the Asclepiad, he is a disciple of Heracleitus, whose conception of the harmony of opposites he explains in a new way as the harmony after discord; to his common sense, as to that of many moderns as well as ancients, the identity of contradictories is an absurdity. His notion of love may be summed up as the harmony of man with himself in soul as well as body, and of all things in heaven and earth with one another.
Aristophanes is ready to laugh and make laugh before he opens his mouth, just as Socrates, true to his character, is ready to argue before he begins to speak. He expresses the very genius of the old comedy, its coarse and forcible imagery, and the licence of its language in speaking about the gods. He has no sophistical notions about love, which is brought back by him to its common-sense meaning of love between intelligent beings. His account of the origin of the sexes has the greatest (comic) probability and verisimilitude. Nothing in Aristophanes is more truly Aristophanic than the description of the human monster whirling round on four arms and four legs, eight in all, with incredible rapidity. Yet there is a mixture of earnestness in this jest; three serious principles seem to be insinuated:—first, that man cannot exist in isolation; he must be reunited if he is to be perfected: secondly, that love is the mediator and reconciler of poor, divided human nature: thirdly, that the loves of this world are an indistinct anticipation of an ideal union which is not yet realized.
The speech of Agathon is conceived in a higher strain, and receives the real, if half-ironical, approval of Socrates. It is the speech of the tragic poet and a sort of poem, like tragedy, moving among the gods of Olympus, and not among the elder or Orphic deities. In the idea of the antiquity of love he cannot agree; love is not of the olden time, but present and youthful ever. The speech may be compared with that speech of Socrates in the Phaedrus in which he describes himself as talking dithyrambs. It is at once a preparation for Socrates and a foil to him. The rhetoric of Agathon elevates the soul to ‘sunlit heights,’ but at the same time contrasts with the natural and necessary eloquence of Socrates. Agathon contributes the distinction between love and the works of love, and also hints incidentally that love is always of beauty, which Socrates afterwards raises into a principle. While the consciousness of discord is stronger in the comic poet Aristophanes, Agathon, the tragic poet, has a deeper sense of harmony and reconciliation, and speaks of Love as the creator and artist.
All the earlier speeches embody common opinions coloured with a tinge of philosophy. They furnish the material out of which Socrates proceeds to form his discourse, starting, as in other places, from mythology and the opinions of men. From Phaedrus he takes the thought that love is stronger than death; from Pausanias, that the true love is akin to intellect and political activity; from Eryximachus, that love is a universal phenomenon and the great power of nature; from Aristophanes, that love is the child of want, and is not merely the love of the congenial or of the whole, but (as he adds) of the good; from Agathon, that love is of beauty, not however of beauty only, but of birth in beauty. As it would be out of character for Socrates to make a lengthened harangue, the speech takes the form of a dialogue between Socrates and a mysterious woman of foreign extraction. She elicits the final truth from one who knows nothing, and who, speaking by the lips of another, and himself a despiser of rhetoric, is proved also to be the most consummate of rhetoricians (compare Menexenus).
The last of the six discourses begins with a short argument which overthrows not only Agathon but all the preceding speakers by the help of a distinction which has escaped them. Extravagant praises have been ascribed to Love as the author of every good; no sort of encomium was too high for him, whether deserved and true or not. But Socrates has no talent for speaking anything but the truth, and if he is to speak the truth of Love he must honestly confess that he is not a good at all: for love is of the good, and no man can desire that which he has. This piece of dialectics is ascribed to Diotima, who has already urged upon Socrates the argument which he urges against Agathon. That the distinction is a fallacy is obvious; it is almost acknowledged to be so by Socrates himself. For he who has beauty or good may desire more of them; and he who has beauty or good in himself may desire beauty and good in others. The fallacy seems to arise out of a confusion between the abstract ideas of good and beauty, which do not admit of degrees, and their partial realization in individuals.
But Diotima, the prophetess of Mantineia, whose sacred and superhuman character raises her above the ordinary proprieties of women, has taught Socrates far more than this about the art and mystery of love. She has taught him that love is another aspect of philosophy. The same want in the human soul which is satisfied in the vulgar by the procreation of children, may become the highest aspiration of intellectual desire. As the Christian might speak of hungering and thirsting after righteousness; or of divine loves under the figure of human (compare Eph. ‘This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church’); as the mediaeval saint might speak of the ‘fruitio Dei;’ as Dante saw all things contained in his love of Beatrice, so Plato would have us absorb all other loves and desires in the love of knowledge. Here is the beginning of Neoplatonism, or rather, perhaps, a proof (of which there are many) that the so-called mysticism of the East was not strange to the Greek of the fifth century before Christ. The first tumult of the affections was not wholly subdued; there were longings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized, which no art could satisfy. To most men reason and passion appear to be antagonistic both in idea and fact. The union of the greatest comprehension of knowledge and the burning intensity of love is a contradiction in nature, which may have existed in a far-off primeval age in the mind of some Hebrew prophet or other Eastern sage, but has now become an imagination only. Yet this ‘passion of the reason’ is the theme of the Symposium of Plato. And as there is no impossibility in supposing that ‘one king, or son of a king, may be a philosopher,’ so also there is a probability that there may be some few—perhaps one or two in a whole generation—in whom the light of truth may not lack the warmth of desire. And if there be such natures, no one will be disposed to deny that ‘from them flow most of the benefits of individuals and states;’ and even from imperfect combinations of the two elements in teachers or statesmen great good may often arise.
Yet there is a higher region in which love is not only felt, but satisfied, in the perfect beauty of eternal knowledge, beginning with the beauty of earthly things, and at last reaching a beauty in which all existence is seen to be harmonious and one. The limited affection is enlarged, and enabled to behold the ideal of all things. And here the highest summit which is reached in the Symposium is seen also to be the highest summit which is attained in the Republic, but approached from another side; and there is ‘a way upwards and downwards,’ which is the same and not the same in both. The ideal beauty of the one is the ideal good of the other; regarded not with the eye of knowledge, but of faith and desire; and they are respectively the source of beauty and the source of good in all other things. And by the steps of a ‘ladder reaching to heaven’ we pass from images of visible beauty (Greek), and from the hypotheses of the Mathematical sciences, which are not yet based upon the idea of good, through the concrete to the abstract, and, by different paths arriving, behold the vision of the eternal (compare Symp. (Greek) Republic (Greek) also Phaedrus). Under one aspect ‘the idea is love’; under another, ‘truth.’ In both the lover of wisdom is the ‘spectator of all time and of all existence.’ This is a ‘mystery’ in which Plato also obscurely intimates the union of the spiritual and fleshly, the interpenetration of the moral and intellectual faculties.
The divine image of beauty which resides within Socrates has been revealed; the Silenus, or outward man, has now to be exhibited. The description of Socrates follows immediately after the speech of Socrates; one is the complement of the other. At the height of divine inspiration, when the force of nature can no further go, by way of contrast to this extreme idealism, Alcibiades, accompanied by a troop of revellers and a flute-girl, staggers in, and being drunk is able to tell of things which he would have been ashamed to make known if he had been sober. The state of his affections towards Socrates, unintelligible to us and perverted as they appear, affords an illustration of the power ascribed to the loves of man in the speech of Pausanias. He does not suppose his feelings to be peculiar to himself: there are several other persons in the company who have been equally in love with Socrates, and like himself have been deceived by him. The singular part of this confession is the combination of the most degrading passion with the desire of virtue and improvement. Such an union is not wholly untrue to human nature, which is capable of combining good and evil in a degree beyond what we can easily conceive. In imaginative persons, especially, the God and beast in man seem to part asunder more than is natural in a well-regulated mind. The Platonic Socrates (for of the real Socrates this may be doubted: compare his public rebuke of Critias for his shameful love of Euthydemus in Xenophon, Memorabilia) does not regard the greatest evil of Greek life as a thing not to be spoken of; but it has a ridiculous element (Plato’s Symp.), and is a subject for irony, no less than for moral reprobation (compare Plato’s Symp.). It is also used as a figure of speech which no one interpreted literally (compare Xen. Symp.). Nor does Plato feel any repugnance, such as would be felt in modern times, at bringing his great master and hero into connexion with nameless crimes. He is contented with representing him as a saint, who has won ‘the Olympian victory’ over the temptations of human nature. The fault of taste, which to us is so glaring and which was recognized by the Greeks of a later age (Athenaeus), was not perceived by Plato himself. We are still more surprised to find that the philosopher is incited to take the first step in his upward progress (Symp.) by the beauty of young men and boys, which was alone capable of inspiring the modern feeling of romance in the Greek mind. The passion of love took the spurious form of an enthusiasm for the ideal of beauty—a worship as of some godlike image of an Apollo or Antinous. But the love of youth when not depraved was a love of virtue and modesty as well as of beauty, the one being the expression of the other; and in certain Greek states, especially at Sparta and Thebes, the honourable attachment of a youth to an elder man was a part of his education. The ‘army of lovers and their beloved who would be invincible if they could be united by such a tie’ (Symp.), is not a mere fiction of Plato’s, but seems actually to have existed at Thebes in the days of Epaminondas and Pelopidas, if we may believe writers cited anonymously by Plutarch, Pelop. Vit. It is observable that Plato never in the least degree excuses the depraved love of the body (compare Charm.; Rep.; Laws; Symp.; and once more Xenophon, Mem.), nor is there any Greek writer of mark who condones or approves such connexions. But owing partly to the puzzling nature of the subject these friendships are spoken of by Plato in a manner different from that customary among ourselves. To most of them we should hesitate to ascribe, any more than to the attachment of Achilles and Patroclus in Homer, an immoral or licentious character. There were many, doubtless, to whom the love of the fair mind was the noblest form of friendship (Rep.), and who deemed the friendship of man with man to be higher than the love of woman, because altogether separated from the bodily appetites. The existence of such attachments may be reasonably attributed to the inferiority and seclusion of woman, and the want of a real family or social life and parental influence in Hellenic cities; and they were encouraged by the practice of gymnastic exercises, by the meetings of political clubs, and by the tie of military companionship. They were also an educational institution: a young person was specially entrusted by his parents to some elder friend who was expected by them to train their son in manly exercises and in virtue. It is not likely that a Greek parent committed him to a lover, any more than we should to a schoolmaster, in the expectation that he would be corrupted by him, but rather in the hope that his morals would be better cared for than was possible in a great household of slaves.
It is difficult to adduce the authority of Plato either for or against such practices or customs, because it is not always easy to determine whether he is speaking of ‘the heavenly and philosophical love, or of the coarse Polyhymnia:’ and he often refers to this (e.g. in the Symposium) half in jest, yet ‘with a certain degree of seriousness.’ We observe that they entered into one part of Greek literature, but not into another, and that the larger part is free from such associations. Indecency was an element of the ludicrous in the old Greek Comedy, as it has been in other ages and countries. But effeminate love was always condemned as well as ridiculed by the Comic poets; and in the New Comedy the allusions to such topics have disappeared. They seem to have been no longer tolerated by the greater refinement of the age. False sentiment is found in the Lyric and Elegiac poets; and in mythology ‘the greatest of the Gods’ (Rep.) is not exempt from evil imputations. But the morals of a nation are not to be judged of wholly by its literature. Hellas was not necessarily more corrupted in the days of the Persian and Peloponnesian wars, or of Plato and the Orators, than England in the time of Fielding and Smollett, or France in the nineteenth century. No one supposes certain French novels to be a representation of ordinary French life. And the greater part of Greek literature, beginning with Homer and including the tragedians, philosophers, and, with the exception of the Comic poets (whose business was to raise a laugh by whatever means), all the greater writers of Hellas who have been preserved to us, are free from the taint of indecency.
Some general considerations occur to our mind when we begin to reflect on this subject. (1) That good and evil are linked together in human nature, and have often existed side by side in the world and in man to an extent hardly credible. We cannot distinguish them, and are therefore unable to part them; as in the parable ‘they grow together unto the harvest:’ it is only a rule of external decency by which society can divide them. Nor should we be right in inferring from the prevalence of any one vice or corruption that a state or individual was demoralized in their whole character. Not only has the corruption of the best been sometimes thought to be the worst, but it may be remarked that this very excess of evil has been the stimulus to good (compare Plato, Laws, where he says that in the most corrupt cities individuals are to be found beyond all praise). (2) It may be observed that evils which admit of degrees can seldom be rightly estimated, because under the same name actions of the most different degrees of culpability may be included. No charge is more easily set going than the imputation of secret wickedness (which cannot be either proved or disproved and often cannot be defined) when directed against a person of whom the world, or a section of it, is predisposed to think evil. And it is quite possible that the malignity of Greek scandal, aroused by some personal jealousy or party enmity, may have converted the innocent friendship of a great man for a noble youth into a connexion of another kind. Such accusations were brought against several of the leading men of Hellas, e.g. Cimon, Alcibiades, Critias, Demosthenes, Epaminondas: several of the Roman emperors were assailed by similar weapons which have been used even in our own day against statesmen of the highest character. (3) While we know that in this matter there is a great gulf fixed between Greek and Christian Ethics, yet, if we would do justice to the Greeks, we must also acknowledge that there was a greater outspokenness among them than among ourselves about the things which nature hides, and that the more frequent mention of such topics is not to be taken as the measure of the prevalence of offences, or as a proof of the general corruption of society. It is likely that every religion in the world has used words or practised rites in one age, which have become distasteful or repugnant to another. We cannot, though for different reasons, trust the representations either of Comedy or Satire; and still less of Christian Apologists. (4) We observe that at Thebes and Lacedemon the attachment of an elder friend to a beloved youth was often deemed to be a part of his education; and was encouraged by his parents—it was only shameful if it degenerated into licentiousness. Such we may believe to have been the tie which united Asophychus and Cephisodorus with the great Epaminondas in whose companionship they fell (Plutarch, Amat.; Athenaeus on the authority of Theopompus). (5) A small matter: there appears to be a difference of custom among the Greeks and among ourselves, as between ourselves and continental nations at the present time, in modes of salutation. We must not suspect evil in the hearty kiss or embrace of a male friend ‘returning from the army at Potidaea’ any more than in a similar salutation when practised by members of the same family. But those who make these admissions, and who regard, not without pity, the victims of such illusions in our own day, whose life has been blasted by them, may be none the less resolved that the natural and healthy instincts of mankind shall alone be tolerated (Greek); and that the lesson of manliness which we have inherited from our fathers shall not degenerate into sentimentalism or effeminacy. The possibility of an honourable connexion of this kind seems to have died out with Greek civilization. Among the Romans, and also among barbarians, such as the Celts and Persians, there is no trace of such attachments existing in any noble or virtuous form.
(Compare Hoeck’s Creta and the admirable and exhaustive article of Meier in Ersch and Grueber’s Cyclopedia on this subject; Plutarch, Amatores; Athenaeus; Lysias contra Simonem; Aesch. c. Timarchum.)
The character of Alcibiades in the Symposium is hardly less remarkable than that of Socrates, and agrees with the picture given of him in the first of the two Dialogues which are called by his name, and also with the slight sketch of him in the Protagoras. He is the impersonation of lawlessness—’the lion’s whelp, who ought not to be reared in the city,’ yet not without a certain generosity which gained the hearts of men,—strangely fascinated by Socrates, and possessed of a genius which might have been either the destruction or salvation of Athens. The dramatic interest of the character is heightened by the recollection of his after history. He seems to have been present to the mind of Plato in the description of the democratic man of the Republic (compare also Alcibiades 1).
There is no criterion of the date of the Symposium, except that which is furnished by the allusion to the division of Arcadia after the destruction of Mantinea. This took place in the year B.C. 384, which is the forty-fourth year of Plato’s life. The Symposium cannot therefore be regarded as a youthful work. As Mantinea was restored in the year 369, the composition of the Dialogue will probably fall between 384 and 369. Whether the recollection of the event is more likely to have been renewed at the destruction or restoration of the city, rather than at some intermediate period, is a consideration not worth raising.
The Symposium is connected with the Phaedrus both in style and subject; they are the only Dialogues of Plato in which the theme of love is discussed at length. In both of them philosophy is regarded as a sort of enthusiasm or madness; Socrates is himself ‘a prophet new inspired’ with Bacchanalian revelry, which, like his philosophy, he characteristically pretends to have derived not from himself but from others. The Phaedo also presents some points of comparison with the Symposium. For there, too, philosophy might be described as ‘dying for love;’ and there are not wanting many touches of humour and fancy, which remind us of the Symposium. But while the Phaedo and Phaedrus look backwards and forwards to past and future states of existence, in the Symposium there is no break between this world and another; and we rise from one to the other by a regular series of steps or stages, proceeding from the particulars of sense to the universal of reason, and from one universal to many, which are finally reunited in a single science (compare Rep.). At first immortality means only the succession of existences; even knowledge comes and goes. Then follows, in the language of the mysteries, a higher and a higher degree of initiation; at last we arrive at the perfect vision of beauty, not relative or changing, but eternal and absolute; not bounded by this world, or in or out of this world, but an aspect of the divine, extending over all things, and having no limit of space or time: this is the highest knowledge of which the human mind is capable. Plato does not go on to ask whether the individual is absorbed in the sea of light and beauty or retains his personality. Enough for him to have attained the true beauty or good, without enquiring precisely into the relation in which human beings stood to it. That the soul has such a reach of thought, and is capable of partaking of the eternal nature, seems to imply that she too is eternal (compare Phaedrus). But Plato does not distinguish the eternal in man from the eternal in the world or in God. He is willing to rest in the contemplation of the idea, which to him is the cause of all things (Rep.), and has no strength to go further.
The Symposium of Xenophon, in which Socrates describes himself as a pander, and also discourses of the difference between sensual and sentimental love, likewise offers several interesting points of comparison. But the suspicion which hangs over other writings of Xenophon, and the numerous minute references to the Phaedrus and Symposium, as well as to some of the other writings of Plato, throw a doubt on the genuineness of the work. The Symposium of Xenophon, if written by him at all, would certainly show that he wrote against Plato, and was acquainted with his works. Of this hostility there is no trace in the Memorabilia. Such a rivalry is more characteristic of an imitator than of an original writer. The (so-called) Symposium of Xenophon may therefore have no more title to be regarded as genuine than the confessedly spurious Apology.
There are no means of determining the relative order in time of the Phaedrus, Symposium, Phaedo. The order which has been adopted in this translation rests on no other principle than the desire to bring together in a series the memorials of the life of Socrates.
SYMPOSIUM
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Apollodorus, who repeats to his companion the dialogue which he had heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to Glaucon. Phaedrus, Pausanias, Eryximachus, Aristophanes, Agathon, Socrates, Alcibiades, A Troop of Revellers.
SCENE: The House of Agathon.
Concerning the things about which you ask to be informed I believe that I am not ill-prepared with an answer. For the day before yesterday I was coming from my own home at Phalerum to the city, and one of my acquaintance, who had caught a sight of me from behind, calling out playfully in the distance, said: Apollodorus, O thou Phalerian (Probably a play of words on (Greek), ‘bald-headed.’) man, halt! So I did as I was bid; and then he said, I was looking for you, Apollodorus, only just now, that I might ask you about the speeches in praise of love, which were delivered by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, at Agathon’s supper. Phoenix, the son of Philip, told another person who told me of them; his narrative was very indistinct, but he said that you knew, and I wish that you would give me an account of them. Who, if not you, should be the reporter of the words of your friend? And first tell me, he said, were you present at this meeting?
Your informant, Glaucon, I said, must have been very indistinct indeed, if you imagine that the occasion was recent; or that I could have been of the party.
Why, yes, he replied, I thought so.
Impossible: I said. Are you ignorant that for many years Agathon has not resided at Athens; and not three have elapsed since I became acquainted with Socrates, and have made it my daily business to know all that he says and does. There was a time when I was running about the world, fancying myself to be well employed, but I was really a most wretched being, no better than you are now. I thought that I ought to do anything rather than be a philosopher.
Well, he said, jesting apart, tell me when the meeting occurred.
In our boyhood, I replied, when Agathon won the prize with his first tragedy, on the day after that on which he and his chorus offered the sacrifice of victory.
Then it must have been a long while ago, he said; and who told you—did Socrates?
No indeed, I replied, but the same person who told Phoenix;—he was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes, Aristodemus, of the deme of Cydathenaeum. He had been at Agathon’s feast; and I think that in those days there was no one who was a more devoted admirer of Socrates. Moreover, I have asked Socrates about the truth of some parts of his narrative, and he confirmed them. Then, said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again; is not the road to Athens just made for conversation? And so we walked, and talked of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I said at first, I am not ill-prepared to comply with your request, and will have another rehearsal of them if you like. For to speak or to hear others speak of philosophy always gives me the greatest pleasure, to say nothing of the profit. But when I hear another strain, especially that of you rich men and traders, such conversation displeases me; and I pity you who are my companions, because you think that you are doing something when in reality you are doing nothing. And I dare say that you pity me in return, whom you regard as an unhappy creature, and very probably you are right. But I certainly know of you what you only think of me—there is the difference.
COMPANION: I see, Apollodorus, that you are just the same—always speaking evil of yourself, and of others; and I do believe that you pity all mankind, with the exception of Socrates, yourself first of all, true in this to your old name, which, however deserved, I know not how you acquired, of Apollodorus the madman; for you are always raging against yourself and everybody but Socrates.
APOLLODORUS: Yes, friend, and the reason why I am said to be mad, and out of my wits, is just because I have these notions of myself and you; no other evidence is required.
COMPANION: No more of that, Apollodorus; but let me renew my request that you would repeat the conversation.
APOLLODORUS: Well, the tale of love was on this wise:—But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning, and endeavour to give you the exact words of Aristodemus:
He said that he met Socrates fresh from the bath and sandalled; and as the sight of the sandals was unusual, he asked him whither he was going that he had been converted into such a beau:—
To a banquet at Agathon’s, he replied, whose invitation to his sacrifice of victory I refused yesterday, fearing a crowd, but promising that I would come to-day instead; and so I have put on my finery, because he is such a fine man. What say you to going with me unasked?
I will do as you bid me, I replied.
Follow then, he said, and let us demolish the proverb:—
‘To the feasts of inferior men the good unbidden go;’
instead of which our proverb will run:—
‘To the feasts of the good the good unbidden go;’
and this alteration may be supported by the authority of Homer himself, who not only demolishes but literally outrages the proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon as the most valiant of men, he makes Menelaus, who is but a fainthearted warrior, come unbidden (Iliad) to the banquet of Agamemnon, who is feasting and offering sacrifices, not the better to the worse, but the worse to the better.
I rather fear, Socrates, said Aristodemus, lest this may still be my case; and that, like Menelaus in Homer, I shall be the inferior person, who
‘To the feasts of the wise unbidden goes.’
But I shall say that I was bidden of you, and then you will have to make an excuse.
‘Two going together,’
he replied, in Homeric fashion, one or other of them may invent an excuse by the way (Iliad).
This was the style of their conversation as they went along. Socrates dropped behind in a fit of abstraction, and desired Aristodemus, who was waiting, to go on before him. When he reached the house of Agathon he found the doors wide open, and a comical thing happened. A servant coming out met him, and led him at once into the banqueting-hall in which the guests were reclining, for the banquet was about to begin. Welcome, Aristodemus, said Agathon, as soon as he appeared—you are just in time to sup with us; if you come on any other matter put it off, and make one of us, as I was looking for you yesterday and meant to have asked you, if I could have found you. But what have you done with Socrates?
I turned round, but Socrates was nowhere to be seen; and I had to explain that he had been with me a moment before, and that I came by his invitation to the supper.
You were quite right in coming, said Agathon; but where is he himself?
He was behind me just now, as I entered, he said, and I cannot think what has become of him.
Go and look for him, boy, said Agathon, and bring him in; and do you, Aristodemus, meanwhile take the place by Eryximachus.
The servant then assisted him to wash, and he lay down, and presently another servant came in and reported that our friend Socrates had retired into the portico of the neighbouring house. ‘There he is fixed,’ said he, ‘and when I call to him he will not stir.’
How strange, said Agathon; then you must call him again, and keep calling him.
Let him alone, said my informant; he has a way of stopping anywhere and losing himself without any reason. I believe that he will soon appear; do not therefore disturb him.
Well, if you think so, I will leave him, said Agathon. And then, turning to the servants, he added, ‘Let us have supper without waiting for him. Serve up whatever you please, for there is no one to give you orders; hitherto I have never left you to yourselves. But on this occasion imagine that you are our hosts, and that I and the company are your guests; treat us well, and then we shall commend you.’ After this, supper was served, but still no Socrates; and during the meal Agathon several times expressed a wish to send for him, but Aristodemus objected; and at last when the feast was about half over—for the fit, as usual, was not of long duration—Socrates entered. Agathon, who was reclining alone at the end of the table, begged that he would take the place next to him; that ‘I may touch you,’ he said, ‘and have the benefit of that wise thought which came into your mind in the portico, and is now in your possession; for I am certain that you would not have come away until you had found what you sought.’
How I wish, said Socrates, taking his place as he was desired, that wisdom could be infused by touch, out of the fuller into the emptier man, as water runs through wool out of a fuller cup into an emptier one; if that were so, how greatly should I value the privilege of reclining at your side! For you would have filled me full with a stream of wisdom plenteous and fair; whereas my own is of a very mean and questionable sort, no better than a dream. But yours is bright and full of promise, and was manifested forth in all the splendour of youth the day before yesterday, in the presence of more than thirty thousand Hellenes.
You are mocking, Socrates, said Agathon, and ere long you and I will have to determine who bears off the palm of wisdom—of this Dionysus shall be the judge; but at present you are better occupied with supper.
Socrates took his place on the couch, and supped with the rest; and then libations were offered, and after a hymn had been sung to the god, and there had been the usual ceremonies, they were about to commence drinking, when Pausanias said, And now, my friends, how can we drink with least injury to ourselves? I can assure you that I feel severely the effect of yesterday’s potations, and must have time to recover; and I suspect that most of you are in the same predicament, for you were of the party yesterday. Consider then: How can the drinking be made easiest?
I entirely agree, said Aristophanes, that we should, by all means, avoid hard drinking, for I was myself one of those who were yesterday drowned in drink.
I think that you are right, said Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus; but I should still like to hear one other person speak: Is Agathon able to drink hard?
I am not equal to it, said Agathon.
Then, said Eryximachus, the weak heads like myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and others who never can drink, are fortunate in finding that the stronger ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include Socrates, who is able either to drink or to abstain, and will not mind, whichever we do.) Well, as of none of the company seem disposed to drink much, I may be forgiven for saying, as a physician, that drinking deep is a bad practice, which I never follow, if I can help, and certainly do not recommend to another, least of all to any one who still feels the effects of yesterday’s carouse.
I always do what you advise, and especially what you prescribe as a physician, rejoined Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and the rest of the company, if they are wise, will do the same.
It was agreed that drinking was not to be the order of the day, but that they were all to drink only so much as they pleased.
Then, said Eryximachus, as you are all agreed that drinking is to be voluntary, and that there is to be no compulsion, I move, in the next place, that the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, be told to go away and play to herself, or, if she likes, to the women who are within (compare Prot.). To-day let us have conversation instead; and, if you will allow me, I will tell you what sort of conversation. This proposal having been accepted, Eryximachus proceeded as follows:—
I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe in Euripides,
‘Not mine the word’
which I am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus. For often he says to me in an indignant tone:—’What a strange thing it is, Eryximachus, that, whereas other gods have poems and hymns made in their honour, the great and glorious god, Love, has no encomiast among all the poets who are so many. There are the worthy sophists too—the excellent Prodicus for example, who have descanted in prose on the virtues of Heracles and other heroes; and, what is still more extraordinary, I have met with a philosophical work in which the utility of salt has been made the theme of an eloquent discourse; and many other like things have had a like honour bestowed upon them. And only to think that there should have been an eager interest created about them, and yet that to this day no one has ever dared worthily to hymn Love’s praises! So entirely has this great deity been neglected.’ Now in this Phaedrus seems to me to be quite right, and therefore I want to offer him a contribution; also I think that at the present moment we who are here assembled cannot do better than honour the god Love. If you agree with me, there will be no lack of conversation; for I mean to propose that each of us in turn, going from left to right, shall make a speech in honour of Love. Let him give us the best which he can; and Phaedrus, because he is sitting first on the left hand, and because he is the father of the thought, shall begin.
No one will vote against you, Eryximachus, said Socrates. How can I oppose your motion, who profess to understand nothing but matters of love; nor, I presume, will Agathon and Pausanias; and there can be no doubt of Aristophanes, whose whole concern is with Dionysus and Aphrodite; nor will any one disagree of those whom I see around me. The proposal, as I am aware, may seem rather hard upon us whose place is last; but we shall be contented if we hear some good speeches first. Let Phaedrus begin the praise of Love, and good luck to him. All the company expressed their assent, and desired him to do as Socrates bade him.
Aristodemus did not recollect all that was said, nor do I recollect all that he related to me; but I will tell you what I thought most worthy of remembrance, and what the chief speakers said.
Phaedrus began by affirming that Love is a mighty god, and wonderful among gods and men, but especially wonderful in his birth. For he is the eldest of the gods, which is an honour to him; and a proof of his claim to this honour is, that of his parents there is no memorial; neither poet nor prose-writer has ever affirmed that he had any. As Hesiod says:—
‘First Chaos came, and then broad-bosomed Earth, The everlasting seat of all that is, And Love.’
In other words, after Chaos, the Earth and Love, these two, came into being. Also Parmenides sings of Generation:
‘First in the train of gods, he fashioned Love.’
And Acusilaus agrees with Hesiod. Thus numerous are the witnesses who acknowledge Love to be the eldest of the gods. And not only is he the eldest, he is also the source of the greatest benefits to us. For I know not any greater blessing to a young man who is beginning life than a virtuous lover, or to the lover than a beloved youth. For the principle which ought to be the guide of men who would nobly live—that principle, I say, neither kindred, nor honour, nor wealth, nor any other motive is able to implant so well as love. Of what am I speaking? Of the sense of honour and dishonour, without which neither states nor individuals ever do any good or great work. And I say that a lover who is detected in doing any dishonourable act, or submitting through cowardice when any dishonour is done to him by another, will be more pained at being detected by his beloved than at being seen by his father, or by his companions, or by any one else. The beloved too, when he is found in any disgraceful situation, has the same feeling about his lover. And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves (compare Rep.), they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour; and when fighting at each other’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger? The veriest coward would become an inspired hero, equal to the bravest, at such a time; Love would inspire him. That courage which, as Homer says, the god breathes into the souls of some heroes, Love of his own nature infuses into the lover.
Love will make men dare to die for their beloved—love alone; and women as well as men. Of this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, is a monument to all Hellas; for she was willing to lay down her life on behalf of her husband, when no one else would, although he had a father and mother; but the tenderness of her love so far exceeded theirs, that she made them seem to be strangers in blood to their own son, and in name only related to him; and so noble did this action of hers appear to the gods, as well as to men, that among the many who have done virtuously she is one of the very few to whom, in admiration of her noble action, they have granted the privilege of returning alive to earth; such exceeding honour is paid by the gods to the devotion and virtue of love. But Orpheus, the son of Oeagrus, the harper, they sent empty away, and presented to him an apparition only of her whom he sought, but herself they would not give up, because he showed no spirit; he was only a harp-player, and did not dare like Alcestis to die for love, but was contriving how he might enter Hades alive; moreover, they afterwards caused him to suffer death at the hands of women, as the punishment of his cowardliness. Very different was the reward of the true love of Achilles towards his lover Patroclus—his lover and not his love (the notion that Patroclus was the beloved one is a foolish error into which Aeschylus has fallen, for Achilles was surely the fairer of the two, fairer also than all the other heroes; and, as Homer informs us, he was still beardless, and younger far). And greatly as the gods honour the virtue of love, still the return of love on the part of the beloved to the lover is more admired and valued and rewarded by them, for the lover is more divine; because he is inspired by God. Now Achilles was quite aware, for he had been told by his mother, that he might avoid death and return home, and live to a good old age, if he abstained from slaying Hector. Nevertheless he gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, not only in his defence, but after he was dead. Wherefore the gods honoured him even above Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands of the Blest. These are my reasons for affirming that Love is the eldest and noblest and mightiest of the gods; and the chiefest author and giver of virtue in life, and of happiness after death.
This, or something like this, was the speech of Phaedrus; and some other speeches followed which Aristodemus did not remember; the next which he repeated was that of Pausanias. Phaedrus, he said, the argument has not been set before us, I think, quite in the right form;—we should not be called upon to praise Love in such an indiscriminate manner. If there were only one Love, then what you said would be well enough; but since there are more Loves than one,—should have begun by determining which of them was to be the theme of our praises. I will amend this defect; and first of all I will tell you which Love is deserving of praise, and then try to hymn the praiseworthy one in a manner worthy of him. For we all know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite, and if there were only one Aphrodite there would be only one Love; but as there are two goddesses there must be two Loves. And am I not right in asserting that there are two goddesses? The elder one, having no mother, who is called the heavenly Aphrodite—she is the daughter of Uranus; the younger, who is the daughter of Zeus and Dione—her we call common; and the Love who is her fellow-worker is rightly named common, as the other love is called heavenly. All the gods ought to have praise given to them, but not without distinction of their natures; and therefore I must try to distinguish the characters of the two Loves. Now actions vary according to the manner of their performance. Take, for example, that which we are now doing, drinking, singing and talking—these actions are not in themselves either good or evil, but they turn out in this or that way according to the mode of performing them; and when well done they are good, and when wrongly done they are evil; and in like manner not every love, but only that which has a noble purpose, is noble and worthy of praise. The Love who is the offspring of the common Aphrodite is essentially common, and has no discrimination, being such as the meaner sort of men feel, and is apt to be of women as well as of youths, and is of the body rather than of the soul—the most foolish beings are the objects of this love which desires only to gain an end, but never thinks of accomplishing the end nobly, and therefore does good and evil quite indiscriminately. The goddess who is his mother is far younger than the other, and she was born of the union of the male and female, and partakes of both. But the offspring of the heavenly Aphrodite is derived from a mother in whose birth the female has no part,—she is from the male only; this is that love which is of youths, and the goddess being older, there is nothing of wantonness in her. Those who are inspired by this love turn to the male, and delight in him who is the more valiant and intelligent nature; any one may recognise the pure enthusiasts in the very character of their attachments. For they love not boys, but intelligent beings whose reason is beginning to be developed, much about the time at which their beards begin to grow. And in choosing young men to be their companions, they mean to be faithful to them, and pass their whole life in company with them, not to take them in their inexperience, and deceive them, and play the fool with them, or run away from one to another of them. But the love of young boys should be forbidden by law, because their future is uncertain; they may turn out good or bad, either in body or soul, and much noble enthusiasm may be thrown away upon them; in this matter the good are a law to themselves, and the coarser sort of lovers ought to be restrained by force; as we restrain or attempt to restrain them from fixing their affections on women of free birth. These are the persons who bring a reproach on love; and some have been led to deny the lawfulness of such attachments because they see the impropriety and evil of them; for surely nothing that is decorously and lawfully done can justly be censured. Now here and in Lacedaemon the rules about love are perplexing, but in most cities they are simple and easily intelligible; in Elis and Boeotia, and in countries having no gifts of eloquence, they are very straightforward; the law is simply in favour of these connexions, and no one, whether young or old, has anything to say to their discredit; the reason being, as I suppose, that they are men of few words in those parts, and therefore the lovers do not like the trouble of pleading their suit. In Ionia and other places, and generally in countries which are subject to the barbarians, the custom is held to be dishonourable; loves of youths share the evil repute in which philosophy and gymnastics are held, because they are inimical to tyranny; for the interests of rulers require that their subjects should be poor in spirit (compare Arist. Politics), and that there should be no strong bond of friendship or society among them, which love, above all other motives, is likely to inspire, as our Athenian tyrants learned by experience; for the love of Aristogeiton and the constancy of Harmodius had a strength which undid their power. And, therefore, the ill-repute into which these attachments have fallen is to be ascribed to the evil condition of those who make them to be ill-reputed; that is to say, to the self-seeking of the governors and the cowardice of the governed; on the other hand, the indiscriminate honour which is given to them in some countries is attributable to the laziness of those who hold this opinion of them. In our own country a far better principle prevails, but, as I was saying, the explanation of it is rather perplexing. For, observe that open loves are held to be more honourable than secret ones, and that the love of the noblest and highest, even if their persons are less beautiful than others, is especially honourable. Consider, too, how great is the encouragement which all the world gives to the lover; neither is he supposed to be doing anything dishonourable; but if he succeeds he is praised, and if he fail he is blamed. And in the pursuit of his love the custom of mankind allows him to do many strange things, which philosophy would bitterly censure if they were done from any motive of interest, or wish for office or power. He may pray, and entreat, and supplicate, and swear, and lie on a mat at the door, and endure a slavery worse than that of any slave—in any other case friends and enemies would be equally ready to prevent him, but now there is no friend who will be ashamed of him and admonish him, and no enemy will charge him with meanness or flattery; the actions of a lover have a grace which ennobles them; and custom has decided that they are highly commendable and that there no loss of character in them; and, what is strangest of all, he only may swear and forswear himself (so men say), and the gods will forgive his transgression, for there is no such thing as a lover’s oath. Such is the entire liberty which gods and men have allowed the lover, according to the custom which prevails in our part of the world. From this point of view a man fairly argues that in Athens to love and to be loved is held to be a very honourable thing. But when parents forbid their sons to talk with their lovers, and place them under a tutor’s care, who is appointed to see to these things, and their companions and equals cast in their teeth anything of the sort which they may observe, and their elders refuse to silence the reprovers and do not rebuke them—any one who reflects on all this will, on the contrary, think that we hold these practices to be most disgraceful. But, as I was saying at first, the truth as I imagine is, that whether such practices are honourable or whether they are dishonourable is not a simple question; they are honourable to him who follows them honourably, dishonourable to him who follows them dishonourably. There is dishonour in yielding to the evil, or in an evil manner; but there is honour in yielding to the good, or in an honourable manner. Evil is the vulgar lover who loves the body rather than the soul, inasmuch as he is not even stable, because he loves a thing which is in itself unstable, and therefore when the bloom of youth which he was desiring is over, he takes wing and flies away, in spite of all his words and promises; whereas the love of the noble disposition is life-long, for it becomes one with the everlasting. The custom of our country would have both of them proven well and truly, and would have us yield to the one sort of lover and avoid the other, and therefore encourages some to pursue, and others to fly; testing both the lover and beloved in contests and trials, until they show to which of the two classes they respectively belong. And this is the reason why, in the first place, a hasty attachment is held to be dishonourable, because time is the true test of this as of most other things; and secondly there is a dishonour in being overcome by the love of money, or of wealth, or of political power, whether a man is frightened into surrender by the loss of them, or, having experienced the benefits of money and political corruption, is unable to rise above the seductions of them. For none of these things are of a permanent or lasting nature; not to mention that no generous friendship ever sprang from them. There remains, then, only one way of honourable attachment which custom allows in the beloved, and this is the way of virtue; for as we admitted that any service which the lover does to him is not to be accounted flattery or a dishonour to himself, so the beloved has one way only of voluntary service which is not dishonourable, and this is virtuous service.
For we have a custom, and according to our custom any one who does service to another under the idea that he will be improved by him either in wisdom, or in some other particular of virtue—such a voluntary service, I say, is not to be regarded as a dishonour, and is not open to the charge of flattery. And these two customs, one the love of youth, and the other the practice of philosophy and virtue in general, ought to meet in one, and then the beloved may honourably indulge the lover. For when the lover and beloved come together, having each of them a law, and the lover thinks that he is right in doing any service which he can to his gracious loving one; and the other that he is right in showing any kindness which he can to him who is making him wise and good; the one capable of communicating wisdom and virtue, the other seeking to acquire them with a view to education and wisdom, when the two laws of love are fulfilled and meet in one—then, and then only, may the beloved yield with honour to the lover. Nor when love is of this disinterested sort is there any disgrace in being deceived, but in every other case there is equal disgrace in being or not being deceived. For he who is gracious to his lover under the impression that he is rich, and is disappointed of his gains because he turns out to be poor, is disgraced all the same: for he has done his best to show that he would give himself up to any one’s ‘uses base’ for the sake of money; but this is not honourable. And on the same principle he who gives himself to a lover because he is a good man, and in the hope that he will be improved by his company, shows himself to be virtuous, even though the object of his affection turn out to be a villain, and to have no virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed a noble error. For he has proved that for his part he will do anything for anybody with a view to virtue and improvement, than which there can be nothing nobler. Thus noble in every case is the acceptance of another for the sake of virtue. This is that love which is the love of the heavenly godess, and is heavenly, and of great price to individuals and cities, making the lover and the beloved alike eager in the work of their own improvement. But all other loves are the offspring of the other, who is the common goddess. To you, Phaedrus, I offer this my contribution in praise of love, which is as good as I could make extempore.
Pausanias came to a pause—this is the balanced way in which I have been taught by the wise to speak; and Aristodemus said that the turn of Aristophanes was next, but either he had eaten too much, or from some other cause he had the hiccough, and was obliged to change turns with Eryximachus the physician, who was reclining on the couch below him. Eryximachus, he said, you ought either to stop my hiccough, or to speak in my turn until I have left off.
I will do both, said Eryximachus: I will speak in your turn, and do you speak in mine; and while I am speaking let me recommend you to hold your breath, and if after you have done so for some time the hiccough is no better, then gargle with a little water; and if it still continues, tickle your nose with something and sneeze; and if you sneeze once or twice, even the most violent hiccough is sure to go. I will do as you prescribe, said Aristophanes, and now get on.
Eryximachus spoke as follows: Seeing that Pausanias made a fair beginning, and but a lame ending, I must endeavour to supply his deficiency. I think that he has rightly distinguished two kinds of love. But my art further informs me that the double love is not merely an affection of the soul of man towards the fair, or towards anything, but is to be found in the bodies of all animals and in productions of the earth, and I may say in all that is; such is the conclusion which I seem to have gathered from my own art of medicine, whence I learn how great and wonderful and universal is the deity of love, whose empire extends over all things, divine as well as human. And from medicine I will begin that I may do honour to my art. There are in the human body these two kinds of love, which are confessedly different and unlike, and being unlike, they have loves and desires which are unlike; and the desire of the healthy is one, and the desire of the diseased is another; and as Pausanias was just now saying that to indulge good men is honourable, and bad men dishonourable:—so too in the body the good and healthy elements are to be indulged, and the bad elements and the elements of disease are not to be indulged, but discouraged. And this is what the physician has to do, and in this the art of medicine consists: for medicine may be regarded generally as the knowledge of the loves and desires of the body, and how to satisfy them or not; and the best physician is he who is able to separate fair love from foul, or to convert one into the other; and he who knows how to eradicate and how to implant love, whichever is required, and can reconcile the most hostile elements in the constitution and make them loving friends, is a skilful practitioner. Now the most hostile are the most opposite, such as hot and cold, bitter and sweet, moist and dry, and the like. And my ancestor, Asclepius, knowing how to implant friendship and accord in these elements, was the creator of our art, as our friends the poets here tell us, and I believe them; and not only medicine in every branch but the arts of gymnastic and husbandry are under his dominion. Any one who pays the least attention to the subject will also perceive that in music there is the same reconciliation of opposites; and I suppose that this must have been the meaning of Heracleitus, although his words are not accurate; for he says that The One is united by disunion, like the harmony of the bow and the lyre. Now there is an absurdity saying that harmony is discord or is composed of elements which are still in a state of discord. But what he probably meant was, that harmony is composed of differing notes of higher or lower pitch which disagreed once, but are now reconciled by the art of music; for if the higher and lower notes still disagreed, there could be no harmony,—clearly not. For harmony is a symphony, and symphony is an agreement; but an agreement of disagreements while they disagree there cannot be; you cannot harmonize that which disagrees. In like manner rhythm is compounded of elements short and long, once differing and now in accord; which accordance, as in the former instance, medicine, so in all these other cases, music implants, making love and unison to grow up among them; and thus music, too, is concerned with the principles of love in their application to harmony and rhythm. Again, in the essential nature of harmony and rhythm there is no difficulty in discerning love which has not yet become double. But when you want to use them in actual life, either in the composition of songs or in the correct performance of airs or metres composed already, which latter is called education, then the difficulty begins, and the good artist is needed. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair and heavenly love—the love of Urania the fair and heavenly muse, and of the duty of accepting the temperate, and those who are as yet intemperate only that they may become temperate, and of preserving their love; and again, of the vulgar Polyhymnia, who must be used with circumspection that the pleasure be enjoyed, but may not generate licentiousness; just as in my own art it is a great matter so to regulate the desires of the epicure that he may gratify his tastes without the attendant evil of disease. Whence I infer that in music, in medicine, in all other things human as well as divine, both loves ought to be noted as far as may be, for they are both present.
The course of the seasons is also full of both these principles; and when, as I was saying, the elements of hot and cold, moist and dry, attain the harmonious love of one another and blend in temperance and harmony, they bring to men, animals, and plants health and plenty, and do them no harm; whereas the wanton love, getting the upper hand and affecting the seasons of the year, is very destructive and injurious, being the source of pestilence, and bringing many other kinds of diseases on animals and plants; for hoar-frost and hail and blight spring from the excesses and disorders of these elements of love, which to know in relation to the revolutions of the heavenly bodies and the seasons of the year is termed astronomy. Furthermore all sacrifices and the whole province of divination, which is the art of communion between gods and men—these, I say, are concerned only with the preservation of the good and the cure of the evil love. For all manner of impiety is likely to ensue if, instead of accepting and honouring and reverencing the harmonious love in all his actions, a man honours the other love, whether in his feelings towards gods or parents, towards the living or the dead. Wherefore the business of divination is to see to these loves and to heal them, and divination is the peacemaker of gods and men, working by a knowledge of the religious or irreligious tendencies which exist in human loves. Such is the great and mighty, or rather omnipotent force of love in general. And the love, more especially, which is concerned with the good, and which is perfected in company with temperance and justice, whether among gods or men, has the greatest power, and is the source of all our happiness and harmony, and makes us friends with the gods who are above us, and with one another. I dare say that I too have omitted several things which might be said in praise of Love, but this was not intentional, and you, Aristophanes, may now supply the omission or take some other line of commendation; for I perceive that you are rid of the hiccough.
Yes, said Aristophanes, who followed, the hiccough is gone; not, however, until I applied the sneezing; and I wonder whether the harmony of the body has a love of such noises and ticklings, for I no sooner applied the sneezing than I was cured.
Eryximachus said: Beware, friend Aristophanes, although you are going to speak, you are making fun of me; and I shall have to watch and see whether I cannot have a laugh at your expense, when you might speak in peace.
You are right, said Aristophanes, laughing. I will unsay my words; but do you please not to watch me, as I fear that in the speech which I am about to make, instead of others laughing with me, which is to the manner born of our muse and would be all the better, I shall only be laughed at by them.
Do you expect to shoot your bolt and escape, Aristophanes? Well, perhaps if you are very careful and bear in mind that you will be called to account, I may be induced to let you off.
Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse; he had a mind to praise Love in another way, unlike that either of Pausanias or Eryximachus. Mankind, he said, judging by their neglect of him, have never, as I think, at all understood the power of Love. For if they had understood him they would surely have built noble temples and altars, and offered solemn sacrifices in his honour; but this is not done, and most certainly ought to be done: since of all the gods he is the best friend of men, the helper and the healer of the ills which are the great impediment to the happiness of the race. I will try to describe his power to you, and you shall teach the rest of the world what I am teaching you. In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and the word ‘Androgynous’ is only preserved as a term of reproach. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round like their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained. At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way. He said: ‘Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.’ He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn in order that the man might contemplate the section of himself: he would thus learn a lesson of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, like the purses which draw in, and he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel); he also moulded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state. After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they were on the point of dying from hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them,—being the sections of entire men or women,—and clung to that. They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position, and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man. Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men: the women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them. And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saving. When they reach manhood they are lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,—if at all, they do so only in obedience to the law; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded; and such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him. And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover’s intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment. Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side and to say to them, ‘What do you people want of one another?’ they would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said: ‘Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night to be in one another’s company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into one and let you grow together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead of two—I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you are satisfied to attain this?’—there is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need (compare Arist. Pol.). And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians (compare Arist. Pol.). And if we are not obedient to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the profile figures having only half a nose which are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may avoid evil, and obtain the good, of which Love is to us the lord and minister; and let no one oppose him—he is the enemy of the gods who opposes him. For if we are friends of the God and at peace with him we shall find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious, and therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion in what I am saying to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both of the manly nature, and belong to the class which I have been describing. But my words have a wider application—they include men and women everywhere; and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next degree and under present circumstances must be the nearest approach to such an union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love. Wherefore, if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us happy and blessed. This, Eryximachus, is my discourse of love, which, although different to yours, I must beg you to leave unassailed by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that each may have his turn; each, or rather either, for Agathon and Socrates are the only ones left.
Indeed, I am not going to attack you, said Eryximachus, for I thought your speech charming, and did I not know that Agathon and Socrates are masters in the art of love, I should be really afraid that they would have nothing to say, after the world of things which have been said already. But, for all that, I am not without hopes.
Socrates said: You played your part well, Eryximachus; but if you were as I am now, or rather as I shall be when Agathon has spoken, you would, indeed, be in a great strait.
You want to cast a spell over me, Socrates, said Agathon, in the hope that I may be disconcerted at the expectation raised among the audience that I shall speak well.
I should be strangely forgetful, Agathon replied Socrates, of the courage and magnanimity which you showed when your own compositions were about to be exhibited, and you came upon the stage with the actors and faced the vast theatre altogether undismayed, if I thought that your nerves could be fluttered at a small party of friends.
Do you think, Socrates, said Agathon, that my head is so full of the theatre as not to know how much more formidable to a man of sense a few good judges are than many fools?
Nay, replied Socrates, I should be very wrong in attributing to you, Agathon, that or any other want of refinement. And I am quite aware that if you happened to meet with any whom you thought wise, you would care for their opinion much more than for that of the many. But then we, having been a part of the foolish many in the theatre, cannot be regarded as the select wise; though I know that if you chanced to be in the presence, not of one of ourselves, but of some really wise man, you would be ashamed of disgracing yourself before him—would you not?
Yes, said Agathon.
But before the many you would not be ashamed, if you thought that you were doing something disgraceful in their presence?
Here Phaedrus interrupted them, saying: not answer him, my dear Agathon; for if he can only get a partner with whom he can talk, especially a good-looking one, he will no longer care about the completion of our plan. Now I love to hear him talk; but just at present I must not forget the encomium on Love which I ought to receive from him and from every one. When you and he have paid your tribute to the god, then you may talk.
Very good, Phaedrus, said Agathon; I see no reason why I should not proceed with my speech, as I shall have many other opportunities of conversing with Socrates. Let me say first how I ought to speak, and then speak:—
The previous speakers, instead of praising the god Love, or unfolding his nature, appear to have congratulated mankind on the benefits which he confers upon them. But I would rather praise the god first, and then speak of his gifts; this is always the right way of praising everything. May I say without impiety or offence, that of all the blessed gods he is the most blessed because he is the fairest and best? And he is the fairest: for, in the first place, he is the youngest, and of his youth he is himself the witness, fleeing out of the way of age, who is swift enough, swifter truly than most of us like:—Love hates him and will not come near him; but youth and love live and move together—like to like, as the proverb says. Many things were said by Phaedrus about Love in which I agree with him; but I cannot agree that he is older than Iapetus and Kronos:—not so; I maintain him to be the youngest of the gods, and youthful ever. The ancient doings among the gods of which Hesiod and Parmenides spoke, if the tradition of them be true, were done of Necessity and not of Love; had Love been in those days, there would have been no chaining or mutilation of the gods, or other violence, but peace and sweetness, as there is now in heaven, since the rule of Love began. Love is young and also tender; he ought to have a poet like Homer to describe his tenderness, as Homer says of Ate, that she is a goddess and tender:—
‘Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps, Not on the ground but on the heads of men:’
herein is an excellent proof of her tenderness,—that she walks not upon the hard but upon the soft. Let us adduce a similar proof of the tenderness of Love; for he walks not upon the earth, nor yet upon the skulls of men, which are not so very soft, but in the hearts and souls of both gods and men, which are of all things the softest: in them he walks and dwells and makes his home. Not in every soul without exception, for where there is hardness he departs, where there is softness there he dwells; and nestling always with his feet and in all manner of ways in the softest of soft places, how can he be other than the softest of all things? Of a truth he is the tenderest as well as the youngest, and also he is of flexile form; for if he were hard and without flexure he could not enfold all things, or wind his way into and out of every soul of man undiscovered. And a proof of his flexibility and symmetry of form is his grace, which is universally admitted to be in an especial manner the attribute of Love; ungrace and love are always at war with one another. The fairness of his complexion is revealed by his habitation among the flowers; for he dwells not amid bloomless or fading beauties, whether of body or soul or aught else, but in the place of flowers and scents, there he sits and abides. Concerning the beauty of the god I have said enough; and yet there remains much more which I might say. Of his virtue I have now to speak: his greatest glory is that he can neither do nor suffer wrong to or from any god or any man; for he suffers not by force if he suffers; force comes not near him, neither when he acts does he act by force. For all men in all things serve him of their own free will, and where there is voluntary agreement, there, as the laws which are the lords of the city say, is justice. And not only is he just but exceedingly temperate, for Temperance is the acknowledged ruler of the pleasures and desires, and no pleasure ever masters Love; he is their master and they are his servants; and if he conquers them he must be temperate indeed. As to courage, even the God of War is no match for him; he is the captive and Love is the lord, for love, the love of Aphrodite, masters him, as the tale runs; and the master is stronger than the servant. And if he conquers the bravest of all others, he must be himself the bravest. Of his courage and justice and temperance I have spoken, but I have yet to speak of his wisdom; and according to the measure of my ability I must try to do my best. In the first place he is a poet (and here, like Eryximachus, I magnify my art), and he is also the source of poesy in others, which he could not be if he were not himself a poet. And at the touch of him every one becomes a poet, even though he had no music in him before (A fragment of the Sthenoaoea of Euripides.); this also is a proof that Love is a good poet and accomplished in all the fine arts; for no one can give to another that which he has not himself, or teach that of which he has no knowledge. Who will deny that the creation of the animals is his doing? Are they not all the works of his wisdom, born and begotten of him? And as to the artists, do we not know that he only of them whom love inspires has the light of fame?—he whom Love touches not walks in darkness. The arts of medicine and archery and divination were discovered by Apollo, under the guidance of love and desire; so that he too is a disciple of Love. Also the melody of the Muses, the metallurgy of Hephaestus, the weaving of Athene, the empire of Zeus over gods and men, are all due to Love, who was the inventor of them. And so Love set in order the empire of the gods—the love of beauty, as is evident, for with deformity Love has no concern. In the days of old, as I began by saying, dreadful deeds were done among the gods, for they were ruled by Necessity; but now since the birth of Love, and from the Love of the beautiful, has sprung every good in heaven and earth. Therefore, Phaedrus, I say of Love that he is the fairest and best in himself, and the cause of what is fairest and best in all other things. And there comes into my mind a line of poetry in which he is said to be the god who
‘Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep, Who stills the winds and bids the sufferer sleep.’
This is he who empties men of disaffection and fills them with affection, who makes them to meet together at banquets such as these: in sacrifices, feasts, dances, he is our lord—who sends courtesy and sends away discourtesy, who gives kindness ever and never gives unkindness; the friend of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods; desired by those who have no part in him, and precious to those who have the better part in him; parent of delicacy, luxury, desire, fondness, softness, grace; regardful of the good, regardless of the evil: in every word, work, wish, fear—saviour, pilot, comrade, helper; glory of gods and men, leader best and brightest: in whose footsteps let every man follow, sweetly singing in his honour and joining in that sweet strain with which love charms the souls of gods and men. Such is the speech, Phaedrus, half-playful, yet having a certain measure of seriousness, which, according to my ability, I dedicate to the god.
When Agathon had done speaking, Aristodemus said that there was a general cheer; the young man was thought to have spoken in a manner worthy of himself, and of the god. And Socrates, looking at Eryximachus, said: Tell me, son of Acumenus, was there not reason in my fears? and was I not a true prophet when I said that Agathon would make a wonderful oration, and that I should be in a strait?
The part of the prophecy which concerns Agathon, replied Eryximachus, appears to me to be true; but not the other part—that you will be in a strait.
Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I or any one be in a strait who has to speak after he has heard such a rich and varied discourse? I am especially struck with the beauty of the concluding words—who could listen to them without amazement? When I reflected on the immeasurable inferiority of my own powers, I was ready to run away for shame, if there had been a possibility of escape. For I was reminded of Gorgias, and at the end of his speech I fancied that Agathon was shaking at me the Gorginian or Gorgonian head of the great master of rhetoric, which was simply to turn me and my speech into stone, as Homer says (Odyssey), and strike me dumb. And then I perceived how foolish I had been in consenting to take my turn with you in praising love, and saying that I too was a master of the art, when I really had no conception how anything ought to be praised. For in my simplicity I imagined that the topics of praise should be true, and that this being presupposed, out of the true the speaker was to choose the best and set them forth in the best manner. And I felt quite proud, thinking that I knew the nature of true praise, and should speak well. Whereas I now see that the intention was to attribute to Love every species of greatness and glory, whether really belonging to him or not, without regard to truth or falsehood—that was no matter; for the original proposal seems to have been not that each of you should really praise Love, but only that you should appear to praise him. And so you attribute to Love every imaginable form of praise which can be gathered anywhere; and you say that ‘he is all this,’ and ‘the cause of all that,’ making him appear the fairest and best of all to those who know him not, for you cannot impose upon those who know him. And a noble and solemn hymn of praise have you rehearsed. But as I misunderstood the nature of the praise when I said that I would take my turn, I must beg to be absolved from the promise which I made in ignorance, and which (as Euripides would say (Eurip. Hyppolytus)) was a promise of the lips and not of the mind. Farewell then to such a strain: for I do not praise in that way; no, indeed, I cannot. But if you like to hear the truth about love, I am ready to speak in my own manner, though I will not make myself ridiculous by entering into any rivalry with you. Say then, Phaedrus, whether you would like to have the truth about love, spoken in any words and in any order which may happen to come into my mind at the time. Will that be agreeable to you?
Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company bid him speak in any manner which he thought best. Then, he added, let me have your permission first to ask Agathon a few more questions, in order that I may take his admissions as the premisses of my discourse.
I grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your questions. Socrates then proceeded as follows:—
In the magnificent oration which you have just uttered, I think that you were right, my dear Agathon, in proposing to speak of the nature of Love first and afterwards of his works—that is a way of beginning which I very much approve. And as you have spoken so eloquently of his nature, may I ask you further, Whether love is the love of something or of nothing? And here I must explain myself: I do not want you to say that love is the love of a father or the love of a mother—that would be ridiculous; but to answer as you would, if I asked is a father a father of something? to which you would find no difficulty in replying, of a son or daughter: and the answer would be right.
Very true, said Agathon.
And you would say the same of a mother?
He assented.
Yet let me ask you one more question in order to illustrate my meaning: Is not a brother to be regarded essentially as a brother of something?
Certainly, he replied.
That is, of a brother or sister?
Yes, he said.
And now, said Socrates, I will ask about Love:—Is Love of something or of nothing?
Of something, surely, he replied.
Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want to know—whether Love desires that of which love is.
Yes, surely.
And does he possess, or does he not possess, that which he loves and desires?
Probably not, I should say.
Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider whether ‘necessarily’ is not rather the word. The inference that he who desires something is in want of something, and that he who desires nothing is in want of nothing, is in my judgment, Agathon, absolutely and necessarily true. What do you think?
I agree with you, said Agathon.
Very good. Would he who is great, desire to be great, or he who is strong, desire to be strong?
That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions.
True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that which he is?
Very true.
And yet, added Socrates, if a man being strong desired to be strong, or being swift desired to be swift, or being healthy desired to be healthy, in that case he might be thought to desire something which he already has or is. I give the example in order that we may avoid misconception. For the possessors of these qualities, Agathon, must be supposed to have their respective advantages at the time, whether they choose or not; and who can desire that which he has? Therefore, when a person says, I am well and wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and I desire simply to have what I have—to him we shall reply: ‘You, my friend, having wealth and health and strength, want to have the continuance of them; for at this moment, whether you choose or no, you have them. And when you say, I desire that which I have and nothing else, is not your meaning that you want to have what you now have in the future?’ He must agree with us—must he not?
He must, replied Agathon.
Then, said Socrates, he desires that what he has at present may be preserved to him in the future, which is equivalent to saying that he desires something which is non-existent to him, and which as yet he has not got:
Very true, he said.
Then he and every one who desires, desires that which he has not already, and which is future and not present, and which he has not, and is not, and of which he is in want;—these are the sort of things which love and desire seek?
Very true, he said.
Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the argument. First, is not love of something, and of something too which is wanting to a man?
Yes, he replied.
Remember further what you said in your speech, or if you do not remember I will remind you: you said that the love of the beautiful set in order the empire of the gods, for that of deformed things there is no love—did you not say something of that kind?
Yes, said Agathon.
Yes, my friend, and the remark was a just one. And if this is true, Love is the love of beauty and not of deformity?
He assented.
And the admission has been already made that Love is of something which a man wants and has not?
True, he said.
Then Love wants and has not beauty?
Certainly, he replied.
And would you call that beautiful which wants and does not possess beauty?
Certainly not.
Then would you still say that love is beautiful?
Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand what I was saying.
You made a very good speech, Agathon, replied Socrates; but there is yet one small question which I would fain ask:—Is not the good also the beautiful?
Yes.
Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the good?
I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon:—Let us assume that what you say is true.
Say rather, beloved Agathon, that you cannot refute the truth; for Socrates is easily refuted.
And now, taking my leave of you, I would rehearse a tale of love which I heard from Diotima of Mantineia (compare 1 Alcibiades), a woman wise in this and in many other kinds of knowledge, who in the days of old, when the Athenians offered sacrifice before the coming of the plague, delayed the disease ten years. She was my instructress in the art of love, and I shall repeat to you what she said to me, beginning with the admissions made by Agathon, which are nearly if not quite the same which I made to the wise woman when she questioned me: I think that this will be the easiest way, and I shall take both parts myself as well as I can (compare Gorgias). As you, Agathon, suggested (supra), I must speak first of the being and nature of Love, and then of his works. First I said to her in nearly the same words which he used to me, that Love was a mighty god, and likewise fair; and she proved to me as I proved to him that, by my own showing, Love was neither fair nor good. ‘What do you mean, Diotima,’ I said, ‘is love then evil and foul?’ ‘Hush,’ she cried; ‘must that be foul which is not fair?’ ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘And is that which is not wise, ignorant? do you not see that there is a mean between wisdom and ignorance?’ ‘And what may that be?’ I said. ‘Right opinion,’ she replied; ‘which, as you know, being incapable of giving a reason, is not knowledge (for how can knowledge be devoid of reason? nor again, ignorance, for neither can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly something which is a mean between ignorance and wisdom.’ ‘Quite true,’ I replied. ‘Do not then insist,’ she said, ‘that what is not fair is of necessity foul, or what is not good evil; or infer that because love is not fair and good he is therefore foul and evil; for he is in a mean between them.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Love is surely admitted by all to be a great god.’ ‘By those who know or by those who do not know?’ ‘By all.’ ‘And how, Socrates,’ she said with a smile, ‘can Love be acknowledged to be a great god by those who say that he is not a god at all?’ ‘And who are they?’ I said. ‘You and I are two of them,’ she replied. ‘How can that be?’ I said. ‘It is quite intelligible,’ she replied; ‘for you yourself would acknowledge that the gods are happy and fair—of course you would—would you dare to say that any god was not?’ ‘Certainly not,’ I replied. ‘And you mean by the happy, those who are the possessors of things good or fair?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you admitted that Love, because he was in want, desires those good and fair things of which he is in want?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ ‘But how can he be a god who has no portion in what is either good or fair?’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘Then you see that you also deny the divinity of Love.’
‘What then is Love?’ I asked; ‘Is he mortal?’ ‘No.’ ‘What then?’ ‘As in the former instance, he is neither mortal nor immortal, but in a mean between the two.’ ‘What is he, Diotima?’ ‘He is a great spirit (daimon), and like all spirits he is intermediate between the divine and the mortal.’ ‘And what,’ I said, ‘is his power?’ ‘He interprets,’ she replied, ‘between gods and men, conveying and taking across to the gods the prayers and sacrifices of men, and to men the commands and replies of the gods; he is the mediator who spans the chasm which divides them, and therefore in him all is bound together, and through him the arts of the prophet and the priest, their sacrifices and mysteries and charms, and all prophecy and incantation, find their way. For God mingles not with man; but through Love all the intercourse and converse of God with man, whether awake or asleep, is carried on. The wisdom which understands this is spiritual; all other wisdom, such as that of arts and handicrafts, is mean and vulgar. Now these spirits or intermediate powers are many and diverse, and one of them is Love.’ ‘And who,’ I said, ‘was his father, and who his mother?’ ‘The tale,’ she said, ‘will take time; nevertheless I will tell you. On the birthday of Aphrodite there was a feast of the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty, who is the son of Metis or Discretion, was one of the guests. When the feast was over, Penia or Poverty, as the manner is on such occasions, came about the doors to beg. Now Plenty who was the worse for nectar (there was no wine in those days), went into the garden of Zeus and fell into a heavy sleep, and Poverty considering her own straitened circumstances, plotted to have a child by him, and accordingly she lay down at his side and conceived Love, who partly because he is naturally a lover of the beautiful, and because Aphrodite is herself beautiful, and also because he was born on her birthday, is her follower and attendant. And as his parentage is, so also are his fortunes. In the first place he is always poor, and anything but tender and fair, as the many imagine him; and he is rough and squalid, and has no shoes, nor a house to dwell in; on the bare earth exposed he lies under the open heaven, in the streets, or at the doors of houses, taking his rest; and like his mother he is always in distress. Like his father too, whom he also partly resembles, he is always plotting against the fair and good; he is bold, enterprising, strong, a mighty hunter, always weaving some intrigue or other, keen in the pursuit of wisdom, fertile in resources; a philosopher at all times, terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, sophist. He is by nature neither mortal nor immortal, but alive and flourishing at one moment when he is in plenty, and dead at another moment, and again alive by reason of his father’s nature. But that which is always flowing in is always flowing out, and so he is never in want and never in wealth; and, further, he is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge. The truth of the matter is this: No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself: he has no desire for that of which he feels no want.’ ‘But who then, Diotima,’ I said, ‘are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?’ ‘A child may answer that question,’ she replied; ‘they are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them. For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. And of this too his birth is the cause; for his father is wealthy and wise, and his mother poor and foolish. Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. The error in your conception of him was very natural, and as I imagine from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of love and the beloved, which made you think that love was all beautiful. For the beloved is the truly beautiful, and delicate, and perfect, and blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is such as I have described.’
I said, ‘O thou stranger woman, thou sayest well; but, assuming Love to be such as you say, what is the use of him to men?’ ‘That, Socrates,’ she replied, ‘I will attempt to unfold: of his nature and birth I have already spoken; and you acknowledge that love is of the beautiful. But some one will say: Of the beautiful in what, Socrates and Diotima?—or rather let me put the question more clearly, and ask: When a man loves the beautiful, what does he desire?’ I answered her ‘That the beautiful may be his.’ ‘Still,’ she said, ‘the answer suggests a further question: What is given by the possession of beauty?’ ‘To what you have asked,’ I replied, ‘I have no answer ready.’ ‘Then,’ she said, ‘let me put the word “good” in the place of the beautiful, and repeat the question once more: If he who loves loves the good, what is it then that he loves?’ ‘The possession of the good,’ I said. ‘And what does he gain who possesses the good?’ ‘Happiness,’ I replied; ‘there is less difficulty in answering that question.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the happy are made happy by the acquisition of good things. Nor is there any need to ask why a man desires happiness; the answer is already final.’ ‘You are right.’ I said. ‘And is this wish and this desire common to all? and do all men always desire their own good, or only some men?—what say you?’ ‘All men,’ I replied; ‘the desire is common to all.’ ‘Why, then,’ she rejoined, ‘are not all men, Socrates, said to love, but only some of them? whereas you say that all men are always loving the same things.’ ‘I myself wonder,’ I said, ‘why this is.’ ‘There is nothing to wonder at,’ she replied; ‘the reason is that one part of love is separated off and receives the name of the whole, but the other parts have other names.’ ‘Give an illustration,’ I said. She answered me as follows: ‘There is poetry, which, as you know, is complex and manifold. All creation or passage of non-being into being is poetry or making, and the processes of all art are creative; and the masters of arts are all poets or makers.’ ‘Very true.’ ‘Still,’ she said, ‘you know that they are not called poets, but have other names; only that portion of the art which is separated off from the rest, and is concerned with music and metre, is termed poetry, and they who possess poetry in this sense of the word are called poets.’ ‘Very true,’ I said. ‘And the same holds of love. For you may say generally that all desire of good and happiness is only the great and subtle power of love; but they who are drawn towards him by any other path, whether the path of money-making or gymnastics or philosophy, are not called lovers—the name of the whole is appropriated to those whose affection takes one form only—they alone are said to love, or to be lovers.’ ‘I dare say,’ I replied, ‘that you are right.’ ‘Yes,’ she added, ‘and you hear people say that lovers are seeking for their other half; but I say that they are seeking neither for the half of themselves, nor for the whole, unless the half or the whole be also a good. And they will cut off their own hands and feet and cast them away, if they are evil; for they love not what is their own, unless perchance there be some one who calls what belongs to him the good, and what belongs to another the evil. For there is nothing which men love but the good. Is there anything?’ ‘Certainly, I should say, that there is nothing.’ ‘Then,’ she said, ‘the simple truth is, that men love the good.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘To which must be added that they love the possession of the good?’ ‘Yes, that must be added.’ ‘And not only the possession, but the everlasting possession of the good?’ ‘That must be added too.’ ‘Then love,’ she said, ‘may be described generally as the love of the everlasting possession of the good?’ ‘That is most true.’
‘Then if this be the nature of love, can you tell me further,’ she said, ‘what is the manner of the pursuit? what are they doing who show all this eagerness and heat which is called love? and what is the object which they have in view? Answer me.’ ‘Nay, Diotima,’ I replied, ‘if I had known, I should not have wondered at your wisdom, neither should I have come to learn from you about this very matter.’ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will teach you:—The object which they have in view is birth in beauty, whether of body or soul.’ ‘I do not understand you,’ I said; ‘the oracle requires an explanation.’ ‘I will make my meaning clearer,’ she replied. ‘I mean to say, that all men are bringing to the birth in their bodies and in their souls. There is a certain age at which human nature is desirous of procreation—procreation which must be in beauty and not in deformity; and this procreation is the union of man and woman, and is a divine thing; for conception and generation are an immortal principle in the mortal creature, and in the inharmonious they can never be. But the deformed is always inharmonious with the divine, and the beautiful harmonious. Beauty, then, is the destiny or goddess of parturition who presides at birth, and therefore, when approaching beauty, the conceiving power is propitious, and diffusive, and benign, and begets and bears fruit: at the sight of ugliness she frowns and contracts and has a sense of pain, and turns away, and shrivels up, and not without a pang refrains from conception. And this is the reason why, when the hour of conception arrives, and the teeming nature is full, there is such a flutter and ecstasy about beauty whose approach is the alleviation of the pain of travail. For love, Socrates, is not, as you imagine, the love of the beautiful only.’ ‘What then?’ ‘The love of generation and of birth in beauty.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied. ‘But why of generation?’ ‘Because to the mortal creature, generation is a sort of eternity and immortality,’ she replied; ‘and if, as has been already admitted, love is of the everlasting possession of the good, all men will necessarily desire immortality together with good: Wherefore love is of immortality.’
All this she taught me at various times when she spoke of love. And I remember her once saying to me, ‘What is the cause, Socrates, of love, and the attendant desire? See you not how all animals, birds, as well as beasts, in their desire of procreation, are in agony when they take the infection of love, which begins with the desire of union; whereto is added the care of offspring, on whose behalf the weakest are ready to battle against the strongest even to the uttermost, and to die for them, and will let themselves be tormented with hunger or suffer anything in order to maintain their young. Man may be supposed to act thus from reason; but why should animals have these passionate feelings? Can you tell me why?’ Again I replied that I did not know. She said to me: ‘And do you expect ever to become a master in the art of love, if you do not know this?’ ‘But I have told you already, Diotima, that my ignorance is the reason why I come to you; for I am conscious that I want a teacher; tell me then the cause of this and of the other mysteries of love.’ ‘Marvel not,’ she said, ‘if you believe that love is of the immortal, as we have several times acknowledged; for here again, and on the same principle too, the mortal nature is seeking as far as is possible to be everlasting and immortal: and this is only to be attained by generation, because generation always leaves behind a new existence in the place of the old. Nay even in the life of the same individual there is succession and not absolute unity: a man is called the same, and yet in the short interval which elapses between youth and age, and in which every animal is said to have life and identity, he is undergoing a perpetual process of loss and reparation—hair, flesh, bones, blood, and the whole body are always changing. Which is true not only of the body, but also of the soul, whose habits, tempers, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears, never remain the same in any one of us, but are always coming and going; and equally true of knowledge, and what is still more surprising to us mortals, not only do the sciences in general spring up and decay, so that in respect of them we are never the same; but each of them individually experiences a like change. For what is implied in the word “recollection,” but the departure of knowledge, which is ever being forgotten, and is renewed and preserved by recollection, and appears to be the same although in reality new, according to that law of succession by which all mortal things are preserved, not absolutely the same, but by substitution, the old worn-out mortality leaving another new and similar existence behind—unlike the divine, which is always the same and not another? And in this way, Socrates, the mortal body, or mortal anything, partakes of immortality; but the immortal in another way. Marvel not then at the love which all men have of their offspring; for that universal love and interest is for the sake of immortality.’
I was astonished at her words, and said: ‘Is this really true, O thou wise Diotima?’ And she answered with all the authority of an accomplished sophist: ‘Of that, Socrates, you may be assured;—think only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of their ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than they would have run for their children, and to spend money and undergo any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them a name which shall be eternal. Do you imagine that Alcestis would have died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge Patroclus, or your own Codrus in order to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they had not imagined that the memory of their virtues, which still survives among us, would be immortal? Nay,’ she said, ‘I am persuaded that all men do all things, and the better they are the more they do them, in hope of the glorious fame of immortal virtue; for they desire the immortal.
‘Those who are pregnant in the body only, betake themselves to women and beget children—this is the character of their love; their offspring, as they hope, will preserve their memory and giving them the blessedness and immortality which they desire in the future. But souls which are pregnant—for there certainly are men who are more creative in their souls than in their bodies—conceive that which is proper for the soul to conceive or contain. And what are these conceptions?—wisdom and virtue in general. And such creators are poets and all artists who are deserving of the name inventor. But the greatest and fairest sort of wisdom by far is that which is concerned with the ordering of states and families, and which is called temperance and justice. And he who in youth has the seed of these implanted in him and is himself inspired, when he comes to maturity desires to beget and generate. He wanders about seeking beauty that he may beget offspring—for in deformity he will beget nothing—and naturally embraces the beautiful rather than the deformed body; above all when he finds a fair and noble and well-nurtured soul, he embraces the two in one person, and to such an one he is full of speech about virtue and the nature and pursuits of a good man; and he tries to educate him; and at the touch of the beautiful which is ever present to his memory, even when absent, he brings forth that which he had conceived long before, and in company with him tends that which he brings forth; and they are married by a far nearer tie and have a closer friendship than those who beget mortal children, for the children who are their common offspring are fairer and more immortal. Who, when he thinks of Homer and Hesiod and other great poets, would not rather have their children than ordinary human ones? Who would not emulate them in the creation of children such as theirs, which have preserved their memory and given them everlasting glory? Or who would not have such children as Lycurgus left behind him to be the saviours, not only of Lacedaemon, but of Hellas, as one may say? There is Solon, too, who is the revered father of Athenian laws; and many others there are in many other places, both among Hellenes and barbarians, who have given to the world many noble works, and have been the parents of virtue of every kind; and many temples have been raised in their honour for the sake of children such as theirs; which were never raised in honour of any one, for the sake of his mortal children.
‘These are the lesser mysteries of love, into which even you, Socrates, may enter; to the greater and more hidden ones which are the crown of these, and to which, if you pursue them in a right spirit, they will lead, I know not whether you will be able to attain. But I will do my utmost to inform you, and do you follow if you can. For he who would proceed aright in this matter should begin in youth to visit beautiful forms; and first, if he be guided by his instructor aright, to love one such form only—out of that he should create fair thoughts; and soon he will of himself perceive that the beauty of one form is akin to the beauty of another; and then if beauty of form in general is his pursuit, how foolish would he be not to recognize that the beauty in every form is and the same! And when he perceives this he will abate his violent love of the one, which he will despise and deem a small thing, and will become a lover of all beautiful forms; in the next stage he will consider that the beauty of the mind is more honourable than the beauty of the outward form. So that if a virtuous soul have but a little comeliness, he will be content to love and tend him, and will search out and bring to the birth thoughts which may improve the young, until he is compelled to contemplate and see the beauty of institutions and laws, and to understand that the beauty of them all is of one family, and that personal beauty is a trifle; and after laws and institutions he will go on to the sciences, that he may see their beauty, being not like a servant in love with the beauty of one youth or man or institution, himself a slave mean and narrow-minded, but drawing towards and contemplating the vast sea of beauty, he will create many fair and noble thoughts and notions in boundless love of wisdom; until on that shore he grows and waxes strong, and at last the vision is revealed to him of a single science, which is the science of beauty everywhere. To this I will proceed; please to give me your very best attention:
‘He who has been instructed thus far in the things of love, and who has learned to see the beautiful in due order and succession, when he comes toward the end will suddenly perceive a nature of wondrous beauty (and this, Socrates, is the final cause of all our former toils)—a nature which in the first place is everlasting, not growing and decaying, or waxing and waning; secondly, not fair in one point of view and foul in another, or at one time or in one relation or at one place fair, at another time or in another relation or at another place foul, as if fair to some and foul to others, or in the likeness of a face or hands or any other part of the bodily frame, or in any form of speech or knowledge, or existing in any other being, as for example, in an animal, or in heaven, or in earth, or in any other place; but beauty absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and without increase, or any change, is imparted to the ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other things. He who from these ascending under the influence of true love, begins to perceive that beauty, is not far from the end. And the true order of going, or being led by another, to the things of love, is to begin from the beauties of earth and mount upwards for the sake of that other beauty, using these as steps only, and from one going on to two, and from two to all fair forms, and from fair forms to fair practices, and from fair practices to fair notions, until from fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute beauty, and at last knows what the essence of beauty is. This, my dear Socrates,’ said the stranger of Mantineia, ‘is that life above all others which man should live, in the contemplation of beauty absolute; a beauty which if you once beheld, you would see not to be after the measure of gold, and garments, and fair boys and youths, whose presence now entrances you; and you and many a one would be content to live seeing them only and conversing with them without meat or drink, if that were possible—you only want to look at them and to be with them. But what if man had eyes to see the true beauty—the divine beauty, I mean, pure and clear and unalloyed, not clogged with the pollutions of mortality and all the colours and vanities of human life—thither looking, and holding converse with the true beauty simple and divine? Remember how in that communion only, beholding beauty with the eye of the mind, he will be enabled to bring forth, not images of beauty, but realities (for he has hold not of an image but of a reality), and bringing forth and nourishing true virtue to become the friend of God and be immortal, if mortal man may. Would that be an ignoble life?’
Such, Phaedrus—and I speak not only to you, but to all of you—were the words of Diotima; and I am persuaded of their truth. And being persuaded of them, I try to persuade others, that in the attainment of this end human nature will not easily find a helper better than love: And therefore, also, I say that every man ought to honour him as I myself honour him, and walk in his ways, and exhort others to do the same, and praise the power and spirit of love according to the measure of my ability now and ever.
The words which I have spoken, you, Phaedrus, may call an encomium of love, or anything else which you please.
When Socrates had done speaking, the company applauded, and Aristophanes was beginning to say something in answer to the allusion which Socrates had made to his own speech, when suddenly there was a great knocking at the door of the house, as of revellers, and the sound of a flute-girl was heard. Agathon told the attendants to go and see who were the intruders. ‘If they are friends of ours,’ he said, ‘invite them in, but if not, say that the drinking is over.’ A little while afterwards they heard the voice of Alcibiades resounding in the court; he was in a great state of intoxication, and kept roaring and shouting ‘Where is Agathon? Lead me to Agathon,’ and at length, supported by the flute-girl and some of his attendants, he found his way to them. ‘Hail, friends,’ he said, appearing at the door crowned with a massive garland of ivy and violets, his head flowing with ribands. ‘Will you have a very drunken man as a companion of your revels? Or shall I crown Agathon, which was my intention in coming, and go away? For I was unable to come yesterday, and therefore I am here to-day, carrying on my head these ribands, that taking them from my own head, I may crown the head of this fairest and wisest of men, as I may be allowed to call him. Will you laugh at me because I am drunk? Yet I know very well that I am speaking the truth, although you may laugh. But first tell me; if I come in shall we have the understanding of which I spoke (supra Will you have a very drunken man? etc.)? Will you drink with me or not?’
The company were vociferous in begging that he would take his place among them, and Agathon specially invited him. Thereupon he was led in by the people who were with him; and as he was being led, intending to crown Agathon, he took the ribands from his own head and held them in front of his eyes; he was thus prevented from seeing Socrates, who made way for him, and Alcibiades took the vacant place between Agathon and Socrates, and in taking the place he embraced Agathon and crowned him. Take off his sandals, said Agathon, and let him make a third on the same couch.
By all means; but who makes the third partner in our revels? said Alcibiades, turning round and starting up as he caught sight of Socrates. By Heracles, he said, what is this? here is Socrates always lying in wait for me, and always, as his way is, coming out at all sorts of unsuspected places: and now, what have you to say for yourself, and why are you lying here, where I perceive that you have contrived to find a place, not by a joker or lover of jokes, like Aristophanes, but by the fairest of the company?
Socrates turned to Agathon and said: I must ask you to protect me, Agathon; for the passion of this man has grown quite a serious matter to me. Since I became his admirer I have never been allowed to speak to any other fair one, or so much as to look at them. If I do, he goes wild with envy and jealousy, and not only abuses me but can hardly keep his hands off me, and at this moment he may do me some harm. Please to see to this, and either reconcile me to him, or, if he attempts violence, protect me, as I am in bodily fear of his mad and passionate attempts.
There can never be reconciliation between you and me, said Alcibiades; but for the present I will defer your chastisement. And I must beg you, Agathon, to give me back some of the ribands that I may crown the marvellous head of this universal despot—I would not have him complain of me for crowning you, and neglecting him, who in conversation is the conqueror of all mankind; and this not only once, as you were the day before yesterday, but always. Whereupon, taking some of the ribands, he crowned Socrates, and again reclined.
Then he said: You seem, my friends, to be sober, which is a thing not to be endured; you must drink—for that was the agreement under which I was admitted—and I elect myself master of the feast until you are well drunk. Let us have a large goblet, Agathon, or rather, he said, addressing the attendant, bring me that wine-cooler. The wine-cooler which had caught his eye was a vessel holding more than two quarts—this he filled and emptied, and bade the attendant fill it again for Socrates. Observe, my friends, said Alcibiades, that this ingenious trick of mine will have no effect on Socrates, for he can drink any quantity of wine and not be at all nearer being drunk. Socrates drank the cup which the attendant filled for him.
Eryximachus said: What is this, Alcibiades? Are we to have neither conversation nor singing over our cups; but simply to drink as if we were thirsty?
Alcibiades replied: Hail, worthy son of a most wise and worthy sire!
The same to you, said Eryximachus; but what shall we do?
That I leave to you, said Alcibiades.
‘The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal (from Pope’s Homer, Il.)’
shall prescribe and we will obey. What do you want?
Well, said Eryximachus, before you appeared we had passed a resolution that each one of us in turn should make a speech in praise of love, and as good a one as he could: the turn was passed round from left to right; and as all of us have spoken, and you have not spoken but have well drunken, you ought to speak, and then impose upon Socrates any task which you please, and he on his right hand neighbour, and so on.
That is good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; and yet the comparison of a drunken man’s speech with those of sober men is hardly fair; and I should like to know, sweet friend, whether you really believe what Socrates was just now saying; for I can assure you that the very reverse is the fact, and that if I praise any one but himself in his presence, whether God or man, he will hardly keep his hands off me.
For shame, said Socrates.
Hold your tongue, said Alcibiades, for by Poseidon, there is no one else whom I will praise when you are of the company.
Well then, said Eryximachus, if you like praise Socrates.
What do you think, Eryximachus? said Alcibiades: shall I attack him and inflict the punishment before you all?
What are you about? said Socrates; are you going to raise a laugh at my expense? Is that the meaning of your praise?
I am going to speak the truth, if you will permit me.
I not only permit, but exhort you to speak the truth.
Then I will begin at once, said Alcibiades, and if I say anything which is not true, you may interrupt me if you will, and say ‘that is a lie,’ though my intention is to speak the truth. But you must not wonder if I speak any how as things come into my mind; for the fluent and orderly enumeration of all your singularities is not a task which is easy to a man in my condition.
And now, my boys, I shall praise Socrates in a figure which will appear to him to be a caricature, and yet I speak, not to make fun of him, but only for the truth’s sake. I say, that he is exactly like the busts of Silenus, which are set up in the statuaries’ shops, holding pipes and flutes in their mouths; and they are made to open in the middle, and have images of gods inside them. I say also that he is like Marsyas the satyr. You yourself will not deny, Socrates, that your face is like that of a satyr. Aye, and there is a resemblance in other points too. For example, you are a bully, as I can prove by witnesses, if you will not confess. And are you not a flute-player? That you are, and a performer far more wonderful than Marsyas. He indeed with instruments used to charm the souls of men by the power of his breath, and the players of his music do so still: for the melodies of Olympus (compare Arist. Pol.) are derived from Marsyas who taught them, and these, whether they are played by a great master or by a miserable flute-girl, have a power which no others have; they alone possess the soul and reveal the wants of those who have need of gods and mysteries, because they are divine. But you produce the same effect with your words only, and do not require the flute: that is the difference between you and him. When we hear any other speaker, even a very good one, he produces absolutely no effect upon us, or not much, whereas the mere fragments of you and your words, even at second-hand, and however imperfectly repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every man, woman, and child who comes within hearing of them. And if I were not afraid that you would think me hopelessly drunk, I would have sworn as well as spoken to the influence which they have always had and still have over me. For my heart leaps within me more than that of any Corybantian reveller, and my eyes rain tears when I hear them. And I observe that many others are affected in the same manner. I have heard Pericles and other great orators, and I thought that they spoke well, but I never had any similar feeling; my soul was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at the thought of my own slavish state. But this Marsyas has often brought me to such a pass, that I have felt as if I could hardly endure the life which I am leading (this, Socrates, you will admit); and I am conscious that if I did not shut my ears against him, and fly as from the voice of the siren, my fate would be like that of others,—he would transfix me, and I should grow old sitting at his feet. For he makes me confess that I ought not to live as I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul, and busying myself with the concerns of the Athenians; therefore I hold my ears and tear myself away from him. And he is the only person who ever made me ashamed, which you might think not to be in my nature, and there is no one else who does the same. For I know that I cannot answer him or say that I ought not to do as he bids, but when I leave his presence the love of popularity gets the better of me. And therefore I run away and fly from him, and when I see him I am ashamed of what I have confessed to him. Many a time have I wished that he were dead, and yet I know that I should be much more sorry than glad, if he were to die: so that I am at my wit’s end.
And this is what I and many others have suffered from the flute-playing of this satyr. Yet hear me once more while I show you how exact the image is, and how marvellous his power. For let me tell you; none of you know him; but I will reveal him to you; having begun, I must go on. See you how fond he is of the fair? He is always with them and is always being smitten by them, and then again he knows nothing and is ignorant of all things—such is the appearance which he puts on. Is he not like a Silenus in this? To be sure he is: his outer mask is the carved head of the Silenus; but, O my companions in drink, when he is opened, what temperance there is residing within! Know you that beauty and wealth and honour, at which the many wonder, are of no account with him, and are utterly despised by him: he regards not at all the persons who are gifted with them; mankind are nothing to him; all his life is spent in mocking and flouting at them. But when I opened him, and looked within at his serious purpose, I saw in him divine and golden images of such fascinating beauty that I was ready to do in a moment whatever Socrates commanded: they may have escaped the observation of others, but I saw them. Now I fancied that he was seriously enamoured of my beauty, and I thought that I should therefore have a grand opportunity of hearing him tell what he knew, for I had a wonderful opinion of the attractions of my youth. In the prosecution of this design, when I next went to him, I sent away the attendant who usually accompanied me (I will confess the whole truth, and beg you to listen; and if I speak falsely, do you, Socrates, expose the falsehood). Well, he and I were alone together, and I thought that when there was nobody with us, I should hear him speak the language which lovers use to their loves when they are by themselves, and I was delighted. Nothing of the sort; he conversed as usual, and spent the day with me and then went away. Afterwards I challenged him to the palaestra; and he wrestled and closed with me several times when there was no one present; I fancied that I might succeed in this manner. Not a bit; I made no way with him. Lastly, as I had failed hitherto, I thought that I must take stronger measures and attack him boldly, and, as I had begun, not give him up, but see how matters stood between him and me. So I invited him to sup with me, just as if he were a fair youth, and I a designing lover. He was not easily persuaded to come; he did, however, after a while accept the invitation, and when he came the first time, he wanted to go away at once as soon as supper was over, and I had not the face to detain him. The second time, still in pursuance of my design, after we had supped, I went on conversing far into the night, and when he wanted to go away, I pretended that the hour was late and that he had much better remain. So he lay down on the couch next to me, the same on which he had supped, and there was no one but ourselves sleeping in the apartment. All this may be told without shame to any one. But what follows I could hardly tell you if I were sober. Yet as the proverb says, ‘In vino veritas,’ whether with boys, or without them (In allusion to two proverbs.); and therefore I must speak. Nor, again, should I be justified in concealing the lofty actions of Socrates when I come to praise him. Moreover I have felt the serpent’s sting; and he who has suffered, as they say, is willing to tell his fellow-sufferers only, as they alone will be likely to understand him, and will not be extreme in judging of the sayings or doings which have been wrung from his agony. For I have been bitten by a more than viper’s tooth; I have known in my soul, or in my heart, or in some other part, that worst of pangs, more violent in ingenuous youth than any serpent’s tooth, the pang of philosophy, which will make a man say or do anything. And you whom I see around me, Phaedrus and Agathon and Eryximachus and Pausanias and Aristodemus and Aristophanes, all of you, and I need not say Socrates himself, have had experience of the same madness and passion in your longing after wisdom. Therefore listen and excuse my doings then and my sayings now. But let the attendants and other profane and unmannered persons close up the doors of their ears.
When the lamp was put out and the servants had gone away, I thought that I must be plain with him and have no more ambiguity. So I gave him a shake, and I said: ‘Socrates, are you asleep?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Do you know what I am meditating? ‘What are you meditating?’ he said. ‘I think,’ I replied, ‘that of all the lovers whom I have ever had you are the only one who is worthy of me, and you appear to be too modest to speak. Now I feel that I should be a fool to refuse you this or any other favour, and therefore I come to lay at your feet all that I have and all that my friends have, in the hope that you will assist me in the way of virtue, which I desire above all things, and in which I believe that you can help me better than any one else. And I should certainly have more reason to be ashamed of what wise men would say if I were to refuse a favour to such as you, than of what the world, who are mostly fools, would say of me if I granted it.’ To these words he replied in the ironical manner which is so characteristic of him:—’Alcibiades, my friend, you have indeed an elevated aim if what you say is true, and if there really is in me any power by which you may become better; truly you must see in me some rare beauty of a kind infinitely higher than any which I see in you. And therefore, if you mean to share with me and to exchange beauty for beauty, you will have greatly the advantage of me; you will gain true beauty in return for appearance—like Diomede, gold in exchange for brass. But look again, sweet friend, and see whether you are not deceived in me. The mind begins to grow critical when the bodily eye fails, and it will be a long time before you get old.’ Hearing this, I said: ‘I have told you my purpose, which is quite serious, and do you consider what you think best for you and me.’ ‘That is good,’ he said; ‘at some other time then we will consider and act as seems best about this and about other matters.’ Whereupon, I fancied that he was smitten, and that the words which I had uttered like arrows had wounded him, and so without waiting to hear more I got up, and throwing my coat about him crept under his threadbare cloak, as the time of year was winter, and there I lay during the whole night having this wonderful monster in my arms. This again, Socrates, will not be denied by you. And yet, notwithstanding all, he was so superior to my solicitations, so contemptuous and derisive and disdainful of my beauty—which really, as I fancied, had some attractions—hear, O judges; for judges you shall be of the haughty virtue of Socrates—nothing more happened, but in the morning when I awoke (let all the gods and goddesses be my witnesses) I arose as from the couch of a father or an elder brother.
What do you suppose must have been my feelings, after this rejection, at the thought of my own dishonour? And yet I could not help wondering at his natural temperance and self-restraint and manliness. I never imagined that I could have met with a man such as he is in wisdom and endurance. And therefore I could not be angry with him or renounce his company, any more than I could hope to win him. For I well knew that if Ajax could not be wounded by steel, much less he by money; and my only chance of captivating him by my personal attractions had failed. So I was at my wit’s end; no one was ever more hopelessly enslaved by another. All this happened before he and I went on the expedition to Potidaea; there we messed together, and I had the opportunity of observing his extraordinary power of sustaining fatigue. His endurance was simply marvellous when, being cut off from our supplies, we were compelled to go without food—on such occasions, which often happen in time of war, he was superior not only to me but to everybody; there was no one to be compared to him. Yet at a festival he was the only person who had any real powers of enjoyment; though not willing to drink, he could if compelled beat us all at that,—wonderful to relate! no human being had ever seen Socrates drunk; and his powers, if I am not mistaken, will be tested before long. His fortitude in enduring cold was also surprising. There was a severe frost, for the winter in that region is really tremendous, and everybody else either remained indoors, or if they went out had on an amazing quantity of clothes, and were well shod, and had their feet swathed in felt and fleeces: in the midst of this, Socrates with his bare feet on the ice and in his ordinary dress marched better than the other soldiers who had shoes, and they looked daggers at him because he seemed to despise them.
I have told you one tale, and now I must tell you another, which is worth hearing,
‘Of the doings and sufferings of the enduring man’
while he was on the expedition. One morning he was thinking about something which he could not resolve; he would not give it up, but continued thinking from early dawn until noon—there he stood fixed in thought; and at noon attention was drawn to him, and the rumour ran through the wondering crowd that Socrates had been standing and thinking about something ever since the break of day. At last, in the evening after supper, some Ionians out of curiosity (I should explain that this was not in winter but in summer), brought out their mats and slept in the open air that they might watch him and see whether he would stand all night. There he stood until the following morning; and with the return of light he offered up a prayer to the sun, and went his way (compare supra). I will also tell, if you please—and indeed I am bound to tell—of his courage in battle; for who but he saved my life? Now this was the engagement in which I received the prize of valour: for I was wounded and he would not leave me, but he rescued me and my arms; and he ought to have received the prize of valour which the generals wanted to confer on me partly on account of my rank, and I told them so, (this, again, Socrates will not impeach or deny), but he was more eager than the generals that I and not he should have the prize. There was another occasion on which his behaviour was very remarkable—in the flight of the army after the battle of Delium, where he served among the heavy-armed,—I had a better opportunity of seeing him than at Potidaea, for I was myself on horseback, and therefore comparatively out of danger. He and Laches were retreating, for the troops were in flight, and I met them and told them not to be discouraged, and promised to remain with them; and there you might see him, Aristophanes, as you describe (Aristoph. Clouds), just as he is in the streets of Athens, stalking like a pelican, and rolling his eyes, calmly contemplating enemies as well as friends, and making very intelligible to anybody, even from a distance, that whoever attacked him would be likely to meet with a stout resistance; and in this way he and his companion escaped—for this is the sort of man who is never touched in war; those only are pursued who are running away headlong. I particularly observed how superior he was to Laches in presence of mind. Many are the marvels which I might narrate in praise of Socrates; most of his ways might perhaps be paralleled in another man, but his absolute unlikeness to any human being that is or ever has been is perfectly astonishing. You may imagine Brasidas and others to have been like Achilles; or you may imagine Nestor and Antenor to have been like Pericles; and the same may be said of other famous men, but of this strange being you will never be able to find any likeness, however remote, either among men who now are or who ever have been—other than that which I have already suggested of Silenus and the satyrs; and they represent in a figure not only himself, but his words. For, although I forgot to mention this to you before, his words are like the images of Silenus which open; they are ridiculous when you first hear them; he clothes himself in language that is like the skin of the wanton satyr—for his talk is of pack-asses and smiths and cobblers and curriers, and he is always repeating the same things in the same words (compare Gorg.), so that any ignorant or inexperienced person might feel disposed to laugh at him; but he who opens the bust and sees what is within will find that they are the only words which have a meaning in them, and also the most divine, abounding in fair images of virtue, and of the widest comprehension, or rather extending to the whole duty of a good and honourable man.
This, friends, is my praise of Socrates. I have added my blame of him for his ill-treatment of me; and he has ill-treated not only me, but Charmides the son of Glaucon, and Euthydemus the son of Diocles, and many others in the same way—beginning as their lover he has ended by making them pay their addresses to him. Wherefore I say to you, Agathon, ‘Be not deceived by him; learn from me and take warning, and do not be a fool and learn by experience, as the proverb says.’
When Alcibiades had finished, there was a laugh at his outspokenness; for he seemed to be still in love with Socrates. You are sober, Alcibiades, said Socrates, or you would never have gone so far about to hide the purpose of your satyr’s praises, for all this long story is only an ingenious circumlocution, of which the point comes in by the way at the end; you want to get up a quarrel between me and Agathon, and your notion is that I ought to love you and nobody else, and that you and you only ought to love Agathon. But the plot of this Satyric or Silenic drama has been detected, and you must not allow him, Agathon, to set us at variance.
I believe you are right, said Agathon, and I am disposed to think that his intention in placing himself between you and me was only to divide us; but he shall gain nothing by that move; for I will go and lie on the couch next to you.
Yes, yes, replied Socrates, by all means come here and lie on the couch below me.
Alas, said Alcibiades, how I am fooled by this man; he is determined to get the better of me at every turn. I do beseech you, allow Agathon to lie between us.
Certainly not, said Socrates, as you praised me, and I in turn ought to praise my neighbour on the right, he will be out of order in praising me again when he ought rather to be praised by me, and I must entreat you to consent to this, and not be jealous, for I have a great desire to praise the youth.
Hurrah! cried Agathon, I will rise instantly, that I may be praised by Socrates.
The usual way, said Alcibiades; where Socrates is, no one else has any chance with the fair; and now how readily has he invented a specious reason for attracting Agathon to himself.
Agathon arose in order that he might take his place on the couch by Socrates, when suddenly a band of revellers entered, and spoiled the order of the banquet. Some one who was going out having left the door open, they had found their way in, and made themselves at home; great confusion ensued, and every one was compelled to drink large quantities of wine. Aristodemus said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others went away—he himself fell asleep, and as the nights were long took a good rest: he was awakened towards daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and when he awoke, the others were either asleep, or had gone away; there remained only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon, who were drinking out of a large goblet which they passed round, and Socrates was discoursing to them. Aristodemus was only half awake, and he did not hear the beginning of the discourse; the chief thing which he remembered was Socrates compelling the other two to acknowledge that the genius of comedy was the same with that of tragedy, and that the true artist in tragedy was an artist in comedy also. To this they were constrained to assent, being drowsy, and not quite following the argument. And first of all Aristophanes dropped off, then, when the day was already dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to sleep, rose to depart; Aristodemus, as his manner was, following him. At the Lyceum he took a bath, and passed the day as usual. In the evening he retired to rest at his own home.
LICENSES AND ATTRIBUTIONS
PUBLIC DOMAIN CONTENT
- Plato, Symposium. Authored by: Plato. Provided by: Project Gutenberg. Located at: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1600/1600-h/1600-h.htm. Project: ENG 101. License: CC BY-SA: Attribution-ShareAlike
Chapter3: Greek Women in Higher Education
Greek Women in Higher Education
Section 14-297, "Greek Women in Higher Education"
- Theanos discussed on pp. 304ff.
- Perictione discussed on pp. 309f.
Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Greek Philosophy Before Plato License: public domain
- Anaximander (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Socrates License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- Plato License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- Allegory of the Cave License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License
- Aristotle Metaphysics License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States
- Aristotle, Excerpt from Metaphysics License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Hypatia - (projectcontinua.org) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International
Chapter 4: Philosophy of Religion
Metaphysics is a branch of philosophy that, like many areas of philosophy, is hard to define. It depends on when you are talking about and what topic.
Metaphysical issues are concerned with the nature of reality. Traditional metaphysical issues include the existence of God and the nature of human free will (assuming we have any). Here are a few metaphysical questions of interest to contemporary philosophers: What is it that makes a thing a thing? How are space and time related? Does the past exist? How about the future? How many dimensions does the world have? Are there any entities beyond physical objects (like numbers, properties, and relations)? If so, how are they related to physical objects? Historically, many philosophers have proposed and defended specific metaphysical positions, often as part of systematic and comprehensive metaphysical views. But attempts to establish systematic metaphysical worldviews have been notoriously unsuccessful.
Since the 19th century, many philosophers and scientists have been understandably suspicious of metaphysics, and it has frequently been dismissed as a waste of time, or worse, as meaningless. But in just the past few decades metaphysics has returned to vitality. As difficult as they are to resolve, metaphysical issues are also difficult to ignore for long. Contemporary analytic metaphysics is typically taken to have more modest aims than definitively settling on the final and complete truth about the underlying nature of reality. A better way to understand metaphysics as it is currently practiced is as aiming at better understanding how various claims about reality logically hang together or conflict. Metaphysicians analyze metaphysical puzzles and problems with the goal of better understanding how things could or could not be. Metaphysicians are in the business of exploring the realm of possibility and necessity. They are explorers of conceptual space.
In this chapter, we will focus on the philosophy of Religion, including religion around the world, questions about the nature of God or gods, and the problem of evil. Traditionally, this question might be addressed from a single perspective. In this section, you'll have a chance to read about a variety of perspectives, from Hinduism in the Bhagavad Gita to Native American Tribal Tales to the problem of evil in Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov.
Chapter4: From the Hindu Bhagavad Gita
From the Hindu Bhagavad Gita
“When doubts haunt me, when disappointments stare me in the face, and I see not one ray of hope on the horizon, I turn to Bhagavad-Gita and find a verse to comfort me; and I immediately begin to smile in the midst of overwhelming sorrow. Those who meditate on the Gita will derive fresh joy and new meanings from it every day.” Mahatma Gandhi
You might find it helpful to listen to (or read, there is a transcript) this broadcast from OnBeing, a radio program that looks at spirituality, wisdom and faith traditions.
The Heart’s Reason: Hinduism and Science with Varadaraja V. Raman[1] in order to have some context for this ancient and much loved, in Hindu tradition, piece of writing.
Excerpts from The
Song Celestial.
or
Bhagavad-Gita
(From the Mahabharata)
Being a Discourse Between Arjuna,
Prince of India, and the Supreme Being
Under the Form of Krishna
Arjuna, a Prince, is preparing for the battle at Kurukshetra (in today’s northern India). Krishna (in Hindu belief an incarnation of the divine) becomes Arjuna’s charioteer.
As the war begins ,Arjuna realizes that it will be friends and relatives opposing him. Krishna obeys Arjuna and drives the chariot in between the two forces. At this point, Arjuna cannot go on. With his mind reeling, he foresees the death of people who are dear to him–some are teachers, or relatives and even his friends. Arjuna decides he will not participate in this battle. He will not fight if the battle requires him to fight against people he loves.
All of those events occur, however, before Arjuna realizes the true nature of his charioteer.
Once Krishna has shown Arjuna his four-armed and universal forms, Arjuna is stunned. Far more than just a a man of some reasonable knowledge and wisdom, Krishna is all-powerful. He is the Supreme Being whom Arjuna should worship. All of this fundamentally changes Arjuna’s perspective–he wants to know what to do, and Krishna proceeds to tell him. Krishna presents three main concepts — renunciation, selfless service, and meditation.
Initially, Arjuna thought it would be sinful to battle his friends, teachers and relatives. After conversing with Krishna, Arjuna realizes that Krishna would not encourage him to fight if engaging in this battle would result in sinful actions. It is his duty to fight, and he is reminded that service to the divine will result in good karma, in progress towards union with the divine.
CHAPTER I
Dhritirashtra:
Ranged thus for battle on the sacred plain–
On Kurukshetra–say, Sanjaya! say
What wrought my people, and the Pandavas?
Sanjaya:
When he beheld the host of Pandavas,
Raja Duryodhana to Drona drew,
And spake these words: “Ah, Guru! see this line,
How vast it is of Pandu fighting-men,
Embattled by the son of Drupada,
Thy scholar in the war! Therein stand ranked
Chiefs like Arjuna, like to Bhima chiefs,
Benders of bows; Virata, Yuyudhan,
Drupada, eminent upon his car,
Dhrishtaket, Chekitan, Kasi’s stout lord,
Purujit, Kuntibhoj, and Saivya,
With Yudhamanyu, and Uttamauj
Subhadra’s child; and Drupadi’s;-all famed!
All mounted on their shining chariots!
On our side, too,–thou best of Brahmans! see
Excellent chiefs, commanders of my line,
Whose names I joy to count: thyself the first,
Then Bhishma, Karna, Kripa fierce in fight,
Vikarna, Aswatthaman; next to these
Strong Saumadatti, with full many more
Valiant and tried, ready this day to die
For me their king, each with his weapon grasped,
Each skilful in the field. Weakest-meseems-
Our battle shows where Bhishma holds command,
And Bhima, fronting him, something too strong!
Have care our captains nigh to Bhishma’s ranks
Prepare what help they may! Now, blow my shell!”
Then, at the signal of the aged king,
With blare to wake the blood, rolling around
Like to a lion’s roar, the trumpeter
Blew the great Conch; and, at the noise of it,
Trumpets and drums, cymbals and gongs and horns
Burst into sudden clamour; as the blasts
Of loosened tempest, such the tumult seemed!
Then might be seen, upon their car of gold
Yoked with white steeds, blowing their battle-shells,
Krishna the God, Arjuna at his side:
Krishna, with knotted locks, blew his great conch
Carved of the “Giant’s bone;” Arjuna blew
Indra’s loud gift; Bhima the terrible–
Wolf-bellied Bhima-blew a long reed-conch;
And Yudhisthira, Kunti’s blameless son,
Winded a mighty shell, “Victory’s Voice;”
And Nakula blew shrill upon his conch
Named the “Sweet-sounding,” Sahadev on his
Called”Gem-bedecked,” and Kasi’s Prince on his.
Sikhandi on his car, Dhrishtadyumn,
Virata, Satyaki the Unsubdued,
Drupada, with his sons, (O Lord of Earth!)
Long-armed Subhadra’s children, all blew loud,
So that the clangour shook their foemen’s hearts,
With quaking earth and thundering heav’n.
Then ’twas-
Beholding Dhritirashtra’s battle set,
Weapons unsheathing, bows drawn forth, the war
Instant to break-Arjun, whose ensign-badge
Was Hanuman the monkey, spake this thing
To Krishna the Divine, his charioteer:
“Drive, Dauntless One! to yonder open ground
Betwixt the armies; I would see more nigh
These who will fight with us, those we must slay
To-day, in war’s arbitrament; for, sure,
On bloodshed all are bent who throng this plain,
Obeying Dhritirashtra’s sinful son.”
Thus, by Arjuna prayed, (O Bharata!)
Between the hosts that heavenly Charioteer
Drove the bright car, reining its milk-white steeds
Where Bhishma led,and Drona,and their Lords.
“See!” spake he to Arjuna, “where they stand,
Thy kindred of the Kurus:” and the Prince
Marked on each hand the kinsmen of his house,
Grandsires and sires, uncles and brothers and sons,
Cousins and sons-in-law and nephews, mixed
With friends and honoured elders; some this side,
Some that side ranged: and, seeing those opposed,
Such kith grown enemies-Arjuna’s heart
Melted with pity, while he uttered this:
Arjuna:
Krishna! as I behold, come here to shed
Their common blood, yon concourse of our kin,
My members fail, my tongue dries in my mouth,
A shudder thrills my body, and my hair
Bristles with horror; from my weak hand slips
Gandiv, the goodly bow; a fever burns
My skin to parching; hardly may I stand;
The life within me seems to swim and faint;
Nothing do I foresee save woe and wail!
It is not good, O Keshav! nought of good
Can spring from mutual slaughter! Lo, I hate
Triumph and domination, wealth and ease,
Thus sadly won! Aho! what victory
Can bring delight, Govinda! what rich spoils
Could profit; what rule recompense; what span
Of life itself seem sweet, bought with such blood?
Seeing that these stand here, ready to die,
For whose sake life was fair, and pleasure pleased,
And power grew precious:-grandsires, sires, and sons,
Brothers, and fathers-in-law, and sons-in-law,
Elders and friends! Shall I deal death on these
Even though they seek to slay us? Not one blow,
O Madhusudan! will I strike to gain
The rule of all Three Worlds; then, how much less
To seize an earthly kingdom! Killing these
Must breed but anguish, Krishna! If they be
Guilty, we shall grow guilty by their deaths;
Their sins will light on us, if we shall slay
Those sons of Dhritirashtra, and our kin;
What peace could come of that, O Madhava?
For if indeed, blinded by lust and wrath,
These cannot see, or will not see, the sin
Of kingly lines o’erthrown and kinsmen slain,
How should not we, who see, shun such a crime–
We who perceive the guilt and feel the shame–
O thou Delight of Men, Janardana?
By overthrow of houses perisheth
Their sweet continuous household piety,
And-rites neglected, piety extinct–
Enters impiety upon that home;
Its women grow unwomaned, whence there spring
Mad passions, and the mingling-up of castes,
Sending a Hell-ward road that family,
And whoso wrought its doom by wicked wrath.
Nay, and the souls of honoured ancestors
Fall from their place of peace, being bereft
Of funeral-cakes and the wan death-water.
So teach our holy hymns. Thus, if we slay
Kinsfolk and friends for love of earthly power,
Ahovat! what an evil fault it were!
Better I deem it, if my kinsmen strike,
To face them weaponless, and bare my breast
To shaft and spear, than answer blow with blow.
So speaking, in the face of those two hosts,
Arjuna sank upon his chariot-seat,
And let fall bow and arrows, sick at heart.
HERE ENDETH CHAPTER I. OF THE BHAGAVAD-GITA,
Entitled “Arjun-Vishad,”
Or “The Book of the Distress of Arjuna.”
CHAPTER XV
Krishna:
Men call the Aswattha,–the Banyan-tree,–
Which hath its boughs beneath, its roots above,–
The ever-holy tree. Yea! for its leaves
Are green and waving hymns which whisper Truth!
Who knows the Aswattha, knows Veds, and all.
Its branches shoot to heaven and sink to earth,
Even as the deeds of men, which take their birth
From qualities: its silver sprays and blooms,
And all the eager verdure of its girth,
Leap to quick life at kiss of sun and air,
As men’s lives quicken to the temptings fair
Of wooing sense: its hanging rootlets seek
The soil beneath, helping to hold it there,
As actions wrought amid this world of men
Bind them by ever-tightening bonds again.
If ye knew well the teaching of the Tree,
What its shape saith; and whence it springs; and, then
How it must end, and all the ills of it,
The axe of sharp Detachment ye would whet,
And cleave the clinging snaky roots, and lay
This Aswattha of sense-life low,–to set
New growths upspringing to that happier sky,–
Which they who reach shall have no day to die,
Nor fade away, nor fall–to Him, I mean,
FATHER and FIRST, Who made the mystery
Of old Creation; for to Him come they
From passion and from dreams who break away;
Who part the bonds constraining them to flesh,
And,–Him, the Highest, worshipping alway–
No longer grow at mercy of what breeze
Of summer pleasure stirs the sleeping trees,
What blast of tempest tears them, bough and stem
To the eternal world pass such as these!
Another Sun gleams there! another Moon!
Another Light,–not Dusk, nor Dawn, nor Noon–
Which they who once behold return no more;
They have attained My rest, life’s Utmost boon!
When, in this world of manifested life,
The undying Spirit, setting forth from Me,
Taketh on form, it draweth to itself
From Being’s storehouse,–which containeth all,–
Senses and intellect. The Sovereign Soul
Thus entering the flesh, or quitting it,
Gathers these up, as the wind gathers scents,
Blowing above the flower-beds. Ear and Eye,
And Touch and Taste, and Smelling, these it takes,–
Yea, and a sentient mind;–linking itself
To sense-things so.
The unenlightened ones
Mark not that Spirit when he goes or comes,
Nor when he takes his pleasure in the form,
Conjoined with qualities; but those see plain
Who have the eyes to see. Holy souls see
Which strive thereto. Enlightened, they perceive
That Spirit in themselves; but foolish ones,
Even though they strive, discern not, having hearts
Unkindled, ill-informed!
Know, too, from Me
Shineth the gathered glory of the suns
Which lighten all the world: from Me the moons
Draw silvery beams, and fire fierce loveliness.
I penetrate the clay, and lend all shapes
Their living force; I glide into the plant–
Root, leaf, and bloom–to make the woodlands green
With springing sap. Becoming vital warmth,
I glow in glad, respiring frames, and pass,
With outward and with inward breath, to feed
The body by all meats.
For in this world
Being is twofold: the Divided, one;
The Undivided, one. All things that live
Are “the Divided.” That which sits apart,
“The Undivided.”
Higher still is He,
The Highest, holding all, whose Name is LORD,
The Eternal, Sovereign, First! Who fills all worlds,
Sustaining them. And–dwelling thus beyond
Divided Being and Undivided–I
Am called of men and Vedas, Life Supreme,
The PURUSHOTTAMA.
Who knows Me thus,
With mind unclouded, knoweth all, dear Prince!
And with his whole soul ever worshippeth Me.
Now is the sacred, secret Mystery
Declared to thee! Who comprehendeth this
Hath wisdom! He is quit of works in bliss!
HERE ENDS CHAPTER XV. OF THE BHAGAVAD-GITA
Entitled “Purushottamapraptiyog,”
Or “The Book of Religion by attaining the Supreme.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Arjuna:
Fain would I better know, Thou Glorious One!
The very truth–Heart’s Lord!–of Sannyas,
Abstention; and enunciation, Lord!
Tyaga; and what separates these twain!
Krishna:
The poets rightly teach that Sannyas
Is the foregoing of all acts which spring
Out of desire; and their wisest say
Tyaga is renouncing fruit of acts.
There be among the saints some who have held
All action sinful, and to be renounced;
And some who answer, “Nay! the goodly acts–
As worship, penance, alms–must be performed!”
Hear now My sentence, Best of Bharatas!
‘Tis well set forth, O Chaser of thy Foes!
Renunciation is of threefold form,
And Worship, Penance, Alms, not to be stayed;
Nay, to be gladly done; for all those three
Are purifying waters for true souls!
Yet must be practised even those high works
In yielding up attachment, and all fruit
Produced by works. This is My judgment, Prince!
This My insuperable and fixed decree!
Abstaining from a work by right prescribed
Never is meet! So to abstain doth spring
From “Darkness,” and Delusion teacheth it.
Abstaining from a work grievous to flesh,
When one saith “‘Tis unpleasing!” this is null!
Such an one acts from “passion;” nought of gain
Wins his Renunciation! But, Arjun!
Abstaining from attachment to the work,
Abstaining from rewardment in the work,
While yet one doeth it full faithfully,
Saying, “Tis right to do!” that is “true ” act
And abstinence! Who doeth duties so,
Unvexed if his work fail, if it succeed
Unflattered, in his own heart justified,
Quit of debates and doubts, his is “true” act:
For, being in the body, none may stand
Wholly aloof from act; yet, who abstains
From profit of his acts is abstinent.
The fruit of labours, in the lives to come,
Is threefold for all men,–Desirable,
And Undesirable, and mixed of both;
But no fruit is at all where no work was.
Hear from me, Long-armed Lord! the makings five
Which go to every act, in Sankhya taught
As necessary. First the force; and then
The agent; next, the various instruments;
Fourth, the especial effort; fifth, the God.
What work soever any mortal doth
Of body, mind, or speech, evil or good,
By these five doth he that. Which being thus,
Whoso, for lack of knowledge, seeth himself
As the sole actor, knoweth nought at all
And seeth nought. Therefore, I say, if one–
Holding aloof from self–with unstained mind
Should slay all yonder host, being bid to slay,
He doth not slay; he is not bound thereby!
Knowledge, the thing known, and the mind which knows,
These make the threefold starting-ground of act.
The act, the actor, and the instrument,
These make the threefold total of the deed.
But knowledge, agent, act, are differenced
By three dividing qualities. Hear now
Which be the qualities dividing them.
There is “true” Knowledge. Learn thou it is this:
To see one changeless Life in all the Lives,
And in the Separate, One Inseparable.
There is imperfect Knowledge: that which sees
The separate existences apart,
And, being separated, holds them real.
There is false Knowledge: that which blindly clings
To one as if ’twere all, seeking no Cause,
Deprived of light, narrow, and dull, and “dark.”
There is “right” Action: that which being enjoined–
Is wrought without attachment, passionlessly,
For duty, not for love, nor hate, nor gain.
There is “vain” Action: that which men pursue
Aching to satisfy desires, impelled
By sense of self, with all-absorbing stress:
This is of Rajas–passionate and vain.
There is “dark” Action: when one doth a thing
Heedless of issues, heedless of the hurt
Or wrong for others, heedless if he harm
His own soul–’tis of Tamas, black and bad!
There is the “rightful”doer. He who acts
Free from self-seeking, humble, resolute,
Steadfast, in good or evil hap the same,
Content to do aright-he “truly” acts.
There is th’ “impassioned” doer. He that works
From impulse, seeking profit, rude and bold
To overcome, unchastened; slave by turns
Of sorrow and of joy: of Rajas he!
And there be evil doers; loose of heart,
Low-minded, stubborn, fraudulent, remiss,
Dull, slow, despondent–children of the “dark.”
Hear, too, of Intellect and Steadfastness
The threefold separation, Conqueror-Prince!
How these are set apart by Qualities.
Good is the Intellect which comprehends
The coming forth and going back of life,
What must be done, and what must not be done,
What should be feared, and what should not be feared,
What binds and what emancipates the soul:
That is of Sattwan, Prince! of “soothfastness.”
Marred is the Intellect which, knowing right
And knowing wrong, and what is well to do
And what must not be done, yet understands
Nought with firm mind, nor as the calm truth is:
This is of Rajas, Prince! and “passionate!”
Evil is Intellect which, wrapped in gloom,
Looks upon wrong as right, and sees all things
Contrariwise of Truth. O Pritha’s Son!
That is of Tamas, “dark” and desperate!
Good is the steadfastness whereby a man
Masters his beats of heart, his very breath
Of life, the action of his senses; fixed
In never-shaken faith and piety:
That is of Sattwan, Prince! “soothfast” and fair!
Stained is the steadfastness whereby a man
Holds to his duty, purpose, effort, end,
For life’s sake, and the love of goods to gain,
Arjuna! ’tis of Rajas, passion-stamped!
Sad is the steadfastness wherewith the fool
Cleaves to his sloth, his sorrow, and his fears,
His folly and despair. This–Pritha’s Son!–
Is born of Tamas, “dark” and miserable!
Hear further, Chief of Bharatas! from Me
The threefold kinds of Pleasure which there be.
Good Pleasure is the pleasure that endures,
Banishing pain for aye; bitter at first
As poison to the soul, but afterward
Sweet as the taste of Amrit. Drink of that!
It springeth in the Spirit’s deep content.
And painful Pleasure springeth from the bond
Between the senses and the sense-world. Sweet
As Amrit is its first taste, but its last
Bitter as poison. ‘Tis of Rajas, Prince!
And foul and “dark” the Pleasure is which springs
From sloth and sin and foolishness; at first
And at the last, and all the way of life
The soul bewildering. ‘Tis of Tamas, Prince!
For nothing lives on earth, nor ‘midst the gods
In utmost heaven, but hath its being bound
With these three Qualities, by Nature framed.
The work of Brahmans, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas,
And Sudras, O thou Slayer of thy Foes!
Is fixed by reason of the Qualities
Planted in each:
A Brahman’s virtues, Prince!
Born of his nature, are serenity,
Self-mastery, religion, purity,
Patience, uprightness, learning, and to know
The truth of things which be. A Kshatriya’s pride,
Born of his nature, lives in valour, fire,
Constancy, skilfulness, spirit in fight,
And open-handedness and noble mien,
As of a lord of men. A Vaisya’s task,
Born with his nature, is to till the ground,
Tend cattle, venture trade. A Sudra’s state,
Suiting his nature, is to minister.
Whoso performeth–diligent, content–
The work allotted him, whate’er it be,
Lays hold of perfectness! Hear how a man
Findeth perfection, being so content:
He findeth it through worship–wrought by work–
Of Him that is the Source of all which lives,
Of HIM by Whom the universe was stretched.
Better thine own work is, though done with fault,
Than doing others’ work, ev’n excellently.
He shall not fall in sin who fronts the task
Set him by Nature’s hand! Let no man leave
His natural duty, Prince! though it bear blame!
For every work hath blame, as every flame
Is wrapped in smoke! Only that man attains
Perfect surcease of work whose work was wrought
With mind unfettered, soul wholly subdued,
Desires for ever dead, results renounced.
Learn from me, Son of Kunti! also this,
How one, attaining perfect peace, attains
BRAHM, the supreme, the highest height of all!
Devoted–with a heart grown pure, restrained
In lordly self-control, forgoing wiles
Of song and senses, freed from love and hate,
Dwelling ‘mid solitudes, in diet spare,
With body, speech, and will tamed to obey,
Ever to holy meditation vowed,
From passions liberate, quit of the Self,
Of arrogance, impatience, anger, pride;
Freed from surroundings, quiet, lacking nought–
Such an one grows to oneness with the BRAHM;
Such an one, growing one with BRAHM, serene,
Sorrows no more, desires no more; his soul,
Equally loving all that lives, loves well
Me, Who have made them, and attains to Me.
By this same love and worship doth he know
Me as I am, how high and wonderful,
And knowing, straightway enters into Me.
And whatsoever deeds he doeth–fixed
In Me, as in his refuge–he hath won
For ever and for ever by My grace
Th’ Eternal Rest! So win thou! In thy thoughts
Do all thou dost for Me! Renounce for Me!
Sacrifice heart and mind and will to Me!
Live in the faith of Me! In faith of Me
All dangers thou shalt vanquish, by My grace;
But, trusting to thyself and heeding not,
Thou can’st but perish! If this day thou say’st,
Relying on thyself, “I will not fight!”
Vain will the purpose prove! thy qualities
Would spur thee to the war. What thou dost shun,
Misled by fair illusions, thou wouldst seek
Against thy will, when the task comes to thee
Waking the promptings in thy nature set.
There lives a Master in the hearts of men
Maketh their deeds, by subtle pulling–strings,
Dance to what tune HE will. With all thy soul
Trust Him, and take Him for thy succour, Prince!
So–only so, Arjuna!–shalt thou gain–
By grace of Him–the uttermost repose,
The Eternal Place!
Thus hath been opened thee
This Truth of Truths, the Mystery more hid
Than any secret mystery. Meditate!
And–as thou wilt–then act!
Nay! but once more
Take My last word, My utmost meaning have!
Precious thou art to Me; right well-beloved!
Listen! I tell thee for thy comfort this.
Give Me thy heart! adore Me! serve Me! cling
In faith and love and reverence to Me!
So shalt thou come to Me! I promise true,
For thou art sweet to Me!
And let go those–
Rites and writ duties! Fly to Me alone!
Make Me thy single refuge! I will free
Thy soul from all its sins! Be of good cheer!
[Hide, the holy Krishna saith,
This from him that hath no faith,
Him that worships not, nor seeks
Wisdom’s teaching when she speaks:
Hide it from all men who mock;
But, wherever, ‘mid the flock
Of My lovers, one shall teach
This divinest, wisest, speech–
Teaching in the faith to bring
Truth to them, and offering
Of all honour unto Me–
Unto Brahma cometh he!
Nay, and nowhere shall ye find
Any man of all mankind
Doing dearer deed for Me;
Nor shall any dearer be
In My earth. Yea, furthermore,
Whoso reads this converse o’er,
Held by Us upon the plain,
Pondering piously and fain,
He hath paid Me sacrifice!
(Krishna speaketh in this wise!)
Yea, and whoso, full of faith,
Heareth wisely what it saith,
Heareth meekly,–when he dies,
Surely shall his spirit rise
To those regions where the Blest,
Free of flesh, in joyance rest.]
Hath this been heard by thee, O Indian Prince!
With mind intent? hath all the ignorance–
Which bred thy trouble–vanished, My Arjun?
Arjuna:
Trouble and ignorance are gone! the Light
Hath come unto me, by Thy favour, Lord!
Now am I fixed! my doubt is fled away!
According to Thy word, so will I do!
Sanjaya:
Thus gathered I the gracious speech of Krishna, O my King!
Thus have I told, with heart a-thrill, this wise and wondrous thing
By great Vyasa’s learning writ, how Krishna’s self made known
The Yoga, being Yoga’s Lord. So is the high truth shown!
And aye, when I remember, O Lord my King, again
Arjuna and the God in talk, and all this holy strain,
Great is my gladness: when I muse that splendour, passing speech,
Of Hari, visible and plain, there is no tongue to reach
My marvel and my love and bliss. O Archer-Prince! all hail!
O Krishna, Lord of Yoga! surely there shall not fail
Blessing, and victory, and power, for Thy most mighty sake,
Where this song comes of Arjun, and how with God he spake.
Translated from the Sanskrit Text
by
Sir Edwin Arnold,
M.A., K.C.I.E., C.S.I.
New York
Truslove, Hanson & Comba, Ltd.
67 Fifth Avenue
1900
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bhagavad-Gita, by Anonymous
Title: The Bhagavad-Gita
Author: Anonymous
Translator: Sir Edwin Arnold
- emeritus professor of Physics and Humanities at the Rochester Institute of Technology. He's written many books including Variety in Religion and Science: Daily Reflections. ↵
License:
Words of Wisdom: Intro to Philosophy by Jody L Ondich is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter4: Dhamma: What the Buddha Taught
DHAMMA: WHAT THE BUDDHA TAUGHT
Douglas Sjoquist
Introduction
Many people think of Buddhism as a religion rather than a philosophy and so one might wonder why there is a chapter on Buddhism in an introduction to philosophy textbook. However, metaphysical and epistemological ideas have always been a feature of religious thinking in India (and Asia more generally). Religion and philosophy were never thought of as separate and distinct disciplines. The Buddha’s teachings (called “Dhamma”) addressed fundamental questions about the self, the human condition, and the nature of existence—all of which are recognized philosophical questions within the Western tradition. At the same time, the Buddha emphasized an adherence to moral practice. It might be said that intellectual philosophy and religious practice are intrinsic to the Buddha’s teachings.
This chapter begins by placing the Buddha in the context of Indian history and Asian history. What were the prevailing ideas and practices in India that gave rise to Buddhism? Which philosophical/religious systems of his day did the Buddha embrace or reject? The chapter will also discuss some of the many misconceptions and misrepresentations of the Buddha’s teachings. By examining these misconceptions and misrepresentations, students will gain insights into what the Buddha actually taught in contrast to what people think he taught. Tackling these mistaken views on karma, for example, serves as a useful introduction to Dhamma.
The story of Malunkyaputta and the parable of the poisoned arrow can function as a preface to the Dhamma and will provide students with an orientation to both what is important to and irrelevant in the Buddha’s teachings. Inherent in the Four Noble Truths, the Noble Eightfold Path, and the Three Marks of Existence is a rational investigation of self and existence – both features of philosophical inquiry throughout human history.
The Buddha never expected his followers to blindly accept the truth of his teachings. Instead, he encouraged his followers to verify the truth of Dhamma by making their own honest observations about self and existence. This chapter lends itself to a comparative analysis between what the Buddha taught and the wisdom and methodologies of philosophers presented elsewhere in this textbook. How do the three pillars of Dhamma (wisdom, mental discipline and ethical conduct), for instance, compare with other philosophical traditions such as Roman Stoicism, American Pragmatism, or the teachings of Pythagoras? How would the Buddha view our contemporary relationship with the environment? It is hoped this chapter will stimulate these kinds of questions and contribute to a greater sensitivity to and appreciation for Buddhist thought and practice. Some of these issues will be discussed in the “philosophical afterward” at the end of the chapter.
Pali: The Original Language of Buddhism
The original written language of Buddhism is Pali. This ancient language has its origins in India and is for all practical purposes a simplified version of Sanskrit, an ancient language also from India and the original written language of Hinduism.It might be said that the relationship between Pali and Sanskrit is analogous to the relationship between Italian and Latin. That the Buddha spoke Pali is more difficult to ascertain but scholars think he probably spoke something very similar to it.Whatever the case may be, the Buddha never heard the word “Buddhism” nor did he ever see the word in writing.
It should also be noted that the teachings of the Buddha were not written down until the first century BCE. That is to say, Buddhism existed in oral form for at least four hundred years. During that time monks trained in memorization techniques memorized the Buddha’s teachings. Ananda, a disciple of the Buddha, is said to have recited from memory all of the Buddha’s sermons at the first Buddhist council in Rajagaha, India and Upali, another disciple of the Buddha, recited for the council all of the Buddha’s 227 rules. This council was held shortly after the Buddha’s death in 483 BCE. Memorization of large quantities of doctrinal information was common in India at the time of the Buddha and this was how the Buddha’s teachings were passed on from generation to generation. Tradition says that at the fourth Buddhist council, convened by King Vattagamani (88-77 BCE) in Sri Lanka, the Buddha’s teachings and rules were written down for the first time. In addition to the sermons and rules of the Buddha, commentaries on the Buddha’s sermons by various disciples were gradually added over the years and these, too, came to be written down. In Buddhism, these written teachings, rules, and commentaries are known as the Tipitaka (“three baskets”) and constitute what’s called the Pali Canon. Historians believe that the teachings, rules, and commentaries were initially written at this council on palm leaves and then appropriately placed into three baskets. This is the origin of the word “tipitaka.” As a written language Pali died out probably around the 14th-c. Still, scholars study this language to gain access to the original teachings of the Buddha.
Historical Context
The traditional dates for the Buddha’s birth and death are 563-483 BCE, respectively. This makes him a contemporary of Mahavira (599-527 BCE), K’ung Fu-tzu (551-479 BCE), and Lao Tzu (570-517 BCE). Jainism, Confucianism, and Taoism, therefore, all came into existence in Asia about the same time as Buddhism. The area where the Buddha was born is actually now in modern-day Nepal. His mother gave birth to him in the Nepalese village of Lumbini. (Tragically, she died seven days later). Since his father was a king, he was a prince and brought up in a luxurious palace in the city of Kapilavatthu – also in Nepal. The Buddha’s given name is Siddhattha Gotama (in Sanskrit, “Siddhartha Gautama”). He was born into the Sakya clan and many scholars simply refer to him by the name “Sakyamuni” (meaning “sage of the Sakya clan”).
His family belonged to the nobility class. In India, this class was called the Khatiya (in Sanskrit, “Kshatriya”) class. Also, the Buddha’s family was Hindu. Hinduism was the dominant religion in India at the time but there was great diversity in philosophical thought among Hindus. World-views such as theism, materialism, agnosticism, determinism, nihilism, etc. all fell under the Hindu umbrella. The philosophical abstractness and the great variety in views made Hinduism virtually impossible for commoners to understand. Furthermore, many Hindu priests (called “brahmins”) taught that salvation was only available to brahmins. That is, one had to be born as a brahmin (and as a male) to attain freedom from the miseries of the world and from death. Brahmins also promoted the idea that rituals were the most effective means for securing assistance from the various deities that dominated the Hindu pantheon and the only people competent to perform these rituals were the brahmins themselves. It might be said that the priests had a spiritual stranglehold on the commoner. To complicate matters even further most commoners were uneducated and could not speak, read, or write Sanskrit – the language of the brahmins. It’s well-known that the priestly class had corrupted Hinduism by the time the Buddha entered the picture in India’s history. India was ripe for a new world- view. The Buddha experimented with the various practices and theories associated with the Hinduism of his day and he came to the conclusion that practices such as extreme austerities and solitude were harmful and that the dominant philosophical views were erroneous. He rejected, for example, the ideas of savior beings, divine assistance, sacrifices and rituals, a creator god, and the exclusivist views of priests as means to attain salvation. (It’s important to mention, perhaps, that during the time of the Buddha, the Hindu teachings represented by Upanishads had yet to reach fruition. These Upanishad teachings ushered in a Hindu reformation after the Buddha’s passing).
This chapter on Buddhism will examine the central teachings of the Buddha. It is vital that students note at the onset that a distinction should be made between what the Buddha taught and what is called Buddhism. Buddhism is a religion that represents an evolution of practices and thinking that evolved over a long period of time as it migrated from one geographical area to another and split into three traditions: the Theravada, the Mahayana, and the Vajrayana.
There’s great diversity in Buddhism just as there is great diversity in the various traditions of Christianity or Islam. Ronald Eyre (1929-1992), a British theater director and narrator of the television documentary series called, The Long Search, proposed a thoughtful question: “If the Buddha of Sri Lanka or India and the Buddha of Japan were to meet would they recognize each other?” The question is apropos since what the Buddha taught is quite different from what some Mahayana schools (for example, the Pure Land sects in China or Japan) taught, for example. Buddhist scholars like to distinguish what the Buddha actually taught (that is, the Dhamma) and what came to be known as Buddhism. This chapter embraces the above scholarly position and will inspect only what the Buddha taught.
The Story of Malunkyaputta
An appropriate place to begin a discussion about Dhamma is to tell the story of an exchange between a monk named Malunkyaputta and the Buddha. The scene takes place at a monastery in Savatthi, India. Malunkyaputta had been bothered by many questions that he wanted the Buddha to answer. He felt the Buddha ignored the kinds of questions that for him were important. In essence, Malunkyaputta wanted answers to questions that would be considered central issues in metaphysics or other areas of philosophy as well as dominant topics in some religions like Hinduism, Christianity, or Islam. “Is the world eternal or not eternal? Is the world finite or infinite? Is the soul the same as the body or is the soul one thing and the body another thing? After death does a Buddha exist or not exist?” He went to the Buddha and demanded that the Buddha answer these questions once and for all. Malunkyaputta declared to the Buddha that he would abandon his training and return to a normal life if these questions were not answered. The Buddha quietly listened to Malunkyaputta and then told the following parable:
“Suppose, Malunkyaputta, a man were wounded by an arrow thickly smeared with poison and his friends and family brought a surgeon to treat him. The man would say: ‘I will not let the surgeon pull out this arrow that wounded me until I know if the man who wounded me was tall, short, or middle height, dark or brown or golden-skinned, whether the man lived in a village or town or city; . . . until I know whether the bow that wounded me was a long bow or a crossbow, whether the bowstring was made of fiber, reed, sinew, hemp or bark; . . . until I know with what kind of feathers the shaft that wounded me was fitted – whether those of a vulture, a heron, a stork, a hawk, or a peacock.’“ The Buddha went on in great detail and ended by saying that all these questions would still be unknown to that man and meanwhile he would die. He continued and said, “So, too, Malunkyaputta, if anyone comes to the Buddha and says he will not follow the Buddha until these questions are answered he, too, will die” (Majjhima Nikaya 63).[1]
The orientation of the Buddha’s teachings is clearly illustrated in this story. The above tale shows readers that the focus of the Buddha’s teachings was on the elimination of suffering and not on theory or beliefs.In other words, we as humans should concentrate our energies on removing the “arrow of suffering” rather than wasting our time on useless doctrinal speculations. Whether the universe is finite or infinite, created or non-created, etc. matters very little with regard to the realities of one’s suffering. The issue of one’s liberation from suffering is more important, for example, than knowing the nature of God or knowing whether the world was created or not created. The Buddha’s teachings emphasize realistic solutions to human problems.
The Four Noble Truths
The Buddha was like a doctor/scientist who observed the problem with the human condition and presented a cure or solution. More precisely, he analyzed, investigated, and then offered a course of action. After his enlightenment he gave a sermon to five monks in a place called Deer Park. This sermon (“sutta”) is called “The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Teaching.” At the beginning of this first sermon was the idea that we should avoid the extremes of self- indulgence on one hand and self-denial on the other. He said, “There are two extremes, monks, which must be avoided. What are these extremes? A life given to pleasures, dedicated to pleasures and lusts – this is degrading, sensual, vulgar, unworthy, and useless. And, a life given to self-torture – this is painful, unworthy, and useless.” We must, said the Buddha, follow the Middle Path “which leads to insight, which leads to wisdom, which produces calm, knowledge, enlightenment, and nibbana” (Samyutta Nikaya 56).[2] The Buddha’s teaching is often called the “middle path” because he taught that one should shun all extremes and instead live a life of moderation.
He then presented in this sermon what are called the Four Noble Truths:
- There is suffering (“dukkha”)
- Suffering has a cause
- Suffering can be eliminated
- There is a way to eliminate suffering
These Four Noble Truths might be considered the essence of the Buddha’s teachings on the human condition. Summarizing the Buddha’s own words he said, “I teach suffering, its causes, its cessation, and the way to end suffering.”
Regarding the First Noble Truth the Buddha said this: “Birth is suffering, decay is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering, to be united with the unpleasant is suffering, to be separated from the pleasant is suffering, not to get what one desires is suffering” (Samyutta Nikaya 56). The First Noble Truth implies that life is defective. Suffering is inevitable. To be born into the world means to experience suffering (mental, physical). To paraphrase from his book, Being and Nothingness, the French philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, would say “if we are born in the world we are condemned to be free.” The Buddha would say, “if we are born in the world we are condemned to suffer.”
The Second Noble Truth says that suffering has a cause: “It is craving (tanha) which renews being, and is accompanied by desire and lust, desire for this and that. In other words, craving for sensual pleasures, craving to be, craving not to be” (Samyutta Nikaya 56). The Second Noble Truth identifies the cause of suffering as craving. It should be noted here that some scholars translate the Pali word tanha as “desire” but this is misleading because it implies that the Buddha taught that all desires must be eliminated to end suffering. This is simply inaccurate. Desires can be wholesome (for example, the desire to help others, the desire to be a kind person, the desire to end suffering for one’s self and for others, etc.). Desires can be neutral like the desire to ride your bike or go swimming or eat when you’re hungry. Other desires are unwholesome ones and these are better translated as “cravings.” This translation of tanha better captures the essence of the Second Noble Truth. These unwholesome desires would include craving sensual pleasure, wealth, notoriety, and so forth.It might also include craving life and good health in the face of death or sickness, respectively. What gives rise to this craving in the first place is ignorance. We fail to see, for example, how our craving for those things, people, and activities that brings us pleasure leads to suffering.
Consider this. An object can fulfill a craving, or a person can fulfill a craving, or an activity can fulfill a craving. The fulfillment of that craving, however, brings with it attachment. In other words, we become attached to the things, the people, and the activities that brings us pleasure. This attachment is a human characteristic. It is natural. This attachment, however, gives rise to separation anxiety. We become anxious about losing the things, the people, and the activities that bring us pleasure. This anxiety is one example of suffering. It’s a complicated cycle that, in Buddhism, eventually leads to rebirth. The root cause of suffering, then, is craving, which arises out of ignorance and leads to attachment that leads to suffering.
The Third Noble Truth says, “It is the complete stopping of this craving, the elimination of passions so that craving can be laid aside, given up, harbored no longer, and gotten free from” (Samyutta Nikaya 56). If the cause of suffering lies in craving, ignorance, and attachment then the elimination of suffering involves abandoning them. We don’t rid ourselves of the objects, the people, or the activities; we rid ourselves of the craving and attachment to them. To eliminate suffering is to get rid of the craving and attachment and ignorance that underlie it and the Fourth Noble Truth prescribes a way to do this.
The Fourth Noble Truth says, “There is a path that leads to the cessation of suffering: it is, indeed, the Noble Eightfold Path: right views, right intentions, right speech, right actions, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration” (Samyutta Nikaya 56).
The Noble Eightfold Path
The Noble Eightfold Path (Magga) is considered the path in Buddhism. The book called the Dhammapada (literally the “teaching path”) is a collection of sayings from the Buddha. It says in the book, “Of all the paths the Eightfold is the best; of truths the Four Noble are best; of mental states, detachment is best; of human beings the illuminated one is best” (Dhammapada, 273).[3] The Noble Eightfold Path represents the middle course one must tread in life. It’s the Buddhist prescription for ending suffering. That is, it is the path we must adhere to in order to avoid the extremes of self-indulgence and self-mortification and attain the awakened state like the Buddha. The NEP consists of eight principles that are usually categorized under the headings of wisdom (panna), ethics (sila), and mental discipline (samadhi). Let’s look at each.
Right View simply means knowing through personal investigation and experience what suffering is, its causes, that it can be eliminated, and the way to eliminate it. It implies a correct understanding of the law of kamma, for example, and a commitment to abandoning wrong views.
Right Intention is, perhaps, the most important feature of the NEP. The Buddha asked us to consider the intent behind thought, action, and speech. In other words, whenever we act, think, or speak we should be mindful of our intent behind those thoughts, actions, and speech. Is the intent to foster harm and ill will or is the intent meant to bring about good will and harmlessness to those around you and the environment? Before you act, think, or speak ask yourself, “What is my intent?” This is important to remember since the intent of an action creates kamma.
Right Speech requires that we refrain from lying, false accusations, idle gossip, and harsh or loud talk. We should not use speech to inflame passions or incite hatred, divisiveness, or violence. Instead, speech should be quiet, compassionate, and used to create harmony in one’s surroundings. Has you mother ever said, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it”? If yes, she was probably a Buddhist and you didn’t know it.
Right Action constitutes five principles that all Buddhists should observe. They are 1) to avoid killing, and/or harming, 2) to avoid taking that which is not given to you (that is, no stealing), 3) to avoid false speech (see above), 4) to avoid sexual misconduct (such as adultery), and finally 5) to avoid intoxication by using drugs or alcohol. It is, of course, expected of Buddhist laypeople that these precepts be observed. For Buddhist monks, these precepts and many others are more strictly prescribed. For instance, monks must remain celibate. “Having thus gone forth and possessing the monk’s training and way of life, he abstains from killing living beings; with rod and weapon laid aside, gentle and kindly, he extends compassion to all living beings. Abandoning the taking of what’s not given, taking only what is given and expecting only what is given. He observes celibacy, living apart from the practice of sexual intercourse.” (Mijjhima Nikaya 272)
Not surprisingly, students typically ask many questions about these precepts associated with right action as it relates to them – especially to avoid killing, to avoid sexual misconduct, and to avoid intoxication. “What if a mosquito lands on my arm? Can I kill it?” “What if someone comes to my house who intends to steal or murder? Can I kill that person?” “Can my girlfriend and I have sex and still be Buddhist?” “Can my boyfriend and I have a beer before or after dinner?” One way to answer these questions is to first ask, “What is the intent of my action? Will my action bring harm to another person, the environment, or myself?” Secondly, another way to address these kinds of issues for laypeople is to assess whether they conform to the practice of moderation. The Buddha warned against self-indulgence. Notice, for example, that the prohibition is against intoxication – not drinking. The prohibition is against sexual misconduct not sex.
Right Livelihood is an extension of right speech and right action into one’s profession or livelihood. One must avoid deceptive practices, exploitation, violence, etc. Any occupation that brings harm to others, the environment, or oneself should be avoided. Clear examples of this would be occupations that harm or deceive others, such as engaging in human trafficking or working for an company that deploys deceptive sales tactics. One’s profession should carry with it a sense of service to others or to the environment.
Right Effort means one must be resolved to cultivating wisdom, right views, right actions, etc. One cannot simply expect that things will get better or automatically improve. Suffering will not go away like magic. There must be a mental resolve to expel evil thoughts and nourish wholesome ones. There must be a mental resolve to cultivate compassion, wisdom, and generosity. Nurturing spiritual ideals requires mental discipline.
Right Mindfulness is an important feature of training the mind.It goes beyond simply having a global awareness of your surroundings at all times. It means paying attention to how one’s actions, thoughts, and speech affect the environment and other people. It means paying attention to how a certain feeling or emotion has arisen in the mind. It means paying attention to how your current situation or circumstance (good or bad) has ties to past actions, words, and deeds. Right mindfulness means paying attention! Right mindfulness can mean “alertness” or “recollection” or “presence of mind,” too. In the Buddha’s teaching it refers to “egoless observing.” One approaches the present without mental prejudice or preconception.
Right Concentration simply refers to meditation practice. Meditation practice trains the mind to focus and develop the ability to sustain a one-pointedness. It involves unifying the mind for one purpose: enlightenment or awakening.
These eight principles known as the Noble Eightfold Path are practiced concurrently and in accordance with the practice of moderation. As one can see the NEP does not represent a belief system. The eight principles represent a process, a practical guide to end suffering. These eight principles are linked and can be thought of in three categories as mentioned above: panna (Right Views and Right Intentions), sila (Right Speech, Right Action, and Right Livelihood), and samadhi (Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration). The categories and their respective principles are intended to be practiced together. They are mutually supportive or interdependent. One cannot expect to conduct oneself ethically without mental discipline and mental discipline has no foundation without ethical conduct. And, both ethical conduct and mental discipline are connected with wisdom and wisdom is developed through mental discipline and ethical conduct.
The Three Marks of Existence
It’s important to supplement the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path in this chapter with a short discussion on the Buddha’s three marks of existence (tilakkhana). These characteristics do not appear as a separate and distinct sutta but they are mentioned so often in many suttas that scholars consider them essential elements in the Buddha’s teachings. They should be viewed as complementary teachings to the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path.
The Dhammapada says this regarding these marks of existence: “All created things are transitory; those who realize this are freed from suffering. All created beings are involved in sorrow; those who realize this are freed from suffering.
All states are without self; all those who realize this are freed from suffering” (Dhammapada 277-279). In the Anguttara Nikaya (meaning “gradual sayings”) the Buddha said, “Whether Tathagatas (Buddhas) arise in the world or not, it still remains a fact, a firm and necessary condition of existence, that all formations are impermanent . . . that all formations are subject to suffering . . . that all things are non-self.”[4]
The first mark of existence is impermanence (anicca). That is, existence is characterized by constant change. There is no permanence in anything. There is no permanence in our thoughts, in our emotions, or in our bodies. There is no permanence in the objects of our world. All is in a constant state of change.
Ask yourself this: can I hold one particular thought or do my thoughts constantly change? Do my feelings stay the same or do they constantly change? Does my body stay the same or does it constantly change? Do the things that come to me in my experience of the world have any permanence? Clearly the answer is, “no!”All that is created is transitory. This is an existential condition.
The second mark of existence is that all beings (including animals) are subject to dissatisfaction or suffering (dukkha). We saw in the First Noble Truth that to be born in the world is to experience suffering. Part of the reason for this is that everything is subject to impermanence. Everything that changes brings with it unhappiness or distress.This is also an existential condition.
The third characteristic is, perhaps, one of the most complex and difficult principles in Buddhism to grasp for Westerners brought up in a Judeo-Christian- Islamic environment. It has even generated controversy. It’s the concept called “no-self” (anatta). Normally, we think of ourselves as being the “owner” of certain features that would constitute a human being such as bodily processes, sensations, perceptions, consciousness, etc. In the Buddha’s teachings, however, there is no “owner” or “self” attached to these features. The Buddhist monk, teacher, and author, Ajahn Khemansanto, posed this thought: “Long ago Descartes justified the existence of self by saying ‘I think, therefore I am’ (cogito ergo sum). From the Buddhist point of view he almost had it correct but it should be, ‘I think, therefore I think I am’. What is this thinker? Is this one who is aware separate from the thoughts, actions, feelings, or perceptions of the one who has them?” (Even Against the Wind, p.219).[5]
We utilize the word “self” for linguistic convenience to refer to the collection of perceptions, thoughts, feelings, and body but it is not a “thing” separate from those same perceptions, etc. Furthermore, those perceptions, feelings, etc. are always changing or impermanent. Simply, there is no self (that is, there is no permanent and separate entity acting as an owner of sensations, consciousness, thoughts, etc.). “Suffering exists, but not the sufferer. The act is done, but there is no doer. Peace exists, but not the one who is at peace. There is a path, but no one walks it” – Buddhaghosa (Visuddhimagga 513).[6]
Related to this third mark of existence is that Buddhists do not have a concept of a soul. Sometimes the Buddhist term anatta is interpreted as “no-soul.” In Judeo-Christian-Islamic traditions it is assumed that humans have a soul that is separate from our bodies and when we die this soul continues to exist and goes to either Heaven or Hell. The Buddha put forward no such idea. There is no evidence that anything exists over and above our transitory bodies and minds that can be identified as a separate eternal entity or a ”soul.” This idea of no- self/no-soul is a core principle in the Buddhist ontology.
Common Misconceptions
One common misconception is that the Buddha preached a pessimistic world- view that devalues life. This wrong interpretation stems from the Buddha’s principal position that if one is born into the world one can expect to experience suffering.What some critics of the Buddha’s teachings ignore, however, is that he taught that suffering has causes and suffering can be eliminated.
Additionally, the Buddha taught a way to eliminate suffering! The Dhamma is not pessimistic; it’s realistic. Look at any image of the Buddha. Does he have the face of a pessimist?
A second misconception is that the Buddha was a god. The Buddha never presented himself as a god nor did his disciples think of him as one. He was a human being – albeit a very unique one – who became enlightened or “awakened” to the realities of life and then taught people how to discover their own awakening and overcome suffering associated with these realities. What are the realities of human life? According to the Buddha it is, first and foremost, that although we all want lasting happiness and pleasure, we find only frustration, disappointment, and impermanence in that which brings us pleasure and happiness. The word “Buddha” means “one who is awake” (to the nature, causes, and elimination of suffering).
A third misconception is that the Buddha taught reincarnation. There is no notion of reincarnation in the Buddha’s teachings like there is in Hinduism. There is no soul that migrates from one lifetime to the next. What the Buddha taught was the notion of rebirth. Life does indeed continue after death but it is kammic/karmic tendencies rather a soul that migrates from one life to another.
It seems there is great misunderstanding of the notion of kamma (“karma” in Sanskrit), as well. The Buddhist interpretation of kamma is distinguishable from the Hindu notion of karma. In Hinduism, karma can mean “action” or the consequences of a physical or mental action. It can also mean the sum of all consequences of actions. Furthermore, Hindus think of karma as a cause-and- effect relationship operative in human behavior. Buddhism generally accepts these ideas about karma found in Hinduism. However, in Buddhism the link holding the universal law of cause-and-effect together is intention. Actions only produce results under certain circumstances. In other words, the effect of an action is not primarily determined by the act itself but rather by the intent of the action. It is the conscious intention of actions that causes kammic/karmic effects to arise. For example, if you unintentionally run over a squirrel with your car on the way to school it does not necessarily mean that you’ll accumulate “bad karma” as a result. There has to be some conscious intent behind the action.
In today’s “New Age” thinking people often embrace the idea that a person who suffers from a certain fate (for example, someone who has cancer, someone who was murdered, someone with a birth defect, etc.) deserved that fate due to their actions in the past – perhaps even lifetimes ago. The Buddha warned his monks not to fall into that wrong thinking. Humans are conditioned not only by their kamma but also by genetics, their environment, physical laws, and the mind, as well. Most importantly, it is the intention of an action that causes a certain effect in the future.
This brings up two other points regarding the Buddhist notion of kamma/karma. John Lennon sang a song called “Instant Karma.” This idea of kamma/karma is also erroneous. The effect of an action is not instantaneous! In other words, an action and the effect of an action cannot happen simultaneously. The consequence of an action may not manifest until several days, years, or even lifetimes later. Secondly, the effect of an action is not necessarily an effect in kind. In some religions you find phrases like “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” or “as you sow, so shall you reap.” This, too, is erroneous thinking from the perspective of Buddhism. For example, if you cheat on your girlfriend the consequence of that action might be that she leaves you forever instead of reciprocating by cheating on you while in the relationship. For every intentive action there is a reaction but not necessarily a reaction in kind or in proximity to the action itself.
There are many misrepresentations and misinterpretations regarding Buddhist concepts. This applies to Buddhist art, as well. Many people have seen the imagery below. This is not the Buddha. This is an image of Pu-tai, a Chinese Buddhist monk associated with Ch’an Buddhism. He is associated with prosperity and longevity and is a well-known figure in Chinese popular culture. This imagery dates back to about the 10th-c. The image is commonly referred to as the “laughing Buddha” or the “fat Buddha.” This is not, however, the historical Buddha.
(Image: Douglas Sjoquist)
There are other misconceptions about Buddhism and what the Buddha taught (for example, all Buddhists are vegetarians, most Buddhists live in India, all Buddhists practice meditation) but the above represent the most commonly held ones.
Concluding Remarks
The Buddha did not create a theology, a cosmology, a cosmogony, or eschatology. There are no divinely revealed scriptures regarding what he taught. He did not develop a liturgy or prescribe any rituals. In other words, the Dhamma is not a religion in the way that many of think about religion. Rather, it is a path – a path that suggests mental discipline, living a life of moderation, being mindful of our intent behind thoughts, words, and actions, and practicing generosity and kindness will lead to insights on the human condition and eventually an awakened state. This awakened state in Buddhism is referred to as “enlightenment” (bodhi). What exactly is one awakened to? One is awakened to the nature of suffering, the cause of suffering, the realization that suffering can be eliminated, and the complete understanding that there is a way to eliminate it. Ultimately, the goal is nibbana (literally, “to be extinguished”) – the highest kind of enlightenment.It says in the “Udana” (the third subdivision of the Khuddaka Nikaya): “There is, monks, that state where there is no earth, no water, no fire, no air; no base consisting of the infinity of space, no base consisting of the infinity of consciousness, no base consisting of nothingness, no base consisting of neither perception nor non-perception; neither this world nor the next nor both; neither sun nor moon. Here, monks, I say there is no coming, no going, no staying, no decreasing, no uprising, no fixed, no moveable, it has no support. Just this is the end of dukkha” (Udana 8.1).[7]
Study questions
- It seems that Buddhism arrived in Indian history at an opportune time. Describe some of the characteristics of Hinduism – especially the Brahmin class – that made India eager to embrace a new teacher and his teachings.
- What is the name for the Buddha’s teachings? Why do scholars (and some Buddhists) make a distinction between what the Buddha taught and Buddhism?Do you think such a distinction has merit?
- Identify at least three common misconceptions about Buddhism. (NOTE: Include in your answer the concept of kamma and two other misunderstandings about Buddhism commonly found in the West). How do you suppose these misconceptions arise and why do you suppose they get perpetuated? Can the same be said about the teachings of Jesus and/or Muhammad?
- What message was the Buddha trying to convey in telling Malunkyaputta the parable of the poisoned arrow?
- Buddhism is often referred to as “the Middle Path.” Why?
- We all enjoy the simple pleasures in life like having coffee in the morning or putting on headphones and listening to our favorite music in the evening. Illustrate how engaging in a simple pleasure might lead to a form of suffering.
- According to the Buddha’s teachings, if various forms of suffering are tied to ignorance, craving, and attachment how, then, is this suffering to be eliminated?
- Arrange each of the principles associated with the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path according to the following categories: Wisdom, Mental Discipline, and Ethical Conduct. Illustrate how these principles (and categories) are mutually supportive.
- “Suffering exists, but not the sufferer. The act is done, but there is no doer. Peace exists, but not the one who is at peace. There is a path, but no one walks it.” – Buddhaghosa (Visuddhimagga 513). What Buddhist concept does Buddhagosa refer to in the above quotation? Explain.
- What elements in Western religious traditions are not found in the Buddha’s Dhamma? What elements in Western philosophical thought are not found in the Dhamma?Does the absence of these elements imply that Dhamma is neither a religion nor a philosophy?
Philosophical Afterward (Matthew Van Cleave)
Many philosophical works address theoretical and conceptual problems. The problem of other minds, external world skepticism, the problem of free will and determinism—none of these issues concern the practical matter of how to live well. Rather, they are more intellectual than practical. Although much of the western philosophical tradition focuses on these intellectual and conceptual issues, the concern with practical matters, such as how to live well, has always concerned philosophers, as well. Going all the way back to ancient Greece, Socrates was first and foremost concerned with how to live well—with “ethics” in the broadest sense of that term. Today, ethics remains a flourishing area within the discipline of philosophy, alongside metaphysics, epistemology, and logic. Although contemporary philosophers have tended to intellectualize much of the discipline of ethics, there remains ongoing interest in older traditions that emphasize the practical and therapeutic over the intellectual.
Buddhism, and specifically the Dhamma, is clearly philosophical in this sense. As the story of Malunkyaputta suggests, we often don’t need a subtle intellectual understanding of things in order to reap practical or therapeutic benefits. Indeed, Malunkyaputta’s questions only inhibit his reaping the therapeutic benefits of the surgery. One philosophical tradition that exemplifies this therapeutic conception of philosophy is Stoicism. Since Stoicism is interestingly similar to the Buddha’s teaching about how desire leads to suffering and that living well involves taming our desires, it would be instructive to consider this similarity.
Stoicism began in ancient Greece and was imported to ancient Rome, where it was developed in the hands of influential Roman statesmen and emperors, including Cicero, Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius.[8] As we have seen in this chapter, the second noble truth identifies the cause of suffering with faulty desires and suggests that in order to live better we should constrain not only what we desire, but also the way we desire things. The third noble truth suggests that we can (and should) learn to desire without getting attached to things. Stoicism makes a very similar claim about desire: that we should only desire those things which are under our control. Stoics had an interesting way of reconciling free will with determinism. On the one hand, Stoics believed that everything that happened was fated (by god/nature) to happen and it could not have happened otherwise (this is determinism). On the other hand, they believed that if we could come to desire whatever it was that happened, then whatever happened is something that we would want and in this sense we would have freedom.[9] In contrast, we lack freedom when our desires are in conflict with what happens in the world. Thus, according to the Stoics, if we want to increase our freedom, we should learn to be accept with equanimity whatever happens. We should focus our energy on what we can control and although we cannot control what happens in the world, we can control our reactions to what happens in the world (our own minds). As Epictetus said, “Don’t demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.”[10] The Stoics called this state of mind of calm acceptance of whatever happens apatheia. Indeed, some Stoics such as Epictetus pushed this acceptance to the extreme:
With regard to whatever objects give you delight, are useful, or are deeply loved, remember to tell yourself of what general nature they are, beginning from the most insignificant things. If, for example, you are fond of a specific ceramic cup, remind yourself that it is only ceramic cups in general of which you are fond. Then, if it breaks, you will not be disturbed. If you kiss your child, or your wife, say that you only kiss things which are human, and thus you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.[11]
Thus the third noble truth and the Stoic notion of apatheia seem to share the idea that in order to live well, we should tame and control our desires so that we do not become attached to things that are not within our control and that we could lose.
This is both a serious but contentious claim about what human beings need to do in order to live well. Not everyone agrees that in order to live well we should narrow the scope and nature of what we desire, but this same issue is one that arises in other places within philosophy’s long history. Martha Nussbaum has argued that there was a longstanding debate on exactly this issue between the ancient Greek tragedians (like Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus), on the one hand, and Socrates and Plato, on the other. The tragedians, as Nussbaum reads them, are trying to show us that because of the scope and complexity of what humans desire, we will inevitably have to face tragic choices in life. These tragic situations cannot be avoided. Socrates’ response to the tragedians, as Nussbaum sees it, was to grant that they were correct in seeing that most human lives would involve tragedies—conflicts between things that we equally deeply value—but to suggest that we could escape the tragedy by narrowing the range of what we desire. For example, if we could reduce everything we valued to one kind of value, then there wouldn’t be any conflicts between incommensurable values (such as loyalty to family versus loyalty to state or religion). Consider love: if we could “ascend” to valuing only abstract beauty and not particular beautiful people, then there is no risk of loss or hurt. (This is exactly what Nussbaum argues is Socrates’ position in Plato’s Symposium and it also sounds remarkably similar to the Epictetus quote above.) Nussbaum argues that Plato is well aware of the fact that ascending to this kind of abstraction involves giving up something that is a deep part of our humanity and that safeguarding ourselves from loss in this way isn’t worth the price of making ourselves less human.[12] Perhaps there is a similar philosophical debate to be had regarding the viability of the third noble truth and of the Stoic ideal of apatheia.
There is another clear philosophical connection to be made with the Buddhist concept of anatta (no-self). Claims about what “the self” is connect with the traditional philosophical issue of personal identity (see the chapter in this textbook). One of the key questions that philosophers have asked about personal identity is how we can persist through time. Consider the fact that who you are now and who you were when you were 7 years old are radically different in almost every way. So, in what sense are we talking about the same person in these two instances? This is what philosophers have labelled “the persistence question” (see the personal identity chapter in this textbook). Some philosophers have taken the view that there is, in fact, nothing that persists through time and thus that we do not have a persisting self. Such philosophers seem to be in alignment with the Buddhist concept of anatta. One Buddhist text in which the doctrine of anatta is clearly stated (and that reads very similarly to philosophical writing about personal identity) is The Questions of King Milinda in which the Buddhist sage, Nāgasena, explains to King Milinda that just as a chariot is nothing in additions to all its parts, so the self is nothing—no extra thing—in addition to all of our parts. I quote that text here at length.
Now Milinda the king went up to where the venerable Nâgasena was, and addressed him with the greetings and compliments of friendship and courtesy, and took his seat respectfully apart. And Nâgasena reciprocated his courtesy, so that the heart of the king was propitiated. And Milinda began by asking, ‘How is your Reverence known, and what, Sir, is your name?’
‘I am known as Nâgasena, O king, and it is by that name that my brethren in the faith address me. But although parents, O king, give such a name as Nâgasena, or Sûrasena, or Vîrasena, or Sîhasena, yet this, Sire,– Nâgasena and so on–is only a generally understood term, a designation in common use. For there is no permanent individuality (no soul) involved in the matter.’
Then Milinda called upon the Yonakas and the brethren to witness: ‘This Nâgasena says there is no permanent individuality (no soul) implied in his name. Is it now even possible to approve him in that?’ And turning to Nâgasena, he said: ‘If, most reverend Nâgasena, there be no permanent individuality (no soul) involved in the matter, who is it, pray, who gives to you members of the Order your robes and food and lodging and necessaries for the sick? Who is it who enjoys such things when given?
Who is it who lives a life of righteousness? Who is it who devotes himself to meditation? Who is it who attains to the goal of the Excellent Way, to the Nirvâna of Arahatship? And who is it who destroys living creatures? who is it who takes what is not his own? who is it who lives an evil life of worldly lusts, who speaks lies, who drinks strong drink, who (in a word) commits any one of the five sins which work out their bitter fruit even in this life? If that be so there is neither merit nor demerit; there is neither doer nor causer of good or evil deeds; there is neither fruit nor result of good or evil Karma. If, most reverend Nâgasena, we are to think that were a man to kill you there would be no murder, then it follows that there are no real masters or teachers in your Order, and that your ordinations are void.–You tell me that your brethren in the Order are in the habit of addressing you as Nâgasena. Now what is that Nâgasena?
Do you mean to say that the hair is Nâgasena?’ ‘I don’t say that, great king.’
‘Or the hairs on the body, perhaps?’ ‘Certainly not.’
‘Or is it the nails, the teeth, the skin, the flesh, the nerves, the bones, the marrow, the kidneys, the heart, the liver, the abdomen, the spleen, the lungs, the larger intestines, the lower intestines, the stomach, the fæces, the bile, the phlegm, the pus, the blood, the sweat, the fat, the tears, the serum, the saliva, the mucus, the oil that lubricates the joints, the urine, or the brain, or any or all of these, that is Nâgasena?’
And to each of these he answered no.
‘Is it the outward form then (Rûpa) that is Nâgasena, or the sensations (Vedanâ), or the ideas (Saññâ), or the confections (the constituent elements of character, Samkhârâ), or the consciousness (Vigññâna), that is Nâgasena?’
And to each of these also he answered no.
‘Then is it all these Skandhas combined that are Nâgasena?’ ‘No! great king.’
‘But is there anything outside the five Skandhas that is Nâgasena?’ And still he answered no.
‘Then thus, ask as I may, I can discover no Nâgasena. Nâgasena is a mere empty sound. Who then is the Nâgasena that we see before us? It is a falsehood that your reverence has spoken, an untruth!’
And the venerable Nâgasena said to Milinda the king: ‘You, Sire, have been brought up in great luxury, as beseems your noble birth. If you were to walk this dry weather on the hot and sandy ground, trampling under foot the gritty, gravelly grains of the hard sand, your feet would hurt you. And as your body would be in pain, your mind would be disturbed, and you would experience a sense of bodily suffering. How then did you come, on foot, or in a chariot?’
‘I did not come, Sir, on foot. I came in a carriage.’
‘Then if you came, Sire, in a carriage, explain to me what that is. Is it the pole that is the chariot?’
‘I did not say that.’
‘Is it the axle that is the chariot?’ ‘Certainly not.’
‘Is it the wheels, or the framework, or the ropes, or the yoke, or the spokes of the wheels, or the goad, that are the chariot?’
And to all these he still answered no.
‘Then is it all these parts of it that are the chariot?’ ‘No, Sir.’
‘But is there anything outside them that is the chariot?’ And still he answered no.
‘Then thus, ask as I may, I can discover no chariot. Chariot is a mere empty sound. What then is the chariot you say you came in? It is a falsehood that your Majesty has spoken, an untruth! There is no such thing as a chariot! You are king over all India, a mighty monarch. Of whom then are you afraid that you speak untruth? And he called upon the Yonakas and the brethren to witness, saying: ‘Milinda the king here has said that he came by carriage. But when asked in that case to explain what the carriage was, he is unable to establish what he averred. Is it, forsooth, possible to approve him in that?’
When he had thus spoken the five hundred Yonakas shouted their applause, and said to the king: Now let your Majesty get out of that if you can?’
And Milinda the king replied to Nâgasena, and said: ‘I have spoken no untruth, reverend Sir. It is on account of its having all these things–the pole, and the axle, the wheels, and the framework, the ropes, the yoke, the spokes, and the goad–that it comes under the generally understood term, the designation in common use, of “chariot.”‘
‘Very good! Your Majesty has rightly grasped the meaning of “chariot.” And just even so it is on account of all those things you questioned me about–the thirty-two kinds of organic matter in a human body, and the five constituent elements of being–that I come under the generally understood term, the designation in common use, of “Nâgasena.”[13]
I will end this philosophical afterward with a question I had when reading this chapter. It is clear that the Buddha put forward the four noble truths and eightfold path and that he thought that these were crucial for humans to understand in order to live well. But how did the Buddha know this? This is an epistemological question; I am asking why we should believe that what the Buddha said was true. This question is especially pressing given that the Buddha doesn’t really try to give any arguments or reasoning for why what he said was true. What does seem to be clear from this chapter is that the Buddha discovered these truths from experience—from actually living it himself. It is here perhaps that we can tie the Buddha’s way of answering this question to an existing American philosophical tradition: pragmatism. American pragmatists (the big three being C.S. Pierce, William James, and John Dewey) suggested that what we mean by truth is simply what we can establish through experience. In short, if x works well, then x is true. Whatever might be our ultimate judgment about pragmatic theories of truth, there is another question that seems to me more pressing. The question is: Even if we grant that living in this way (following “the path”) worked for the Buddha, why should that mean it will thereby work for me? Of course, if I try it and find it works, then I have my answer. But why should I invest the time an energy into this particular path when there are so many other “paths” that other traditions think I should follow? These are questions that anyone who thinks deeply about what it means for humans to live well cannot avoid asking. Buddhism enters its answer into a mélange of other answers that have been offered by other philosophical and religious traditions. The role of philosophy is to sort through this mélange of answers for the truth.
Citation and Use Note
This reading was taken from the following source.
Levin, Noah, ed. “Self and Atman.” In SOUTH AND EAST ASIAN PHILOSOPHY READER, AN OPEN EDUCATIONAL RESOURCE, 105–15. NGE Far Press, 2019. https://human.libretexts.org/Bookshelves/Philosophy/Book%3A_South_and_East_Asian_Philosophy_Reader_(Levin_et_al.)
Use of this work is governed by CC-BY-SA-NC license.
- The Majjhima Nikaya. Nanamoli and Bodhi, translators: Wisdom Publications, 1995. ↵
- The Samyutta Nikaya, Nanamoli and Bodhi, translators: Wisdom Publications, 1995. ↵
- The Dhammpada, Easwaran, Eknath, translator: Nilgiri Press, 2007. ↵
- Anguttara Nikaya, p. 236 ↵
- Even Against the Wind, Khemasanto: Dhammasala Forest Monastery, 2000. ↵
- Visuddhimagga, Nanamoli, translator: Buddhist Publication Society, 1991. ↵
- The Khuddaka Nikaya, Thanissaro, translator: Metta Forest Monastery, 2005. ↵
- Juczak, Paul M. 2014. Worldy and Unworldly Philosophies: From the First Philosophers to the 15th Century. Open textbook available through author: jurczap@lcc.edu ↵
- Stoicism thus takes a “compatibilist” position regarding the problem of free will and determinism. See the chapter on free will and determinism in this textbook. ↵
- Epictetus, Enchiridion, 8. Available at http://classics.mit.edu/Epictetus/epicench.html ↵
- Epictetus, Enchiridion, 3 (emphasis mine). Available at http://classics.mit.edu/Epictetus/epicench.html ↵
- Martha Nussbaum argues all of the preceding points in her magisterial work, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy. Cambridge University Press, 2001. ↵
- Note that The Questions of King Milinda is not part of Dhamma, is not a sermon of the Buddha, is not found in Thai or Sri Lankan translations of Pali Canon, and is not in the sutras of the Pali Canon in Theravada tradition (except Burma). Full text of The Questions of King Milinda is available here: http://www.sacred-texts.com/bud/sbe35/sbe3504.htm ↵
LICENSE
Dhamma: What the Buddha Taught Copyright © 2020 by Douglas Sjoquist is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter4: Lao Tzu–Daoism, The Daodejing
Lao Tzu–Daoism
The Daodejing
One of the values of Daoism is the concept of Wu Wei. A simple translation of this might be “go with the flow”, but this is not quite enough to really describe wu wei. The literal meaning of wu wei is “without action”, “without effort”, or “without control”, and is often included in the paradox wei wu wei: “action without action” or “effortless doing”.
To Live Our Lives Like Water from Parker Palmer[1] talks about Daoism and how people can find this concept of Wu Wei in their living.
Chapter 1.
A dao that may be spoken is not the enduring Dao. A name that may be
named is not an enduring name.
No names – this is the beginning of heaven and earth. Having names – this is
the mother of the things of the world.
Make freedom from desire your constant norm; thereby you will see what is
subtle. Make having desires your constant norm; thereby you will see
what is manifest.
These two arise from the same source but have different names. Together
they may be termed ‘the mysterious’.
Mystery and more mystery: the gate of all that is subtle.
Chapter 2.
All in the world deem the beautiful to be beautiful; it is ugly. All deem the
good to be good; it is bad.
What is and what is not give birth to one another,
What is difficult and what is easy complete one another,
Long and short complement one another,
High and low incline towards one another,
Note and noise harmonize with one another,
Before and after follow one another.
Therefore the sage dwells in the midst of non-action (wuwei) and practices
the wordless teaching.
Herein arise the things of the world, it does not turn from them; what it gives
birth to it does not possess; what it does it does not retain. The
achievements complete, it makes no claim to them. Because it makes
no claim to them, they never leave it.
Chapter 11.
Thirty spokes share a single hub; grasp the nothingness at its center to get
the use of the wheel.
Clay is fashioned to make a vessel; grasp the nothingness at the center to get
the use of the vessel.
Bore windows and doors to create a room; grasp the nothingness of the
interior to get the use of the room.
That which is constitutes what is valuable, but that which is not constitutes
what is of use.
Chapter 24.
One on tiptoe cannot stand; one whose legs are spread cannot walk.
One who shows himself cannot be bright; one who asserts himself cannot
shone; one who praises himself can be meritorious; one who boasts of
himself cannot endure.
For the Dao, these are called “excess store and superfluous acts.” Things
detest them; therefore, the man of the Dao does not abide in them.
Chapter 51.
The Dao gives birth to them, virtue (de) rears them, things give them form,
circumstances complete them.
Thus all things in the world revere Dao and honor virtue. That the Dao is
revered and virtue honored is ordained by no one; it is ever so of itself.
Thus the Dao gives birth to them and virtue rears them – fosters them,
nurtures them, settles them, completes them, nourishes them, covers them.
To live but not possess, to act but depend on nothing, to lead without
directing, this is called mysterious virtue.
Chapter 71.
To know you do not know is best; not to know that one does not know is to be
flawed.
One who sees his flaws as flaws is therefore not flawed.
The sage is flawless. He sees his flaws as flaws, therefore he is flawless.
Chapter 78.
Nothing in the world is more weak and soft than water, yet nothing surpasses
it in conquering the hard and strong – there is nothing that can
compare.
All know that the weak conquers the strong and the soft conquers the hard.
But none are able to act on this.
Thus the sage says that he who receives the derision of the state is the lord of
the state altars; he who receives the misfortune of the state is the king
of the world.
Straight words seem to reverse themselves.
Access to the entire Dao de jing also includes Dr. Eno’s comments on this work. Dao de jing
© 2010, 2016 Robert Eno
This online translation is made freely available for use in not-for-profit educational settings and for personal use.
For other purposes, apart from fair use, copyright is not waived.
- PARKER J. PALMER is a columnist for On Being. His column appears every Wednesday. He is a Quaker elder, educator, activist, and founder of the Center for Courage & Renewal. His books include A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, and Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. His book On the Brink of Everything: Grace, Gravity, and Getting Old will be published in June. ↵
Lao Tzu--Daoism by Jody L Ondich is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter4: North American Tribal Tales
Wisdom tales from Three North American Tribes: The Inuit, the Anishinaabe and the Hopi
From the Inuit of Greenland: THE SUN AND THE MOON
The heavenly bodies were once ordinary Eskimos, living upon the earth, who, for one reason or another, have been translated to the skies. The sun was a fair woman, and the moon her brother, and they lived in the same house. She was visited every night by a man, but could not tell who it was. In order to find out, she blackened her hands with lamp-soot, and rubbed them upon his back. When the morning came, it turned out to be her brother, for his white reindeer-skin was all smudged; and hence come the spots on the moon. The sun seized a crooked knife, cut off one of her breasts, and threw it to him, crying: ‘Since my whole body tastes so good to you, eat this.’ Then she lighted a piece of lamp-moss and rushed out; the moon did likewise and ran after her, but his moss went out, and that is why he looks like a live cinder. He chased her up into the sky, and there they still are. The moon’s dwelling lies close to the road by which souls have to pass to the over-world; and in it is a room for his sister the sun.
Inuit Wisdom is a National Geographic video about the traditions and wisdom of the Inuit people
From the Anishinaabe: THE FIRE-LEGGINGS
There had been a sudden change in the weather. A cold rain was falling, and the night comes early when the clouds hang low. The children loved a bright fire, and to-night War Eagle’s lodge was light as day. Away off on the plains a wolf was howling, and the rain pattered upon the lodge as though it never intended to quit. It was a splendid night for story-telling, and War Eagle filled and lighted the great stone pipe, while the children made themselves comfortable about the fire.
A spark sprang from the burning sticks, and fell upon Fine Bow’s bare leg. They all laughed heartily at the boy’s antics to rid himself of the burning coal; and as soon as the laughing ceased War Eagle laid aside the pipe. An Indian’s pipe is large to look at, but holds little tobacco.
“See your shadows on the lodge wall?” asked the old warrior. The children said they saw them, and he continued:
“Some day I will tell you a story about them, and how they drew the arrows of our enemies, but to-night I am going to tell you of the great fire-leggings.
“It was long before there were men and women on the world, but my grandfather told me what I shall now tell you.
“The gray light that hides the night-stars was creeping through the forests, and the wind the Sun sends to warn the people of his coming was among the fir tops. Flowers, on slender stems, bent their heads out of respect for the herald-wind’s Master, and from the dead top of a pine-tree the Yellowhammer beat upon his drum and called ‘the Sun is awake—all hail the Sun!’
“Then the bush-birds began to sing the song of the morning, and from alders the Robins joined, until all live things were awakened by the great music. Where the tall ferns grew, the Doe waked her Fawns, and taught them to do homage to the Great Light. In the creeks, where the water was still and clear, and where throughout the day, like a delicate damaskeen, the shadows of leaves that overhang would lie, the Speckled Trout broke the surface of the pool in his gladness of the coming day. Pine-squirrels chattered gayly, and loudly proclaimed what the wind had told; and all the shadows were preparing for a great journey to the Sand Hills, where the ghost-people dwell.
“Under a great spruce-tree—where the ground was soft and dry, OLD-man slept. The joy that thrilled creation disturbed him not, although the Sun was near. The bird-people looked at the sleeper in wonder, but the Pine squirrel climbed the great spruce-tree with a pine-cone in his mouth. Quickly he ran out on the limb that spread over OLD-man, and dropped the cone on the sleeper’s face. Then he scolded OLD-man, saying: ‘Get up—get up—lazy one—lazy one—get up—get up.’
“Rubbing his eyes in anger, OLD-man sat up and saw the Sun coming—his hunting leggings slipping through the thickets—setting them afire, till all the Deer and Elk ran out and sought new places to hide.
“‘Ho, Sun!’ called OLD-man, ‘those are mighty leggings you wear. No wonder you are a great hunter. Your leggings set fire to all the thickets, and by the light you can easily see the Deer and Elk; they cannot hide. Ho! Give them to me and I shall then be the great hunter and never be hungry.’
“‘Good,’ said the Sun, ‘take them, and let me see you wear my leggings.’
“OLD-man was glad in his heart, for he was lazy, and now he thought he could kill the game without much work, and that he could be a great hunter—as great as the Sun. He put on the leggings and at once began to hunt the thickets, for he was hungry. Very soon the leggings began to burn his legs. The faster he travelled the hotter they grew, until in pain he cried out to the Sun to come and take back his leggings; but the Sun would not hear him. On and on OLD-man ran. Faster and faster he flew through the country, setting fire to the brush and grass as he passed. Finally he came to a great river, and jumped in. Sizzzzzzz—the water said, when OLD-man’s legs touched it. It cried out, as it does when it is sprinkled upon hot stones in the sweat-lodge, for the leggings were very hot. But standing in the cool water OLD-man took off the leggings and threw them out upon the shore, where the Sun found them later in the day.
“The Sun’s clothes were too big for OLD-man, and his work too great.
“We should never ask to do the things which Manitou did not intend us to do. If we keep this always in mind we shall never get into trouble.
“Be yourselves always. That is what Manitou intended. Never blame the Wolf for what he does. He was made to do such things.
From Wisconsin Public Television, a little history of the Anishinaabe and their oral traditions. Settlers called these people Ojibwe or Chippewa. The tribe calls themselves Anishinaabe.
From the Hopi: THE BEGINNING
“The two gods of the universe,” said O-dig-i-ni-ni´-a, the relator of the mythic law of the Havasupais, “are Tochopa and Hokomata. Tochopa he heap good. Hokomata heap han-a-to-op´-o-gi—heap bad. Him Hokomata make big row with Tochopa, and he say he drown the world.
“Tochopa was full of sadness at the news. He had one daughter whom he devotedly loved, and from her he had hoped would descend the whole human race for whom the world had been made. If Hokomata persisted in his wicked determination she must be saved at all hazard. So, working day and night, he speedily prepared the trunk of a pinion tree by hollowing it out from one end. In this hollow tree he placed food and other necessaries, and also made a lookout window. Then he brought his daughter, and telling her she must go into this tree and there be sealed up, he took a sad farewell of her, closed up the end of the tree,[210] and then sat down to await the destruction of the world. It was not long before the floods began to descend. Not rain, but cataracts, rivers, deluges came, making more noise than a thousand Hack-a-tai-as (Colorado River) and covering all the earth with water. The pinion log floated, and in safety lay Pu-keh-eh, while the waters surged higher and higher and covered the tops of Hue-han-a-patch-a (the San Franciscos), Hue-ga-wōōl-a (Williams Mountain), and all the other mountains of the world.
“But the waters of heaven could not always be pouring down, and soon after they ceased, the flood upon the earth found a way to rush into the sea. And as it dashed down it cut through the rocks of the plateaus and made the deep Chic-a-mi-mi (canyon) of the Colorado River (Hack-a-tai-a). Soon all the water was gone.
“Then Pu-keh-eh found her log no longer floating, and she peeped out of the window Tochopa had placed in her boat, and, though it was misty and almost dark, she could see in the dim distance the great mountains of the San Francisco range. And near by was the canyon of the Little Colorado, and to the north was Hack-a-tai-a, and to the west was the canyon of the Havasu.
“The flood had lasted so long that she had grown to be a woman, and, seeing the water gone, she came out and began to make pottery and baskets as her father long ago had taught her. But she was a woman. And what is a woman without a child in her arms or nursing at her breasts? How she longed to be a mother! But where was a father for her child? Alas! there was no man in the whole universe!
“Day after day longings for maternity filled her heart, until, one morning,—glorious happy morning for Pu-keh-eh and the Havasu race,—the darkness began to disappear, and in the far-away east soft and new brightness appeared. It was the triumphant Sun coming to conquer the long night and bring light into the world. Nearer and nearer he came, and at last, as he peeped over the far-away mesa summits, Pu-keh-eh arose and thanked Tochopa, for here, at last, was a father for her child. She conceived, and in the fulness of time bore a son, whom she delighted in and called In-ya´-a—the son of the Sun.
“But as the days rolled on she again felt the longings for maternity. By this time she had wandered far to the west and had entered the beautiful canyon of the Havasu, where deep down between the rocks were several grand and glorious waterfalls, and one of these, Wa-ha-hath-peek-ha-ha, she determined should be the father of her second child.
“When it was born it was a girl, and to this day all the girls of the Havasupai are ‘daughters of the water.’
A little history and background on the Hopi people Hopi Indian Tribe
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Indians of the Painted Desert Region, by George Wharton James
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Title: The Indians of the Painted Desert Region Hopis, Navahoes, Wallapais, Havasupais
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Indian Why Stories, by Frank Bird Linderman
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Title: Eskimo Life Author: Fridtjof Nansen
Translator: William Archer
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Chapter 4: African Tales
African Tales
African folktales, like in many other places, are from a long oral tradition. These tales are for teaching, for passing on cultural values, and for making points about life. The Anike Foundation is a strong advocate for education in Africa, and has links here to various other tribal stories that may be of interest.
THE TIGER, THE RAM, AND THE JACKAL
Tiger was returning home from hunting on one occasion, when he lighted on the kraal of Ram. Now, Tiger had never seen Ram before, and accordingly, approaching submissively, he said, “Good day, friend! What may your name be?”
The other in his gruff voice, and striking his breast with his forefoot, said, “I am Ram. Who are you?”
“Tiger,” answered the other, more dead than alive, and then, taking leave of Ram, he ran home as fast as he could.
Jackal lived at the same place as Tiger did, and the latter going to him, said, “Friend Jackal, I am quite out of breath, and am half dead with fright, for I have just seen a terrible looking fellow, with a large and thick head, and on my asking him what his name was, he answered, ‘I am Ram.'”
“What a foolish fellow you are,” cried Jackal, “to let such a nice piece of flesh stand! Why did you do so? But we shall go to-morrow and eat it together.”
Next day the two set off for the kraal of Ram, and as they appeared over a hill, Ram, who had turned out to look about him, and was calculating where he should that day crop a tender salad, saw them, and he immediately went to his wife and said, “I fear this is our last day, for Jackal and Tiger are both coming against us. What shall we do?”
“Don’t be afraid,” said the wife, “but take up the child in your arms, go out with it, and pinch it to make it cry as if it were hungry.” Ram did so as the confederates came on.
No sooner did Tiger cast his eyes on Ram than fear again took possession of him, and he wished to turn back. Jackal had provided against this, and made Tiger fast to himself with a leather thong, and said, “Come on,” when Ram cried in a loud voice, and pinching his child at the same time, “You have done well, Friend Jackal, to have brought us Tiger to eat, for you hear how my child is crying for food.”
On these dreadful words Tiger, notwithstanding the entreaties of Jackal to let him go, to let him loose, set off in the greatest alarm, dragged Jackal after him over hill and valley, through bushes and over rocks, and never stopped to look behind him till he brought back himself and half-dead Jackal to his place again. And so Ram escaped.
THE ORIGIN OF DEATH
The Moon, on one occasion, sent the Hare to the earth to inform Men that as she (the Moon) died away and rose again, so mankind should die and rise again. Instead, however, of delivering this message as given, the Hare, either out of forgetfulness or malice, told mankind that as the Moon rose and died away, so Man should die and rise no more. The Hare, having returned to the Moon, was questioned as to the message delivered, and the Moon, having heard the true state of the case, became so enraged with him that she took up a hatchet to split his head; falling short, however, of that, the hatchet fell upon the upper lip of the Hare, and cut it severely. Hence it is that we see the “Hare-lip.” The Hare, being duly incensed at having received such treatment, raised his claws, and scratched the Moon’s face; and the dark spots which we now see on the surface of the Moon are the scars which she received on that occasion.
THE DANCE FOR WATER OR RABBIT’S TRIUMPH
There was a frightful drought. The rivers after a while dried up and even the springs gave no water.
The animals wandered around seeking drink, but to no avail. Nowhere was water to be found.
A great gathering of animals was held: Lion, Tiger, Wolf, Jackal, Elephant, all of them came together. What was to be done? That was the question. One had this plan, and another had that; but no plan seemed of value.
Finally one of them suggested: “Come, let all of us go to the dry river bed and dance; in that way we can tread out the water.”
Good! Everyone was satisfied and ready to begin instantly, excepting Rabbit, who said, “I will not go and dance. All of you are mad to attempt to get water from the ground by dancing.”
The other animals danced and danced, and ultimately danced the water to the surface. How glad they were. Everyone drank as much as he could, but Rabbit did not dance with them. So it was decided that Rabbit should have no water.
He laughed at them: “I will nevertheless drink some of your water.”
That evening he proceeded leisurely to the river bed where the dance had been, and drank as much as he wanted. The following morning the animals saw the footprints of Rabbit in the ground, and Rabbit shouted to them: “Aha! I did have some of the water, and it was most refreshing and tasted fine.”
Quickly all the animals were called together. What were they to do? How were they to get Rabbit in their hands? All had some means to propose; the one suggested this, and the other that.
Finally old Tortoise moved slowly forward, foot by foot: “I will catch Rabbit.”
“You? How? What do you think of yourself?” shouted the others in unison.
“Rub my shell with pitch, and I will go to the edge of the water and lie down. I will then resemble a stone, so that when Rabbit steps on me his feet will stick fast.”
“Yes! Yes! That’s good.”
And in a one, two, three, Tortoise’s shell was covered with pitch, and foot by foot he moved away to the river. At the edge, close to the water, he lay down and drew his head into his shell.
Rabbit during the evening came to get a drink. “Ha!” he chuckled sarcastically, “they are, after all, quite decent. Here they have placed a stone, so now I need not unnecessarily wet my feet.”
Rabbit trod with his left foot on the stone, and there it stuck. Tortoise then put his head out. “Ha! old Tortoise! And it’s you, is it, that’s holding me. But here I still have another foot. I’ll give you a good clout.” Rabbit gave Tortoise what he said he would with his right fore foot, hard and straight; and there his foot remained.
“I have yet a hind foot, and with it I’ll kick you.” Rabbit drove his hind foot down. This also rested on Tortoise where it struck.
“But still another foot remains, and now I’ll tread you.” He stamped his foot down, but it stuck like the others.
He used his head to hammer Tortoise, and his tail as a whip, but both met the same fate as his feet, so there he was tight and fast down to the pitch.
Tortoise now slowly turned himself round and foot by foot started for the other animals, with Rabbit on his back.
“Ha! ha! ha! Rabbit! How does it look now? Insolence does not pay after all,” shouted the animals.
Now advice was sought. What should they do with Rabbit? He certainly must die. But how? One said, “Behead him”; another, “Some severe penalty.”
“Rabbit, how are we to kill you?”
“It does not affect me,” Rabbit said. “Only a shameful death please do not pronounce.”
“And what is that?” they all shouted.
“To take me by my tail and dash my head against a stone; that I pray and beseech you don’t do.”
“No, but just so you’ll die. That is decided.”
It was decided Rabbit should die by taking him by his tail and dashing his head to pieces against some stone. But who is to do it?
Lion, because he is the most powerful one.
Good! Lion should do it. He stood up, walked to the front, and poor Rabbit was brought to him. Rabbit pleaded and beseeched that he couldn’t die such a miserable death.
Lion took Rabbit firmly by the tail and swung him around. The white skin slipped off from Rabbit, and there Lion stood with the white bit of skin and hair in his paw. Rabbit was free.
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Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for Further Reading
The Upanishads (full text) License: public domain
- Part 1 Chandogya Upanishad
- Part 2 Brhadaranyaka and Taittiriya Upanishads
- Bhagavad Gita (full text) License: public domain
- Ramanuja G. Thibault, The Vedanta-Sutras with the Commentary by Ramanuja (full text) License: public domain
- Lao Tzu (Laozi), Tao Te Ching (Dao De Jing) (full text) License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Siddhartha Gautama
- The Buddha’s Path of Virtue: A translation of the Dhammapada (full text, Verse translation) License: public domain
- Dhammapada, a Collection of Verses (full text, Prose translation) License: public domain
- Dhamma: What the Buddha Taught, Douglas Sjoquist License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
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Chapter 4: Excerpts from the letters of Abelard and Héloïse
The Love Letters of Abelard and Heloise
Both Abelard and Heloise were well known intellectuals from 12th century CE France. Abelard was a lecturer in philosophy. Heloise was an unusually well educated woman who spoke and read Latin, Greek and Hebrew. When Heloise was 19, she and Abelard fell in love, which was unfortunate, as he was her tutor at the time, and this caused a scandal. As a result of their affair, they had a child, Astrolabe, out of wedlock. When this situation was discovered by Heloise’s uncle, the uncle hired a man to assault and castrate Abelard, which was carried out successfully. Heloise was, after the birth of her child, forced to entered a convent. Abelard was exiled to Brittany, where he lived as monk. Heloise became abbess of the Oratory of the Paraclete, an abbey which Abelard had founded.
It was at this time that they exchanged their famous letters. It started when a letter from Abelard to another person falls into Heloise’s hands, where she reads his version of their love story. She finds that he is still suffering, and she knows that she has not found peace. So she writes to Abelard with passion and frustration and anger and despair; he replies in a letter that struggles between faith and equal passion. A short series of letters follow, and then there is nothing more that has survived of any more correspondence between the two.
Abelard died in 1142 CE at the age of sixty-three, and twenty years later Heloise died and was buried beside him. Abelard, although known at the time as a leader and philosopher, is only survived by his letters.
Heloise, the beautiful and the learned is known merely as an example of the passionate devotion of a woman.
This story is part of a tale that focuses on the struggle to forget–to sink the love of the human in the love of the divine.
The letters are beautiful, and rather long. Here follow exerpts of key points from these beautiful letters.
Discussion of the types of love, the role of sexuality and relationship within religions, and the misuse of power from the clergy might be assisted through the reading of portions of the novel The Cloister, by James Carroll You can hear an interview with the author at PBS Frontline: Interview
You can listen to an interview with Jame Carroll at Boston WBUR about the novel The Cloister , but there is no transcript nor closed captions. Faith, History and the Catholic Church
From Héloïse to Abelard:
We tarnish the lustre of our most beautiful actions when we applaud them ourselves. This is true, and yet there is a time when we may with decency commend ourselves; when we have to do with those whom base ingratitude has stupefied we cannot too much praise our own actions. Now if you were this sort of creature this would be a home reflection on you. Irresolute as I am I still love you, and yet I must hope for nothing. I have renounced life, and stript myself of everything, but I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. Though I have lost my lover I still preserve my love. O vows! O convent! I have not lost my humanity under your inexorable discipline! You have not turned me to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, alas! I ought not to be! Without offending your commands permit a lover to exhort me to live in obedience to your rigorous rules. Your yoke will be lighter if that hand support me under it; your exercises will be pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten.
Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to me.
Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I would glory in being wedded to Heaven. My heart adores that title and disdains any other; tell me how this Divine Love is nourished, how it works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me everything that might heighten or improve it? Show me the same complaisance in my present condition as you did when we were in the world. Without changing the ardour of our affections let us change their objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory!
I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a peculiar right over the hearts of great men He has created. When He pleases to touch them He ravishes them, and lets them not speak nor breathe but for His glory. Till that moment of grace arrives, O think of me–do not forget me–remember my love and fidelity and constancy: love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. What a terrible saying is this! I shake with horror, and my heart revolts against what I say. I shall blot all my paper with tears. I end my long letter wishing you, if you desire it (would to Heaven I could!), for ever adieu!
From Abelard to Héloïse:
Without growing severe to a passion that still possesses you, learn from your own misery to succour your weak sisters; pity them upon consideration of your own faults. And if any thoughts too natural should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for mercy–there are wounds open for healing; lament them before the dying Deity. At the head of a religious society be not a slave, and having rule over queens, begin to govern yourself. Blush at the least revolt of your senses. Remember that even at the foot of the altar we often sacrifice to lying spirits, and that no incense can be more agreeable to them than the earthly passion that still burns in the heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, ’tis a robbery of which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it.
I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of my course.
This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. But when love has once been sincere how difficult it is to determine to love no more! ’Tis a thousand times more easy to renounce the world than love. I hate this deceitful, faithless world; I think no more of it; but my wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall be my last fault. Adieu.
From Héloïse to Abelard:
How dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart against all our charms. ‘Hearken, my son’ (said formerly the wisest of men), attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and death.’ I have long examined things, and have found that death is less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreckof liberty, a fatal snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and therefore deserve the pains I feel.
In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very rarely happens.
All who are about me admire my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate, into my heart what would they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely this troublesome hypocrisy is in some sort commendable. I give no scandal to the world which is so easy to take bad impressions; I do not shake the virtue of those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavour to show them that they are all vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it is not enough to make me embrace virtue, ’tis enough to keep me from committing sin.
And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must be guilty who are not righteous, and they depart from virtue who delay to approach it. Besides, we ought to have no other motive than the love of God. Alas! what can I then hope for? I own to my confusion I fear more to offend a man than to provoke God, and I study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters.
From Héloïse to Abelard:
You have not answered my last letter, and thanks to Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever.
Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer those sentiments which being described in my letters have occasioned you so much trouble. I will no more endeavour, by the relation of those pleasures our passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the poison of passion. You cannot now be silent without a crime. When I was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, how many letters did I send you before I could obtain one from you? You denied me in my misery the only comfort which was left me, because you thought it pernicious. You endeavoured by severities to force me to forget you, nor do I blame you; but now you have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What fears, what distress have we not suffered for it!
No, Lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but that which virtue gives.
From Abelard to Héloïse:
Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; ’tis time to end communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our former irregularities.
Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from earth, from the creatures and themselves, that they seem to act independently of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them as their slaves. We can never raise ourselves to too great heights when God is our object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot reach. Let us act for God’s glory independent of the creatures or ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house I have founded draw a thousand blessings on it. I would instruct it by my words and animate it by my example: I would watch over the lives of my Sisters, and would command nothing but what I myself would perform: I would direct you to pray, meditate, labour, and keep vows of silence; and I would myself pray, labour, meditate, and be silent.
I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious to courageously start a great action, and glory increases proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought on this account to surmount bravely all obstacles which might hinder us in the practice of Christian virtue. In a monastery men are proved as gold in a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear worthily the yoke of the Lord.
Attempt to break those shameful chains which bind you to the flesh, and if by the assistance of grace you are so happy as to accomplish this, I entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect Christian; it is difficult, I confess, but not impossible; and I expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. If your first efforts prove weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You have to fight against your own desires, so be not pressed down with the weight of your corrupt nature. You have to do with a cunning adversary who will use all means to seduce you; be always upon your guard. While we live we are exposed to temptations; this made a great saint say, ‘The life of man is one long temptation’: the devil, who never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it.
Question not, Heloise, but you will hereafter apply yourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation; this ought to be your whole concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from your heart–it is the best advice I can give you, for the remembrance of a person we have loved guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may have made in the way of virtue. When you have extirpated your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue will become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that of Christ, death will be desirable to you. Your soul will joyfully leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will appear with confidence before your Saviour; you will not read your reprobation written in the judgment book, but you will hear your Saviour say, Come, partake of My glory, and enjoy the eternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.
Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for the last time let me persuade you to follow the rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant that your heart, once so sensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal. May the idea of your loving Abelard, always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done for our misfortunes.
Written c. 1130-1140. Translated c. 1736 by John Hughes Letters of Abelard and Heloise
Edited by Israel Gollancz (English literary scholar; chair of English language and literature at King’s College, London) and Honnor Morten (1861-1913) in 1901.
License:
Words of Wisdom: Intro to Philosophy by Jody L Ondich is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 4: Reasons to Believe
For further reading:
Everitt, Nicholas. 2004. The Non-Existence of God. Routledge: London.
Swinburne, Richard. 2004. The Existence of God. Second Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Zagzebski, Linda. 2007. The Philosophy of Religion: An Historical Introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell.
Online Resources
The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy and The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy contain many excellent articles on the main arguments for and against God’s existence. There are many websites and blogs focusing on the philosophy of religion. Good ones include:
- Strange Notions: The Digital Areopagus–Reason, Faith, Dialogue
- Edward Feser’s blog
- Alexander Pruss’s blog
- Arguments for the Existence of God on The Secular Web
- Atheism: Proving the Negative
- Ex-apologist: A philosophy of religion blog
Consider watching a video lecture series, such as Professor Matt McCormick’s video lectures
Readings Specific to Each Argument
Teleological Argument
Cruz, Helen de, and Johan de Smedt. 2010. “Paley’s iPod: The Cognitive Basis of the Design Argument Within Natural Theology.” Zygon 45(3): 665-85.
Harrison, Victoria. 2005. “Arguments From Design: A Self-Defeating Strategy?” Philosophia 33(1): 297–317.
Hume, David. (1779) 2007. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Ed. Dorothy Coleman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Manson, Neil, ed. 2003. God and Design: The Teleological Argument and Modern Science. New York: Routledge.
Paley, William. (1802) 2006. Natural Theology. Oxford University Press.
Sober, Elliot. 2018. The Design Argument. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Cosmological Argument
Al-Ghazali. (1095) 2000. The Incoherence of the Philosophers, ed. Michael Marmura. Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press.
Aquinas, Thomas. (1485) 2017. Summa Theologica, I, 2.2. New Advent, online ed. https://www.newadvent.org/summa/1002.htm#article2
Clarke, Samuel. (1705) 1998. A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God And Other Writings, ed. Ezio Vailati. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Connolly, Patrick. 2018. “Susanna Newcome’s Cosmological Argument.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 27 (4): 842–59.
Craig, William Lane. 1979. The Kalām Cosmological Argument. London: MacMillan.
Craig, William Lane. 1980. The Cosmological Argument from Plato to Leibniz. London: MacMillan.
Hume, David. (1779) 2007. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Edited by Dorothy Coleman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Ontological Argument
Anselm of Canterbury. (1078) 2007. “Proslogion.” In Basic Writings, ed. Thomas Williams. Hackett: Indianapolis.
Baker, Lynne Rudder. 2013. “Updating Anselm Again.” Res Philosophica 90(1): 23-32.
Haight, Marjorie, and David Haight. 1970. “An Ontological Argument for the Devil.” The Monist 54(2): 218-20.
Kant, Immanuel. (1781) 1998. Critique of Pure Reason. Eds. Paul Guyer and Allen Wood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Malcolm, Norman. 1960. “Anselm’s Ontological Arguments.” Philosophical Review 69(1): 41-62.
Oppy, Graham, ed. 2018. Ontological Arguments. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Plantinga, Alvin. 1974. The Nature of Necessity. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Reformed Epistemology
DeRose, Keith. 1999. “Voodoo Epistemology.” http://campuspress.yale.edu/keithderose/voodoo-epistemology/
Plantinga, Alvin. 1983. “Reason and Belief in God.” In Faith and Rationality, eds. Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press.
Plantinga, Alvin. 2000. Warranted Christian Belief. New York: Oxford University Press.
Scott, Kyle. 2014. “Return of the Great Pumpkin.” Religious Studies 50(3): 297-308.
Zagzebski, Linda, ed. 1993. Rational Faith: Catholic Responses to Reformed Epistemology. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press.
Thinking about God brings together our powers of speculation, our deepest values, and our greatest hopes and fears. It is therefore fertile philosophical territory. Some of the arguments for belief in God are theoretical in that they appeal to our reason. Other arguments are practical in that they invoke God to make sense of some of our practices, such as morality. In this chapter, we will review the most influential theoretical arguments for God’s existence: the teleological, the cosmological, and the ontological arguments. The former two try to show God’s existence using tools familiar from ordinary empirical reasoning; God is a hypothesis to be proven in much the same way as we prove more mundane hypotheses, marshalling the evidence as best we can. Just as a one might see a puddle and infer that it has been raining recently, one might observe certain other features of the world and infer God as the best (or only) explanation of them. The latter argument is more closely akin to mathematics and conceptual analysis; just as one might reflect on the concept of a triangle and ascertain that its internal angles must add up to 180°, one might reflect on the concept of God and ascertain that he must exist. Lastly, we will introduce the suggestion that it is legitimate to believe in God without providing arguments at all: that belief in God is more properly a cornerstone for our thinking, than a mere conclusion of some argument. Each of these arguments have been articulated in myriad ways, so we will focus our attention on some of the most influential versions.
The Teleological Argument
“Telos” being Greek for “purpose” or “goal,” the teleological argument takes as its starting point the appearance of purpose or design in the world. If there is design, there must be a designer. This thought is an ancient and cross-cultural one, appearing in classical Hindu thought (Brown 2008) and in the Psalms: “The heavens declare the glory of the Lord; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork” (Psalm 19:1). An influential formulation comes from William Paley (1743-1805). In Natural Theology, Paley offers numerous instances of apparent design, focusing primarily on biological organisms. Paley argues that organisms are analogous to human-created artifacts in that they involve a complex arrangement of parts that serve some useful function, where even slight alterations in the complex arrangement would mean that the useful function was no longer served. An eye, like a watch, evidently serves a useful function. The function is only achieved by a very complex arrangement of parts, which in turn serve various sub-functions, all ordered towards the higher function. Had this arrangement been different in any minute detail, the eye would not successfully serve its higher function. To explain this feature of the eye, we should, on an analogy with the watch, refer to a designing mind’s activity, rather than the blind play of causal forces. As we are to the watch, so God is to the eye. To Paley, God is a powerful and simple hypothesis that must be invoked to explain the design resplendent in nature (Paley 1802).
Formulations of the teleological argument like Paley’s have been subjected to searching criticisms, not least by David Hume (1711-1776). In his fabulously written Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, Hume questions how close the analogy of design really is. For example, we produce artifacts by acting on pre-existing materials, but God is supposed to create from nothing. Most artifacts have a purpose that is evident to us, but God’s purpose in having created this or that creature, or the world at all, is unclear. We have seen artifacts being manufactured on many occasions, but never an organism, or the world. Even granting unequivocally that there is design in the world, we would not be justified in inferring God to explain it. Hume notes that artifacts are usually the result of collaboration by many people. Nor is there any connection between the qualities of an artifact and the qualities of its designer; one need not be a giant to build a skyscraper or be beautiful to make a beautiful painting. So, the design in the world need not be the design of one being, or an especially exalted being. Rather, the evidence of design is equally consistent with the hypothesis of polytheism (Hume 1779). Perhaps as devastating for Paley’s formulation, Charles Darwin’s (1809-1882) theory of evolution by natural selection is widely taken to show that the complex arrangement of parts and the functions of the parts of organisms can be accounted for without reference to a designing mind. The appearance of design is merely appearance; the analogy between artifacts and organisms is a misleading one. God is an obsolete hypothesis so far as the explanation of these phenomena are concerned. A distinct minority, the proponents of “Intelligent Design” contest this claim by offering examples of biological phenomena that supposedly cannot be explained by Darwinian evolution (Behe 1996). Barbara Forest argues that “Intelligent Design” theories lack a serious methodology, given that they invoke miraculous intervention in an unprincipled way to explain various phenomena (Forrest 2011).
However, teleological arguments continue to thrive in other forms. One line of thinking is the fine-tuning argument. Our universe seems to be governed by a batch of laws of nature—e.g. gravity, the strong nuclear force. It seems possible that these laws of nature could have been different in an unfathomable number of ways—e.g. we can conceive gravity as a billion times stronger than it is, or a billion times weaker. It seems that most of the ways that the laws of nature could have been would not allow for embodied moral agents (or, more broadly, life) by not allowing for the emergence of complex matter. Now, arguably God is a being who wishes there to be embodied moral agents. So, if there is a God, this predicts a universe with laws of nature that allow for the emergence of embodied moral agents, laws that are finely-tuned for such a purpose. By contrast, if there is no God there is no particular reason to predict that the laws of nature will be like this. Our universe seems to be one with laws that allow for embodied moral agents. Therefore, our universe is more consistent with the theistic hypothesis, so probably God exists. Finally, putting aside the fine-tuning of the physical laws we enjoy, Richard Swinburne contends that the fact that our universe is governed by laws at all, rather than being chaotic, is something that demands a design-based explanation (Swinburne 2004).
Whether such arguments really identify phenomena that stand in need of a special explanation, and whether the explanations they offer are vulnerable to being supplanted by non-theistic alternatives, is a matter of ongoing debate.
The Cosmological Argument
“Cosmos” being Greek for “world,” the cosmological argument suggests God as the only adequate hypothesis in explaining why there is something rather than nothing. Cosmological arguments go back at least as far as Plato (428-348 BCE), with influential formulations being offered by Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) and Gottfried Leibniz (1646-1716). One influential formulation comes from Samuel Clarke (1675-1729).
In A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God, Clarke argues for the conclusion that God is the reason for the universe’s existence by showing the bankruptcy of the alternatives. Something must have existed from eternity, Clarke reasons, since to suppose otherwise would be to suppose that something arose from nothing, which is absurd. Further, this eternal something must be independent of the universe. Think of a sapling tree. Like every individual thing in the universe its existence is contingent—it could fail to exist—as demonstrated by the fact that it once did not exist and by the fact that it is susceptible to change and destruction. Therefore, its reason for existing must be sought outside it; if we seek the reason why the sapling exists we must refer to its parent tree, the soil, the sun, the air. But if everything in the universe is contingent, then so is the universe itself, and its reason for existing must be sought outside it. Even if the universe had no beginning in time, and we could trace the sapling’s reason for existing backward indefinitely, we would still need to explain why there was this endless succession of contingent beings rather than nothing. Think of “reason for existing” as being like the parcel in the children’s game “pass the parcel.”[1] Even supposing an infinite number of players, or a circle of players passing the parcel for an eternity, if every player must receive the parcel from another (like a contingent being receives its reason for existing from another), then we would still face the question where the players got the parcel in the first place. Lastly, the being outside the universe must have a necessary existence; that is, it must contain the reason for its existence within itself, such that it could not fail to exist. By the difficulties attending all the alternatives, we are driven to accept that not all beings are contingent; our search for reasons for existing must reach its terminus in a necessary being, God. Clarke admits that the notion of necessary existence is difficult to conceive, since all the beings we encounter are contingent, but holds that it is the only adequate hypothesis in explaining why there is something (Clarke 1705).
Clarke’s cosmological argument was also criticized by Hume in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Hume questions why the universe itself may not be the necessary being. Clarke’s reason for rejecting this idea was that everything in the universe is contingent. But, Hume notes, Clarke is committing the fallacy of composition. A flock may be composed of sheep destined for slaughter, but this does not prove that the flock itself is destined for slaughter. Likewise, perhaps the universe’s existence is necessary despite the contingency of every individual thing in it, a thought which is lent some credibility by the physical principle that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Raising further havoc, Hume questions whether there can even be such a thing as a necessary being. It seems to be a feature of claims which are necessary—like “2+2=4” or “a nephrologist is a physician of the kidneys”—that their contraries cannot be conceived without contradiction, as with “2+2=5.” But we seem able to conceive any being’s nonexistence without contradiction; just as I can coherently conceive of the sapling’s nonexistence, I can coherently conceive of God’s nonexistence (as shown by the fact that we feel the need to debate God’s existence).
Another issue is that Clarke’s cosmological argument, like many other formulations, invokes the “principle of sufficient reason,” or the idea that every state of affairs has a reason why it is so and not otherwise. This seems to be a principle that we make thorough use of from early childhood in endlessly asking “why?” and expecting that there must be answers. Because of this principle, we insist that the universe must have a reason for its existence, rather than allowing that the universe is an unaccountable “brute fact.” But why should we accept the principle of sufficient reason? It does not seem to be a necessary truth or something we can infer from experience (Pruss 2006).
A quite different version of the cosmological argument is presented by William Lane Craig, drawing upon the Islamic philosophers of the 9th-12th centuries such as al-Ghazali (1058-1111), called the kalām cosmological argument. Craig argues that whatever begins to exist has a cause, that the universe began to exist, and that God must be invoked as its cause. Why believe that the universe began to exist? For one thing, it seems that the universe cannot have an infinite temporal duration since the successive addition of finites cannot add up to something infinite. Just as one cannot “count to infinity,” the compounding of the moments that pass in time could not ever add up to an infinite temporal duration. For another, if we make the supposition that the universe has an infinite temporal duration various absurdities arise. Sundays are a subset (one-seventh) of all the days that have ever occurred. A very bored deity would count out six non-Sundays for every Sunday. But if the universe has an infinite temporal duration, then an infinite number of Sundays have occurred. And an infinite number of non-Sundays have occurred. Therefore, the subset is equal in magnitude to the set—an absurdity. So, the universe began to exist. Notice that Craig’s argument avoids referring to necessary beings, or the principle of sufficient reason; Craig’s argument requires only that if something begins to exist, then it has a cause. Supporters of the kalām cosmological argument may also cite scientific evidence to support the idea that the universe began to exist, for instance the Big Bang theory or the idea that if the universe had an infinite temporal duration, then entropy would guarantee that complex matter would not exist presently (Craig 1979).
One key question about Craig’s kalām cosmological argument is whether the cause of the universe must be something like our conception of God, a kind of personal agent. Craig, following al-Ghazali, suggests that the cause of the universe must be timeless, outside of time entirely. Physical causes bring about their effects, as it were, immediately. For example, an effect like the process of water freezing will begin to happen as soon as its cause, a sub-zero temperature, is present. So, if the cause of the universe is timeless and is a physical cause, we would expect the universe to have always existed. But as we have seen, that cannot be. So, the cause of the universe must be non-physical. Aside from physical causes, we sometimes explain effects as resulting from actions—we have the idea that personal agents bring about effects spontaneously as and when they will to do so, in a way that is different than and not entirely determined by physical causes. On this model, plausibly the cause of the universe is the action of a personal, but non-physical, agent. Others have objected, though, that it is difficult to make sense of the idea of a personal agent who acts but is also outside of time, and again that we are having to rely too heavily on our limited repertoire of concepts: for all we know, there might be causes that are neither like the physical nor like personal agency.
The Ontological Argument
“Ontos” is Greek for “being” or “existence,” the ontological argument is unusual in that it has no empirical premises at all; God is not called upon as an explanation for anything. Rather, God’s existence is proven by reflection on the concept of God. This is an extremely unfamiliar way of proceeding since ordinarily, we think that by analyzing the concept of something, we may discover the predicates that will be true of it if it exists, but not that it exists. For instance, if I have a child then the predicate “has a grandfather named Patrick” will be true of it. The ontological argument proposes, in the case of God, to abolish this “if” and proceed directly from the concept of God to his existence. The argument’s first proponent was Anselm of Canterbury (1033-1109). It’s a familiar idea that God is great, the greatest in fact, so great one cannot think of anything greater. Anselm draws on this familiar idea in his Proslogion. There, Anselm characterizes God as “a being than which nothing greater can be conceived” (Anselm 1078). In more modern language, Anselm is saying that God is the greatest conceivable being, that it is part of the concept of God that it is impossible to conceive of any being greater than God. It seems that existence is greater than nonexistence. So, if we conceive of God as nonexistent, then we can conceive of something greater than God: e.g., a shoe, or a flea. But God is the greatest conceivable being, so our assumption of God’s nonexistence must have been false, and God must exist. Another way of putting this is that Anselm anticipates Hume’s objection that no being’s existence is necessary (since any being’s nonexistence can be conceived without contradiction). Anselm insists that in this case the idea of God, properly understood, does give rise to contradiction if we suppose his non-existence. “The being which must exist does not exist” seems like a contradiction.
From the outset, the ontological argument has had difficulties heaped upon it. For one thing, although it may seem intuitively right that existence is greater than nonexistence, what does “greater” mean? Better than? Preferable to? More real than? A satisfying characterization is hard to find. Another early objection comes from Gaunilo of Marmoutier (994-1083), who makes the parodic suggestion of an island that is the greatest island that can be conceived. If such an island is to be greater than, say, Corsica, it must exist. Must we then say that such an island exists? Surely not. The difficulty raised by Gaunilo is that it seems that the predicate of existence can be bolted onto any concept illicitly. Anselm responds, however, that his argument applies uniquely to the greatest being that can be conceived (not a given, limited kind of being like an island), since although the imagined island would indeed be greater if it existed, it is not part of the concept of anything except the greatest being that can be conceived that it be greater than everything else, and so for it alone can we infer its existence from its concept. A similar response is that contingency is part of the concept of an island (or dog, or horse, or any other specific, limited kind of being which we are acquainted with), so that a necessarily existing island would simply be a contradiction. Only with the non-specific concept of “a being” in general would contingency not just be included in the concept.
The most historically influential criticism of the ontological argument, however, comes from Immanuel Kant (1724-1804). In his Critique of Pure Reason, Kant argues that existence is not a predicate (Kant 1781). Think about the concept of a banana. We can attribute certain predicates to it, such as “yellowness” and “sweetness.” As time goes by, we might add further predicates to the concept, e.g., “nutritional potassium source.” Now think about what happens to the concept of a banana when you suppose that bananas exist. It seems that the concept is not changed at all. To say something exists is not to say anything about the concept of it, only that the concept is instantiated in reality. But if existence cannot be part of a concept, then it cannot be part of the concept of God, and cannot be found therein by any sort of analysis.
Kant’s argument was widely taken to be calamitous to the ontological argument. However, in the 1960s, the argument was rejuvenated, in a form that (perhaps) avoids Kant’s criticism, by Norman Malcom (1911-1990). Malcolm suggests that although existence may not be a predicate, necessary existence is a predicate. As contingent beings, we are the sort of things which can come into and go out of existence. But if God exists, then he is a necessary being rather than a contingent being. So, if he exists he cannot go out of existence. This is a predicate God enjoys, even if existence per se is not a predicate (Malcolm 1960). Intuitively, “indestructibility” and “immortality” are predicates that alter the concept of a thing. Another modern version of an Anselmian ontological argument is offered by Lynne Rudder Baker (1944-2017). Baker’s version avoids the claim that existence is a predicate (as well as several other traditional difficulties). Instead, Baker notes that individuals who do not exist have mediated causal powers, that is, they cause effects but only because individuals who do exist have thoughts and beliefs about them: Santa Claus has the mediated causal power to get children to leave cookies out for him, children who themselves have unmediated causal powers. In short, to have unmediated causal powers is intuitively greater than having mediated causal powers, so given that God is the greatest being that can be conceived of, God must have unmediated causal powers, and so he must exist (Baker 2013).
A final difficulty that we may mention for these three theistic proofs is whether they prove the existence of the God of Abraham, or the God of classical theism (supposing that the two are the same) — which it is the concern of most theistic philosophers to do. The teleological argument may show a designer, which corresponds tolerably well to the creatorhood of God but seems to fall short of showing God’s other attributes, like omnibenevolence. Similarly, the world cause or necessary being purportedly shown by the cosmological and ontological arguments may seem far distant from a personal God who is interested in our affairs. One theistic response is that these arguments may work in combination, or be supplemented by the evidence of revelations, religious experiences, and miracles, or we may be able to find ways in which one divine attribute implies the others. Bear in mind also that there are many less well-known theistic arguments beyond these three traditional ones (McIntosh 2019).
Reformed Epistemology
It strikes some people as very odd to base belief in God on theoretical arguments like those we have discussed. It seems that someone who did so would be obliged to regularly check the philosophical journals to ensure that their favorite argument had not been undermined, and as you may have noticed the fortunes of each argument wax and wane over time. Surely, belief in God should not depend on such vicissitudes. But without relying on such arguments, would belief not become theoretically unjustified, irrational, and dogmatic?
One suggestion, drawing on the Reformed theology of John Calvin (1509-1564), comes from Alvin Plantinga (1983). We can think of our beliefs as being arranged in a structure. Some beliefs are high-up in the structure. We can only justify these beliefs by making complicated arguments from other beliefs (e.g. “inflation reduces unemployment”). But other beliefs are at the foundation of the structure; they are not based on other beliefs, and so are themselves “basic.” Basic beliefs need not be arbitrary. Rather, basic beliefs are justified (“properly basic”) if they arise from the exercise of reliable faculties such as our senses or our reason. For instance, I don’t infer the belief that I am cold from any more well-known beliefs. I justifiably believe it since it is evident to my senses. And, although a mathematician could prove “2+2=4” from axioms that are in some sense more fundamental, that isn’t how ordinary people arrive at this belief. Rather, people justifiably believe that “2+2=4” since it is self-evident to their reason.
Could it be that belief in God is properly basic, rather than something high-up in our belief-structure, as the arguments that we have canvassed assume? The apparent objection to allowing this is that God’s existence is neither evident to the senses, nor self-evident to reason. If a belief does not meet either of these criteria, then how can it be properly basic? Plantinga’s response is that there are many beliefs which seem to be properly basic for us yet which do not meet these criteria. For instance, consider your belief that other people are not automatons, that they have an inner mental life like your own. This belief is usually basic for us; we believe it spontaneously when we see a human form, rather than believing it because of some complicated argument. Is this belief evident to the senses? No, we cannot “see” other people’s minds, only their observable, outward behavior. Is it self-evident to reason? No, unlike a mathematical truth, it is the sort of thing which we can conceive to be false without contradiction (since we can conceive of other people being mindless robots). So, it seems this belief is basic for us, despite neither being self-evident nor evident to the senses, and is properly basic if whatever the faculty is that delivers this belief is reliable. Perhaps belief in God is just the same way, something we spontaneously believe in certain circumstances, as when viewing a dramatic sunset or following the prevention of impending peril. Such a belief will be properly basic if it results from the exercise of a reliable faculty. Following Calvin, Plantinga postulates such a faculty under the term sensus divinitatis (“sense of divinity”). Plantinga notes that taking belief in God as basic need not be dogmatic, since basic beliefs can be overturned if they are shown to be false or shown to have resulted from unreliable faculties—but he conjectures the failure of the arguments against God’s existence.
Conclusion
We have looked at some arguments that purport to provide evidence for God’s existence either by invoking God as an explanation for various aspects of the world (the teleological and cosmological arguments) or by analysis of the concept of God (the ontological argument). Each argument has formidable proponents and detractors, and both the arguments and the responses to them raise difficult philosophical problems about the nature of thought (concepts, beliefs, arguments) and the nature of nature itself (time, causality, purpose). One thing we can learn from this state of affairs is that anyone with an interest in proving God’s existence, or in resisting those proofs, needs to take an interest in philosophy, and likewise that those with an interest in philosophy can see philosophical problems in new and different lights by examining the arguments for God’s existence.
References
- Anselm of Canterbury. (1078) 2007. “Proslogion.” In Basic Writings, ed. Thomas Williams. Hackett: Indianapolis.
- Baker, Lynne Rudder. 2013. “Updating Anselm Again.” Res Philosophica 90(1): 23-32.
- Behe, Michael. 2006. Darwin’s Black Box. 2nd ed. New York: Free Press.
- Brown, C. Mackenzie. 2008. “The Design Argument in Classical Hindu Thought.” International Journal of Hindu Studies 12(2): 103-51.
- Clarke, Samuel. (1705) 1998. A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God And Other Writings, ed. Ezio Vailati. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Craig, William Lane. 1979. The Kalām Cosmological Argument. London: MacMillan.
- Forrest, Barbara. 2011. “The Non-Epistemology of Intelligent Design: Its Implications for Public Policy.” Synthese 178(2): 331-79.
- Hume, David. (1779) 2007. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. Ed. Dorothy Coleman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Kant, Immanuel. (1781) 1998. Critique of Pure Reason. Eds. Paul Guyer and Allen Wood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Malcolm, Norman. 1960. “Anselm’s Ontological Arguments.” Philosophical Review 69(1): 41-62.
- Manson, Neil, ed. 2003. God and Design. New York: Routledge.
- McIntosh, Chad. 2019. “Nontraditional Arguments for Theism.” Philosophy Compass 14(5): 1-14.
- Paley, William. (1802) 2006. Natural Theology. Oxford University Press.
- Plantinga, Alvin. 1983. “Reason and Belief in God.” In Faith and Rationality, eds. Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press.
- Pruss, Alexander. 2006. The Principle of Sufficient Reason: A Reassessment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Swinburne, Richard. 2004. The Existence of God. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Pass the parcel is a parlour game in which a parcel containing a prize is passed around and around in a circle. ↵
License:
Remixed from Introduction to Philosophy: Philosophy of Religion by Marcus William Hunt is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 4: Suggestions for further reading
Thomas Aquinas
- Books by Thomas Aquinas, listed separately License: public domain
- On prayer and the contemplative life, Thomas Aquinas License: public domain
- Blaise Pascal, Pensées (full text) License: public domain
- William Paley, Evidences of Christianity License: public domain
- Anselm, Proslogion (full text) For CCEL copyright information, see https://ccel.org/about/copyright.html
Søren Kierkegaard
- Selections from the writings of Søren Kierkegaard License: public domain
- Kierkegaard, Selected reading from Fear and Trembling License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Kierkegaard, On Encountering Faith License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- Kierkegaard (philosophypages.com) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Soren Kierkegaard | Ordinary Philosophy License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
Chapter 4: Maimonides
Maimonides’ “Guide for the Perplexed” by Moses Maimonides
translated by M. Friedländer
[1903]
Moses ben Maimon, commonly known as Maimonides, was a medieval Sephardic Jewish philosopher who became one of the most important Torah scholars of the Middle Ages, and became well enough known to influence mainstream philosophy as well as Jewish scholarship. Born in Córdoba, Spain in about 1135 CE, he worked as a rabbi, physician, and philosopher in Morocco and Egypt. He died in Egypt in 1204 CE and was transported and buried in Tiberias, in what is now Israel. He wrote the Guide for the Perplexed to make 3 major points:
- God cannot really be described in human terms, using anthropomorphic images, even though the scriptures do this
- Creation in Genesis is a metaphor; the physical universe is the result of intelligences being created by God and everything else coming from those intelligences.
- The universe has moral aspects, and the problem of evil is solved because it is solely the work of humans.
This section is solely focused on the moral aspects of the universe and the character of Evil.
Section III CHAPTER XII–on the character of Evil
MEN frequently think that the evils in the world are more numerous than the good things; many sayings and songs of the nations dwell on this idea. They say that a good thing is found only exceptionally, whilst evil things are numerous and lasting.
Not only common people make this mistake, but even many who believe that they are wise. Al-Razi wrote a well-known book On Metaphysics [or Theology]. Among other mad and foolish things, it also contains the idea, discovered by him, that more evil exists than good. For if the happiness of man and his pleasure in the times of prosperity be compared with the mishaps that befall him,–such as grief, acute pain, defects, paralysis of the limbs, fears, anxieties, and troubles,–it would seem as if the existence of man is a punishment and a great evil for him. This author commenced to verify his opinion by counting all the evils one by one; by this means he opposed those who hold the correct view of the benefits bestowed by God and His evident kindness, viz., that God is perfect goodness, and that all that comes from Him is absolutely good.
The origin of the error is to be found in the circumstance that this ignorant man, and his party among the common people, judge the whole universe by examining one single person. For an ignorant man believes that the whole universe only exists for him; as if nothing else required any consideration. If, therefore, anything happens to him contrary to his expectation, he at once concludes that the whole universe is evil. If, however, he would take into consideration the whole universe, form an idea of it, and comprehend what a small portion he is of the Universe, he will find the truth. For it is clear that persons who have fallen into this widespread error as regards the multitude of evils in the world, do not find the evils among the angels, the spheres and stars, the elements, and that which is formed of them, viz., minerals and plants, or in the various species of living beings, but only in some individual instances of mankind. They wonder that a person, who became leprous in consequence of bad food, should be afflicted with so great an illness and suffer such a misfortune; or that he who indulges so much in sensuality as to weaken his sight, should be struck With blindness! and the like.
What we have, in truth, to consider is this:–The whole mankind at present in existence, and a fortiori, every other species of animals, form an infinitesimal portion of the permanent universe. Comp. “Man is like to vanity” (Ps. cxliv. 4); “How much less man, that is a worm; and the son of man, which is a worm” (Job xxv. 6); “How much less in them who dwell in houses of clay” (ibid. iv. 19); “Behold, the nations are as a drop of the bucket” (Isa. xl. 15). There are many other passages in the books of the prophets expressing the same idea. It is of great advantage that man should know his station, and not erroneously imagine that the whole universe exists only for him. We hold that the universe exists because the Creator wills it so; that mankind is low in rank as compared with the uppermost portion of the universe, viz., with the spheres and the stars: but, as regards the angels, there cannot be any real comparison between man and angels, although man is the highest of all beings on earth; i.e., of all beings formed of the four elements. Man’s existence is nevertheless a great boon to him, and his distinction and perfection is a divine gift. The numerous evils to which individual persons are exposed are due to the defects existing in the persons themselves. We complain and seek relief from our own faults: we suffer from the evils which we, by our own free will, inflict on ourselves and ascribe them to God, who is far from being connected with them! Comp. “Is destruction his [work]? No. Ye [who call yourselves] wrongly his sons, you who are a perverse and crooked generation” (Deut. xxxii. 5). This is explained by Solomon, who says, “The foolishness of man perverteth his way, and his heart fretteth against the Lord” (Prov. xix. 3).
I explain this theory in the following manner. The evils that befall an are of three kinds:–
- (1) The first kind of evil is that which is caused to man by the circumstance that he is subject to genesis and destruction, or that he possesses a body. It is on account of the body that some persons happen to have great deformities or paralysis of some of the organs. This evil may be part of the natural constitution of these persons, or may have developed subsequently in consequence of changes in the elements, e.g., through bad air, or thunderstorms or landslips. We have already shown that, in accordance with the divine wisdom, genesis can only take place through destruction, and without the destruction of the individual members of the species the species themselves would not exist permanently. Thus the true kindness, and beneficence, and goodness of God is clear. He who thinks that he can have flesh and bones without being subject to any external influence, or any of the accidents of matter, unconsciously wishes to reconcile two opposites, viz., to be at the same time subject and not subject to change.If man were never subject to change there could be no generation: there would be one single being, but no individuals forming a species. Galen, in the third section of his book, The Use of the Limbs, says correctly that it would be in vain to expect to see living beings formed of the blood of menstruous women and the semen virile, who will not die, will never feel pain, or will move perpetually, or will shine like the sun. This dictum of Galen is part of the following more general proposition:–Whatever is formed of any matter receives the most perfect form possible in that species of matter: in each individual case the defects are in accordance with the defects of that individual matter. The best and most perfect being that can be formed of the blood and the semen is the species of man, for as far as man’s nature is known, he is living, reasonable, and mortal. It is therefore impossible that man should be free from this species of evil. You will, nevertheless, find that the evils of the above kind which befall man are very few and rare: for you find countries that have not been flooded or burned for thousands of years: there are thousands of men in perfect health, deformed individuals are a strange and exceptional occurrence, or say few in number if you object to the term exceptional,–they are not one-hundredth, not even one-thousandth part of those that are perfectly normal.
- (2) The second class of evils comprises such evils as people cause to each other, when, e.g., some of them use their strength against others. These evils are more numerous than those of the first kind: their causes are numerous and known; they likewise originate in ourselves, though the sufferer himself cannot avert them. This kind of evil is nevertheless not widespread in any country of the whole world. It is of rare occurrence that a man plans to kill his neighbour or to rob him of his property by night. Many persons are, however, afflicted with this kind of evil in great wars: but these are not frequent, if the whole inhabited part of the earth is taken into consideration.
- (3) The third class of evils comprises those which every one causes to himself by his own action. This is the largest class, and is far more numerous than the second class. It is especially of these evils that all men complain, only few men are found that do not sin against themselves by this kind of evil. Those that are afflicted with it are therefore justly blamed in the words of the prophet, “This hath been by your means” (Mal. i. 9); the same is expressed in the following passage, “He that doeth it destroyeth his own soul” (Prov. vi. 32). In reference to this kind of evil, Solomon says, “The foolishness of man perverteth his way” (ibid. xix. 3). In the following passage he explains also that this kind of evil is man’s own work, “Lo, this only have I found, that God hath made man upright, but they have thought out many inventions” (Eccles. vii. 29), and these inventions bring the evils upon him.The same subject is referred to in Job (v. 6), “For affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground.” These words are immediately followed by the explanation that man himself is the author of this class of evils, “But man is born unto trouble.” This class of evils originates in man’s vices, such as excessive desire for eating, drinking, and love; indulgence in these things in undue measure, or in improper manner, or partaking of bad food. This course brings diseases and afflictions upon body and soul alike.
The sufferings of the body in consequence of these evils are well known; those of the soul are twofold:—First, such evils of the soul as are the necessary consequence of changes in the body, in so far as the soul is a force residing in the body; it has therefore been said that the properties of the soul depend on the condition of the body. Secondly, the soul, when accustomed to superfluous things, acquires a strong habit of desiring things which are neither necessary for the preservation of the individual nor for that of the species. This desire is without a limit, whilst things which are necessary are few in number and restricted within certain limits; but what is superfluous is without end–e.g., you desire to have your vessels of silver, but golden vessels are still better: others have even vessels of sapphire, or perhaps they can be made of emerald or rubies, or any other substance that could be suggested.
Those who are ignorant and perverse in their thought are constantly in trouble and pain, because they cannot get as much of superfluous things as a certain other person possesses. They as a rule expose themselves to great dangers, e.g., by sea-voyage, or service of kings, and all this for the purpose of obtaining that which is superfluous and not necessary. When they thus meet with the consequences of the course which they adopt, they complain of the decrees and judgments of God; they begin to blame the time, and wonder at the want of justice in its changes; that it has not enabled them to acquire great riches, with which they could buy large quantities of wine for the purpose of making themselves drunk, and numerous concubines adorned with various kind of ornaments of gold, embroidery, and jewels, for the purpose of driving themselves to voluptuousness beyond their capacities, as if the whole Universe existed exclusively for the purpose of giving pleasure to these low people.
The error of the ignorant goes so far as to say that God’s power is insufficient, because He has given to this Universe the properties which they imagine cause these great evils, and which do not help all evil-disposed persons to obtain the evil which they seek, and to bring their evil souls to the aim of their desires, though these, as we have shown, are really without limit. The virtuous and wise, however, see and comprehend the wisdom of God displayed in the Universe. Thus David says, “All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep His covenant and His testimonies” (Ps. xxv. 10). For those who observe the nature of the Universe and the commandments of the Law, and know their purpose, see clearly God’s mercy and truth in everything; they seek, therefore, that which the Creator intended to be the aim of man, viz., comprehension. Forced by the claims of the body, they seek also that which is necessary for the preservation of the body, “bread to eat and garment to clothe,” and this is very little; but they seek nothing superfluous: with very slight exertion man can obtain it, so long as he is contented with that which is indispensable.
All the difficulties and troubles we meet in this respect are due to the desire for superfluous things: when we seek unnecessary things, we have difficulty even in finding that which is indispensable. For the more we desire to have that which is superfluous, the more we meet with difficulties; our strength and possessions are spent in unnecessary things, and are wanting when required for that which is necessary. Observe how Nature proves the correctness of this assertion.
The more necessary a thing is for living beings, the more easily it is found and the cheaper it is; the less necessary it is, the rarer and clearer it is. E.g., air, water, and food are indispensable to man: air is most necessary, for if man is without air a short time he dies; whilst he can be without water a day or two. Air is also undoubtedly found more easily and cheaper [than water]. Water is more necessary than food; for some people can be four or five days without food, provided they have water; water also exists in every country in larger quantities than food, and is also cheaper. The same proportion can be noticed in the different kinds of food; that which is more necessary in a certain place exists there in larger quantities and is cheaper than that which is less necessary.
No intelligent person, I think, considers musk, amber, rubies, and emerald as very necessary for man except as medicines: and they, as well as other like substances, can be replaced for this purpose by herbs and minerals. This shows the kindness of God to His creatures, even to us weak beings. His righteousness and justice as regards all animals are well known; for in the transient world there is among the various kinds of animals no individual being distinguished from the rest of the same species by a peculiar property or an additional limb. On the contrary, all physical, psychical, and vital forces and organs that are possessed by one individual are found also in the other individuals. If any one is somehow different it is by accident, in consequence of some exception, and not by a natural property; it is also a rare occurrence.
There is no difference between individuals of a species in the due course of Nature; the difference originates in the various dispositions of their substances. This is the necessary consequence of the nature of the substance of that species: the nature of the species is not more favourable to one individual than to the other. It is no wrong or injustice that one has many bags of finest myrrh and garments embroidered with gold, while another has not those things, which are not necessary for our maintenance; he who has them has not thereby obtained control over anything that could be an essential addition to his nature, but has only obtained something illusory or deceptive. The other, who does not possess that which is not wanted for his maintenance, does not miss anything indispensable: “He that gathered much had nothing over, and he that gathered little had no lack: they gathered every man according to his eating” (Exod. xvi. 18).
This is the rule at all times and in all places; no notice should be taken of exceptional cases, as we have explained.In these two ways you will see the mercy of God toward His creatures, how He has provided that which is required, in proper proportions, and treated all individual beings of the same species with perfect equality. In accordance with this correct reflection the chief of the wise men says, “All his ways are judgment” (Deut. xxxii. 4); David likewise says: “All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth” (Ps. xxv. 10); he also says expressly “The Lord is good to all; and his tender mercies are over all his works” (ibid. cxlv. 9); for it is an act of great and perfect goodness that He gave us existence: and the creation of the controlling faculty in animals is a proof of His mercy towards them, as has been shown by us.
Guide for the Perplexed, by Moses Maimonides, Friedländer tr. [1904], at sacred-texts.com
THE GUIDE FOR THE PERPLEXED
BY
MOSES MAIMONIDES
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL ARABIC TEXT BY M. FRIEDLANDER, PHD
SECOND EDITION REVISED THROUGHOUT
London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd.
[1904]
Originally Scanned and OCRed by Andrew Meit and David Reed. Additional proofing and formatting by Richard Hartzman. Extensive additional proofing and formatting by John Bruno Hare at sacredtexts.com. This text is in the public domain in the United States because it was published prior to January 1st, 1923. Abridged and Reformatted by Seth Goldstein.
License:
Remixed from Words of Wisdom: Intro to Philosophy by Jody L Ondich is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 4: Fyodor Dostoyevsky / The Problem of Evil
Love Your Neighbor
“I must make one confession” Ivan began. “I could never understand how one can love one’s neighbours. It’s just one’s neighbours, to my mind, that one can’t love, though one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from ‘self-laceration,’ from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed by duty, as a penance laid on him. For anyone to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone.”
“Father Zossima has talked of that more than once,” observed Alyosha; “he, too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practised in love, from loving him. But yet there’s a great deal of love in mankind, and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan.”
“Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can’t understand it, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that’s due to men’s bad qualities or whether it’s inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another and not I. And what’s more, a man is rarely ready to admit another’s suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won’t he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering; degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me—hunger, for instance—my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher suffering—for an idea, for instance—he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favour, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity through the newspapers. One can love one’s neighbours in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it’s almost impossible. If it were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we’d better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second reason why I won’t speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation—they’ve eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become ‘like gods.’ They go on eating it still. But the children haven’t eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers’ sins, they must be punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another’s sins, and especially such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious, the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they are quite little—up to seven, for instance—are so remote from grown-up people they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species. I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him… You don’t know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My head aches and I am sad.”
“You speak with a strange air,” observed Alyosha uneasily, “as though you were not quite yourself.”
The Inhumanity of Man
“By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow,” Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother’s words, “told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them—all sorts of things you can’t imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that’s a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that’s all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children,—too; cutting the unborn child from the mothers womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mothers’ eyes. Doing it before the mothers’ eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They’ve planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby’s face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby’s face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn’t it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say.”
“Brother, what are you driving at?” asked Alyosha.
“I think if the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.”
“Just as he did God, then?” observed Alyosha. “‘It’s wonderful how you can turn words,’ as Polonius says in Hamlet,” laughed Ivan. “You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must be a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort from newspapers and books, and I’ve already got a fine collection. The Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we prefer beating—rods and scourges—that’s our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us. Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws have been passed, so that they don’t dare to flog men now. But they make up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how, quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed—a young man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so.”
“Quite the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the Prodigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn’t even give that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day labourer in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace. All Geneva was in excitement about him—all philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; ‘You are our brother, you have found grace.’ And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, ‘Yes, I’ve found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs’ food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.’ ‘Yes, Richard, die in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it’s not your fault that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pigs’ food and were beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is forbidden); but you’ve shed blood and you must die.’ And on the last day, Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute: ‘This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.’ ‘Yes,’ cry the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies. ‘This is the happiest day of your life, for you are going to the Lord!’ They all walk or drive to the scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to Richard: ‘Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!’ And so, covered with his brothers’ kisses, Richard is dragged on to the scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that’s characteristic.”
“That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is interesting because it’s national. Though to us it’s absurd to cut off a man’s head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own specialty, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, ‘on its meek eyes,’ everyone must have seen it. It’s peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. ‘However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.’ The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenceless creature on its weeping, on its ‘meek eyes.’ The frantic beast tugs and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort of unnatural spasmodic action—it’s awful in Nekrassov. But that only a horse, and God has horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. ‘It stings more,’ said he, and so be began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps, ‘Daddy daddy!’ By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought into court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a barrister ‘a conscience for hire.’ The counsel protests in his client’s defence. ‘It’s such a simple thing,’ he says, ‘an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into court.’ The jury, convinced by him, give a favourable verdict. The public roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn’t there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honour! Charming pictures. But I’ve still better things about children. I’ve collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, ‘most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.’ You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. it’s just their defencelessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden—the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on.”
Four Children in Hayfield, Russia, Library of Congress
“This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty—shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn’t ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child’s groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can’t even understand what’s done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to dear, kind God! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I’ll leave off if you like.”
“Nevermind. I want to suffer too,” muttered Alyosha.
The Death of an Innocent Child
“One picture, only one more, because it’s so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities. I’ve forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men—somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then—who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they’ve earned absolute power over the lives of their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor neighbours as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys—all mounted, and in uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general’s favourite hound. ‘Why is my favourite dog lame?’ He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog’s paw. ‘So you did it.’ The general looked the child up and down. ‘Take him.’ He was taken—taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It’s a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry… ‘Make him run,’ commands the general. ‘Run! run!’ shout the dog-boys. The boy runs…’At him!’ yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother’s eyes!…I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. Well—what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!”
“To be shot,” murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale, twisted smile.
“Bravo!” cried Ivan delighted. “If even you say so… You’re a pretty monk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha Karamazov!”
“What I said was absurd, but…”
“That’s just the point, that ‘but’!” cried Ivan. “Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. We know what we know!”
“What do you know?”
“I understand nothing,” Ivan went on, as though in delirium. “I don’t want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact, and I have determined to stick to the fact.”
“Why are you trying me?” Alyosha cried, with sudden distress. “Will you say what you mean at last?”
“Of course, I will; that’s what I’ve been leading up to. You are dear to me, I don’t want to let you go, and I won’t give you up to your Zossima.”
Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad.
The Problem of Evil
“Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its centre, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognise in all humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level—but that’s only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can’t consent to live by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it?—I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven’t suffered simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That’s a question I can’t answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I’ve only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It’s beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers’ crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn’t grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.’ When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can’t accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child’s torturer, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ but I don’t want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It’s not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to ‘dear, kind God’! It’s not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don’t want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don’t want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother’s heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don’t want harmony. From love for humanity I don’t want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket.”
“That’s rebellion,” murmured Alyosha, looking down.
“Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that,” said Ivan earnestly. “One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge your answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature—that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance—and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth.”
“No, I wouldn’t consent,” said Alyosha softly.
Kasan Cathedral, St. Petersburg, Library of Congress
License:
Introduction to Philosophy by Lumen Learning is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 4: Suggestions for further Reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Maimonides, The guide of the perplexed (full text) License: public domain
- Reasons Not To Believe, Steven Steyl Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 5: Epistemology
Epistemology is concerned with the nature of knowledge and justified belief. What is knowledge? Can we have any knowledge at all? Can we have knowledge about the laws of nature, the laws or morality, or the existence of other minds? The view that we can’t have knowledge is called skepticism. An extreme form of skepticism denies that we can have any knowledge whatsoever. But we might grant that we can have knowledge about some things and remain skeptics concerning other issues. Many people, for instance, are not skeptics about scientific knowledge but are skeptics when it comes to knowledge of morality. Some critical attention reveals that scientific knowledge and moral knowledge face many of the same skeptical challenges and share some similar resources in addressing those challenges. Many of the popular reasons for being more skeptical about morality than science turn on philosophical confusion.
Even if we lack absolute and certain knowledge of many things, our beliefs about those things might yet be more or less reasonable or more or less likely to be true given the limited evidence we have. Epistemology is also concerned with what it is for a belief to be rationally justified.
Even if we can’t have certain knowledge of anything (or much), questions about what we ought to believe remain relevant.
In this chapter, we will read about Rationalist and Empiricist thinkers as well as the work of Immanuel Kant and his attempt to synthesize their work. In more recent times, a concern related to knowledge is consciousness or philosophy of Mind. The thinkers in this section address questions about the nature of consciousness and the relation of mind to body.
Chapter 5: Sources of Knowledge: Rationalism, Empiricism, and the Kantian Synthesis
FURTHER READING (Sources of Knowledge: Rationalism, Empiricism, and the Kantian Synthesis by K. S. Sangeetha is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.)
Blackburn, Simon. 1999. Truth: A Compelling Introduction to Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Critchley, Simon. 2001. Continental Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Ellis, Addison. 2014a. “Idealism Pt. 1: Berkeley’s Subjective Idealism.” In 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/07/07/berkeley/.
———. 2014b. “Idealism Pt. 2: Kant’s Transcendental Idealism.” In 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/08/11/idealism-pt-2-kants-transcendental-idealism.
Plato. (ca. 380 BCE) 2009. Meno. Translated by Benjamin Jowett. The Internet Classics Archive. http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/meno.html.
Russell, Bertrand. (1912) 2013. The Problems of Philosophy. Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5827/5827-h/5827-h.htm .
Vernon, Kenneth Blake. 2014. “The Problem of Induction.” 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/05/26/the-problem-of-induction/.
Introduction
We all have many things going on in our minds, such as beliefs, desires, hopes, dreams, imaginary figures, knowledge, love, and hatred—to name a handful. Have you ever considered their source? How do they come to be part of the thinking process? How do they become ideas in our minds? Some philosophers attribute the source of our ideas to the senses, including the inward senses (such as emotions) and the five outward senses (sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch). We might sense the world directly or indirectly through the thoughts of others. Some philosophers even claim that all our ideas must come from our senses. This claim holds that each of us is born with a mind that is like a tabula rasa (Latin for a “blank slate” or “blank tablet”) on which nothing is written and to which we add contents through experience as we become exposed to the world. Knowledge that is dependent on experience, or which arises after experience, is called a posteriori (Latin for “from the latter”). Since a posteriori knowledge is empirical (based on observation or experience), this view is called empiricism.
Opposed to empiricism is rationalism, the view that reason is the primary source of knowledge. Rationalists promote mathematical or logical knowledge as paradigm examples. Such knowledge can be grasped, they claim, through reason alone, without involving the senses directly. They argue that knowledge accessed through reasoning is eternal (i.e., it exists unchanged throughout the past, present, and future). For instance, two plus three remains five. Rationalists are impressed by the certainty and clarity of knowledge that reasoning provides, and they argue that this method should be applied to gaining knowledge of the world also. The evidence of the senses should be in conformity with the truths of reason, but it is not a prerequisite for the acquisition of these truths.
Knowledge that is independent of (or prior to) observation and experience is called a priori (Latin for “from the former”). Rationalists maintain that reason is the basis of a priori knowledge. But where do we ultimately get the ideas on which reason is based, if not from observation or experience? Rationalists tend to favor innatism, the belief that we are born with certain ideas already in our minds. That is, they are “innate” in us. Potential examples include mathematical or logical principles, moral sense, and the concept of God. While innatists claim that such ideas are present in us from birth, this does not guarantee our immediate awareness of their presence. Reason is the faculty that enables us to realize or access them. In what follows, innate ideas thus serve as the foundation of a model for rationalism. [1]
Rationalism’s Emphasis on a priori knowledge
Portrait of René Descartes by Frans Hals via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
French philosopher René Descartes (1596–1650) and German philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), two important rationalist thinkers, support the existence of innate ideas and their realization through reason. They argue that the truths revealed by such ideas are eternal, necessary, and universal.
For Descartes, there are different modes through which we acquire knowledge: some ideas are innate, some are externally sourced, and others are constructed by us. Descartes gives the example of the idea of God as innate in us, as well as the idea of one’s own existence ([1641] 1985, Third Meditation). According to Descartes, innate ideas like truths of geometry and laws of logic are known through reason independently of experience, because experience gives us only particular instances from which the mind discovers the universal ideas contained in them. Therefore, they are a priori. Descartes’s innate ideas have been compared to the stored information in a book. The ideas are in us, though not always present to the mind. Once we start reading the book, the contents reveal themselves to us, just as reasoning reveals our innate ideas to us. In other words, it is only through careful “reading” (thinking) that we come to understand which ideas are innate and which come to us from elsewhere.
Portrait of Gottfried Leibniz by Christoph Bernhard Francke via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
Leibniz calls innate ideas “principles.” Like Descartes, Leibniz maintains that principles are accessed by reason. The universal nature of mathematical truths, for example, is not revealed by the senses. It is the faculty of reason that acquires universal truths from individual instances. Leibniz argues that a collection of instances based on the senses cannot lead us to necessary truths. At the same time, it is also clear that we can grasp many necessary truths, such as mathematics. Therefore, the mind is the source, which means these truths are there innately. However, innate ideas are not full-fledged thoughts for Leibniz: he holds that our minds are structured so that certain ideas or principles will occur to us once prompted by the senses, although they are not derived from the senses. Ideas and truths are innate in us initially as dispositions or tendencies rather than as actual conscious thoughts ([1705] 2017, Preface).
Opposing a priori knowledge by rejecting innate ideas
The empiricist claim that all our knowledge comes from experience is in stark contrast to the concept of innate ideas. For empiricists, all knowledge is a posteriori, meaning acquired through or after experience. John Locke (1632–1704), a British empiricist philosopher, adopts two approaches to question innate ideas as the basis of a priori knowledge. Firstly, he shows that innate ideas are based on dubious claims; secondly, along with Scottish empiricist David Hume (1711–1776), Locke shows how empiricism is able to offer a better theory of knowledge through the a posteriori.
Portrait of John Locke by Godfrey Kneller via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
Locke starts by questioning the “universal nature” of innate ideas. He opposes the claim that innate ideas are present in all of us by noting that sufficiently young children, and adults without the requisite education, lack a concept of God or knowledge of logical or mathematical principles. Therefore, it is baseless to say that innate ideas are universal. It is through experience and observation that we acquire such ideas. That is, they are a posteriori ([1690] 2017, Book I).
Here Leibniz defends the innatist view from Locke’s objection by showing how children and those without the requisite education are capable of employing logical and mathematical principles in their everyday lives without understanding what they are or being able to articulate them in words ([1705] 2017, Book I). A child, to use an example of my own, knows without any confusion that she cannot be sitting in both parents’ laps at the same time. Similarly, those without formal mathematical training could still know that two adjacent triangular cornfields separated by a fence on their longest side can make a square cornfield by removing the fence that divides them. Evidently, as Leibniz argues, general principles of logic and mathematics are innate. But this does not mean that all innate ideas are universally held. It is possible that we all have innate ideas yet some of us are unaware of them.
Locke further argues, however, that there can be nothing in the mind of which it is unaware ([1690] 2017, Book II). Having innate ideas without being aware of them is not a viable position for Locke. An idea first has to be experienced or thought. How else could it be “in” the mind? On this point Leibniz disagrees with Locke: it is possible to have a plethora of ideas in our minds without being aware of them ([1705] 2017, Preface). For instance, suppose you absorb a “tune” playing in the marketplace without being consciously aware of it. The tune is not readily accessible or transparent to your mind, in that you cannot recall it; however, it may be recognizable upon hearing it again. So, it must have been “in” you somewhere in some sense. Similarly, an innate idea could be in your mind, without you yet being aware of it. We are born with the facility to realize innate ideas when favorable conditions obtain later in life, such as the ideas of beauty, justice, and mathematical truths.
Locke’s reply is that the realization of ideas or capacities in the right circumstances is applicable to all ideas—not just those which are purportedly innate ([1690] 2017, Book I). He challenges innatists to produce a criterion to distinguish innate from non-innate ideas. Leibniz responds with such a criterion: innate ideas are necessary (they must be true, cannot be false), whereas non-innate ideas are merely contingent (possibly true, possibly false). We can distinguish truths that are necessary (and therefore eternal on Leibniz’s view) from contingent truths dependent on varying matters of fact ([1705] 2017, Preface).
Empiricism’s emphasis on a priori knowledge
Locke claims to show how the mind, which is like a tabula rasa at birth, acquires knowledge. For empiricists, experience alone furnishes our mind with simple ideas, which are the basic elements of knowledge. Once shown that all ideas can come from experience, it would be redundant to additionally posit innate ideas. So, does a posteriori knowledge lead us to reject a priori knowledge? Let us find out.
For Locke, knowledge based on experience is easy to understand. He asks us to suppose that we have innate ideas of colors and that we can also see colors with our eyes. In this case, since we don’t need to rely upon both, we go with our senses, because it is easier and simpler to understand knowledge derived from sense experience than from knowledge derived from some source of which we are unaware ([1690] 2017, Book I, Chapter ii, Para. 1). Here Locke applies the principle of Ockham's razor, which suggests that as far as possible we should adopt simple explanations rather than complicated ones. [2] Simple explanations have the advantage of being less prone to error and more friendly to testing than complicated ones that do not add explanatory value.
The next question is whether a posteriori knowledge alone gives us adequate knowledge of the world. Let us take an instance of experiencing and thereby knowing a flower, such as a rose. As we experience the rose, its particular color, texture, and fragrance are the ideas through which we become aware of the object. But when we are not experiencing or sensing the rose, we can still think about it. We can also recognize it the next time we see the flower and retain the belief that it is sweet smelling, beautiful to look at, and soft to the touch. This shows that, in addition to sensing, the ability to form concepts about the objects we encounter is crucial for knowing the world. Experience also makes it possible for us to imagine what we have not directly experienced, such as a mermaid ([1690] 2017, Book III, Chapter iii, Para. 19). Such imaginings are made possible because we have directly experienced different parts of this imagined object separately. Conjoining these experiences in the mind in an ordered manner yields the imagined object ([1690] 2017, Book II, Chapter iii, Para. 5). Had we not experienced and thereby formed the concepts of a fish and a woman separately before, we would not be able to imagine a mermaid at present.
These considerations lead Locke to categorize all our sense experiences into simple and complex ideas. Simple ideas are basic and indivisible, such as the idea of red. Complex ideas are formed by the mind, either from more than one simple idea or from complex impressions ([1690] 2017, Book II, Chapters ii & xii). Complex ideas are divisible because they have parts. Examples include golden streets, an army, and the universe. My idea or concept of an object, whether simple or complex, can be ultimately traced back to its corresponding sense impressions.
Portrait of David Hume by Allan Ramsay via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
Hume, another important empiricist philosopher, writes of ideas as the “copies” of “impressions.” Impressions are “vivid” and “lively” as received directly from sense experience. Hume also allows inward impressions, including jealousy, indignation, and so on. Ideas are mental copies of inward or outward impressions, rendering them “faint” or “feeble” (try comparing a perceptual experience with recalling it from memory) ([1748] 2017, Sections 1 & 2). Hume argues that where there are no impressions, there can be no ideas. A blind man can have no notion of color, according to Hume. One cannot be born with ideas that are not derived from any impressions. So, there are no innate ideas for Hume. However, he agrees that our tendencies to avoid pain, or to seek many of our passions and desires, are innate. Here I would argue that even these tendencies are based on our sense impressions and the corresponding ideas we form from those impressions. The mental inclination to repeatedly seek pleasure or avoid pain comes to us only after the first incident of exposure to either sensation.
In contrast to Descartes, even the idea of God falls under the a posteriori for Hume. Since none of us has experienced God directly, Hume argues, there is no impression of God available to us from which to form the corresponding idea. In Hume’s view, our imagination forms this idea by lavishly extending our experience of the good qualities possessed by people around us ([1748] 2017, Sections 1 & 11). Given that even the idea of God can be derived from sense impressions, this lends further support to the empiricist claim that all our ideas are a posteriori. Therefore, according to Hume, the rationalist claims for the existence of innate ideas and a priori knowledge are mistaken.
The inadequacy of the tabula rasa theory
A weakness of the empiricist’s tabula rasa theory can be exposed if we can show that not all our ideas are derived from corresponding impressions. However, this would not mean we must return to the rationalist’s theory of innate ideas, as we shall see. The plan is to explore a third alternative.
The presence of general concepts in our minds shows there is not always a one-to-one relation between ideas and corresponding sense impressions. For example, we see different instances of the color blue around us, and from these instances we form a general concept of blue. This general concept is not copied from one particular impression of blue, nor even from a particular shade of blue. We also have abstract concepts (such as justice, kindness, and courage), which are not traceable to corresponding sense impressions. In such cases, we experience different acts or instances of justice, kindness, and courage. But if these abstract concepts are copied from their particular impressions, then only these instances—and not the concepts themselves—would be in our minds. It follows that concepts are formed or understood rather than copied. Similarly, relational concepts (such as “on”-ness, betweenness, sameness, and the like) are realized not by copying the impressions involved. In fact, there are no impressions at all corresponding to these relational concepts. We instead receive impressions of particulars standing in such relations—the cat sitting on the mat, the English Channel flowing between the United Kingdom and Europe, one minus one equaling zero, and so forth.
In sum, the formation of general, abstract, and relational concepts in our minds shows that an uninterrupted flow of impressions would not constitute all the ideas we have. Instead, it requires that from birth the mind is at least partially equipped with a structure or architecture that enables it to make sense of the raw impressions it receives and to form concepts where there is no one-to-one correspondence between impressions and ideas. It challenges the authenticity of a tabula rasa. This takes us to a stage where we need to figure out the indispensable third alternative, which can facilitate a more complete knowledge of the world. This necessitates a crossover between the a priori and the a posteriori, or a reconciliation of the two.
Percepts-Concepts Combination
The immediacy and direct nature of sensations, impressions, and perceptions make them certain.[3] Let us briefly unpack this idea. Consider whether we can ever be wrong about our sensations. It is commonly thought that while we can be wrong about what the world is like, we cannot be wrong about the fact that we are having particular sensations. Even if you are dreaming this very second, and there is no actual book before your eyes, you cannot deny that you are having certain sensations resembling a white page and black font in the shape of words. Therefore, our sensations are certain and we cannot doubt that they exist. However, it is possible that sometimes we are unsure how to characterize a particular sensation. For instance, you may see a flashy car and be unsure whether the color is metallic green or gray. So, you might get into confusion in describing your sensation, but that does not affect the certainty and indubitability of the sensation itself, of what is here and now for you.
German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) argues that for our perceptions to make sense to us, they should be received into concepts that exist within our minds.These structures of understanding allow our minds to process the impressions that we experience. Unless the manifold raw sensations we receive from experience are classified into different categories of understanding, we cannot make sense of them.
Immanuel Kant by Johann Gottlieb Becker via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
For instance, the mind should have the ability to recognize whether two sensations are similar or different, to say the least. Without this ability, we cannot make sense of experience. Or consider that we also perceive that objects are in space and time, stand in cause-effect relations, and belong to the categories of unity-plurality, assertion-negation, particular-universal, and the like. Here again, we are incapable of understanding any experience that is not processed through these categories. Kant argues, therefore, that space, time, causation, quantity, quality, and the like are represented to us in innate structures or concepts that our minds are fitted with prior to experience.
According to Kant, these categories are transcendental in the sense that they bridge the gap between mind and world. They are hidden structures, bridges, or concepts that occupy the otherwise blank slate and mold our way of thinking and experiencing the world. Of course, these concepts also require inputs, or percepts (the immediate objects of awareness delivered directly to us in perceptual experience through the senses). As Kant’s view is famously expressed, “Percepts without concepts are blind and concepts without percepts are empty” ([1781] 1998, 209).
So far, we have seen through various stages that rationalism and empiricism are incomplete. Kant’s transcendental idealism (as his view is called) strikes a balance, reconciling the two accounts. He combines sensory input and inborn concepts into a unified account of how we understand the world. Before we conclude the chapter with the final step in Kant’s approach, let us return to Descartes and Hume once again, the two philosophers who most influenced Kant.
Synthetic a priori knowledge
Descartes thinks that reason alone can provide certainty to all human knowledge. Intuition and deduction are tools through which the faculty of reason operates. Intuition is the capacity to look inward and comprehend intellectual objects and basic truths. Being a geometrician, Descartes thinks that deduction (the type of reasoning whereby the truth of the conclusion is guaranteed by the truth of the premises) should be used for gaining knowledge of the world, starting with the input of “clear and distinct” ideas. [4] Since intuition is dissociated from the evidence of the senses, the truths it unfurls can be known a priori. The result is that substantial knowledge of the world can be acquired a priori ([1701] 1985).
According to Hume, there are two ways in which reasoning aims to gain knowledge of the world: through “relations of ideas” and through “matters of fact” ([1748] 2017, Section 4). Hume thinks that the method of deduction establishes relations between the ideas we have already acquired through experience (e.g., that a mother is a woman parent). These relations of ideas are the kind of truths that we find in logic and mathematics (for instance, the proposition that a circle is round). They are true by definition. Such truths are necessary or certain (their denials lead to contradiction). They are also known a priori, since they do not rely on how the world is. For this reason, relations of ideas and deduction do not yield substantive new knowledge of the world; the knowledge they impart is already understood by us (as the above examples show), even if our understanding is merely implicit within the premises of a deductive argument whose conclusion makes it explicit.
Matters of fact, for Hume, are based on observation and experience. Some of them are generalizations arrived at by induction from particular instances. Inductive truths are uncertain. They are at best probable, since they are dependent on how the world is. For instance, we have the experience of heat from fire so far; but we cannot be certain that this will be the case tomorrow also (maybe we will unexpectedly feel some other sensation like cold from fire). We expect that the future will resemble the past, but we cannot be certain about it. [5] Matters of fact provide us with a posteriori truths, which are contingently true (their denials can be conceived without contradiction). Since matters of fact are not true by definition, they add substantive new information to our existing knowledge, unlike relations of ideas ([1748] 2017, Section 4).
A rationalist initially, Kant was influenced by the division in knowledge made by Hume. Only a combination of reason and experience can give us adequate knowledge, according to Kant. He begins by providing an account of relations of ideas, which he terms analytic truths. In sentences that express analytic truths, the predicate term is already “contained” in, or is the meaning of, the subject term. For example, in the sentence, “a circle is round,” the predicate “round” is contained in the subject, “circle.” To take another standard example, in “a bachelor is an unmarried man,” the predicate “unmarried man” is the meaning of the subject term, “bachelor.” We cannot deny such truths without contradiction. They are necessarily true, which means that they’re true regardless of how the world is. Since we do no need to examine the world to tell whether they’re true, analytic truths are knowable a priori ([1781] 1998, 146, 157). [6]
Kant terms matters of fact synthetic truths: the predicate term is neither contained within nor is the meaning of the subject term. Synthetic truths are not true by definition. As such, it stands to reason that they are based on observation, and therefore must be a posteriori (although, as we will soon see, Kant argues that this is not the case for all synthetic truths). For instance, consider the proposition, “George the bachelor is a writer.” We have new information here about a particular person named “George” being a bachelor and writer, and experience is required to find this out. Since the opposites of synthetic truths are not contradictory, they are contingent ([1781] 1998, 147, 157). [7]
Kant maintains that only synthetic truths are capable of providing substantive new information about the world. That said, our sense experiences do not passively enter our minds, but do conform to our innate mental structures to facilitate knowledge. Since these structures work independently of experience, they are a priori. These innate a priori structures of our minds—our concepts—are actively engaged in making sense of our experiences ([1781] 1998). They do so by discriminating and organizing the information received in experience. But again, the ability to perform this activity presupposes that the world which furnishes both the information and our concepts is itself structured in a way that enables intelligibility. The particular ways in which the world must be structured—its space-time and cause-effect relations, for example—yield substantive truths about reality. These truths hold not merely because of the meanings of words or the logical forms of sentences. They are synthetic. And since we arrived at this result by way of a priori reflection, Kant argues that we possess “synthetic a priori” knowledge of the world—a previously unrecognized category of knowledge, now to be added to the standard categories of synthetic a posteriori and analytic a priori knowledge. (See Table 1 below for a summary of these categories.)
Table 1 – Categories of Knowledge
Combining the epistemological distinction (a priori vs. a posteriori) with the semantic/modal distinction (analytic/necessary vs. synthetic/contingent) yields four possible categories.
Category of knowledge: analytic a priori
Significance: Emphasized by rationalists.
Examples: The deliverance of pure logic; statements that are true by definition (known by grasping their meanings).
Category of knowledge: synthetic a priori
Significance: Controversial category posited by the Kantian synthesis. While truths in this category are contingent in the strict logical sense (their denial is not logically contradictory), Kant claimed for them a kind of metaphysical necessity (in that they hold universally and are eternal).
Kant’s candidates: Euclid’s axioms of geometry, basic features of space/time, metaphysical truths, and moral truths.
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There remains the question of how our concepts discriminate and organize the information received from the senses. These goals are achieved through acts of synthesis. By “synthesis,” Kant means “the act of putting different representations [elements of cognition] together, and grasping what is manifold in them in one cognition” ([1781] 1998, 77).
Kant explains three types of synthesis: the process starts with “synthesis of apprehension in perception,” passes through “synthesis of reproduction in imagination,” and ends with “synthesis of recognition in a concept” ([1781] 1998, 228–34). For Kant, apprehension in perception involves locating an object in space and time. The synthesis of reproduction in imagination consists in connecting different elements in our minds to form an image. And synthesis of recognition in a concept requires memory of a past experience as well as recognizing its relation to present experience. By recognizing that the past and present experience both refer to the same object, we form a concept of it. To recognize something as a unified object under a concept is to attach meaning to percepts. This attachment of meaning is what Kant calls apperception (Guyer 1987).
Apperception is the point where the self and the world come together. For Kant, the possibility of apperception requires two kinds of unity. First, the various data received in experience must themselves represent a common subject, allowing the data to be combined and held together. Second, the data must be combined and held together by a unified self or what Kant calls a “unity of consciousness” or “unity of apperception.” Kant concludes that because of such unity, all of us are equally capable of making sense of the same public object in a uniform manner based on our individual, private experiences. That is, we are in an unspoken agreement regarding the mind-independent world in which we live, facilitated by our subjective experiences but regulated by the innate mental structures given to us by the world. In sum, Kant’s theory makes possible shared synthetic knowledge of objective reality. [8] In conclusion, by considering the debate between rationalists and empiricists culminating in Kant’s synthesis, this chapter has shed light on the issue of how we achieve substantive knowledge.
Box 1 – Kant’s Copernican Revolution in Epistemology
Astronomer Copernicus, or Conversations with God, painting ca. 1872 by Jan Matejko via Wikimedia Commons. This work is in the public domain.
In his Critique of Pure Reason, Kant sums up his epistemology by drawing an analogy to the Copernican Revolution (the shift in astronomy from a geocentric to a heliocentric model of the universe, named after Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543), the sixteenth-century Polish mathematician and astronomer):
Up to now it has been assumed that all our cognition must conform to the objects; but all attempts to find out something about them a priori through concepts that would extend our cognition have, on this presupposition, come to nothing. Hence let us once try whether we do not get farther with the problems of metaphysics by assuming that the objects must conform to our cognition, which would agree better with the requested possibility of an a priori cognition of them, which is to establish something about objects before they are given to us. This would be just like the first thoughts of Copernicus, who, when he did not make good progress in the explanation of the celestial motions if he assumed that the entire celestial host revolves around the observer, tried to see if he might not have greater success if he made the observer revolve and left the stars at rest. Now in metaphysics we can try in a similar way regarding the intuition of objects. If intuition has to conform to the constitution of the objects, then I do not see how we can know anything of them a priori; but if the object (as an object of the senses) conforms to the constitution of our faculty of intuition, then I can very well represent this possibility to myself. Yet because I cannot stop with these intuitions, if they are to become cognitions, but must refer them as representations to something as their object and determine this object through them, I can assume either that the concepts through which I bring about this determination also conform to the objects, and then I am once again in the same difficulty about how I could know anything about them a priori, or else I assume that the objects, or what is the same thing, the experience in which alone they can be cognized (as given objects) conforms to those concepts, in which case I immediately see an easier way out of the difficulty, since experience itself is a kind of cognition requiring the understanding, whose rule I have to presuppose in myself before any object is given to me, hence a priori, which rule is expressed in concepts a priori, to which all objects of experience must therefore necessarily conform, and with which they must agree. ([1781] 1998, B xvi–B xviii)
References
- Chomsky, Noam. 1975. Reflections on Language. New York: Random House.
- Critchley, Simon. 2001. Continental Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Descartes, René. (1641) 1985. “Meditations on First Philosophy.” In The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch, 1–62. Volume 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- ———. (1701) 1985. “Rules for the Direction of the Mind.” In The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch, 7–77. Volume 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Ellis, Addison. 2014a. “Idealism Pt. 1: Berkeley’s Subjective Idealism.” In 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/07/07/berkeley/ .
- ———. 2014b. “Idealism Pt. 2: Kant’s Transcendental Idealism.” In 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/08/11/idealism-pt-2-kants-transcendental-idealism .
- Guyer, Paul. 1987. Kant and the Claims of Knowledge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Hume, David. (1748) 2017. Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Jonathan Bennett. https://www.earlymoderntexts.com/assets/pdfs/hume1748.pdf .
- Kant, Immanuel. (1781) 1998. Critique of Pure Reason. Translated by Paul Guyer and Allen Wood. New York: Cambridge University Press.
- Leibniz, G. W. (1705) 2017. New Essays on Human Understanding. Edited by Jonathan Bennett. http://earlymoderntexts.com/authors/leibniz .
- Locke, John. (1690) 2017. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Jonathan Bennett. https://www.earlymoderntexts.com/authors/locke .
- Plato. (ca. 380 BCE) 2009. Meno. Translated by Benjamin Jowett. The Internet Classics Archive. http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/meno.html .
- Quine, W. V. 1951. “Main Trends in Recent Philosophy: Two Dogmas of Empiricism.” Philosophical Review 60 (1): 20–43.
- Vernon, Kenneth Blake. 2014. “The Problem of Induction.” In 1000-Word Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology. https://1000wordphilosophy.com/2014/05/26/the-problem-of-induction/ .
- Plato (ca. 428–347 BCE) can be treated as a predecessor of rationalism. In his dialogue Meno, Plato shows how innate ideas can be realized through reason ([ca. 380 BCE] 2009). In this dialogue, the main character Socrates (based on Plato’s real-life teacher), engages a slave boy in discussion. Through a series of questions and answers—an approach known as the Socratic Method—Socrates draws out of the boy a proof about squares. Plato argues that the boy did not learn anything new; rather, the questions merely prompted the boy to recollect knowledge he possessed prior to birth as an unembodied soul. Therefore, innate ideas are like forgotten memories; we might not be aware of them. This is Plato’s “doctrine of recollection” (as scholars have called it). In recent years, some linguists consider Noam Chomsky’s theory of language to be a modern scientific version of rationalism (though perhaps it is more accurately described as Kantian). Chomsky (1975) argues that human minds contain innate structures responsible for our capacities to process language. This is because our exposure to language itself is inadequate to account for our ability to speak and understand others. He claims that this innate ability is universal across all cultures, which reiterates the claim of the early innatists that universality is an indicator of innateness. ↵
- See Chapter 2 of this volume by Todd R. Long for a discussion of the explanationist theory of epistemic justification, and Chapter 6 by Jonathan Lopez (especially Box 1) on probabilistic considerations in epistemology—both of which are closely related to Ockham’s razor. ↵
- We find an endorsement of this view in the Anglo-Irish empiricist philosopher George Berkeley (1685–1753). His view of idealism is that only minds and their ideas (where sensations are counted as ideas) exist. We are only immediately aware of ideas, and so the physical world of objects does not exist independently of mind—only as a representation of a mind, finite or infinite. Therefore, Berkeley recommended “To be is to be perceived” (in Latin, “Esse est percipi”). However, we will not explore this view here, as we are focused on the more influential view that there is a mind-independent reality. For discussion of Berkeley, see Ellis (2014a). ↵
- See Chapter 2 of this volume by Long for further discussion of Cartesian foundationalism. ↵
- This is an aspect of “the problem of induction” that Hume is famous for. For an overview of the problem, see Vernon (2014). ↵
- See Chapter 6 of this volume by Lopez for a discussion of analytic/necessary truths in relation to probability theory. ↵
- Some philosophers, following Quine (1951), object to the analytic-synthetic distinction altogether. ↵
- Kant’s theory and its consequences were interpreted differently by post-Kantian philosophers, leading to the famous analytic-continental divide in philosophy. On the continental side, some philosophers interpret Kant as saying that we cannot know things as they are in themselves (the noumena). We can know only how they appear to us (the phenomena), resulting in a form of external-world skepticism (the view that we lack knowledge of the external world), Husserl’s phenomenology (philosophical description of inner mental life free from the traditional distinction between it and external reality), or a constructivist view (the idea that we construct reality). For a brief overview of these issues, see Ellis (2014b). For a more thorough discussion, see Critchley (2001). ↵
License
Sources of Knowledge: Rationalism, Empiricism, and the Kantian Synthesis by K. S. Sangeetha is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Ch 5: Descartes: Starting with Doubt
Descartes
The Meditations of Descartes
Proof of the existence of god and the immortality of the human soul was an explicit concern for religious matters and did not reflect any loss of interest in pursuing the goals of science. By sharply distinguishing mind from body, Descartes hoped to preserve a distinct arena for the church while securing the freedom of scientists to develop mechanistic accounts of physical phenomena. In this way, he supposed it possible to satisfy the requirements of Christian doctrine, but discouraged the interference of the church in scientific matters and promoted further observational exploration of the material world. The arrangement of the Meditations, Descartes emphasized, was not the order of reasons; that is, it made no effort to proceed from the metaphysical foundations of reality to the dependent existence of lesser beings, as Spinoza would later try to do. Instead, this book followed the order of thoughts; that is, it traced the epistemological progress an individual thinker might follow in establishing knowledge at a level of perfect certainty. Thus, these are truly Meditations; we are meant to put ourselves in the place of the first-person narrator, experiencing for ourselves the benefits of the philosophical method . (33)
Descartes: Starting with Doubt
The Method of Doubt
The basic strategy of Descartes’s method of doubt is to defeat skepticism on its own ground. Begin by doubting the truth of everything—not only the evidence of the senses and the more extravagant cultural presuppositions, but even the fundamental process of reasoning itself. If any particular truth about the world can survive this extreme skeptical challenge, then it must be truly indubitable and therefore a perfectly certain foundation for knowledge. The First Meditation, then, is an extended exercise in learning to doubt everything that I believe, considered at three distinct levels:
1. Perceptual Illusion
First, Descartes noted that the testimony of the senses with respect to any particular judgment about the external world may turn out to be mistaken. (Med. I) Things are not always just as they seem at first glance (or at first hearing, etc.) to be. But then, Descartes argued, it is prudent never wholly to trust in the truth of what we perceive. In ordinary life, of course, we adjust for mistaken perceptions by reference to correct perceptions. But since we cannot be sure at first which cases are veridical and which are not, it is possible (if not always feasible) to doubt any particular bit of apparent sensory knowledge.
2. The Dream Problem
Second, Descartes raised a more systematic method for doubting the legitimacy of all sensory perception . Since my most vivid dreams are internally indistinguishable from waking experience, he argued, it is possible that everything I now “perceive” to be part of the physical world outside me is in fact nothing more than a fanciful fabrication of my own imagination. On this supposition, it is possible to doubt that any physical thing really exists, that there is an external world at all. (Med. I)
Severe as it is, this level of doubt is not utterly comprehensive, since the truths of mathematics and the content of simple natures remain unaffected. Even if there is no material world (and thus, even in my dreams) two plus three makes five and red looks red to me. In order to doubt the veracity of such fundamental beliefs, I must extend the method of doubting even more hyperbolically.
3. A Deceiving God
Finally, then, Descartes raised even more comprehensive doubts by inviting us to consider a radical hypothesis derived from one of our most treasured traditional beliefs. What if there is an omnipotent god, but that deity devotes its full attention to deceiving me? (Med. I) The problem here is not merely that I might be forced by god to believe something that is in fact false; Descartes meant to raise the far more devastating possibility that whenever I believe anything, even if it has always been true up until now, a truly omnipotent deceiver could at that very moment choose to change the world so as to render my belief false. On this supposition, it seems possible to doubt the truth of absolutely anything I might come to believe.
Although the hypothesis of a deceiving god best serves the logical structure of the Meditations as a whole, Descartes offered two alternative versions of the hypothetical doubt for the benefit of those who might take offense at even a counter-factual suggestion of impiety. It may seem more palatable to the devout to consider the possibility that I systematically deceive myself or that there is some evil demon who perpetually tortures me with my own error. The point in each case is that it is possible for every belief I entertain to be false.
Remember that the point of the entire exercise is to out-do the skeptics at their own game, to raise the broadest possible grounds for doubt, so that whatever we come to believe in the face of such challenges will indeed be that which cannot be doubted. It is worthwhile to pause here, wallowing in the depths of Cartesian doubt at the end of the First Meditation, the better to appreciate the escape he offers at the outset of Meditation Two. (33)
Descartes: Starting with Doubt — I Am, I Exist
The Second Meditation begins with a review of the First. Remember that I am committed to suspending judgment with respect to anything about which I can conceive any doubt, and my doubts are extensive. I mistrust every report of my senses, I regard the material world as nothing more than a dream, and I suppose that an omnipotent god renders false each proposition that I am even inclined to believe. Since everything therefore seems to be dubitable, does it follow that I can be certain of nothing at all? It does not. Descartes claimed that one thing emerges as true even under the strict conditions imposed by the otherwise universal doubt: “I am, I exist” is necessarily true whenever the thought occurs to me. (Med. II) This truth neither derives from sensory information nor depends upon the reality of an external world, and I would have to exist even if I were systematically deceived. For even an omnipotent god could not cause it to be true, at one and the same time, both that I am deceived and that I do not exist. If I am deceived, then at least I am.
Although Descartes’s reasoning here is best known in the Latin translation of its expression in the Discourse, “cogito, ergo sum” (“I think, therefore I am”), it is not merely an inference from the activity of thinking to the existence of an agent that performs that activity. It is intended rather as an intuition of one’s own reality, an expression of the indubitability of first-person experience, the logical self-certification of self-conscious awareness in any form.
Skepticism is thereby defeated, according to Descartes. No matter how many skeptical challenges are raised—indeed, even if things are much worse than the most extravagant skeptic ever claimed—there is at least one fragment of genuine human knowledge: my perfect certainty of my own existence. From this starting-point, Descartes supposed, it is possible to achieve indubitable knowledge of many other propositions as well. (33)
Starting with Doubt — I Am a Thinking Thing
An initial consequence may be drawn directly from the intuitive certainty of the cogito itself. If I know that I am, Descartes argued, I must also know what I am; an understanding of my true nature must be contained implicitly in the content of my awareness. What, then, is this “I” that doubts, that may be deceived, that thinks? Since I became certain of my existence while entertaining serious doubts about sensory information and the existence of a material world, none of the apparent features of my human body can have been crucial for my understanding of myself. But all that is left is my thought itself, so Descartes concluded that “sum res cogitans” (“I am a thing that thinks”). (Med. II) In Descartes’s terms, I am a substance whose inseparable attribute (or entire essence) is thought, with all its modes: doubting, willing, conceiving, believing, etc. What I really am is a mind [Lat. mens] or soul [Lat. anima]. So completely am I identified with my conscious awareness, Descartes claimed, that if I were to stop thinking altogether, it would follow that I no longer existed at all. At this point, nothing else about human nature can be determined with such perfect certainty.
In ordinary life, my experience of bodies may appear to be more vivid than self-consciousness, but Descartes argued that sensory appearances actually provide no reliable knowledge of the external world. If I hold a piece of beeswax while approaching the fire, all of the qualities it presents to my senses change dramatically while the wax itself remains. (Med. II) It follows that the impressions of sense are unreliable guides even to the nature of bodies. (33)
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Ch 5: Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy (1641) [Excerpt and summaries]
Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy (1641)
The Meditations are among the most frequently misread works of the modern period. Descartes is often seen as primarily concerned with epistemology and in particular the problem of skepticism. But remember that the title of the work is Meditations on First Philosophy, and ‘first philosophy’ always refers to metaphysics, not epistemology. And Descartes himself refers to the work in correspondence as his ‘metaphysics’. Skepticism is merely a tool Descartes exploits; it is not an independently important or interesting subject.
Failure to see this stems from the failure to see the work’s polemical purpose. Descartes’s target audience here is the scholastics; while Descartes and his adversaries agree on some key doctrines—that God exists, for example, and that the soul is immortal—they disagree on nearly everything else. Rather than arguing against their views directly, Descartes chooses a literary form that allows him to subvert their views—particularly empiricism, existentialism, and their belief in a multitude of natural kinds.
The meditator is not Descartes himself, but instead a literary character. (For confirmation of this, see the last paragraph of his Synopsis below.) As you read the first two meditations, keep this in mind. Look for clues to the meditator’s true identity: what kinds of views does she hold, as she begins her reflections?
The synopsis that follows is helpful, but you might want to read it after having read the work as a whole.
Synopsis of the Six Following Meditations
In the First Meditation I expound the grounds on which we may doubt in general of all things, and especially of material objects, so long at least, as we have no other foundations for the sciences than those we have hitherto possessed. Now, although the utility of a doubt so general may not be manifest at first sight, it is nevertheless of the greatest, since it delivers us from all prejudice, and affords the easiest pathway by which the mind may withdraw itself from the senses; and finally makes it impossible for us to doubt wherever we afterward discover truth.
In the Second, the mind which, in the exercise of the freedom peculiar to itself, supposes that no object is, of the existence of which it has even the slightest doubt, finds that, meanwhile, it must itself exist. And this point is likewise of the highest moment, for the mind is thus enabled easily to distinguish what pertains to itself, that is, to the intellectual nature, from what is to be referred to the body. But since some, perhaps, will expect, at this stage of our progress, a statement of the reasons which establish the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, I think it proper here to make such aware, that it was my aim to write nothing of which I could not give exact demonstration, and that I therefore felt myself obliged to adopt an order similar to that in use among the geometers, viz., to premise all upon which the proposition in question depends, before coming to any conclusion respecting it. Now, the first and chief prerequisite for the knowledge of the immortality of the soul is our being able to form the clearest possible conception (conceptus—concept) of the soul itself, and such as shall be absolutely distinct from all our notions of body; and how this is to be accomplished is there shown. There is required, besides this, the assurance that all objects which we clearly and distinctly think are true (really exist) in that very mode in which we think them; and this could not be established previously to the Fourth Meditation.
Farther, it is necessary, for the same purpose, that we possess a distinct conception of corporeal nature, which is given partly in the Second and partly in the Fifth and Sixth Meditations. And, finally, on these grounds, we are necessitated to conclude, that all those objects which are clearly and distinctly conceived to be diverse substances, as mind and body, are substances really reciprocally distinct; and this inference is made in the Sixth Meditation. The absolute distinction of mind and body is, besides, confirmed in this Second Meditation, by showing that we cannot conceive body unless as divisible; while, on the other hand, mind cannot be conceived unless as indivisible. For we are not able to conceive the half of a mind, as we can of any body, however small, so that the natures of these two substances are to be held, not only as diverse, but even in some measure as contraries.
I have not, however, pursued this discussion further in the present treatise, as well for the reason that these considerations are sufficient to show that the destruction of the mind does not follow from the corruption of the body, and thus to afford to men the hope of a future life, as also because the premises from which it is competent for us to infer the immortality of the soul, involve an explication of the whole principles of Physics: in order to establish, in the first place, that generally all substances, that is, all things which can exist only in consequence of having been created by God, are in their own nature incorruptible, and can never cease to be, unless God himself, by refusing his concurrence to them, reduce them to nothing; and, in the second place, that body, taken generally, is a substance, and therefore can never perish, but that the human body, in as far as it differs from other bodies, is constituted only by a certain configuration of members, and by other accidents of this sort, while the human mind is not made up of accidents, but is a pure substance. For although all the accidents of the mind be changed—although, for example, it think certain things, will others, and perceive others, the mind itself does not vary with these changes; while, on the contrary, the human body is no longer the same if a change take place in the form of any of its parts: from which it follows that the body may, indeed, without difficulty perish, but that the mind is in its own nature immortal.
In the Third Meditation, I have unfolded at sufficient length, as appears to me, my chief argument for the existence of God. But yet, since I was there desirous to avoid the use of comparisons taken from material objects, that I might withdraw, as far as possible, the minds of my readers from the senses, numerous obscurities perhaps remain, which, however, will, I trust, be afterward entirely removed in the Replies to the Objections: thus among other things, it may be difficult to understand how the idea of a being absolutely perfect, which is found in our minds, possesses so much objective reality (i.e., participates by representation in so many degrees of being and perfection) that it must be held to arise from a cause absolutely perfect. This is illustrated in the Replies by the comparison of a highly perfect machine, the idea of which exists in the mind of some workman; for as the objective (i.e., representative) perfection of this idea must have some cause, viz., either the science of the workman, or of some other person from whom he has received the idea, in the same way the idea of God, which is found in us, demands God himself for its cause.
In the Fourth, it is shown that all which we clearly and distinctly perceive (apprehend) is true; and, at the same time, is explained wherein consists the nature of error; points that require to be known as well for confirming the preceding truths, as for the better understanding of those that are to follow. But, meanwhile, it must be observed, that I do not at all there treat of Sin, that is, of error committed in the pursuit of good and evil, but of that sort alone which arises in the determination of the true and the false. Nor do I refer to matters of faith, or to the conduct of life, but only to what regards speculative truths, and such as are known by means of the natural light alone.
In the Fifth, besides the illustration of corporeal nature, taken genetically, a new demonstration is given of the existence of God, not free, perhaps, any more than the former, from certain difficulties, but of these the solution will be found in the Replies to the Objections. I further show, in what sense it is true that the certitude of geometrical demonstrations themselves is dependent on the knowledge of God.
Finally, in the Sixth, the act of the understanding (intellectio) is distinguished from that of the imagination (imaginatio); the marks of this distinction are described; the human mind is shown to be really distinct from the body, and, nevertheless, to be so closely conjoined therewith, as together to form, as it were, a unity. The whole of the errors which arise from the senses are brought under review, while the means of avoiding them are pointed out; and, finally, all the grounds are adduced from which the existence of material objects may be inferred; not, however, because I deemed them of great utility in establishing what they prove, viz., that there is in reality a world, that men are possessed of bodies, and the like, the truth of which no one of sound mind ever seriously doubted; but because, from a close consideration of them, it is perceived that they are neither so strong nor clear as the reasonings which conduct us to the knowledge of our mind and of God; so that the latter are, of all which come under human knowledge, the most certain and manifest—a conclusion which it was my single aim in these Meditations to establish; on which account I here omit mention of the various other questions which, in the course of the discussion, I had occasion likewise to consider.
First Meditation: Of the Things on Which We May Doubt
Several years have now elapsed since I first became aware that I had accepted, even from my youth, many false opinions for true, and that consequently what I afterward based on such principles was highly doubtful; and from that time I was convinced of the necessity of undertaking once in my life to rid myself of all the opinions I had adopted, and of commencing anew the work of building from the foundation, if I desired to establish a firm and abiding superstructure in the sciences. But as this enterprise appeared to me to be one of great magnitude, I waited until I had attained an age so mature as to leave me no hope that at any stage of life more advanced I should be better able to execute my design. On this account, I have delayed so long that I should henceforth consider I was doing wrong were I still to consume in deliberation any of the time that now remains for action.
Today, then, since I have opportunely freed my mind from all cares (and am happily disturbed by no passions), and since I am in the secure possession of leisure in a peaceable retirement, I will at length apply myself earnestly and freely to the general overthrow of all my former opinions. But, to this end, it will not be necessary for me to show that the whole of these are false—a point, perhaps, which I shall never reach; but as even now my reason convinces me that I ought not the less carefully to withhold belief from what is not entirely certain and indubitable, than from what is manifestly false, it will be sufficient to justify the rejection of the whole if I shall find in each some ground for doubt. Nor for this purpose will it be necessary even to deal with each belief individually, which would be truly an endless labor; but, as the removal from below of the foundation necessarily involves the downfall of the whole edifice, I will at once approach the criticism of the principles on which all my former beliefs rested.
All that I have, up to this moment, accepted as possessed of the highest truth and certainty, I received either from or through the senses. I observed, however, that these sometimes misled us; and it is the part of prudence not to place absolute confidence in that by which we have even once been deceived.
But it may be said that, although the senses occasionally mislead us respecting minute objects, and such as are so far removed from us as to be beyond the reach of close observation, there are yet many other of their informations (presentations), of the truth of which it is manifestly impossible to doubt; as for example, that I am in this place, seated by the fire, clothed in a winter dressing gown, that I hold in my hands this piece of paper, with other intimations of the same nature. But how could I deny that I possess these hands and this body, and withal escape being classed with persons in a state of insanity, whose brains are so disordered: and clouded by dark bilious vapors as to cause them pertinaciously to assert that they are monarchs when they are in the greatest poverty; or clothed in gold and purple when destitute of any covering; or that their head is made of clay, their body of glass, or that they are gourds? I should certainly be not less insane than they, were I to regulate my procedure according to examples so extravagant.
Though this be true, I must nevertheless here consider that I am a man, and that, consequently, I am in the habit of sleeping, and representing to myself in dreams those same things, or even sometimes others less probable, which the insane think are presented to them in their waking moments. How often have I dreamt that I was in these familiar circumstances, that I was dressed, and occupied this place by the fire, when I was lying undressed in bed? At the present moment, however, I certainly look upon this paper with eyes wide awake; the head which I now move is not asleep; I extend this hand consciously and with express purpose, and I perceive it; the occurrences in sleep are not so distinct as I all this. But I cannot forget that, at other times I have been deceived in sleep by similar illusions; and, attentively considering those cases, I perceive so clearly that there exist no certain marks by which the state of waking can ever be distinguished from sleep, that I feel greatly astonished; and in amazement I almost persuade myself that I am now dreaming.
Let us suppose, then, that we are dreaming, and that all these particulars—namely, the opening of the eyes, the motion of the head, the forth-putting of the hands—are merely illusions; and even that we really possess neither an entire body nor hands such as we see. Nevertheless it must be admitted at least that the objects which appear to us in sleep are, as it were, painted representations which could not have been formed unless in the likeness of realities; and, therefore, that those general objects, at all events, namely, eyes, a head, hands, and an entire body, are not simply imaginary, but really existent. For, in truth, painters themselves, even when they study to represent sirens and satyrs by forms the most fantastic and extraordinary, cannot bestow upon them natures absolutely new, but can only make a certain medley of the members of different animals; or if they chance to imagine something so novel that nothing at all similar has ever been seen before, and such as is, therefore, purely fictitious and absolutely false, it is at least certain that the colors of which this is composed are real.
And on the same principle, although these general objects, viz., a body, eyes, a head, hands, and the like, be imaginary, we are nevertheless absolutely necessitated to admit the reality at least of some other objects still more simple and universal than these, of which, just as of certain real colors, all those images of things, whether true and real, or false and fantastic, that are found in our consciousness (cogitatio), are formed.
To this class of objects seem to belong corporeal nature in general and its extension; the figure of extended things, their quantity or magnitude, and their number, as also the place in, and the time during, which they exist, and other things of the same sort. We will not, therefore, perhaps reason illegitimately if we conclude from this that Physics, Astronomy, Medicine, and all the other sciences that have for their end the consideration of composite objects, are indeed of a doubtful character; but that Arithmetic, Geometry, and the other sciences of the same class, which regard merely the simplest and most general objects, and scarcely inquire whether or not these are really existent, contain somewhat that is certain and indubitable: for whether I am awake or dreaming, it remains true that two and three make five, and that a square has but four sides; nor does it seem possible that truths so apparent can ever fall under a suspicion of falsity.
Nevertheless, the belief that there is a God who is all powerful, and who created me, such as I am, has, for a long time, obtained steady possession of my mind. How, then, do I know that he has not arranged that there should be neither earth, nor sky, nor any extended thing, nor figure, nor magnitude, nor place, providing at the same time, however, for the rise in me of the perceptions of all these objects, and the persuasion that these do not exist otherwise than as I perceive them? And further, as I sometimes think that others are in error respecting matters of which they believe themselves to possess a perfect knowledge, how do I know that I am not also deceived each time I add together two and three, or number the sides of a square, or form some judgment still more simple, if more simple indeed can be imagined? But perhaps God has not been willing that I should be thus deceived, for he is said to be supremely good. If, however, it were repugnant to the goodness of God to have created me subject to constant deception, it would seem likewise to be contrary to his goodness to allow me to be occasionally deceived; and yet it is clear that this is permitted. Some, indeed, might perhaps be found who would be disposed rather to deny the existence of a Being so powerful than to believe that there is nothing certain. But let us for the present refrain from opposing this opinion, and grant that all which is here said of God is fabulous: nevertheless, in whatever way it be supposed that I reach the state in which I exist, whether by fate, or chance, or by an endless series of antecedents and consequents, or by any other means, it is clear (since to be deceived and to err is a certain defect) that the probability of my being so imperfect as to be the constant victim of deception, will be increased exactly in proportion as the power possessed by the cause, to which they assign my origin, is lessened. To these reasonings I have assuredly nothing to reply, but am constrained at last to avow that there is nothing of all that I formerly believed to be true of which it is impossible to doubt, and that not through thoughtlessness or levity, but from cogent and maturely considered reasons; so that henceforward, if I desire to discover anything certain, I ought not the less carefully to refrain from assenting to those same opinions than to what might be shown to be manifestly false.
But it is not sufficient to have made these observations; care must be taken likewise to keep them in remembrance. For those old and customary opinions perpetually recur—long and familiar usage giving them the right of occupying my mind, even almost against my will, and subduing my belief; nor will I lose the habit of deferring to them and confiding in them so long as I shall consider them to be what in truth they are, viz., opinions to some extent doubtful, as I have already shown, but still highly probable, and such as it is much more reasonable to believe than deny. It is for this reason I am persuaded that I shall not be doing wrong, if, taking an opposite judgment of deliberate design, I become my own deceiver, by supposing, for a time, that all those opinions are entirely false and imaginary, until at length, having thus balanced my old by my new prejudices, my judgment shall no longer be turned aside by perverted usage from the path that may conduct to the perception of truth. For I am assured that, meanwhile, there will arise neither peril nor error from this course, and that I cannot for the present yield too much to distrust, since the end I now seek is not action but knowledge.
I will suppose, then, not that God, who is sovereignly good and the fountain of truth, but that some malignant demon, who is at once exceedingly potent and deceitful, has employed all his artifice to deceive me; I will suppose that the sky, the air, the earth, colors, figures, sounds, and all external things, are nothing better than the illusions of dreams, by means of which this being has laid snares for my credulity; I will consider myself as without hands, eyes, flesh, blood, or any of the senses, and as falsely believing that I am possessed of these; I will continue resolutely fixed in this belief, and if indeed by this means it be not in my power to arrive at the knowledge of truth, I shall at least do what is in my power, viz., suspend my judgment, and guard with settled purpose against giving my assent to what is false, and being imposed upon by this deceiver, whatever be his power and artifice.
But this undertaking is arduous, and a certain indolence insensibly leads me back to my ordinary course of life; and just as the captive, who, perchance, was enjoying in his dreams an imaginary liberty, when he begins to suspect that it is but a vision, dreads awakening, and conspires with the agreeable illusions that the deception may be prolonged; so I, of my own accord, fall back into the train of my former beliefs, and fear to arouse myself from my slumber, lest the time of laborious wakefulness that would succeed this quiet rest, in place of bringing any light of day, should prove inadequate to dispel the darkness that will arise from the difficulties that have now been raised.
- In this meditation, Descartes presents three skeptical arguments. There is a common pattern: in each case, rather than reacting directly to the skeptical argument and trying to overthrow it, the meditator retreats to some apparently more solid ground, until, at the end of the meditation, ____.
- What are the skeptical arguments? How effective are they?
- Premise: Sometimes the senses deceive us.Conclusion: The senses should never be trusted.
What is wrong with this argument? Is there a way to grant the premise while denying the conclusion?
- Premise: Sometimes, while dreaming, ___.Conclusion: Therefore, right now I cannot tell ___.
This is what we might call the ‘literal’ dream argument. Can you think of any way to respond? (You might want to come back to this after having read the Sixth Meditation. But there’s a more threatening version of this argument—the ‘metaphorical dream argument’:
- Premise (Alternate): Dreaming shows that we can have sensory experiences even when they do not correspond to anything in the world.Conclusion (Alternate): I have no reason to think that my entire experience isn’t like a dream, in that it corresponds to nothing outside of me.
- Premise: There might be an omnipotent being, capable of making all my inferences _____, even when I think _________.Conclusion: I cannot trust my own powers of _________.
Which of these arguments is most important? Which of the three ‘areas of retreat’ does it threaten?
To think about while reading the following Meditations: What is the purpose of the skeptical doubts introduced here?
After all, they were hardly new, even in the seventeenth century. Rather snottily, Thomas Hobbes points out that they can be found in ancient writers like Plato: ‘I would have preferred the author, so very distinguished in the realm of new speculations, not to have published these old things.’ Descartes responds that he included them partly to show how firm the truths he later arrives at really are, and partly to ‘prepare the minds of the readers for the consideration of matters geared to the understanding and for distinguishing them from corporeal things, goals for which these arguments seem wholly necessary.’ How do you think the doubt accomplishes these goals?
Second Meditation: Of the Nature of the Human Mind; and that It is More Easily Known than the Body
In the Second Meditation, Descartes is concerned to show the primacy of the intellect over the senses. The point of the skeptical arguments is to call the senses into question; here we’ll see not only that the senses don’t tell us that anything exists, they don’t tell us anything about the nature of what exists.
The most puzzling feature of this meditation is the long discussion of the piece of wax. What on earth is it doing here? What is it supposed to accomplish? (Hint: recall the scholastic doctrine of existentialism. Does Descartes endorse it, or not? If not, how must the Meditator proceed, if she ultimately wants to prove that the external world exists?)
The meditation of yesterday has filled my mind with so many doubts, that it is no longer in my power to forget them. Nor do I see, meanwhile, any principle on which they can be resolved; and, just as if I had fallen all of a sudden into very deep water, I am so greatly disconcerted as to be unable either to plant my feet firmly on the bottom or sustain myself by swimming on the surface. I will, nevertheless, make an effort, and try anew the same path on which I had entered yesterday, that is, proceed by casting aside all that admits of the slightest doubt, not less than if I had discovered it to be absolutely false; and I will continue always in this track until I shall find something that is certain, or at least, if I can do nothing more, until I shall know with certainty that there is nothing certain. Archimedes, that he might transport the entire globe from the place it occupied to another, demanded only a point that was firm and immovable; so, also, I shall be entitled to entertain the highest expectations, if I am fortunate enough to discover only one thing that is certain and indubitable.
I suppose, accordingly, that all the things which I see are false (fictitious); I believe that none of those objects which my fallacious memory represents ever existed; I suppose that I possess no senses; I believe that body, figure, extension, motion, and place are merely fictions of my mind. What is there, then, that can be esteemed true? Perhaps this only, that there is absolutely nothing certain.
But how do I know that there is not something different altogether from the objects I have now enumerated, of which it is impossible to entertain the slightest doubt? Is there not a God, or some being, by whatever name I may designate him, who causes these thoughts, to arise in my mind? But why suppose such a being, for it may be I myself am capable of producing them? Am I, then, at least not something? But I before denied that I possessed senses or a body; I hesitate, however, for what follows from that? Am I so dependent on the body and the senses that without these I cannot exist? But I had the persuasion that there was absolutely nothing in the world, that there was no sky and no earth, neither minds nor bodies; was I not, therefore, at the same time, persuaded that I did not exist? Far from it; I assuredly existed, since I was persuaded. But there is I know not what being, who is possessed at once of the highest power and the deepest cunning, who is constantly employing all his ingenuity in deceiving me. Doubtless, then, I exist, since I am deceived; and, let him deceive me as he may, he can never bring it about that I am nothing, so long as I shall be conscious that I am something. So that it must, in fine, be maintained, all things being maturely and carefully considered, that this proposition ‘I am, I exist’, is necessarily true each time it is expressed by me, or conceived in my mind.
But I do not yet know with sufficient clearness what I am, though assured that I am; and hence, in the next place, I must take care, lest perchance I inconsiderately substitute some other object in room of what is properly myself, and thus wander from truth, even in that knowledge (cognition) which I hold to be of all others the most certain and evident. For this reason, I will now consider anew what I formerly believed myself to be, before I entered on the present train of thought; and of my previous opinion I will retrench all that can in the least be invalidated by the grounds of doubt I have adduced, in order that there may at length remain nothing but what is certain and indubitable. What then did I formerly think I was? Undoubtedly I judged that I was a man. But what is a man? Shall I say a rational animal? Assuredly not; for it would be necessary forthwith to inquire into what is meant by animal, and what by rational, and thus, from a single question, I should insensibly glide into others, and these more difficult than the first; nor do I now possess enough of leisure to warrant me in wasting my time amid subtleties of this sort. I prefer here to attend to the thoughts that sprung up of themselves in my mind, and were inspired by my own nature alone, when I applied myself to the consideration of what I was.
In the first place, then, I thought that I possessed a countenance, hands, arms, and all the fabric of members that appears in a corpse, and which I called by the name of body. It further occurred to me that I was nourished, that I walked, perceived, and thought, and all those actions I referred to the soul; but what the soul itself was I either did not stay to consider, or, if I did, I imagined that it was something extremely rare and subtile, like wind, or flame, or ether, spread through my grosser parts. As regarded the body, I did not even doubt of its nature, but thought I distinctly knew it, and if I had wished to describe it according to the notions I then entertained, I should have explained myself in this manner: By body I understand all that can be terminated by a certain figure; that can be comprised in a certain place, and so fill a certain spice as therefrom to exclude every other body; that can be perceived either by touch, sight, hearing, taste, or smell; that can be moved in different ways, not indeed of itself, but by something foreign to it by which it is touched and from which it receives the impression; for the power of self-motion, as likewise that of perceiving and thinking, I held as by no means pertaining to the nature of body; on the contrary, I was somewhat astonished to find such faculties existing in some bodies.
But as to myself, what can I now say that I am, since I suppose there exists an extremely powerful, and, if I may so speak, malignant being, whose whole endeavors are directed toward deceiving me? Can I affirm that I possess any one of all those attributes of which I have lately spoken as belonging to the nature of body? After attentively considering them in my own mind, I find none of them that can properly be said to belong to myself. To recount them were idle and tedious. Let us pass, then, to the attributes of the soul. The first mentioned were the powers of nutrition and walking; but, if it be true that I have no body, it is true likewise that I am capable neither of walking nor of being nourished. Perception is another attribute of the soul; but perception too is impossible without the body; besides, I have frequently, during sleep, believed that I perceived objects which I afterward observed I did not in reality perceive. Thinking is another attribute of the soul; and here I discover what properly belongs to myself. This alone is inseparable from me. I am—I exist: this is certain; but how often? As often as I think; for perhaps it would even happen, if I should wholly cease to think, that I should at the same time altogether cease to be. I now admit nothing that is not necessarily true. I am therefore, precisely speaking, only a thinking thing, that is, a mind (mens sive animus), understanding, or reason, terms whose signification was before unknown to me. I am, however, a real thing, and really existent; but what thing? The answer was, a thinking thing. The question now arises, am I anything besides? I will stimulate my imagination with a view to discover whether I am not still something more than a thinking being. Now it in plain I am not the assemblage of members called the human body; I am not a thin and penetrating air diffused through all these members, or wind, or flame, or vapor, or breath, or any of all the things I can imagine; for I supposed that all these were not, and, without changing the supposition, I find that I still feel assured of my existence.
But it is true, perhaps, that those very things which I suppose to be non-existent, because they are unknown to me, are not in troth different from myself whom I know. This is a point I cannot determine, and do not now enter into any dispute regarding it. I can only judge of things that are known to me: I am conscious that I exist, and I who know that I exist inquire into what I am. It is, however, perfectly certain that the knowledge of my existence, thus precisely taken, is not dependent on things, the existence of which is as yet unknown to me: and consequently it is not dependent on any of the things I can feign in imagination. Moreover, the phrase itself, I frame an image (effingo), reminds me of my error; for I should in truth frame one if I were to imagine myself to be anything, since to imagine is nothing more than to contemplate the figure or image of a corporeal thing; but I already know that I exist, and that it is possible at the same time that all those images, and in general all that relates to the nature of body, are merely dreams or chimeras. From this I discover that it is not more reasonable to say, ‘I will excite my imagination that I may know more distinctly what I am’, than to express myself as follows: ‘I am now awake, and perceive something real; but because my perception is not sufficiently clear, I will of express purpose go to sleep that my dreams may represent to me the object of my perception with more truth and clearness’. And, therefore, I know that nothing of all that I can embrace in imagination belongs to the knowledge which I have of myself, and that there is need to recall with the utmost care the mind from this mode of thinking, that it may be able to know its own nature with perfect distinctness.
But what, then, am I? A thinking thing, it has been said. But what is a thinking thing? It is a thing that doubts, understands, conceives, affirms, denies, wills, refuses; that imagines also, and perceives. Assuredly it is not little, if all these properties belong to my nature. But why should they not belong to it? Am I not that very being who now doubts of almost everything; who, for all that, understands and conceives certain things; who affirms one alone as true, and denies the others; who desires to know more of them, and does not wish to be deceived; who imagines many things, sometimes even despite his will; and is likewise percipient of many, as if through the medium of the senses. Is there nothing of all this as true as that I am, even although I should be always dreaming, and although he who gave me being employed all his ingenuity to deceive me? Is there also any one of these attributes that can be properly distinguished from my thought, or that can be said to be separate from myself? For it is of itself so evident that it is I who doubt, I who understand, and I who desire, that it is here unnecessary to add anything by way of rendering it more clear. And I am as certainly the same being who imagines; for although it maybe (as I before supposed) that nothing I imagine is true, still the power of imagination does not cease really to exist in me and to form part of my thought. In fine, I am the same being who perceives, that is, who apprehends certain objects as by the organs of sense, since, in truth, I see light, hear a noise, and feel heat. But it will be said that these presentations are false, and that I am dreaming. Let it be so. At all events it is certain that I seem to see light, hear a noise, and feel heat; this cannot be false, and this is what in me is properly called perceiving (sentire), which is nothing else than thinking. From this I begin to know what I am with somewhat greater clearness and distinctness than heretofore.
But, nevertheless, it still seems to me, and I cannot help believing, that corporeal things, whose images are formed by thought, and are examined by the same, are known with much greater distinctness than that I know not what part of myself which is not imaginable; although, in truth, it may seem strange to say that I know and comprehend with greater distinctness things whose existence appears to me doubtful, that are unknown, and do not belong to me, than others of whose reality I am persuaded, that are known to me, and appertain to my proper nature; in a word, than myself. But I see clearly what is the state of the case. My mind is apt to wander, and will not yet submit to be restrained within the limits of truth. Let us therefore leave the mind to itself once more, and, according to it every kind of liberty, permit it to consider the objects that appear to it from without, in order that, having afterward withdrawn it from these gently and opportunely, and fixed it on the consideration of its being and the properties it finds in itself, it may then be the more easily controlled.
Let us now accordingly consider the objects that are commonly thought to be the most easily, and likewise the most distinctly known, viz., the bodies we touch and see; not, indeed, bodies in general, for these general notions are usually somewhat more confused, but one body in particular. Take, for example, this piece of wax; it is quite fresh, having been but recently taken from the beehive; it has not yet lost the sweetness of the honey it contained; it still retains somewhat of the odor of the flowers from which it was gathered; its color, figure, size, are apparent (to the sight); it is hard, cold, easily handled; and sounds when struck upon with the finger. In fine, all that contributes to make a body as distinctly known as possible, is found in the one before us. But, while I am speaking, let it be placed near the fire—what remained of the taste exhales, the smell evaporates, the color changes, its figure is destroyed, its size increases, it becomes liquid, it grows hot, it can hardly be handled, and, although struck upon, it emits no sound. Does the same wax still remain after this change? It must be admitted that it does remain; no one doubts it, or judges otherwise. What, then, was it I knew with so much distinctness in the piece of wax? Assuredly, it could be nothing of all that I observed by means of the senses, since all the things that fell under taste, smell, sight, touch, and hearing are changed, and yet the same wax remains. It was perhaps what I now think, viz., that this wax was neither the sweetness of honey, the pleasant odor of flowers, the whiteness, the figure, nor the sound, but only a body that a little before appeared to me conspicuous under these forms, and which is now perceived under others. But, to speak precisely, what is it that I imagine when I think of it in this way? Let it be attentively considered, and, retrenching all that does not belong to the wax, let us see what remains.
There certainly remains nothing, except something extended, flexible, and movable. But what is meant by flexible and movable? Is it not that I imagine that the piece of wax, being round, is capable of becoming square, or of passing from a square into a triangular figure? Assuredly such is not the case, because I conceive that it admits of an infinity of similar changes; and I am, moreover, unable to compass this infinity by imagination, and consequently this conception which I have of the wax is not the product of the faculty of imagination. But what now is this extension? Is it not also unknown? for it becomes greater when the wax is melted, greater when it is boiled, and greater still when the heat increases; and I should not conceive clearly and according to truth, the wax as it is, if I did not suppose that the piece we are considering admitted even of a wider variety of extension than I ever imagined. I must, therefore, admit that I cannot even comprehend by imagination what the piece of wax is, and that it is the mind alone which perceives it. I speak of one piece in particular; for as to wax in general, this is still more evident. But what is the piece of wax that can be perceived only by the understanding or mind? It is certainly the same which I see, touch, imagine; and, in fine, it is the same which, from the beginning, I believed it to be. But (and this it is of moment to observe) the perception of it is neither an act of sight, of touch, nor of imagination, and never was either of these, though it might formerly seem so, but is simply an intuition (inspectio) of the mind, which may be imperfect and confused, as it formerly was, or very clear and distinct, as it is at present, according as the attention is more or less directed to the elements which it contains, and of which it is composed.
But, meanwhile, I feel greatly astonished when I observe the weakness of my mind, and its proneness to error. For although, without at all giving expression to what I think, I consider all this in my own mind, words yet occasionally impede my progress, and I am almost led into error by the terms of ordinary language. We say, for example, that we see the same wax when it is before us, and not that we judge it to be the same from its retaining the same color and figure: whence I should forthwith be disposed to conclude that the wax is known by the act of sight, and not by the intuition of the mind alone, were it not for the analogous instance of human beings passing on in the street below, as observed from a window. In this case I do not fail to say that I see the men themselves, just as I say that I see the wax; and yet what do I see from the window beyond hats and cloaks that might cover artificial machines, whose motions might be determined by springs? But I judge that there are human beings from these appearances, and thus I comprehend, by the faculty of judgment alone which is in the mind, what I believed I saw with my eyes.
The man who makes it his aim to rise to knowledge superior to the common, ought to be ashamed to seek occasions of doubting from the vulgar forms of speech: instead, therefore, of doing this, I shall proceed with the matter in hand, and inquire whether I had a clearer and more perfect perception of the piece of wax when I first saw it, and when I thought I knew it by means of the external sense itself, or, at all events, by the common sense (sensus communis), as it is called, that is, by the imaginative faculty; or whether I rather apprehend it more clearly at present, after having examined with greater care, both what it is, and in what way it can be known. It would certainly be ridiculous to entertain any doubt on this point. For what, in that first perception, was there distinct? What did I perceive which any animal might not have perceived? But when I distinguish the wax from its exterior forms, and when, as if I had stripped it of its vestments, I consider it quite naked, it is certain, although some error may still be found in my judgment, that I cannot, nevertheless, thus apprehend it without possessing a human mind.
But, finally, what shall I say of the mind itself, that is, of myself? for as yet I do not admit that I am anything but mind. What, then! I who seem to possess so distinct an apprehension of the piece of wax, do I not know myself, both with greater truth and certitude, and also much more distinctly and clearly? For if I judge that the wax exists because I see it, it assuredly follows, much more evidently, that I myself am or exist, for the same reason: for it is possible that what I see may not in truth be wax, and that I do not even possess eyes with which to see anything; but it cannot be that when I see, or, which comes to the same thing, when I think I see, I myself who think am nothing. So likewise, if I judge that the wax exists because I touch it, it will still also follow that I am; and if I determine that my imagination, or any other cause, whatever it be, persuades me of the existence of the wax, I will still draw the same conclusion. And what is here remarked of the piece of wax, is applicable to all the other things that are external to me. And further, if the notion or perception of wax appeared to me more precise and distinct, after that not only sight and touch, but many other causes besides, rendered it manifest to my apprehension, with how much greater distinctness must I now know myself, since all the reasons that contribute to the knowledge of the nature of wax, or of any body whatever, manifest still better the nature of my mind? And there are besides so many other things in the mind itself that contribute to the illustration of its nature, that those dependent on the body, to which I have here referred, scarcely merit to be taken into account.
But, in conclusion, I find I have insensibly reverted to the point I desired; for, since it is now manifest to me that bodies themselves are not properly perceived by the senses nor by the faculty of imagination, but by the intellect alone; and since they are not perceived because they are seen and touched, but only because they are understood or rightly comprehended by thought, I readily discover that there is nothing more easily or clearly apprehended than my own mind. But because it is difficult to rid one’s self so promptly of an opinion to which one has been long accustomed, it will be desirable to tarry for some time at this stage, that, by long continued meditation, I may more deeply impress upon my memory this new knowledge.
- Who is the meditator? What kinds of views does she hold, as she begins her meditations?
- Descartes thinks that many of the beliefs and thoughts we attribute merely to the senses depend on the intellect. How does the example of the automata (‘artificial machines’) show this?
- What would Descartes make of the scholastic doctrine of existentialism?
- What is the essence of the wax? What would a scholastic make of Descartes’s conclusion?
- How does the wax argument work? (Look back at the ‘stone’ argument from the Principles.) Try to reconstruct the wax argument below.
Premise 1: At a given time—call it 5pm—the wax has a set of determinate properties, including determinate size, shape, taste, color, and so on.
Premise 2: At a later time—say, 5:05 pm, the wax _________________
Conclusion: The essence of the wax—and of all material things—is nothing but _____.
Third Meditation: Of God: That He Exists
- In this meditation, Descartes continues to use his own view of the order of knowledge, which the skeptical arguments help to establish: contra existentialism, Cartesian essentialism holds that one cannot know that something exists without first _____________. Descartes uses some scholastic jargon in this Meditation, which can be very misleading. Watch out for these phrases; they mean roughly the opposite of what it sounds like they should mean.The ‘formal reality’ of a thing is just its reality or existence. Descartes thinks there is a hierarchy of reality: as he explains to Hobbes (in the Replies to the third Objections), God is at the top, followed by created substances, and finally their modes. God exists more fully than anything else does, simply because created substances depend for their existence on _____, and modes depend on _________.
- Formal reality is to be contrasted with ‘objective reality,’ the reality or being a thing has in virtue of what it represents. All ideas are modes of the mind; so they all have the same degree of formal reality. But they can differ in objective reality, because they can represent ______________.What else, besides ideas, has objective reality?
But this doesn’t mean that Descartes is an idealist, someone who thinks that only ideas exist. God, created substances, and their modes, all have some degree of ____ reality.
I will now close my eyes, I will stop my ears, I will turn away my senses from their objects, I will even efface from my consciousness all the images of corporeal things; or at least, because this can hardly be accomplished, I will consider them as empty and false; and thus, holding converse only with myself, and closely examining my nature, I will endeavor to obtain by degrees a more intimate and familiar knowledge of myself. I am a thinking (conscious) thing, that is, a being who doubts, affirms, denies, knows a few objects, and is ignorant of many—who loves, hates, wills, refuses, who imagines likewise, and perceives; for, as I before remarked, although the things which I perceive or imagine are perhaps nothing at all apart from me and in themselves, I am nevertheless assured that those modes of consciousness which I call perceptions and imaginations, in as far only as they are modes of consciousness, exist in me. And in the little I have said I think I have summed up all that I really know, or at least all that up to this time I was aware I knew.
Now, as I am endeavoring to extend my knowledge more widely, I will use circumspection, and consider with care whether I can still discover in myself anything further which I have not yet hitherto observed. I am certain that I am a thinking thing; but do I not therefore likewise know what is required to render me certain of a truth? In this first knowledge, doubtless, there is nothing that gives me assurance of its truth except the clear and distinct perception of what I affirm, which would not indeed be sufficient to give me the assurance that what I say is true, if it could ever happen that anything I thus clearly and distinctly perceived should prove false; and accordingly it seems to me that I may now take as a general rule, that all that is very clearly and distinctly apprehended (conceived) is true.
Nevertheless I before received and admitted many things as wholly certain and manifest, which yet I afterward found to be doubtful. What, then, were those? They were the earth, the sky, the stars, and all the other objects which I was in the habit of perceiving by the senses. But what was it that I clearly and distinctly perceived in them? Nothing more than that the ideas and the thoughts of those objects were presented to my mind. And even now I do not deny that these ideas are found in my mind. But there was yet another thing which I affirmed, and which, from having been accustomed to believe it, I thought I clearly perceived, although, in truth, I did not perceive it at all; I mean the existence of objects external to me, from which those ideas proceeded, and to which they had a perfect resemblance; and it was here I was mistaken, or if I judged correctly, this assuredly was not to be traced to any knowledge I possessed.
But when I considered any matter in arithmetic and geometry, that was very simple and easy, as, for example, that two and three added together make five, and things of this sort, did I not view them with at least sufficient clearness to warrant me in affirming their truth? Indeed, if I afterward judged that we ought to doubt of these things, it was for no other reason than because it occurred to me that a God might perhaps have given me such a nature as that I should be deceived, even respecting the matters that appeared to me the most evidently true. But as often as this preconceived opinion of the sovereign power of a God presents itself to my mind, I am constrained to admit that it is easy for him, if he wishes it, to cause me to err even in matters where I think I possess the highest evidence; and, on the other hand, as often as I direct my attention to things which I think I apprehend with great clearness, I am so persuaded of their truth that I naturally break out into expressions such as these: ‘Deceive me who may, no one will yet ever be able to bring it about that I am not, so long as I shall be conscious that I am, or at any future time cause it to be true that I have never been, it being now true that I am, or make two and three more or less than five, in supposing which, and other like absurdities, I discover a manifest contradiction.’
And in truth, as I have no ground for believing that God is deceitful, and as, indeed, I have not even considered the reasons by which the existence of a God of any kind is established, the ground of doubt that rests only on this supposition is very slight, and, so to speak, metaphysical. But, that I may be able wholly to remove it, I must inquire whether there is a God, as soon as an opportunity of doing so shall present itself; and if I find that there is a God, I must examine likewise whether he can be a deceiver; for, without the knowledge of these two truths, I do not see that I can ever be certain of anything. And that I may be enabled to examine this without interrupting the order of meditation I have proposed to myself (which is, to pass by degrees from the notions that I shall find first in my mind to those I shall afterward discover in it), it is necessary at this stage to divide all my thoughts into certain classes, and to consider in which of these classes truth and error are, strictly speaking, to be found.
Of my thoughts some are, as it were, images of things, and to these alone properly belongs the name idea; as when I think of, or represent to my mind, a man, a chimera, the sky, an angel or God. Others, again, have certain other forms; as when I will, fear, affirm, or deny, I always, indeed, apprehend something as the object of my thought, but I also embrace in thought something more than the representation of the object; and of this class of thoughts some are called volitions or affections, and others judgments.
Now, with respect to ideas, if these are considered only in themselves, and are not referred to any object beyond them, they cannot, properly speaking, be false; for, whether I imagine a goat or chimera, it is not less true that I imagine the one than the other. Nor need we fear that falsity may exist in the will or affections; for, although I may desire objects that are wrong, and even that never existed, it is still true that I desire them. There thus only remain our judgments, in which we must take diligent heed that we be not deceived. But the chief and most ordinary error that arises in them consists in judging that the ideas which are in us are like or conformed to the things that are external to us; for assuredly, if we but considered the ideas themselves as certain modes of our thought (consciousness), without referring them to anything beyond, they would hardly afford any occasion of error.
But among these ideas, some appear to me to be innate, others adventitious, and others to be made by myself (factitious); for, as I have the power of conceiving what is called a thing, or a truth, or a thought, it seems to me that I hold this power from no other source than my own nature; but if I now hear a noise, if I see the sun, or if I feel heat, I have all along judged that these sensations proceeded from certain objects existing out of myself; and, in fine, it appears to me that sirens, hippogryphs, and the like, are inventions of my own mind. But I may even perhaps come to be of opinion that all my ideas are of the class which I call adventitious, or that they are all innate, or that they are all factitious; for I have not yet clearly discovered their true origin; and what I have here principally to do is to consider, with reference to those that appear to come from certain objects without me, what grounds there are for thinking them like these objects.
The first of these grounds is that it seems to me I am so taught by nature; and the second that I am conscious that those ideas are not dependent on my will, and therefore not on myself, for they are frequently presented to me against my will, as at present, whether I will or not, I feel heat; and I am thus persuaded that this sensation or idea (sensum vel ideam) of heat is produced in me by something different from myself, viz., by the heat of the fire by which I sit. And it is very reasonable to suppose that this object impresses me with its own likeness rather than any other thing.
But I must consider whether these reasons are sufficiently strong and convincing. When I speak of being taught by nature in this matter, I understand by the word ‘nature’ only a certain spontaneous impetus that impels me to believe in a resemblance between ideas and their objects, and not a natural light that affords a knowledge of its truth. But these two things are widely different; for what the natural light shows to be true can be in no degree doubtful, as, for example, that I am because I doubt, and other truths of the like kind; inasmuch as I possess no other faculty whereby to distinguish truth from error, which can teach me the falsity of what the natural light declares to be true, and which is equally trustworthy; but with respect to seemingly natural impulses, I have observed, when the question related to the choice of right or wrong in action, that they frequently led me to take the worse part; nor do I see that I have any better ground for following them in what relates to truth and error. Then, with respect to the other reason, which is that because these ideas do not depend on my will, they must arise from objects existing without me, I do not find it more convincing than the former; for just as those natural impulses, of which I have lately spoken, are found in me, notwithstanding that they are not always in harmony with my will, so likewise it may be that I possess some power not sufficiently known to myself capable of producing ideas without the aid of external objects, and, indeed, it has always hitherto appeared to me that they are formed during sleep, by some power of this nature, without the aid of anything external.
And, in fine, although I should grant that they proceeded from those objects, it is not a necessary consequence that they must be like them. On the contrary, I have observed, in a number of instances, that there was a great difference between the object and its idea. Thus, for example, I find in my mind two wholly diverse ideas of the sun; the one, by which it appears to me extremely small draws its origin from the senses, and should be placed in the class of adventitious ideas; the other, by which it seems to be many times larger than the whole earth, is taken up on astronomical grounds, that is, elicited from certain notions born with me, or is framed by myself in some other manner. These two ideas cannot certainly both resemble the same sun; and reason teaches me that the one which seems to have immediately emanated from it is the most unlike. And these things sufficiently prove that hitherto it has not been from a certain and deliberate judgment, but only from a sort of blind impulse, that I believed in the existence of certain things different from myself, which, by the organs of sense, or by whatever other means it might be,, conveyed their ideas or images into my mind and impressed it with their likenesses.
But there is still another way of inquiring whether, of the objects whose ideas are in my mind, there are any that exist out of me. If ideas are taken in so far only as they are certain modes of consciousness, I do not remark any difference or inequality among them, and all seem, in the same manner, to proceed from myself; but, considering them as images, of which one represents one thing and another a different, it is evident that a great diversity obtains among them. For, without doubt, those that represent substances are something more, and contain in themselves, so to speak, more objective reality, than those that represent only modes or accidents; and again, the idea by which I conceive a God—sovereign, eternal, infinite, immutable, all-knowing, all-powerful, and the creator of all things that are out of himself—this, I say, has certainly in it more objective reality than those ideas by which finite substances are represented.
Now, it is manifest by the natural light that there must at least be as much reality in the efficient and total cause as in its effect; for whence can the effect draw its reality if not from its cause? And how could the cause communicate to it this reality unless it possessed it in itself? And hence it follows, not only that what is cannot be produced by what is not, but likewise that the more perfect, in other words, that which contains in itself more reality, cannot be the effect of the less perfect; and this is not only evidently true of those effects, whose reality is actual or formal, but likewise of ideas, whose reality is only considered as objective. Thus, for example, the stone that is not yet in existence, cannot now commence to be, unless it be produced by that which possesses in itself, formally or eminently, all that enters into its composition (in other words, by that which contains in itself the same properties that are in the stone, or others superior to them); and heat can only be produced in a subject that was before devoid of it, by a cause that is of an order, degree, or kind, at least as perfect as heat; and so of the others.
But further, even the idea of the heat, or of the stone, cannot exist in me unless it be put there by a cause that contains, at least, as much reality as I conceive existent in the heat or in the stone: for although that cause may not transmit into my idea anything of its actual or formal reality, we ought not on this account to imagine that it is less real; but we ought to consider that, as every idea is a work of the mind, its nature is such as of itself to demand no other formal reality than that which it borrows from our consciousness, of which it is but a mode (that is, a manner or way of thinking). But in order that an idea may contain this objective reality rather than that, it must doubtless derive it from some cause in which is found at least as much formal reality as the idea contains of objective; for, if we suppose that there is found in an idea anything which was not in its cause, it must of course derive this from nothing. But, however imperfect may be the mode of existence by which a thing is, objectively or by representation, in the understanding by its idea, we certainly cannot, for all that, allege that this mode of existence is nothing, nor, consequently, that the idea owes its origin to nothing. Nor must it be imagined that, since the reality which is considered in these ideas is only objective, the same reality need not be formally (actually) in the causes of these ideas, but only objectively: for, just as the mode of existing objectively belongs to ideas by their peculiar nature, so likewise the mode of existing formally appertains to the causes of these ideas (at least to the first and principal), by their peculiar nature. And although an idea may give rise to another idea, this regress cannot, nevertheless, be infinite; we must in the end reach a first idea, the cause of which is, as it were, the archetype in which all the reality or perfection that is found, objectively or by representation, in these ideas is contained formally and in act. I am thus clearly taught by the natural light that ideas exist in me as pictures or images, which may, in truth, readily fall short of the perfection of the objects from which they are taken, but can never contain anything greater or more perfect.
And in proportion to the time and care with which I examine all those matters, the conviction of their truth brightens and becomes distinct. But, to sum up, what conclusion shall I draw from it all? It is this: if the objective reality or perfection of any one of my ideas be such as clearly to convince me, that this same reality exists in me neither formally nor eminently, and if, as follows from this, I myself cannot be the cause of it, it is a necessary consequence that I am not alone in the world, but that there is besides myself some other being who exists as the cause of that idea; while, on the contrary, if no such idea be found in my mind, I shall have no sufficient ground of assurance of the existence of any other being besides myself; for, after a most careful search, I have, up to this moment, been unable to discover any other ground.
But, among these my ideas, besides that which represents myself, respecting which there can be here no difficulty, there is one that represents a God; others that represent corporeal and inanimate things; others angels; others animals; and, finally, there are some that represent men like myself. But with respect to the ideas that represent other men, or animals, or angels, I can easily suppose that they were formed by the mingling and composition of the other ideas which I have of myself, of corporeal things, and of God, although they were, apart from myself, neither men, animals, nor angels. And with regard to the ideas of corporeal objects, I never discovered in them anything so great or excellent which I myself did not appear capable of originating; for, by considering these ideas closely and scrutinizing them individually, in the same way that I yesterday examined the idea of wax, I find that there is but little in them that is clearly and distinctly perceived. As belonging to the class of things that are clearly apprehended, I recognize the following, viz., magnitude or extension in length, breadth, and depth; figure, which results from the termination of extension; situation, which bodies of diverse figures preserve with reference to each other; and motion or the change of situation; to which may be added substance, duration, and number.
But with regard to light, colors, sounds, odors, tastes, heat, cold, and the other tactile qualities, they are thought with so much obscurity and confusion, that I cannot determine even whether they are true or false; in other words, whether or not the ideas I have of these qualities are in truth the ideas of real objects. For although I before remarked that it is only in judgments that formal falsity, or falsity properly so called, can be met with, there may nevertheless be found in ideas a certain material falsity, which arises when they represent what is nothing as if it were something. Thus, for example, the ideas I have of cold and heat are so far from being clear and distinct, that I am unable from them to discover whether cold is only the privation of heat, or heat the privation of cold; or whether they are or are not real qualities: and since, ideas being as it were images there can be none that does not seem to us to represent some object, the idea which represents cold as something real and positive will not improperly be called false, if it be correct to say that cold is nothing but a privation of heat; and so in other cases. To ideas of this kind, indeed, it is not necessary that I should assign any author besides myself: for if they are false, that is, represent objects that are unreal, the natural light teaches me that they proceed from nothing; in other words, that they are in me only because something is wanting to the perfection of my nature; but if these ideas are true, yet because they exhibit to me so little reality that I cannot even distinguish the object represented from non-being, I do not see why I should not be the author of them.
With reference to those ideas of corporeal things that are clear and distinct, there are some which, as appears to me, might have been taken from the idea I have of myself, as those of substance, duration, number, and the like. For when I think that a stone is a substance, or a thing capable of existing of itself, and that I am likewise a substance, although I conceive that I am a thinking and non-extended thing, and that the stone, on the contrary, is extended and unconscious, there being thus the greatest diversity between the two concepts, yet these two ideas seem to have this in common that they both represent substances. In the same way, when I think of myself as now existing, and recollect besides that I existed some time ago, and when I am conscious of various thoughts whose number I know, I then acquire the ideas of duration and number, which I can afterward transfer to as many objects as I please. With respect to the other qualities that go to make up the ideas of corporeal objects, viz., extension, figure, situation, and motion, it is true that they are not formally in me, since I am merely a thinking being; but because they are only certain modes of substance, and because I myself am a substance, it seems possible that they may be contained in me eminently.
There only remains, therefore, the idea of God, in which I must consider whether there is anything that cannot be supposed to originate with myself. By the name God, I understand a substance infinite, eternal, immutable, independent, all-knowing, all-powerful, and by which I myself, and every other thing that exists, if any such there be, were created. But these properties are so great and excellent, that the more attentively I consider them the less I feel persuaded that the idea I have of them owes its origin to myself alone. And thus it is absolutely necessary to conclude, from all that I have before said, that God exists: for though the idea of substance be in my mind owing to this, that I myself am a substance, I should not, however, have the idea of an infinite substance, seeing I am a finite being, unless it were given me by some substance in reality infinite.
And I must not imagine that I do not apprehend the infinite by a true idea, but only by the negation of the finite, in the same way that I comprehend repose and darkness by the negation of motion and light: since, on the contrary, I clearly perceive that there is more reality in the infinite substance than in the finite, and therefore that in some way I possess the perception (notion) of the infinite before that of the finite, that is, the perception of God before that of myself, for how could I know that I doubt, desire, or that something is wanting to me, and that I am not wholly perfect, if I possessed no idea of a being more perfect than myself, by comparison of which I knew the deficiencies of my nature?
And it cannot be said that this idea of God is perhaps materially false, and consequently that it may have arisen from nothing (in other words, that it may exist in me from my imperfection), as I before said of the ideas of heat and cold, and the like: for, on the contrary, as this idea is very clear and distinct, and contains in itself more objective reality than any other, there can be no one of itself more true, or less open to the suspicion of falsity.
The idea, I say, of a being supremely perfect, and infinite, is in the highest degree true; for although, perhaps, we may imagine that such a being does not exist, we cannot, nevertheless, suppose that his idea represents nothing real, as I have already said of the idea of cold. It is likewise clear and distinct in the highest degree, since whatever the mind clearly and distinctly conceives as real or true, and as implying any perfection, is contained entire in this idea. And this is true, nevertheless, although I do not comprehend the infinite, and although there may be in God an infinity of things that I cannot comprehend, nor perhaps even compass by thought in any way; for it is of the nature of the infinite that it should not be comprehended by the finite; and it is enough that I rightly understand this, and judge that all which I clearly perceive, and in which I know there is some perfection, and perhaps also an infinity of properties of which I am ignorant, are formally or eminently in God, in order that the idea I have of him may become the most true, clear, and distinct of all the ideas in my mind.
But perhaps I am something more than I suppose myself to be, and it may be that all those perfections which I attribute to God, in some way exist potentially in me, although they do not yet show themselves, and are not reduced to act. Indeed, I am already conscious that my knowledge is being increased and perfected by degrees; and I see nothing to prevent it from thus gradually increasing to infinity, nor any reason why, after such increase and perfection, I should not be able thereby to acquire all the other perfections of the divine nature; nor, in fine, why the power I possess of acquiring those perfections, if it really now exist in me, should not be sufficient to produce the ideas of them. Yet, on looking more closely into the matter, I discover that this cannot be; for, in the first place, although it were true that my knowledge daily acquired new degrees of perfection, and although there were potentially in my nature much that was not as yet actually in it, still all these excellences make not the slightest approach to the idea I have of God, in whom there is no perfection merely potentially (but rather all actually) existent; for it is even an unmistakable token of imperfection in my knowledge, that it is augmented by degrees.
Further, although my knowledge increase more and more, nevertheless I am not, therefore, induced to think that it will ever be actually infinite, since it can never reach that point beyond which it shall be incapable of further increase. But I conceive God as actually infinite, so that nothing can be added to his perfection. And, in fine, I readily perceive that the objective being of an idea cannot be produced by a being that is merely potentially existent, which, properly speaking, is nothing, but only by a being existing formally or actually.
And, truly, I see nothing in all that I have now said which it is not easy for any one, who shall carefully consider it, to discern by the natural light; but when I allow my attention in some degree to relax, the vision of my mind being obscured, and, as it were, blinded by the images of sensible objects, I do not readily remember the reason why the idea of a being more perfect than myself, must of necessity have proceeded from a being in reality more perfect. On this account I am here desirous to inquire further, whether I, who possess this idea of God, could exist supposing there were no God. And I ask, from whom could I, in that case, derive my existence? Perhaps from myself, or from my parents, or from some other causes less perfect than God; for anything more perfect, or even equal to God, cannot be thought or imagined. But if I were independent of every other existence, and were myself the author of my being, I should doubt of nothing, I should desire nothing, and, in fine, no perfection would be lacking to me; for I should have bestowed upon myself every perfection of which I possess the idea, and I should thus be God.
And it must not be imagined that what is now wanting to me is perhaps of more difficult acquisition than that of which I am already possessed; for, on the contrary, it is quite manifest that it was a matter of much higher difficulty that I, a thinking being, should arise from nothing, than it would be for me to acquire the knowledge of many things of which I am ignorant, and which are merely the accidents of a thinking substance; and certainly, if I possessed of myself the greater perfection of which I have now spoken—in other words, if I were the author of my own existence—I would not at least have denied to myself things that may be more easily obtained (as that infinite variety of knowledge of which I am at present destitute). I could not, indeed, have denied to myself any property which I perceive is contained in the idea of God, because there is none of these that seems to me to be more difficult to make or acquire; and if there were any that should happen to be more difficult to acquire, they would certainly appear so to me (supposing that I myself were the source of the other things I possess), because I should discover in them a limit to my power. And though I were to suppose that I always was as I now am, I should not, on this ground, escape the force of these reasonings, since it would not follow, even on this supposition, that no author of my existence needed to be sought after. For the whole time of my life may be divided into an infinity of parts, each of which is in no way dependent on any other; and, accordingly, because I was in existence a short time ago, it does not follow that I must now exist, unless in this moment some cause create me anew as it were, that is, conserve me. In truth, it is perfectly clear and evident to all who will attentively consider the nature of duration, that the conservation of a substance, in each moment of its duration, requires the same power and act that would be necessary to create it, supposing it were not yet in existence; so that it is manifestly a dictate of the natural light that conservation and creation differ merely in respect of our mode of thinking and not in reality. All that is here required, therefore, is that I interrogate myself to discover whether I possess any power by means of which I can bring it about that I, who now am, shall exist a moment afterward: for, since I am merely a thinking thing (or since, at least, the precise question, in the meantime, is only of that part of myself), if such a power resided in me, I should, without doubt, be conscious of it; but I am conscious of no such power, and thereby I manifestly know that I am dependent upon some being different from myself.
But perhaps the being upon whom I am dependent is not God, and I have been produced either by my parents, or by some causes less perfect than God. This cannot be: for, as I before said, it is perfectly evident that there must at least be as much reality in the cause as in its effect; and accordingly, since I am a thinking thing and possess in myself an idea of God, whatever in the end be the cause of my existence, it must of necessity be admitted that it is likewise a thinking being, and that it possesses in itself the idea and all the perfections I attribute to God. Then it may again be inquired whether this cause owes its origin and existence to itself, or to some other cause. For if it be self-existent, it follows, from what I have before laid down, that this cause is God; for, since it possesses the perfection of self-existence, it must likewise, without doubt, have the power of actually possessing every perfection of which it has the idea—in other words, all the perfections I conceive to belong to God. But if it owe its existence to another cause than, itself, we demand again, for a similar reason, whether this second cause exists of itself or through some other, until, from stage to stage, we at length arrive at an ultimate cause, which will be God. And it is quite manifest that in this matter there can be no infinite regress of causes, seeing that the question raised respects not so much the cause which once produced me, as that by which I am at this present moment conserved.
Nor can it be supposed that several causes concurred in my production, and that from one I received the idea of one of the perfections I attribute to God, and from another the idea of some other, and thus that all those perfections are indeed found somewhere in the universe, but do not all exist together in a single being who is God; for, on the contrary, the unity, the simplicity, or inseparability of all the properties of God, is one of the chief perfections I conceive him to possess; and the idea of this unity of all the perfections of God could certainly not be put into my mind by any cause from which I did not likewise receive the ideas of all the other perfections; for no power could enable me to embrace them in an inseparable unity, without at the same time giving me the knowledge of what they were and of their existence in a particular mode.
Finally, with regard to my parents (from whom it appears I sprung), although all that I believed respecting them be true, it does not, nevertheless, follow that I am conserved by them, or even that I was produced by them, in so far as I am a thinking being. All that, at the most, they contributed to my origin was the giving of certain dispositions (modifications) to the matter in which I have hitherto judged that I or my mind, which is what alone I now consider to be myself, is inclosed; and thus there can here be no difficulty with respect to them, and it is absolutely necessary to conclude from this alone that I am, and possess the idea of a being absolutely perfect, that is, of God, that his existence is most clearly demonstrated.
There remains only the inquiry as to the way in which I received this idea from God; for I have not drawn it from the senses, nor is it even presented to me unexpectedly, as is usual with the ideas of sensible objects, when these are presented or appear to be presented to the external organs of the senses; it is not even a pure production or fiction of my mind, for it is not in my power to take from or add to it; and consequently there but remains the alternative that it is innate, in the same way as is the idea of myself. And, in truth, it is not to be wondered at that God, at my creation, implanted this idea in me, that it might serve, as it were, for the mark of the workman impressed on his work; and it is not also necessary that the mark should be something different from the work itself; but considering only that God is my creator, it is highly probable that he in some way fashioned me after his own image and likeness, and that I perceive this likeness, in which is contained the idea of God, by the same faculty by which I apprehend myself, in other words, when I make myself the object of reflection, I not only find that I am an incomplete, imperfect, and dependent being, and one who unceasingly aspires after something better and greater than he is; but, at the same time, I am assured likewise that he upon whom I am dependent possesses in himself all the goods after which I aspire (and the ideas of which I find in my mind), and that not merely indefinitely and potentially, but infinitely and actually, and that he is thus God. And the whole force of the argument of which I have here availed myself to establish the existence of God, consists in this, that I perceive I could not possibly be of such a nature as I am, and yet have in my mind the idea of a God, if God did not in reality exist—this same God, I say, whose idea is in my mind—that is, a being who possesses all those lofty perfections, of which the mind may have some slight conception, without, however, being able fully to comprehend them, and who is wholly superior to all defect and has nothing that marks imperfection: whence it is sufficiently manifest that he cannot be a deceiver, since it is a dictate of the natural light that all fraud and deception spring from some defect.
But before I examine this with more attention, and pass on to the consideration of other truths that may be evolved out of it, I think it proper to remain here for some time in the contemplation of God himself—that I may ponder at leisure his marvelous attributes—and behold, admire, and adore the beauty of this light so unspeakably great, as far, at least, as the strength of my mind, which is to some degree dazzled by the sight, will permit. For just as we learn by faith that the supreme felicity of another life consists in the contemplation of the divine majesty alone, so even now we learn from experience that a like meditation, though incomparably less perfect, is the source of the highest satisfaction of which we are susceptible in this life.
- What are the three classes of ideas the meditator speaks of? Some ideas at least seem to be innate; others seem to be ______ or _____.
- The main argument here shows that at least one idea has to fall into one of the three classes above. Which idea is it, and what class does it fall into?
- Descartes uses a causal principle here: the cause must have at least as much reality as the effect. What’s the justification for this?
- Applied to ideas, the principle says that there must be at least as much ______ reality in the cause of an idea as there is ___________ in the idea itself. (See the synopsis of this meditation for an example.)Given this principle, what can we say about the idea of God?
- Descartes gives a second argument for God’s existence, based on the nature of time and his existence at this moment. How is Descartes’s argument different from a traditional cosmological argument? Finally, do you think this is really an independent argument, or does it in some way rely on the argument from the idea of God?
Fourth Meditation: Of Truth and Error
In the Third Meditation, the Meditator tried to prove what we might call the Epistemic Principle (EP):
- Epistemic Principle
- Everything (that is, every proposition) I clearly and distinctly perceive (that is, believe and thoroughly understand) is true.
The Meditator’s overall argument for EP works roughly like this:
Premise 1: I exist.
Premise 2: God exists.
Premise 3: God is not a _____.
Conclusion: The Epistemic Principle is true.
This strategy creates a problem for the Meditator, though: how can I ever make a mistake? This is just a special case of the problem of evil: if God is all powerful and all good, how can bad things happen to good people? The Fourth Meditation is devoted to answering this special case.
I have been habituated these bygone days to detach my mind from the senses, and I have accurately observed that there is exceedingly little which is known with certainty respecting corporeal objects, that we know much more of the human mind, and still more of God himself. I am thus able now without difficulty to abstract my mind from the contemplation of sensible or imaginable objects, and apply it to those which, as disengaged from all matter, are purely intelligible. And certainly the idea I have of the human mind in so far as it is a thinking thing, and not extended in length, breadth, and depth, and participating in none of the properties of body, is incomparably more distinct than the idea of any corporeal object; and when I consider that I doubt, in other words, that I am an incomplete and dependent being, the idea of a complete and independent being, that is to say of God, occurs to my mind with so much clearness and distinctness, and from the fact alone that this idea is found in me, or that I who possess it exist, the conclusions that God exists, and that my own existence, each moment of its continuance, is absolutely dependent upon him, are so manifest, as to lead me to believe it impossible that the human mind can know anything with more clearness and certitude. And now I seem to discover a path that will conduct us from the contemplation of the true God, in whom are contained all the treasures of science and wisdom, to the knowledge of the other things in the universe.
For, in the first place, I discover that it is impossible for him ever to deceive me, for in all fraud and deceit there is a certain imperfection: and although it may seem that the ability to deceive is a mark of subtlety or power, yet the will testifies without doubt of malice and weakness; and such, accordingly, cannot be found in God. In the next place, I am conscious that I possess a certain faculty of judging (or of discerning truth from error), which I doubtless received from God, along with whatever else is mine; and since it is impossible that he should will to deceive me, if is likewise certain that he has not given me a faculty that will ever lead me into error, provided I use it aright.
And there would remain no doubt on this head, did it not seem to follow from this, that I can never therefore be deceived; for if all I possess be from God, and if he planted in me no faculty that is deceitful, it seems to follow that I can never fall into error. Accordingly, it is true that when I think only of God, and turn wholly to him, I discover in myself no cause of error or falsity: but immediately thereafter, recurring to myself, experience assures me that I am nevertheless subject to innumerable errors. When I come to inquire into the cause of these, I observe that there is not only present to my consciousness a real and positive idea of God, or of a being supremely perfect, but also, so to speak, a certain negative idea of nothing, in other words, of that which is at an infinite distance from every sort of perfection, and that I am, as it were, a mean between God and nothing, or placed in such a way between absolute existence and non-existence, that there is in truth nothing in me to lead me into error, in so far as an absolute being is my creator; but that, on the other hand, as I thus likewise participate in some degree of nothing or of nonbeing, in other words, as I am not myself the supreme Being, and as I am wanting in many perfections, it is not surprising I should fall into error. And I hence discern that error, so far as error is not something real, which depends for its existence on God, but is simply defect; and therefore that, in order to fall into it, it is not necessary God should have given me a faculty expressly for this end, but that my being deceived arises from the circumstance that the power which God has given me of discerning truth from error is not infinite.
Nevertheless this is not yet quite satisfactory; for error is not a pure negation (in other words, it is not the simple deficiency or want of some knowledge which is not due), but the privation or want of some knowledge which it would seem I ought to possess. But, on considering the nature of God, it seems impossible that he should have planted in his creature any faculty not perfect in its kind, that is, wanting in some perfection due to it: for if it be true, that in proportion to the skill of the maker the perfection of his work is greater, what thing can have been produced by the supreme Creator of the universe that is not absolutely perfect in all its parts? And assuredly there is no doubt that God could have created me such as that I should never be deceived; it is certain, likewise, that he always wills what is best: is it better, then, that I should be capable of being deceived than that I should not?
Considering this more attentively, the first thing that occurs to me is the reflection that I must not be surprised if I am not always capable of comprehending the reasons why God acts as he does; nor must I doubt of his existence because I find, perhaps, that there are several other things besides the present respecting which I understand neither why nor how they were created by him; for, knowing already that my nature is extremely weak and limited, and that the nature of God, on the other hand, is immense, incomprehensible, and infinite, I have no longer any difficulty in discerning that there is an infinity of things in his power whose causes transcend the grasp of my mind: and this consideration alone is sufficient to convince me, that the whole class of final causes is of no avail in physical or natural things; for it appears to me that I cannot, without exposing myself to the charge of temerity, seek to discover the impenetrable ends of God.
It further occurs to me that we must not consider only one creature apart from the others, if we wish to determine the perfection of the works of God, but generally all his creatures together; for the same object that might perhaps, with some show of reason, be deemed highly imperfect if it were alone in the world, may for all that be the most perfect possible, considered as forming part of the whole universe: and although, as it was my purpose to doubt of everything, I only as yet know with certainty my own existence and that of God, nevertheless, after having remarked the infinite power of God, I cannot deny that we may have produced many other objects, or at least that he is able to produce them, so that I may occupy a place in the relation of a part to the great whole of his creatures.
Whereupon, regarding myself more closely, and considering what my errors are (which alone testify to the existence of imperfection in me), I observe that these depend on the concurrence of two causes, viz., the faculty of cognition, which I possess, and that of election or the power of free choice—in other words, the understanding and the will. For by the understanding alone, I neither affirm nor deny anything but merely apprehend the ideas regarding which I may form a judgment; nor is any error, properly so called, found in it thus accurately taken. And although there are perhaps innumerable objects in the world of which I have no idea in my understanding, it cannot, on that account be said that I am deprived of those ideas (as of something that is due to my nature), but simply that I do not possess them, because, in truth, there is no ground to prove that Deity ought to have endowed me with a larger faculty of cognition than he has actually bestowed upon me; and however skillful a workman I suppose him to be, I have no reason, on that account, to think that it was obligatory on him to give to each of his works all the perfections he is able to bestow upon some. Nor, moreover, can I complain that God has not given me freedom of choice, or a will sufficiently ample and perfect, since, in truth, I am conscious of will so ample and extended as to be superior to all limits. And what appears to me here to be highly remarkable is that, of all the other properties I possess, there is none so great and perfect as that I do not clearly discern it could be still greater and more perfect.
For, to take an example, if I consider the faculty of understanding which I possess, I find that it is of very small extent, and greatly limited, and at the same time I form the idea of another faculty of the same nature, much more ample and even infinite, and seeing that I can frame the idea of it, I discover, from this circumstance alone, that it pertains to the nature of God. In the same way, if I examine the faculty of memory or imagination, or any other faculty I possess, I find none that is not small and circumscribed, and in God immense and infinite. It is the faculty of will only, or freedom of choice, which I experience to be so great that I am unable to conceive the idea of another that shall be more ample and extended; so that it is chiefly my will which leads me to discern that I bear a certain image and similitude of God. For although the faculty of will is incomparably greater in God than in myself, as well in respect of the knowledge and power that are conjoined with it, and that render it stronger and more efficacious, as in respect of the object, since in him it extends to a greater number of things, it does not, nevertheless, appear to me greater, considered in itself formally and precisely: for the power of will consists only in this, that we are able to do or not to do the same thing (that is, to affirm or deny, to pursue or shun it), or rather in this alone, that in affirming or denying, pursuing or shunning, what is proposed to us by the understanding, we so act that we are not conscious of being determined to a particular action by any external force. For, to the possession of freedom, it is not necessary that I be alike indifferent toward each of two contraries; but, on the contrary, the more I am inclined toward the one, whether because I clearly know that in it there is the reason of truth and goodness, or because God thus internally disposes my thought, the more freely do I choose and embrace it; and assuredly divine grace and natural knowledge, very far from diminishing liberty, rather augment and fortify it. But the indifference of which I am conscious when I am not impelled to one side rather than to another for want of a reason, is the lowest grade of liberty, and manifests defect or negation of knowledge rather than perfection of will; for if I always clearly knew what was true and good, I should never have any difficulty in determining what judgment I ought to come to, and what choice I ought to make, and I should thus be entirely free without ever being indifferent.
From all this I discover, however, that neither the power of willing, which I have received from God, is of itself the source of my errors, for it is exceedingly ample and perfect in its kind; nor even the power of understanding, for as I conceive no object unless by means of the faculty that God bestowed upon me, all that I conceive is doubtless rightly conceived by me, and it is impossible for me to be deceived in it.
Whence, then, spring my errors? They arise from this cause alone, that I do not restrain the will, which is of much wider range than the understanding, within the same limits, but extend it even to things I do not understand, and as the will is of itself indifferent to such, it readily falls into error and sin by choosing the false in room of the true, and evil instead of good.
For example, when I lately considered whether anything really existed in the world, and found that because I considered this question, it very manifestly followed that I myself existed, I could not but judge that what I so clearly conceived was true, not that I was forced to this judgment by any external cause, but simply because great clearness of the understanding was succeeded by strong inclination in the will; and I believed this the more freely and spontaneously in proportion as I was less indifferent with respect to it. But now I not only know that I exist, insofar as I am a thinking being, but there is likewise presented to my mind a certain idea of corporeal nature; hence I am in doubt as to whether the thinking nature which is in me, or rather which I myself am, is different from that corporeal nature, or whether both are merely one and the same thing, and I here suppose that I am as yet ignorant of any reason that would determine me to adopt the one belief in preference to the other; whence it happens that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me which of the two suppositions I affirm or deny, or whether I form any judgment at all in the matter.
This indifference, moreover, extends not only to things of which the understanding has no knowledge at all, but in general also to all those which it does not discover with perfect clearness at the moment the will is deliberating upon them; for, however probable the conjectures may be that dispose me to form a judgment in a particular matter, the simple knowledge that these are merely conjectures, and not certain and indubitable reasons, is sufficient to lead me to form one that is directly the opposite. Of this I lately had abundant experience, when I laid aside as false all that I had before held for true, on the single ground that I could in some degree doubt of it. But if I abstain from judging of a thing when I do not conceive it with sufficient clearness and distinctness, it is plain that I act rightly, and am not deceived; but if I resolve to deny or affirm, I then do not make a right use of my free will; and if I affirm what is false, it is evident that I am deceived; moreover, even although I judge according to truth, I stumble upon it by chance, and do not therefore escape the imputation of a wrong use of my freedom; for it is a dictate of the natural light, that the knowledge of the understanding ought always to precede the determination of the will.
And it is this wrong use of the freedom of the will in which is found the privation that constitutes the form of error. Privation, I say, is found in the act, in so far as it proceeds from myself, but it does not exist in the faculty which I received from God, nor even in the act, in so far as it depends on him; for I have assuredly no reason to complain that God has not given me a greater power of intelligence or more perfect natural light than he has actually bestowed, since it is of the nature of a finite understanding not to comprehend many things, and of the nature of a created understanding to be finite; on the contrary, I have every reason to render thanks to God, who owed me nothing, for having given me all the perfections I possess, and I should be far from thinking that he has unjustly deprived me of, or kept back, the other perfections which he has not bestowed upon me.
I have no reason, moreover, to complain because he has given me a will more ample than my understanding, since, as the will consists only of a single element, and that indivisible, it would appear that this faculty is of such a nature that nothing could be taken from it without destroying it; and certainly, the more extensive it is, the more cause I have to thank the goodness of him who bestowed it upon me.
And, finally, I ought not also to complain that God concurs with me in forming the acts of this will, or the judgments in which I am deceived, because those acts are wholly true and good, in so far as they depend on God; and the ability to form them is a higher degree of perfection in my nature than the want of it would be. With regard to privation, in which alone consists the formal reason of error and sin, this does not require the concurrence of God, because it is not a thing (or an existence), and if it be referred to God as to its cause, it ought not to be called ‘privation’, but ‘negation’, according to the signification of these words in the schools. For in truth it is no imperfection in God that he has accorded to me the power of giving or withholding my assent from certain things of which he has not put a clear and distinct knowledge in my understanding; but it is doubtless an imperfection in me that I do not use my freedom aright, and readily give my judgment on matters which I only obscurely and confusedly conceive.
I perceive, nevertheless, that it was easy for God so to have constituted me as that I should never be deceived, although I still remained free and possessed of a limited knowledge, viz., by implanting in my understanding a clear and distinct knowledge of all the objects respecting which I should ever have to deliberate; or simply by so deeply engraving on my memory the resolution to judge of nothing without previously possessing a clear and distinct conception of it, that I should never forget it. And I easily understand that, in so far as I consider myself as a single whole, without reference to any other being in the universe, I should have been much more perfect than I now am, had God created me superior to error; but I cannot therefore deny that it is not somehow a greater perfection in the universe, that certain of its parts are not exempt from defect, as others are, than if they were all perfectly alike.
And I have no right to complain because God, who placed me in the world, was not willing that I should sustain that character which of all others is the chief and most perfect; I have even good reason to remain satisfied on the ground that, if he has not given me the perfection of being superior to error by the first means I have pointed out above, which depends on a clear and evident knowledge of all the matters regarding which I can deliberate, he has at least left in my power the other means, which is, firmly to retain the resolution never to judge where the truth is not clearly known to me: for, although I am conscious of the weakness of not being able to keep my mind continually fixed on the same thought, I can nevertheless, by attentive and oft-repeated meditation, impress it so strongly on my memory that I shall never fail to recollect it as often as I require it, and I can acquire in this way the habitude of not erring; and since it is in being superior to error that the highest and chief perfection of man consists, I deem that I have not gained little by this day’s meditation, in having discovered the source of error and falsity.
And certainly this can be no other than what I have now explained: for as often as I so restrain my will within the limits of my knowledge, that it forms no judgment except regarding objects which are clearly and distinctly represented to it by the understanding, I can never be deceived; because every clear and distinct conception is doubtless something, and as such cannot owe its origin to nothing, but must of necessity have God for its author—God, I say, who, as supremely perfect, cannot, without a contradiction, be the cause of any error; and consequently it is necessary to conclude that every such conception or judgment is true. Nor have I merely learned today what I must avoid to escape error, but also what I must do to arrive at the knowledge of truth; for I will assuredly reach truth if I only fix my attention sufficiently on all the things I conceive perfectly, and separate these from others which I conceive more confusedly and obscurely; to which for the future I shall give diligent heed.
- What is the main problem the Meditator must answer here?
- How does she answer it?
- How can we avoid error?
Fifth Meditation: Of the Essence of Material Things; and, Again, of God; That He Exists
According to Descartes’s essentialism, before we can close the book on skepticism about the external world, we have to know clearly and distinctly ______. So that’s what we’ll achieve in this Meditation; we’ll also get a clearer understanding of the relationship between substance and essence, and another argument that God exists.
Several other questions remain for consideration respecting the attributes of God and my own nature or mind. I will, however, on some other occasion perhaps resume the investigation of these. Meanwhile, as I have discovered what must be done and what avoided to arrive at the knowledge of truth, what I have chiefly to do is to essay to emerge from the state of doubt in which I have for some time been, and to discover whether anything can be known with certainty regarding material objects. But before considering whether such objects as I conceive exist without me, I must examine their ideas in so far as these are to be found in my consciousness, and discover which of them are distinct and which confused.
In the first place, I distinctly imagine that quantity which the philosophers commonly call ‘continuous’, or the extension in length, breadth, and depth that is in this quantity, or rather in the object to which it is attributed. Further, I can enumerate in it many diverse parts, and attribute to each of these all sorts of sizes, figures, situations, and local motions; and, in fine, I can assign to each of these motions all degrees of duration. And I not only distinctly know these things when I thus consider them in general; but besides, by a little attention, I discover innumerable particulars respecting figures, numbers, motion, and the like, which are so evidently true, and so accordant with my nature, that when I now discover them I do not so much appear to learn anything new, as to call to remembrance what I before knew, or for the first time to remark what was before in my mind, but to which I had not hitherto directed my attention. And what I here find of most importance is, that I discover in my mind innumerable ideas of certain objects, which cannot be esteemed pure negations, although perhaps they possess no reality beyond my thought, and which are not framed by me though it may be in my power to think, or not to think them, but possess true and immutable natures of their own. As, for example, when I imagine a triangle, although there is not perhaps and never was in any place in the universe apart from my thought one such figure, it remains true nevertheless that this figure possesses a certain determinate nature, form, or essence, which is immutable and eternal, and not framed by me, nor in any degree dependent on my thought; as appears from the circumstance, that diverse properties of the triangle may be demonstrated, viz., that its three angles are equal to two right, that its greatest side is subtended by its greatest angle, and the like, which, whether I will or not, I now clearly discern to belong to it, although before I did not at all think of them, when, for the first time, I imagined a triangle, and which accordingly cannot be said to have been invented by me.
Nor is it a valid objection to allege, that perhaps this idea of a triangle came into my mind by the medium of the senses, through my having seen bodies of a triangular figure; for I am able to form in thought an innumerable variety of figures with regard to which it cannot be supposed that they were ever objects of sense, and I can nevertheless demonstrate diverse properties of their nature no less than of the triangle, all of which are assuredly true since I clearly conceive them: and they are therefore something, and not mere negations; for it is highly evident that all that is true is something (truth being identical with existence); and I have already fully shown the truth of the principle, that whatever is clearly and distinctly known is true. And although this had not been demonstrated, yet the nature of my mind is such as to compel me to assert to what I clearly conceive while I so conceive it; and I recollect that even when I still strongly adhered to the objects of sense, I reckoned among the number of the most certain truths those I clearly conceived relating to figures, numbers, and other matters that pertain to arithmetic and geometry, and in general to the pure mathematics.
But now if because I can draw from my thought the idea of an object, it follows that all I clearly and distinctly apprehend to pertain to this object, does in truth belong to it, may I not from this derive an argument for the existence of God? It is certain that I no less find the idea of a God in my consciousness, that is the idea of a being supremely perfect, than that of any figure or number whatever: and I know with not less clearness and distinctness that an actual and eternal existence pertains to his nature than that all which is demonstrable of any figure or number really belongs to the nature of that figure or number; and, therefore, although all the conclusions of the preceding meditations were false, the existence of God would pass with me for a truth at least as certain as I ever judged any truth of mathematics to be, although indeed such a doctrine may at first sight appear to contain more sophistry than truth. For, as I have been accustomed in every other matter to distinguish between existence and essence, I easily believe that the existence can be separated from the essence of God, and that thus God may be conceived as not actually existing. But, nevertheless, when I think of it more attentively, it appears that the existence can no more be separated from the essence of God, than the idea of a mountain from that of a valley, or the equality of its three angles to two right angles, from the essence of a rectilineal triangle; so that it is not less impossible to conceive a God, that is, a being supremely perfect, to whom existence is wanting, or who is devoid of a certain perfection, than to conceive a mountain without a valley.
But though, in truth, I cannot conceive a God unless as existing, any more than I can a mountain without a valley, yet, just as it does not follow that there is any mountain in the world merely because I conceive a mountain with a valley, so likewise, though I conceive God as existing, it does not seem to follow on that account that God exists; for my thought imposes no necessity on things; and as I may imagine a winged horse, though there be none such, so I could perhaps attribute existence to God, though no God existed. But the cases are not analogous, and a fallacy lurks under the semblance of this objection: for because I cannot conceive a mountain without a valley, it does not follow that there is any mountain or valley in existence, but simply that the mountain or valley, whether they do or do not exist, are inseparable from each other; whereas, on the other hand, because I cannot conceive God unless as existing, it follows that existence is inseparable from him, and therefore that he really exists: not that this is brought about by my thought, or that it imposes any necessity on things, but, on the contrary, the necessity which lies in the thing itself, that is, the necessity of the existence of God, determines me to think in this way: for it is not in my power to conceive a God without existence, that is, a being supremely perfect, and yet devoid of an absolute perfection, as I am free to imagine a horse with or without wings.
Nor must it be alleged here as an objection, that it is in truth necessary to admit that God exists, after having supposed him to possess all perfections, since existence is one of them, but that my original supposition was not necessary; just as it is not necessary to think that all quadrilateral figures can be inscribed in the circle, since, if I supposed this, I should be constrained to admit that the rhombus, being a figure of four sides, can be therein inscribed, which, however, is manifestly false. This objection is, I say, incompetent; for although it may not be necessary that I shall at any time entertain the notion of God, yet each time I happen to think of a first and sovereign being, and to draw, so to speak, the idea of him from the storehouse of the mind, I am necessitated to attribute to him all kinds of perfections, though I may not then enumerate them all, nor think of each of them in particular. And this necessity is sufficient, as soon as I discover that existence is a perfection, to cause me to infer the existence of this first and sovereign being; just as it is not necessary that I should ever imagine any triangle, but whenever I am desirous of considering a rectilineal figure composed of only three angles, it is absolutely necessary to attribute those properties to it from which it is correctly inferred that its three angles are not greater than two right angles, although perhaps I may not then advert to this relation in particular. But when I consider what figures are capable of being inscribed in the circle, it is by no means necessary to hold that all quadrilateral figures are of this number; on the contrary, I cannot even imagine such to be the case, so long as I shall be unwilling to accept in thought anything that I do not clearly and distinctly conceive; and consequently there is a vast difference between false suppositions, as is the one in question, and the true ideas that were born with me, the first and chief of which is the idea of God. For indeed I discern on many grounds that this idea is not factitious depending simply on my thought, but that it is the representation of a true and immutable nature: in the first place because I can conceive no other being, except God, to whose essence existence necessarily pertains; in the second, because it is impossible to conceive two or more gods of this kind; and it being supposed that one such God exists, I clearly see that he must have existed from all eternity, and will exist to all eternity; and finally, because I apprehend many other properties in God, none of which I can either diminish or change.
But, indeed, whatever mode of proof I in the end adopt, it always returns to this, that it is only the things I clearly and distinctly conceive which have the power of completely persuading me. And although, of the objects I conceive in this manner, some, indeed, are obvious to every one, while others are only discovered after close and careful investigation; nevertheless after they are once discovered, the latter are not esteemed less certain than the former. Thus, for example, to take the case of a right-angled triangle, although it is not so manifest at first that the square of the base is equal to the squares of the other two sides, as that the base is opposite to the greatest angle; nevertheless, after it is once apprehended, we are as firmly persuaded of the truth of the former as of the latter. And, with respect to God, if I were not pre-occupied by prejudices, and my thought beset on all sides by the continual presence of the images of sensible objects, I should know nothing sooner or more easily than the fact of his being. For is there any truth more clear than the existence of a Supreme Being, or of God, seeing it is to his essence alone that necessary and eternal existence pertains? And although the right conception of this truth has cost me much close thinking, nevertheless at present I feel not only as assured of it as of what I deem most certain, but I remark further that the certitude of all other truths is so absolutely dependent on it, that without this knowledge it is impossible ever to know anything perfectly.
For although I am of such a nature as to be unable, while I possess a very clear and distinct apprehension of a matter, to resist the conviction of its truth, yet because my constitution is also such as to incapacitate me from keeping my mind continually fixed on the same object, and as I frequently recollect a past judgment without at the same time being able to recall the grounds of it, it may happen meanwhile that other reasons are presented to me which would readily cause me to change my opinion, if I did not know that God existed; and thus I should possess no true and certain knowledge, but merely vague and vacillating opinions. Thus, for example, when I consider the nature of the [rectilineal] triangle, it most clearly appears to me, who have been instructed in the principles of geometry, that its three angles are equal to two right angles, and I find it impossible to believe otherwise, while I apply my mind to the demonstration; but as soon as I cease from attending to the process of proof, although I still remember that I had a clear comprehension of it, yet I may readily come to doubt of the truth demonstrated, if I do not know that there is a God: for I may persuade myself that I have been so constituted by nature as to be sometimes deceived, even in matters which I think I apprehend with the greatest evidence and certitude, especially when I recollect that I frequently considered many things to be true and certain which other reasons afterward constrained me to reckon as wholly false.
But after I have discovered that God exists, seeing I also at the same time observed that all things depend on him, and that he is no deceiver, and thence inferred that all which I clearly and distinctly perceive is of necessity true: although I no longer attend to the grounds of a judgment, no opposite reason can be alleged sufficient to lead me to doubt of its truth, provided only I remember that I once possessed a clear and distinct comprehension of it. My knowledge of it thus becomes true and certain. And this same knowledge extends likewise to whatever I remember to have formerly demonstrated, as the truths of geometry and the like: for what can be alleged against them to lead me to doubt of them? Will it be that my nature is such that I may be frequently deceived? But I already know that I cannot be deceived in judgments of the grounds of which I possess a clear knowledge. Will it be that I formerly deemed things to be true and certain which I afterward discovered to be false? But I had no clear and distinct knowledge of any of those things, and, being as yet ignorant of the rule by which I am assured of the truth of a judgment, I was led to give my assent to them on grounds which I afterward discovered were less strong than at the time I imagined them to be. What further objection, then, is there? Will it be said that perhaps I am dreaming (an objection I lately myself raised), or that all the thoughts of which I am now conscious have no more truth than the reveries of my dreams? But although, in truth, I should be dreaming, the rule still holds that all which is clearly presented to my intellect is indisputably true.
And thus I very clearly see that the certitude and truth of all science depends on the knowledge alone of the true God, insomuch that, before I knew him, I could have no perfect knowledge of any other thing. And now that I know him, I possess the means of acquiring a perfect knowledge respecting innumerable matters, as well relative to God himself and other intellectual objects as to corporeal nature, in so far as it is the object of pure mathematics (which do not consider whether it exists or not).
- What is Descartes’s second argument for the existence of God?
- What advantages does it have over a posteriori arguments?
- Why couldn’t the Meditator give an a posteriori argument, like the argument for design?
- What key presupposition(s) does the ontological argument make?
Sixth Meditation: Of the Existence of Material Things, and of the Real Distinction Between the Mind and Body of Man
There now only remains the inquiry as to whether material things exist. With regard to this question, I at least know with certainty that such things may exist, in as far as they constitute the object of the pure mathematics, since, regarding them in this aspect, I can conceive them clearly and distinctly. For there can be no doubt that God possesses the power of producing all the objects I am able distinctly to conceive, and I never considered anything impossible to him, unless when I experienced a contradiction in the attempt to conceive it aright. Further, the faculty of imagination which I possess, and of which I am conscious that I make use when I apply myself to the consideration of material things, is sufficient to persuade me of their existence: for, when I attentively consider what imagination is, I find that it is simply a certain application of the cognitive faculty (facultas cognoscitiva) to a body which is immediately present to it, and which therefore exists.
And to render this quite clear, I remark, in the first place, the difference that subsists between imagination and pure intellection (or conception). For example, when I imagine a triangle I not only conceive that it is a figure comprehended by three lines, but at the same time also I look upon these three lines as present by the power and internal application of my mind, and this is what I call imagining. But if I desire to think of a chiliogon, I indeed rightly conceive that it is a figure composed of a thousand sides, as easily as I conceive that a triangle is a figure composed of only three sides; but I cannot imagine the thousand sides of a chiliogon as I do the three sides of a triangle, nor, so to speak, view them as present. And although, in accordance with the habit I have of always imagining something when I think of corporeal things, it may happen that, in conceiving a chiliogon, I confusedly represent some figure to myself, yet it is quite evident that this is not a chiliogon, since it in no wise differs from that which I would represent to myself, if I were to think of a myriogon, or any other figure of many sides; nor would this representation be of any use in discovering and unfolding the properties that constitute the difference between a chiliogon and other polygons. But if the question turns on a pentagon, it is quite true that I can conceive its figure, as well as that of a chiliogon, without the aid of imagination; but I can likewise imagine it by applying the attention of my mind to its five sides, and at the same time to the area which they contain. Thus I observe that a special effort of mind is necessary to the act of imagination, which is not required to conceiving or understanding; and this special exertion of mind clearly shows the difference between imagination and pure intellection. I remark, besides, that this power of imagination which I possess, in as far as it differs from the power of conceiving, is in no way necessary to my nature or essence, that is, to the essence of my mind; for although I did not possess it, I should still remain the same that I now am, from which it seems we may conclude that it depends on something different from the mind.
And I easily understand that, if some body exists, with which my mind is so conjoined and united as to be able, as it were, to consider it when it chooses, it may thus imagine corporeal objects; so that this mode of thinking differs from pure intellection only in this respect, that the mind in conceiving turns in some way upon itself, and considers some one of the ideas it possesses within itself; but in imagining it turns toward the body, and contemplates in it some object conformed to the idea which it either of itself conceived or apprehended by sense. I easily understand, I say, that imagination may be thus formed, if it is true that there are bodies; and because I find no other obvious mode of explaining it, I thence, with probability, conjecture that they exist, but only with probability; and although I carefully examine all things, nevertheless I do not find that, from the distinct idea of corporeal nature I have in my imagination, I can necessarily infer the existence of any body.
But I am accustomed to imagine many other objects besides that corporeal nature which is the object of the pure mathematics, as, for example, colors, sounds, tastes, pain, and the like, although with less distinctness; and, inasmuch as I perceive these objects much better by the senses, through the medium of which and of memory, they seem to have reached the imagination, I believe that, in order the more advantageously to examine them, it is proper I should at the same time examine what sense-perception is, and inquire whether from those ideas that are apprehended by this mode of thinking [consciousness], I cannot obtain a certain proof of the existence of corporeal objects.
And, in the first place, I will recall to my mind the things I have hitherto held as true, because perceived by the senses, and the foundations upon which my belief in their truth rested; I will, in the second place, examine the reasons that afterward constrained me to doubt of them; and, finally, I will consider what of them I ought now to believe.
First, then, I perceived that I had a head, hands, feet, and other members composing that body which I considered as part, or perhaps even as the whole, of myself. I perceived further, that that body was placed among many others, by which it was capable of being affected in diverse ways, both beneficial and hurtful; and what was beneficial I remarked by a certain sensation of pleasure, and what was hurtful by a sensation of pain. And besides this pleasure and pain, I was likewise conscious of hunger, thirst, and other appetites, as well as certain corporeal inclinations toward joy, sadness, anger, and similar passions. And, out of myself, besides the extension, figure, and motions of bodies, I likewise perceived in them hardness, heat, and the other tactile qualities, and, in addition, light, colors, odors, tastes, and sounds, the variety of which gave me the means of distinguishing the sky, the earth, the sea, and generally all the other bodies, from one another.
And certainly, considering the ideas of all these qualities, which were presented to my mind, and which alone I properly and immediately perceived, it was not without reason that I thought I perceived certain objects wholly different from my thought, namely, bodies from which those ideas proceeded; for I was conscious that the ideas were presented to me without my consent being required, so that I could not perceive any object, however desirous I might be, unless it were present to the organ of sense; and it was wholly out of my power not to perceive it when it was thus present.
And because the ideas I perceived by the senses were much more lively and clear, and even, in their own way, more distinct than any of those I could of myself frame by meditation, or which I found impressed on my memory, it seemed that they could not have proceeded from myself, and must therefore have been caused in me by some other objects; and as of those objects I had no knowledge beyond what the ideas themselves gave me, nothing was so likely to occur to my mind as the supposition that the objects were similar to the ideas which they caused.
And because I recollected also that I had formerly trusted to the senses, rather than to reason, and that the ideas which I myself formed were not so clear as those I perceived by sense, and that they were even for the most part composed of parts of the latter, I was readily persuaded that I had no idea in my intellect which had not formerly passed through the senses.
Nor was I altogether wrong in likewise believing that that body which, by a special right, I called my own, pertained to me more properly and strictly than any of the others; for in truth, I could never be separated from it as from other bodies; I felt in it and on account of it all my appetites and affections, and in fine I was affected in its parts by pain and the titillation of pleasure, and not in the parts of the other bodies that were separated from it.
But when I inquired into the reason why, from this I know not what sensation of pain, sadness of mind should follow, and why from the sensation of pleasure, joy should arise, or why this indescribable twitching of the stomach, which I call hunger, should put me in mind of taking food, and the parchedness of the throat of drink, and so in other cases, I was unable to give any explanation, unless that I was so taught by nature; for there is assuredly no affinity, at least none that I am able to comprehend, between this irritation of the stomach and the desire of food, any more than between the perception of an object that causes pain and the consciousness of sadness which springs from the perception. And in the same way it seemed to me that all the other judgments I had formed regarding the objects of sense, were dictates of nature; because I remarked that those judgments were formed in me, before I had leisure to weigh and consider the reasons that might constrain me to form them.
But, afterward, a wide experience by degrees sapped the faith I had reposed in my senses; for I frequently observed that towers, which at a distance seemed round, appeared square, when more closely viewed, and that colossal figures, raised on the summits of these towers, looked like small statues, when viewed from the bottom of them; and, in other instances without number, I also discovered error in judgments founded on the external senses; and not only in those founded on the external, but even in those that rested on the internal senses; for is there anything more internal than pain? And yet I have sometimes been informed by parties whose arm or leg had been amputated, that they still occasionally seemed to feel pain in that part of the body which they had lost—a circumstance that led me to think that I could not be quite certain even that any one of my members was affected when I felt pain in it.
And to these grounds of doubt I shortly afterward also added two others of very wide generality: the first of them was that I believed I never perceived anything when awake which I could not occasionally think I also perceived when asleep, and as I do not believe that the ideas I seem to perceive in my sleep proceed from objects external to me, I did not any more observe any ground for believing this of such as I seem to perceive when awake; the second was that since I was as yet ignorant of the author of my being or at least supposed myself to be so, I saw nothing to prevent my having been so constituted by nature as that I should be deceived even in matters that appeared to me to possess the greatest truth.
And, with respect to the grounds on which I had before been persuaded of the existence of sensible objects, I had no great difficulty in finding suitable answers to them; for as nature seemed to incline me to many things from which reason made me averse, I thought that I ought not to confide much in its teachings. And although the perceptions of the senses were not dependent on my will, I did not think that I ought on that ground to conclude that they proceeded from things different from myself, since perhaps there might be found in me some faculty, though hitherto unknown to me, which produced them.
But now that I begin to know myself better, and to discover more clearly the author of my being, I do not, indeed, think that I ought rashly to admit all which the senses seem to teach, nor, on the other hand, is it my conviction that I ought to doubt in general of their teachings.
And, first, because I know that all which I clearly and distinctly conceive can be produced by God exactly as I conceive it, it is sufficient that I am able clearly and distinctly to conceive one thing apart from another, in order to be certain that the one is different from the other, seeing they may at least be made to exist separately, by the omnipotence of God; and it matters not by what power this separation is made, in order to be compelled to judge them different; and, therefore, merely because I know with certitude that I exist, and because, in the meantime, I do not observe that anything necessarily belongs to my nature or essence beyond my being a thinking thing, I rightly conclude that my essence consists only in my being a thinking thing (a substance whose whole essence or nature is merely thinking).
And although I may—or rather, as I will shortly say, although I certainly do—possess a body with which I am very closely conjoined; nevertheless, because, on the one hand, I have a clear and distinct idea of myself, in as far as I am only a thinking and unextended thing, and as, on the other hand, I possess a distinct idea of body, in as far as it is only an extended and unthinking thing, it is certain that I am entirely and truly distinct from my body, and may exist without it.
Moreover, I find in myself diverse faculties of thinking that have each their special mode: for example, I find I possess the faculties of imagining and perceiving, without which I can indeed clearly and distinctly conceive myself as entire, but I cannot reciprocally conceive them without conceiving myself, that is to say, without an intelligent substance in which they reside, for (in the notion we have of them, or to use the terms of the schools) in their formal concept, they comprise some sort of intellection; whence I perceive that they are distinct from myself as modes are from things. I remark likewise certain other faculties, as the power of changing place, of assuming diverse figures, and the like, that cannot be conceived and cannot therefore exist, any more than the preceding, apart from a substance in which they inhere. It is very evident, however, that these faculties, if they really exist, must belong to some corporeal or extended substance, since in their clear and distinct concept there is contained some sort of extension, but no intellection at all. Further, I cannot doubt but that there is in me a certain passive faculty of perception, that is, of receiving and taking knowledge of the ideas of sensible things; but this would be useless to me, if there did not also exist in me, or in some other thing, another active faculty capable of forming and producing those ideas. But this active faculty cannot be in me, in as far as I am but a thinking thing, seeing that it does not presuppose thought, and also that those ideas are frequently produced in my mind without my contributing to it in any way, and even frequently contrary to my will. This faculty must therefore exist in some substance different from me, in which all the objective reality of the ideas that are produced by this faculty, is contained formally or eminently, as I before remarked: and this substance is either a body, that is to say, a corporeal nature in which is contained formally (and in effect) all that is, objectively and by representation, in those ideas; or it is God himself, or some other creature, of a rank superior to body, in which the same is contained eminently.
But as God is no deceiver, it is manifest that he does not of himself and immediately communicate those ideas to me, nor even by the intervention of any creature in which their objective reality is not formally, but only eminently, contained. For as he has given me no faculty whereby I can discover this to be the case, but, on the contrary, a very strong inclination to believe that those ideas arise from corporeal objects, I do not see how he could be vindicated from the charge of deceit, if in truth they proceeded from any other source, or were produced by other causes than corporeal things: and accordingly it must be concluded, that corporeal objects exist. Nevertheless, they are not perhaps exactly such as we perceive by the senses, for their comprehension by the senses is, in many instances, very obscure and confused; but it is at least necessary to admit that all which I clearly and distinctly conceive as in them, that is, generally speaking, all that is comprehended in the object of speculative geometry, really exists external to me.
But with respect to other things which are either only particular, as, for example, that the sun is of such a size and figure, etc., or are conceived with less clearness and distinctness, as light, sound, pain, and the like, although they are highly dubious and uncertain, nevertheless on the ground alone that God is no deceiver, and that consequently he has permitted no falsity in my opinions which he has not likewise given me a faculty of correcting, I think I may with safety conclude that I possess in myself the means of arriving at the truth. And, in the first place, it cannot be doubted that in each of the dictates of nature there is some truth: for by nature, considered in general, I now understand nothing more than God himself, or the order and disposition established by God in created things; and by my nature in particular I understand the assemblage of all that God has given me.
But there is nothing which that nature teaches me more expressly or more sensibly than that I have a body which is ill affected when I feel pain, and stands in need of food and drink when I experience the sensations of hunger and thirst, etc. And therefore I ought not to doubt but that there is some truth in these informations.
Nature likewise teaches me by these sensations of pain, hunger, thirst, etc., that I am not only lodged in my body as a pilot in a vessel, but that I am besides so intimately conjoined, and as it were intermixed with it, that my mind and body compose a certain unity. For if this were not the case, I should not feel pain when my body is hurt, seeing I am merely a thinking thing, but should perceive the wound by the understanding alone, just as a pilot perceives by sight when any part of his vessel is damaged; and when my body has need of food or drink, I should have a clear knowledge of this, and not be made aware of it by the confused sensations of hunger and thirst: for, in truth, all these sensations of hunger, thirst, pain, etc., are nothing more than certain confused modes of thinking, arising from the union and apparent fusion of mind and body.
Besides this, nature teaches me that my own body is surrounded by many other bodies, some of which I have to seek after, and others to shun. And indeed, as I perceive different sorts of colors, sounds, odors, tastes, heat, hardness, etc., I safely conclude that there are in the bodies from which the diverse perceptions of the senses proceed, certain varieties corresponding to them, although, perhaps, not in reality like them; and since, among these diverse perceptions of the senses, some are agreeable, and others disagreeable, there can be no doubt that my body, or rather my entire self, in as far as I am composed of body and mind, may be variously affected, both beneficially and hurtfully, by surrounding bodies.
But there are many other beliefs which though seemingly the teaching of nature, are not in reality so, but which obtained a place in my mind through a habit of judging inconsiderately of things. It may thus easily happen that such judgments shall contain error: thus, for example, the opinion I have that all space in which there is nothing to affect my senses is void; that in a hot body there is something in every respect similar to the idea of heat in my mind; that in a white or green body there is the same whiteness or greenness which I perceive; that in a bitter or sweet body there is the same taste, and so in other instances; that the stars, towers, and all distant bodies, are of the same size and figure as they appear to our eyes, etc.
But that I may avoid everything like indistinctness of conception, I must accurately define what I properly understand by ‘being taught by nature’. For ‘nature’ is here taken in a narrower sense than when it signifies the sum of all the things which God has given me; seeing that in that meaning the notion comprehends much that belongs only to the mind (to which I am not here to be understood as referring when I use the term ‘nature’); as, for example, the notion I have of the truth, that what is done cannot be undone, and all the other truths I discern by the natural light without the aid of the body; and seeing that it comprehends likewise much besides that belongs only to body, and is not here any more contained under the name nature, as the quality of heaviness, and the like, of which I do not speak, the term being reserved exclusively to designate the things which God has given to me as a being composed of mind and body.
But nature, taking the term in the sense explained, teaches me to shun what causes in me the sensation of pain, and to pursue what affords me the sensation of pleasure, and other things of this sort; but I do not discover that it teaches me, in addition to this, from these diverse perceptions of the senses, to draw any conclusions respecting external objects without a previous careful and mature consideration of them by the mind: for it is, as appears to me, the office of the mind alone, and not of the composite whole of mind and body, to discern the truth in those matters. Thus, although the impression a star makes on my eye is not larger than that from the flame of a candle, I do not, nevertheless, experience any real or positive impulse determining me to believe that the star is not greater than the flame; the true account of the matter being merely that I have so judged from my youth without any rational ground. And, though on approaching the fire I feel heat, and even pain on approaching it too closely, I have, however, from this no ground for holding that something resembling the heat I feel is in the fire, any more than that there is something similar to the pain; all that I have ground for believing is, that there is something in it, whatever it may be, which excites in me those sensations of heat or pain. So also, although there are spaces in which I find nothing to excite and affect my senses, I must not therefore conclude that those spaces contain in them no body; for I see that in this, as in many other similar matters, I have been accustomed to pervert the order of nature, because these perceptions of the senses, although given me by nature merely to signify to my mind what things are beneficial and hurtful to the composite whole of which it is a part, and being sufficiently clear and distinct for that purpose, are nevertheless used by me as infallible rules by which to determine immediately the essence of the bodies that exist out of me, of which they can of course afford me only the most obscure and confused knowledge. …
It is quite manifest that, notwithstanding the sovereign goodness of God, the nature of man, in so far as it is composed of mind and body, cannot but be sometimes misleading. For, if there is any cause which excites, not in the foot, but in some one of the parts of the nerves that stretch from the foot to the brain, or even in the brain itself, the same movement that is ordinarily created when the foot is ill affected, pain will be felt, as it were, in the foot, and the senses will thus be naturally deceived; for as the same movement in the brain can but impress the mind with the same sensation, and as this sensation is much more frequently excited by a cause which hurts the foot than by one acting in a different quarter, it is reasonable that it should lead the mind to feel pain in the foot rather than in any other part of the body. And if it sometimes happens that the parchedness of the throat does not arise, as is usual, from drink being necessary for the health of the body, but from quite the opposite cause, as is the case with the dropsical, yet it is much better that it should be deceitful in that instance, than if, on the contrary, it were continually fallacious when the body is well-disposed; and the same holds true in other cases.
And certainly this consideration is of great service, not only in enabling me to recognize the errors to which my nature is liable, but likewise in rendering it more easy to avoid or correct them: for, knowing that all my senses more usually indicate to me what is true than what is false, in matters relating to the advantage of the body, and being able almost always to make use of more than a single sense in examining the same object, and besides this, being able to use my memory in connecting present with past knowledge, and my understanding which has already discovered all the causes of my errors, I ought no longer to fear that falsity may be met with in what is daily presented to me by the senses. And I ought to reject all the doubts of those bygone days, as hyperbolical and ridiculous, especially the general uncertainty respecting sleep, which I could not distinguish from the waking state: for I now find a very marked difference between the two states, in respect that our memory can never connect our dreams with each other and with the course of life, in the way it is in the habit of doing with events that occur when we are awake. And, in truth, if some one, when I am awake, appeared to me all of a sudden and as suddenly disappeared, as do the images I see in sleep, so that I could not observe either whence he came or whither he went, I should not without reason esteem it either a specter or phantom formed in my brain, rather than a real man. But when I perceive objects with regard to which I can distinctly determine both the place whence they come, and that in which they are, and the time at which they appear to me, and when, without interruption, I can connect the perception I have of them with the whole of the other parts of my life, I am perfectly sure that what I thus perceive occurs while I am awake and not during sleep. And I ought not in the least degree to doubt of the truth of these presentations, if, after having called together all my senses, my memory, and my understanding for the purpose of examining them, no deliverance is given by any one of these faculties which is repugnant to that of any other: for since God is no deceiver, it necessarily follows that I am not herein deceived. But because the necessities of action frequently oblige us to come to a determination before we have had leisure for so careful an examination, it must be confessed that the life of man is frequently obnoxious to error with respect to individual objects; and we must, in conclusion, acknowledge the weakness of our nature.
- Descartes believes that, in addition to sensation and imagination, minds have an intellect, which does not depend on these other faculties. What is his argument for this?
- In this meditation, Descartes gives his famous modal argument for the real distinction between mind and body. (It’s in the paragraph that starts ‘And, firstly, because I know that all which I clearly and distinctly conceive.’) First, have a look at the selections from the Principles above. What is a real distinction?A and B are really distinct when and only when _________. So the conclusion of Descartes’s argument is not that mind and body do exist separately, but only that ________. (Similarly, water and dirt are really distinct, even when they combine to form mud.) Reconstruct Descartes’s argument:
Premise 1: Everything I clearly and distinctly conceive is ________.
Premise 2: I can clearly and distinctly conceive of __________________ and _________________.
Conclusion: Mind and body are really distinct substances; that is, _________________.
- The Meditator has finally gotten her world back—she now has an argument to prove that there is an external world. To which of the skeptical arguments in Meditation One is this a reply? Reconstruct the argument in your own way.
Objections and Replies to the Meditations
Antoine Arnauld’s objection to the argument for the real distinction and Descartes’s reply
- Antoine Arnauld
- I can’t see anywhere in the entire work an argument that could serve to prove this claim, apart from what is laid down at the start [this isn’t an exact quotation from the Meditations]:‘I can deny that any body exists, or that anything is extended, but while I am thus denying, or thinking, it goes on being certain to me that I exist. Thus, I am a thinking thing, not a body, and body doesn’t come into the knowledge I have of myself.’
But so far as I can see, all that follows from this is that I can obtain some knowledge of myself without knowledge of the body. But it isn’t clear to me that this knowledge is complete and adequate, enabling me to be certain that I’m not mistaken in excluding body from my essence. I’ll explain through an example.
Suppose someone knows for certain that the angle in a semicircle is a right angle, and thus that this angle and the diameter of the circle form a right-angled triangle. In spite of knowing this, he may doubt, or not yet have grasped for certain, that the square on the hypotenuse equals the sum of the squares on the other two sides; indeed he may even deny this if he has been misled by some fallacy. (For brevity’s sake, I’ll express this as ‘the triangle’s having the property P’.) But now, if he argues in the same way that Descartes does, he may appear to have confirmation of his false belief, as follows: ‘I vividly and clearly perceive that the triangle is right-angled; but I doubt that it has the property P; therefore it doesn’t belong to the essence of the triangle that it has the property P.’
Again, even if I deny that the square on the hypotenuse equals the sum of the squares on the other two sides, I still remain sure that the triangle is right-angled—my mind retains the vivid and clear knowledge that one of its angles is a right angle. And given that this is so, not even God could bring it about that the triangle is not right-angled. Therefore, I might argue, the property P that I can doubt—or indeed that I can remove—while leaving my idea of the triangle intact doesn’t belong to the essence of the triangle. Now look again at what Descartes says:
‘I know that if I have a vivid and clear thought of something, God could have created it in a way that exactly corresponds to my thought. So the fact that I can vividly and clearly think of one thing apart from another assures me that the two things are distinct from one another, since they can be separated by God.’
I vividly and clearly understand that this triangle is right-angled, without understanding that the triangle has the property P. It follows, on Descartes’s pattern of reasoning, that God at least could create a right-angled triangle with the square on its hypotenuse not equal to the sum of the squares on the other sides!
The only possible reply to this that I can see is to say that the man in this example doesn’t vividly and clearly perceive that the triangle is right-angled. But how is my perception of the nature of my mind any clearer than his perception of the nature of the triangle?
Now although the man in the example vividly and clearly knows that the triangle is right-angled, he is wrong in thinking that property P doesn’t belong to the nature or essence of the triangle. Similarly, although I vividly and clearly know my nature to be something that thinks, mightn’t I also be wrong in thinking that nothing else belongs to my nature apart from my being a thinking thing? Perhaps my being an extended thing also belongs to my nature.
- Which premise of the Sixth Meditation argument for the real distinction does Arnauld challenge? What is the problem with it?
- Descartes
- Although we can vividly and clearly understand that a triangle in a semicircle is right-angled without being aware of its having property P, we cannot have a clear understanding of a triangle’s having property P without at the same time taking in that it is right-angled. In contrast with that, we can vividly and clearly perceive the mind without the body and the body without the mind.And although it is possible to have a concept of triangle inscribed in a semicircle that doesn’t include the triangle’s having property P, i.e., equality between the square on the hypotenuse and the sum of the squares on the other sides, it is not possible to have a concept of triangle inscribed in a semicircle that does include there being no ratio at all between the square on the hypotenuse and the squares on the other sides. Hence, though we may be unaware of what the ratio is, we can’t rule out any candidate unless we clearly understand that it is wrong for the triangle; and we can’t clearly understand this for the ratio equality, because it is right for the triangle. So the concept in question must, in an indirect and oblique way, involve the property P: it must involve a thought of ‘some ratio or other’ which could take the value equality. In contrast with this, the concept of body doesn’t include—or even indirectly and obliquely involve—anything at all that belongs to the mind, and the concept of mind doesn’t include—or even indirectly and obliquely involve—anything at all that belongs to the body.
Arnauld’s circularity objection and Descartes’s reply
- Arnauld
- I have one further worry, namely how Descartes avoids reasoning in a circle when he says that it’s only because we know that God exists that we are sure that whatever we vividly and clearly perceive is true.But we can be sure that God exists only because we vividly and clearly perceive this; so before we can be sure that God exists we need to be able to be sure that whatever we perceive clearly and evidently is true.
Descartes clearly argues for the Epistemic Principle (everything I clearly and distinctly perceive is true), which is not to be confused with the Conceivability Principle (everything I clearly and distinctly conceive is possible). Arnauld’s argument is that he cannot use the existence of God to prove the EP, since he must rely on the EP to prove ______.
- Descartes
- Lastly, as to my not being guilty of circularity when I said that our only reason for being sure that what we vividly and clearly perceive is true is the fact that we know for sure that God exists, and that we are sure that God exists only because we perceive this clearly: I have already given an adequate explanation of this point [in the Second Reply], where I distinguished perceiving something clearly from remembering having perceived it clearly at an earlier time.At first we are sure that God exists because we are attending to the arguments that prove this; but afterwards all we need to be certain that God exists is our memory that we did earlier perceive this clearly. This memory wouldn’t be sufficient if we didn’t know that God exists and isn’t a deceiver.
Chapter 5: Princess Elisabeth
Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia, Countess Palatine, Abbess of Herford
“I have so far found that only you understand perfectly all the treatises which I have published up to this time… I know of no mind but yours to which all things are equally evident, and which I therefore deservedly term incomparable.”
—René Descartes, Principles of Philosophy (1644), dedication to Princess Elisabeth.
Elisabeth, Princess Palatine of Bohemia, was a remarkable woman living during remarkable times. She experienced a devastating and protracted war, years of exile, political strife, executions of family members, and a final period as a political authority and protector of religious refugees. She was known alternately as a great intellectual, a philosopher, a “Cartesian Princess,” and a political figure. With familial connection to Prussia and England, her family placed her at the very center of European political life in the 17th century. But Elisabeth was not content merely to play the role of a member of a royal household. From an early age, she took various measures to ensure that she would sit at the nexus of European intellectual life as well. As the head of Herford Abbey, she courageously used her personal influence to provide refuge for persecuted religious groups—such as the Labadists and the Quakers—who were considered too radical by many religious and political institutions in the late 17th century. She spent years building an immense intellectual network through her personal connections, her correspondence, and her own actions as the leader of the Abbey. She personally met with, corresponded with, or was known to, the following major figures from the 17th century: Descartes, Leibniz, Malebranche, Henry More, Anne Conway, Francis Mercury van Helmont, William Penn, Constantjn Huygens, and Anna Maria van Schurman. In many ways, then, to study Elisabeth’s life is to study European intellectual life in the 17th century.
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Contents
- 1. Biography
- 2. Primary Sources Guide
- 3. Secondary Sources Guide
- 4. Teaching & Philosophy
- 5. Correspondence Guide
- 6. Connections
- 7. Online Resources
1. Biography
Born in Heidelberg just after Christmas Day in 1618, Elisabeth was the oldest daughter of a family that blended Bohemian and English royalty. Her father was Frederick V, Prince of Bohemia, and her mother, Elisabeth Stuart, was the daughter of James I of England. Through her parents, she was connected to several of the most important events of the century. Most prominently, her family’s fortunes were intertwined with the Thirty Years War, one of the most tumultuous events in Europe during the 17th century. In his famous History of England, David Hume called that war “the most destructive in modern annals” (Hume 1850, V: chapter 61, page 454). The War upended her family’s life, sending them away from Prussia into exile in Holland, where they would remain for years. Her family also gave her intriguing connections to many key early modern figures. For instance, her father fought for King Gustav of Sweden, who was the father of Queen Christina, the patron of Descartes near the end of his life and a great inspiration to women intellectuals throughout the early modern period. Elisabeth’s maternal uncle was King Charles I of England, who was beheaded in 1649 during the Civil War and his struggles with Parliament. Elisabeth’s cousin was crowned King Charles II of England in 1660 after the Civil War had ended and the monarchy was restored. Indeed, in 1649 alone, Elisabeth and her family were involved in two of the most momentous events in the whole century: through her brother, she was connected to the eventual development of the peace treaty of Westphalia, which ended the Thirty Years War; and through her mother, to the execution of Charles I that same year (in February). Suffice it to say that Elisabeth lived during chaotic and difficult times.
During her early years, Elisabeth had a broad education through tutors and her family connections. For instance, she learned mathematics from Jan Stampioen, who also tutored Constantijn Huygens, an important Dutch figure and the father of the great mathematician and philosopher Christiaan. Before long, Elisabeth became known as “La Grecque” for her love of philosophy and knowledge of Greek. After a childhood in Germany, largely in Heidelberg and Berlin, her family went into exile in Holland, living in The Hague in the 1630s. During this time period, she was mentored by the great philosopher, linguist, and polymath Anna Maria van Schurman (the first woman to attend university in Europe), who advised Elisabeth on a range of subjects and suggested numerous readings for her to consider. Years later, Elisabeth returned this generosity by providing van Schurman and some of her colleagues with safe haven in the face of potential religious persecution. Elisabeth demonstrated a keen interest in philosophical and intellectual controversy and discussion. Life in The Hague turned out to be the first crucial stage of Elisabeth’s intellectual development, for she used this opportunity to shape a major intellectual community of exiles in The Hague. For instance, in 1634, at the age of only sixteen, she arranged a debate between Descartes and a Protestant Scottish minister named John Dury. Over the course of the next few years, she forged personal and intellectual connections with a wide variety of figures, including Descartes, Leibniz, Constantijn Huygens, and many others.
Binnenhof, The Hague
Elisabeth’s intense intellectual life at The Hague ended in 1646, when she left the court and resettled in Berlin for a short time, before returning to her birthplace in Heidelberg. It was her last move to Herford that enabled her once again to create a rich and thriving community of intellectual and religious exiles. Henry More became aware of Elisabeth’s philosophical talents, and there is evidence that More hoped she would accompany her mother, Queen of Bohemia, on her trip to England so that they could speak in person. These details are found in a letter that John Worthington sent to Samuel Hartlib in May of 1661 (Worthington 1847—, I: 311), which means that More’s anticipation of her visit was public knowledge to some extent. Instead of moving with her mother to England in 1661, however, Elisabeth chose instead to move to Herford in Germany. This was a fateful decision, as she became the Abbess of the convent there in 1667. This meant, as Carol Pal remarks in her Republic of Women, that Elisabeth would become the Calvinist leader of an abbey in Lutheran Germany harboring religious exiles such as Quakers and Labadists. In an age of religious wars that led to massive migration of refugees in Europe and the Americas, Elisabeth used her influence to protect those who were labeled as heretics. How Elisabeth understood religion and theology, and connected them with both politics and philosophy, is a pressing question that has yet to be fully answered.
Herford Abbey
In philosophical circles, Elisabeth is best known for her correspondence with Descartes (see section 5.1). Indeed, to scholars in the 18th century, she was known as “the leader of the cartésiennes,” the women who were counted as followers of Descartes (Harth 1992, 67). But she also forged connections, both personal and intellectual, with a remarkable range of other figures, both canonical (eventually) and otherwise. For instance, Elisabeth met Leibniz in person during her visit to Hanover in the winter of 1678 (Aiton 1985, 90-1), at which point she introduced him to Malebranche’s Conversations Chrestiennes. Leibniz later wrote Elisabeth a long letter that same year expressing his reactions to Malebranche’s ideas (Leibniz 1926, 433-38). As one would expect, because Leibniz was already developing a critical attitude toward Cartesian ideas in philosophy, he did not see eye-to-eye with Malebranche on a number of issues. This event then led to an exchange of letters between Malebranche and Leibniz in 1679 (Leibniz 1926, 2-1: 472-480). Elisabeth’s connections to figures like Descartes, Leibniz, and Penn are very well known, having been covered in depth in both history of philosophy scholarship (the former) and the history of Quakerism (the latter).
Elisabeth’s connections with women intellectuals during her era are equally impressive and significant, but perhaps less well known. For instance, she became acquainted with Henry More, the theologian and philosopher in Cambridge, who then introduced her to other influential figures, including the Viscountess Anne Conway. Having introduced van Helmont to Henry More in 1670, it seems that Conway may have sent Elisabeth some of More’s recent work the following year (Hutton & Nicholson 1992, 340). More and Conway corresponded extensively, and they mention Elisabeth on occasion (Hutton & Nicholson 1992, 498,). Elisabeth’s familial and intellectual networks intersected in this case: Elisabeth’s mother, Elizabeth Stuart, had been a friend of the first Viscount Conway (Hutton 2004, 154). In tandem, the Quaker leader Robert Barclay mentions Conway in some of his letters to Elisabeth (Hutton & Nicholson 1992, 435-36). As part of Barclay’s effort to convince Elisabeth to join the Quaker movement, he tells her of the conversion of Conway. Elisabeth apparently never met or corresponded with Anne Conway directly, but it is certainly significant that they knew of one another. Conway’s close friend Francis Mercury van Helmont, who was introduced to the Quaker movement during a visit to Elisabeth’s family’s court in Heidelberg in 1659 (Hutton 2004, 178-79), and who converted to Quakerism with Conway, also become close with Elisabeth, attending her at her deathbed (with Leibniz) in 1680. Indeed, van Helmont visited Elisabeth shortly after Conway’s death (Hutton 2004, 154).
Elisabeth’s connection to Anna Maria van Schurman, who was the first woman to attend university in the Netherlands, and who was known as “the light of Utrecht,” lasted her whole life (see especially Pal 2012). We know, at least partly through correspondence, that the young Elisabeth sought van Schurman’s advice about what to study, which classical authors to read, and in general how to fashion her own education (Pal 2012, 72-74). That fact alone, of course, is worthy of note, since it shows that Elisabeth’s inability to obtain an education through an institution of learning in some formal way was no obstacle to her obtaining a serious education – involving history, literature, philosophy, etc. – through her own means.
Through her family, Elisabeth’s connections to a remarkable group of intellectuals extended even into the 18th century in certain respects, after her death. For instance, in addition to her personal connection with Leibniz, and their correspondence, Elisabeth’s sister Sophie was tutored by Leibniz. Indeed, during the Hanoverian Succession, which involved the arrival of Sophie’s son George I in England in 1714 (Brown 2004, 263-65), there was considerable discussion in London at that time of whether Leibniz would accompany George’s move to England. Those in Isaac Newton’s famous circle in London were especially concerned that Leibniz’s connections with Sophie and her family might mean that he would not only move to England, but also wield considerable influence under the new regime. In the end, Leibniz did not move to England, but he would make an important decision that deepened his connections with Elisabeth’s extended familial world. Because Sophie’s son, George I, ended up in England alone – George’s wife Sophie-Dorothea remained in Germany at the Castle of Ahlden when he moved to England to take the throne – it turned out that Princess Caroline of Wales was the highest ranking female royal in England at the time. So in 1715, instead of trying to influence events in England directly, Leibniz wrote Princess Caroline a famous letter bemoaning the decay of religion and the emergence of dangerous philosophical ideas in England at that time. Leibniz mentioned especially the ideas of John Locke and Isaac Newton, who at that time was “Sir Isaac” and the President of the Royal Society in London. Caroline’s previous intellectual connection with Leibniz, including her admiration for his Theodicy, made her the perfect choice for his epistolary foray into combatting Newtonian philosophy. Indeed, Princess Caroline met Leibniz in Berlin in the late 17thcentury, where she was living under the protection and care of Sophie-Charlotte, Elisabeth’s niece. And when Sophie-Charlotte died in 1705, leaving Leibniz bereft after a long friendship, Caroline became perhaps his closest female interlocutor. As Leibniz expected, his letter to Princess Caroline was shared with Newton and his circle in London. In this way, the famous the Leibniz-Clarke correspondence was born. There is strong evidence that various editions of the Leibniz-Clarke correspondence, of which there are many, exclude Princess Caroline from the history in which she participated, even to the point of failing to note for readers that Leibniz’ “first letter” to Clarke was in fact written to Princess Caroline and not to Clarke at all (Bertoloni Meli 1999, 470)! Recent scholarship has begun to rectify such errors, noting the importance of Leibniz’s relation to, and discussions with, Princess Caroline (Brown 2004). In the end, Leibniz sent four more letters to Princess Caroline, who shared them with Newton’s circle, and Clarke sent replies to each of them. So, Caroline served as the intermediary for the most famous philosophical correspondence of the 18th century. Intriguingly, Sophie herself had served as the intermediary for a correspondence between Leibniz and Paul Pellisson, an assistant to Louis XIV (Bertoloni Meli 2002, 456-59).
Elisabeth’s Family, 1620
The two Princesses, Elisabeth and Caroline, have another important feature in common. Like Elisabeth before her, Princess Caroline was under considerable pressure to convert to Catholicism in order to make a marriage into an important political and royal family possible, but she ultimately refused and the marriage was called off. Notably, both Elisabeth and Princess Caroline made famous pronouncements later in life about their commitment to their religion. When pressed on the point about her conversion later in life, Elisabeth famously noted that she wouldn’t convert when she stood to gain a kingdom, so she would obviously not do so later in life when she stood to gain nothing. In an equally witty remark, Princess Caroline took offense at a comment by the Bishop of London after she arrived in England, noting: “He is very impertinent to suppose that I, who refused to be Empress for the sake of the Protestant Religion, don’t understand it fully” (cited in Bertoloni Meli 1999, 473). Both Elisabeth and Caroline made it clear that they would not tolerate anyone who underestimated their commitment and understanding of Protestantism.
Like nearly all women in early modern Europe—Anna Maria van Schurman in Utrecht and Laura Bassi in Bologna are important exceptions—Elisabeth was prevented from joining the intellectual communities of universities and scientific academies in her day. Even her immense influence as a member of a family that sat at the intersection of two major royal households did not allow her to break through those strictures. What is remarkable, then, is Elisabeth’s successful efforts at forming intellectual communities of her own, first at the exiled court at The Hague in her youth, and many years later during her time in Herford. The story of women participating in, and even shaping, political, intellectual and religious life through the famous salons of Europe is well known. But Elisabeth was much more than a salonière: she managed to create, not once but twice, a flourishing community of intellectual leaders and religious exiles through her powerful personality and influence. This meant that her exclusion from the institutions of European intellectual life was dramatically minimized: she simply created a robust intellectual life around herself. But there is one important consequence of the fact that so much of Elisabeth’s intellectual life was conducted through events in person: we often have very little trace of her many discussions in the historical record. We know that she had numerous meetings with a myriad of intriguing figures, including Descartes, Leibniz, William Penn, van Schurman, and many others. Yet we know very little about the questions that she asked, the arguments that she made, the positions that she explored, and so on. Through the documents, correspondences, manuscripts and publications that have survived and that are currently known, Elisabeth has become a great philosophical heroine to many scholars and students. Indeed, she was famous in her own lifetime for her philosophical abilities and for her protection of religious exiles. She even became an inspiration to figures in the 18th century, such as Émilie Du Châtelet. Nonetheless, for all that influence and fame, one thing seems painfully clear: her full story has yet to be written.
Bust of Elisabeth in front of Herford Abbey
References
- Hayes, Julie C. 1999. Reading the French Enlightenment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Hutton, Sarah. 2004. Anne Conway: a woman philosopher. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Hume, David. 1850. History of England. Six volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa. 2013. “Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2014 Edition), edited by Edward Zalta. Web. Accessed July 1, 2017. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/elisabeth-bohemia/
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
1.2 Portraits
Given Princess Elisabeth’s royal status, it is not surprising that several portraits of her exist. Some of these have been lost, but we are fortunate that most are extant today. We include two here that have been made available for use on the Project Vox website. See the References below for other sources of Elisabeth portraiture.
Portrait of Princess Elisabeth as Diana
This portrait is dated in 1642, “shortly after the 1631 group portrait of the four children of the ‘Winter King’” (Judson and Ekkart 1999, 269-70). As indicated by its title, the painting depicts Princess Elisabeth as Diana, the Roman goddess of hunting. Typically portrayed as a young woman with a bow and arrow, Diana was known for, as a virgin and an unmarried goddess, chastity and purity.
This portrait is attributed to the artist Gerard van Honthorst, a Dutch painter at the Hague. He produced many royal portraits of her family: in addition to painting Princess Elisabeth, Honthorst also painted King Charles I (Elisabeth’s uncle), Frederick V (Elisabeth’s father), Prince Rupert (Elisabeth’s brother), Queen Elizabeth (Elisabeth’s mother), and Louise Hollandine (Elisabeth’s sister). This was possible as Honthorst was recorded to be “at the court of the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia, painting portraits of the family and teaching drawing to their children” (Pal 2012, 71).
Princess Elisabeth as Diana
Elizabeth, Princess of the Palatinate
This undated portrait, currently housed at the National Portrait Gallery in the United Kingdom, was painted sometime in the mid-seventeenth century. This painting is attributed to the studio of Gerard van Honthorst, while it has an engraving in the frame by painter and engraver Crispiaen Queboren, who was active in Utrecht, dating to the same time period.
The Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery bought this work in February 1872 first under the title of “Sophia, Electress of Hanover” (Elisabeth’s sister, tutored by Leibniz). It was only in 1914 that the portrait was correctly identified as Elisabeth when its similarities to another portrait of the princess were noticed (Piper 1963, 119).
Elisabeth, Princess of the Palatinate
References
- Judson, Jay Richard, and Rudolf E. O. Ekkart. 1999. Gerrit van Honthorst (1592-1656). Doornspijk: Davaco.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. New York/Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Piper, David. 1963. Catalogue of seventeenth-century portraits in the National Portrait Gallery, 1625-1714. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- The British Museum. n.d. “Crispijn van Queborn (Biographical details).” Accessed October 23, 2018. http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/search_the_collection_database/term_details.aspx?bioId=110646.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
1.3 Chronology
DATE | EVENT |
26 December 1618 | Princess Elisabeth is born in Heidelberg Castle as the oldest daughter to Frederick V, the Elector of the Palatinate, and Elizabeth Stuart, the daughter of James I of England. |
8 November 1620 | The weakly defended Bohemia is taken by the Spanish Ambrogio Spinola as part of the Thirty Years’ War. To escape the invaders, Elisabeth flees with her family to Brandenburg, then her grandmother’s charge in Krossen. |
1621-1622 | Elisabeth’s uncle Prince Maurice, Stadthalter of the Dutch Republic, offers the royal family refuge at the Hague. Most of Elisabeth’s family move there, but Elisabeth stays in Krossen, the residence of her cousin Princess Hedvig Sophia Augusta of Sweden. Elisabeth’s “natural gravity and dignity” is said to have been disciplined at Krossen. |
1627 | Elisabeth and her brother Charles Louis leave Krossen and join their siblings at The Hague. |
1627-1635 | Elisabeth’s education at The Hague consists of learning Latin, Greek, French, English, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, and German; being trained in logic and natural science; and being versed in the principles of Heidelberg Catechism, the latter of which formed her Protestant religious outlook for the rest of her life. Even at an early age, Elisabeth impresses everyone with her love of Greek and philosophy, earning her the nickname “la Greque.” |
1633-1634 | Elisabeth befriends Anna Maria van Schurman, probably when the latter visited Leiden to give a lecture or to hold a dispute in the great hall of the University. |
1637 | Descartes publishes his Discourse on the Method. |
1639 | Princess Elisabeth and Anna Maria van Schurman commence correspondence. |
1640 | Elisabeth and Descartes meet for the first time, when the latter visits The Hague. Elisabeth was already interested in his earlier philosophical writings. |
1641 | Descartes publishes Meditations on first philosophy. |
1643 | Correspondence between Elisabeth and Descartes begins with Elisabeth querying Descartes about the coherence of his account of the human being presented in the Sixth Meditation. |
1644 | Descartes’s Principles of Philosophy, dedicated to Elisabeth, is published. |
1 July 1646 | Leibniz is born in Leipzig. |
7-17 September 1646 | Princess Elisabeth moves to Berlin, Brandenburg. Elisabeth introduces Cartesianism to Berlin, then far behind in culture, thus strengthening the intellectual community there. |
1649 | Descartes’s The Passions of the Soul, prompted by and refined through discussions with Elisabeth, is published. |
1649 | Elisabeth’s uncle Charles I is executed in England, following Oliver Cromwell’s victory over Imperial troops. Hearing the news, Elisabeth falls into serious illness. |
11 February 1650 | Descartes passes away at the court of Queen Christina of Sweden, the daughter of King Gustav, for whom Elisabeth’s father fought earlier in the century. |
1650 or 1652 | Elisabeth returns to Heidelberg by invitation of her sister Sophie. At the University of Heidelberg, which her brother Charles Louise reconstructed from the ruins of the Thirty Years War, she engages with teachers and actively disseminates Cartesianism to students. |
1657 or 1658 | Louise Hollande converts to Catholicism and disappears from her mother at The Hague. Both the Queen and Elisabeth are greatly distressed, though Elisabeth did not bear any grudges later. Because of her departure, Elisabeth is now considered for candidacy to the Abbess of Herford Abbey. |
1661 | Elisabeth is appointed successor to her cousin, Elizabeth Louise, to the position of Abbess of Herford. |
1667 | Elisabeth is formally named Abbess of the Abbey at Herford after Elizabeth Louise’s death. |
1670 | Elisabeth provides Anna Maria van Schurman and her Labadists asylum at the Abbey; this is to the dismay of her family, who are not sympathetic towards “mystical doctrine.” |
1676 | Elisabeth provides asylum to the Quakers at the Abbey. |
4 May 1676 | Anna Maria van Schurman dies in Friesland. |
1677 | William Penn visits Elisabeth at Herford Abbey. |
Winter 1678 | Elisabeth meets Leibniz. |
1680 | Leibniz visits Elisabeth at Herford. |
8 February 1680 | Elisabeth dies at age 62. Her sister Sophie announces Elisabeth’s death (on February 12). Francis Mercury van Helmont, a close friend of Anne Conway’s, and Leibniz attend to Elisabeth at her deathbed. |
1714 | Sophie’s son, Elisabeth’s nephew, becomes George I of England as part of the famous Hanoverian Succession. |
14 November 1716 | Leibniz dies in Hanover. |
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
2. Primary Sources Guide
Although Elisabeth was a prolific correspondent—she wrote to everyone from philosophers like Descartes and Leibniz to Quaker leaders like William Penn to various members of her extended, royal family—she never published a work of her own. In addition, scholars have not found any manuscripts of hers, so her unpublished extant writings consist entirely of correspondence and various personal items. As for her correspondence, many of her letters have gone missing or were destroyed during the course of the Thirty Years War and her family’s long exile in Holland. Enough of her correspondence with various figures did survive for Madame Blaze de Bury to compose Memoirs of Princess Palatine (1853), the first biography of Elisabeth. Then, by sheer chance in the late 1800s, an antique bookseller was rummaging through the archives of Rosendael castle near Arnheim, in the Netherlands, and found a bundle of papers. The French philosopher Alexandre Foucher de Careil recognized these papers as her responses to Descartes. Foucher de Careil’s book, Descartes, la princesse Élisabeth et la reine Christine d’après des lettres inédites (1879), thus became the first publication dedicated to their complete exchange. The most important modern edition of the Elisabeth-Descartes correspondence was published in 2007 by Professor Lisa Shapiro.
References
- Broad, Jacqueline. 2002. Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
2.1 Primary Sources
Dedications to Elisabeth
- Descartes, René. 1644. Principia Philosophiae. Amsterdam: Louis Elzevir.
- Reynolds, Edwards. 1640. Treatise of the Passions and the Faculties of the Soule of Man. London: Robert Bostock.
Selected editions of Elisabeth-centered correspondence
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street.
- Descartes, René. 1989. Correspondance avec Elisabeth. Paris: Garnier-Flammarion.
- —. 1955. Lettres sur la morale: corréspondence avec la princesse Elisabeth, Chanut et la reine Christine. Paris: Hatier-Boivin.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1862. Descartes et la Princesse Palatine, ou de l’influence du cartesianisme sur les femmes au XVIIe siecle. Paris: Auguste Durand.
- —. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition. Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London and New York: John Lane.
- Neel, Marguerite. 1946. Descartes et la princess Elisabeth. Paris: Editions Elzevier.
- Nye, Andrea. 1999. The Princess and the Philosopher: Letters of Elisabeth of the Palatine to René Descartes. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.
- —. 2000. Elisabeth, Princess Palatine: Letters to René Descartes. Presenting Women Philosophers. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
- Petit, Leon. 1969. Descartes et la Princesse Elisabeth: roman d’amour vecu. Paris: A-G Nizet.
- Shapiro, Lisa. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Other primary sources
- Adam, Charles. 1917. Descartes et ses amities feminines. Paris: Boivin.
- Adam, Charles, and Paul Tannery. 1897-1913. Oeuvres de Descartes. Eleven volumes. Paris: Leopold Cerf.
- Baker, L. M., ed. 1953. The letters of Elizabeth, queen of Bohemia. London: Bodley Head.
- Barclay, Robert. 1870. Reliquiae Barclaianae: Correspondence of Colonel David Barclay and Robert Barclay of Urie. London: Winter & Bailey.
- Benger, Elizabeth. 1825. Memoirs of Elizabeth Stuart, Queen of Bohemia, Daughter of James I. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green.
- Bromley, George. 1787. A Collection of Original Royal Letters. London: J. Stockdale.
- Creese, Anna. 1993. “The Letters of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine: A Seventeenth Century Correspondence.” PhD diss., Princeton University.
- Descartes, René. 1657-67. Lettres de Monsieur Descartes. Paris: Angot.
- —. 1984–1991. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. I–III. edited by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothof, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny. London: Cambridge University Press.
- —. 2013. Der Briefwechsel zwischen René Descartes und Elisabeth von der Pfalz. Hamburg: Meiner.
- de Swarte, Victor, and Emile Boutroux. 1904. Descartes, directeur spirituel. Correspondance avec la princesse Palatine et la reine Christine de Suéde. Paris: Félix Alcan.
- Gorst-Williams, Jessica. 1977. Elisabeth: The Winter Queen. London: Abelard.
- Great Britain Public Record Office. 1858. Calendar of State Papers, Domestic series, of the reign of Charles I. London: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, & Roberts.
- Gummere, A. M. 1912. “Letter from William Penn to Elizabeth, Princess Palatine, Abbess of the Protestant Convent of Hereford, 1677, with an Introduction.” Bulletin of Friends’ Historical Society of Philadelphia 4(2), 82-97. Friends Historical Association. Retrieved December 2, 2017, from Project MUSE database.
- Hauck, Carl. 1908. Die Briefe der Kinder des Winterkönigs, herausgegeben und mit einer Einleitung versehen von Karl Hauck. Heidelberg: G. Koester.
- Hodgkin, Thomas. 1898. George Fox. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
- Hume, David. 1850. History of England. Six volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers.
- Hutton, Sarah, and Marjorie Hope Nicholson, eds. 1992. The Conway Letters. Revised edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Huygens, Constantjin. De briefwisseling van Constantijn Huygens, (1608-1687), Vols. V – 28. Edited by J.A. Worp. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën, 1916.
- Keblusek, Marika. 1997. The Bohemian Court in The Hague. Princely Display: The Court of Frederik Hendrik of Orange and Amalia van Solms. M. K. a. J. Zijlmans. The Hague: Waanders.
- Klopp, Onno, ed. 1874. Correspondance de Leibniz avec l’électrice Sophie de Brunswick-Lunebourg. Hanover: Klindworth; Londres: Williams & Norgate; Paris: F. Lincksieck.
- Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm. 1926. Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe. Zweite Reihe. Philosophischer Briefwechsel. Berlin.
- Malebranche, Nicolas. 1961. Oeuvres completes de Malebranche. Paris: Vrin.
- Müller, Frederick. 1876. 27 onuitgegeven brieven aan Descartes, 336-9. De Nederlandsche Spectator. ‘S Gravenhage: D. A Thieme and Martinus Nijhoff.
- Penn, William. 1695. An Account of W. Penn’s travails in Holland and Germany Anno MDCLXXVII, 2nd corrected edition. London: T. Sowle.
- Robinet, André. 1955. Malebranche et Leibniz: Relations personnelles, 103-5. Paris: J. Vrin.
- Sophia (Electress, consort of Ernest Augustus, Elector of Hanover). 1888. Memoirs of Sophia, electress of Hanover, 1630-1680. London: R. Bentley & Son.
- Sorbiére, Samuel. 1660. Lettres et discours de M. de Sorbiére sur diverses matieres curieuses. Paris: Chez Francois Clousier.
- —. 1694. Sorberiana, ou bons mots, recontes agreables, pensees judicieuse et observations curieuses de M Sobiere. Amsterdam: George Gallet.
- Strachan, Michael. 1989. Sir Thomas Roe, 1581-1644: A Life. Salisbury: Michael Russell Ltd.
- Strickland, Lloyd, ed. 2011. Leibniz and the Two Sophies: The Philosophical Correspondence. Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies.
- Verbeek, Theo, Erik-Jan Bos and Jeroen van de Ven, eds. 2003. The Correspondence of René Descartes 1643. Utrecht: Zeno Institute for Philosophy.
- Webb, Maria. 1896. The Fells of Swarthmoore Hall and Their Friends: With an Account of Their Ancestor, Annew Askew, the Martyr. A Portraiture of Religious and Family Life in the Seventeenth Century, Comp. Chiefly from Original Letters and Other Documents Never Before Published. Philadelphia: H. Longstreth.
- Worthington, John. Diary and Correspondence, edited by J. Crossley and R.C. Christie. Manchester: Chetham Society Remains, 1847-86.
- Schurman, Anna Maria van. 1652. Nobiliss. virginis Annae Mariae à Schurman. Opuscula Hebraea, Graeca, Latina, Gallica, prosaica & metrica. ex officina Joannis à Waesberge.
- —. 1998. Whether a Christian Woman Should Be Educated, edited and translated by Joyce L. Irwin. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
3. Secondary Sources Guide
Because of her famous correspondence with Descartes, interpreters and scholars of Elisabeth’s life and thought have often placed her into a subsidiary position vis-à-vis the canonical French philosopher. Indeed, this occurred already during her own lifetime, as figures like Samuel Hartlib and Henry More described her as the “Cartesian Princess,” and it continued into the next century, when she was labeled the leaders of the “cartésiennes.” Her correspondence with Descartes is certainly a major source for our understanding of her ideas. But there are many other aspects of her life, including her correspondence with various other figures, and her actions during her time as the primary authority over the Herford Abbey, that transcend the standard characterization of her in relation to Descartes. Happily, the scholarly literature on Elisabeth as an important intellectual figure in her own right has been expanding in recent years; it was given a substantial boost by the publication of Lisa Shapiro’s edition of the complete correspondence between Elisabeth and Descartes. Shapiro treats Elisabeth as a philosopher with views of her own, and not merely as the critic of Descartes. There are also helpful online guides to Elisabeth’s life and the literature concerning it. These include the online entries by Rainer Pape, the director of Herford’s Municipal Museum, written in German; and Lisa Shapiro’s article about Elisabeth in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
References
- Broad, Jacqueline. 2002. Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Pape, Rainer. 30 March 2004. “Elisabeth of Palatinate (1618-1680)”. Westfälische Lebensbilder. Web. Accessed June 30, 2017. http://www.lwl.org/westfaelische-geschichte/portal/Internet/finde/langDatensatz.php?urlID=1517&url_tabelle=tab_person
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
- —. 2013. “Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2014 Edition), edited by Edward Zalta. Web. Accessed July 1, 2017. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/elisabeth-bohemia/
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
3.1 Secondary Sources
Selected secondary sources: metaphysics, epistemology, philosophy of mind
- Alanen, Lilli. 2003. Descartes’s Concept of Mind. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
- Alexandrescu, Vlad. 2012. “What Someone May Have Whispered in Elizabeth’s Ear”. In Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy 4. Edited by Daniel Garber and Donald Rutherford. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Apostalova, Iva. 2010. “Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia and Margaret Cavendish: The Feminine Touch in Seventeenth-Century Epistemology”. Maritain Studies 26: 83–97.
- Ariew, Roger. 1983. “Mind-Body Interaction in Cartesian Philosophy: A Reply to Garber’s ‘Understanding Interaction: What Descartes Should Have Told Elisabeth’.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 21: 33-38.
- Bertoloni Meli, Domenico. “Caroline, Leibniz and Clarke.” Journal of the History of Ideas 60 (1999): 469-486.
- —. “Newton and the Leibniz-Clarke correspondence.” In I.B. Cohen and George Smith, editors. The Cambridge Companion to Newton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
- Boros, Garbor. 2003. “Love As a Guiding Principle of Descartes’s Late Philosophy.” History of Philosophy Quarterly 20: 149-163.
- Broughton, Janet, and Ruth Mattern. 1978. “Reinterpreting Descartes on the Notion of the Union of Mind and Body.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 16: 23-32.
- Cunning, David. 2007. “‘Semel in vita’: Descartes’ Stoic View on the Place of Philosophy in Human Life.” Faith and Philosophy: Journal of the Society of Christian Philosophers 24: 165-184.
- Franco, A. B. 2006. “Descartes’ Theory of Passions.” PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh.
- Garber, Daniel. 1992. Descartes’ metaphysical physics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
- —. 1983. “Understanding interaction: what Descartes should have told Elisabeth.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 21 (Supplement): 15-32.
- Garber, Daniel, and Margaret Wilson. 1998. “Mind-Body Problems”. The Cambridge History of Seventeenth Century Philosophy, edited by Daniel Garber and Michael Ayers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Harth, Erica. 1992. Cartesian Women: Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
- Hatfield, Gary. 1992. “Descartes’ physiology and its relation to his psychology”. The Cambridge Companion to Descartes, edited by John Cottingham. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 335-370.
- Hayes, Julie C. 1999. Reading the French Enlightenment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Heil, John, and David Robb 2013. “Mental Causation”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2014 Edition), edited by Edward Zalta. Web. Accessed July 14, 2017. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/mental-causation/
- Hutton, Sarah, 2005. “Women Philosophers and the Early Reception of Descartes: Anne Conway and Princess Elisabeth”. In Receptions of Descartes: Cartesianism and anti-Cartesianism in Early Modern Europe. Tad M. Schmaltz, ed. London; New York: Routledge.
- Jeffery, Renee. 2017. “The Origins of the Modern Emotions: Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and the Embodied Mind.” History of European Ideas 43: 547-559.
- Johnstone, Albert A. 1992. “The bodily nature of the self or what Descartes should have conceded Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia”. In Giving the body its due. Edited by Maxine Sheets-Johnstone. Albany: State University of New York Press. pp. 16-47.
- Lee, Kyoo. 2011. “‘Cogito Interruptus’: The Epistolary Body in the Elisabeth-Descartes Correspondence, June 22, 1645-November 3, 1645.” philoSophia: A Journal of Continental Feminism 1: 173-194.
- Lloyd, Genevieve. 1984. The Man of Reason: ‘Male’ and ‘Female’ in Western Philosophy. London: Methuen.
- Mattern, Ruth. 1978. “Descartes’s correspondence with Elizabeth: concerning both the union and distinction of mind and body”. In Descartes: Critical and Interpretive Essays, edited by Michael Hooker. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. pp. 212-222.
- Nadler, Steven, ed. 1993. Causation in Early Modern Philosophy: Cartesianism, Occasionalism, and Preestablished Harmony. University Park: Penn State University Press.
- Nye, Andrea. 1996. “Polity and Prudence: The Ethics of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine”. In Hypatia’s Daughters: Fifteen Hundred Years of Women Philosophers. Edited by Linda Lopez McAlister. Bloomington: Indiana Univ Press.
- O’Neill, Eileen. 1987. “Mind-Body Interaction and Metaphysical Consistency: A defense of Descartes”. Journal of the History of Philosophy 25: 227-245.
- —. 1998. “Disappearing Ink. Early Modern Women Philosophers and their Fate in History”. In Philosophy in a Feminist Voice: Critiques and Reconstructions, edited by J. A. Kourany. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
- —. 1998. “Women Cartesians, ‘Feminine Philosophy’ and Historical Exclusion”. In Feminist Interpretations of René Descartes. Edited by Susan Bordo. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press: 232-257.
- Radner, Daisie. 1971. “Descartes’ Notion of the Union of Mind and Body”. Journal of the History of Philosophy 9: 159-171.
- Richardson, R. C. 1982. “The ‘Scandal’ of Cartesian Interactionism”. Mind 92: 20-37.
- Rozemond, Marleen. 1998. Descartes’s Dualism. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
- —. 1999. “Descartes on Mind-Body Interaction: What’s the Problem?”. Journal of the History of Philosophy 37: 435-467.
- Schiebinger, Londa. 1989. The Mind Has No Sex? Women in the Origins of Modern Science. Cambridge, MA; London, England: Harvard University Press.
- Schmitter, A. 2010. “17th and 18th Century Theories of Emotions”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2016 Edition), edited by Edward Zalta. Web. Accessed July 13, 2017. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/emotions-17th18th/
- Shapiro, Lisa. 1999. “Princess Elizabeth and Descartes: The Union of Soul and Body and the Practice of Philosophy.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 7: 503-520.
- Tollefsen, Deborah. 1999. “Princess Elisabeth and the Problem of Mind-Body Interaction.” Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy 14: 59-77.
- Wartenburg, Thomas E. 1999. “Descartes’s Mood: The Question of Feminism in the Correspondence with Elisabeth”. In Feminist Interpretations of René Descartes. Edited by Susan Bordo. University Park: Penn State University Press.
- Wilson, Margaret. 1978. Descartes. New York: Routledge.
- Verbeek, Theo. 1988. Descartes and the Dutch: Early Reactions to Cartesianism (1637-1650). Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.
- Yandell, David. 1997. “What Descartes Really Told Elisabeth: Mind-Body Union as a Primitive Notion.” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 5: 249-273.
Selected secondary sources: ethics and political philosophy
- Brown, Gregory. “[…] et je serai tousjours la mere pour vous. Personal, Political and Philosophical Dimensions of the Leibniz-Caroline Correspondence.” In Leibniz and his Correspondents, edited by Paul Lodge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.
- Harth, Erica. 1992. Cartesian Women: Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
- —. 1999. “Cartesian Women”. In Feminist Interpretations of René Descartes, edited by Susan Bordo. University Park: Penn State University Press: 213-231.
- Levi, Anthony. 1964. French Moralists: The Theory of the Passions, 1585-1649. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
- Marshall, John. 1998. Descartes’s Moral Theory. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
- Mason, S.F. 1974. “Science and religion in seventeenth-century England.” In The Intellectual Revolution of the Seventeenth Century. Edited by Charles Webster. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
- Mesnard, Pierre. 1936. Essai sur la morale de Descartes. Paris: Boivin & Cie.
- Rodis-Lewis, Genevieve. 1957. La morale de Descartes. Paris: PUF.
- Schmaltz, Ted. (forthcoming). “Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia on the Cartesian Mind: Interaction, Happiness, Freedom”. In Feminist History of Philosophy: The Recovery and Evaluation of Women’s Philosophical Thought. Edited by Eileen O’Neill and Marcy Lascano. Dordrecht: Springer.
- Shapiro, Lisa. 2013. “Elisabeth, Descartes, et la psychologie morale du regret”. In Elisabeth de Boheme face a Descartes: Deux Philosophes. Edited by M-F. Pellegrin and D. Kolesnik. Paris: Vrin. pp. 155-169.
Selected secondary sources: biographical studies
- Aiton, E. J. 1985. Leibniz: a Biography. Bristol: A. Hilger.
- Gaukroger, Stephen. Descartes: an intellectual biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
- Hutton, Sarah. 2004. Anne Conway: a woman philosopher. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Marshall, R. K. 1998. The Winter Queen: The Life of Elizabeth of Bohemia, 1596-1662. Edinburgh: Scottish National Portrait Gallery.
- Morrah, Patrick. 1976. Elizabeth of Bohemia. London: Hodder and Stoughton.
- Goldstone, Nancy. 2018. Daughters of the Winter Queen: Four Remarkable Sisters, the Crown of Bohemia, and the Enduring Legacy of Mary, Queen of Scots. Boston: Little, Brown.
- Oman, Carola. 1938. Elizabeth of Bohemia. London: Hodder and Stoughton.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. New York/Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Rait, Robert, Ed. 1908. Five Stuart princesses: Margaret of Scotland, Elizabeth of Bohemia, Mary of Orange, Henrietta of Orleans, Sophia of Hanover. Westminster: A. Constable.
- Zedler, Beatrice. 1989. “The Three Princesses.” Hypatia 4: 28-63.
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4. Teaching & Philosophy
Elisabeth as Philosopher
The question of how one might treat Princess Elisabeth as a philosopher is especially pressing. First of all, Elisabeth did not publish philosophical works of her own—we have only her correspondence to discover her ideas textually, and she decided not to allow Clerselier to publish her side of the correspondence with Descartes when he gathered the latter’s letters for publication (Shapiro 2007, 2-8). Although early modern correspondence was usually a rather public affair – copies of letters often circulated widely, and were often published right after someone died, such as Clarke’s correspondence with Leibniz – Elisabeth decided, for whatever reason, to keep her correspondence with Descartes more or less private. This does not mean that we should not look to her correspondence to learn about her ideas; it simply means that other aspects of her life take on greater importance. We may wish to see if we can find other aspects of her life when looking for her ideas, whether philosophical or otherwise. And second, unlike many of the early modern philosophers who constitute the traditional canon, she was an important political and religious figure in her day and hailed from one of the most important royal families in all of northern Europe (including England). These two facts combine together to make her actions especially significant, and an especially intriguing place to look for her philosophical views.
Since Elisabeth did not publish anything during her lifetime, and did not write essays or manuscripts that survive, interpreters of her thought have focused primarily on her extant correspondence to determine her views on various philosophical questions. And her correspondence with Descartes is undoubtedly the most important source within that domain. The publication in 2007 of Lisa Shapiro’s complete edition of her correspondence with Descartes transformed our understanding of Elisabeth’s ideas, and helped to correct the fact that many editions of Descartes lacked her side of the correspondence altogether (Shapiro 2007). The discussion of her correspondence with Descartes can be found in section 5.1 However, there is another, less explored, avenue for understanding Elisabeth’s intellectual life and her philosophical ideas in particular. Because she was a figure of some authority during her time at Herford Abbey, she was unusually well placed to put various ideas into action. This leads us to ask: what do Elisabeth’s actions tell us about her philosophy? Answering that kind of question requires us to think about Elisabeth in an especially broad way. Suppose one has a case of a political figure, one who corresponded with various others, as one would expect, but who never published a work under his own name. We might look at the actions that the figure took, interpret them within their historical context, and see if we could derive from them a coherent political philosophy, or a coherent moral position, etc. Were the figure’s actions chaotic, or were they systematic? Did the figure explicitly or implicitly regard his own policies, actions, etc., as expressive of some coherent ideology or position? Or would the figure have simply regarded herself as making whatever decisions she could within certain constraints without seeing them as expressive of any coherent view? Of course, it is open to us, as readers of history and as readers of philosophy, to interpret things differently from the actors themselves. We might think that all things considered, the actions and policies of such a figure are in fact expressive of a coherent ideology, even if the figure herself never held that view, or even went so far as explicitly to deny it.
In order to pursue this line of thought, however, some important historical facts must first be acknowledged. Elisabeth’s time at the Abbey in Herford is well known, but it is often misunderstood. She was not merely in a position of authority in a religious institution; she was a political figure in an important sense as well. The facts are roughly as follows: For some time, there was an extensive discussion about whether Elisabeth could become effectively the second person in charge at the Abbey in Herford; it was a political as well as a religious question, and involved many important figures. With support from various parties, Elisabeth was elected to the position of second in command in May of 1661. She would eventually rise to become the Abbess herself, a position she held from March of 1667 until her death in 1680. Herford Abbey was in Lutheran territory, of course, but it was actually run by Calvinists beginning in the 17th century. It was founded in the 9th century, as a Catholic institution, and during the early years of the Reformation it was no longer affiliated with Catholicism. Beginning in the early 17th century, it became associated with Calvinism, or at any rate was run by women who were Calvinists. Most importantly, as Creese shows in detail (1993), the Abbey was in fact an independent institution: because of various political and religious changes in Prussia at that time following the end of the Thirty Year’s War, the Abbey was officially granted “imperial independence” (Reichunmittelsbarkeit) in the Peace of Westphalia. That fact meant that the Abbess reported only and directly to the Emperor himself. She was independent of any local authority. Signifying this status, the Abbess actually held the title of “Princess and Prelate of the Holy Roman Empire” (Creese 1993, 180-82). As William Penn noted, after a visit to Herford in 1671, Elisabeth governed “a small territory,” but in his view, she was suited to govern a larger one. The question is, what kind of governor was she?
Elisabeth did not use her position of authority merely to look after the Abbey and its inhabitants; she chose to take several courageous actions. After pleas from her old mentor and friend, the philosopher Anna Maria van Schurman, she agreed to provide a place of refuge for the Labadists, the followers of the radical theologian Jean de Labadie. She also provided refuge for Quakers, who were connected with William Penn, Robert Barclay and others. Elisabeth’s sister said that she was “the refuge of all the oppressed” (Pal 2012, 254-55). These acts were more courageous than is typically recognized: the followers of Labadie, for instance, had been accused of murder in the past, which resulted in a riot when they fled to Amsterdam (Creese 1993, 188). That happened despite the fact that Amsterdam was considered a free-thinking city in one of the most liberal countries in all of Europe in that time; by 1660, for instance, there were Quaker meetings in many Dutch cities, including Amsterdam. The Dutch situation contrasted sharply with the persecution faced by Quakers in England; the English parliament passed a series of anti-Quaker measures beginning in 1662. Indeed, as Barclay noted in a major work in 1678, members of his movement were called Quakers “in scorn,” so there was a kind of persecution even in the name used to describe them. Hence it was at considerable personal risk, and at some risk to her institution, that Elisabeth invited not only her old friend van Schurman, but also all of the Labadists, to take refuge in the Abbey. Elisabeth herself made it perfectly clear that what the Labadists were seeking more than anything was their own “freedom” to worship, to practice their religion without interference from the Emperor or other authorities. Word of their arrival at Herford spread quickly: it was obviously seen as a major event. Indeed, Leibniz learned of van Schurman and the Labadists’s arrival in Herford soon after it happened (Creese 1993, 190-3). But the townspeople in Herford and the environs did not support Elisabeth. They objected vociferously to the arrival of the religious refugees. After threats of violence against the community were made, and after many negotiations occurred, Elisabeth personally travelled to Berlin in early 1672 to ensure that her jurisdiction over the Abbey and all of its inhabitants would not be challenged further by the local people (Creese 1993, 195-6). This was no mean feat: Herford is roughly 375 kilometers from Berlin, and the roundtrip took her several months to complete. She prevailed.
This first aspect of Elisabeth’s life leads to an initial conclusion. She was not merely open minded about religion – a very sensitive topic, of course, in a century in which religious strife, and religious wars, were rampant – but chose actively to promote religious freedom. She put her institution and even herself at considerable political risk in order to protect the religious freedom of a radical, hated minority. One can imagine that a figure like Elisabeth did more for religious freedom during her life than many a philosopher who wrote a treatise promoting it. This is not to denigrate more purely intellectual pursuits, it is merely to emphasize the importance of the actions she took during her time as the Abbess.
There is a second aspect of Elisabeth’s life that enriches our understanding of her attitude toward religious freedom. Her life was marked by an intense and intellectually rich relationship with religion in another way. She was born into a very prominent Protestant family. Both early in her life and towards its end, she came under significant pressure to convert to another strand of Christianity. In each case she refused, despite the immense pressure. As a young woman, she had the opportunity to become a member of the Polish royalty through marriage, if only she would convert to Catholicism. She refused to convert, despite the potential personal benefit she would have derived from a conversion (Pal 2012, 50-1). The pressure to convert to Catholicism resumed later in her life: no less a figure than Father Malebranche himself seems to have urged her to convert to Catholicism (Creese 1993, 206). Late in life, she came under significant pressure once again, this time to convert to Quakerism, which was a young, radical movement at the time. Quakers were sometimes considered as radical politically as other English groups, such as the Diggers, because they each advocated an end to religious and social hierarchies (Mason 1974, 211). The husband of Anne Conway, who bemoaned her conversion to the Quaker faith, said that their leaders’ main goal was to “turn out the landlords” (Hutton 2004, 178). With respect to the Quaker faith, Elisabeth was under pressure from one of the most prominent British Quaker leaders, Robert Barclay. Once again, she refused to convert, despite her decision to provide refuge to Quakers fleeing persecution in England. She clearly thought from an early age that a conversion should reflect one’s personal conviction – perhaps one can see this notion as a Protestant trope – and should not be undertaken merely to benefit oneself or one’s family, even when the fate of empires is at stake, as it was in her case. This attitude is apparent in her correspondence with Barclay who, like William Penn, sought Elisabeth’s endorsement of their new Quaker movement. Barclay tried to persuade Elisabeth to join their group by noting that Anne Conway had recently begun to adopt Quaker ways (see Pal 2012, 262). Elisabeth replied sharply that she respected Conway’s decision, but could not follow it: “The Countess of Conoway doth well to go on the way she thinks best, but I should not do well to follow her, unless I had the same conviction” (quoted by Creese 1993, 236, who corrects a misprinted date in the Barclay correspondence). Barclay’s attempt to convert Elisabeth to Quakerism was problematic on a number of fronts. For one thing, like Elisabeth, the leaders of the Abbey had been Calvinists for some time, and he obviously did not have a high opinion of Calvinism: he proclaimed in his treatise An apology for the true Christian divinity that Calvinists, along with “Papists, Socinians and Arminians,” have slighted the “light of nature.” He regarded the latter as the sole means of achieving salvation. It is bad enough for Barclay to list the Calvinists along with the followers of the Pope, but the Socinians were widely considered to be heretics (Barclay 1678, entry for “light of nature” in the volume’s alphabetical “table of the chief things” at its end; an earlier version was published in 1676 and known to Elisabeth). Barclay may have underestimated the extent to which Elisabeth would have been wary of attempts to convert her with an eye towards providing a political or civil advantage for some fledging movement. She was willing to provide refuge to persecuted religious figures, but not to convert to their cause. In the end, although Elisabeth sought to provide both the Labadists and the Quakers with a refuge from persecution, and although she used her authority to promote tolerance and religious freedom, even at considerable personal risk, Barclay, Malebranche, and all others failed to convince her to convert. Unlike tolerance and freedom, conversion in her mind required a certain kind of conviction that she lacked.
These two aspects of Elisabeth’s life combine to form a compelling picture of her conception of, and support for, religious freedom. She did not merely trumpet the common early modern principle, for instance, that the members of the various Protestant sects ought to be free to practice their religion, and not face persecution for failing to adhere to the older and more powerful Catholic tradition emanating from Rome. She also extended this principle to cover the members of a number of much more radical sects. Many early modern thinkers would not have extended the principle so far. In addition, there is an important sense in which Elisabeth sought to protect her own freedom in the religious realm by refusing to convert to Catholicism on several occasions, and later, refusing to convert into the Quaker movement. In each case, she sought to protect her view that one’s religious faith must be a matter of one’s convictions. One might take the intersection of these two ideas and state a more general principle: for Elisabeth, one’s religion ought to be an expression not merely of one’s own tradition and heritage—it ought to be a considered expression of one’s personal convictions, even if those convictions contravene prevailing ideas amongst one’s family members or compatriots, and even if those convictions put one at a considerable social, political or economic disadvantage. In tandem, Elisabeth’s actions to protect religious freedom at Herford Abbey indicate that she had a political philosophy according to which institutions with the relevant authority ought to protect religious freedom, even if it means risking their relatively peaceful existence under the prevailing authorities at the national or imperial level. Given that Elisabeth lived in an age where religious strife and war were rampant, it is not a stretch to say that the broad question of religious freedom was one of the dominant issues in political philosophy at that time, perhaps even the dominant issue. In that sense, even if Elisabeth never wrote a treatise on religion, as Spinoza did, or one on political philosophy, as Locke and Hobbes did, she spent her entire life expressing her strong views concerning the way in which political institutions ought to stand for religious freedom, and indeed, the freedom of even the most radical thinkers of the day.
Scholars and students alike are not accustomed to investigating the lives of the philosophers they study. After all, the lives of most early modern philosophers tell us little about their ideas. A classic example would be Kant, who never strayed far from Konigsberg – he may have left town on occasion and entered the surrounding forest – and who led a rather simple life as a bachelor, tutor and professor in a coastal town on the far reaches of the Prussian empire. It can be amusing to think of him taking his daily constitutional at a particular hour – except for once, supposedly, when he received Rousseau’s Émile in the post – but his life and the personal choices he made shed almost no light at all on his philosophical views. If only one could understand the Critique of Pure Reason by studying daily life in Konigsberg! This example is rather extreme, but something similar can be said of many of the early moderns. Consider Descartes: unlike Kant, he left his home in France and actually lived much of his life in Holland; he met many intriguing people throughout his travels, and in his early years, he may have seen several battles as part of the fighting happening then. He ended up in Sweden, where he famously died in the care of Queen Christina, probably of a pneumonia caused in part by the rigorous schedule he was asked to keep. These events give us a picture of Descartes the person, but they tell us little about his philosophical views. Princess Elisabeth is importantly different from these figures. That is not merely because she never published a text like the Meditations or the Critique, but because she was in a position to express her own views about such crucial topics as religious freedom through her actions on behalf of an independent religious and political institution. In the very least, one hopes that the discussion above is sufficient to show students and scholars that Elisabeth’s actions as Abbess merit further study.
But that idea leaves us with an important question. How should we categorize Elisabeth? She was a member of European royalty, a political figure, a writer, an intellectual, a philosopher, etc. Which category fits her best? It is pretty clear that she does not sit happily in the category princess because unlike most people who fit that role in the early modern period, she was also an intellectual of considerable stature. Calling her the “Cartesian Princess,” as Henry More did, makes her subordinate to Descartes of course, but also misses many of the key events in her life. She doesn’t really fit the category of the learned woman – they were called “gelehrte Frauen” in German-speaking Europe – all that well, because unlike women in that category, she wasn’t merely learned in various sciences and in philosophy, she was also in a position of political and religious authority, and therefore able to put some of her ideas into action. She also doesn’t really fit the category of the philosopher, because unlike most of the early moderns, she was not merely in a position to develop her ideas, but actually to implement them through her own authority and actions on behalf of others. Perhaps the category for Elisabeth doesn’t quite exist. It does not seem like a stretch to say that she was unique. Plato famously wrote of Philosopher Kings; we cannot quite say that Elisabeth was a Philosopher Queen, but she was close.
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5. Correspondence Guide
In the early modern period, correspondence between philosophers and intellectuals was a primary means of communicating ideas and engaging in debates. Although many philosophers also chose to write essays, publish treatises, etc., nearly every major thinker in the period also engaged in correspondence. Whereas some figures were extremely prolific correspondents—one thinks of Leibniz or of Voltaire—others were less concerned with writing letters, but correspondence played an important role for every early modern intellectual. For intellectual women, letters often played an outsized role in their lives because they were typically excluded from institutions of learning, including colleges, universities and scientific academies, and were often not in a position to publish works under their own name. Due to the importance of correspondence, however, it was possible for an intellectual woman to have a significant influence on philosophy and science solely through her personal connections and her letters. Elisabeth was such a figure. Because she never published a work of her own, Elisabeth’s correspondence is unusually important for understanding her philosophical views and her intellectual life more broadly. Happily, she corresponded with a very wide range of figures, from religious leaders like William Penn to philosophers like Descartes to fellow intellectual women like Anna Maria van Schurman. Indeed, Elisabeth’s intellectual network, which she fashioned throughout her adult life through careful maintenance of various kinds of relationships, was vast. It is not an exaggeration to say that this network included a veritable “who’s who” of European intellectual life in the late 17th century. In this section, we catalogue all of her known correspondents.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file
References
- Broad, Jacqueline. 2002. Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Nye, Andrea. 1996. “Polity and Prudence: The Ethics of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine”. In Hypatia’s Daughters, edited by Linda Lopez McAlister. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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5.1 Elisabeth-Descartes Correspondence
Elisabeth’s most famous correspondent is certainly Descartes. Her correspondence with him is extremely wide ranging. Although it is most famous for her criticisms of mind body dualism and her formulation of the mind-body problem, the parties also discuss a huge range of other issues, including Machiavelli’s The Prince; Elisabeth’s health; Descartes’s understanding of the passions; questions in political philosophy; the views of Descartes’s former disciple Regius, who had recently published Fundamenta physica when they corresponded; and so on. Descartes’s correspondence with Elisabeth was especially personal, even intimate, involving not only unusually detailed explanations of his views, but also the only known reference to his mother (Gaukroger 1995, 385) in all of Descartes’s letters, which take up several volumes of the Oeuvres complètes edited by Adam and Tannery. For the first time, Elisabeth’s letters to Descartes have been digitized and are now available at the New Narratives website.
Elisabeth told Descartes that she wished for her letters to be private. But we have to be cautious with that notion. Even if the letters were not published, that does not mean that no one else besides the two correspondents had any notion of what they were discussing over those years. Indeed, at least some of the letters were sent via a third party, a man named Pollot, and on at least one occasion, Descartes even sent a letter to Elisabeth to Pollot with a separate cover letter discussing the question of whether he had provided a geometrical problem to Elisabeth that was too difficult (Creese 1993, 78-80); he needn’t have worried, because she solved the problem elegantly soon thereafter, as Descartes himself recognized. Later on, after Elisabeth had left the Hague to return home to Germany, her sister Sophie acted as an intermediary for some of her exchanges with Descartes. So, although the correspondence was not public, it was not entirely private either, at least in the sense that it was not carried out in strict secrecy. There is also the question of whether Elisabeth or Descartes discussed their letters with anyone else during or after the correspondence. Finally, both Elisabeth and Descartes seem to have been aware that their letters might have been subjected to scrutiny by outside parties, as evidenced by their discussion of whether they should write to one another in code. Given that Elisabeth was at the heart of a very important political family in northern Europe, one can imagine that spies may have wished to see if her correspondence could shed any light on her or her family’s plans – for instance, during the long negotiations that led to the Treaty of Westphalia, which ended the thirty years of war and left many German lands in ruins and poverty. Right after Descartes’s death in Sweden in 1650, Chanut wrote to Elisabeth with the news, and requested that she allow him to publish her correspondence with the now deceased philosopher. Despite his entreaties, she never gave permission for her side of the correspondence to be published and thereby made completely public. This may have reflected the fact that by the time of Descartes’s death, she was no longer in exile – she returned to Heidelberg in 1651 – and was well aware that her views about such things as political authority and the ideas of Machiavelli might interest opponents of her family and their return to the Palatinate after the end of the Thirty Year’s War.
Her philosophical disputes and discussions with Descartes interact in certain respects with her religious faith, which latter was important throughout her life in myriad ways. For instance, as a Calvinist, she would not necessarily have believed in free will in any obvious sense; she would have thought presumably that each person is subject to the Calvinist doctrine of “predestination,” according to which God has chosen a future path for each human soul, ensuring that each of us will eventually be sent to heaven or to eternal damnation. And that predestination does not reflect the actions that we take during our lives, since it is predetermined by God before that life takes place. So there is at least one sense in which free will is a foreign concept in this context: our decisions and choices and actions do not have any bearing on our moral futures. Of course, we might still have free will in a more technical or limited sense: it might still be the case that our will is not determined, for instance, by anything external; but one of the primary motivations for thinking about free will, namely, that our choices and decisions and actions will have at least some bearing on our moral future, is removed. And Elisabeth was aware of these nuances, discussing them with Descartes in some depth.
Mind-Body relation
One of the most important aspects of Elisabeth’s famous objections to Descartes is that she helped to formulate the mind-body problem, not by using some general philosophical move, but by specifically reflecting the kind of mechanist thinking about causation within nature that was championed by Descartes, and with which she herself agreed. For a mechanist philosopher, all natural change involves contact between material bodies, whether macroscopic bodies like the earth or the moon, or the microscopic constituents of those bodies, the particles that make up everything in the material universe. If nothing can occur within nature unless such contact between bodies occurs, Elisabeth infers, then Descartes has a rather specific problem. For Descartes, the body can of course be in contact with things, since it is material – he would say, it is a res extensa, an extended thing, a substance whose essence is extension – and so there is no problem in understanding how the body might cause things to happen, as when, e.g., I hold a pencil and move it across the page. So far, the mechanist theory of causation within nature is satisfied. But according to Descartes, the mind is radically different from the body: whereas the body is essentially extended, the mind is essentially thinking – it is a res cogitans, a thinking thing or substance with the essence of thought – and what is more, the mind is not extended at all. The mind is not material. Since the mind is not extended or material, that is, since the mind is not a spatial thing like the body is, the problem is that we cannot conceive of how the mind could be in contact with anything. That is a general problem. The specific version of that problem is that we cannot conceive of how the mind can be in contact with the body. How can the mind causally influence the body – as it certainly seems to do all the time, at least as we experience things – without being in contact with it? To make matters worse, it is not as if the mind is simply a bit too far away from the body, as when my pencil is lying on the table across the room and I can’t quite reach it. Instead, from Descartes’s point of view, the mind isn’t located anywhere. So the mind isn’t close or far away from the body – those predicates don’t apply to the mind at all, they apply only to material things. So Elisabeth concludes: it is entirely mysterious how any kind of mechanical causal relation could occur between the body and the mind, since they cannot, even in principle, be in contact with one another. This is important, because as Elisabeth and Descartes knew perfectly well, there were all sorts of other concepts and theories of causation in the period that could be relied on in this instance (for instance, Aristotelian-inspired theories of the four causes). But what Elisabeth very effectively shows is that for Descartes, who was a committed mechanist, and who thought that all causation within nature was some kind of efficient causation, which had to involve contact between the causal relata, the result of saying that the mind is a non-extended thing and therefore located nowhere is that it now looks like the mind is causally excluded from the world. The mind cannot be in contact with anything, so it cannot cause anything to happen in nature, whether to the body or to anything else! In a way, we can see that Elisabeth is posing a kind of dilemma for Descartes here: either one can give up on the idea that the mind is non-extended and located nowhere, or else one can give up on the mechanical philosophy. Neither Elisabeth nor Descartes wanted to give up on the mechanical philosophy, for it was one of the most fundamental developments of the new science. Moreover, that perspective would eventually find support from nearly every major philosophical figure in the period, from Galileo to Boyle to Descartes to Locke to Leibniz to Huygens, etc. The sensible way out of the dilemma, then, would be to rethink the notion of the mind. What minimal reconstruction would be required in order to solve at least Elisabeth’s formulation of the mind-body problem? One would have to say at least that the mind is in fact located somewhere, that it is extended. (As it turns out, that is precisely the view that Henry More develops in some depth after a rigorous correspondence with Descartes in 1648-49, and More’s view, in turn, had a profound influence on a young Isaac Newton.) As Lisa Shapiro helpfully notes, it looks like Elisabeth is beginning to embrace that philosophical position in her correspondence with Descartes, arguing that the mind ought to be conceive of differently than the picture we find in Descartes’s Meditations (1641) and in his other works (Shapiro 2007, 41ff). Of course, merely saying that the mind is extended and therefore located somewhere doesn’t explain exactly how it causally interacts with the body. But it does remove one mystery: at least a mechanical philosopher does not need to contend that such a causal interaction is impossible because there is a lack of contact. Two extended things with locations can be in contact, at least in principle, even if we still do not really understand the details of that contact.
Elisabeth’s and Descartes’s attitudes towards the mechanical philosophy arise in another way in their correspondence. In reaction to Elisabeth’s criticisms, Descartes famously argues that the interactions between the mind and the body are involved in what he calls the “mind-body union.” He says that we ought to realize that we are operating with what we might call a primitive concept of that union. That is, although we cannot doubt the union, especially in our own case, because the interactions between our mind and our body seem so pervasive and so constant, nonetheless, we have a merely primitive concept of that union in the sense that we cannot much hope to analyze it further. We cannot reduce the union to something more basic, an that sense, we cannot really hope to understand the union. Descartes goes so far as to say that mind-body interactions ought to be understood on the Scholastic model of heaviness. He clearly does not endorse the Scholastic notion that bodies are heavy in virtue of the fact that they have a primitive power of heaviness that renders them heavy. Instead, he would endorse a mechanist understanding of heaviness, which would reduce that feature to particles pushing objects toward the ground, or at least, would involve contact action amongst material bodies and no primitive qualities or powers of any kind. However, he tells Elisabeth that the Scholastic notion of heaviness gives us, as it were, a kind of model for thinking about the union or about mind-body interactions. Hence he is suggesting that we have a kind of primitive concept of the union, and that mind-body interactions result from a kind of basic feature, like the Scholastic feature called heaviness, that cannot be understood any further, and that we cannot be reduced to some more fundamental feature, power or interaction. In reaction, Elisabeth shows herself to be more of a mechanist – indeed, in the language of the day, more of a “modern”—then Descartes himself. Remarkably, she rejects this analogy on the grounds that any good mechanist, including Descartes himself, ought to reject the Scholastic notion of heaviness thoroughly, jettisoning it even in cases of analogical reasoning or the construction of a model. That is, a mechanist ought not to say that the Scholastic theory of heavy bodies is false, or inaccurate in some specific respect; rather, she ought to say that it is not even coherent or intelligible. After all, mechanists ought to stand for the philosophical proposition that all the features of bodies are mechanical – they involve matter and motion, something like size, shape and motion, and maybe impenetrability – and that any idea of a primitive quality or power that is not mechanical, or that cannot be reduced to mechanical properties, is not even intelligible. Since one side of the analogy isn’t intelligible, says Elisabeth, then we must conclude that Descartes hasn’t helped us to understand mind-body interactions at all. In fact, a strong mechanist reader ought to conclude that Descartes is really saying that mind-body interactions are not intelligible to us, and in a way, that is what Elisabeth herself has been arguing, at least, as a mechanist reader of what would later be called Cartesian dualism.
This famous exchange between these two figures is important for two reasons. One can see that there is considerable merit to Shapiro’s idea (Shapiro 2007, 23) that Elisabeth helps to invent the mind-body problem. That is, she is plausibly the first person to articulate what came to be known as the mind-body problem in the wake of the development of Cartesian dualism. That fact alone helps to secure Elisabeth’s place in the history of early modern philosophy. But the exchange is important for another reason: it clearly shows us that Elisabeth is a fully “modern” philosopher. She does not accept Descartes’s attempt to get out of a tight philosophical corner by reverting to old, well-worn Scholastic ideas. And the fact that the exchange is private makes this point all the more important. Even in this private exchange, which Elisabeth prevented from being published in full during her lifetime, she was not willing to temper her modern, mechanist attitude toward philosophy even a little bit. She remained fully committed to a modern view, so much so that she rejects Descartes’s attempt to employ a Scholastic notion to get out of a jam.
Ethics and political philosophy
Although the correspondence is justly famous for Elisabeth’s criticisms of Cartesian dualism and related topics, it also contains discussions of a number of other philosophical issues. These issues fall broadly into what we would call ethics and political philosophy today. With respect to some of these issues, Elisabeth was not merely an interested interlocutor in a philosophical conversation, but also a keenly self-aware patient seeking medical advice from Descartes. As noted by Lisa Shapiro, the early 17th century marks two parallel trends to study the passions. The first tackled the subject matter from a medical standpoint with the aim to find therapeutic means to treat the disorders of the passions. The second, by contrast, was driven by a revival of interest in Stoicism, which advocates the elimination of passions in daily life. In the correspondence, we can see these two lines nicely woven together vis-à-vis Descartes’ diagnosis of and advice for Elisabeth’s illness. In her letters to Descartes, we learn that Elisabeth had long suffered from anxiety and melancholy due to her many years of exile in the Hague and the political and religious strife that engulfed Europe at the time, including many members of her extended family. In one instance, Descartes wrote to Elisabeth that she could “make an effort to consider the benefits from … (that which was taken) for a great mishap, (and turn the) attention away from the evils …” (Shapiro 2007, 94). Seeing things differently, according to Descartes, could help Elisabeth ease her condition and even make her appreciate the hardship that would otherwise worsen her condition. Having acknowledged Descartes’ good intent, Elisabeth described to him why this might not be as straightforward as it seemed. For it was precisely the illness she suffered that prevented her from seeing things the way she would otherwise do, and taming the excessive passions she experienced seemed to require more than just changing one’s attention.
From their exchange in that period, it is easy to see that Elisabeth had long been keenly aware of her illness and frequently sought treatment. While she seemed willing enough to share her condition with Descartes, she was not merely interested in receiving Descartes’ diagnosis, she often posed tough challenges to him. Descartes advocated a strict and thorough-going mechanical program for medicine—in the Principles of Philosophy, Descartes famously described the branches of the tree of knowledge as including medicine, which sit on the trunk of physics and the roots of metaphysics. When it comes to Elisabeth’s questions about the passions, Descartes proposed that they were to be explained by movements of the blood in a way that was consistent with his “principles of physics”, but he had yet to work out a complete theory (Shapiro 2007, 135). Elisabeth voiced three major concerns about this approach. In his dissertation, Franco paraphrased her concerns as follows: (1) “how we can know the different motions of the blood which cause the five primitive passions since they [the passions] never occur by themselves; (2) why the same passion has different consequences in different people; and (3) in which way admiration can, when accompanied by joy, make the lungs inflate given that it “seems to be operate only on the brain” (Franco 2006, 78). In hindsight, it is easy for us to see that lurking underneath Elisabeth’s concerns is her interrogation of mind-body interactions. But as we have seen above, her criticisms should not be read as raising objections only to Descartes; they also underscore a difficult problem facing every mechanical theory.
Because neither figure spent substantial time writing about or discussing political philosophy, their brief exchange on Niccolo Machiavelli’s The Prince in 1646 is a distinctly valuable source. It is reported that the proposal to read and discuss the Prince was initiated by Elisabeth, to which Descartes replied with a lengthy response raising several criticisms of the book. In particular, he found the author amiss for offering his political guidelines to usurpers and justly-crowned princes alike. In her reply to Descartes, Elizabeth gave an entirely different assessment of the Prince. First, Elizabeth gave a general approval of Machiavelli’s views not because “they are good in themselves, but because they bring about less evil than those used by a number of ambitious imprudent persons I know” (Shapiro 2007, 145). Most interestingly, she observed that the aim of Machiavelli’s maxims is to create stability, which can justify the use of great violence sometimes. Second, with regard to Descartes’ objection that the author should only advise those who acquired the state by just means, Elizabeth gave a defense on behalf of Machiavelli. Leaving aside justice, she held that as a teaching concerning governance, the book remained neutral with the means of power acquisition because the author meant to deal with the worse-case scenario. Third, Elizabeth showed no reservation with Machiavelli’s use of Pope Alexander as an example of a “perfect politician” (Shapiro 2007, 145), who significantly extended the power of the Catholic Church via warfare and diplomatic means despite the moral infamies surrounding him. Elizabeth also found fault with Descartes’ interpretation of Machiavelli’s text several times. Overall, her sympathy with Machiavelli was pronounced and well-formulated. Given her political status and influence, this may be part of the reason why she insisted that her letters be kept private upon the request of publication.
Elisabeth’s views on ethics constitute an important portion of her extant philosophical writing, and they stand out in her discussion with Descartes on De Vita Beata, a dialogue written by the Greek philosopher Seneca the Younger around the year 58 (CE). In a 1645 letter, Descartes puts forward three rules one must keenly observe in order to live happily: first, one should always use the mind as well as one can to know what must be done; second, one must have “a firm and constant resolution to execute all that reason advises him to do, without having the passions or appetites turn him away from it”; and, third, one should refrain from desiring goods that are outside of one’s power (Shapiro 2007, 98). Elisabeth’s initial response to Descartes is mostly a demand to elaborate. She questions the sufficiency of Descartes’ account, pointing out that there may be factors that are independent of the will but are nonetheless critical to arriving at true happiness. Diseases and bad moods, she holds, can always impact one’s faculty of reasoning and subject one to the influence of the passions. Given Elisabeth’s often ill health and the variety of practical affairs that troubled her, it is easy to see the personal issues underlying her dissatisfaction with Descartes’ account. In addition, the finitude of human knowledge also seems to get in the way of always making the best judgment for all actions of life. If, according to Elisabeth in a later letter, one must know all goods perfectly beforehand in order properly to measure them in accordance with contentment, it is unlikely that such contentment is ever reachable as it requires an “infinite science” (Shapiro 2007, p. 110). For his part, Descartes was famously averse to discussing infinity if it could be avoided at all.
The famous correspondence between these two figures raises one last question, one which may seem straightforward, but is in fact somewhat complex. What precisely was the relation between Descartes and Elisabeth? Of course, they were interlocutors, and certainly friends. Their letters indicate considerable respect for one another. But their radical difference in social status does indicate the importance of delving deeper into their relation. Descartes’s treatise in natural philosophy, Principia philosophiae, was published in July of 1644, with a long dedication to Elisabeth. This has led some commentators to assume that Elisabeth served as Descartes’s patron. Certainly, during the early modern period, it would be reasonably common for a philosopher or mathematician to dedicate a discovery, a volume, or the like, to a patron, where the latter would often be a member of a European royal family or someone with significant political or religious authority. The patron would often fund the scholar in one way or another, or promote his (almost always his) career in various ways, and in return, the scholar would praise the patron and dedicate something to him or her (often him, sometimes her). A classic case would be the Medici’s patronage of Galileo, who then named the moons of Jupiter, which he discovered in 1610, the Medicean stars in their honor. But Elisabeth never funded Descartes’s activities and research, nor, it seems, did she act on his behalf to promote his career. She has been called the “patroness of Descartes” on occasion (Hutton & Nicholson 1992, 323 note 4), but the term seems inapt. Although Descartes may have wished for her to act as his patron, she had another role in mind for herself (cf. Harth 1992, 71). She was, first and foremost, an intellectual interlocutor. When they met in the Hague in March of 1646, Descartes left a draft of Les Passions de l’ame (Passions of the Soul) with her, a text that may have been prompted in the first place by her questions (Shapiro 2007, 32) in their epistolary exchanges. She sent her reactions to him in a letter the next month. She was especially interested in the physical aspect of the passions. Once again, she showed a strong interest in Descartes’s ideas about the relation not only between the mind and the body in a general way, but more specifically, the relation between specific kinds of mental states, or states of awareness, which might include one or more of the passions, and specific physical states, or states of the body. Hence from Elisabeth’s point of view, she did not maintain a long-term connection with Descartes – in person and through correspondence – in order to act as his patron, much as he may have hoped that she would; she did so in order to pursue her own intellectual interests. Because these interests were her own, and because the correspondence indicates that she very frequently disagreed with Descartes, sometimes sharply, it is also inapt to call her the “Cartesian Princess.”
Primary sources
- Adam, Charles. 1917. Descartes et ses amities feminines. Paris: Boivin.
- Descartes, René. 1989. Correspondance avec Elisabeth. Ed. Jean-Marie Beyssade and Michelle Beyssade. Paris: Garnier-Flammarion.
- —. 1984–1991. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. I–III. edited by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothof, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony Kenny. London: Cambridge University Press.
- —. 1955. Lettres sur la morale: corréspondence avec la princesse Elisabeth, Chanut et la reine Christine. Ed. Jacques Chevalier. Paris: Hatier-Boivin.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1872. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Relevant secondary sources
- Ariew, Roger. 1983. “Mind-Body Interaction in Cartesian Philosophy: A Reply to Garber’s ‘Understanding Interaction: What Descartes Should Have Told Elisabeth'”. Southern Journal of Philosophy 21: 33-38.
- Broad, Jacqueline. 2002. Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Creese, Anna. 1993. “The Letters of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine: A Seventeenth Century Correspondence.” PhD diss., Princeton University.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1862. Descartes et la Princesse Palatine, ou de l’influence du cartésianisme sur les femmes au XVIIe siécle. Paris: Au guste Durand.
- Franco, A. B. 2006. “Descartes’ Theory of Passions.” PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Mattern, Ruth. 1978. “Descartes’s Correspondence with Elizabeth: Concerning Both the Union and Distinction of Mind and Body”. In Descartes: Critical and Interpretative Essays, edited by Michael Hooker. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
- Nye, Andrea. 1996. “Polity and Prudence: The Ethics of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine”. In Hypatia’s Daughters, edited by Linda Lopez McAlister. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa. 1999. “Princess Elizabeth and Descartes: The Union of Mind and Body and the Practice of Philosophy”. British Journal for the History of Philosophy 7(3): 503–520.
- —. “Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia”. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2014 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2014/entries/elisabeth-bohemia/>.
- Tollefsen, D. 1999. “Princess Elisabeth and the Problem of Mind-Body Interaction”. Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy 14(3): 59-77.
- Wartenburg, Thomas. 1999. “Descartes’s Mood: The Question of Feminism in the Correspondence with Elisabeth”. In Feminist Interpretations of René Descartes, edited by Susan Bordo. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file (“Elisabeth-Descartes Correspondence”)
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5.2 Elisabeth-van Schurman Correspondence
Anna Maria van Schurman (1607-1678) was a Dutch polymath who was considered by many to be the most learned woman of her time. Having attended the University in Utrecht, she was the first woman to attend a university in European history. Expert in many fields, and able to read 14 languages, van Schurman commanded such a reputation for erudition that scores of leading intellectuals corresponded with her and thousands visited her in her lectures, one of whom was the young Princess Elisabeth, whose family was in exile at the Hague. Van Schurman was also an influential author across the genres, with texts written in different languages. One of her most famous publication, Dissertatio, was reprinted many times and translated widely, even as it was a treatise arguing for women’s right to education. In 1664, she joined a radical Protestant group called the Labadists, named after their founder, Jean de Labadie. This sect wandered from city to city, each time facing persecution for their views and being forced to leave. During this nomadic period, van Schurman decided to contact Princess Elisabeth, who was now Abbess of Herford, to ask for asylum at the Abbey.
Self-Portrait of Anna Maria van Schurman
The decades-long friendship between Elisabeth and Anna Maria van Schurman was first facilitated by Andre Rivet, a French theologian, in 1632. Some notes suggest that Elisabeth knew of van Schurman long before, in 1620, when the latter had lectured at Krossen, the city Elisabeth had fled to with her grandmother, Louise Juliana of Nassau, after the Thirty Years War. Unfortunately, only a few of the letters between Elisabeth and van Schurman are extant. However, they corresponded heavily in two separate periods: when Elisabeth was participating in the intellectual discussions at the Hague from late 1630s to early 1640s, and when Elisabeth was the Abbess of Herford from 1667 until her death. In the first period, their correspondence was intellectual and concerned a wide range of topics, including issues in philosophy, literature, science, and theology. Interestingly (perhaps for them, too), they found their philosophical orientations to be nearly opposite from one another. Whereas Elisabeth defended Cartesian views on occasion and other modern ideas, van Schurman retained a scholastic worldview from her days as the tutee of the Aristotelian philosopher Gisbertus Voetius. In a letter to Elisabeth from January 1644, van Schurman confirms the fact that she has “great respect for the scholastic doctors,” whom she takes to have been guided by the works of St. Augustine and Aristotle, despite the many criticisms they have faced by the moderns (Clarke 2013, 109). In this moving letter, van Schurman adds to the usual pleasantries and diplomatic phrases that she plans to be Elisabeth’s faithful servant “for the rest of my life;” indeed, she came to seek Elisabeth’s help many years later. In the second period, the letters concerned van Schurman’s desire for asylum at Elisabeth’s abbey when her Labadist group was exiled from Amsterdam in 1670. Elisabeth did shelter them, and during van Schurman’s stay, her mystic tendencies influenced Elisabeth’s personal and Protestant views. This might have contributed to Elisabeth’s decision to welcome the Quakers in 1676. By then, van Schurman had moved to Friesland, a province in the northwest of the Netherlands, where she passed away that May.
See more about Anna Maria van Schurman on our entry on her.
References
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Clarke, Desmond, editor and translator. 2013. The Equality of the Sexes: Three Feminist Texts of the Seventeenth Century. Includes van Schurman, “A dissertation on the natural capacity of women for study and learning.” Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Schurman, Anna Maria van. 1652. Nobiliss. virginis Annae Mariae à Schurman. Opuscula Hebraea, Graeca, Latina, Gallica, prosaica & metrica. ex officina Joannis à Waesberge.
- —. 1998. Whether a Christian Woman Should Be Educated, edited and translated by Joyce L. Irwin. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file (“Elisabeth-van Schurman Correspondence”)
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5.3 Elisabeth-Penn Correspondence
William Penn (1644-1718) is most renowned today for his political career as the founder and governor of the American colony of Pennsylvania (1681). However, before he sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, he was one of the leading Quakers in England and a promoter of the Quaker movement in Continental Europe. He was an ardent disseminator of the Quaker doctrine, which put him and his sect at odds with the Church of England. The British Parliament passed a series of anti-Quaker measures beginning in 1662. It was during a period of constant persecution of Quakers that he became acquainted with Princess Elisabeth, the Abbess of Herford, who used her authority to provide asylum and refuge to various persecuted sects.
Sketch of William Penn
It is unknown why Penn first contacted with Elisabeth in 1677, the date of their first letters. One possibility is that the Quaker community had established connections with the Labadists, the followers of the radical leader Jean de Labadie, and that Elisabeth’s sheltering of the Labadists inspired Penn to contact her. It is also possible that when Elisabeth sheltered the Quakers in 1676, he was either there at Herford Abbey in person, or compelled to thank her for her generosity. In any event, their friendship grew and Penn eventually made at least three personal visits to the Abbey.
The relationship between Penn and Elisabeth exhibits the ways in which politics and religion were intertwined throughout her life. Just as her potential conversion to Catholicism as a young woman would have had major political effects by allowing her to marry into Polish royalty, her potential conversion to the Quaker movement would have had both religious and political aspects. Penn sought Elisabeth’s protection, but also her endorsement of his fledging movement because she hailed from a powerful political dynasty. For her part, Elisabeth was aware that the Quakers may have been sympathetic to the royalist cause in England after the brutal Civil War, a fact of obvious importance since the new King, Charlies II, was her cousin, and since Elisabeth was known to be a royalist throughout her life. Penn was also involved politically with Elisabeth’s family members, and he discussed these matters with her. At one point, he accepted her commission to convince her brother Rupert to take certain actions in London to ensure that their royal lineage would be continued not just in England but in Prussia. The correspondence between Elisabeth and Penn ended when she passed away in 1680. Soon thereafter, Penn embarked on what Elisabeth called a “distant” journey that would eventually bring him to America (Shapiro 2007, 216).
Primary sources
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Gummere, A. M. 1912. “Letter from William Penn to Elizabeth, Princess Palatine, Abbess of the Protestant Convent of Hereford, 1677, with an Introduction”. Bulletin of Friends’ Historical Society of Philadelphia 4(2), 82-97. Friends Historical Association. Retrieved December 2, 2017, from Project MUSE database.
- Penn, William. 1695. An Account of W. Penn’s travails in Holland and Germany Anno MDCLXXVII. 2nd corrected edition, London: T. Sowle.
Modern editions of the letters
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
References
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file (“Elisabeth-Penn Correspondence”)
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5.4 Elisabeth-Barclay Correspondence
In addition to William Penn, Elisabeth also forged an important relationship with Robert Barclay (1648-1690), another prominent Quaker. Barclay was a friend of Penn’s, an author of an important work promoting Quaker ideas, An Apology for the True Christian Divinity (1676), and eventually, the absentee governor of East New Jersey (he was appointed by James II). As it turned out, he never stepped foot in the Americas, staying in Europe his entire life, where he vigorously spread Quakerism.
Elisabeth and Barclay started exchanging letters in early 1676, which would have been during the Quaker’s stay at Herford Abbey. It is unlikely that Barclay also stayed at the Abbey, as he wrote to Elisabeth from London and Edinburgh throughout 1676. He could have connected with Elisabeth through her younger brother, Prince Rupert (1619-1682), who at the time was a senior English naval commander for the Third Anglo-Dutch War (1672-1674). The early series of correspondence between Elisabeth and Barclay suggests that Barclay initially approached Elisabeth with a political motivation related to Rupert. Among other things, Barclay sought pardons from Rupert for prisoners in Scotland, including his Barclay’s father, and asked Elisabeth to encourage her brother on that matter. She promised to do so in her letter to him of late July 1671 (Shapiro 2007, 188). In their other letters, Barclay brought up his desire to begin a correspondence with Anna Maria van Schurman, and expressed his worry that he will be re-imprisoned upon his return to Scotland.
Barclay sought to convert Elisabeth to the Quaker cause, which would have had obvious political and religious benefits for him and his movement. It is not clear whether this plan had any real chance of success—Elisabeth was a Calvinist, and in his Apology, Barclay makes it plain that he held Calvinism in low esteem, placing it on a par in some respects with heretical movements like Socinianism. Elisabeth refers to an early version of this work in a letter to William Penn in September of 1677 (Shapiro 2007, 214); another version was published the next year. For her part, Elisabeth used her influence and authority to provide refuge for persecuted groups like the Quakers, often at considerable personal risk and with some risk to her Abbey, but throughout her life, she refused to convert to another strand of Christianity, even if she stood to benefit personally from a conversion. She insisted that conversion to a faith must express a deep conviction, and although she believed strongly that the Quakers must have religious freedom, she never held the conviction that their faith was the right one for her personally. As she writes to Barclay in February 1676: “Faith and obedience are two precious gifts. I cannot say that I have them, though I long and pray for them. But this I am certain, that any action that comes not from thence would be sinful though it was materially good” (Shapiro 2007, 196).
Primary sources
- Barclay, Robert. 1678. An Apology for the True Christian Divinity. London.
- Barclay, Robert. 1870. Reliquiae Barclaianae: Correspondence of Colonel David Barclay and Robert Barclay of Urie and his son Robert, including letters from Princess Elisabeth of the Rhine, William Penn, George Fox and others, etc. London: Winter and Bailey.
- Hodgkin, Thomas. 1898. George Fox. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
- Webb, Maria. 1896. The Fells of Swarthmoore Hall and Their Friends: With an Account of Their Ancestor, Annew Askew, the Martyr. A Portraiture of Religious and Family Life in the Seventeenth Century, Comp. Chiefly from Original Letters and Other Documents Never Before Published. Philadelphia: H. Longstreth.
Modern editions of the letters
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
References
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Creese, Anna. 1993. “The Letters of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine: A Seventeenth Century Correspondence.” PhD diss., Princeton University).
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file (“Elisabeth-Barclay”)
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5.5 Correspondence with Leibniz, Malebranche, and Others
Beginning in her early years in the Hague, and continuing throughout her life, Elisabeth forged an extensive intellectual network consisting of important philosophers, theologians and political figures. Some of her most prominent correspondents are discussed below.
Leibniz
The German philosopher and mathematician Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716) is famous for his co-discovery (with Newton) of what we now call the differential and integral calculus and for his extremely extensive philosophical and mathematical oeuvre (it runs to dozens of volumes in the modern Akademie edition). Leibniz was also famous for two other reasons that are relevant for understanding his relationship with Elisabeth: first, he became a prominent and public critic of Cartesian philosophy—especially with his “Brief Demonstration of a Notable Error of Descartes” article published in the Acta Eruditorum in 1686—and second, he was known for his extensive efforts at Church reunification. Leibniz first met Elizabeth on a visit to Hanover, her sister Sophia’s court, in the winter of 1678. We only have a few extant letters, but fortunately, they are philosophically rich. Their letters demonstrate great mutual respect for each other as philosophers, as they wrote at length about mathematics and aesthetics. Elisabeth also made Leibniz aware of Malebranche’s work, especially his Conversations Chrestiennes (1677), which led to a correspondence between Leibniz and Malebranche. The friendship between Leibniz and Elisabeth, however, went beyond the letters. It is recorded that he, along with Francis Mercury van Helmont, was present at Elisabeth’s bedside in 1680, near her passing.
Statue of Leibniz
Primary sources
- Leibniz, G.W.. 1923. Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe. Zeite Reihe. Philosophischer Briefwechsel. Darmstadt and Berlin: Berlin Academy.
Relevant secondary sources
- Adams, Robert Merrihew. 1994. Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 192-3.
- Aiton, E. J. 1985. Leibniz: A Biography. Bristol: Adam Hilger. pp. 90-1.
- Leibniz, G.W. 1875. Die philosophischen Schriften. Edited by C.G. Gerhardt. Berlin. Vol. IV, pp. 290-96.
References
- Broad, Jacqueline. 2002. Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file(“Elisabeth-Leibniz”)
Nicolas Malebranche
The French philosopher and priest Father Nicolas Malebranche (1638-1715) was influential in reconciling the newly developed Cartesianism with Augustinian theology. He became friends with Elisabeth. Their direct correspondence is not extant, but we do know that they debated different points concerning Cartesian philosophy. Elisabeth found Malebranche’s own works also interesting, as she had sent Leibniz a copy of Malebranche’s Conversations Chrétiennes (1677). At one stage of their relationship, Malebranche tried to convince Elisabeth to convert to Catholicism, something she had already rejected earlier in her life when she would have gained immensely from such a conversion. We do not know precisely how Malebranche reacted to her rejection of a conversion.
Primary sources
- Malebranche, Nicolas. 1958-84. Oeuvres Complètes de Malebranche, edited by A. Robinet. Paris: J. Vrin. Vols. 18-19.
Relevant secondary sources
- Creese, Anna. 1993. “The Letters of Elisabeth, Princess Palatine: A Seventeenth Century Correspondence.” PhD diss., Princeton University.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Robinet, André. 1955. Malebranche et Leibniz: Relations personnelles. Paris: J. Vrin. pp. 103-5.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file(“Elisabeth-Malebranche”)
Constantijn Huygens
As a politician, poet, and composer of the Dutch Golden Age, Constantijn Huygens (1596-1687) was a regular participant in meetings at The Hague since the early 1630s. He was also a friend of Descartes and the father of the famous mathematician and philosopher Christiaan Huygens (1629-1695), who influenced many other figures in the late 17th century (including Leibniz and Newton). Three letters from Huygens to Elisabeth exist today, with none from Elisabeth. Written in the early 1650s, their correspondence suggests that their relations were based on fellow enthusiasm for philosophy; some record Huygens sending a copy of his own treatise for her to review or enjoy. They certainly maintained an intellectual friendship after their departure from the area, as the letters show.
Primary sources
- Worp, J. A., ed. 1916. De briefwisseling van Constantijn Huygens, (1608-1687), Vols. V – 28. The Hague, Martinus Nijhoff Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën.
References
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file(“Elisabeth-Philosophers”)
Edward Reynolds
The bishop of Norwich in the Church of England, Edward Reynolds (1599-1676) dedicated his A Treatise of the Passions and Faculties of the Soule of Man (1640) to Elisabeth after she encouraged him to publish it. This makes it apparent that the two enjoyed some kind of friendship. Though there are no existing letters between them to know any more about their relationship, one might suspect that he visited the philosophical hub at The Hague and engaged with Elisabeth there.
Primary sources
- Reynolds, E. 1640. Treatise of the Passions and the Faculties of the Soule of Man. London: Robert Bostock.
References
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
George Fox
George Fox (1624-1691) was the founder of Religious Society of Friends, or the Quakers, of which William Penn and Robert Barclay were leading members. He likely reached out to Elisabeth because she provided asylum to his fellow Quakers. Their three extant letters show Elisabeth’s rather cautious acceptance of his friendliness, for reasons that are unknown. The nature of their relationship beyond this is also unknown, due to the missing letters thereafter.
Primary sources
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Hodgkin, Thomas. 1898. George Fox. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
Elisabeth’s Family
As her title shows, Princess Elisabeth came from a family of exiled Bohemian royalty. Her father was Frederick V, Elector Palatine, who was the King of Bohemia for only one winter between 1619 and 1620—hence his nickname the “Winter King.” Her mother was Elizabeth Stuart, the daughter of King James VI and the grandmother of King George I. Being part of the Stuart dynasty through her mother and the House of Palatinate-Simmern, briefly the Bohemian royalty, through her father, Elisabeth was born deeply embedded in a political network that connected different houses of royalties in Bohemia, England, and their allies. Her active presence in the political sphere—as much as her scholarly disposition allowed her—is easily discernible in her letters to her family, especially her correspondence with her many siblings, who were enmeshed in various political events throughout Elisabeth’s life. Her younger brother Charles Louis took up his father’s position as Elector Palatine; her brother Prince Rupert rose up through the ranks in the English military to ultimately head the Royal Navy by the time of the later Anglo-Dutch wars; her younger sister Sophie became the Electress of Hanover; her other sister Louise Hollandine, though a painter at first, became the Abbess of Maubuisson; her cousin Frederick William became the ruler of Brandenburg-Prussia; and, her cousin Elisabeth Louise preceded Elisabeth as the Abbess of Herford.
Elisabeth kept up correspondence with each of her family members throughout her life, and the members of her network informed each other of different family affairs that were both personal and political. During each of her sibling’s promotions, the letters within the family would go around discussing how to situate the new political status alongside everyone else’s positions. Or, the siblings and cousins would ask each other for various favors, appealing to each other’s governing powers. Some letters also circulated gossip-like rumors about each other and their friends. Elisabeth was the subject of such gossip, too, relating to marriage or romantic interests, possible religious conversions, and political alliances. Some of her letters record her complaints about such frivolities, having to write to prying and appalled aunts and uncles to dispel upsetting rumors.
Primary sources
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
References
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Spreadsheet overview: Excel file(“Elisabeth-Elisabeth Louise”, “Elisabeth-Charles Louis”, “Elisabeth-Frederick William”, “Elisabeth-Other Family”, “Elisabeth-Political Connections”)
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
6. Connections
As is evident in the Biography section, Elisabeth’s family gave her a number of important connections to political figures in both the 17th century and even some posthumous connections in the 18th. For instance, through her mother she had connections to many important British royal figures, including Mary Stuart, Charles I, and Charles II. Through her father, she had connections to the rulers of Bohemia and also, less obviously, to King Gustav of Sweden, and through him, in turn, to Queen Christina (Gustav’s daughter), who is known for her importance to early modern philosophy. Her sister Sophie had a son who became George I of England in the so-called Hanoverian Succession, which took place in 1714 and ultimately involved connections between Princess Caroline of Wales and Leibniz. In this sense, Elisabeth was born into the middle of a nexus of political connections that crossed much of Northern Europe. But she was not content to rest on these laurels, as it were. She decided, from an early age, to forge many of her own connections by joining, or in some cases creating, intellectual networks that included theologians, mathematicians, philosophers, artists, and others. During her early life, while residing in the royal court at The Hague, she forged connections with Descartes, Pierre Gassendi, Anna Maria van Schurman, Constantijn Huygens, and Marie du Moulin. Later in her life, as the Abbess of Herford, she corresponded or conversed with Robert Barclay, William Penn, George Fox, Nicolas Malebranche, Francis Mercury van Helmont, and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz—the last two were actually present at her bedside near Elisabeth’s death in 1680. Through various means, she also forged connections with Henry More, the Cambridge theologian and philosopher who learned of Elisabeth through his correspondent Descartes, and with the British philosopher Anne Conway, a friend of More’s and Van Helmont’s who adopted Quaker ways late in life. In sum, through her familial relations and through her own deliberate actions across many decades, Elisabeth’s network included a veritable “who’s who” of European intellectual and political life in the 17th century.
Elisabeth’s network is especially striking for another reason. Scholars often note all of Elisabeth’s connections to various canonical figures, from More to Leibniz to Descartes to Malebranche. These connections are obviously important and help to indicate how Elisabeth was deeply connected to the development of early modern philosophy in the 17th century. It was very common for various canonical figures to serve as tutors to women in the aristocracy or perhaps even royalty. One thinks of Descartes tutoring Queen Christina, or Leibniz tutoring Sophie (Elisabeth’s sister), etc. Similarly, many women of high rank were sought after as patrons of various intellectuals and philosophers. But Elisabeth was different. She sought out the companionship of other women, not just for personal or political or religious reasons, but also, or perhaps even primarily, for intellectual and philosophical ones. Unusually for that time, Elisabeth was tutored by another woman, namely, the famous Dutch polymath Anna Maria van Schurman, the author of a number of works in many languages and a philosopher and portraitist herself. Van Schurman famously sent Elisabeth instructions for which authors to read and which texts to think about. Later in life, when she served as the leader of the Herford Abbey, Elisabeth not only paid this debt to Van Schurman by providing her and her fellow Labadists with some much needed refuge, she created an intellectual community of her own in her institution. In addition, although Descartes may have wished for Elisabeth to serve in a patronage role for him, she never adopted that role. Instead, she chose to maintain a purely intellectual relationship with him; she chose not to use her political influence and royal status to help Descartes’s career. Once again, her choices make her especially interesting and unusual.
Primary sources
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Sophia (Electress, consort of Ernest Augustus, Elector of Hanover). 1888. Memoirs of Sophia: Electress of Hanover, 1630-1680. Hanover: R. Bentley & sons.
References
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
6.1 At The Hague
This colorful list of figures represents the wide range of intellectuals and political figures who connected with Elisabeth during the heyday of her time in exile at the Hague. They gathered under the influence of Frederick V and Elisabeth Stuart’s royal power, as well as (later) Elisabeth and Rupert’s fame for their intellectual curiosity. These were the people she learned from during her formative years, as this was where Elisabeth spent her youth until her family’s move to Berlin in 1646.
Name | Description and Connection |
René Descartes (1596-1650) | This French philosopher is dubbed a founder of “modern” philosophy for his famous break from the Aristotelian tradition in philosophical method, epistemology, and sciences. Descartes was a regular at the exiled court in the Hague, where he mentored Elisabeth as a young girl, then became her lifelong friend and philosophical interlocutor. Centuries after Elisabeth’s passing, she was rediscovered through her extensive correspondence with Descartes. |
John Dury (1596-1680) | This Calvinist minister called for a unification among Protestants and for religious toleration in England. He was a regular at the Hague, where started a friendship with Elisabeth that would last decades. |
Samuel Hartlib (1600-1662) | This German-British mathematician and scientist was one of the most well-connected intellectuals in 17th century Europe, building an enormous collection of correspondence with other leading figures of the era on matters ranging from agricultural machineries to medicine. He was an active participant in the discussions held in the Hague, and kept up intellectual correspondence with Elisabeth thereafter. |
Anna Maria van Schurman (1607-1678) | This Dutch polymath is known today to be one of the most learned women in Europe at a time when women were barred from academic life—she is considered the first woman to study at a European university, when she gained permission to sit in lectures from 1636. As a young girl, Elisabeth first saw her during one of her lectures, after which she became Elisabeth’s mentor and friend. They continued a highly intellectual correspondence, until van Schurman, who later joined a persecuted group called the Labadists, asked Elisabeth for asylum at the Herford Abbey in Germany that she led. See our entry on her for more information. |
Dorothy Moore (1612-1664) | This Anglo-Irish scholar was part of what Carol Pal calls a “republic of women,” a community of women scholars actively participating in the republic of letters in 17th century Europe. She visited the exiled court at the Hague many times, where she met Elisabeth and other intellectual leaders of the time, including other female figures. Moore later married John Dury (above) in 1645; he was her second husband. |
Samson Johnson (1603-1661) | He was the chaplain to Elizabeth Stuart, Queen of Bohemia, who was responsible for initially inviting different philosophers to the court at the Hague—one of which included Descartes. Part of his outreach efforts included sending word about Princess Elisabeth’s intellectual gifts to other figures. |
Marie du Moulin (1622-1699) | This Dutch scholar and schoolmaster became connected with van Schurman when young, then eventually brought her to the court at the Hague and established connections with the leading philosophers present there, including Elisabeth. |
Constantijn Huygens (1596-1687) | The poet and composer belonging to the Dutch Golden Age frequented the Hague for his interest in the sciences. He became close friends with Elisabeth there—some sources say that he may have been her tutor—as well as with other figures. The friends he made there became mentors to his son, the philosopher and mathematician Christiaan Huygens. |
Samuel Sorbiére (1615-1670) | This French physician and philosopher promoted the works of his slightly older contemporary Pierre Gassendi, in addition to doing his own writing. During his visits to the Hague, he would enjoy hours-long debates with Elisabeth on Descartes and Gassendi. He is suspected by modern scholars (see Alexandrescu) to have influenced Elisabeth into incorporating touches of Gassendism in her later thoughts. Johnson (above) was responsible for connecting him to Elisabeth. |
André Rivet (1572-1651) | This French theologian was a court chaplain and tutor to Prince William of Orange, the son of his appointer, Frederick Henry Prince of Orange. Being active in the Dutch political scene, his attendance at the exiled court of the Hague was regular, and so was his acting as a mediator between figures. He is responsible for introducing Elisabeth to van Schurman. |
Jan Jansz de Jonge Stampioen (1610-1653) | This Dutch mathematician is renowned for his work on spherical trigonometry. He also tutored Elisabeth on mathematics beginning in 1638 at the Hague, in addition to tutoring Prince William of Orange and Christiaan Huygens. |
John Pell (1611-1685) | This English mathematician and diplomat worked on many different areas, from pedagogy to linguistics, collaboratively with his contemporaries at the Hague. He kept up correspondence with Elisabeth on similar matters since their meeting at the exile court. |
Andreas Colvius (1594-1671) | This Dutch philosopher was a close friend and a critic of Descartes. He and Elisabeth shared similar philosophical positions about Cartesian thought ever since their meeting at the Hague. During the mathematical quarrel between Descartes and Voetius, he and Elisabeth both wrote to Descartes urging him to call a truce. |
Pierre Gassendi (1592-1655) | This highly influential French philosopher disputed various questions with Descartes, Kepler, Galileo, and Hobbes on the natural world and epistemology. His works were often the subject of Elisabeth’s conversations with other philosophers, including Descartes. |
Utricia Swann-Ogle (1611-1674) | She was a singer famed for her beauty who reportedly served as the muse for Constantijn Huygens. The nature of her friendship with Elisabeth is unknown, except that it was deep enough for Elisabeth to visit her in 1673 despite her duties as Abbess of Herford. |
Achatius Dhona / Achates de Dohna (1581-1647) | Along with his brother, Christopher, he was an old friend of the Palatinate House that followed them into exile, as well as a friend of Descartes. He often discussed philosophy with Elisabeth at the exiled court. |
Edward Reynolds (1599-1676) | Bishop of Norwich, he dedicated his A Treatise of the Passions and Faculties of the Soule of Man (1640) to Elisabeth after she encouraged him to publish it. They met at the exiled court in the Hague. |
Władysław IV Vasa of Poland / Ladislaus IV Vasa (1595-1648) | He was the King of Poland, in the royal house of Vasa, from 1632 until his death. He was Catholic, but sympathetic to the Protestant cause. Elisabeth Stuart engineered a potential marriage between him and Princess Elisabeth–but Elisabeth refused because she did not want to convert to Catholicism or to marry a Catholic. This caused a complete cessation of contact between the Polish and the Palatine court, humiliating Sir Thomas Roe, who had influenced this match. |
Pierre Chanut (1601-1662) | This civil servant was the French ambassador in Sweden and the Dutch Republic. His position in Sweden required him to be at Queen Christina of Sweden’s court, where he was instrumental in making her interested in Descartes enough to sponsor him at her castle. When Descartes died in 1650, Chanut was made responsible for Descartes’ estate, which prompted Elisabeth to ask him to return all of the letters she had written to Descartes. Chanut did so. |
Primary Sources
- Alexandrescu, Vlad. 2012. “What Someone May Have Whispered in Elizabeth’s Ear”. Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, volume 4. Edited by Daniel Garber, and Donald Rutherford. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Worp, J. A., ed. 1916. De briefwisseling van Constantijn Huygens, (1608-1687), Vols. V – 28. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën.
References
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
6.2 At Herford Abbey
This list features connections that Elisabeth forged during her time as the Abbess of Herford. During her tenure, she provided asylum to radical Christian sects facing persecution, whose leaders she befriended. During this period, she also met Leibniz and developed a relationship with Francis Mercury van Helmont, who was a close friend and confidant of Anne Conway and a recent convert to the Quaker faith.
Name | Description and Connection |
William Penn (1644-1718) | This prominent English Quaker later founded the colony and commonwealth of Pennsylvania in America. He and Elisabeth started a correspondence after she provided asylum for the Quakers at her Herford Abbey. |
George Fox (1624-1691) | Commonly attributed as the founder of Quakerism, he sent letters to Elisabeth requesting her friendship. Elisabeth seemed to have accepted it rather formally, and this is the extent of which we know about their relationship. |
Robert Barclay (1648-1690) | Another prominent Quaker but from Scotland, he contacted Elisabeth during the Quaker’s stay at Herford Abbey. Barclay and Elisabeth corresponded extensively, covering a wide range of personal, political and religious topics. |
Jean de Labadie (1610-1674) | Founder of Labadism, this French pietist led his followers around Europe as they fled from city to city. He found asylum in Herford Abbey through the friendship of van Schurman and Elisabeth. He and Elisabeth did not have any correspondence as far as we know, but one can surmise that they were in contact during his stay at the Abbey. |
Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716) | The canonical German philosopher and mathematician met Elisabeth personally and also seems to have corresponded with her near the end of her life in 1678 (Leibniz 1926, second series, vol. I: 433-38). Elisabeth also introduced Leibniz to some of Malebranche’s work (see below). The depth of their friendship extended beyond academic matters, however. Leibniz is noted to have been at her bedside shortly before her death, along with van Helmont. It was through Elisabeth that Leibniz met her sister Sophie (Aiton 1985, 100), with whom he went on to develop a close relationship; Sophie served as Leibniz’s patron. |
Nicolas Malebranche (1638-1715) | This highly influential French philosopher consulted Elisabeth at the end of her life. He sent her his Conversations Chrestiennes (1677) for review, news of which she shared with Leibniz. Malebranche and Leibniz corresponded soon thereafter. |
Benjamin Furley (1636-1714) | This English Quaker was considered to be very close to Robert Barclay. When the latter was imprisoned for his dissenting views of Quakerism, Furley enabled the continuation of correspondence between Barclay and Elisabeth. Her correspondence with Furley was mostly political. |
Henry Coventry (1619-1686) | This English politician was the Secretary of State for Great Britain. His relationship with Elisabeth was mostly political. |
Theodore Haak (1605-1690) | This German scholar produced significant works in natural philosophy and linguistics, including translations. His wide array of interests also included Cartesian mathematics, which led to his reaching out to Elisabeth. She kept strict control over her letters to Descartes, so Haak requested a copy of his letters concerning the problem of three circles for research. He presented her various new journals in exchange. |
Francis Mercury van Helmont (1614-1698/1699) | This Flemish physician was well connected with figures such as Furley (above), Leibniz (above), John Locke, and Anne Conway. He served as Elisabeth’s physician at the end of her life. Having met Leibniz earlier in his life, he became reacquainted with him when the two men attended Elisabeth on her deathbed in 1680 (Aiton 1985, 100). His relationship with Elisabeth seems to have had a political aspect as well, as he is noted to have gone on a diplomatic mission to Charles II in 1670 on her behalf. |
Primary Sources
- Aiton, Eric. 1985. Leibniz: a Biography. Bristol and Boston: Hilger.
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Leibniz, G.W. Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe. Zweite Reihe. Philosophischer Briefwechsel. Akademie edition. Darmstadt: Otto Reichl Verlag.
- Malebranche, Nicolas. 1961. Correspondance, actes et documents 1638-1689. Paris: J. Vrin.
References
- Aiton, Eric. 1985. Leibniz: a biography. Bristol and Boston: Hilger.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
6.3 Family Connections
Elisabeth was born into the House of Palatine-Simmern, which became a Bohemian Royalty for a single winter in 1619-1620, as well as part of the Stuart dynasty through her mother. She was therefore born into a family whose extensive members all had significant political prominence across Europe. Elisabeth would also frequently correspond with other political figures that her family was connected to, either by employment or alliance.
Name | Family Connection | Description |
Frederick V, the Elector Palatine, “Winter King” (1596-1632) | Father | Head of the Calvinist house of Palatine-Simmerns and Elector Palatine. During the Protestant uprising against the Catholic ruler of Bohemia, Ferdinand, the elector Frederick V assumed the throne of Bohemia for a single winter between 1619 and 1620, hence his nickname “the Winter King.” Not long after, he fled to Brandenburg and later the Hague, where his family remained in exile for an extended period of time. |
Elizabeth Stuart of England, Queen of Bohemia, “Winter Queen” (1596-1662) | Mother | The daughter of King James I, she married Frederick V, becoming the Electress, and later the Queen, of Bohemia. Due to the Thirty Years War, she brought her family to The Hague, where she created a court-in-exile that welcomed leading intellectuals from across Europe. It is in this environment that Elisabeth and her siblings grew up, so Elizabeth Stuart laid the foundation for her daughter Elisabeth’s development as an intellectual. |
Louise Juliana of Orange-Nassau (1576-1644) | Paternal Grandmother | The mother of Frederick V, the grandmother of Elisabeth, Louise was the eldest daughter of William of Nassau, Prince of Orange. When Elisabeth’s family was forced into exile, she took the infant Elisabeth and Frederick Henry (Elisabeth’s older brother) to refuge in Berlin and Krossen. |
Frederick Henry, Electoral Prince Palatine (1614-1629) | Brother | He was one of Elisabeth’s two older siblings. |
Charles Louis, Elector Palatine (1617-1680) | Brother | He was the second son of Frederick V and Elizabeth Stuart, and Princess Elisabeth’s older brother. Known for his political prowess, he succeeded his father to be Elector Palatine in 1632. He dedicated part of his career to rebuilding the University of Heidelberg, which had been devastated by the Thirty Years War. His nickname, given at the nursery by his siblings and used in sibling correspondence thereafter, was “Timon.” |
Rupert, Duke of Cumberland (1619-1682) | Brother | Princess Elisabeth’s younger brother, Rupert, was particularly noted for his military achievements for England. He shared his particular interest for the sciences and the arts with his two intellectually inclined sisters, Elizabeth and Louise. He was a founder of the Hudson Bay Company in Canada, which was given a royal charter by Charles II (Elisabeth’s cousin) in 1670; the company was once one of the largest land owners in the world. |
Maurice, Count Palatine of the Rhine (1620-1652) | Brother | One of Elisabeth’s younger brothers, he participated in many battles for England under the leadership of Rupert, his older brother. He was not able to enjoy a stellar military reputation before his early death as a 32-year-old in shipwreck. |
Louise Hollandine, Abbess of Maubuisson (1622-1709) | Sister | The second oldest of Elisabeth’s four sisters (Elisabeth is the oldest), she trained under the Dutch portraitist Gerard Honthorst to become an accomplished painter. As a testimony to her skills, some of her paintings have been attributed to Honthorst. In 1657, she converted to Catholicism, and with the influence of Louis XIV, she was appointed an Abbess of Maubuisson in 1664. |
Edward, Count Palatine of Simmern (1625-1663) | Brother | One of Elisabeth’s younger brothers, he caused a stir within the family by converting to Catholicism. He married Anna Gonzaga (1616-1684), a French princess. |
Philip Frederick (1627-1650) | Brother | As Elizabeth Stuart’s son and Louise’s younger brother, he tried to defend their honor when a suitor boasted publicly about receiving their favors. This led to a duel between them, which killed the suitor, and this resulted in his exile from the Hague. After that, he became a soldier of fortune and was killed in battle. |
Charlotte (1628-1631) | Sister | Born in the exile court at The Hague, she died in infancy. |
Henrietta Marie (1626-1651) | Sister | Third sister of Elisabeth’s four younger sisters, she married a prince from Transylvania but died shortly after the marriage. |
Sophia, Electress of Hanover (1630-1714) | Sister | The youngest sister of Elisabeth, she was one of the more well-read members of her family. In 1658, she married Ernest August, the Elector of Hanover. Through this arrangement, she was able to befriend the librarian at the Court of Hanover, the mathematician and philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. The correspondence between them reveals her intellectual interests and talents—a collection of the letters was later published (see Klopp 1874). On the political side, she was in line to become Queen of Great Britain, but that was passed on to her eldest son when she died. Her son became King George I. |
Gustavus Adolphus (1632-1641) | Brother | Born in the exile court at The Hague, he died of epilepsy at the age of eight. |
Elisabeth Charlotte, Electress of Brandenburg (1597-1660) | Aunt | Sister of Frederick V, she raised Elisabeth and Karl Ludwig when they fled to Berlin from their parents’ deposition. She married George William, Elector of Brandenburg and Duke of Prussia in 1616. |
Katharina Sophie (1595-1626) | Aunt | Sister of Frederick V, she stayed close to Elisabeth’s family’s affairs, as indicated by Elisabeth’s letters about her. |
Elisabeth Louise Juliana of Zweibrücken (1613-1667) | Cousin | She was the daughter of Louise Juliana, who was Frederick V’s sister. She and Elisabeth shared a deep friendship since they were little. She preceded Elisabeth as Abbess of Herford, having been appointed in 1649. She enabled Elisabeth’s successorship by introducing her to the city council of Herford and gradually enlarging her presence there. |
Frederick William, Elector of Brandenburg, “Great Elector” (1620-1688) | Cousin | Son of Elisabeth Charlotte (Elisabeth’s aunt) and George William, he ruled Brandenburg Prussia from 1640 until his death in 1688. He was known as the “Great Elector” because of his political and military successes, most notably for his revitalization of trade and defeat of the famed Swedish military at the Battle of Fehrbellin. He also resurrected the University of Duisberg by influence of Elisabeth. She was able to actively teach Cartesianism there. Married to Luise Henriette of Nassau (1627-1667), he had children that included Frederick I of Prussia (1657-1713), his successor. |
Primary Sources
- Benger, Elizabeth. 1825. Memoirs of Elizabeth Stuart, Queen of Bohemia, Daughter of James I. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green.
- Blaze de Bury, Marie Pauline Rose Stewart. 1853. Memoirs of the Princess Palatine, Princess of Bohemia including her correspondence with the great men of her day. London: Richard Bentley.
- Bromley, George. 1787. A Collection of Original Royal Letters. London, J. Stockdale.
- Foucher de Careil, Alexandre. 1909. Descartes, la Princesse Elisabeth et la Reine Christine. Paris and Amsterdam: Germer-Ballière/Muller, 1879. New edition, Paris: Felix Alcan.
- Godfrey, Elizabeth. 1909. A Sister of Prince Rupert: Elizabeth Princess Palatine and Abbess of Herford. London: John Lane.
- Klopp, Onno, ed. 1874. Correspondance de Leibniz avec l’électrice Sophie de Brunswick-Lunebourg. Hanover: Klindworth; Londres: Williams & Norgate; Paris: F. Lincksieck.
References
- Hauck, Carl. 1908. Die Briefe der Kinder des Winterkönigs, herausgegeben und mit einer Einleitung versehen von Karl Hauck. G. Koester.
- Marshall, R. K. 1998. The Winter Queen: The Life of Elizabeth of Bohemia, 1596-1662. Edinburgh: Scottish National Portrait Gallery.
- Oman, Carola. 1938. Elizabeth of Bohemia. London: Hodder and Stoughton.
- Pal, Carol. 2012. Republic of Women: Rethinking the Republic of Letters in the Seventeenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
- Rait, Robert, ed. 1908. Five Stuart princesses: Margaret of Scotland, Elizabeth of Bohemia, Mary of Orange, Henrietta of Orleans, Sophia of Hanover. Westminster: A. Constable.
- Shapiro, Lisa, ed. 2007. The Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
- Zendler, Beatrice H. 1989. “The Three Princesses.” Hypatia 4: 28-63.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
7. Online Resources
Primary Sources Online
Letters of Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia to Descartes
A collection of Elisabeth’s correspondence with Descartes, made digitally available as part of the New Narratives in the History of Philosophy digital collection at Simon Fraser University Libraries. Originals of these letters are housed at the Rosendael Castle Library.
For image sources and permissions see our image gallery.
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Chapter 5: Suggestions for further Reading
Emilie du Châtelet
- Secondary source in English – Frank Hamel, An eighteenth-century marquise: A study of Emilie du Châtelet and her times License: public domain
- Emilie Du Châtelet - (projectcontinua.org) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Mary Astell - (projectcontinua.org) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Anna van Schurman (secondary source), Una Birch, License: public domain
- Harriet Taylor Mill Enfranchisement of women License: public domain
Jane Addams
- Democracy and social ethics License: public domain
- A new conscience and an ancient evil License: public domain
- Twenty years at Hull House; with autobiographical notes License: public domain
Al-Ghazali
- Sufi Philosophy License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- The Confessions of Al-Ghazzali License: public domain
- Al-Ghazali, W. R. W. Gardner License: public domain
- René Descartes (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Meditations on First Philosophy - Wikisource, the free online library
- Princess Elisabeth - Descartes Correspondence
- Ethics, Benedictus de Spinoza License: public domain
- Monadology, G. W. Leibniz License: public domain
- Locke, Essay Concerning Human Understanding
Books 1—2 License: public domain
Books 3—4 License: public domain
- Occasional thoughts in reference to a virtuous [sic] or Christian life, Damaris Cudworth Masham License: public domain
George Berkeley
- Three dialogues between Hylas and Philonous License: public domain
- Esse Est Percipi License: public domain
Hume
- A Treatise of Human Nature License: public domain
- Radical Empiricism License: public domain
Kant
- The Critique of Pure Reason License: public domain
- Transcendental Idealism License: public domain
Early Modern Texts 1561-1797
Feminist Epistemologies, Monica Poole
Chapter 5: The Mind Body Problem
Study questions
- True or false: One popular way of thinking about how the mind works is by analogy with how a computer works: the brain is a complex syntactic engine that uses its own kind of language—a language that has original intentionality.
- True or false: One good way of explaining how the mind understands things is to posit a little man inside the head that does the understanding.
- True or false: The mind-body problem is the same, exact problem for both physicalism and dualism.
- True or false: John Searle agrees with Alan Turing that the relevant test for whether a machine can think is the test of whether or not the machine behaves in a way that convinces us it is intelligent.
- True or false: One good reply to the Chinese Room argument is just to note that we have exactly the same behavioral evidence that other people have minds as we would of a machine that passed the Turing Test.
- True or false: According to interpretationism, mental representations are things we attribute to others in order to help us predict and explain their behaviors, and therefore it follows that mental representations must be real.
- True or false: This chapter considers two different aspects of our mental lives: mental representation (or intentionality) and consciousness. But the two really reduce to the exact same philosophical problem of mind.
- True or false: The hard problem is the problem of understanding how the brain causes intelligent behavior.
- True of false: The knowledge argument is an argument against physicalism.
- True or false: Dennett’s solution to the hard problem turns out to be the same as Chalmers’s solution.
For deeper thought
- How does the hard problem differ from the easy problems of brain science?
- If the Turing Test isn’t the best test for determining whether a machine is thinking, can you think of a better test?
- According to physics, nothing in the world is really red in the way we perceive it. Rather, redness is just a certain wavelength of light that our senses interpret in a particular way (some other creature’s sensory system might interpret that same physical phenomenon in a very different way). By the same token, redness does not exist in the brain: if you are seeing red then I cannot also see the red by looking at your brain. In this case, where is the redness if it isn’t in the world and it also isn’t in the brain? And does this prove that redness is not a physical thing, thus vindicating dualism? Why or why not?
- Could someone be in pain and yet not know it? If so, how would we be able to tell they were in pain? If not, then aren’t pain qualia real? And so wouldn’t that prove that qualia are real (if pain is)?
- According to Chalmers’s view, is it theoretically possible for a machine to be conscious? Why or why not?
THE MIND-BODY PROBLEM
Matthew Van Cleave
Introduction: A pathway through this chapter
What is the relationship between the mind and the body? In contemporary philosophy of mind, there are a myriad of different, nuanced accounts of this relationship. Nonetheless, these accounts can be seen as falling into two broad categories: dualism and physicalism.[1] According to dualism, the mind cannot be reduced to a merely physical thing, such as the brain. The mind is a wholly different kind of thing than physical objects. One simple way a dualist might try to make this point is the following: although we can observe your brain (via all kinds of methods of modern neuroscience), we cannot observe your mind. Your mind seems inaccessible to third-person observation (that is, to people other than you) in a way that your brain isn’t. Although neuroscientists could observe activation patterns in your brain via functional magnetic resonance imagining, they could not observe your thoughts. Your thoughts seem to be accessible only in the first person—only you can know what you are thinking or feeling directly. Insofar as other can know this, they can only know it indirectly, though your behaviors (including what you say and how you act). Readers of previous chapters will recognize that dualism is the view held by the 17th century philosopher, René Descartes, and that I have referred to in earlier chapters as the Cartesian view of mind. In contrast with dualism, physicalism is the view that the mind is not a separate, wholly different kind of thing from the rest of the physical world. The mind is constituted by physical things. For many physicalists, the mind just is the brain. We may not yet understand how mind/brain works, but the spirit of physicalism is often motivated by something like Ockham’s razor: the principle that all other things being equal, the simplest explanation is the best explanation. Physicalists think that all mind related phenomena can be explained in terms of the functioning of the brain. So a theory that posits both the brain and another sui generis entity (a nonphysical mind or mental properties) violates Ockham’s razor: it posits two kinds of entities (brains and minds) whereas all that is needed to explain the relevant phenomena is one (brains).
The mind-body problem is best thought of not as a single problem but as a set of problems that attach to different views of the mind. For physicalists, the mind-body problem is the problem of explaining how conscious experience can be nothing other than a brain activity—what has been called “the hard problem.” For dualists, the mind-body problem manifests itself as “the interaction problem”—the problem of explaining how nonphysical mental phenomena relate to or interact with physical phenomena, such as brain processes. Thus, the mind-body problem is that no matter which view of the mind you take, there are deep philosophical problems. The mind, no matter how we conceptualize it, seems to be shrouded in mystery. That is the mind-body problem. Below we will explore different strands of the mind-body problem, with an emphasis on physicalist attempts to explain the mind. In an era of neuroscience, it seems increasingly plausible that the mind is in some sense identical to the brain. But there are two putative properties of minds—especially human minds—that appear to be recalcitrant to physicalist explanations. The two properties of minds that we will focus on in this chapter are “original intentionality” (the mind’s ability to have meaningful thoughts) and “qualia” (the qualitative aspects of our conscious experiences).
We noted above the potential use of Ockham’s razor as an argument in favor of physicalism. However, this simplicity argument works only if physicalism can explain all of the relevant properties of the mind. A common tactic of the dualist is to argue that physicalism cannot explain all of the important aspects of the mind. We can view several of the famous arguments we will explore in this chapter—the “Chinese room” argument, Nagel’s “what is it like to be a bat” argument, and Jackson’s “knowledge argument”—as manifestations of this tactic. If the physicalist cannot explain aspects of the mind like “original intentionality” and “qualia” then the simplicity argument fails. In contrast, a tactic of physicalists is to either try to meet this explanatory challenge or to deny that these properties ultimately exist. This latter tactic can be clearly seen in Daniel Dennett’s responses to these challenges to physicalism since he denies that original intentionality and qualia ultimately exist. This kind of eliminativist strategy, if successful, would keep in place Ockham simplicity argument.
Representation and the mind
One aspect of mind that needs explaining is how the mind is able to represent things. Consider the fact that I can think about all kinds of different things— about this textbook I am trying to write, about how I would like some Indian food for lunch, about my dog Charlie, about how I wish I were running in the mountains right now. Medieval philosophers referred to the mind as having intentionality—the curious property of “aboutness”—that is, the property of an object to be able to be about some other object. In a certain sense, the mind seems to function kind of like a mirror does—it reflects things other than itself. But unlike a mirror, whose reflected images are not inherently meaningful, minds seem to have what contemporary philosopher John Searle calls “original intentionality.” In contrast, the mirror has only “derived intentionality”—its image is meaningful only because something else gives it meaning or sees it as meaningful. Another thing that has derived intentionality is words, for example the word “tree.” “Tree” refers to trees, of course, but it is not as if the physical marks on a page inherently refer to trees. Rather, human beings who speak English use the word “tree” to refer to trees. Spanish speakers use the word “arbol” to refer to trees. But in neither case do those physical marks on the page (or sound waves in the air, in the case of spoken words) inherently mean anything. Rather, those physical phenomena are only meaningful because a human mind is representing those physical phenomena as meaningful. Thus, words are only meaningful because a human mind represents them in a meaningful way. Although we speak of the word itself as carrying meaning, this meaning has only derived intentionality. In contrast, the human mind has original intentionality because only the mind is the ultimate creator of meaningful representations. We can explain the meaningfulness of words in terms of thoughts, but then how do we explain the meaningfulness of the thoughts themselves? This is what philosophers are trying to explain when they investigate the representational aspect of mind.
There are many different attempts to explain what mental representation is but we will only cursorily consider some fairly rudimentary ideas as a way of building up to a famous thought experiment that challenges a whole range of physicalist accounts of mental representation. Let’s start with a fairly simple, straightforward idea—that of mental images. Perhaps what my mind does when it represents my dog Charlie is that it creates a mental image of Charlie. This account seems to fit our first person experience, at least in certain cases, since many people would describe their thoughts in terms of images in their mind. But whatever a mental image is, it cannot be like a physical image because physical images require interpretation in terms of something else. When I’m representing my dog Charlie it can’t be that my thoughts about Charlie just are some kind of image or picture of Charlie in my head because that picture would require a mind to interpret it! But if the image is suppose to represent the thing that has “original intentionality,” then if our explanation requires some other thing that has that has original intentionality in order to interpret it, then the mental image isn’t really the thing that has original intentionality. Rather, the thing interpreting the image would have original intentionality. There’s a potential problem that looms here and threatens to drive the mental image view of mental representation into incoherence: the object in the world is represented by a mental image but that mental image itself requires interpretation in terms of something else. It would be problematic for the mental image proponent to then say that there is some other inner “understander” that interprets the mental image. For how does this inner understander understand? By virtue of another mental image in its “head”? Such a view would create what philosophers call an infinite regress: a series of explanations that require further explanations, thus, ultimately explaining nothing. The philosopher Daniel Dennett sees explanations of this sort as committing what he calls “the homuncular fallacy,” after the Latin term, homunculus, which means “little man.” The problem is that if we explain the nature of the mind by, in essence, positing another inner mind, then we haven’t really explained anything. For that inner mind itself needs to be explained. It should be obvious why positing a further inner mind inside the first inner mind enters us into an infinite regress and why this is fatal to any successful explanation of the phenomenon in question—mental representation or intentionality.
Within the cognitive sciences, one popular way of understanding the nature of human thought is to see the mind as something like a computer. A computer is a device that takes certain inputs (representations) and transforms those inputs in accordance with certain rules (the program) and then produces a certain output (behavior). The idea is that the computer metaphor gives us a satisfying way of explaining what human thought and reasoning is and does so in a way that is compatible with physicalism. The idea, popular in philosophy and cognitive science since the 1970s, is that there is a kind of language of thought which brain states instantiate and which is similar to a natural language in that it possesses both a grammar and a semantics, except that the representations in the language of thought have original intentionality, whereas the representations in natural languages (like English and Spanish) have only derived intentionality. One central question in the philosophy of mind concerns how these “words” in the language of thought get their meaning? We have seen above that these representations can’t just be mental images and there’s a further reason why mental images don’t work for the computer metaphor of the mind: mental images don’t have syntax like language does. You can’t create meaningful sentences by putting together a series of pictures because there are no rules for how those pictures create a holistic meaning out of the parts. For example, how could pictures represent the thought, Leslie wants to go out in the rain but not without an umbrella with a picture (or pictures)? How do I represent with a picture someone’s desire? Or how do I represent the negation of something with only a picture? True, there are devices that we can use within pictures, such as the “no” symbol on no smoking signs. But those symbols are already not functioning purely as pictorial representations that seem to represent in virtue of their similarity. There is no pictorial similarity between the purely logical notion “not” and any picture we could draw. So whatever the words of the language of thought (that is, mental representations) are, their meaning cannot derive from a pictorial similarity to what they represent. So we need some other account. Philosophers have given many such accounts, but most of those accounts attempt to understand mental representation in terms of a causal relationship between objects in the world and representations. That is, whatever types of objects cause (or would cause) certain brain states to “light up,” so to speak, are what those brain states represent. So if there’s a particular brain state that lights up any time I see (or think about) a dog, then that is what those mental representations stand for. Delving into the nuances of contemporary theories of representation is beyond the scope of this chapter, but the important point is that the language of thought idea that these theories support is supposed to be compatible with physicalism as well as the computer analogy of explaining the mind. On this account, the “words” of the language of thought have original intentionality and thinking is just the manipulation of these “words” using certain syntactic rules (the “program”) that are hard-wired into the brain (either innately or by learning) and which are akin to the grammar of a natural language.
There is a famous objection to the computer analogy of human thought that comes from the philosopher John Searle, who thinks that it shows that human thought and understanding cannot be reduced to the kind of thing that a computer can do. Searle’s thought experiment is called the Chinese Room. Imagine that there is a room with a man inside of it. What the man does is take slips of paper that are passed into the room via a slit. The slips of paper have writing on them that look like this:
The room also contains a giant bookshelf with many different volumes of books. Those books are labeled something like this:
Volume 23: Patterns that begin with
When the man sees the slip of paper with the characters he goes to the bookshelf and pulls out volume 23 and looks for this exact pattern. When he finds it, he looks up the exact pattern and finds an entry that looks something like this:
When you see write
The man writes the symbols and then passes it back through the slit in the wall. From the perspective of the man in the room, this is what he does. Nothing more nothing less. The man inside the room doesn’t understand what these symbols mean; they are just meaningless squiggles on a page to him. He sees the difference between the different symbols merely in terms of their shapes. However, from outside the room Chinese speakers who are writing questions on the slips of paper and passing them through the slot in the room come to believe that the Chinese room (or something inside it) understands Chinese and is thus intelligent.
The Chinese room is essentially a scenario in which a computer program passes the Turing Test. In paper published in 1950, Alan Turing proposed a test for how we should determine whether or not a machine can think. Basically, the test is whether or not the machine can make a human investigator believe that the machine is a human. The human investigator is able to ask the machine any questions they can think of (which Turing imagined would be conducted via types responses on a keyboard). Imagine what some of the questions might be. Here is one such potential question one might ask:
Rotate a capital letter “D” 90 degrees counterclockwise and place it atop a capital letter “J.” What kind of weather does this make you think of?
A computer that could pass the Turing Test would be able to answer questions such as this and thus would make a human investigator believe that the computer was actually another human being. Turing thought that if a machine could do this, we should count that machine as having intelligence. The Chinese Room thought experiment is supposed to challenge Turing’s claim that something that can pass the Turing Test is thereby intelligent. The essence of a computer is that of a syntactic machine—a machine that takes symbols as inputs, manipulates symbols in accordance with a series of rules (the program), and gives the outputs that the rules dictate. Importantly, we can understand what syntactic machines do without having to say that they interpret or understand their inputs/outputs. In fact, a syntactic machine cannot possibly understand the symbols because there’s nothing there to understand. For example, in the case of modern-day computers, the symbols being processed are strings of 1s and 0s, which are physically instantiated in the CPU of a computer as a series of on/off voltages (that is, transistors). Note that a series of voltages are no more inherently meaningful than a series of different fluttering patterns of a flag waving in the wind, or a series of waves hitting a beach, or a series of footsteps on a busy New York City subway platform. They are merely physical patterns, nothing more, nothing less. What a computer does, in essence, is “reads” these inputs and gives outputs in accordance with the program. This simple theoretical (mathematical) device is called a “Turing machine,” after Alan Turing. A calculator is an example of a simple Turing machine. In contrast, a modern day computer is an example of what is called a “universal Turing machine”— universal because it can run any number of different programs that will allow it to compute all kinds of different outputs. In contrast, a simple calculator is only running a couple different simple programs—ones that correspond to the different kinds of mathematical functions the calculator has (+, −, ×, ÷). The Chinese room has all the essential parts of the computer and is functioning exactly as a computer does: he “reads” these symbols and produces outputs using symbols, in accordance with what the program dictates. If the program is sufficiently well written, then the man’s responses (the room’s output) will be able to convince someone outside the room that the room (or something inside it) understands Chinese.
But the whole point is that the there is nothing inside the room that understands Chinese. The man in the room doesn’t understand Chinese—they are just meaningless symbols to him. The written volumes don’t understand Chinese either—how could they?—books don’t understand things. Furthermore, Searle argues that the understanding of Chinese doesn’t just magically emerge from the combination of all the parts of the Chinese room: if no one of the parts of the room has any understanding of Chinese, then neither does the whole room. Thus, the Chinese room thought experiment is supposed to be a counterexample to the Turing Test: the Chinese room passes the Turing Test but the Chinese room doesn’t understand Chinese. Rather, it just acts as if it understands Chinese. Without understanding, there can be no thought. The Chinese room, impressive as it is for passing the Turing Test, lacks any understanding and therefore is not really thinking. Likewise, a computer cannot think because a computer is merely a syntactic machine that does not understand the inputs or the outputs. Rather, from the perspective of the computer, the strings of 1s and 0s are just meaningless symbols.[2] The people outside the Chinese room might ascribe thought and understanding of Chinese to the room, but there is neither thought nor understanding involved. Likewise, at some point in the future, someone may finally create a computer program that would pass the Turing Test[3] and we might think that machine has thought and understanding, but the Chinese room is supposed to show that we would be wrong to think this. No merely syntactic machine could ever think because no merely syntactic machine could ever understand. That is the point of the Chinese room thought experiment.
We could put this point in terms of the distinction between original vs. derived intentionality: no amount of derived intentionality will ever get you original intentionality. Computers have only derived intentionality and since genuine thought requires original intentionality, it follows that computers could never think. Here is a reconstructed version of the Chinese room argument:
- Computers are merely syntactic machines.
- Therefore, computers lack original intentionality (from 1)
- Thought requires original intentionality.
- Therefore, computers cannot think (from 2-3)
How should we assess the Chinese room argument? One thing to say is that it seems to make a lot of simplifying assumptions about his Chinese room. For example, the philosopher Daniel Dennett suggests that in order to pass the Turing Test a computer would need something on the order of 100 billion lines of code. That would take the man inside the room many lifetimes to hand simulate the code in the way that we are invited to imagine. Searle thinks that these practical kinds of considerations can be dismissed—for example, we can just imagine that the man inside the room can operate faster than the speed of light. Searle thinks that these kinds of assumptions are not problematic, for why should mere speed of operation make any difference to the theoretical point he is trying to make—which is that the merely syntactic processing of a digital computer could not achieve understanding? Dennett, on the other hand, thinks that such simplifying assumptions should alert us that there is something fishy going on with the Chinese room thought experiment. If we were really, truly imagining a computer program that could pass the Turing Test, Dennett thinks, then it wouldn’t sound nearly as absurd to say that the computer had thought.
There’s a deeper objection to the Chinese room argument. This response is sometimes referred to as the “other minds reply.” The essence of the Chinese room rebuttal of the Turing Test involves, so to speak, looking at the guts of what is going on inside of a computer. When you look at it “up close,” it certainly doesn’t seem like all of that syntactic processing adds up to intelligent thought. However, one can make exactly the same point about the human brain (something that Searle believes is undoubtedly capable of thought): the functioning of neurons, or even whole populations of neurons in neuronal spike trains, do not look like what we think of as intelligent thought. Far from it! But of course it doesn’t follow that human brains aren’t thinking! The problem is that in both cases we are looking at the wrong level of description. In order for us to be able to “see” the thought, we must be looking in the right place.
Zooming in and looking at the mechanics of the machines up close is not going to enable us to see the thought and intelligence. Rather, we have to zoom out to the level of behavior and observe the responses in their context. Thought isn’t something we can see up close; rather, thought is something that we attribute to something whose behavior is sufficiently intelligent. Dennett suggests the following cartoon as a reductio ad absurdum of the Chinese room argument:
In the cartoon, Dennett imagines someone going inside the Chinese room to see what is going on inside the room. Once inside they see the man responding to the questions of Chinese speakers outside the room. The woman tells the man (perhaps someone she knows), “I didn’t know you knew Chinese!” In response the man explains that he doesn’t and that he is just looking up the relevant strings Chinese characters to write in response to the inputs he receives. The woman’s interpretation of this is: “I see! You use your understanding of English in order to fake understanding Chinese!” The man’s response is: “What makes you think I understand English?” The joke is that the woman’s evidence for thinking that the man inside the room understands English is her evidence of his spoken behavior. This is exactly the same evidence that the Chinese speakers have of the Chinese room. So if the evidence is good enough for the woman inside the room to say that the man inside the room understands Chinese, why is the evidence of the Chinese speakers outside the room any different? We can make the problem even more acute. Suppose that we were to look inside the man inside the room’s brain. We would see all kinds of neural activity and then we could say, “Hey, this doesn’t look like thought; it’s just bunches of neurons sending chemical messages back and forth and those chemical signals have no inherent meaning.” Dennett’s point is that this response makes the same kind of mistake that Searle makes in supposing a computer can’t think: in both cases, we are focusing on the wrong level of detail. Neither the innards of the brain nor the innards of a computer looks like there’s thinking going on. Rather, thinking only emerges at the behavioral level; it only emerges when we are listening to what people are saying and, more generally, observing what they are doing. This is what is called the other minds reply to the Chinese room argument.
Interlude: Interpretationism and Representation
The other minds reply points us towards a radically different account of the nature of thought and representation. A common assumption in the philosophy of mind (and one that Searle also makes) is that thought (intentionality, representation) is something to be found within the inner workings of the thinking thing, whether we are talking about human minds or artificial minds. In contrast, on the account that Dennett defends, thought is not a phenomenon to be observed at the level of the inner workings of the machine. Rather, thought is something that we attribute to people in order to understand and predict their behaviors. To be sure, the brain is a complex mechanism that causes our intelligent behaviors (as well as our unintelligent ones), but to try to look inside the brain for some language-like representation system is to look in the wrong place. Representations aren’t something we will find in the brain, they are just something that we attribute to certain kinds of intelligent things (paradigmatically human beings) in order to better understand those beings and predict their behaviors. This view of the nature of representation is called interpretationism and can be seen as a kind of instrumentalism. Instrumentalists about representation believe that representations aren’t, in the end, real things.
Rather, they are useful fictions that we attribute in order to understand and predict certain behaviors. For example, if I am playing against the computer in a game of chess, I might explain the computer’s behavior by attributing certain thoughts to it such as, “The computer moved the pawn in front of the king because it thought that I would put the king in check with my bishop and it didn’t want to be in check.” I might also attribute thoughts to the computer in order to predict what it will do next: “Since the computer would rather lose its pawn than its rook, it will move the pawn in front of the king rather than the rook.” None of this requires that there be internal representations inside the computer that correspond to the linguistic representations we attribute. The fundamental insight about representation, according to interpretationism, is that just as we merely interpret computers as having internal representations (without being committed to the idea that they actually contain those representations internally), so too we merely interpret human beings as having internal representations (without being committed to whether or not they contain those internal representations). It is useful (for the purposes of explaining behavior) to interpret humans as having internal representations, even if they don’t actually have internal representations.
Interpretationist accounts of representation raise deep questions about where meaning and intentionality reside, if not in the brain, but we will not be able to broach those questions here. Suffice it to say that the disagreement between Searle and Dennett regarding Searle’s Chinese room thought experiment traces back to what I would argue is the most fundamental rift within the philosophy of mind: the rift between the Cartesian view of the mind, on the one hand, and the behaviorist tradition of the mind, on the other. Searle’s view of the mind, specifically his notion of “original intentionality,” traces back to a Cartesian view of the mind. On this view, the mind contains something special—something that cannot be capture merely by “matter in motion” or by any kind of physical mechanism. The mind is sui generis and is set apart from the rest of nature. For Searle, meaning and understand have to issue back to an “original” mean-er or understand-er. And that understand-er cannot be a mindless mechanism (which is why Searle thinks that computers can’t think). For Searle, like Descartes, thinking is reserved for a special (one might say, magical) kind of substance. Although Searle himself rejects Descartes’s conclusion that the mind is nonphysical, he retains the Cartesian idea that thinking is carried out by a special, quasi-magical kind of substance. Searle thinks that this substance is the brain, an object that he thinks contains special causal powers and that cannot be replicated or copied in any other kind of physical object (for example, an artificial brain made out of metal and silicon). Dennett’s behaviorist view of the mind sees the mind as nothing other than a complex physical mechanism that churns out intelligent behaviors that we then classify using a special mental vocabulary—the vocabulary of “minds,” “thoughts,” “representations,” and “intentionality.” The puzzle for Dennett’s behaviorist view is: How can there meaning and understanding without any original meaner/understander? How can there be only derived intentionality and no original intentionality?
Consciousness and the mind
Interpretationism sees the mind as a certain kind of useful fiction: we attribute representational states (thoughts) to people in virtue of their intelligent behavior and we do so in order to explain and predict their behavior. The causes of one’s intelligent behavior are real, but the representational states that we attribute need not map neatly onto any particular brain states. Thus, there need not be any particular brain state that represents the content, “Brittney Spears is a washed up pop star,” for example.
But there another aspect of our mental lives that seems more difficult to explain away in the way interpretationism explains away representation and intentionality. This aspect of our mind is first-person conscious experience. To borrow a term from Thomas Nagel, conscious experience refers to the “what it’s like” of our first person experience of the world. For example, I am sitting here at my table with a blue thermos filled with coffee. The coffee has a distinctive, qualitative smell which would be difficult to describe to someone who has never smelled it before. Likewise, the blue of the thermos has a distinctive visual quality—a “what it’s like”—that is different from what it’s like to see blue. These experiences—the smell of the coffee, the look of the blue—are aspects of my conscious experience and they have a distinctive qualitative dimension—there is something it’s like to smell coffee and to see blue. This qualitative character seems in some sense to be ineffable—that is, it would be very difficult if not impossible to convey what it is like to someone who had never smelled coffee or to someone who had never seen the color blue. Imagine someone who was colorblind. How would you explain what blue was to them? Sure, you could tell them that it was the color of the ocean, but that would not convey to them the particular quality that you (someone who is not color blind) experience when you look at a brilliant blue ocean or lake. Philosophers have coined a term that they use to refer to the qualitative aspects of our conscious experience: qualia. It seems that our conscious experience is real and cannot be explained away in the way that representation can. Maybe there needn’t be anything similar to sentences in my brain, but how could there not be colors, smells, feels? The feeling of stubbing your toe and the feeling of an orgasm are very different feels (thank goodness), but it seems that they are both very much real things. That is, if neuroscientists were to be able to explain exactly how your brain causes you to respond to stubbing your toe, such an explanation would seem to leave something out if it neglected the feeling of the pain. From our first person perspective, our experiences seem to be the most real thing there are, so it doesn’t seem that we could explain their reality away.
Physicalists need not disagree that conscious experiences are real; they would simply claim that they are ultimately just physical states of our brain. Although that might seem to be a plausible position, there are well known problems with claiming that conscious experiences are nothing other than physical states of our brain. The problem is that it does not seem that our conscious experience could just reduce to brain states—that is, to our neurons in our brain sending lots and lots of chemical messages back and forth simultaneously. The 17th century philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716) was no brain scientist (that would take another 250 to develop) but he put forward a famous objection to the idea that consciousness could be reduced to any kind of mechanism (and the brain is one giant, complex mechanism). Leibniz’s objection is sometimes referred to as “Leibniz’s mill.” In 1714, Leibniz wrote:
Moreover, we must confess that perception, and what depends on it, is inexplicable in terms of mechanical reasons, that is, through shapes and motions. If we imagine that there is a machine whose structure makes it think, sense, and have perceptions, we could conceive it enlarged, keeping the same proportions, so that we could enter into it, as one enters into a mill. Assuming that, when inspecting its interior, we will only find parts that push one another, and we will never find anything to explain a perception (Monadology, section 17).
Leibniz uses a famous form of argument here called reductio ad absurdum: He assumes for the sake of the argument that thinking is a mechanical process and then shows how that leads to the conclusion that thinking cannot be a mechanical process.We could put Leibniz’s exact same point into the language of 21st century neuroscience: imagine that you could enlarge the size of the brain (in a sense, we can already do with the help of the tools of modern neuroscience). If we were to enter into the brain (perhaps by shrinking ourselves down) we would see all kinds of physical processes going on (billions of neurons sending chemical signals back and forth). However, to observe all of these processes would not be to observe the conscious experiences of the person whose brain we were observing. That means that conscious experiences cannot reduce to physical brain mechanics. The simple point being made is that in conscious experience there exist all kinds of qualitative properties (qualia)—red, blue, the smell of coffee, the feeling of getting your back scratched—but none of these properties would be the properties observed in observing someone’s brain. All you will find on the inside is “parts that push one another” and never the properties that appear to us in first-person conscious experience.
The philosopher David Chalmers has coined a term for the problem that Leibniz was getting at. He calls it the hard problem of consciousness and contrasts it with easy problems of consciousness. The “easy” problems of mind science involve questions about how the brain carries out functions that enable certain kinds of behaviors—functions such as discriminating stimuli, integrating information, and using the information to control behavior. These problems are far from easy in any normal sense—in fact, they are some of the most difficult problems of science. Consider, for example, how speech production occurs. How is it that I decide what exactly to say in response to a criticism someone has just made of me? The physical processes involved are numerous and include the sounds waves of the person’s question hitting my eardrum, those physical signals being carried to the brain, that information being integrated with the rest of my knowledge and, eventually, my motor cortex sending certain signals to my vocal chords that then produce the sounds, “I think you’re misunderstanding what I mean when I said…” or whatever I end up saying. We are still a long way from understanding how this process works, but it seems like the kind of problem that can be solved by doing more of the same kinds of science that we’ve been doing. In short, solving easy problems involves understanding the complex causal mechanisms of the brain. In contrast, the hard problem is the problem of explaining how physical processes in the brain give rise to first- person conscious experience. The hard problem does not seem to be the kind of problem that could be solved by simply investigating in more detail the complex causal mechanism that is the brain. Rather, it seems to be a conceptual problem: how could it be that the colors, and sounds, the smells that constitute our first-person conscious experience of the world are nothing other than neurons firing electrical-chemical signals back and forth? As Leibniz pointed out over 250 years ago, the one seems to be a radically different kind of thing than the other.
In fact, it seems that a human being could have all of the functioning of normal human being and yet lack any conscious experience. There is a term for such a being: a philosophical zombie. Philosophical zombies are by definition being that are functionally indistinguishable from you or I but who lack any conscious experience. If we assume that it’s the functioning of the brain that causes all of our intelligent behaviors, then it isn’t clear what conscious experience could possibly add to our repertoire of intelligent behaviors. Philosophical zombies can help illustrate the hard problem of consciousness since if such creatures are theoretically possible then consciousness doesn’t seem to reduce to any kind of brain functioning. By hypothesis the brain of the normal human being and the brain of the philosophical zombie are identical. It’s just that the latter lacks consciousness whereas the former doesn’t. If this is possible then it does indeed seems to make consciousness seem like quite a mysterious thing for the physicalist.
There are two other famous thought experiments that illustrate the hard problem of consciousness: Frank Jackson’s knowledge argument and Thomas Nagel’s what it’s like to be a bat argument.
Nagel’s argument against physicalism turns on a colorful example: Could we (human beings) imagine what it would be like to be a bat? Although bats are still mammals, and thus not so different than human beings phylogenetically, their experience would seem to be radically different than ours. Bats echolocate around in the darkness, they eat bugs at night, and they sleep while hanging upside down. Human beings could try to do all these things, but even if they did, they would arguably not be experiencing these activities like a bat does. And yet it seems pretty clear that bats (being mammals) have some kind of subjective experience of the world—a “what it’s like” to be a bat. The problem is that although we can figure out all kinds of physical facts about bats—how they echolocate, how they catch insects in the dark, and so on—we cannot ever know what it’s like to be a bat. For example, although we could understand enough scientifically to be able to send signals to the bat that would trick it into trying to land on what it perceived as a ledge, we could not know what it’s like for the bat to perceive an object as a ledge. That is, we could understand the causal mechanisms that make the bat do what the bat does, but that would not help us to answer the question of what it’s like to experience the world the way a bat experiences the world. Nagel notes that it is characteristic of science to study physical facts (such as how the brain works) that can be understood in a third-person kind of way. That is, anyone with the relevant training can understand a scientific fact. If you studied the physics of echolocation and also a lot of neuroscience of bat brains, you would be able to understand how a bat does what a bat does. But this understanding would seem to bring you no closer to what it’s like to be a bat—that is, to the first-person perspective of the bat. We can refer to the facts revealed in first-person conscious experience as phenomenal facts. Phenomenal facts are things like what it’s like to see blue or smell coffee or experience sexual pleasure…or echolocate around the world in total darkness. Phenomenal facts are qualia, to use our earlier term. Nagel’s point is that if the phenomenal facts of conscious experience are only accessible from a first-person perspective and scientific facts are always third-person, then it follows that phenomenal facts cannot be grasped scientifically. Here is a reconstruction of Nagel’s argument:
- The phenomenal facts presented in conscious experience are knowable only from the first-person (subjective) perspective.
- Physical facts can always be known from third-person (objective) perspective.
- Nothing that is knowable only from the first person perspective could be the same as (reduce to) something that is knowable from the third-person perspective.
- Therefore, the phenomenal facts of conscious experience are not the same as physical facts about the brain. (from 1-3)
- Therefore, physicalism is false. (from 4)
Nagel uses an interesting analogy to explain what’s wrong with physicalism—the claim that conscious states are nothing other than brain states. He imagines an ancient Greek saying that “matter is energy.” It turns out that this statement is true (Einstein’s famous E = mc2) but an ancient Greek person could not have possibly understood how it could be true. The problem is that the ancient Greek person could not have had the conceptual resources needed for being able to understand what this statements means. Nagel claims that we are in the same position today when we say something like “conscious states are brain states” is true. It might be true, we just cannot understand what that could possibly mean yet because we don’t have the conceptual resources for understanding how this could be true. And the conceptual problem is what Nagel is trying to make clear in the above argument. This is another way at getting at the hard problem of consciousness.
Frank Jackson’s famous knowledge argument is similar and makes a similar point. Jackson imagines a super scientist, whom he dubs “Mary,” knows all the physical facts about color vision. Not only is she the world’s expert on color vision, she knows all there is to know about color vision. She can explain how certain wavelengths of light strike the cones in the retina and send signals via the optic nerve to the brain. She understands how the brain interprets these signals and eventually communicates with the motor cortex that sends signals to produce speech such as, “that rose is a brilliant color of red.” Mary understands all the causal processes of the brain that are connected to color vision. However, Mary understands this without ever having experienced any color. Jackson imagines that this is because she has been kept in a black and white room and has only ever had access to black and white things. So the books she reads and the things she investigates of the outside world (via a black and white monitor in her black and white room) are only ever black and white, never any other color. Now what will happen when Mary is released from the room and sees color for the first time? Suppose she is released and sees a red rose. What will she say? Jackson’s claim was that Mary will be surprised because she will learn something new: she will learn what it’s like to see red. But by hypothesis, Mary already knew all the physical facts of color vision. Thus, it follows that this new phenomenal fact that Mary learns (specifically, what it’s like to see red) is not the same as the physical facts about the brain (which by hypothesis she already knows).
- Mary knows all the physical facts about color vision.
- When Mary is released from the room and sees red for the first time, she learns something new—the phenomenal fact of what it’s like to see red.
- Therefore, phenomenal facts are not physical facts. (from 1-2)
- Therefore, physicalism is false. (from 3)
The upshot of both Nagel and Jackson’s arguments is that the phenomenal facts of conscious experience—qualia—are not reducible to brain states. This is the hard problem of consciousness and it is the mind-body problem that arises in particular for physicalism. The hard problem is the reason why physicalists can’t simply claim a victory over dualism by invoking Ockham’s razor. Ockham’s razor assumes that the two competing explanations equally explain all the facts but that one does so in a simpler way than the other. The problem is that if physicalism cannot explain the nature of consciousness—in particular, how brain states give rise to conscious experience—then there is something that physicalism cannot explain and, therefore, physicalists cannot so simply invoke Ockham’s razor.
Two responses to the hard problem
We will consider two contemporary responses to the hard problem: David Chalmers’s panpsychism and Daniel Dennett’s eliminativism. Although both Chalmers and Dennett exist within a tradition of philosophy that privileges scientific explanation and is broadly physicalist, they have two radically different ways of addressing the hard problem. Chalmers’s response accepts that consciousness is real and that solving the hard problem will require quite a radical change in how we conceptualize the world. On the other hand, Dennett’s response attempts to argue that the hard problem isn’t really a problem because it rests on a misunderstanding of the nature of consciousness. For Dennett, consciousness is a kind of illusion and isn’t ultimately real, whereas for Chalmers consciousness is the most real thing we know. The disagreement between these two philosophers returns as, again, to the most fundamental divide within the philosophy of mind: that between Cartesians, on the one hand, and behaviorists, on the other.
To understand Chalmers’s response to the hard problem, we must first understand what he means by a “basic entity.” A basic entity is one that science posits but that cannot be further analyzed in terms of any other kind of entity. Can you think of what kinds of entities would fit this description? Or which science you would look to in order to find basic entities? If you’re thinking physics, then you’re correct. Think of an atom. Originally, atoms were thought of as the most basic building blocks of the universe; the term “atom” literally means “uncuttable” (from the Greek “a” = not + “tomos” = cut). So atoms were originally thought of as basic entities because there was nothing smaller. As we now know, this turned out to be incorrect because there were even smaller particles such as electrons, protons, quarks, and so on. But eventually physics will discover those basic entities that cannot be reduced to anything further. Mental states are not typically thought of as basic entities because they are studied by a higher order science—psychology and neuroscience. So mental states, such as my perception of the red rose, are not basic entities. For example, brain states are ultimately analyzable in terms of brain chemistry and chemistry, in turn, is ultimately analyzable in terms of physics (not that anyone would care to carry out that analysis!). But Chalmers’s radical claim is that consciousness is a basic entity. That is, the qualia—what it’s like to see red, smell coffee, and so on—that constitute our first-person conscious experience of the world cannot be further analyzed in terms of any other thing. They are what they are and nothing else. This doesn’t mean that our conscious experiences don’t correlate with the existence of certain brain states, according to Chalmers. Perhaps my experience of the smell of coffee correlates with a certain kind of brain state. But Chalmers’s point is that that correlation is basic; the coffee smell qualia are not the same thing as the brain state with which they might be correlated. Rather, the brain state and the conscious experience are just two radically different things that happen to be correlated. Whereas brain states reduce to further, more basic, entities, conscious states don’t. As Chalmers sees it, the science of consciousness should proceed by studying these correlations. We might discover all kinds of things about the nature of consciousness by treating the science of consciousness as irreducibly correlational. Chalmers suggests as an orienting principle the idea that consciousness emerges as a function of the “informational integration” of an organism (including artificially intelligent “organisms”). What is informational integration? In short, informational integration refers to the complexity of the organism’s control mechanism—its “brain.” Simple organisms have very few inputs from the environment and their “brains” manipulate that information in fairly simple ways. Take an ant, for example. We pretty much understand exactly how ants work and as far as animals go, they are pretty simple. We can basically already duplicate the level of intelligence of an ant with machines that we can build. So an informational integration of an ant’s brain is pretty low. A thermostat has some level of informational integration, too. For example, it takes in information about the ambient temperature of a room and then sends a signal to either turn the furnace on or off depending on the temperature reading. That is a very simple behavior and the informational integration inside the “brain” of a thermostat is very simple. Chalmers’s idea is that complex consciousness like our emerges when the informational integration is high—that is, when we are dealing with a very complex brain. The less complex the brain, the less rich the conscious experience. Here is a law that Chalmers suggests could orient the scientific study of consciousness:
This graph just says that as informational integration increases, so does the complexity of the associated conscious experience. Again, the conscious experience doesn’t reduce to informational integration, since that would only run headlong into the hard problem—a problem that Chalmers thinks is unsolvable.
The graph also says something else. As drawn, it looks like even information processing systems whose informational integration is low (for example, a thermostat or tree) also has some non-negligible level of conscious experience. That is a strange idea; no one really thinks that a thermostat is conscious and the idea that plants might have some level of conscious experience will seem strange to most. This idea is sometimes referred to as panpsychism (“pan” = all, “psyche” = mind)—there is “mind” distributed throughout everything in the world. Panpsychism is a radical departure from traditional Western views of the mind, which sees minds as the purview of animals and, on some views, of human beings alone. Chalmers’s panpsychism still draws a line between objects that process information (things like thermostats, sunflowers, and so on) and those that don’t (such as rocks), but it is still quite a radical departure from traditional Western views. It is not, however, a radical departure from all sorts of older, prescientific and indigenous views of the natural world according to which everything in the natural world, including plants and streams, as possessing some sort of spirit—a mind of some sort. In any case, Chalmers thinks that there are other interpretations of his view that don’t require the move to panpsychism. For example, perhaps conscious experience only emerges once information processing reaches a certain level of complexity. This interpretation would be more consistent with traditional Western views of the mind in the sense that one could specify that only organisms with a very complex information processing system, such as the human brain, possess conscious experience. (Graphically, based on the above graph, this would mean the lowest level of conscious experience wouldn’t start until much higher up the y-axis.)
Daniel Dennett’s response to the hard problem fundamentally differs from Chalmers’s. Whereas Chalmers posits qualia as real aspects of our conscious experience, Dennett attempts to deny that qualia exist. Rather, Dennett thinks that consciousness is a kind of illusion foisted upon us by our brain. Dennett’s perennial favorite example to begin to illustrate the illusion of consciousness concerns our visual field. From our perspective, the world presented to us visually looks to be unified in color and not possessing any “holes.” However, we know that this is not actually the case. The cones in the retina do not exist on the periphery and, as a result, you are not actually seeing colors in the objects at the periphery of your visual field. (You can test this by having someone hold up a new object on one side of your visual field and moving it back and forth until you are able to see the motion. Then try to guess the color of the object. Although you’ll be able to see the object’s motion, you won’t have a clue as to its color, if you do it correctly.) Although it seems to us as if there is a visual field that is wholly colored, it isn’t really that way. This is the illusion of consciousness that Dennett is trying to get us to acknowledge; things are not really as they appear. There’s another aspect of this illusion of our visual field: our blind spot. The location where the optic nerve exits the retina does not convey any visual information since there are no photoreceptors; this is known as the blind spot. There are all kinds of illustrations to reveal your blind spot. However, the important point that Dennett wants to make is that from our first-person conscious experience it never appears that there is any gap in our picture of the world. And yet we know that there is. This again is an illustration of what Dennett means by the illusion of conscious experience. Dennett does more than simply give fun examples that illustrate the strangeness of consciousness; he has also famously attacked the idea that there are qualia. Recall that qualia are the purely qualitative aspects of our conscious experiences—for example, the smell of coffee, the feeling of a painful sunburn (as opposed to the pain of a headache), or the feeling of an orgasm. Qualia are what are supposed to create problems for the physicalist since it doesn’t seem that that purely qualitative feels could be nothing more than the buzzing of neurons in the brain. Since qualia are what create the trouble for the physicalism and since Dennett is a physicalist, one can understand why Dennett targets qualia and tries to convince us that they don’t exist.
If you’re going to argue against something’s existence, the best way to do that is first precisely define what it is you are trying to deny. Then you argue that as defined such things cannot exist. This is exactly what Dennett does with qualia.[4] He defines qualia as the qualitative aspects of our first-person conscious experience that are a) irreducibly first-person (meaning that they are inaccessible to third-person, objective investigation) and b) intrinsic properties of one’s conscious experience (meaning that they are what they are independent of anything else). Dennett argues that these two properties (irreducibly first person and intrinsic) are in tension with each other—that is, there can’t be an entity which possesses both of these properties. But since both of these properties are part of the definition of qualia, it follows that qualia can’t exist—they’re like a square circle.
Change blindness is a widely studied phenomenon in cognitive psychology. Some of the demonstrations of it are quite amazing and have made it into the popular media many times over the last couple of decades. One of the most popular research paradigms to study change blindness is called the flicker paradigm. In the flicked paradigm, two images that are the same with the exception of some fairly obvious difference are exchanged in a fairly rapid succession, with a “mask” (black or white screen) between them. What is surprising is that it is very difficult to see even fairly large differences between the two images. So let’s suppose that you are viewing these flickering images and trying to figure out what the difference between them is but that you haven’t yet figured it out yet. As Dennett notes, there are of course all kinds of changes going on in your brain as these images flicker. For example, the photoreceptors are changing with the changing images. In the case of a patch of color that is changing between the two images, the cones in your retina are conveying different information for each image. Dennett asks: “Before you noticed the changing color, were your color qualia changing for that region?” The problem is that any way you answer this question spells defeat for the defender of qualia because either they have to give up (a) their irreducible subjectiveness or their intrinsicness (b). So suppose the answer to Dennett’s question is that your qualia are changing. In that case, you do not have any special or privileged access to your qualia, in which case they aren’t irreducibly subjective, since subjective phenomena are by definition something we alone have access to. So it seems that the defender of qualia should reject this answer. Then suppose, on the other hand, that your qualia aren’t changing. In that case, your qualia can’t change unless you notice them changing. But that makes it looks like qualia aren’t really intrinsic, after all since their reality is constituted by whether you notice them or not. And “noticings” are relational properties, not intrinsic properties. Furthermore, Dennett notes that if the existence of qualia depend on one’s ability to notice or report them, then even philosophical zombies would have qualia, since noticings/reports are behavioral or functional properties and philosophical zombies would have these by definition. So it seems that the qualia defender should reject this answer as well. But in that case, there’s no plausible answer that the qualia defender can give to Dennett’s question. Dennett’s argument has the form of a classic dilemma, as illustrated below:
Dennett thinks that the reason there is no good answer to the question is that the concept of qualia is actually deeply confused and should be rejected. But if we reject the existence qualia it seems that we reject the existence of the thing that was supposed to have caused problems for physicalism in the first place. Qualia are a kind of illusion and once we realize this, the only task will be to explain why we have this illusion rather than trying to accommodate them in our metaphysical view of the world. The latter is Chalmers’s approach whereas the former is Dennett’s.
- Readers who are familiar with the metaphysics of minds will notice that I have left out an important option: monism, the idea that there is ultimately only one kind of thing in the world and thus the mental and the physical do not fundamentally differ. Physicalism is one version of monism, but there are many others. Bishop George Berkeley’s idealism is a kind of monism as is the panpsychism of Leibniz and Spinoza. I have chosen to focus on physicalism for pedagogical reasons, because of its prominence in contemporary philosophy of mind, because of its intuitive plausibility to those living in an age of neuroscience, and because the nuances of the arguments for monism are beyond the scope of this introductory treatment of the problem. ↵
- We could actually retell the Chinese room thought experiment in such a way that what the man inside the room was manipulating was strings of 1s and 0s (what is called “binary code”). The point remains the same in either case: whether the program is defined over Chinese characters or strings of 1s and 0s, from the perspective of the room, none of it has any meaning and there’s no understanding required in giving the appropriate outputs. ↵
- Nothing has yet, claims to the contrary notwithstanding. ↵
- Daniel Dennett, Sweet Dreams Philosophical Obstacles to a Science of Consciousness. MIT Press. 2006. ↵
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Introduction to Philosophy Copyright © by Matthew Van Cleave is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 5: Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus , Wittgenstein License: public domain
G. E. M. Anscombe
- Elizabeth Anscombe License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- G. E. M. Anscombe (informationphilosopher.com) [License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Happy Birthday, Elizabeth Anscombe! | Ordinary Philosophy License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Thomas Nagel (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Daniel Dennett (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
Chapter 6: Axiology (Value Theory)
Chances are you have found yourself in a debate with someone about a matter involving judgments about what is good or bad. Maybe your disagreement was about a contemporary moral issue like abortion or the death penalty. Maybe the conflict had to do with a course of action, like going to college or joining the military, and whether it was the right thing to do. Maybe you got into a disagreement about whether a work of art was beautiful or a movie was good or bad. These types of conversations deal with values, and there is a specific area of philosophy that helps people think about these types of debates: value theory.
Value theory is the philosophical investigation of values. In its narrow sense, it refers to ethical concerns. In its broader sense, it addresses ethical, social, political, religious, aesthetic, and other types of values. Philosophers use value theory to approach questions that require people to think about what they value in life as individuals and as communities, especially in terms of morality, happiness, goodness, and beauty. Value theory provides tools that you can use to navigate difficult debates about what you value and why. This chapter will help you understand what a value is and how it differs from facts, the types of questions and distinctions that help people discuss values and their relations, and specific areas of value theory like metaethics and aesthetics.
Chapter 6: An Introduction to Western Ethical Thought: Aristotle, Kant, Utilitarianism
While there are many approaches to ethics in the west, here we will look at three distinct theories. Aristotle’s approach is agent-centered in that it focuses on the development of the individual, which in turn, benefits society as a whole. Kant’s approach is duty-based, which means that there are certain duties that we have as human beings and these duties are absolutely binding for us. Utilitarianism is the final approach we will address here and this is the view that consequences are the most important thing for resolving ethical dilemmas. Here we will look at the basics for two utilitarians, Bentham and J.S. Mill.
Aristotle’s Virtue Ethics:
For Aristotle, happiness is the only good that we desire for its own sake. All of our other goods/goals/ends are for the sake of achieving happiness. His notion of happiness is not simply a feeling of contentment or satisfaction, but an activity for human beings. This should be understood in terms of the function of human beings (activity of the soul in accordance with reason). Human beings are unique insofar as we have the capacity to reason. Thus, a human life, in order to be happy and flourish, must be lived in accordance with reason. This would mean that we have a balance between reason and emotion, in which reason is the guiding aspect.
According to Aristotle, it is the function of human beings to live a certain type of life and this life is to be an activity of the soul in accordance with reason. Therefore, the function of a human being (i.e. a good human being) is the excellent performance of these actions.
Happiness, then, for Aristotle, is an activity of the human soul in accordance with excellence and virtue and this is manifested over an entire lifetime. Happiness as the ethical end does not simply consist of moral virtue, but, rather, includes intellectual virtue as well. Complete happiness is both a contemplative and practical activity.
So, what kinds of things make us happy (or fulfilled)?
Aristotle does not exclude the various common sense notions of happiness that we might think of and, for him, it is not some single instance. Instead, it is an activity of virtue that depends on certain external and internal goods (i.e. friends, money, health, good luck, family, etc) and it includes all the various goods that allow us to flourish. It is also an activity that is undergone internally but that also benefits and depends upon one’s community.
The final good that human beings aim at is happiness. All other things that human beings aim at are subordinate goods (wealth or power) for the sake of happiness. In other words, we always choose actions that will get us closer to happiness. Happiness is not a stepping-stone to some other good. It is self-sufficient insofar as when taken by itself it makes life desirable and not lacking.
Happiness involves the ability to move toward the final end of developing oneself intellectually, emotionally, and physically as well as using the capacities that are distinctly human with excellence.
Virtue:
Aristotle’s ideas regarding virtue are based upon human characteristics that he found to be universal to all human beings across all times. Aristotle examines the behavior and moral judgments of men who would be considered good and virtuous as well as qualified to judge in matters of virtue. Overall, he claims that virtue is a mean and he describes the virtuous person as one whose behavior is neither excessive nor deficient in regard to desires, emotions, and appetites.
According to Aristotle, the master of any art seeks the intermediate between two extremes of excess and deficiency and the intermediate will depend upon us as individuals. For instance, eating one pound of food per day may be enough for one person while another person may need five pounds. So, the intermediate is relative to us as individuals.
The same holds for the virtues. For example, fear may be felt either too little or too much, but when we feel fear at the right time, with reference to the right objects, toward the right people, with the right motive, and in the right way, is what is intermediate and best, which is characteristic of virtue. To miss the mark is easy and to hit it is difficult.
The good life, for Aristotle, does not consist of a series of unrelated good actions. Good acts are intentional and they lead to other good acts—they form patterns of conduct that reveal the true character of a happy/flourishing person.
Excellence, for him, is concerned with passions and actions and the character of the agent is to be revealed by the voluntary choices she makes. Human choice aims at the good, or at the perceived good, and the ability to make excellent choices requires accurate knowledge of a particular situation, good reasoning skills, and a well-developed virtuous character. Becoming a virtuous person depends upon one’s habituation and practice of the various virtues. Thus, if you want to become temperate then practice of self-moderation and if you want to become courageous then practice actions that challenge your fears.
“Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit” (Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. 2).
This means that we are not born virtuous; yet, we are born with the potential to become virtuous. The virtues must be cultivated. Virtues need to be consciously developed and sustained both by the people whose character traits they are and by others around them: parents, teachers, role models, and the community at large.
By acting ethically we express our excellence as rational creatures.
For Aristotle, becoming a virtuous person entails developing the virtues in such a way that we are developing a stable pattern of character. Practice is crucial. In other words, if we think of a character trait as a reliable disposition to act in certain ways in certain situations, we must practice or habituate ourselves to solidify that character trait. We cannot just say that we are honest, we cannot just commit to being honest—we must BE honest. Make it a habit to be honest, to not talk about people behind their backs, to not be selfish, etc. Moral character is an ongoing project.
Let’s consider a specific virtue: courage. The virtuous person is courageous, the person who is excessively fearful is a coward, and the person deficient in fear is reckless. Acting virtuously in a given situation depends to some degree upon the individual characteristics and training of the agent. Courage is always a mean with regard to things that inspire fear or confidence. However, while running into a burning building to search for survivors may be courageous for a firefighter, it is likely reckless for a physically weak person or an elderly person.
In this sense, the morality of the action also involves the examination—the rational examination—of whether or not the action was done to the right person, at the right time, and in the right way.
“Virtue, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean, i.e. the mean relative to us, this being determined by a rational principle, and by that principle by which the man of practical wisdom would determine it. Now it is a mean between two vices, that which depends on excess and that which depends on defect; and again it is a mean because the vices respectively fall short of or exceed what is right in both passions and actions, while virtue both finds and chooses that which is intermediate. Hence in respect of its substance and the definition which states its essence virtue is a mean” (Nicomachean Ethics, Bk 2, section 6).
Here are some of the virtues that Aristotle identified:
Excess: Virtue: Deficiency:
Recklessness Courage Cowardice
Unrestrained Temperate Insensible
Wasteful Generous Stingy
Vanity Humility Timid
Impatience Patience Lack of Spirit
Boastfulness Truthfulness Understatement
Clownish Witty Boring
Flattery Friendly Surly
Shameless Modesty Shyness
Utilitarianism:
Utilitarianism is a widely popular approach to morality that focuses on the consequences of one’s actions. The idea put forth by Bentham and then Mill rests on the idea that the morally correct action is the one that generates the most happiness, pleasure, and/or well-being in the world OR alternatively, reduces the most pain and suffering in the world. This is a compelling approach to moral reasoning and typically comes in two basic varieties:
- Act utilitarianism–This version is about the consequences of specific acts. So, in one situation A may be the morally correct option, but in another situation it might be B. It really depends upon the amount of happiness or pleasure produced or pain reduced. This version of utilitarianism is most often attributed to Bentham, who is thought to be the founder of utilitarianism. Bentham argued that to make the best decisions we must consider a few elements to determine the most optimal outcome. These elements include factors such as: scope (how many people will be affected by the action); whether or not the pleasure obtained will lead to optimal long term effects or not; and whether or not the pleasure obtained will itself produce more pleasure in the end. Essentially, Bentham thought that all pleasure was equal in a democratic sense, so, whatever brings you happiness or pleasure might differ from what brings me happiness.
- Rule utilitarianism–This version is about the consequences of general rules. So, if lying tends to reduce well being in the world there ought to be a general rule against it. If persecuting innocent people results in bad outcomes, there ought to be a rule against it. Mill is the author that is thought to introduce rule utilitarianism in his attempt to defend individual rights and protect the nature of justice. As you can imagine, one major problem with Act Utilitarianism is that it would be very difficult to protect the nature of justice if persecuting an innocent person happens to bring about optimal results for the greater good. His defense of individual rights is referred to as Mill’s Harm Principle, which is located in his book, On Liberty. This states that one cannot restrict another’s behavior unless one is harming others. So, individual freedom and autonomy is important because if everyone’s rights and liberties are protected, the overall good will be promoted.
Another factor that distinguishes Mill from Bentham is that Mill does not believe that all pleasures are equal. Mill holds the view that humans have certain qualities that make us human, which ought to be the basis for the type of pleasures we pursue. This is noted in his famous quote: “It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied, better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool dissatisfied. And, if the fool, or the pig ,are of a different opinion it is because they only know their side of the question.”
Some Notable Attractions of Utilitarianism:
- Impartiality: everyone’s interests and well-being are equally important, regardless of class, sex, race, sexual orientation, or any other arbitrary characteristic.
- Justifies Conventional Moral Wisdom: can justify our basic moral beliefs, condemning the kinds of acts that we typically condemn: slavery, bigotry, and killing innocent people while commending things we typically believe are morally right: helping the poor, keeping our promises, being honest, etc. Can also explain our shared view about virtues and vices.
- Conflict Resolution: one ultimate rule, so it is pretty easy to figure out which action is the right one. Take debates about the most just way to tax citizens. Should everyone be taxed the same amount, the same percentage, or should we have a graduated tax system where those who make more pay more taxes? Tough question, but from the utilitarian perspective we have one principle to work with to figure it out.
- Flexibility: no moral rule is absolute; it is not a free for all or anything goes, but it is not absolute. Even Rule Utilitarianism would have to be somewhat flexible if a rule was found NOT to contribute to the greater good.
- Scope of the Moral Community: First, what is a moral community? For utilitarians, entrance into the moral community only depends upon whether the entity can suffer. Animals are included here. Traditional and alternative accounts are based on things like the ability to reason, communicate, to have emotions, to be self-aware, or to be able to self-govern. However, for the utilitarian, it’s simple: if the being can experience pain and pleasure, it counts in our moral calculations.
Some Notable Difficulties with Utilitarianism:
- It’s too demanding:
- Deliberation: lots of information may be needed to determine value of options, then weigh it all out. Mill argued that in most cases we know what is going to promote well being in the world or harm in the world. There may be rare situations where we have to stop and really think about the best option, but that’s okay; sometimes, we need to do that.
- Action: Does utilitarianism require us to be saints? Perhaps it calls us beyond what we typically think of as our moral obligations.
- Impartiality: Typically this is seen as a strength, but sometimes it seems partiality is okay. Utilitarians can argue that giving preferences to our loved ones is a good idea, but not because they deserve it. Instead, this justification would have to be based on what’s most beneficial.
- No intrinsic wrong or right: Many of us believe that some actions are just always wrong (rape, torturing innocents, enslavement), but utilitarianism doesn’t accept this. The morality of an act always depends upon the results. Any action is permitted, provided it is necessary to prevent an even worse outcome. Sometimes our options are not good and we have to choose between two evils.
- The problem of injustice: The Big Problem
If it is ever optimific to violate rights, then it seems that utilitarianism will require us to do so.
- Sometimes we let the guilty go free for a benefit they can offer.
- Peeping Tom cases (unknowing victims)
- Persecuting innocent people for the security and peace of a community
Possible utilitarian responses to the problem of injustice:
- Justice is intrinsically valuable: can we just add justice to the principle–we should maximize well being and maximize justice? Problem is when we have to choose one or the other. It also does not seem plausible to always give priority to justice.
- Injustice is never optimific: This was Mill’s line of reasoning. Long term effects of injustice outweigh possible benefits.
- Sometimes justice must be sacrificed: depends on the situation
Kantian Ethics (Deontology):
Kant is a deontologist, which means that duty is the basis for morality. For Kant there is a strong connection between freedom and morality. The human faculty that marks our freedom is our ability to reason and to be autonomous. This means that we are able to give ourselves the moral law. This ability is what allows us to be morally responsible. If we were not capable of acting freely we could not be held accountable for our actions. So, Kant believes that it is through our capacity for reason and autonomy that we are moral agents. These capacities are also what makes each of us unique and irreplaceable. As such, Kant is a solid defender of individual rights.
Once again, we have the capacity to give ourselves the moral law, which is the process in which we determine what duties we have as moral agents. Morality, for Kant, has nothing to do with consequences; instead, it is about fulfilling our duties. So, how do we determine what duties we have? Through what Kant calls the categorical imperative–the supreme principle of morality.
Kant’s Categorical Imperative:
Kant’s moral theory has two formulas for the categorical imperative. So, if you’re facing a moral dilemma you must determine whether or not your action is permissible according to the formulations of the Categorical Imperative. The first formula states that we ought to act in a way such that the maxim, or principle, of our act can be willed a universal law. If your maxim cannot be universalized then that act is morally off limits. For example, if I am considering stealing a loaf of bread, I have to ask myself if my maxim can be made a universal law. This would look something like this: Is it okay for all people to steal all the time? The answer is no; the maxim itself would be self-defeating because if everyone stole all the time there would be no private property and stealing would no longer be possible. The key is to formulate maxims that everyone could support (even if some don’t). The rules are fair. So, what you are essentially doing with the test is ensuring that your maxim is logically consistent and can be used without it being self-defeating.
The second formula states that we ought to treat humanity (self and others) as an end and never as a mere means. Essentially, this entails that I treat all persons with respect and dignity; I help others achieve their goals when possible, and I avoid using them as tools or objects to further my own goals. For Kant, since humans have the capacity for autonomy and rationality, it is crucial that we treat humans with respect and dignity. With these two formulas of Kant’s categorical imperative, we can see that the focal points of his moral theory include: fairness, justice, individual rights, and consistency.
Some Notable Strengths of Kant’s Approach:
- Explains why actions like slavery and rape are always wrong.
- Explains why we do not like paternalistic laws or behavior.
- Universal human rights are backed.
- Explains why humans are morally responsible agents.
Some Notable Problems with Kant’s Approach:
- Justice is important, but is it always the most important factor?
- Autonomy is complicated. Many factors influence the choices we make and there may be blurred lines about whether an individual is capable of being autonomous.
- Is it true that consequences don’t matter?
- Moral community is restricted to those that are autonomous and rational.
License:
An Introduction to Western Ethical Thought: Aristotle, Kant, Utilitarianism by Heather Wilburn, Ph.D. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 6: Philippa Foot: The Trolley Problem
Philippa Foot
Trolley Dilemma
About Phillipa Foot Her Life
“Suppose you are the driver of a trolley. The trolley rounds a bend, and there come into view ahead five track workmen, who have been repairing the track. The track goes through a bit of a valley at that point, and the sides are steep, so you must stop the trolley if you are to avoid running the five men down. You step on the brakes, but alas they don’t work. Now you suddenly see a spur of track leading off to the right. You can turn the trolley onto it, and thus save the five men on the straight track ahead. Unfortunately,…there is one track workman on that spur of track. He can no more get off the track in time than the five can, so you will kill him if you turn the trolley onto him”
“There is a runaway trolley headed toward five people again. Only, this time, you are not in the train yard next to a lever. You are on a bridge, watching the events from above the tracks. There is a very large man next to you. You realize that, if you push him off the bridge and down onto the tracks below, the trolley will hit and kill him, but his body is so large that it will stop the trolley before it reaches the five endangered people. You have two options: (1) Do nothing, and the trolley kills the five people. (2) Push the large man off the bridge, so that he dies, but the five others are saved.”
License:
Words of Wisdom: Intro to Philosophy by Jody L Ondich is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 6: Epicurus: The Simple and Happy Life
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
- Why does Epicurus counsel his student to disregard the gods?
- What is Epicurus’ notion of true happiness? How does it differ from other notions of happiness from other philosophers, pop culture, your family or religion of origin, etc?
- How should we confront the aspects of life we find unsavory?
- What role does practical reason play in the good life for Epicurus?
- If you were an Epicurean, how would your outlook and behaviors change?
Epicurus to Menoeceus: Greetings.
Let no one delay to philosophize while he is young nor weary in philosophizing when he is old, for no one is either short of the age or past the age for enjoying health of the soul. And the man who says the time for philosophizing has not yet come or is already past may be compared to the man who says the time for happiness is not yet come or is already gone by. So both the young man and the old man should philosophize, the former that while growing old he may be young in blessings because of gratitude for what has been, the latter that he may be young and old at the same time because of the fearlessness with which he faces the future. Therefore the wise plan is to practice the things that make for happiness, since possessing happiness we have everything and not possessing it we do everything to have it.
THE GODS
Both practice and study the precepts which I continuously urged upon you, discerning these to be the A B C’s of the good life. First of all, believing the divine being to be blessed and incorruptible, just as the universal idea of it is outlined in our minds, associate nothing with it that is incompatible with incorruption or alien to blessedness. And cultivate every thought concerning it that can preserve its blessedness along with incorruption. Because there are gods, for the knowledge of them is plain to see. They are not, however, such as many suppose them to be, for people do not keep their accounts of them consistent with their beliefs. And it is not the man who would abolish the gods of the multitude who is impious but the man who associates the beliefs of the multitude with the gods; for the pronouncements of the multitude concerning the gods are not innate ideas but false assumptions. According to their stories the greatest injuries and indignities are said to be inflicted upon evil men, and also benefits.
THE GODS INDIFFERENT TO WICKEDNESS
[These stories are false, because the gods], being exclusively devoted to virtues that become themselves, feel an affinity for those like themselves and regard all that is not of this kind as alien.
DEATH
Habituate yourself to the belief that death is nothing to us, because all good and evil lies in consciousness and death is the loss of consciousness. Hence a right understanding of the fact that death is nothing to us renders enjoyable the mortality of life, not by adding infinite time but by taking away the yearning for immortality, for there is nothing to be feared while living by the man who has genuinely grasped the idea that there is nothing to be feared when not living.
So the man is silly who says that he fears death, not because it will pain him when it comes, but because it pains him in prospect; for nothing that occasions no trouble when present has any right to pain us in anticipation. Therefore death, the most frightening of evils, is nothing to us, for the excellent reason that while we live it is not here and when it is here we are not living. So it is nothing either to the living or to the dead, because it is of no concern to the living and the dead are no longer.
THE INCONSISTENCY OF PEOPLE
But the multitude of men at one time shun death as the greatest of evils and at another choose death as an escape from the evils of life. The wise man, however, neither asks quarter of life nor has he any fear of not living, for he has no fault to find with life nor does he think it any evil to be out of it. Just as in the case of food, he does not always choose the largest portion but rather the most enjoyable; so with time, he does not pick the longest span of it but the most enjoyable.
And the one who bids the young man ‘Live well’ and the old man ‘Die well’ is simple-minded, not only because of the pleasure of being alive, but also for the reason that the art of living well and dying well is one and the same. And far worse is he who says: ‘It were well never to have been born or having been born to have passed with all speed through the gates of Hades.’ For if he is saying this out of conviction, why does he not take leave of life? Because this course is open to him if he has resolutely made up his mind to it. But if he is speaking in mockery, he is trifling in the case of things that do not countenance trifling.
THE FUTURE
As for the future, we must bear in mind that it is not quite beyond our control nor yet quite within our control, so that we must neither await it as going to be quite within our control nor despair of it as going to be quite beyond our control.
THE DESIRES
As for the desires, we should reflect that some are natural and some are imaginary; and of the natural desires some are necessary and some are natural only; and of the necessary desires some are necessary to happiness [he refers to friendship], and others to the comfort of the body [clothing and housing], and others to life itself [hunger and thirst].
Because a correct appraisal of the desires enables us to refer every decision to choose or to avoid to the test of the health of the body and the tranquility of the soul, for this is the objective of the happy life. For to this end we do everything, that we may feel neither pain nor fear. When once this boon is in our possession, every tumult of the soul is stilled, the creature having nothing to work forward to as something lacking or something additional to seek whereby the good of the soul and the body shall arrive at fullness. For only then have we need of pleasure when from the absence of pleasure we feel pain; and conversely, when we no longer feel pain we no longer feel need of pleasure.
THE BEGINNING AND THE END OF THE HAPPY LIFE
And for the following reason we say that pleasure is the beginning and the end of the happy life: because we recognize pleasure as the first good and connate with us and to this we have recourse as to a canon, judging every good by the reaction. And for the reason that pleasure is the first good and of one nature with us we do not choose every pleasure but at one time or another forgo many pleasures when a distress that will outweigh them follows in consequence of these pleasures; and many pains we believe to be preferable to pleasures when a pleasure that will outweigh them ensues for us after enduring those pains for a long time.
Therefore every pleasure is good because it is of one nature with us but every pleasure is not to be chosen; by the same reasoning every pain is an evil but every pain is not such as to be avoided at all times.
EXPEDIENCY: THE CALCULUS OF ADVANTAGE
The right procedure, however, is to weigh them against one another and to scrutinize the advantages and disadvantages; for we treat the good under certain circumstances as an evil and conversely the evil as a good.
SELF-SUFFICIENCY OR CONTENTMENT WITH LITTLE
And self-sufficiency we believe to be a great good, not that we may live on little under all circumstances but that we may be content with little when we do not have plenty, being genuinely convinced that they enjoy luxury most who feel the least need of it; that every natural appetite is easily gratified but the unnatural appetite difficult to gratify; and that plain foods bring a pleasure equal to that of a luxurious diet when all the pain originating in need has been removed; and that bread and water bring the most utter pleasure when one in need of them brings them to his lips.
Thus habituation to simple and inexpensive diets not only contributes to perfect health but also renders a man unshrinking in face of the inevitable emergencies of life; and it disposes us better toward the times of abundance that ensue after intervals of scarcity and renders us fearless in the face of Fortune. When therefore we say that pleasure is the end we do not mean the pleasures of profligates and those that consist in high living, as certain people think, either not understanding us and holding to different views or willfully misrepresenting us; but we mean freedom from pain in the body and turmoil in the soul. For it is not protracted drinking bouts and revels nor yet sexual pleasures with boys and women nor rare dishes of fish and the rest – all the delicacies that the luxurious table bears – that beget the happy life but rather sober calculation, which searches out the reasons for every choice and avoidance and expels the false opinions, the source of most of the turmoil that seizes upon the souls of men.
THE PRACTICAL REASON
Of all these virtues the source is the practical reason, the greatest good of all – and hence more precious than philosophy itself – teaching us the impossibility of living pleasurably without living according to reason, honor, and justice, and conversely, of living according to reason, honor, and justice without living pleasurably; for the virtues are of one nature with the pleasurable life and conversely, the pleasurable life is inseparable from the virtues.
DESCRIPTION OF THE HAPPY MAN
“Because who do you think is in better case than the man who holds pious beliefs concerning the gods and is invariably fearless of death; and has included in his reckoning the end of life as ordained by Nature; and concerning the utmost of things good discerns this to be easy to enjoy to the full and easy of procurement, while the utmost of things evil is either brief in duration or brief in suffering.
He has abolished the Necessity that is introduced by some thinkers as the mistress of all things, for it were better to subscribe to the myths concerning the gods than to be a slave to the Destiny of the physicists, because the former presumes a hope of mercy through worship but the latter assumes Necessity to be inexorable.
As for Fortune, he does not assume that she is a goddess, as the multitude believes, for nothing is done at random by a god; neither does he think her a fickle cause, for he does not suppose that either good or evil is dealt out to men by her to affect life’s happiness; yet he does believe the starting points for great good or evil to originate with her, thinking it better to plan well and fail than to plan badly and succeed, for in the conduct of life it profits more for good judgment to miscarry than for misjudgment to prosper by chance.
THINK ON THESE THINGS
Meditate therefore by day and by night upon these precepts and upon the others that go with these, whether by yourself or in the company of another like yourself, and never will your soul be in turmoil either sleeping or waking but you will be living like a god among men, for in no wise does a man resemble a mortal creature who lives among immortal blessings.
CITATION AND USE
Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus,” in Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Diogenes Laertius. R.D. Hicks. Cambridge. Harvard University Press. 1972 (First published 1925). 187–93, http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0004.tlg001.perseus-eng1:10.1.
The work is in the Public Domain.
LICENSE
Sapientia Copyright © 2019 by Epicurus is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- The Simple and Happy Life, Epicurus License: public domain
- Confucius (Kongzi), Analects (Lunyu) The Analects of Confucius (full text) License: public domain
- Kong Fu Tzu / Confucius License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
Friedrich Nietzsche
- Nietzsche (philosophypages.com) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Friedrich Nietzsche (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Beyond Good and Evil License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Beyond good and evil (full text) License: public domain
- Genealogy of Morals (full text) License: public domain
- Slave and Master Morality (From Chapter IX of Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil) License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- (Utilitarianism) – An introduction to the principles of morals and legislation (full text), Jeremy Bentham License: public domain
- Utilitarianism , J.S. Mill License: public domain
- Utilitarianism, Frank Aragbonfoh Abumere License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
Kant (Deontology)
- Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals (full text) License: public domain
- The Categorical Imperative License: public domain
- Kantian Deontology , Joseph Kranak License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- A Little Book of Stoicism, St. George Stock License: public domain
- Iris Murdoch What Plato and Murdoch Think About Love , Shadi Shakouri, Rosli Talif License: CC Attribution 4.0 International (PDF)
- Philippa Foot (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Robert Nozick (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Susan Wolf (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- “Trying Out One’s New Sword” , Mary Midgley License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
Chapter 6: What Is Beauty, What Is Art?
Coursework
Denis Dutton’s lecture ends with these words:
“Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? No, it’s deep in our minds. It’s a gift handed down from the intelligent skills and rich emotional lives of our most ancient ancestors. Our powerful reaction to images, to the expression of emotion in art, to the beauty of music, to the night sky, will be with us and our descendants for as long as the human race exists.”
Do you think a case can be made, based on Dutton’s Darwinian perspective, that the nature of beauty is objective? or subjective? Explain your position based on points made in the lecture, in 100-150 words.
Note: Submit your response to the appropriate Assignments folder.
What Is Beauty, What Is Art?
The term “beauty” is customarily associated with aesthetic experience and typically refers to an essential quality of something that arouses some type of reaction in the human observer — for example, pleasure, calm, elevation, or delight. Beauty is attributed to both natural phenomena (such as sunsets or mountains) as well as to human-made artifacts (such as paintings or symphonies). There have been numerous theories over the millennia of Western philosophical thought that attempt to define “beauty,” by either:
- attributing it to “essential qualities” within the natural phenomenon or artifact, or
- regarding it purely in terms of the experience of beauty by the human subject.
The former approach considers beauty objectively, as something that exists in its own right, intrinsically, in the “something” or art object, independently of being experienced. The latter strategy regards beauty subjectively, as something that occurs in the mind of the subject who perceives beauty — beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. In Aesthetics, objectivity versus subjectivity has been a matter of serious philosophical dispute not only with regard to the nature of beauty but it also comes up in connection with judging the relative merits of pieces of art, as we will see in the the topic on aesthetic judgement. Here we ask whether beauty itself exists in the object (the natural phenomenon or the artifact) or purely within the subjective experience of the object.
Objectivist Views
Some examples:
- In the view of Plato (427-347 BCE), beauty resides in his domain of the Forms. Beauty is objective, it is not about the experience of the observer. Plato’s conception of “objectivity” is atypical. The world of Forms is “ideal” rather than material; Forms, and beauty, are non-physical ideas for Plato. Yet beauty is objective in that it is not a feature of the observer’s experience.
- Aristotle (384-322 BCE) too held an objective view of beauty, but one vastly different from Plato’s. Beauty resides in what is being observed and is defined by characteristics of the art object, such as symmetry, order, balance, and proportion. Such criteria hold, whether the object is natural or man-made.
While they hold differing conceptions of what “beauty” is, Plato and Aristotle do agree that it is a feature of the “object,” and not something in the mind of the beholder.
Subjectivist Views
Some examples:
- David Hume (1711-1776) argued that beauty does not lie in “things” but is entirely subjective, a matter of feelings and emotion. Beauty is in the mind of of the person beholding the object, and what is beautiful to one observer may not be so to another.
- Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) believed that aesthetic judgement is based on feelings, in particular, the feeling of pleasure. What brings pleasure is a matter of personal taste. Such judgements involve neither cognition nor logic, and are therefore subjective. Beauty is defined by judgement processes of the mind, it is not a feature of the thing judged to be beautiful.
A complication emerges with a purely subjective account of beauty, because the idea of beauty becomes meaningless if everything is merely a matter of taste or personal preference. If beauty is purely in the eye of the beholder, the idea of beauty has no value as an ideal comparable to truth or goodness. Controversies arise over matters of taste; people can have strong opinions regarding whether or not beauty is present, suggesting that perhaps there are some standards. Both Hume and Kant were aware of this problem. Each, in his own way, attempted to diminish it by lending a tone of objectivity to the idea of beauty.
- Hume proposed that great examples of good taste emerge, as do respected authorities. Such experts tend to have wide experience and knowledge, and subjective opinions among them tend to agree.
- Kant too was aware that subjective judgments of taste in art engender debates that do actually lead to agreement on questions of beauty. This is possible if aesthetic experience occurs with a disinterested attitude, unobstructed by personal feelings and preferences. We will return to Kant’s notion of “disinterest” in the section on “Aesthetic Experience and Judgement.”
A supplemental resource (bottom of page) provides further details on the subjectivity and objectivity of beauty.
The following TED talk by philosopher Denis Dutton (1944-2010) offers an unusual account of beauty, based on evolution. He argues that the concept of beauty evolved deep within our psyches for reasons related to survival.
Video
A Darwinian theory of beauty. [CC-BY-NC-ND] Enjoy this 15-minute video!
8.1.2 Is “This” Art?
The question “what is art?” has engendered a myriad of diverse responses. At one end of the spectrum, aestheticians propose theories that demarcate the realm of art by excluding pieces that do not meet certain criteria; for example, some views stipulate a particular characteristic to be an essential element of anything considered to be art, or that conventions of art-world society apply to what can be considered art. On the other hand, there are views on aesthetics that claim that art cannot be defined, it defies definition — we just know it when we see it.
Do works of art have an essential characteristic?
Some main theories of art claim that works of art possess a defining and essential characteristic. As we will see in the section on aesthetic judgement, these same defining characteristics serve also as a critical factor for evaluating the merit of art objects. These are some examples of theories that define art in terms of an essential characteristic:
Representationalism: A work of art presents a reproduction, or imitation of something else that is real. (With Plato’s theory of Forms, art is representational; it is an approximation, though, and never a perfect one, of an ideal.) Representationalism is also referred to as “imitation.”
Formalism: Art is defined by exemplary arrangement of its elements. In the case of paintings, for example, this would involves effective use of components such as lines, shapes, perspective, light, colors, and symmetry. For music, a comparable but different set of elements would create form.
Functionalism: Art must serve a purpose. While functionalism is often taken to refer to practical purposes, some functionalist theories maintain that experiential purposes, such as conveying feeling, fulfill the requirement of functionality.
Emotionalism: Art must effectively evoke feeling or understanding in the subject viewing the art. (Some theorists regard the criterion of evoking emotion as a form a functionalism – it is art’s purpose.)
An objection to “essentialist” definitions of art is that not everything that embodies one of these characteristics is art. Seeing the essential characteristic as “necessary” rather than “sufficient,” helps to a certain extent. For example:
“If this evokes emotion, then it is art” denotes sufficiency – a child’s tantrum might be art.
whereas
“If this is art, then it is evokes emotion.” denotes necessity – emotion is a necessary component but not sufficient to make something “art.”
This reasoning helps resolve one objection to essentialist theories, but there is another flavor of objection to essentialism. Something besides one essential feature seems to be required to define art; it is not a simple matter. The fact that essential criteria do not necessarily exclude one another helps; some art embodies several of the features. However, the true usefulness of these essential features may be as judgment criteria, rather than defining factors.
Does art defy definition?
The family-resemblance, or cluster theory of art is a reaction to perceived failures of theories of art that attempt to define art by a common property. According to the family-resemblance view, an object may be designated as “art” if it has at least some of the features or properties typically ascribed to art. There is no single common property among art objects. Works of art have a family resemblance, overlapping similarities. The family resemblance concept was originally suggested by Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951) in his work Philosophical Investigations (1953, 1958) where he addressed the problem of attributing a common characteristic to all things that go by one name. His examples included games. There are many types of games — board games, ball games, card games, etc. “…look and see whether there is anything common to all.—For if you look at them you will not see something that is common to all, but similarities, relationships, and a whole series of them at that.” (66) Given the widely diverse array of objects accepted as works of art, it followed that merging their nature under a common definition was inadequate.
Morris Weitz (1916-1981) was an American philosopher of aesthetics. He was critical of the many theories of art that attempt to define art by finding an essential feature possessed by all works of art. Wittgenstein’s family resemblance theory supported his view regarding anti-essentialism in art. In his view, “artwork” is an open concept, and there is a non-specific set, or “cluster,” of characteristics that may apply to the concept of artwork.
Compared to theories on the nature of art that designate an essential criterion, the family-resemblance (or cluster) theory offers the possibility of being more inclusive; work rejected by other theories can be considered art by family resemblance. A criticism to the cluster or family resemblance theory is that it is ahistorical; that is, the cluster of concepts used to define art does not hold over time. In addition to discussing this criticism of cluster theory, the following journal article provides an example of present-day scholarship on aesthetics.
Reading
Contemporary Aesthetics “The Cluster Account of Art: A Historical Dilemma”: The Cluster Account of Art: A Historical Dilemma. [CC-BY-NC-ND]
Should art meet conventional standards?
Conventionalist theories of art are grounded in fundamental principles or agreements, explicit or implicit, of the art-world society. These theories for defining art set boundaries for what should and should not be included in the realm of art. Their effect is to exclude certain kinds of work, especially those that are progressive or experimental. Conventionalist theories include:
Historical Theories of Art: In order to be considered art, a work must bear some connection to existing works of art. At any given time, the art world includes work created up to that point, and new works must be similar or related to existing work. These theories invite an objection related to how the first art work became accepted. Proponents of these theories would respond that the definition also includes the “first” art.
Institutional theories of art: Art is whatever people in the ‘art world’ say it is. Those who have spent years in professional careers studying and savoring art and its history have an eye for fine distinction (or an “ear” perhaps if we are considering music.) Such theories are regarded as arbitrary or capricious by those who view beauty as purely subjective.
Conventionalist views define explicit boundaries for art. Such theories may exclude anything not intentionally created by a human “agent.” For example, natural phenomena are not art, nor are items such as paintings created by animals. (Search online for “paintings by elephants.” for example, if you are curious; this is not a course requirement.)
A supplemental resource (bottom of page) provides further investigation of definitions of art.
Supplemental Resources
Nature of Beauty
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (SEP). Beauty. Read Section 1 on Objectivity and Subjectivity.
Art Definition
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (SEP). The Definition of Art.
LICENSE
Introduction to Philosophy Copyright © by Lumen Learning is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 6: Issues in Aesthetics: How to Judge Art?
Study questions
- True or False: The romantics were reacting against the enlightenment philosophers’ idea of beauty.
- True or False: The Ancient and Classical philosophers share similar views about beauty.
- True or False: Beauty is only subjective.
- True or False: Formalists are objectivists about beauty.
- True or False: Judgments of taste are central to subjectivists’ account of beauty.
- True or False: The artwork’s subject matter or meaning is called its form.
- True or False: The artwork’s subject matter or meaning is called its content.
- True or False: A social constructionist would only think Van Gogh’s paintings are beautiful if the rest of society does.
- True or False: Romantic theories about art can be called subjectivist, due to their reliance on individual feeling produced by an artwork.
- True or False: Enlightenment theories about art can be called formalist, since they rely heavily on the technical, proportional, and mathematical perfection of an artwork.
For deeper thought
- Can someone be an objectivist about beauty, but not about art? Is the value of beauty distinct from the value of an artwork?
- Can people desire non-beautiful things according to the definition of beauty given above?
- Can we judge others’ taste if we are objectivists about art – ie, can we say someone has bad taste if they dislike a piece of artwork we think is beautiful because of its formal qualities (like the Darmstadt Madonna)?
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Study questions
- True or False: Natural objects have an internal purpose, whereas artifacts must be given a purpose by something else.
- True or False: Artworks are artifacts which serve as objects of beauty and contemplation.
- True or False: Expressive art refers to art that makes you feel some kind of emotion about the content portrayed in it.
- True or False: Representational art refers to art that portrays an idea or symbol.
- True or False: Reflective art is art that takes questions about its own meaning as its content via reflection on its form.
- True or False: Natural objects can have beauty.
- True or False: Natural objects can be art.
- True or False: According to theories which accept the dichotomy, high art is more intellectual than low art.
- True or False: According to theories which accept the dichotomy, comic books are low art.
- True or False: The Darmstadt Madonna pictured above is considered beautiful thanks to its formal perfection, rather than its emotional meaning.
For deeper thought
- Should good art be pleasurable? Is ‘being entertained’ the same as being pleased?
- Should good art communicate a message, moral or otherwise? Does art need to reflect upon the form of its presentation?
- Are there forms of art that have meaning to us that do not rely on our judging them beautiful, even if this beauty does not refer to objective perfection?
- If we judge contemporary art meaningful even if it is not pleasurable, does this mean that we have changed our definition of beauty or does it mean that not all art is beautiful?
ISSUES IN AESTHETICS: HOW TO JUDGE ART?
Christopher Schneck
We’ve all had the argument with our good friends about whether our favorite TV show is good. Say you watched the most recent season of Game of Thrones and want to argue with your friends who say it’s a terrible season – how would you go about doing so? Do you argue with them on the basis that you like the CGI characters, the writing, the allegories the story expresses (if it does), what? It can feel really difficult to discuss these things because they are so close to us. It also often feels difficult because we lack the concepts to effectively convince another person why something we like is something they should also like. Sometimes we make appeals to morals, appeals to objectivity, or even force. The idea that others should like things we like has its roots in an idea of taste – if we like something, it has a quality everyone could like.
Within philosophy, aesthetics is the study of beauty. This study is done especially in art, though consideration of beauty solely within the domain of art was only a recent development of philosophical considerations of beauty. While aesthetics is mostly preoccupied with art, there are other areas of experience where we also care about beauty, such as in nature or mathematics. Rather than a moral claim about what others should be like, judgments of taste appeal to beauty, a quality of the object others can also appreciate.
This chapter will deal primarily with judgments of taste. You might wonder why we don’t begin with the artworks themselves and discuss whether something is good art or not. This is a good question to ask – the difficulty lies in what presuppositions we have about what we like and how we can discuss those things we like. What does it mean to like CSI: Miami more than Deadwood, or does it mean anything at all? Or, what if we like going to the Opera rather than watching Deadwood, is one more artistic than the other? What you will see is that many of these distinctions rely first on our conception of beauty and after that on how we distinguish our taste from others’.
To judge different works of art means to rely on a few basic concepts that describe our experience, especially the concepts of beauty and taste. A thing is beautiful if it attracts us and gives us pleasure, and we exercise taste in identifying the things that please us and differentiating them from other things. This means that we’re not just talking about cathedrals or supermodels, but a more general use of beauty in which it is always the ultimate object of our desires. The beautiful object is the object that gives us pleasure. To exercise our taste and judge art is to judge objects that give us pleasure, and therefore to make judgments about beauty. Though we now question whether artworks are primarily beautiful objects this is still done by making judgments about what we like, we may just have a different name for what it is we like. These are judgments of taste.
As a specific subdivision of philosophical inquiry, aesthetics only dates to the 18th century. The emergence of a separate discipline of philosophy dedicated to art developed out of the romantic period, and was especially important as a reaction to the enlightenment philosophy of the time. The term ‘aesthetics’ was chosen for the philosophy of art to emphasize that not all knowledge is scientific or factual, but that there are independent ways of knowing the world through the experience of art.
Instead, some knowledge is aesthetic and pertains to our feelings about the world. You might consider, for instance, what Homer’s Odyssey teaches you about being an individual. Most of what you learn from classics like Homer aren’t given to you in the form of deductions about the concept of an individual. Instead, through learning the motifs of the story and applying them to your own experiences, you learn how to be an individual without the need for any deductive knowledge about the concept ‘individual’.
Prior to this division between romantic and enlightenment philosophy about artistic knowledge in the 18th century, the ancient Greeks considered beauty to be the ultimate value of cosmos. The romantics stressed non-scientific qualities of art, like feeling and creativity. The enlightenment thinkers stressed the proportion, order, and complexity of artwork as aspects of its technical and mathematical perfection. The enlightenment thinkers were largely carrying on the traditions of ancient and classical aesthetics. For ancient Greek thinkers like Plato, beauty was an effect of order, which meant that properly rational things should be beautiful. For example, the use of perfect proportions in music has long been heralded as a standard of beauty, such as in the case of Bach’s counterpoint or Stravinsky’s polyrhythmia. In these examples different notes work together to form a harmony which creates a beautiful sound, and this is attributed in many cases to the proportion and mathematical elegance of the written composition.
Leading up to the 18th century, most philosophers agreed with this Platonic model of beauty. Ideas about what was beautiful remained pretty consistent from the ancient Greeks all the way through the Enlightenment period in the graph above. The more rational something was, the more beautiful it was. In this way, beauty was an aspect of the truth of the thing under consideration. This is very different from the romantic idea of beauty. For the romantics, a beautiful thing wasn’t something ordered and rational. In fact, it often seemed to be the opposite – beautiful things make you feel their beauty, they are inexact and messy, and they often depend on your own subjective experience.
The historical difference between the enlightenment philosophers’ objective view of beauty and the romantic philosophers’ subjective view of beauty isn’t just a historical point. That difference is a good fault line to show what the typical differences are in philosophical conceptions of beauty. The division between these groups of philosophers motivates many discussions within aesthetics distinct from simply the idea of beauty, as well. As you will see in this chapter, many of the discussions of artistic value depend on this key difference between subjective and objective value, and how it maps onto other considerations within aesthetics. Examples include:
- is beauty natural or manmade?
- is art representative, expressionistic, or reflective?
- does art have objective meaning or does it simply exist for personal pleasure?
- is the meaning of an artwork determined by the artist’s intention or is it determined by its cultural and historical context?
The Idea of Beauty
Before we consider artistic beauty specifically, we should understand what makes something beautiful. Some important considerations for understanding beauty are: the relationship between form and content, whether beauty is objective or subjective, and whether beauty is a natural quality or made by humans.
While it’s natural to want to consider either the artwork in itself or our individual experience of it, we should first clarify some basic aspects of the artwork. When we try to communicate why something is beautiful to us, we often have a personal feeling about the content of the work. Our favorite TV show might really speak to us: our ambitions, our identity, or it might mirror some representation of how we see the world. We don’t often think about how these representations are presented to us as part of the pleasure we experience. In other words, we don’t often think about the form of the art we like, just the stuff we find pleasurable in the artwork.
However, form plays a big role in the presentation of an artwork. When we refer to the form of an artwork, we mean the composition or techniques used to create the artwork. Form is a manner of portraying the content of an artwork. Content refers to the artwork’s subject matter or its meaning. So painting is a form of artwork, as opposed to other forms of artwork like sculpture or film. We can also say that different ways of applying paint—spray paint for a mural vs. traditional brushstrokes for a Renaissance painting—are different forms of painting.
Van Gogh’s paintings (here Landscape with Wheat Sheaves and a Rising Moon) illustrates the difference in texture different techniques can create. The form of painting – Van Gogh’s brushstrokes – has an immediate effect on how you receive the content. The content, the wheat fields, appear to take on a different meaning when portrayed in Van Gogh’s painting than in a traditional oil landscape painting.
For some thinkers, beauty is a product of the perfection of an artwork’s form. A good example of this is the classical sculptures of ancient Greece, or the previously mentioned composers’ music. For these forms of art, we often feel they express a perfect harmony of parts, and that what the sculpture or the music is about is relatively meaningless. In this way, we judge these artworks according to their form, rather than their content. Stravinsky’s polyrhythmia could be his attempt to portray the complexity of life, or it could be his attempt to represent a Greek myth, or it could simply be an attempt to create a beautiful harmony. In any of these cases, though, it doesn’t change the beauty of his musical composition. The artwork is formally beautiful, though its content may or may not be beautiful.
For many of us, it’s hard to think about something being beautiful in this way. This formalist view of beauty grew out of ancient Greek philosophy, and was heavily influential on considerations of beauty up through the Renaissance, but it doesn’t seem to hold much sway over us nowadays. Often, it feels like we are drawn to artworks because of the content represented in them. This could mean that we like feeling represented in an artwork, that it gives us an identity or that it speaks to our personal commitments, or any number of other psychological reasons. While some artworks seems to be beautiful simply by virtue of their perfection of the form of their art, others seem to only be beautiful by virtue of how they personally move us. This distinction in art, the distinction between form and content, will also map very well onto another dichotomy within aesthetics: whether beauty is subjective or objective in nature. This problem often breaks down like this: if beauty is a product of the form of an artwork, it is an objective quality of the artwork. Thus, if beauty is a product of the content of an artwork, it is a subjective quality we experience about the artwork. Though this distinction is way too cut-and-dry, we’ll see that it does capture much of the spirit of our upcoming considerations on whether beauty resides in an artwork or in the person viewing the artwork.
Objective views on beauty
The first view we will consider is the objective view of beauty: beauty is a quality of the object. In this view, beauty is a quality that exists independent of any individual person. This means that ‘beauty’ is something that naturally exists, independent of any individual person’s desires. A beautiful thing expresses beauty insofar it meets objective criteria that allow us to put it in the class of ‘beautiful’ things. The renaissance painters we discussed earlier are a good example for this view, since their paintings are beautiful insofar as they express beautiful proportions or forms. These paintings don’t move us the same way our favorite comics or movies do, but we can see that they are beautiful, even if it has little to do with our own interests.
Often, objective beauty is an aspect of the form of the object, rather than the content. People who subscribe to this view are called formalist. Again, in the renaissance painters the subjects of the paintings (men, women, children, goats, apples, etc.) are not themselves beautiful. The content in these paintings, their subjects, matter very little. We would hardly compare supermodels today with the Mona Lisa! Rather, the proportion of the paintings approaches a mathematical and formal perfection that those painters called ‘beautiful’.
This brings up an important question about the view that beauty is objective: is beauty a product of the order or proportion of the thing? This is a difficult view to sign on with. This would mean that the content of the artwork doesn’t matter: neither the characters of the novels we read, nor the superheroes in our favorite comics, nor the subjects portrayed in a painting, nor even the lyrics in our favorite songs! Even though these aspects of our favorite art seem like the most important part, the formalist would argue that they do not meaningfully contribute to art.
It’s also possible that objective beauty isn’t wholly dependent on the form of the art. With increasing complexity, something becomes increasingly beautiful. A good example of this is a Gothic cathedral – many of the striking features of these churches are due to their overwhelming complexity. This view is often tied to scientific or mathematical concepts of beauty, as well. The flying buttress on the aforementioned gothic church is beautiful precisely because of the complexity of its architecture and its mathematical dimensions. Shortly, when we discuss the sublime, we will see that this is a major factor in determining whether things are beautiful because they are too complex for us to understand in everyday terms.
You can see in the Darmstadt Madonna that every part of the image is constructed to fit into sectors according to a pre-planned proportion, according to those three main vertical lines that trisect the image. In this painting, the Madonna is less important than the proportion of the image.
Our last consideration for objective beauty should be whether there is beauty in itself. Broadly, the question we should ask is “Is beauty a quality independent of the thing that expresses it?” If we answer “yes”, then beauty must be something that exists independent of beautiful things. While it may be tempting to say that we can just generalize from specific beautiful objects to beauty in general, this would not give us an objective beauty. If beauty is an objective quality, there must be some independent standard to measure specific beautiful things by; we should have some way of relating the Mona Lisa and a Gothic cathedral and measuring whether one is more beautiful than the other.
Subjective views on beauty
As we just discussed, much of history has consigned beauty to an objective existence separate from our individual experience. This may seem, however, totally alien to your own personal experience. Lots of us think of art as something that has a personal effect on us, or pertains to our individual taste. This is because we’ve become used to viewing art as a subjective experience. If beauty is subjective, it must mean that beauty is a quality of the individual’s experience rather than a quality of the artwork. There are a few different ways we can talk about subjective beauty: as an aspect of taste, pleasure, and entertainment. Since these concepts rely on the individual’s subjectivity, they are very different from our previous considerations of the object itself via its form, order, and complexity.
As we previously discussed, the objective view of beauty was largely dominant from the ancient through late medieval period. With the enlightenment of the 17th century came an increasing emphasis on the individual person and their experience, rather than how that individual fit into the objective picture of the world. Accordingly, judgments of taste became one of the main ways to talk about pleasure, and therefore beauty.
While the enlightenment thinkers pushed for more consideration of individual subjective experience, much of their considerations of beauty still gave priority to objective considerations of beauty, such as order and proportion.
It wasn’t until the 18th century that subjective experience really became the centerpiece of aesthetic consideration. The 18th century birthed the romantic period, a reaction against the objectivism and scientism of the enlightenment. Specifically, the romantics focused on the reality of subjective experience through the individual’s passion. This means that rather than order and reason, the romantics were concerned to elaborate the reality of an individual’s life through their emotions, attitudes about the world, and desires.
So, there are a few questions we can ask about the subjective view of beauty. In this view, we take it for granted that all beautiful experiences are a quality of the subject’s experience of a thing. The thing experienced (be it artwork, person, mountain, etc.) doesn’t have any beauty in itself, instead it is only beautiful insofar as an individual ascribes beauty to it. For this reason, it is hard to tell what beauty is an experience of – personal taste, pleasure, or if it is simply an aspect of the entertainment value of the thing. It also makes it difficult to determine whether or not that thing is really beautiful: if I can’t stand Game of Thrones but my friends love it, who is correct? If beauty is only in the eye of the beholder, then are we both correct, and Game of Thrones is both ugly and beautiful? Without an independent standard it’s difficult to tell if someone else is wrong, or if beauty is even worth talking about at all.
One version of the subjective argument is that all individual attributions of beauty have to do with the individual’s taste. Taste is an attitude we have toward our experiences which informs us feeling pleasure or displeasure. This means that our individual taste informs whether we will feel pleasure when looking at something. If we find that experiencing the object is pleasurable, then we say that it is beautiful. This view, of course, shares a lot with social constructionism. Social constructionism is the view that all values exist simply because individuals in a society have agreed upon an arbitrary value and elevated it above others based on that agreement. “Beauty” is just a convention, or a way of referring to an object that gives us pleasure, which is the important part of the experience.
Our judgments about taste are also something inherently communicable. When we say “Oh, I like that!” about a painting at an art gallery, we’re not merely informing ourselves. We want to share our taste, and to discuss the merits or demerits of the thing we’re experiencing. Similarly, if beauty is only a convention for referring to things we find pleasurable, this convention must come from somewhere. Often, this somewhere is our upbringing or education, and this also has to do with our ability to communicate the things we find pleasurable with other people who are similarly predisposed to us (whether of the same class, or identity, and so on).
So, beauty can either be a quality independent of the thing, or it can be something we subjectively experience about the thing. In the first case, as an independent objective quality, beauty must make up part of the existence of the thing. The beautiful thing is really beautiful because we are experiencing something about that thing itself. In the second case, as a subjective quality of our experience, beauty isn’t a real aspect of the thing at all. Instead, beauty is only part of the appearance of the thing; in fact, what it is in itself doesn’t matter at all! If beauty is only part of the appearance of the thing, then it’s just a property of our subjective experiences, such as a particular feeling we have about it or a reaction we have to it. Since we like the artwork, it must be beautiful.
In this section we have discussed the two major views on what a beautiful thing is: whether beauty is an objective quality of the thing, or whether beauty is a subjective quality of our experience of the thing. For the objective view, aspects of the form of the thing often matter most, such as order and proportion. For the subjective view, aspects of the content of the thing often matter more. The content of an artwork is often what we attach emotions to, such as beautiful scenery or a tragic scene. The form can also influence our subjective attitudes toward the artwork, though this often depends more on the artwork than our individual attitude. For the subjectivist, how I identify with the thing and want to communicate that to others (especially others that see it the way I do) is what makes up the beauty of it. These two views are not mutually exclusive, and in the history of philosophy many thinkers have grabbed a little from the objective view and a little from the subjective view. However, this distinction is helpful for understanding why the existence of beauty and the distinction between form and content are so important for other considerations about art specifically. We will now move on to discuss aesthetic experience as it pertains to art specifically, rather than the experience of beauty generally.
What are works of art?
Often, when we think of beauty, we think of great artworks. Though there are other forms of beauty, such as mathematical or natural, the most prominent notion of beauty is that given in art. In this section we will cover some philosophical discussions over what art is, the relationship between artworks and other objects, the value and function of art, and the nature of representation. By the end of this section, you should be able to apply the two views of beauty to specific kinds of art.
First, to define art, we should distinguish it from other kinds of beauty. Artworks are non-natural, since they are made by humans. In terms of the objects we experience, we can broadly say there are two kinds. Natural objects have their purpose internal to them – an acorn, for instance, exists for the sake of becoming a tree. Artifacts have a purpose external to them, since they are made by something that has a plan for them. Chairs, for instance, are made by humans to sit on. You could eat on a chair, even though that isn’t it’s given purpose. However, most people would find you odd, since humans build chairs for sitting. In this way, there is a very basic dichotomy between natural objects and artifacts.
Artworks are a form of artifact. Artworks can generally be defined as any artifact which expresses some kind of idea. Additionally, artworks often function primarily as objects of beauty and contemplation, rather than instruments. The idea doesn’t need to be intentional – a vase from ancient Greece might tell us much about the values of ancient Grecians. It also doesn’t need to be abstract or intellectual – Monet’s paintings could simply express his technique for capturing living scenery. Artworks will never be natural objects, either. When we experience natural beauty, we don’t wonder about the technique used to create it nor the ideas expressed in the object. Artwork is also not the sole experience of beauty, though it has a special purpose in helping us understand our place in the world that other experiences of beauty lack.
Our broad definition of artworks does seem to have some difficulties to it, though. Surely there must be some difference between one of those Monet landscapes and my doodles to show my landlord where the water pipe broke! Or, as a more plausible example, there should be some kind of distinction between artworks like comics that are fairly straightforward, and artworks like a Monet which may express much more than a Garfield comic. In the 18th century, the romantics came up with such a distinction (largely due to their obsession with cultivating taste): high art and low art. High art is usually intellectual and takes refined taste to appreciate. Low art, by contrast, is art merely for the sake of pleasure. While Monet may be high art, Garfield is certainly low art in this distinction. This is certainly not a dichotomy that has been accepted universally, nor is it really a good description of the difference between Monet and Garfield. However, it is a helpful interpretive device to start thinking about the differences between them.
This distinction gets especially dicey with ancient art. Greek vases, for instance, are central pieces of classical art. The vases often have depictions of gods in some act or illustrate some aspect of Greek mythology. These were simply vases to fill with wine, or foodstuff, or anything else. Yet these vases tell us so much about Greek life in that period that they are regarded with the same interest as classical Greek sculpture (which fits much easier into “high art”). They are also done with great craftsmanship, but the same claim could be made about hand-me-down blankets that our grandmothers made in the great depression. While it seems like the high/low art dichotomy has to do with the intention of the artwork, it also has to do with the subject matter of the art.
We have all found ourselves at some point at an art museum, looking at some weird cobbled together sculpture, wondering “What could this possibly mean?” Many of us approach art in this way, expecting a communicable meaning somewhere within the artwork. This is especially true since the advent of conceptual art in the last 50 years, which often focuses on conveying some kind of message (usually moral). While this is a dominant manner of interpreting art, it is not the only idea about meaning in art, and in the last few centuries other ideas have become dominant. The idea that art needs to stand for something else is only one possible interpretation of what is presented in an artwork. The three possibilities we will cover here are representation, expression, and form.
Theories of meaning in art
Historically, the dominant theory of meaning in art is the representational theory. Representation means that an something stands for another thing. An image or symbol can represent an abstract idea or simply represent the subject it portrays. The represented meaning is inherently communicable and an objective fact about the artwork. Since Plato’s time, art has been predominantly considered a representational activity. The representation theory of art is that the meaning of an artwork comes from what it represents. The representation can simply be some thing that is painted, like in a landscape painting. The representation can also use the straightforward image in the painting (say, the landscape painting) to represent an abstract idea, which is not immediately implied by the image in the painting. The landscape could represent the wildness of nature, or the need for us Americans to protect our natural resources. It could also just simply represent that landscape like a photograph would, by giving us an idea of what it is like to be in that specific natural setting.
You can see in this photorealist painting by John Bader, Johns’ Diner with John’s Chevelle, a level of perfection in realism that you do not see in other forms of landscape painting like Van Gogh’s painting above. Believe it or not, this is a painting, not a photograph! If we were concerned simply with the realistic portrayal of a landscape, it would make Bader’s painting objectively more beautiful. Though there are certainly other arguments to make about whether one painting is better or not, for someone who is only interested in the correct representation of nature through art, Bader’s painting is objectively better.
The romantics, however, felt the representational theory of art was insufficient. For the romantics, nothing about the communicable and objective meaning of an artwork explains why we have the taste for some forms of art and why some art forms are so moving. The romantics instead thought that the meaning of art was in its expression. Expression in this sense means that the subject of the artwork is the emotion attached to the image. The romantic theory of art is that art does not convey a concept but a powerful emotion or feeling. A good example of this is the romantic painting Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich. While the painting may not evoke a specific emotion, such as sadness, we do not need to ‘read’ the painting in a specific way to understand its objective meaning. Instead, the painting evokes some kind of strong feeling: that of solitude, or overcoming, or perhaps wonder at the magnitude of nature.
Even after the romantics, many forms of art defy either representational or romantic theories of art. This is especially true of modern and postmodern art. Modern art specifically defines the meaning of art by its form. Form, remember, is the composition or technique used to create the artwork. In many of these art forms the point of the artwork is to allow the spectator to reflect on what an artwork does and how their perception is formed by different techniques of constructing the world. This is especially prevalent in Picasso’s cubism, where the painting is meant to show we understand the objectivity of an object from the different possible viewpoints we can have on it. This kind of art is more of a ‘meta’ art, so we can call it reflective art. The reflective theory of art requires that the content of a painting be a reflection on its form or presentation to the viewer.
The value of art
We’ve talked a lot about how to judge beauty and what beautiful art is. What about putting those conceptions of beauty to work and helping us make judgments of taste about the value of art – can we finally tell our friends our favorite TV show is better, and express why? In many current Hollywood movies, we assume that our identity and morals must be expressed. We assume the standard for others liking what we like must refer to a kind of social standard about what we believe. Many of these films – think about superhero movies like Black Panther and Captain Marvel – seem to also be merely produced for the purpose of pleasure. So, is it just that I like this thing or is it just that it is a socially useful tool for thinking morally? Neither of these options really captures why we like these movies and shows, though. This brings up an important difference in ideas about artistic value: should art have some external use or simply exist for its own sake?
This question doesn’t just split according to the easy dichotomies we have previously discussed (though it can). Some objectivists like Plato think art should offer moral instruction, and some objectivists like the classical art theorists think art should simply portray perfect proportion and mastery of technique. Similarly, many subjectivists think that art must provide instruction for moral life, but just as many subjectivists think art is simply for pleasure. Often, in our culture, our view is a blend between the last two ideas: that beauty is subjective and should sometimes provide moral instruction, while sometimes it should just be for pleasure. Unfortunately, this doesn’t help us decide on the value of art. How can I say that CSI: Miami is a better show, or even of the same artistic merit, as Deadwood? Moreover, can I compare CSI: Miami to Caspar David Friendrich’s Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog? These comparisons will seriously depend on your view of beauty, and thus your views on art. If you think art is only subjectively beautiful, you might appeal to others’ taste and argue that what CSI: Miami expresses is more interesting than Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. You could also be an objectivist and claim that all of the TV shows are bad examples of art, since none represent mathematical or technical perfection in their portrayal of time using the montage like the old black and white film Battleship Potemkin, and thus do not portray beauty through their representations. These are both pretty extreme examples, but they show that to make coherent arguments about art, we need to consider:
- What the quality is in the artwork that draws us to it (beauty – objective or subjective)
- What differentiates it from other artworks (taste – objective or subjective)
- What makes it art rather than not (representation, expression, reflection)
Value also depends, at least in some part, on the intention of the artist. Is the value of art determined by the intention of the artist, or is it simply the effect of the artwork itself? We might think back to those Greek sculptures – are those great pieces of art because some Greek sculptor thought to himself “I must express the form of beauty to instruct the masses to live a moral life!” or are they simply great pieces of art because they show us what it meant to be a Greek? If we look back on many of the great pieces of art in history, many of them are simply great because they advance the techniques of their art so far or because they capture the spirit of their age so well. None of these works, however, is great because the idea in the author’s head is so masterfully represented in the work. Rather, it is because the important sociocultural impact of these art pieces that they are remembered.
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Introduction to Philosophy Copyright © by Christopher Schneck is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 6: Dissenting artist Ai Weiwei on Hong Kong: art would not be art if it cannot be done in the face of tyranny
Amid tyranny and authoritarianism in Hong Kong, artists persist
Written byHong Kong Free Press
Posted 21 September 2021 10:15 GMT
Read this post in Italiano, Español, عربي, Français, Esperanto
Ai Weiwei. Photo: Ai Weiwei Studio.
The following post was written by Rhoda Kwan and published in the Hong Kong Free Press on September 20, 2021. It is republished on Global Voices under a content partnership agreement.
Leading Chinese dissident artist Ai Weiwei believes that Hong Kong artists can still find ways to express themselves despite the challenges posed by growing political censorship.
After years of delay, Hong Kong is set to open its M+ museum, on November 12. The project — touted as Asia’s first global museum of contemporary visual culture — is part of the government’s campaign to become a global arts and culture hub.
But fears of increasing censorship under the 2020 national security law have cast a shadow over the launch. Already, pro-Beijing voices have called for controls on any artwork that may endanger national security and artists have left the city, citing the need for greater freedom.
The museum’s online collection currently features 28 of Ai’s works, donated by Swiss collector Uli Sigg. One photograph from his ‘Study of Perspective’ series, which shows the artist’s middle finger pointed at Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, is currently under ‘government review’.
Ai Weiwei – Study of Perspective, Tiananmen, 1995-2010. Photo courtesy of Ai Weiwei.
The artist is not surprised by the Museum's arrangement. He told HKFP in an email interview:
Censorship of artworks is nothing new… It is more common under an authoritarian regime…[but] it is important to remember that political censorship does not happen under authoritarian regimes exclusively. It is not only in China and Hong Kong that my works encounter restrictions, but also in mainstream film festivals or exhibitions in the West.
Jitters among Hong Kong’s artistic community about the security law, which critics say has stifled political dissent, have prompted at least one high-profile artist to leave the city. Almost one-third of the directly-elected committee members of the government-funded Arts Development Council have resigned.
Ai said he still believes Hong Kong artists can rise to the challenge and find a way to create amid the uncertainty and obstacles:
Freedom of expression needs to appear amid struggles. I believe that Hong Kong’s condition today gives Hong Kong artists and their artistic expression a new challenge. Artists who can face this kind of challenge would be real artists. When contemporary Hong Kong artists amid the struggles today find their own language, this would [be] the emergence of their artistic expression.
He elaborated on the relationship between ‘expression’ and ‘struggle':
Freedom of expression is the first and foremost condition for art being art, but freedom of expression itself is about looking for an outlet in the midst of struggles. Art would not be art if it cannot be done in the face of tyranny… Those that cannot be done will die out. We can clearly see that the artworks which fight for freedom are precious efforts of the human spirit.
When the mass anti-extradition bill demonstrations broke out in mid-2019, Ai had hailed the protests as ‘beautiful’ and the many young protesters as ‘clever and brave’. He later documented the city-wide pro-democracy protests in his film Cockroach, in reference to the derogatory nickname police used for the black-clad protesters.
Aftermath in Hong Kong: the irrationality of authoritarianism
In response to the protests, in June 2020 Beijing imposed a sweeping national security law which authorities insist was necessary to restore stability. The law has since been used to arrest and charge scores of pro-democracy politicians and activists, many dozens of whom have been denied bail pending trial.
Ai saw Beijing's reaction as the ‘irrational’ nature of authoritarianism:
If Hong Kong’s 2019 protests attest to people’s awakening, the aftermath manifests authoritarianism’s extreme irrationality, and rejection of any negotiation or discussion
He nonetheless still believes that those who demanded democracy in the face of what he calls tyranny have already won:
They have pushed this historical progression and political demands to a very high position. Hong Kong citizens and their movement have won, but authoritarianism is unscrupulous, whose response has proven that Hong Kong made them feel afraid.
When asked how Hongkongers can keep fighting for democracy in a climate of fear, Ai described the cause as an ‘eternal struggle':
It is exactly because of the existence of the Chinese government, or any authoritarian regime that individual or collective fight becomes a meaningful act. These are inseparable. While fighting for democracy and freedom, there is no one who wins outright. It is an eternal struggle, democracy against authoritarianism, and individuals against power.
More than 10,250 people have been arrested since the protests broke out in June 2019. The artist and activist had a message of hope for those behind bars:
I want to say to those who are falsely and unjustly charged that they are standing on the right side of history. The authoritarian regime will not be able to erase their glory. Every bit of their efforts has defended the principles of justice and fairness, not only for themselves, but also for the weak and the forgotten, whom they do not know in person. I am very proud of them.
Eternal struggle
The ‘eternal struggle’ between democracy and authoritarianism continues to inform the artist’s life and work in exile. Ai, who fled China to Germany in 2015, four years after being secretly detained for 81 days without charge and having his passport confiscated by Chinese authorities, is still subject to Beijing’s influence.
Last week, he revealed the Swiss bank Credit Suisse had decided to close his foundation’s accounts because of his ‘criminal record’ in China. Earlier this year, the bank’s chief financial officer said it would increase its onshore presence in mainland China.
Commenting on the sudden closing of his accounts, Ai recounted his time in Chinese detention when they created a number of false accusations including tax evasions and ‘inciting subversion of state power’. He said ‘they also told me clearly that they were going to ruin my reputation’.
While Ai was not surprised by the Chinese Communist Party's false accusations, he was astonished by the bank's decision:
What surprised me was that a supposedly neutral bank in Switzerland closed my account which I have had for a very long time, under the pretext of this false accusation. […] they did not give us an opportunity to explain although we argued that I was never legally arrested or prosecuted in China. Even my arrest was illegal. It was a secret detention.
During his detention in China, Ai began working on a memoir of his life and his father, the revered poet Ai Qing, during the Cultural Revolution. The book, 1,000 Years of Joy and Sorrows, is set to be published in November 2021.
For Ai, the party’s oppression caused him to become the artist he is today:
The policemen who interrogated me in China also asked me right before the end of my 81 days of detention… ‘Ai Weiwei, without us, would you become so famous today?’ My answer to them was that a fighter is considered a fighter only when they face a disaster or a monster. As a matter of fact, it’s this country’s politics that created me. Without them, it is very likely that I would be a good for nothing.
Written byHong Kong Free Press
Chapter 6: Suggestions for further reading
The book of tea, Kakuzo Okakura License: public domain
Plato
- Hippias Major License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States
- Republic License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States
Immanuel Kant
- The philosophy of Kant as contained in extracts from his own writings. License: public domain
- Kant’s Project: A Short Overview, Laura Mueller Ph.D. License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International]
- Immanuel Kant – On the Aesthetic Taste, Jeff McLaughlin License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
Against interpretation, Susan Sontag License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
Preserving and Conserving Gunpowder in the Art of Cai Guo-Qiang | Getty Iris Cai Guo-Qiang (Podcast 47:28) License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
Chapter 7: Criticisms of Modernity
While Existentialism is primarily a 20th-century / post-WW2 way of thinking about the world, there are a number of ways that existential thought shows up. The writers included in this section will give you new ways to consider existence and how our ways of determining meaning in the world are interwoven with who we are.
Existentialism is a philosophical stance asserting that philosophical thinking begins with the human subject — not merely the thinking subject, but the acting, feeling, and living human individual. In all schools of existentialism, the individual's starting point is characterized by what has been called "the existential attitude," or a sense of disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world. Søren Kierkegaard is widely regarded as the father of existentialism. He maintained that the individual is solely responsible for giving his or her life meaning and for living that life passionately and sincerely, despite many existential obstacles and distractions including despair, angst, absurdity, alienation, and boredom. Subsequent existentialist philosophers retain the emphasis on the individual, but differ, in varying degrees, on how one achieves and what constitutes a fulfilling life, what obstacles must be overcome, and what external and internal factors are involved, including the potential consequences of the existence or non-existence of God.
I have included some writers you might not have considered in this section. W.E.B. du Bois, one of the founders of the NAACP, Simone de Beauvoir, and Frantz Fanon are three such writers included here.
Chapter 7: W.E.B. du Bois
W.E.B. DU BOIS (1868-1963)
Introduction
The Souls of Black Folk (1903), The Negro (1915), “The African Roots of War” (1915)
Born in Great Barrington, western Massachusetts, in 1868, William Edward Burghardt (W. E. B.) Du Bois lived for almost a century, which stretched from the post-U. S. Civil War period to the period of the beginning of the Cold War.
Although he had a tough childhood, brought up by his mother and her relatives after his father deserted the family, he grew up to be a voracious reader of books and graduated with honors from the local high school in 1885.
During the next few years, he, to put it in his own words, “went South” to ”the South of slavery, rebellion, and black folk,” spending four years at Nashville, Tennessee. Subsequently, he studied at Harvard, earning, in 1895, a Ph.D. degree following upon a B. A. and an M. A., and at the University of Berlin (1892 – 1895). In an age of severe lack of middle–class professional opportunities for black people in the United States, Du Bois was able to break the barrier of prejudice and obtain research and teaching assignments at several universities, including the Wilberforce University in Central Ohio, the University of Pennsylvania and the Atlanta University in Georgia.
Later in life, he assumed the role of a public intellectual, seeking to represent the cause of the American blacks and of black people of the world at large. In this capacity, he helped to found, in 1909, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), in which he served as the director of publications. In 1910 he took over as the editor of the NAACP’s monthly magazine, The Crisis, a position he held until 1934. He was also a key figure of the African – American cultural movement known as the Harlem Renaissance, along with other African – American writers and artists such as Alain Locke, Claude McKay, Langston Hughes, and Zora Neale Hurston.
Politically, by the 1950s he had veered towards sympathy for the communist movement, inspired by events in the Soviet Union and in the People’s Republic of China. In 1961 he applied for membership in the Communist Party of the USA. Soon afterward, he renounced his U. S. citizenship and adopted Ghanaian residency. He died in Ghana in 1963.
Among the many books he produced were The Suppression of the African Slave Trade in the United States of America 1638 – 1870 (1896), The Philadelphia Negro (1915), Black Reconstruction in America, 1860 –1880 (1935), Dusk of Dawn (1940) and Color and Democracy: Colonies and Peace (1945).
The Souls of Black Folk is generally recognized to be his magnum opus. In it, Du Bois critically analyses the history of slavery and segregation of black people in the United States and pronounces, with a prophetic air, that “the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line”. He projects the image of the “veil” to convey the logic of separation between black and white, and follows up on this argument by theorizing the “double consciousness” that defines the African in America.
… One ever feels his twoness
… an American, a Negro;
two souls, two thoughts,
two unreconciled strivings;
two warning ideals in one
dark body, whose strength
alone keeps it from being
torn asunder…
A race radical, Du Bois, in one of the most stringent thematics of the book, takes on what he thinks is the accommodationist attitude of his African – American contemporary, Booker T Washington, on the issue of race relations. As against the so–called Atlanta Compromise position of Washington which prescribed education and entrepreneurship as a panacea for the ills afflicting African – Americans rather than them engaging in battle for civil rights, Du Bois staunchly advocated that they struggle “for the rights which the world accords to men,” abiding by the spirit of the U. S. Constitution.
The Negro, a much lesser known creation of Du Bois, his “little book,” as he called it, tracks the more than ten thousand year old record of the people of Africa, especially from the sub – Saharan region including Zimbabwe, Ghana and Songhai. Du Bois’ intention was to counter the racist belief, popular in the Jim Crow era, that the people of African origin had no civilization other that the one into which they were enculturated into by their slave owner masters and mistresses. Indeed, the Atlantic slave trade, it is emphasized by him, destroyed the rich cultural heritage of the African people.
Du Bois here offers to his readers in an easy–to–read, nonacademic narrative, one of the earliest accounts of life in Africa prior to its colonization by European nations and thereby, effectively, demolishes the myth of the white man’s burden.
Once again a lesser known publication by Du Bois, the essay “The African Roots of War” first appeared in the May 1915 issue of the Atlantic Monthly. In it, Du Bois traces the cause of the First World War to the rivalry between the European nation – states: Germany’s attempt to catch up with annexation of land projects in the so – called Dark Continent which had already been embarked upon by Great Britain, France, Belgium, and Portugal. Ironically, the desire for conquest of territories far away from home led these countries into warfare with each other on their home ground. Although the thesis of the essay, in some ways, anticipated the argument put forward by V. I. Lenin in his famous tract, Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism, which was published a year later, Du Bois does not go to the extent of developing a full–fledged theory of imperialism. He is clearly more interested in the large–scale translational consequences of racism than in studying the political economy of empire–building. Hence the all–important statement of the essay:
Nearly every human empire
that has arisen in the world,
material and spiritual, has
found some of its greatest
crises on the continent of
Africa…
Du Bois’ own African roots, no doubt, provide him his ideological apparatus for his critique of imperialism.
License:
Open Anthology of Earlier American Literature by Tapan Basu is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 7: Simone de Beauvoir
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 9, 1908 - April 14, 1986
Often seen in the same sentence as Sartre, i.e. as an echo of rather than a unique thinker in her own right. However, de Beauvoir offered her unique perspective on a variety of issues, particularly that of what it means to be a woman. Woman is, according to de Beauvoir, defined by Other-ness. Our capacity for agency and meaning-making, whether or not we are identified as agents and meaning-makers, is constrained, though never determined, by our situation. This is a profoundly existential idea shared with thinkers like Sartre and Camus: existence precedes essence, as Sartre expressed it. Our lives are simply what we are born into - no one asks for it and no one gets to choose who or where we come into being. We are constrained by this. However, we are free to make of it what we will - life and existence are not imbued with meaning; it’s up to us to create that.
Like Sartre, de Beauvoir lived through the Nazi occupation of France, which profoundly influenced her thinking. Consider your existence and everything that you have found to have meaning: what if tomorrow you woke up to find that it was decimated, both metaphorically and perhaps even literally. While it’s not likely you or I will live through another war like WWII, we can share with the existentialist thinkers the desolation and uncertainty they felt about existence. All of us will live through events that are unpredictable and those events will give rise to our own uncertainty about life and meaning.
For de Beauvoir, this led her to the question of what it means to be a Woman. In her seminal work, The Second Sex, she begins the work by telling her readers that “the term “female” is derogatory not because it emphasizes woman animality, but because it imprisons her in her sex” (de Beauvoir, 1). The very thing that separates men from women is a constraint, a prison.
What does it mean to be a woman? For de Beauvoir, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman” (249). What does it mean that one becomes rather than is born into? True to existential thought, we are defined by the choices that we make. Does one simply choose to become a woman? Consider this:
Woman can be defined by her consciousness of her own femininity no more
satisfactorily than by saying that she is a female, for she acquires this consciousness
under circumstances dependent upon the society of which she is a member. . . . But
a life is a relation to the world, and the individual defines himself by making his own
choices through the world about him (44).
When we are born, we are not aware, conscious, of our man or woman. It’s not until we are much older that these things are told to us, again, constraining us to act or be a certain way in accordance to what the world around us has told us it means to be Woman (or Man). In an inherently meaningless world, the quest for value is one that is determined by the economic and social structure around us (47).
De Beauvoir argues that woman has the power to choose her being,
I shall place woman in a world of values and give her behavior a dimension of
liberty. I believe that she has the power to choose between the assertion of her
transcendence and her alienation as object; she is not the plaything of contradictory
drives; she devises solutions of diverse ranking in the ethical scale (45).
However, woman in de Beauvoir’s work is termed Other. This is not in opposition to another group, like the Southern Racist or German Antisemite. It’s Other in the sense of beyond, “To say that woman was the Other is to say that there did not exist between the sexes a reciprocal relation: Earth, Mother, Goddess — she was no fellow creature in mans eyes; it was beyond the human realm that her power was affirmed, and she was therefore outside of that realm (64-65). As societies developed, there was a distinction between jobs. Traditionally we think of hunter / gatherer societies in this respect, where the males of the group are those who are off searching for and collecting food while the woman are left to complete domestic chores and raise children. This sets off a determination that is not inherent but is determined from outside. This determination supports existential thought in that what we are is determined in many ways by what we do; in this case, Woman was not given the choice to stay home with the children, however:
The female, to a greater extent than the male, is the prey of the species; and the human race
has always sought to escape its specific destiny. The support of life became for man an
activity and a project through the invention of the tool; but in maternity woman remained
closely bound to her body, like an animal. It is because humanity calls itself in question in
the matter of the living — that is to say, values the reasons for living above mere life — that,
confronting woman, man assumes mastery. Man’s design is not to repeat himself in time: it is
to take control of the instant and mold the future. It is male activity that in creating values
has made of existence itself a value; this activity has prevailed over the confused forces of
life; it has subdued Nature and Woman. We must now see how this situation has been
perpetuated and how it has evolved through the ages. What place has humanity made of this
portion of itself which, while included within it, is defined as the Other? What rights have
been conceded to it? How have men defined it? (60).
What is the result of this? We see how it continues, even in the present day. Woman are treated as inferior, less than, and this continues to resonate in how we frame the conversation. In addition, we see that Woman is an opposition but this means there must be something Woman is opposing. As de Beauvoir expresses it, Woman as the Other is, “passivity confronting activity, diversity that destroys unity, matter as opposed to form, disorder against order” (74). You’ll notice a negativity here: woman is dedicated to Evil (74) which means that there must be good; evil is simply a privation of good. I don’t take this to mean that woman is evil and more than a left handed person is sinister, but rather, woman is forced to accept the position imposed on her by society - in this case, by Man. Only then is she free.
However, this entire story was written by men; it’s man-made (118). As already established men set the values, mores, and religion - woman never disputed this. However, this led to a disruption in which men were allowed to determine the lot of woman, not thinking of her interests but instead as woman relates to the projects, fears, and needs of man (118). Perhaps this is an antiqued way of thinking about Woman and Man - we know now there is more than a simple binary distinction. So, to frame this in terms more applicable to 21st century understanding: there is always a dominant force behind any action; we know this from any freshman science class. In the case of the history of the sexes, man was that dominant force who established the “rules” of society and woman simply went along. Perhaps this is because the rules were beneficial or did not seem worth fighting. However, as evidenced by the suffrage movement of the early 20th century or the later fight for equal rights, de Beauvoir reminds us that, “. . . . Feminism itself was never an autonomous movement: it was in part an instrument in the hands of politicians, in part an epiphenomenon reflection a deeper social drama” (119). As Other, woman was forced again into the position, constrained by the role society imposed it has been with the consent of Man.
Existential thought shares with us a discontent with the seeming inherent nature of meaning. Aristotle believed that form determined function. In her thought, de Beauvoir explores the implications of this persistent belief and ultimately gives voice to an other that was long silenced.
Works cited / for further reading
De Beauvoir, Simone. The Second Sex. Translated by H. M. Parshley, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc, 1952.
Gillespie, Iseult. “The Meaning of Life According to Simone De Beauvoir.” Iseult Gillespie: The Meaning of Life According to Simone De Beauvoir | TED Talk, Ted-Ed, 2020, https://www.ted.com/talks/iseult_gillespie_the_meaning_of_life_according_to_simone_de_beauvoir.
Mussett, Shannon. “Simone De Beauvoir.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, https://iep.utm.edu/
Chapter 7: Frantz Fanon and his Influence
Suggested Readings for Further Study
Aubrecht, K. (2010). Rereading the Ontario review of the Roots of Youth Violence report: The relevance of Fanon for a critical disability studies perspective. Counterpoints, 368, 55-78. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980666
Burman, E. (2016). Fanon and the child: Pedagogies of subjectification and transformation. Curriculum Inquiry, 46(3), 265-285. https://doi.org/10.1080/03626784.2016.1168263
Crath, R. (2010). Reading Fanon in “homosexual territory”: Towards the queering of a queer pedagogy. Counterpoints, 368, 123-146. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980669
De Lissovoy, N. (2011). Education and violation: Conceptualizing power, domination, and agency in the hidden curriculum. Race Ethnicity and Education, 15(4), 463-484. https://doi.org/10.1080/13613324.2011.618831
Dei, G. J. S. (2010). Rereading Fanon for his pedagogy and implications for schooling and education. Counterpoints, 368, 1-27. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980664
Impedovo, M. A., Ferreira-Meyers, K. (2021). Authority, collective learning and agentic action in teaching: Tracing a pedagogy from Franz Fanon. Education in the North, 28(1), 135-152. https://doi.org/10.26203/agdv-0563
Logan, C. (2010). Body politics and the experience of Blackness within the field of education. Counterpoints, 368, 29-54. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980665
Frantz Fanon and His Influence
Conceptualizing Fanon
Frantz Fanon (1925-1961) was a French psychiatrist and existentialist thinker who grew up under French colonial rule in Martinique and later lived in France, Algeria, and Sub-Saharan Africa. He troubled fundamental societal issues around race, gender, sexuality, and social formation. Some of Fanon’s most influential works, two of which will be discussed here, emerged as a result of his experience during the Algerian Revolution (1954-1962). During this period, Fanon began to recognize the internalization of racism and the impacts of colonialism first-hand, which prompted him to begin theorizing about the anti-colonial struggle and the process of decolonization.
Black Skin, White Masks (Originally Published in 1952)
Drawing on the influences such as his fellow French intellectual, Jean-Paul Sartre, Fanon provided an existentialist-phenomenological interpretation of “otherness” in Black Skin, White Masks (1952/2008). Here, Fanon highlighted the internalization of the “symbolic order” wherein the colonizer’s worldview is imposed upon the colonized person, which as a result traps them in their own inferiority complex. Thus, Fanon recognized racism as a psychological reality for the colonized. He famously advocated for the “liberation of the man of color from himself” (Fanon, 1952/2008, p. 2). This suggests that as a consequence of colonialism, race traps both Black and white people in their own subjectivities and only serves to perpetuate the colonial system through the colonization of the mind. Therefore, we must first consider the ways in which we might go about decolonizing our thinking to ignite the decolonization process within larger societal structures.
Wretched of the Earth (Originally published in 1961)
Wretched of the Earth (1961/2004), cements Fanon as a post-colonial thinker as he imagined a world freed from the tight grasp of the colonial system. Within the work, Fanon raised questions about the necessity of violence in the anti-colonial struggle, addressed capitalism as a “necessary evil,” and troubled the notion that a broken system can be infiltrated and restructured from the inside.
Fanon asserted that “decolonization is always a violent event” (p. 1), taking on a Manichaean view as he described decolonization as the substitution of one “species” of humankind to another. Much like Foucault’s (1980) notion of how power shifts from one form to another, Fanon (2004) illustrated that decolonization must be violent because colonialism inherently is. Thus, colonialism cannot be dismantled through some sort of “mutual” agreement because language alone will not convince a colonialist power to change or make concessions for those they seek to oppress. It is essential to be wary of an oversimplification of his theories and ideas, including the role of violence. His promotion of the role of violence is sometimes reduced to promoting any and all violent acts. However, for Fanon, violence is only effective when it is aimed at the colonial system itself. Therefore, we need to consider the ways that political/national conscious-raising must work in conjunction with political violence to dismantle the colonial system.
Fanon (1961/2008) highlighted the harm in suggesting that the colonized could infiltrate the institutions and change them from within in his discussion of the colonized intellectual. Not only is changing a system from within not possible according to Fanon, but also it would work to perpetuate the system of colonialism as the colonized person becomes a “mimic man.” Chari (2004) called attention to this point when she argued that, for Fanon, the very idea of recognition within a colonial system can serve as a vehicle for perpetuating the injustices it purports to combat (p. 116). Therefore, recognition of the colonized intellectual is not justice or freedom but rather only serves to define and evaluate the colonized within the existing terms of colonial power.
Following this argument, we must attempt to imagine a world beyond colonialism. As such, identity is not the problem, but rather inaction is. Therefore, it is up to the colonized to “act” and liberate themselves from the white gaze of colonialism instead of attempting to compete with their oppressors or ask nicely to be granted freedom.
Implications for Education
There is arguably a great deal of concern within contemporary education circles regarding how colonialism shapes curriculum and pedagogy. Fanon’s proposal for violence and political consciousness-raising is largely a radical suggestion for a system so deeply entrenched in the tales of colonialism. However, Fanon ultimately argues that what is needed is not a new adaptation of the current system but rather a whole new system. Therefore, asking ourselves as educators and researchers to contemplate our current conceptualizations of education is a reasonable starting place. To this end, educators might adopt what Dei and Simmons (2010) cite as a “Critical Fanonian Approach.” They suggest that such a framework draws on a critical analysis of the institutional structures within which the delivery of “social services and goods” occurs (p. xvi). In this sense, we might begin to acknowledge that social institutions, such as schools, reproduce societal inequality, ultimately contributing to the colonial machine. Finally, Dei and Simmons (2010) further assert that the focus should be on the liberation of the learner (p. xvii), which indicates that through generative dialogue and critical discourse, unequal power structures that act to colonize the minds of nearly every human being today can be exposed and actively challenged.
References
- Chari, A. (2004). Exceeding recognition. Sartre Studies International, 10(2), 110-122.
- Dei, G. J. S., & Simmons, M. (2010). The pedagogy of Fanon: An introduction. Counterpoints, 368, xiii-xxv. https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980663
- Fanon, F. (2008). Black skin, white masks (Trans. C. L. Markmann). (Original work published 1952). Pluto.
- Fanon, F. (2004). The wretched of the Earth (Trans. R. Philcox) (pp. 1-62). Grove. (Original work published 1961)
- Foucault, M. (1980). The history of sexuality, vol. 1: An introduction (R. Hurley, Trans.). Vintage.
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Chapter 7: Michel Foucault
Michel Foucault and His Influence
DOMONIC LODGE
Plague, Pestilence and Power
Michel Foucault (1979) demonstrated how those searching for order in times of fear and chaos
place their very lives in the hands of those who wield power. Prior to modern medicine, one of
the most terrifying events were outbreaks of an infectious disease, or plague. So widespread was
the fear of a plague that by the end of the 17th century most towns had clear sets of “measures to
be taken when the plague appeared in a town” (p. 195). Here, Foucault demonstrated how
“discipline brings into play it’s power, which is one of analysis” (p. 197).
By submitting to “an omnipresent and omniscient power” (p. 197) townspeople under quarantine
surrendered all rights and liberties, hoping to create a source of power strong enough to combat
and overcome the outbreak. However, do not be deceived by notions of voluntarily surrendering
one’s rights as a symbolic release of power that would later be returned, no such transaction
takes place. Those with power impose emergency measures; any townspeople who fail to abide
by the clear hierarchy of command are “condemned to death” (p. 195). This triangular hierarchy
becomes our blueprint for examining power through Foucault’s eyes. Yet, there is no broad base
of untapped power in the pyramid waiting to rise, to Foucault “power is exercised without
division” (p. 197). Those at the top receive information then disseminate both judgement and
manifestations of power, those in the middle carry out the latter in each direction, those at the
bottom obey. Although an extreme example, the power of a quarantine system is the perfect
place to further analyze concepts of power.
Perceived Power through the Panopticon
Foucault referred to “mechanisms” (p. 199) or manifestations of power through Bentham’s
Panopticon, seeing the early 19th century prison design as “the architectural figure of this
composition” (p. 200). The concept of “backlighting” (p. 200) prisoners in order to remove any
sense of privacy is not dissimilar from the modern concept of ‘Big Brother’ in that there is
nowhere to hide from those who wield the power, no shadows in which to find reprieve;
simultaneously, nothing can be seen or witnessed of those who wield power upon you. Unable to
directly observe those perceived to have power in the central guard tower of the prison, yet also
unable to know with any degree of certainty when they are being observed by the guard who
wields it, the illusion of power through the Panopticon becomes an intangible, yet incredibly
potent force upon prisoners, a “faceless gaze” (p. 214) as power no longer needs to be wielded
directly. Instead, in its place the fear of perceived power changes the point of application from
the body to the mind.
A Brief Timeline of Power
In “The history of sexuality, vol. 1” Foucault (1980) provided a timeline of power, its sources
and manifestations. We begin with the right of supreme sovereigns “to decide life and death”
(p.135), historically with the swing of a sword. Importantly, in both the Classical and Medieval
contexts, power is a means of “deduction, a subtraction mechanism” (p. 136-137). This harkens
to ideas of absolute monarchies, patriarchal family structures and power emanating from people,
not ideas or concepts shared amongst a people. Yet, as we transition into the Modern and
Contemporary ages we see “deduction” (p. 138) fade into the background of power’s common
manifestations. Herein lies the transition of power from a “subtraction mechanism” (p. 136) to a
generative force. In addition, power no longer rests exclusively with the sovereign (p. 139), but
exists also within the “social body” (p. 139). Furthermore, power manifests not as the tangible
will of an individual but instead as an ideology or concept.
Power in People and in Principle
In the current context of power and its manifestations, Foucault put forward that power
manifests in two basic forms and once again notes significant shifts in it’s base. Regarding
forms, power evolves into “anatomo-politics” and “biopolitics” (p. 139), primarily surrounding
the mechanics, development and supervision of the human body and it’s workings. Regarding
power’s base, we now see it rests first within economic entities, focused on “the administration
of bodies and the calculated management of life.” (p. 139-140). Secondly, Foucault stated that
power also rests innately within each of us as “The “right” to life, to one’s body, to health, to
happiness, to the satisfaction of needs, and beyond all the oppressions or “alienations,” the
“right” to rediscover what one is and all that one can be” (p. 145). From classroom management,
design and composition, to the nature of hierarchies and leadership structures within school
systems, Foucauldian principles are present throughout the world of education. Examples of
these contemporary notions of power are present in the work of Kohl, H. (2009), or Dauphinais
(2021) who navigates “mindfulness as biopower” (p. 17) in an educational context through a
“Foucauldian perspective” (p. 17).
References
Dauphinais, J. (2021). Mindful subjects: The disciplinary power of mindfulness in schools. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 6(1), n.p. https://traue.commons.gc.cuny.edu/mindful-subjects-the-disciplinary-power-of-mindfulness-in-schools/
Foucault, M. (1979). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison (A. Sheridan, Trans.). Vintage.
Foucault, M. (1980). The history of sexuality, vol. 1: An introduction (R. Hurley, Trans.). Vintage.
Kohl, H. (2009). The educational panopticon. Teachers College Record, # 15477, n.p. https://www.tcrecord.org/content.asp?contentid=15477
Suggested Readings for Further Study
Adams, E. (2021). Making sense of space: mapping and materializing panoptic features in research with youth and teachers. Journal of Curriculum Studies. Advanced Online Publication. https://doi.org/10.1080/00220272.2021.1957156
Gruenwald, D. (2003). A Foucauldian analysis of environmental education: Toward the socioecological challenge of the Earth Charter. Curriculum Inquiry, 34(1), 71-107. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-873X.2004.00281.x
Higgins, M. (2018). Reconfiguring the optics of the critical gaze in science education (after the critique of critique): (Re)thinking “what counts” through Foucaultian prismatics. Cultural Studies of Science Education, 13(1), 185-203. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11422-016-9799-4
Huckaby, M. F. (2011). Researcher/researched: Relations of vulnerability/relations of power. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 24(2), 165-183. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2010.529851
Hughes, A. (2021). Positioning Indigenous knowledge systems within the Australian mathematics curriculum: Investigating transformative paradigms with Foucault. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education, 42(4), 487-498. https://doi.org/10.1080/01596306.2020.1715345
Jefferson, N., & Smith-Peterson, M. (2021). The physics of power: Stories of panopticism at two levels of the school system. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 6(1), n.p. https://traue.commons.gc.cuny.edu/the-physics-of-power-stories-of-panopticism-at-two-levels-of-the-school-system/
Klaf, S. (2013). School labelling as technology of governance: Problematizing ascribed labels to school spaces. The Canadian Geographer, 57(3), 296-302. https://doi.org/10.1111/cag.12020
Monreal, T. (2021). Stitching together more expansive Latinx teacher self/vs: Movidas of rasquache and spaces of counter-conduct in El Sur Latinx. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 6(1), n.p. https://traue.commons.gc.cuny.edu/stitching-together-more-expansive-latinx-teacher-self-ves-movidas-of-rasquache-and-spaces-of-counter-conduct-in-el-sur-latinx/
Quinn, J. (2021). Using Foucault to examine current U.S. sex education. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 6(1), n.p. https://traue.commons.gc.cuny.edu/using-foucault-to-examine-current-u-s-sex-education-policy/
Vinson, K. D. (1999). National curriculum standards and social studies education: Dewey, Freire, Foucault, and the construction of a radical critique. Theory and Research in Social Education, 27(3), 296-328. https://doi.org/10.1080/00933104.1999.10505883
Webb, P. T., Briscoe, F. M., & Mussman, M. P. (2009). Preparing teachers for the neoliberal panopticon. Educational Foundations, 23(3-4), 3-18. https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/EJ871545.pdf
Zaino, K. (2021). Liberal humanism, social science, and the discursive legacy of the “human” in English education. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 6(1), n.p. https://traue.commons.gc.cuny.edu/liberal-humanism-social-science-and-the-discursive-legacy-of-the-human-in-english-education/
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Chapter 7: Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Ep. 19 – Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and The Invisible – Always Already Podcast (wordpress.com) License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- Jean-Paul Sartre (informationphilosopher.com) License: CC Attribution 3.0 Unported
- Sartre (philosophypages.com) [License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Simone de Beauvoir de Beauvoir (philosophypages.com) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Frantz Fanon's Critique of Maurice Merleau-Ponty's Corporeal Schema License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States
Notes on Frantz Fanon License: Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
Chapter 8: Social and Political Philosophy
Philosophy is an activity as well as a way of investigating the world around us. The thinkers included in this section differ in a number of ways, but they are united in their questions that demand not just an answer but an action.
Social philosophy examines questions about the foundations of social institutions, social behavior, and interpretations of society in terms of ethical values rather than empirical relations. Social philosophers emphasize understanding the social contexts for political, legal, moral and cultural questions, and the development of novel theoretical frameworks, from social ontology to care ethics to cosmopolitan theories of democracy, natural law, human rights, gender equity and global justice.
Political philosophy, or political theory, includes the study of topics such as politics, liberty, justice, property, rights, law, and the enforcement of a legal code by authority: what they are, why (or even if) they are needed, what, if anything, makes a government legitimate, what rights and freedoms it should protect and why, what form it should take and why, what the law needed for society, and what duties of citizens owe to a legitimate government, if any, and when it may be legitimately overthrown, if ever.
Chapter 8: Epictetus (about)
Epictetus (50-135 BCE): Stoicism
- Even though he was born a slave in Hierapolis and endured a permanent physical disability, Epictetus held that all human beings are perfectly free to control their lives and to live in harmony with nature. After intense study of the traditional Stoic curriculum (established by Zeno of Citium and Chrysippus) of logic, physics, and ethics, Epictetus spent his entire career teaching philosophy and promoting a daily regime of rigorous self-examination. He eventually gained his freedom, but was exiled from Rome by Domitian in 89. Epictetus’s pupil Arrianus later collected lecture notes from the master and published them as the DISCOURSES.
The more epigrammatic ENCHEIRIDION, or MANUAL represents an even later distillation of the same material. From a fundamental distinction between our ability to think or feel freely and our lack of control over external events or circumstances, Epictetus derived the description of a calm and disciplined life. We can never fail to be happy, he argued, if we learn to desire that things should be exactly as they are. That the same approach to human life may work for others as well as for a slave is suggested by the persuasive oratory of the Roman statesman Seneca. The MEDITATIONS of Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius illustrate the practical value of a Stoic approach even in the best of circumstances.
Recommended Reading:Primary sources:
Secondary sources:
Additional on-line information about Epictetus includes:
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Chapter 8: Epictetus: Discourses
EPICTETUS: DISCOURSES
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Of the things which are in our Power, and not in our Power
Of all the faculties, you will find not one which is capable of contemplating
itself; and, consequently, not capable either of approving or disapproving.
How far does the grammatic art possess the contemplating power? As
far as forming a judgement about what is written and spoken. And how
far music? As far as judging about melody. Does either of them then
contemplate itself? By no means. But when you must write something
to your friend, grammar will tell you what words you must write; but
whether you should write or not, grammar will not tell you. And so
it is with music as to musical sounds; but whether you should sing
at the present time and play on the lute, or do neither, music will
not tell you. What faculty then will tell you? That which contemplates
both itself and all other things. And what is this faculty? The rational
faculty; for this is the only faculty that we have received which
examines itself, what it is, and what power it has, and what is the
value of this gift, and examines all other faculties: for what else
is there which tells us that golden things are beautiful, for they
do not say so themselves? Evidently it is the faculty which is capable
of judging of appearances. What else judges of music, grammar, and
other faculties, proves their uses and points out the occasions for
using them? Nothing else.
As then it was fit to be so, that which is best of all and supreme
over all is the only thing which the gods have placed in our power,
the right use of appearances; but all other things they have not placed
in our power. Was it because they did not choose? I indeed think that,
if they had been able, they would have put these other things also
in our power, but they certainly could not. For as we exist on the
earth, and are bound to such a body and to such companions, how was
it possible for us not to be hindered as to these things by externals?
But what says Zeus? “Epictetus, if it were possible, I would have
made both your little body and your little property free and not exposed
to hindrance. But now be not ignorant of this: this body is not yours,
but it is clay finely tempered. And since I was not able to do for
you what I have mentioned, I have given you a small portion of us,
this faculty of pursuing an object and avoiding it, and the faculty
of desire and aversion, and, in a word, the faculty of using the appearances
of things; and if you will take care of this faculty and consider
it your only possession, you will never be hindered, never meet with
impediments; you will not lament, you will not blame, you will not
flatter any person.”
“Well, do these seem to you small matters?” I hope not. “Be content
with them then and pray to the gods.” But now when it is in our power
to look after one thing, and to attach ourselves to it, we prefer
to look after many things, and to be bound to many things, to the
body and to property, and to brother and to friend, and to child and
to slave. Since, then, we are bound to many things, we are depressed
by them and dragged down. For this reason, when the weather is not
fit for sailing, we sit down and torment ourselves, and continually
look out to see what wind is blowing. “It is north.” What is that
to us? “When will the west wind blow?” When it shall choose, my good
man, or when it shall please AEolus; for God has not made you the
manager of the winds, but AEolus. What then? We must make the best
use that we can of the things which are in our power, and use the
rest according to their nature. What is their nature then? As God
may please.
“Must I, then, alone have my head cut off?” What, would you have all
men lose their heads that you may be consoled? Will you not stretch
out your neck as Lateranus did at Rome when Nero ordered him to be
beheaded? For when he had stretched out his neck, and received a feeble
blow, which made him draw it in for a moment, he stretched it out
again. And a little before, when he was visited by Epaphroditus, Nero’s
freedman, who asked him about the cause of offense which he had given,
he said, “If I choose to tell anything, I will tell your master.”
What then should a man have in readiness in such circumstances? What
else than “What is mine, and what is not mine; and permitted to me,
and what is not permitted to me.” I must die. Must I then die lamenting?
I must be put in chains. Must I then also lament? I must go into exile.
Does any man then hinder me from going with smiles and cheerfulness
and contentment? “Tell me the secret which you possess.” I will not,
for this is in my power. “But I will put you in chains.” Man, what
are you talking about? Me in chains? You may fetter my leg, but my
will not even Zeus himself can overpower. “I will throw you into prison.”
My poor body, you mean. “I will cut your head off.” When, then, have
I told you that my head alone cannot be cut off? These are the things
which philosophers should meditate on, which they should write daily,
in which they should exercise themselves.
Thrasea used to say, “I would rather be killed to-day than banished
to-morrow.” What, then, did Rufus say to him? “If you choose death
as the heavier misfortune, how great is the folly of your choice?
But if, as the lighter, who has given you the choice? Will you not
study to be content with that which has been given to you?”
What, then, did Agrippinus say? He said, “I am not a hindrance to
myself.” When it was reported to him that his trial was going on in
the Senate, he said, “I hope it may turn out well; but it is the fifth
hour of the day”- this was the time when he was used to exercise himself
and then take the cold bath- “let us go and take our exercise.” After
he had taken his exercise, one comes and tells him, “You have been
condemned.” “To banishment,” he replies, “or to death?” “To banishment.”
“What about my property?” “It is not taken from you.” “Let us go to
Aricia then,” he said, “and dine.”
This it is to have studied what a man ought to study; to have made
desire, aversion, free from hindrance, and free from all that a man
would avoid. I must die. If now, I am ready to die. If, after a short
time, I now dine because it is the dinner-hour; after this I will
then die. How? Like a man who gives up what belongs to another.
Chapter 2
How a Man on every occasion can maintain his Proper Character
To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable; but that
which is rational is tolerable. Blows are not naturally intolerable.
“How is that?” See how the Lacedaemonians endure whipping when they
have learned that whipping is consistent with reason. “To hang yourself
is not intolerable.” When, then, you have the opinion that it is rational,
you go and hang yourself. In short, if we observe, we shall find that
the animal man is pained by nothing so much as by that which is irrational;
and, on the contrary, attracted to nothing so much as to that which
is rational.
But the rational and the irrational appear such in a different way
to different persons, just as the good and the bad, the profitable
and the unprofitable. For this reason, particularly, we need discipline,
in order to learn how to adapt the preconception of the rational and
the irrational to the several things conformably to nature. But in
order to determine the rational and the irrational, we use not only
the of external things, but we consider also what is appropriate to
each person. For to one man it is consistent with reason to hold a
chamber pot for another, and to look to this only, that if he does
not hold it, he will receive stripes, and he will not receive his
food: but if he shall hold the pot, he will not suffer anything hard
or disagreeable. But to another man not only does the holding of a
chamber pot appear intolerable for himself, but intolerable also for
him to allow another to do this office for him. If, then, you ask
me whether you should hold the chamber pot or not, I shall say to
you that the receiving of food is worth more than the not receiving
of it, and the being scourged is a greater indignity than not being
scourged; so that if you measure your interests by these things, go
and hold the chamber pot. “But this,” you say, “would not be worthy
of me.” Well, then, it is you who must introduce this consideration
into the inquiry, not I; for it is you who know yourself, how much
you are worth to yourself, and at what price you sell yourself; for
men sell themselves at various prices.
For this reason, when Florus was deliberating whether he should go
down to Nero’s spectacles and also perform in them himself, Agrippinus
said to him, “Go down”: and when Florus asked Agrippinus, “Why do
not you go down?” Agrippinus replied, “Because I do not even deliberate
about the matter.” For he who has once brought himself to deliberate
about such matters, and to calculate the value of external things,
comes very near to those who have forgotten their own character. For
why do you ask me the question, whether death is preferable or life?
I say “life.” “Pain or pleasure?” I say “pleasure.” But if I do not
take a part in the tragic acting, I shall have my head struck off.
Go then and take a part, but I will not. “Why?” Because you consider
yourself to be only one thread of those which are in the tunic. Well
then it was fitting for you to take care how you should be like the
rest of men, just as the thread has no design to be anything superior
to the other threads. But I wish to be purple, that small part which
is bright, and makes all the rest appear graceful and beautiful. Why
then do you tell me to make myself like the many? and if I do, how
shall I still be purple?
Priscus Helvidius also saw this, and acted conformably. For when Vespasian
sent and commanded him not to go into the senate, he replied, “It
is in your power not to allow me to be a member of the senate, but
so long as I am, I must go in.” “Well, go in then,” says the emperor,
“but say nothing.” “Do not ask my opinion, and I will be silent.”
“But I must ask your opinion.” “And I must say what I think right.”
“But if you do, I shall put you to death.” “When then did I tell you
that I am immortal? You will do your part, and I will do mine: it
is your part to kill; it is mine to die, but not in fear: yours to
banish me; mine to depart without sorrow.”
What good then did Priscus do, who was only a single person? And what
good does the purple do for the toga? Why, what else than this, that
it is conspicuous in the toga as purple, and is displayed also as
a fine example to all other things? But in such circumstances another
would have replied to Caesar who forbade him to enter the senate,
“I thank you for sparing me.” But such a man Vespasian would not even
have forbidden to enter the senate, for he knew that he would either
sit there like an earthen vessel, or, if he spoke, he would say what
Caesar wished, and add even more.
In this way an athlete also acted who was in danger of dying unless
his private parts were amputated. His brother came to the athlete,
who was a philosopher, and said, “Come, brother, what are you going
to do? Shall we amputate this member and return to the gymnasium?”
But the athlete persisted in his resolution and died. When some one
asked Epictetus how he did this, as an athlete or a philosopher, “As
a man,” Epictetus replied, “and a man who had been proclaimed among
the athletes at the Olympic games and had contended in them, a man
who had been familiar with such a place, and not merely anointed in
Baton’s school. Another would have allowed even his head to be cut
off, if he could have lived without it. Such is that regard to character
which is so strong in those who have been accustomed to introduce
it of themselves and conjoined with other things into their deliberations.”
“Come, then, Epictetus, shave yourself.” “If I am a philosopher,”
I answer, “I will not shave myself.” “But I will take off your head?”
If that will do you any good, take it off.
Some person asked, “How then shall every man among us perceive what
is suitable to his character?” How, he replied, does the bull alone,
when the lion has attacked, discover his own powers and put himself
forward in defense of the whole herd? It is plain that with the powers
the perception of having them is immediately conjoined; and, therefore,
whoever of us has such powers will not be ignorant of them. Now a
bull is not made suddenly, nor a brave man; but we must discipline
ourselves in the winter for the summer campaign, and not rashly run
upon that which does not concern us.
Only consider at what price you sell your own will; if for no other
reason, at least for this, that you sell it not for a small sum. But
that which is great and superior perhaps belongs to Socrates and such
as are like him. “Why then, if we are naturally such, are not a very
great number of us like him?” Is it true then that all horses become
swift, that all dogs are skilled in tracking footprints? “What, then,
since I am naturally dull, shall I, for this reason, take no pains?”
I hope not. Epictetus is not superior to Socrates; but if he is not
inferior, this is enough for me; for I shall never be a Milo, and
yet I do not neglect my body; nor shall I be a Croesus, and yet I
do not neglect my property; nor, in a word, do we neglect looking
after anything because we despair of reaching the highest degree.
Chapter 3
How a man should proceed from the principle of God being the father
of all men to the rest
If a man should be able to assent to this doctrine as he ought, that
we are all sprung from God in an especial manner, and that God is
the father both of men and of gods, I suppose that he would never
have any ignoble or mean thoughts about himself. But if Caesar should
adopt you, no one could endure your arrogance; and if you know that
you are the son of Zeus, will you not be elated? Yet we do not so;
but since these two things are mingled in the generation of man, body
in common with the animals, and reason and intelligence in common
with the gods, many incline to this kinship, which is miserable and
mortal; and some few to that which is divine and happy. Since then
it is of necessity that every man uses everything according to the
opinion which he has about it, those, the few, who think that they
are formed for fidelity and modesty and a sure use of appearances
have no mean or ignoble thoughts about themselves; but with the many
it is quite the contrary. For they say, “What am I? A poor, miserable
man, with my wretched bit of flesh.” Wretched. Indeed; but you possess
something better than your “bit of flesh.” Why then do you neglect
that which is better, and why do you attach yourself to this?
Through this kinship with the flesh, some of us inclining to it become
like wolves, faithless and treacherous and mischievous: some become
like lions, savage and untamed; but the greater part of us become
foxes and other worse animals. For what else is a slanderer and a
malignant man than a fox, or some other more wretched and meaner animal?
See, then, and take care that you do not become some one of these
miserable things.
Chapter 4
Of progress or improvement
He who is making progress, having learned from philosophers that desire
means the desire of good things, and aversion means aversion from
bad things; having learned too that happiness and tranquillity are
not attainable by man otherwise than by not failing to obtain what
he desires, and not falling into that which he would avoid; such a
man takes from himself desire altogether and defers it, but he employs
his aversion only on things which are dependent on his will. For if
he attempts to avoid anything independent of his will, he knows that
sometimes he will fall in with something which he wishes to avoid,
and he will be unhappy. Now if virtue promises good fortune and tranquillity
and happiness, certainly also the progress toward virtue is progress
toward each of these things. For it is always true that to whatever
point the perfecting of anything leads us, progress is an approach
toward this point.
How then do we admit that virtue is such as I have said, and yet seek
progress in other things and make a display of it? What is the product
of virtue? Tranquillity. Who then makes improvement? It is he who
has read many books of Chrysippus? But does virtue consist in having
understood Chrysippus? If this is so, progress is clearly nothing
else than knowing a great deal of Chrysippus. But now we admit that
virtue produces one thing. and we declare that approaching near to
it is another thing, namely, progress or improvement. “Such a person,”
says one, “is already able to read Chrysippus by himself.” Indeed,
sir, you are making great progress. What kind of progress? But why
do you mock the man? Why do you draw him away from the perception
of his own misfortunes? Will you not show him the effect of virtue
that he may learn where to look for improvement? Seek it there, wretch,
where your work lies. And where is your work? In desire and in aversion,
that you may not be disappointed in your desire, and that you may
not fall into that which you would avoid; in your pursuit and avoiding,
that you commit no error; in assent and suspension of assent, that
you be not deceived. The first things, and the most necessary, are
those which I have named. But if with trembling and lamentation you
seek not to fall into that which you avoid, tell me how you are improving.
Do you then show me your improvement in these things? If I were talking
to an athlete, I should say, “Show me your shoulders”; and then he
might say, “Here are my halteres.” You and your halteres look to that.
I should reply, “I wish to see the effect of the halteres.” So, when
you say: “Take the treatise on the active powers, and see how I have
studied it.” I reply, “Slave, I am not inquiring about this, but how
you exercise pursuit and avoidance, desire and aversion, how your
design and purpose and prepare yourself, whether conformably to nature
or not. If conformably, give me evidence of it, and I will say that
you are making progress: but if not conformably, be gone, and not
only expound your books, but write such books yourself; and what will
you gain by it? Do you not know that the whole book costs only five
denarii? Does then the expounder seem to be worth more than five denarii?
Never, then, look for the matter itself in one place, and progress
toward it in another.”
Where then is progress? If any of you, withdrawing himself from externals,
turns to his own will to exercise it and to improve it by labour,
so as to make it conformable to nature, elevated, free, unrestrained,
unimpeded, faithful, modest; and if he has learned that he who desires
or avoids the things which are not in his power can neither be faithful
nor free, but of necessity he must change with them and be tossed
about with them as in a tempest, and of necessity must subject himself
to others who have the power to procure or prevent what he desires
or would avoid; finally, when he rises in the morning, if he observes
and keeps these rules, bathes as a man of fidelity, eats as a modest
man; in like manner, if in every matter that occurs he works out his
chief principles as the runner does with reference to running, and
the trainer of the voice with reference to the voice- this is the
man who truly makes progress, and this is the man who has not traveled
in vain. But if he has strained his efforts to the practice of reading
books, and labours only at this, and has traveled for this, I tell
him to return home immediately, and not to neglect his affairs there;
for this for which he has traveled is nothing. But the other thing
is something, to study how a man can rid his life of lamentation and
groaning, and saying, “Woe to me,” and “wretched that I am,” and to
rid it also of misfortune and disappointment and to learn what death
is, and exile, and prison, and poison, that he may be able to say
when he is in fetters, “Dear Crito, if it is the will of the gods
that it be so, let it be so”; and not to say, “Wretched am I, an old
man; have I kept my gray hairs for this?” Who is it that speaks thus?
Do you think that I shall name some man of no repute and of low condition?
Does not Priam say this? Does not OEdipus say this? Nay, all kings
say it! For what else is tragedy than the perturbations of men who
value externals exhibited in this kind of poetry? But if a man must
learn by fiction that no external things which are independent of
the will concern us, for this? part I should like this fiction, by
the aid of which I should live happily and undisturbed. But you must
consider for yourselves what you wish.
What then does Chrysippus teach us? The reply is, “to know that these
things are not false, from which happiness comes and tranquillity
arises. Take my books, and you will learn how true and conformable
to nature are the things which make me free from perturbations.” O
great good fortune! O the great benefactor who points out the way!
To Triptolemus all men have erected temples and altars, because he
gave us food by cultivation; but to him who discovered truth and brought
it to light and communicated it to all, not the truth which shows
us how to live, but how to live well, who of you for this reason has
built an altar, or a temple, or has dedicated a statue, or who worships
God for this? Because the gods have given the vine, or wheat, we sacrifice
to them: but because they have produced in the human mind that fruit
by which they designed to show us the truth which relates to happiness,
shall we not thank God for this?
Chapter 5
Against the academics
If a man, said Epictetus, opposes evident truths, it is not easy to
find arguments by which we shall make him change his opinion. But
this does not arise either from the man’s strength or the teacher’s
weakness; for when the man, though he has been confuted, is hardened
like a stone, how shall we then be able to deal with him by argument?
Now there are two kinds of hardening, one of the understanding, the
other of the sense of shame, when a man is resolved not to assent
to what is manifest nor to desist from contradictions. Most of us
are afraid of mortification of the body, and would contrive all means
to avoid such a thing, but we care not about the soul’s mortification.
And indeed with regard to the soul, if a man be in such a state as
not to apprehend anything, or understand at all, we think that he
is in a bad condition: but if the sense of shame and modesty are deadened,
this we call even power.
Do you comprehend that you are awake? “I do not,” the man replies,
“for I do not even comprehend when in my sleep I imagine that I am
awake.” Does this appearance then not differ from the other? “Not
at all,” he replies. Shall I still argue with this man? And what fire
or what iron shall I apply to him to make him feel that he is deadened?
He does perceive, but he pretends that he does not. He’s even worse
than a dead man. He does not see the contradiction: he is in a bad
condition. Another does see it, but he is not moved, and makes no
improvement: he is even in a worse condition. His modesty is extirpated,
and his sense of shame; and the rational faculty has not been cut
off from him, but it is brutalized. Shall I name this strength of
mind? Certainly not, unless we also name it such in catamites, through
which they do and say in public whatever comes into their head.
Chapter 6
Of providence
From everything which is or happens in the world, it is easy to praise
Providence, if a man possesses these two qualities, the faculty of
seeing what belongs and happens to all persons and things, and a grateful
disposition. If he does not possess these two qualities, one man will
not see the use of things which are and which happen; another will
not be thankful for them, even if he does know them. If God had made
colours, but had not made the faculty of seeing them, what would have
been their use? None at all. On the other hand, if He had made the
faculty of vision, but had not made objects such as to fall under
the faculty, what in that case also would have been the use of it?
None at all. Well, suppose that He had made both, but had not made
light? In that case, also, they would have been of no use. Who is
it, then, who has fitted this to that and that to this? And who is
it that has fitted the knife to the case and the case to the knife?
Is it no one? And, indeed, from the very structure of things which
have attained their completion, we are accustomed to show that the
work is certainly the act of some artificer, and that it has not been
constructed without a purpose. Does then each of these things demonstrate
the workman, and do not visible things and the faculty of seeing and
light demonstrate Him? And the existence of male and female, and the
desire of each for conjunction, and the power of using the parts which
are constructed, do not even these declare the workman? If they do
not, let us consider the constitution of our understanding according
to which, when we meet with sensible objects, we simply receive impressions
from them, but we also select something from them, and subtract something,
and add, and compound by means of them these things or those, and,
in fact, pass from some to other things which, in a manner, resemble
them: is not even this sufficient to move some men, and to induce
them not to forget the workman? If not so, let them explain to us
what it is that makes each several thing, or how it is possible that
things so wonderful and like the contrivances of art should exist
by chance and from their own proper motion?
What, then, are these things done in us only. Many, indeed, in us
only, of which the rational animal had peculiar need; but you will
find many common to us with irrational animals. Do they them understand
what is done? By no means. For use is one thing, and understanding
is another: God had need of irrational animals to make use of appearances,
but of us to understand the use of appearances. It is therefore enough
for them to eat and to drink, and to sleep and to copulate, and to
do all the other things which they severally do. But for us, to whom
He has given also the faculty, these things are not sufficient; for
unless we act in a proper and orderly manner, and conformably to the
nature and constitution of each thing, we shall never attain our true
end. For where the constitutions of living beings are different, there
also the acts and the ends are different. In those animals, then,
whose constitution is adapted only to use, use alone is enough: but
in an animal which has also the power of understanding the use, unless
there be the due exercise of the understanding, he will never attain
his proper end. Well then God constitutes every animal, one to be
eaten, another to serve for agriculture, another to supply cheese,
and another for some like use; for which purposes what need is there
to understand appearances and to be able to distinguish them? But
God has introduced man to be a spectator of God and of His works;
and not only a spectator of them, but an interpreter. For this reason
it is shameful for man to begin and to end where irrational animals
do, but rather he ought to begin where they begin, and to end where
nature ends in us; and nature ends in contemplation and understanding,
in a way of life conformable to nature. Take care then not to die
without having been spectators of these things.
But you take a journey to Olympia to see the work of Phidias, and
all of you think it a misfortune to die without having seen such things.
But when there is no need to take a journey, and where a man is, there
he has the works (of God) before him, will you not desire to see and
understand them? Will you not perceive either what you are, or what
you were born for, or what this is for which you have received the
faculty of sight? But you may say, “There are some things disagreeable
and troublesome in life.” And are there none in Olympia? Are you not
scorched? Are you not pressed by a crowd? Are you not without comfortable
means of bathing? Are you not wet when it rains? Have you not abundance
of noise, clamour, and other disagreeable things? But I suppose that
setting all these things off against the magnificence of the spectacle,
you bear and endure. Well, then, and have you not received faculties
by which you will be able to bear all that happens? Have you not received
greatness of soul? Have you not received manliness? Have you not received
endurance? And why do I trouble myself about anything that can happen
if I possess greatness of soul? What shall distract my mind or disturb
me, or appear painful? Shall I not use the power for the purposes
for which I received it, and shall I grieve and lament over what happens?
“Yes, but my nose runs.” For what purpose then, slave, have you hands?
Is it not that you may wipe your nose? “Is it, then, consistent with
reason that there should be running of noses in the world?” Nay, how
much better it is to wipe your nose than to find fault. What do you
think that Hercules would have been if there had not been such a lion,
and hydra, and stag, and boar, and certain unjust and bestial men,
whom Hercules used to drive away and clear out? And what would he
have been doing if there had been nothing of the kind? Is it not plain
that he would have wrapped himself up and have slept? In the first
place, then he would not have been a Hercules, when he was dreaming
away all his life in such luxury and case; and even if he had been
one what would have been the use of him? and what the use of his arms,
and of the strength of the other parts of his body, and his endurance
and noble spirit, if such circumstances and occasions had not roused
and exercised him? “Well, then, must a man provide for himself such
means of exercise, and to introduce a lion from some place into his
country, and a boar and a hydra?” This would be folly and madness:
but as they did exist, and were found, they were useful for showing
what Hercules was and for exercising him. Come then do you also having
observed these things look to the faculties which you have, and when
you have looked at them, say: “Bring now, O Zeus, any difficulty that
Thou pleasest, for I have means given to me by Thee and powers for
honoring myself through the things which happen.” You do not so; but
you sit still, trembling for fear that some things will happen, and
weeping, and lamenting and groaning for what does happen: and then
you blame the gods. For what is the consequence of such meanness of
spirit but impiety? And yet God has not only given us these faculties;
by which we shall be able to bear everything that happens without
being depressed or broken by it; but, like a good king and a true
father, He has given us these faculties free from hindrance, subject
to no compulsion unimpeded, and has put them entirely in our own power,
without even having reserved to Himself any power of hindering or
impeding. You, who have received these powers free and as your own,
use them not: you do not even see what you have received, and from
whom; some of you being blinded to the giver, and not even acknowledging
your benefactor, and others, through meanness of spirit, betaking
yourselves to fault finding and making charges against God. Yet I
will show to you that you have powers and means for greatness of soul
and manliness but what powers you have for finding fault and making
accusations, do you show me.
Chapter 7
Of the use of sophistical arguments, and hypothetical, and the like
The handling of sophistical and hypothetical arguments, and of those
which derive their conclusions from questioning, and in a word the
handling of all such arguments, relates to the duties of life, though
the many do not know this truth. For in every matter we inquire how
the wise and good man shall discover the proper path and the proper
method of dealing with the matter. Let, then, people either say that
the grave man will not descend into the contest of question and answer,
or that, if he does descend into the contest, he will take no care
about not conducting himself rashly or carelessly in questioning and
answering. But if they do not allow either the one or the other of
these things, they must admit that some inquiry ought to be made into
those topics on which particularly questioning and answering are employed.
For what is the end proposed in reasoning? To establish true propositions,
to remove the false, to withhold assent from those which are not plain.
Is it enough then to have learned only this? “It is enough,” a man
may reply. Is it, then, also enough for a man, who would not make
a mistake in the use of coined money, to have heard this precept,
that he should receive the genuine drachmae and reject the spurious?
“It is not enough.” What, then, ought to be added to this precept?
What else than the faculty which proves and distinguishes the genuine
and the spurious drachmae? Consequently also in reasoning what has
been said is not enough; but is it necessary that a man should acquire
the faculty of examining and distinguishing the true and the false,
and that which is not plain? “It is necessary.” Besides this, what
is proposed in reasoning? “That you should accept what follows from
that which you have properly granted.” Well, is it then enough in
this case also to know this? It is not enough; but a man must learn
how one thing is a consequence of other things, and when one thing
follows from one thing, and when it follows from several collectively.
Consider, then if it be not necessary that this power should also
be acquired by him who purposes to conduct himself skillfully in reasoning,
the power of demonstrating himself the several things which he has
proposed, and the power of understanding the demonstrations of others,
including of not being deceived by sophists, as if they were demonstrating.
Therefore there has arisen among us the practice and exercise of conclusive
arguments and figures, and it has been shown to be necessary.
But in fact in some cases we have properly granted the premisses or
assumptions, and there results from them something; and though it
is not true, yet none the less it does result. What then ought I to
do? Ought I to admit the falsehood? And how is that possible? Well,
should I say that I did not properly grant that which we agreed upon?
“But you are not allowed to do even this.” Shall I then say that the
consequence does not arise through what has been conceded? “But neither
is it allowed.” What then must be done in this case? Consider if it
is not this: as to have borrowed is not enough to make a man still
a debtor, but to this must be added the fact that he continues to
owe the money and that the debt is not paid, so it is not enough to
compel you to admit the inference that you have granted the premisses,
but you must abide by what you have granted. Indeed, if the premisses
continue to the end such as they were when they were granted, it is
absolutely necessary for us to abide by what we have granted, and
we must accept their consequences: but if the premisses do not remain
such as they were when they were granted, it is absolutely necessary
for us also to withdraw from what we granted, and from accepting what
does not follow from the words in which our concessions were made.
For the inference is now not our inference, nor does it result with
our assent, since we have withdrawn from the premisses which we granted.
We ought then both to examine such kind of premisses, and such change
and variation of them, by which in the course of questioning or answering,
or in making the syllogistic conclusion, or in any other such way,
the premisses undergo variations, and give occasion to the foolish
to be confounded, if they do not see what conclusions are. For what
reason ought we to examine? In order that we may not in this matter
be employed in an improper manner nor in a confused way.
And the same in hypotheses and hypothetical arguments; for it is necessary
sometimes to demand the granting of some hypothesis as a kind of passage
to the argument which follows. Must we then allow every hypothesis
that is proposed, or not allow every one? And if not every one, which
should we allow? And if a man has allowed an hypothesis, must he in
every case abide by allowing it? or must he sometimes withdraw from
it, but admit the consequences and not admit contradictions? Yes;
but suppose that a man says, “If you admit the hypothesis of a possibility,
I will draw you to an impossibility.” With such a person shall a man
of sense refuse to enter into a contest, and avoid discussion and
conversation with him? But what other man than the man of sense can
use argumentation and is skillful in questioning and answering, and
incapable of being cheated and deceived by false reasoning? And shall
he enter into the contest, and yet not take care whether he shall
engage in argument not rashly and not carelessly? And if he does not
take care, how can he be such a man as we conceive him to be? But
without some such exercise and preparation, can he maintain a continuous
and consistent argument? Let them show this; and all these speculations
become superfluous, and are absurd and inconsistent with our notion
of a good and serious man.
Why are we still indolent and negligent and sluggish, and why do we
seek pretences for not labouring and not being watchful in cultivating
our reason? “If then I shall make a mistake in these matters may I
not have killed my father?” Slave, where was there a father in this
matter that you could kill him? What, then, have you done? The only
fault that was possible here is the fault which you have committed.
This is the very remark which I made to Rufus when he blamed me for
not having discovered the one thing omitted in a certain syllogism:
“I suppose,” I said, “that I have burnt the Capitol.” “Slave,” he
replied, “was the thing omitted here the Capitol?” Or are these the
only crimes, to burn the Capitol and to kill your father? But for
a man to use the appearances resented to him rashly and foolishly
and carelessly, not to understand argument, nor demonstration, nor
sophism, nor, in a word, to see in questioning and answering what
is consistent with that which we have granted or is not consistent;
is there no error in this?
Chapter 8
That the faculties are not safe to the uninstructed
In as many ways as we can change things which are equivalent to one
another, in just so many ways we can change the forms of arguments
and enthymemes in argumentation. This is an instance: “If you have
borrowed and not repaid, you owe me the money: you have not borrowed
and you have not repaid; then you do not owe me the money.” To do
this skillfully is suitable to no man more than to the philosopher;
for if the enthymeme is all imperfect syllogism. it is plain that
he who has been exercised in the perfect syllogism must be equally
expert in the imperfect also.
“Why then do we not exercise ourselves and one another in this manner?”
Because, I reply, at present, though we are not exercised in these
things and not distracted from the study of morality, by me at least,
still we make no progress in virtue. What then must we expect if we
should add this occupation? and particularly as this would not only
be an occupation which would withdraw us from more necessary things,
but would also be a cause of self conceit and arrogance, and no small
cause. For great is the power of arguing and the faculty of persuasion,
and particularly if it should be much exercised, and also receive
additional ornament from language: and so universally, every faculty
acquired by the uninstructed and weak brings with it the danger of
these persons being elated and inflated by it. For by what means could
one persuade a young man who excels in these matters that he ought
not to become an appendage to them, but to make them an appendage
to himself? Does he not trample on all such reasons, and strut before
us elated and inflated, not enduring that any man should reprove him
and remind him of what he has neglected and to what he has turned
aside?
“What, then, was not Plato a philosopher?” I reply, “And was not Hippocrates
a physician? but you see how Hippocrates speaks.” Does Hippocrates,
then, speak thus in respect of being a physician? Why do you mingle
things which have been accidentally united in the same men? And if
Plato was handsome and strong, ought I also to set to work and endeavor
to become handsome or strong, as if this was necessary for philosophy,
because a certain philosopher was at the same time handsome and a
philosopher? Will you not choose to see and to distinguish in respect
to what men become philosophers, and what things belong to belong
to them in other respects? And if I were a philosopher, ought you
also to be made lame? What then? Do I take away these faculties which
you possess? By no means; for neither do I take away the faculty of
seeing. But if you ask me what is the good of man, I cannot mention
to you anything else than that it is a certain disposition of the
will with respect to appearances.
Chapter 9
How from the fact that we are akin to God a man may proceed to the
consequences
If the things are true which are said by the philosophers about the
kinship between God and man, what else remains for men to do then
what Socrates did? Never in reply to the question, to what country
you belong, say that you are an Athenian or a Corinthian, but that
you are a citizen of the world. For why do you say that you are an
Athenian, and why do you not say that you belong to the small nook
only into which your poor body was cast at birth? Is it not plain
that you call yourself an Athenian or Corinthian from the place which
has a greater authority and comprises not only that small nook itself
and all your family, but even the whole country from which the stock
of your progenitors is derived down to you? He then who has observed
with intelligence the administration of the world, and has learned
that the greatest and supreme and the most comprehensive community
is that which is composed of men and God, and that from God have descended
the seeds not only to my father and grandfather, but to all beings
which are generated on the earth and are produced, and particularly
to rational beings- for these only are by their nature formed to have
communion with God, being by means of reason conjoined with Him- why
should not such a man call himself a citizen of the world, why not
a son of God, and why should he be afraid of anything which happens
among men? Is kinship with Caesar or with any other of the powerful
in Rome sufficient to enable us to live in safety, and above contempt
and without any fear at all? and to have God for your maker and father
and guardian, shall not this release us from sorrows and fears?
But a man may say, “Whence shall I get bread to eat when I have nothing?”
And how do slaves, and runaways, on what do they rely when they leave
their masters? Do they rely on their lands or slaves, or their vessels
of silver? They rely on nothing but themselves, and food does not
fail them. And shall it be necessary for one among us who is a philosopher
to travel into foreign parts, and trust to and rely on others, and
not to take care of himself, and shall he be inferior to irrational
animals and more cowardly, each of which, being self-sufficient, neither
fails to get its proper food, nor to find a suitable way of living,
and one conformable to nature?
I indeed think that the old man ought to be sitting here, not to contrive
how you may have no mean thoughts nor mean and ignoble talk about
yourselves, but to take care that there be not among us any young
men of such a mind that, when they have recognized their kinship to
God, and that we are fettered by these bonds, the body, I mean, and
its possessions, and whatever else on account of them is necessary
to us for the economy and commerce of life, they should intend to
throw off these things as if they were burdens painful and intolerable,
and to depart to their kinsmen. But this is the labour that your teacher
and instructor ought to be employed upon, if he really were what he
should be. You should come to him and say, “Epictetus, we can no longer
endure being bound to this poor body, and feeding it and giving it
drink, and rest, and cleaning it, and for the sake of the body complying
with the wishes of these and of those. Are not these things indifferent
and nothing to us, and is not death no evil? And are we not in a manner
kinsmen of God, and did we not come from Him? Allow us to depart to
the place from which we came; allow us to be released at last from
these bonds by which we are bound and weighed down. Here there are
robbers and thieves and courts of justice, and those who are named
tyrants, and think that they have some power over us by means of the
body and its possessions. Permit us to show them that they have no
power over any man.” And I on my part would say, “Friends, wait for
God; when He shall give the signal and release you from this service,
then go to Him; but for the present endure to dwell in this place
where He has put you: short indeed is this time of your dwelling here,
and easy to bear for those who are so disposed: for what tyrant or
what thief, or what courts of justice, are formidable to those who
have thus considered as things of no value the body and the possessions
of the body? Wait then, do not depart without a reason.”
Something like this ought to be said by the teacher to ingenuous youths.
But now what happens? The teacher is a lifeless body, and you are
lifeless bodies. When you have been well filled to-day, you sit down
and lament about the morrow, how you shall get something to eat. Wretch,
if you have it, you will have it; if you have it not, you will depart
from life. The door is open. Why do you grieve? where does there remain
any room for tears? and where is there occasion for flattery? why
shall one man envy another? why should a man admire the rich or the
powerful, even if they be both very strong and of violent temper?
for what will they do to us? We shall not care for that which they
can do; and what we do care for, that they cannot do. How did Socrates
behave with respect to these matters? Why, in what other way than
a man ought to do who was convinced that he was a kinsman of the gods?
“If you say to me now,” said Socrates to his judges, “‘We will acquit
you on the condition that you no longer discourse in the way in which
you have hitherto discoursed, nor trouble either our young or our
old men,’ I shall answer, ‘you make yourselves ridiculous by thinking
that, if one of our commanders has appointed me to a certain post,
it is my duty to keep and maintain it, and to resolve to die a thousand
times rather than desert it; but if God has put us in any place and
way of life, we ought to desert it.'” Socrates speaks like a man who
is really a kinsman of the gods. But we think about ourselves as if
we were only stomachs, and intestines, and shameful parts; we fear,
we desire; we flatter those who are able to help us in these matters,
and we fear them also.
A man asked me to write to Rome about him, a man who, as most people
thought, had been unfortunate, for formerly he was a man of rank and
rich, but had been stripped of all, and was living here. I wrote on
his behalf in a submissive manner; but when he had read the letter,
he gave it back to me and said, “I wished for your help, not your
pity: no evil has happened to me.”
Thus also Musonius Rufus, in order to try me, used to say: “This and
this will befall you from your master”; and I replied that these were
things which happen in the ordinary course of human affairs. “Why,
then,” said he, “should I ask him for anything when I can obtain it
from you?” For, in fact, what a man has from himself, it is superfluous
and foolish to receive from another? Shall I, then, who am able to
receive from myself greatness of soul and a generous spirit, receive
from you land and money or a magisterial office? I hope not: I will
not be so ignorant about my own possessions. But when a man is cowardly
and mean, what else must be done for him than to write letters as
you would about a corpse. “Please to grant us the body of a certain
person and a sextarius of poor blood.” For such a person is, in fact,
a carcass and a sextarius of blood, and nothing more. But if he were
anything more, he would know that one man is not miserable through
the means of another.
Chapter 11
Of natural affection
When he was visited by one of the magistrates, Epictetus inquired
of him about several particulars, and asked if he had children and
a wife. The man replied that he had; and Epictetus inquired further,
how he felt under the circumstances. “Miserable,” the man said. Then
Epictetus asked, “In what respect,” for men do not marry and beget
children in order to be wretched, but rather to be happy. “But I,”
the man replied, “am so wretched about my children that lately, when
my little daughter was sick and was supposed to be in danger, I could
not endure to stay with her, but I left home till a person sent me
news that she had recovered.” Well then, said Epictetus, do you think
that you acted right? “I acted naturally,” the man replied. But convince
me of this that you acted naturally, and I will convince you that
everything which takes place according to nature takes place rightly.
“This is the case,” said the man, “with all or at least most fathers.”
I do not deny that: but the matter about which we are inquiring is
whether such behavior is right; for in respect to this matter we must
say that tumours also come for the good of the body, because they
do come; and generally we must say that to do wrong is natural, because
nearly all or at least most of us do wrong. Do you show me then how
your behavior is natural. “I cannot,” he said; “but do you rather
show me how it is not according to nature and is not rightly done.
Well, said Epictetus, if we were inquiring about white and black,
what criterion should we employ for distinguishing between them? “The
sight,” he said. And if about hot and cold, and hard and soft, what
criterion? “The touch.” Well then, since we are inquiring about things
which are according to nature, and those which are done rightly or
not rightly, what kind of criterion do you think that we should employ?
“I do not know,” he said. And yet not to know the criterion of colors
and smells, and also of tastes, is perhaps no great harm; but if a
man do not know the criterion of good and bad, and of things according
to nature and contrary to nature, does this seem to you a small harm?
“The greatest harm.” Come tell me, do all things which seem to some
persons to be good and becoming rightly appear such; and at present
as to Jews and Syrians and Egyptians and Romans, is it possible that
the opinions of all of them in respect to food are right? “How is
it possible?” he said. Well, I suppose it is absolutely necessary
that, if the opinions of the Egyptians are right, the opinions of
the rest must be wrong: if the opinions of the Jews are right, those
of the rest cannot be right. “Certainly.” But where there is ignorance,
there also there is want of learning and training in things which
are necessary. He assented to this. You then, said Epictetus, since
you know this, for the future will employ yourself seriously about
nothing else, and will apply your mind to nothing else than to learn
the criterion of things which are according to nature, and by using
it also to determine each several thing. But in the present matter
I have so much as this to aid you toward what you wish. Does affection
to those of your family appear to you to be according to nature and
to be good? “Certainly.” Well, is such affection natural and good,
and is a thing consistent with reason not good? “By no means.” Is
then that which is consistent with reason in contradiction with affection?
“I think not.” You are right, for if it is otherwise, it is necessary
that one of the contradictions being according to nature, the other
must be contrary to nature. Is it not so? “It is,” he said. Whatever,
then, we shall discover to be at the same time affectionate and also
consistent with reason, this we confidently declare to be right and
good. “Agreed.” Well then to leave your sick child and to go away
is not reasonable, and I suppose that you will not say that it is;
but it remains for us to inquire if it is consistent with affection.
“Yes, let us consider.” Did you, then, since you had an affectionate
disposition to your child, do right when you ran off and left her;
and has the mother no affection for the child? “Certainly, she has.”
Ought, then, the mother also to have left her, or ought she not? “She
ought not.” And the nurse, does she love her? “She does.” Ought, then,
she also to have left her? “By no means.” And the pedagogue, does
he not love her? “He does love her.” Ought, then, he also to have
deserted her? and so should the child have been left alone and without
help on account of the great affection of you, the parents, and of
those about her, or should she have died in the hands of those who
neither loved her nor cared for her? “Certainly not.” Now this is
unfair and unreasonable, not to allow those who have equal affection
with yourself to do what you think to be proper for yourself to do
because you have affection. It is absurd. Come then, if you were sick,
would you wish your relations to be so affectionate, and all the rest,
children and wife, as to leave you alone and deserted? “By no means.”
And would you wish to be so loved by your own that through their excessive
affection you would always be left alone in sickness? or for this
reason would you rather pray, if it were possible, to be loved by
your enemies and deserted by them? But if this is so, it results that
your behavior was not at all an affectionate act.
Well then, was it nothing which moved you and induced you to desert
your child? and how is that possible? But it might be something of
the kind which moved a man at Rome to wrap up his head while a horse
was running which he favoured; and when contrary to expectation the
horse won, he required sponges to recover from his fainting fit. What
then is the thing which moved? The exact discussion of this does not
belong to the present occasion perhaps; but it is enough to be convinced
of this, if what the philosophers say is true, that we must not look
for it anywhere without, but in all cases it is one and the same thing
which is the cause of our doing or not doing something, of saying
or not saying something, of being elated or depressed, of avoiding
anything or pursuing: the very thing which is now the cause to me
and to you, to you of coming to me and sitting and hearing, and to
me of saying what I do say. And what is this? Is it any other than
our will to do so? “No other.” But if we had willed otherwise, what
else should we have been doing than that which we willed to do? This,
then, was the cause of Achilles’ lamentation, not the death of Patroclus;
for another man does not behave thus on the death of his companion;
but it was because he chose to do so. And to you this was the very
cause of your then running away, that you chose to do so; and on the
other side, if you should stay with her, the reason will be the same.
And now you are going to Rome because you choose; and if you should
change your mind, you will not go thither. And in a word, neither
death nor exile nor pain nor anything of the kind is the cause of
our doing anything or not doing; but our own opinions and our wills.
Do I convince you of this or not? “You do convince me.” Such, then,
as the causes are in each case, such also are the effects. When, then,
we are doing anything not rightly, from this day we shall impute it
to nothing else than to the will from which we have done it: and it
is that which we shall endeavour to take away and to extirpate more
than the tumours and abscesses out of the body. And in like manner
we shall give the same account of the cause of the things which we
do right; and we shall no longer allege as causes of any evil to us,
either slave or neighbour, or wife or children, being persuaded that,
if we do not think things to he what we do think them to be, we do
not the acts which follow from such opinions; and as to thinking or
not thinking, that is in our power and not in externals. “It is so,”
he said. From this day then we shall inquire into and examine nothing
else, what its quality is, or its state, neither land nor slaves nor
horses nor dogs, nothing else than opinions. “I hope so.” You see,
then, that you must become a Scholasticus, an animal whom all ridicule,
if you really intend to make an examination of your own opinions:
and that this is not the work of one hour or day, you know yourself.
Chapter 12
Of contentment
With respect to gods, there are some who say that a divine being does
not exist: others say that it exists, but is inactive and careless,
and takes no forethought about anything; a third class say that such
a being exists and exercises forethought, but only about great things
and heavenly things, and about nothing on the earth; a fourth class
say that a divine being exercises forethought both about things on
the earth and heavenly things, but in a general way only, and not
about things severally. There is a fifth class to whom Ulysses and
Socrates belong, who say: “I move not without thy knowledge.”
Before all other things, then, it is necessary to inquire about each
of these opinions, whether it is affirmed truly or not truly. For
if there are no gods, how is it our proper end to follow them? And
if they exist, but take no care of anything, in this case also how
will it be right to follow them? But if indeed they do exist and look
after things, still if there is nothing communicated from them to
men, nor in fact to myself, how even so is it right? The wise and
good man, then, after considering all these things, submits his own
mind to him who administers the whole, as good citizens do to the
law of the state. He who is receiving instruction ought to come to
the instructed with this intention: How shall I follow the gods in
all things, how shall I be contented with the divine administration,
and how can I become free?” For he is free to whom everything happens
according, to his will, and whom no man can hinder. “What then, is
freedom madness?” Certainly not: for madness and freedom do not consist.
“But,” you say, “I would have everything result just as I like, and
in whatever way I like.” You are mad, you are beside yourself. Do
you not know that freedom is a noble and valuable thing? But for me
inconsiderately to wish for things to happen as I inconsiderately
like, this appears to be not only not noble, but even most base. For
how do we proceed in the matter of writing? Do I wish to write the
name of Dion as I choose? No, but I am taught to choose to write it
as it ought to be written. And how with respect to music? In the same
manner. And what universally in every art or science? Just the same.
If it were not so, it would be of no value to know anything, if knowledge
were adapted to every man’s whim. Is it, then, in this alone, in this
which is the greatest and the chief thing, I mean freedom, that I
am permitted to will inconsiderately? By no means; but to be instructed
is this, to learn to wish that everything may happen as it does. And
how do things happen? As the disposer has disposed them? And he has
appointed summer and winter, and abundance and scarcity, and virtue
and vice, and all such opposites for the harmony of the whole; and
to each of us he has given a body, and parts of the body, and possessions,
and companions.
Remembering, then, this disposition of things we ought to go to be
instructed, not that we may change the constitution of things- for
we have not the power to do it, nor is it better that we should have
the power-but in order that, as the things around us are what they
are and by nature exist, we may maintain our minds in harmony with
them things which happen. For can we escape from men? and how is it
possible? And if we associate with them, can we chance them? Who gives
us the power? What then remains, or what method is discovered of holding
commerce with them? Is there such a method by which they shall do
what seems fit to them, and we not the less shall be in a mood which
is conformable to nature? But you are unwilling to endure and are
discontented: and if you are alone, you call it solitude; and of you
are with men, you call them knaves and robbers; and you find fault
with your own parents and children, and brothers and neighbours. But
you ought when you are alone to call this condition by the name of
tranquillity and freedom, and to think yourself like to the gods;
and when you are with many, you ought not to call it crowd, nor trouble,
nor uneasiness, but festival and assembly, and so accept all contentedly.
What, then, is the punishment of those who do not accept? It is to
be what they are. Is any person dissatisfied with being alone, let
him be alone. Is a man dissatisfied with his parents? let him be a
bad son, and lament. Is he dissatisfied with his children? let him
be a bad father. “Cast him into prison.” What prison? Where he is
already, for he is there against his will; and where a man is against
his will, there he is in prison. So Socrates was not in prison, for
he was there willingly. “Must my leg then be lamed?” Wretch, do you
then on account of one poor leg find fault with the world? Will you
not willingly surrender it for the whole? Will you not withdraw from
it? Will you not gladly part with it to him who gave it? And will
you be vexed and discontented with the things established by Zeus,
which he with the Moirae who were present and spinning the thread
of your generation, defined and put in order? Know you not how small
a part you are compared with the whole. I mean with respect to the
body, for as to intelligence you are not inferior to the gods nor
less; for the magnitude of intelligence is not measured by length
nor yet by height, but by thoughts.
Will you not, then, choose to place your good in that in which you
are equal to the gods? “Wretch that I am to have such a father and
mother.” What, then, was it permitted to you to come forth, and to
select, and to say: “Let such a man at this moment unite with such
a woman that I may be produced?” It was not permitted, but it was
a necessity for your parents to exist first, and then for you to be
begotten. Of what kind of parents? Of such as they were. Well then,
since they are such as they are, is there no remedy given to you?
Now if you did not know for what purpose you possess the faculty of
vision, you would be unfortunate and wretched if you closed your eyes
when colors were brought before them; but in that you possess greatness
of soul and nobility of spirit for every event that may happen, and
you know not that you possess them, are you not more unfortunate and
wretched? Things are brought close to you which are proportionate
to the power which you possess, but you turn away this power most
particularly at the very time when you ought to maintain it open and
discerning. Do you not rather thank the gods that they have allowed
you to be above these things which they have not placed in your power;
and have made you accountable only for those which are in your power?
As to your parents, the gods have left you free from responsibility;
and so with respect to your brothers, and your body, and possessions,
and death and life. For what, then, have they made you responsible?
For that which alone is in your power, the proper use of appearances.
Why then do you draw on yourself the things for which you are not
responsible? It is, indeed, a giving of trouble to yourself.
Chapter 13
How everything may he done acceptably to the gods
When some one asked, how may a man eat acceptably to the gods, he
answered: If he can eat justly and contentedly, and with equanimity,
and temperately and orderly, will it not be also acceptably to the
gods? But when you have asked for warm water and the slave has not
heard, or if he did hear has brought only tepid water, or he is not
even found to be in the house, then not to be vexed or to burst with
passion, is not this acceptable to the gods? “How then shall a man
endure such persons as this slave?” Slave yourself, will you not bear
with your own brother, who has Zeus for his progenitor, and is like
a son from the same seeds and of the same descent from above? But
if you have been put in any such higher place, will you immediately
make yourself a tyrant? Will you not remember who you are, and whom
you rule? that they are kinsmen, that they are brethren by nature,
that they are the offspring of Zeus? “But I have purchased them, and
they have not purchased me.” Do you see in what direction you are
looking, that it is toward the earth, toward the pit, that it is toward
these wretched laws of dead men? but toward the laws of the gods you
are not looking.
Chapter 14
That the deity oversees all things
When a person asked him how a man could be convinced that all his
actions are under the inspection of God, he answered, Do you not think
that all things are united in one? “I do,” the person replied. Well,
do you not think that earthly things have a natural agreement and
union with heavenly things “I do.” And how else so regularly as if
by God’s command, when He bids the plants to flower, do they flower?
when He bids them to send forth shoots, do they shoot? when He bids
them to produce fruit, how else do they produce fruit? when He bids
the fruit to ripen, does it ripen? when again He bids them to cast
down the fruits, how else do they cast them down? and when to shed
the leaves, do they shed the leaves? and when He bids them to fold
themselves up and to remain quiet and rest, how else do they remain
quiet and rest? And how else at the growth and the wane of the moon,
and at the approach and recession of the sun, are so great an alteration
and change to the contrary seen in earthly things? But are plants
and our bodies so bound up and united with the whole, and are not
our souls much more? and our souls so bound up and in contact with
God as parts of Him and portions of Him; and does not God perceive
every motion of these parts as being His own motion connate with Himself?
Now are you able to think of the divine administration, and about
all things divine, and at the same time also about human affairs,
and to be moved by ten thousand things at the same time in your senses
and in your understanding, and to assent to some, and to dissent from
others, and again as to some things to suspend your judgment; and
do you retain in your soul so many impressions from so many and various
things, and being moved by them, do you fall upon notions similar
to those first impressed, and do you retain numerous arts and the
memories of ten thousand things; and is not God able to oversee all
things, and to be present with all, and to receive from all a certain
communication? And is the sun able to illuminate so large a part of
the All, and to leave so little not illuminated, that part only which
is occupied by the earth’s shadow; and He who made the sun itself
and makes it go round, being a small part of Himself compared with
the whole, cannot He perceive all things?
“But I cannot,” the man may reply, “comprehend all these things at
once.” But who tells you that you have equal power with Zeus? Nevertheless
he has placed by every man a guardian, every man’s Demon, to whom
he has committed the care of the man, a guardian who never sleeps,
is never deceived. For to what better and more careful guardian could
He have entrusted each of us? When, then, you have shut the doors
and made darkness within, remember never to say that you are alone,
for you are not; but God is within, and your Demon is within, and
what need have they of light to see what you are doing? To this God
you ought to swear an oath just as the soldiers do to Caesar. But
they who are hired for pay swear to regard the safety of Caesar before
all things; and you who have received so many and such great favours,
will you not swear, or when you have sworn, will you not abide by
your oath? And what shall you swear? Never to be disobedient, never
to make any charges, never to find fault with anything that he has
given, and never unwillingly to do or to suffer anything, that is
necessary. Is this oath like the soldier’s oath? The soldiers swear
not to prefer any man to Caesar: in this oath men swear to honour
themselves before all.
Chapter 15
What philosophy promises
When a man was consulting him how he should persuade his brother to
cease being angry with him, Epictetus replied: Philosophy does not
propose to secure for a man any external thing. If it did philosophy
would be allowing something which is not within its province. For
as the carpenter’s material is wood, and that of the statuary is copper,
so the matter of the art of living is each man’s life. “What then
is my brother’s?” That again belongs to his own art; but with respect
to yours, it is one of the external things, like a piece of land,
like health, like reputation. But Philosophy promises none of these.
“In every circumstance I will maintain,” she says, “the governing
part conformable to nature.” Whose governing part? “His in whom I
am,” she says.
“How then shall my brother cease to be angry with me?” Bring him to
me and I will tell him. But I have nothing to say to you about his
anger.
When the man, who was consulting him, said, “I seek to know this-
how, even if my brother is not reconciled to me, shall I maintain
myself in a state conformable to nature?” Nothing great, said Epictetus,
is produced suddenly, since not even the grape or the fig is. If you
say to me now that you want a fig, I will answer to you that it requires
time: let it flower first, then put forth fruit, and then ripen. Is,
then, the fruit of a fig-tree not perfected suddenly and in one hour,
and would you possess the fruit of a man’s mind in so short a time
and so easily? Do not expect it, even if I tell you.
Chapter 16
Of providence
Do not wonder if for other animals than man all things are provided
for the body, not only food and drink, but beds also, and they have
no need of shoes nor bed materials, nor clothing; but we require all
these additional things. For, animals not being made for themselves,
but for service, it was not fit for them to he made so as to need
other things. For consider what it would be for us to take care not
only of ourselves, but also about cattle and asses, how they should
be clothed, and how shod, and how they should eat and drink. Now as
soldiers are ready for their commander, shod, clothed and armed: but
it would be a hard thing, for the chiliarch to go round and shoe or
clothe his thousand men; so also nature has formed the animals which
are made for service, all ready, prepared, and requiring no further
care. So one little boy with only a stick drives the cattle.
But now we, instead of being thankful that we need not take the same
care of animals as of ourselves, complain of God on our own account;
and yet, in the name of Zeus and the gods, any one thing of those
which exist would be enough to make a man perceive the providence
of God, at least a man who is modest and grateful. And speak not to
me now of the great thins, but only of this, that milk is produced
from grass, and cheese from milk, and wool from skins. Who made these
things or devised them? “No one,” you say. Oh, amazing shamelessness
and stupidity!
Well, let us omit the works of nature and contemplate her smaller
acts. Is there anything less useful than the hair on the chin? What
then, has not nature used this hair also in the most suitable manner
possible? Has she not by it distinguished the male and the female?
does not the nature of every man forthwith proclaim from a distance,
“I am a man; as such approach me, as such speak to me; look for nothing
else; see the signs”? Again, in the case of women, as she has mingled
something softer in the voice, so she has also deprived them of hair
(on the chin). You say: “Not so; the human animal ought to have been
left without marks of distinction, and each of us should have been
obliged to proclaim, ‘I am a man.’ But how is not the sign beautiful
and becoming, and venerable? how much more beautiful than the cock’s
comb, how much more becoming than the lion’s mane? For this reason
we ought to preserve the signs which God has given, we ought not to
throw them away, nor to confound, as much as we can, the distinctions
of the sexes.
Are these the only works of providence in us? And what words are sufficient
to praise them and set them forth according to their worth? For if
we had understanding, ought we to do anything else both jointly and
severally than to sing hymns and bless the deity, and to tell of his
benefits? Ought we not when we are digging and ploughing and eating
to sing this hymn to God? “Great is God, who has given us such implements
with which we shall cultivate the earth: great is God who has given
us hands, the power of swallowing, a stomach, imperceptible growth,
and the power of breathing while we sleep.” This is what we ought
to sing on every occasion, and to sing the greatest and most divine
hymn for giving us the faculty of comprehending these things and using
a proper way. Well then, since most of you have become blind, ought
there not to be some man to fill this office, and on behalf of all
to sing the hymn to God? For what else can I do, a lame old man, than
sing hymns to God? If then I was a nightingale, I would do the part
of a nightingale: if I were a swan, I would do like a swan. But now
I am a rational creature, and I ought to praise God: this is my work;
I do it, nor will I desert this post, so long as I am allowed to keep
it; and I exhort you to join in this same song.
Chapter 17
That the logical art is necessary
Since reason is the faculty which analyses and perfects the rest,
and it ought itself not to be unanalysed, by what should it be analysed?
for it is plain that this should be done either by itself or by another
thing. Either, then, this other thing also is reason, or something
else superior to reason; which is impossible. But if it is reason,
again who shall analyse that reason? For if that reason does this
for itself, our reason also can do it. But we shall require something
else, the thing, will go on to infinity and have no end. Reason therefore
is analysed by itself. “Yes: but it is more urgent to cure (our opinions)
and the like.” Will you then hear about those things? Hear. But if
you should say, “I know not whether you are arguing truly or falsely,”
and if I should express myself in any way ambiguously, and you should
say to me, ” Distinguish,” I will bear with you no longer, and I shall
say to “It is more urgent.” This is the reason, I suppose, why they
place the logical art first, as in the measuring of corn we place
first the examination of the measure. But if we do not determine first
what is a modius, and what is a balance, how shall we be able to measure
or weigh anything?
In this case, then, if we have not fully learned and accurately examined
the criterion of all other things, by which the other things are learned,
shall we be able to examine accurately and to learn fully anything
else? “Yes; but the modius is only wood, and a thing which produces
no fruit.” But it is a thing which can measure corn. “Logic also produces
no fruit.” As to this indeed we shall see: but then even if a man
should rant this, it is enough that logic has the power of distinguishing
and examining other things, and, as we may say, of measuring and weighing
them. Who says this? Is it only Chrysippus, and Zeno, and Cleanthes?
And does not Antisthenes say so? And who is it that has written that
the examination of names is the beginning of education? And does not
Socrates say so? And of whom does Xenophon write, that he began with
the examination of names, what each name signified? Is this then the
great and wondrous thing to understand or interpret Chrysippus? Who
says this? What then is the wondrous thing? To understand the will
of nature. Well then do you apprehend it yourself by your own power?
and what more have you need of? For if it is true that all men err
involuntarily, and you have learned the truth, of necessity you must
act right. “But in truth I do not apprehend the will of nature.” Who
then tells us what it is? They say that it is Chrysippus. I proceed,
and I inquire what this interpreter of nature says. I begin not to
understand what he says; I seek an interpreter of Chrysippus. “Well,
consider how this is said, just as if it were said in the Roman tongue.”
What then is this superciliousness of the interpreter? There is no
superciliousness which can justly he charged even to Chrysippus, if
he only interprets the will of nature, but does not follow it himself;
and much more is this so with his interpreter. For we have no need
of Chrysippus for his own sake, but in order that we may understand
nature. Nor do we need a diviner on his own account, but because we
think that through him we shall know the future and understand the
signs given by the gods; nor do we need the viscera of animals for
their own sake, but because through them signs are given; nor do we
look with wonder on the crow or raven, but on God, who through them
gives signs?
I go then to the interpreter of these things and the sacrificer, and
I say, “Inspect the viscera for me, and tell me what signs they give.”
The man takes the viscera, opens them, and interprets them: “Man,”
he says, “you have a will free by nature from hindrance and compulsion;
this is written here in the viscera. I will show you this first in
the matter of assent. Can any man hinder you from assenting to the
truth? No man can. Can any man compel you to receive what is false?
No man can. You see that in this matter you have the faculty of the
will free from hindrance, free from compulsion, unimpeded.” Well,
then, in the matter of desire and pursuit of an object, is it otherwise?
And what can overcome pursuit except another pursuit? And what can
overcome desire and aversion except another desire and aversion? But,
you object: “If you place before me the fear of death, you do compel
me.” No, it is not what is placed before you that compels, but your
opinion that it is better to do so-and-so than to die. In this matter,
then, it is your opinion that compelled you: that is, will compelled
will. For if God had made that part of Himself, which He took from
Himself and gave to us, of such a nature as to be hindered or compelled
either by Himself or by another, He would not then be God nor would
He be taking care of us as He ought. “This,” says the diviner, “I
find in the victims: these are the things which are signified to you.
If you choose, you are free; if you choose, you will blame no one:
you will charge no one. All will be at the same time according to
your mind and the mind of God.” For the sake of this divination I
go to this diviner and to the philosopher, not admiring him for this
interpretation, but admiring the things which he interprets.
Chapter 18
That we ought not to he angry with the errors of others
If what philosophers say is true, that all men have one principle,
as in the case of assent the persuasion that a thing is so, and in
the case of dissent the persuasion that a thing is not so, and in
the case of a suspense of judgment the persuasion that a thing is
uncertain, so also in the case of a movement toward anything the persuasion
that a thing is for a man’s advantage, and it is impossible to think
that one thing is advantageous and to desire another, and to judge
one thing to be proper and to move toward another, why then are we
angry with the many? “They are thieves and robbers,” you may say.
What do you mean by thieves and robbers? “They are mistaken about
good and evil.” Ought we then to be angry with them, or to pity them?
But show them their error, and you will see how they desist from their
errors. If they do not see their errors, they have nothing superior
to their present opinion.
“Ought not then this robber and this adulterer to be destroyed?” By
no means say so, but speak rather in this way: “This man who has been
mistaken and deceived about the most important things, and blinded,
not in the faculty of vision which distinguishes white and black,
but in the faculty which distinguishes good and bad, should we not
destroy him?” If you speak thus, you will see how inhuman this is
which you say, and that it is just as if you would say, “Ought we
not to destroy this blind and deaf man?” But if the greatest harm
is the privation of the greatest things, and the greatest thing in
every man is the will or choice such as it ought to be, and a man
is deprived of this will, why are you also angry with him? Man, you
ought not to be affected contrary to nature by the bad things of another.
Pity him rather: drop this readiness to be offended and to hate, and
these words which the many utter: “These accursed and odious fellows.”
How have you been made so wise at once? and how are you so peevish?
Why then are we angry? Is it because we value so much the things of
which these men rob us? Do not admire your clothes, and then you will
not be angry with the thief. Do not admire the beauty of your wife,
and you will not be angry with the adulterer. Learn that a thief and
an adulterer have no place in the things which are yours, but in those
which belong to others and which are not in your power. If you dismiss
these things and consider them as nothing, with whom are you still
angry? But so long as you value these things, be angry with yourself
rather than with the thief and the adulterer. Consider the matter
thus: you have fine clothes; your neighbor has not: you have a window;
you wish to air the clothes. The thief does not know wherein man’s
good consists, but he thinks that it consists in having fine clothes,
the very thing which you also think. Must he not then come and take
them away? When you show a cake to greedy persons, and swallow it
all yourself, do you expect them not to snatch it from you? Do not
provoke them: do not have a window: do not air your clothes. I also
lately had an iron lamp placed by the side of my household gods: hearing
a noise at the door, I ran down, and found that the lamp had been
carried off. I reflected that he who had taken the lamp had done nothing
strange. What then? To-morrow, I said, you will find an earthen lamp:
for a man only loses that which he has. “I have lost my garment.”
The reason is that you had a garment. “I have pain in my head.” Have
you any pain in your horns? Why then are you troubled? for we only
lose those things, we have only pains about those things which we
possess.
“But the tyrant will chain.” What? the leg. “He will take away.” What?
the neck. What then will he not chain and not take away? the will.
This is why the ancients taught the maxim, “Know thyself.” Therefore
we ought to exercise ourselves in small things and, beginning with
them, to proceed to the greater. “I have pain in the head.” Do not
say, “Alas!” “I have pain in the ear.” Do not say, “Alas!” And I do
not say that you are not allowed to groan, but do not groan inwardly;
and if your slave is slow in bringing a bandage, do not cry out and
torment yourself, and say, “Everybody hates me”: for who would not
hate such a man? For the future, relying on these opinions, walk about
upright, free; not trusting to the size of your body, as an athlete,
for a man ought not to be invincible in the way that an ass is.
Who then is the invincible? It is he whom none of the things disturb
which are independent of the will. Then examining one circumstance
after another I observe, as in the case of an athlete; he has come
off victorious in the first contest: well then, as to the second?
and what if there should be great heat? and what, if it should be
at Olympia? And the same I say in this case: if you should throw money
in his way, he will despise it. Well, suppose you put a young girl
in his way, what then? and what, if it is in the dark? what if it
should be a little reputation, or abuse; and what, if it should be
praise; and what if it should be death? He is able to overcome all.
What then if it be in heat, and what if it is in the rain, and what
if he be in a melancholy mood, and what if he be asleep? He will still
conquer. This is my invincible athlete.
Chapter 19
How we should behave to tyrants
If a man possesses any superiority, or thinks that he does, when he
does not, such a man, if he is uninstructed, will of necessity be
puffed up through it. For instance, the tyrant says, “I am master
of all.” And what can you do for me? Can you give me desire which
shall have no hindrance? How can you? Have you the infallible power
of avoiding what you would avoid? Have you the power of moving toward
an object without error? And how do you possess this power? Come,
when you are in a ship, do you trust to yourself or to the helmsman?
And when you are in a chariot, to whom do you trust but to the driver?
And how is it in all other arts? Just the same. In what then lies
your power? “All men pay respect to me.” Well, I also pay respect
to my platter, and I wash it and wipe it; and for the sake of my oil
flask, I drive a peg into the wall. Well then, are these things superior
to me? No, but they supply some of my wants, and for this reason I
take care of them. Well, do I not attend to my ass? Do I not wash
his feet? Do I not clean him? Do you not know that every man has regard
to himself, and to you just the same as he has regard to his ass?
For who has regard to you as a man? Show me. Who wishes to become
like you? Who imitates you, as he imitates Socrates? “But I can cut
off your head.” You say right. I had forgotten that I must have regard
to you, as I would to a fever and the bile, and raise an altar to
you, as there is at Rome an altar to fever.
What is it then that disturbs and terrifies the multitude? is it the
tyrant and his guards? I hope that it is not so. It is not possible
that what is by nature free can be disturbed by anything else, or
hindered by any other thing than by itself. But it is a man’s own
opinions which disturb him: for when the tyrant says to a man, “I
will chain your leg,” he who values his leg says, “Do not; have pity”:
but he who values his own will says, “If it appears more advantageous
to you, chain it.” “Do you not care?” I do not care. “I will show
you that I am master.” You cannot do that. Zeus has set me free: do
you think that he intended to allow his own son to be enslaved? But
you are master of my carcass: take it. “So when you approach me, you
have no regard to me?” No, but I have regard to myself; and if you
wish me to say that I have regard to you also, I tell you that I have
the same regard to you that I have to my pipkin.
This is not a perverse self-regard, for the animal is constituted
so as to do all things for itself. For even the sun does all things
for itself; nay, even Zeus himself. But when he chooses to be the
Giver of rain and the Giver of fruits, and the Father of gods and
men, you see that he cannot obtain these functions and these names,
if he is not useful to man; and, universally, he has made the nature
of the rational animal such that it cannot obtain any one of its own
proper interests, if it does not contribute something to the common
interest. In this manner and sense it is not unsociable for a man
to do everything, for the sake of himself. For what do you expect?
that a man should neglect himself and his own interest? And how in
that case can there be one and the same principle in all animals,
the principle of attachment to themselves?
What then? when absurd notions about things independent of our will,
as if they were good and bad, lie at the bottom of our opinions, we
must of necessity pay regard to tyrants; for I wish that men would
pay regard to tyrants only, and not also to the bedchamber men. How
is it that the man becomes all at once wise, when Caesar has made
him superintendent of the close stool? How is it that we say immediately,
“Felicion spoke sensibly to me.” I wish he were ejected from the bedchamber,
that he might again appear to you to be a fool.
Epaphroditus had a shoemaker whom he sold because he was good for
nothing. This fellow by some good luck was bought by one of Caesar’s
men, and became Caesar’s shoemaker. You should have seen what respect
Epaphroditus paid to him: “How does the good Felicion do, I pray?”
Then if any of us asked, “What is master doing?” the answer “He is
consulting about something with Felicion.” Had he not sold the man
as good for nothing? Who then made him wise all at once? This is an
instance of valuing something else than the things which depend on
the will.
Has a man been exalted to the tribuneship? All who meet him offer
their congratulations; one kisses his eyes, another the neck, and
the slaves kiss his hands. He goes to his house, he finds torches
lighted. He ascends the Capitol: he offers a sacrifice of the occasion.
Now who ever sacrificed for having had good desires? for having acted
conformably to nature? For in fact we thank the gods for those things
in which we place our good.
A person was talking to me to-day about the priesthood of Augustus.
I say to him: “Man, let the thing alone: you will spend much for no
purpose.” But he replies, “Those who draw up agreements will write
any name.” Do you then stand by those who read them, and say to such
persons, “It is I whose name is written there;” And if you can now
be present on all such occasions, what will you do when you are dead?
“My name will remain.” Write it on a stone, and it will remain. But
come, what remembrance of you will there be beyond Nicopolis? “But
I shall wear a crown of gold.” If you desire a crown at all, take
a crown of roses and put it on, for it will be more elegant in appearance.
Chapter 20
About reason, how it contemplates itself
Every art and faculty contemplates certain things especially. When
then it is itself of the same kind with the objects which it contemplates,
it must of necessity contemplate itself also: but when it is of an
unlike kind, it cannot contemplate itself. For instance, the shoemaker’s
art is employed on skins, but itself is entirely distinct from the
material of skins: for this reason it does not contemplate itself.
Again, the grammarian’s art is employed about articulate speech; is
then the art also articulate speech? By no means. For this reason
it is not able to contemplate itself. Now reason, for what purpose
has it been given by nature? For the right use of appearances. What
is it then itself? A system of certain appearances. So by its nature
it has the faculty of contemplating itself so. Again, sound sense,
for the contemplation of what things does it belong to us? Good and
evil, and things which are neither. What is it then itself? Good.
And want of sense, what is it? Evil. Do you see then that good sense
necessarily contemplates both itself and the opposite? For this reason
it is the chief and the first work of a philosopher to examine appearances,
and to distinguish them, and to admit none without examination. You
see even in the matter of coin, in which our interest appears to be
somewhat concerned, how we have invented an art, and how many means
the assayer uses to try the value of coin, the sight, the touch, the
smell, and lastly the hearing. He throws the coin down, and observes
the sound, and he is not content with its sounding once, but through
his great attention he becomes a musician. In like manner, where we
think that to be mistaken and not to be mistaken make a great difference,
there we apply great attention to discovering the things which can
deceive. But in the matter of our miserable ruling faculty, yawning
and sleeping, we carelessly admit every appearance, for the harm is
not noticed.
When then you would know how careless you are with respect to good
and evil, and how active with respect to things which are indifferent,
observe how you feel with respect to being deprived of the sight of
eyes, and how with respect of being deceived, and you will discover
you are far from feeling as you ought to in relation to good and evil.
“But this is a matter which requires much preparation, and much labor
and study.” Well then do you expect to acquire the greatest of arts
with small labor? And yet the chief doctrine of philosophers is brief.
If you would know, read Zeno’s writings and you will see. For how
few words it requires to say man’s end is to follow the god’s, and
that the nature of good is a proper use of appearances. But if you
say “What is ‘God,’ what is ‘appearance,’ and what is ‘particular’
and what is ‘universal nature’? then indeed many words are necessary.
If then Epicures should come and say that the good must be in the
body; in this case also many words become necessary, and we must be
taught what is the leading principle in us, and the fundamental and
the substantial; and as it is not probable that the good of a snail
is in the shell, is it probable that the good of a man is in the body?
But you yourself, Epicurus, possess something better than this. What
is that in you which deliberates, what is that which examines everything,
what is that which forms a judgement about the body itself, that it
is the principle part? and why do you light your lamp and labor for
us, and write so many books? is it that we may not be ignorant of
the truth, who we are, and what we are with respect to you? Thus the
discussion requires many words.
Chapter 21
Against those who wish to be admired
When a man holds his proper station in life, he does not gape after
things beyond it. Man, what do you wish to happen to you? “I am satisfied
if I desire and avoid conformably to nature, if I employ movements
toward and from an object as I am by nature formed to do, and purpose
and design and assent.” Why then do you strut before us as if you
had swallowed a spit? “My wish has always been that those who meet
me should admire me, and those who follow me should exclaim, ‘Oh,
the great philosopher.'” Who are they by whom you wish to be admired?
Are they not those of whom you are used to say that they are mad?
Well then do you wish to be admired by madmen?
Chapter 22
On precognitions
Precognitions are common to all men, and precognition is not contradictory
to precognition. For who of us does not assume that Good is useful
and eligible, and in all circumstances that we ought to follow and
pursue it? And who of us does not assume that justice is beautiful
and becoming? When, then, does the contradiction arise? It arises
in the adaptation of the precognitions to the particular cases. When
one man says, “He has done well: he is a brave man,” and another says,
“Not so; but he has acted foolishly”; then the disputes arise among
men. This is the dispute among the Jews and the Syrians and the Egyptians
and the Romans; not whether holiness should be preferred to all things
and in all cases should be pursued, but whether it is holy to eat
pig’s flesh or not holy. You will find this dispute also between Agamemnon
and Achilles; for call them forth. What do you say, Agamemnon ought
not that to be done which is proper and right? “Certainly.” Well,
what do you say, Achilles? do you not admit that what is good ought
to be done? “I do most certainly.” Adapt your precognitions then to
the present matter. Here the dispute begins. Agamemnon says, “I ought
not to give up Chryseis to her father.” Achilles says, “You ought.”
It is certain that one of the two makes a wrong adaptation of the
precognition of ought” or “duty.” Further, Agamemnon says, “Then if
I ought to restore Chryseis, it is fit that I take his prize from
some of you.” Achilles replies, “Would you then take her whom I love?”
“Yes, her whom you love.” “Must I then be the only man who goes without
a prize? and must I be the only man who has no prize?” Thus the dispute
begins.
What then is education? Education is the learning how to adapt the
natural precognitions to the particular things conformably to nature;
and then to distinguish that of things some are in our power, but
others are not; in our power are will and all acts which depend on
the will; things not in our power are the body, the parts of the body,
possessions, parents, brothers, children, country, and, generally,
all with whom we live in society. In what, then, should we place the
good? To what kind of things shall we adapt it? “To the things which
are in our power?” Is not health then a good thing, and soundness
of limb, and life? and are not children and parents and country? Who
will tolerate you if you deny this?
Let us then transfer the notion of good to these things. is it possible,
then, when a man sustains damage and does not obtain good things,
that he can be happy? “It is not possible.” And can he maintain toward
society a proper behavior? He cannot. For I am naturally formed to
look after my own interest. If it is my interest to have an estate
in land, it is my interest also to take it from my neighbor. If it
is my interest to have a garment, it is my interest also to steal
it from the bath. This is the origin of wars, civil commotions, tyrannies,
conspiracies. And how shall I be still able to maintain my duty toward
Zeus? for if I sustain damage and am unlucky, he takes no care of
me; and what is he to me if he allows me to be in the condition in
which I am? I now begin to hate him. Why, then, do we build temples,
why set up statues to Zeus, as well as to evil demons, such as to
Fever; and how is Zeus the Saviour, and how the Giver of rain, and
the Giver of fruits? And in truth if we place the nature of Good in
any such things, all this follows.
What should we do then? This is the inquiry of the true philosopher
who is in labour. “Now I do not see what the Good is nor the Bad.
Am I not mad? Yes.” But suppose that I place the good somewhere among
the things which depend on the will: all will laugh at me. There will
come some grey-head wearing many gold rings on his fingers and he
will shake his head and say, “Hear, my child. It is right that you
should philosophize; but you ought to have some brains also: all this
that you are doing is silly. You learn the syllogism from philosophers;
but you know how to act better than philosophers do.” Man, why then
do you blame me, if I know? What shall I say to this slave? If I am
silent, he will burst. I must speak in this way: “Excuse me, as you
would excuse lovers: I am not my own master: I am mad.”
Chapter 23
Against Epicurus
Even Epicurus perceives that we are by nature social, but having once
placed our good in the husk he is no longer able to say anything else. For on
the other hand he strongly maintains this, that we ought not to admire nor to
accept anything which is detached from the nature of good; and he is right in
maintaining this. How then are we [suspicious], if we have no natural affection
to our children? Why do you advise the wise man not to bring up children? Why
are you afraid that he may thus fall into trouble? For does he fall into
trouble on account of the mouse which is nurtured in the house? What does he
care if a little mouse in the house makes lamentation to him? But Epicurus
knows that if once a child is born, it is no longer in our power not to love it
nor care about it. For this reason, Epicurus says that a man who has any sense
also does not engage in political matters; for he knows what a man must do who
is engaged in such things; for, indeed, if you intend to behave among men as
you do among a swarm of flies, what hinders you? But Epicurus, who knows this,
ventures to say that we should not bring up children. But a sheep does not
desert its own offspring, nor yet a wolf; and shall a man desert his child?
What do you mean? that we should be as silly as sheep? but not even do they
desert their offspring: or as savage as wolves, but not even do wolves desert
their young. Well, who would follow your advice, if he saw his child weeping
after falling on the ground? For my part I think that, even if your mother and
your father had been told by an oracle that you would say what you have said,
they would not have cast you away.
Chapter 24
How we should struggle with circumstances
It is circumstances which show what men are. Therefore when a difficulty
falls upon you, remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers, has matched you
with a rough young man. “For what purpose?” you may say, Why, that you may
become an Olympic conqueror; but it is not accomplished without sweat. In my
opinion no man has had a more profitable difficulty than you have had, if you
choose to make use of it as an athlete would deal with a young antagonist. We
are now sending a scout to Rome; but no man sends a cowardly scout, who, if he
only hears a noise and sees a shadow anywhere, comes running back in terror and
reports that the enemy is close at hand. So now if you should come and tell us,
“Fearful is the state of affairs at Rome, terrible is death, terrible is exile;
terrible is calumny; terrible is poverty; fly, my friends; the enemy is near”;
we shall answer, “Begone, prophesy for yourself; we have committed only one
fault, that we sent such a scout.”
Diogenes, who was sent as a scout before you, made a different report to
us. He says that death is no evil, for neither is it base: he says that fame is
the noise of madmen. And what has this spy said about pain, about pleasure, and
about poverty? He says that to be naked is better than any purple robe, and to
sleep on the bare ground is the softest bed; and he gives as a proof of each
thing that he affirms his own courage, his tranquillity his freedom, and the
healthy appearance and compactness of his body. “There is no enemy he says;
“all is peace.” How so, Diogenes? “See,” he replies, “if I am struck, if I have
been wounded, if I have fled from any man.” This is what a scout ought to be.
But you come to us and tell us one thing after another. Will you not go back,
and you will see clearer when you have laid aside fear?
What then shall I do? What do you do when you leave a ship? Do you take
away the helm or the oars? What then do you take away? You take what is your
own, your bottle and your wallet; and now if you think of what is your own, you
will never claim what belongs to others. The emperor says, “Lay aside your
laticlave.” See, I put on the angusticlave. “Lay aside this also.” See, I have
only my toga. “Lay aside your toga.” See, I am naked. “But you still raise my
envy.” Take then all my poor body; when, at a man’s command, I can throw away
my poor body, do I still fear him?
“But a certain person will not leave to me the succession to his estate.”
What then? had I forgotten that not one of these things was mine. How then do
we call them mine? just as we call the bed in the inn. If, then, the innkeeper
at his death leaves you the beds, all well; but if he leaves them to another,
he will have them, and you will seek another bed. If then you shall not find
one, you will sleep on the ground: only sleep with a good will and snore, and
remember that tragedies have their place among the rich and kings and tyrants,
but no poor man fills a part in the tragedy, except as one of the chorus. Kings
indeed commence with prosperity: “ornament the palaces with garlands,” then
about the third or fourth act they call out, “O Cithaeron, why didst thou
receive me?” Slave, where are the crowns, where the diadem? The guards help
thee not at all. When then you approach any of these persons, remember this
that you are approaching a tragedian, not the actor but OEdipus himself. But
you say, “Such a man is happy; for he walks about with many,” and I also place
myself with the many and walk about with many. In sum remember this: the door
is open; be not more timid than little children, but as they say, when the
thing does not please them, “I will play no loner,” so do you, when things seem
to you of such a kind, say I will no longer play, and begone: but if you stay,
do not complain.
Chapter 25
On the same
If these things are true, and if we are not silly, and are not acting
hypocritically when we say that the good of man is in the will, and the evil
too, and that everything else does not concern us, why are we still disturbed,
why are we still afraid? The things about which we have been busied are in no
man’s power: and the things which are in the power of others, we care not for.
What kind of trouble have we still?
“But give me directions.” Why should I give you directions? has not Zeus
given you directions? Has he not given to you what is your own free from
hindrance and free from impediment, and what is not your own subject to
hindrance and impediment? What directions then, what kind of orders did you
bring when you came from him? Keep by every means what is your own; do not
desire what belongs to others. Fidelity is your own, virtuous shame is your
own; who then can take these things from you? who else than yourself will
hinder you from using them? But how do you act? when you seek what is not your
own, you lose that which is your own. Having such promptings and commands from
Zeus, what kind do you still ask from me? Am I more powerful than he, am I more
worthy of confidence? But if you observe these, do you want any others besides?
“Well, but he has not given these orders” you will say. Produce your
precognitions, produce the proofs of philosophers, produce what you have often
heard, and produce what you have said yourself, produce what you have read,
produce what you have meditated on (and you will then see that all these things
are from God). How long, then, is it fit to observe these precepts from God,
and not to break up the play? As long as the play is continued with propriety.
In the Saturnalia a king is chosen by lot, for it has been the custom to play
at this game. The king commands: “Do you drink,” “Do you mix the wine,” “Do you
sing,” “Do you go,” “Do you come.” I obey that the game may be broken up
through me. But if he says, “Think that you are in evil plight”: I answer, “I
do not think so”; and who compel me to think so? Further, we agreed to play
Agamemnon and Achilles. He who is appointed to play Agamemnon says to me, “Go
to Achilles and tear from him Briseis.” I go. He says, “Come,” and I come.
For as we behave in the matter of hypothetical arguments, so ought we to do
in life. “Suppose it to be night.” I suppose that it is night. “Well then; is
it day?” No, for I admitted the hypothesis that it was night. “Suppose that you
think that it is night?” Suppose that I do. “But also think that it is night.”
That is not consistent with the hypothesis. So in this case also: “Suppose that
you are unfortunate.” Well, suppose so. “Are you then unhappy?” Yes. “Well,
then, are you troubled with an unfavourable demon?” Yes. “But think also that
you are in misery.” This is not consistent with the hypothesis; and Another
forbids me to think so.
How long then must we obey such orders? As long as it is profitable; and
this means as long as I maintain that which is becoming and consistent.
Further, some men are sour and of bad temper, and they say, “I cannot sup with
this man to be obliged to hear him telling daily how he fought in Mysia: ‘I
told you, brother, how I ascended the hill: then I began to be besieged
again.'” But another says, “I prefer to get my supper and to hear him talk as
much as he likes.” And do you compare these estimates: only do nothing in a
depressed mood, nor as one afflicted, nor as thinking that you are in misery,
for no man compels you to that. Has it smoked in the chamber? If the smoke is
moderate, I will stay; if it is excessive, I go out: for you must always
remember this and hold it fast, that the door is open. Well, but you say to me,
“Do not live in Nicopolis.” I will not live there. “Nor in Athens.” I will not
live in Athens. “Nor in Rome.” I will not live in Rome. “Live in Gyarus.” I
will live in Gyarus, but it seems like a great smoke to live in Gyarus; and I
depart to the place where no man will hinder me from living, for that
dwelling-place is open to all; and as to the last garment, that is the poor
body, no one has any power over me beyond this. This was the reason why
Demetrius said to Nero, “You threaten me with death, but nature threatens you.”
If I set my admiration on the poor body, I have given myself up to be a slave:
if on my little possessions, I also make myself a slave: for I immediately make
it plain with what I may be caught; as if the snake draws in his head, I tell
you to strike that part of him which he guards; and do you he assured that
whatever part you choose to guard, that part your master will attack.
Remembering this, whom will you still flatter or fear?
“But I should like to sit where the Senators sit.” Do you see that you are
putting yourself in straits, you are squeezing yourself. “How then shall I see
well in any other way in the amphitheatre?” Man, do not be a spectator at all;
and you will not be squeezed. Why do you give yourself trouble? Or wait a
little, and when the spectacle is over, seat yourself in the place reserved for
the Senators and sun yourself. For remember this general truth, that it is we
who squeeze ourselves, who put ourselves in straits; that is, our opinions
squeeze us and put us in straits. For what is it to be reviled? Stand by a
stone and revile it; and what will you gain? If, then, a man listens like a
stone, what profit is there to the reviler? But if the reviler has as a
stepping-stone the weakness of him who is reviled, then he accomplishes
something. “Strip him.” What do you mean by “him”? Lay hold of his garment,
strip it off. “I have insulted you.” Much good may it do you.
This was the practice of Socrates: this was the reason why he always had
one face. But we choose to practice and study anything rather than the means by
which we shall be unimpeded and free. You say, “Philosophers talk paradoxes.”
But are there no paradoxes in the other arts? and what is more paradoxical than
to puncture a man’s eye in order that he may see? If any one said this to a man
ignorant of the surgical art, would he not ridicule the speaker? Where is the
wonder then if in philosophy also many things which are true appear paradoxical
to the inexperienced?
Chapter 28
That we ought not to he angry with men; and what are the small and the great
things among men
What is the cause of assenting to anything? The fact that it appears to be
true. It is not possible then to assent to that which appears not to be true.
Why? Because this is the nature of the understanding, to incline to the true,
to be dissatisfied with the false, and in matters uncertain to withhold assent.
What is the proof of this? “Imagine, if you can, that it is now night.” It is
not possible. “Take away your persuasion that it is day.” It is not possible.
“Persuade yourself or take away your persuasion that the stars are even in
number.” It is impossible. When, then, any man assents to that which is false,
be assured that he did not intend to assent to it as false, for every soul is
unwillingly deprived of the truth, as Plato says; but the falsity seemed to him
to be true. Well, in acts what have we of the like kind as we have here truth
or falsehood? We have the fit and the not fit, the profitable and the
unprofitable, that which is suitable to a person and that which is not, and
whatever is like these. Can, then, a man think that a thing is useful to him
and not choose it? He cannot. How says Medea?
“‘Tis true I know what evil I shall do,
But passion overpowers the better council.'”
She thought that to indulge her passion and take vengeance on her husband was
more profitable than to spare her children. “It was so; but she was deceived.”
Show her plainly that she is deceived, and she will not do it; but so long as
you do not show it, what can she follow except that which appears to herself?
Nothing else. Why, then, are you angry with the unhappy woman that she has been
bewildered about the most important things, and is become a viper instead of a
human creature? And why not, if it is possible, rather pity, as we pity the
blind and the lame, those who are blinded and maimed in the faculties which are
supreme?
Whoever, then, clearly remembers this, that to man the measure of every act
is the appearance- whether the thing appears good or bad: if good, he is free
from blame; if bad, himself suffers the penalty, for it is impossible that he
who is deceived can be one person, and he who suffers another person- whoever
remembers this will not be angry with any man, will not be vexed at any man,
will not revile or blame any man, nor hate nor quarrel with any man.
“So then all these great and dreadful deeds have this origin, in the
appearance?” Yes, this origin and no other. The Iliad is nothing else than
appearance and the use of appearances. It appeared to Paris to carry off the
wife of Menelaus: it appeared to Helen to follow him. If then it had appeared
to Menelaus to feel that it was a gain to be deprived of such a wife, what
would have happened? Not only a wi would the Iliad have been lost, but the
Odyssey also. “On so small a matter then did such great things depend?” But
what do you mean by such great things? Wars and civil commotions, and the
destruction of many men and cities. And what great matter is this? “Is it
nothing?” But what great matter is the death of many oxen, and many sheep, and
many nests of swallows or storks being burnt or destroyed? “Are these things,
then, like those?” Very like. Bodies of men are destroyed, and the bodies of
oxen and sheep; the dwellings of men are burnt, and the nests of storks. What
is there in this great or dreadful? Or show me what is the difference between a
man’s house and a stork’s nest, as far as each is a dwelling; except that man
builds his little houses of beams and tiles and bricks, and the stork builds
them of sticks and mud. “Are a stork and a man, then, like things?” What say
you? In body they are very much alike.
“Does a man then differ in no respect from a stork?” Don’t suppose that I
say so; but there is no difference in these matters. “In what, then, is the
difference?” Seek and you will find that there is a difference in another
matter. See whether it is not in a man the understanding of what he does, see
if it is not in social community, in fidelity, in modesty, in steadfastness, in
intelligence. Where then is the great good and evil in men? It is where the
difference is. If the difference is preserved and remains fenced round, and
neither modesty is destroyed, nor fidelity, nor intelligence, then the man also
is preserved; but if any of these things is destroyed and stormed like a city,
then the man too perishes; and in this consist the great things. Paris, you
say, sustained great damage, then, when the Hellenes invaded and when they
ravaged Troy, and when his brothers perished. By no means; for no man is
damaged by an action which is not his own; but what happened at that time was
only the destruction of storks’ nests: now the ruin of Paris was when he lost
the character of modesty, fidelity, regard to hospitality, and to decency. When
was Achilles ruined? Was it when Patroclus died? Not so. But it happened when
he began to be angry, when he wept for a girl, when he forgot that he was at
Troy not to get mistresses, but to fight. These things are the ruin of men,
this is being besieged, this is the destruction of cities, when right opinions
are destroyed, when they are corrupted.
“When, then, women are carried off, when children are made captives, and
when the men are killed, are these not evils?” How is it then that you add to
the facts these opinions? Explain this to me also. “I shall not do that; but
how is it that you say that these are not evils?” Let us come to the rules:
produce the precognitions: for it is because this is neglected that we cannot
sufficiently wonder at what men do. When we intend to judge of weights, we do
not judge by guess: where we intend to judge of straight and crooked, we do not
judge by guess. In all cases where it is our interest to know what is true in
any matter, never will any man among us do anything by guess. But in things
which depend on the first and on the only cause of doing right or wrong, of
happiness or unhappiness, of being unfortunate or fortunate, there only we are
inconsiderate and rash. There is then nothing like scales, nothing like a rule:
but some appearance is presented, and straightway I act according to it. Must I
then suppose that I am superior to Achilles or Agamemnon, so that they by
following appearances do and suffer so many evils: and shall not the appearance
be sufficient for me? And what tragedy has any other beginning? The Atreus of
Euripides, what is it? An appearance. The OEdipus of Sophocles, what is it? An
appearance. The Phoenix? An appearance. The Hippolytus? An appearance. What
kind of a man then do you suppose him to be who pays no regard to this matter?
And what is the name of those who follow every appearance? “They are called
madmen.” Do we then act at all differently?
Chapter 29
On constancy
The being of the Good is a certain Will; the being of the Bad is a certain
kind of Will. What then are externals? Materials for the Will, about which the
will being conversant shall obtain its own good or evil. How shall it obtain
the good? If it does not admire the materials; for the opinions about the
materials, if the opinions are right, make the will good: but perverse and
distorted opinions make the will bad. God has fixed this law, and says, “If you
would have anything good, receive it from yourself.” You say, “No, but I have
it from another.” Do not so: but receive it from yourself. Therefore when the
tyrant threatens and calls me, I say, “Whom do you threaten If he says, “I will
put you in chains,” I say, “You threaten my hands and my feet.” If he says, “I
will cut off your head,” I reply, “You threaten my head.” If he says, “I will
throw you into prison,” I say, “You threaten the whole of this poor body.” If
he threatens me with banishment, I say the same. “Does he, then, not threaten
you at all?” If I feel that all these things do not concern me, he does not
threaten me at all; but if I fear any of them, it is I whom he threatens. Whom
then do I fear? the master of what? The master of things which are in my own
power? There is no such master. Do I fear the master of things which are not in
my power? And what are these things to me?
“Do you philosophers then teach us to despise kings?” I hope not. Who among
us teaches to claim against them the power over things which they possess? Take
my poor body, take my property, take my reputation, take those who are about
me. If I advise any persons to claim these things, they may truly accuse me.
“Yes, but I intend to command your opinions also.” And who has given you this
power? How can you conquer the opinion of another man? “By applying terror to
it,” he replies, “I will conquer it.” Do you not know that opinion conquers
itself, and is not conquered by another? But nothing else can conquer Will
except the Will itself. For this reason, too, the law of God is most powerful
and most just, which is this: “Let the stronger always be superior to the
weaker.” “Ten are stronger than one.” For what? For putting in chains, for
killing, for dragging whither they choose, for taking away what a man has. The
ten therefore conquer the one in this in which they are stronger. “In what then
are the ten weaker,” If the one possess right opinions and the others do not.
“Well then, can the ten conquer in this matter?” How is it possible? If we were
placed in the scales, must not the heavier draw down the scale in which it is?
“How strange, then, that Socrates should have been so treated by the
Athenians.” Slave, why do you say Socrates? Speak of the thing as it is: how
strange that the poor body of Socrates should have been carried off and dragged
to prison by stronger men, and that any one should have given hemlock to the
poor body of Socrates, and that it should breathe out the life. Do these things
seem strange. do they seem unjust, do you on account of these things blame God?
Had Socrates then no equivalent for these things, Where, then, for him was the
nature of good? Whom shall we listen to, you or him? And what does Socrates
say? “Anytus and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me”: and further, he
says, “If it so pleases God, so let it be.”
But show me that he who has the inferior principles overpowers him who is
superior in principles. You will never show this, nor come near showing it; for
this is the law of nature and of God that the superior shall always overpower
the inferior. In what? In that in which it is superior. One body is stronger
than another: many are stronger than one: the thief is stronger than he who is
not a thief. This is the reason why I also lost my lamp, because in wakefulness
the thief was superior to me. But the man bought the lamp at this price: for a
lamp he became a thief, a faithless fellow, and like a wild beast. This seemed
to him a good bargain. Be it so. But a man has seized me by the cloak, and is
drawing me to the public place: then others bawl out, “Philosopher, what has
been the use of your opinions? see you are dragged to prison, you are going to
be beheaded.” And what system of philosophy could f have made so that, if a
stronger man should have laid hold of my cloak, I should not be dragged off;
that if ten men should have laid hold of me and cast me into prison, I should
not be cast in? Have I learned nothing else then? I have learned to see that
everything which happens, if it be independent of my will, is nothing to me. I
may ask if you have not gained by this. Why then do you seek advantage in
anything else than in that in which you have learned that advantage is?
Then sitting in prison I say: “The man who cries out in this way neither
hears what words mean, nor understands what is said, nor does he care at all to
know what philosophers say or what they do. Let him alone.”
But now he says to the prisoner, “Come out from your prison.” If you have
no further need of me in prison, I come out: if you should have need of me
again, I will enter the prison. “How long will you act thus?” So long as reason
requires me to be with the body: but when reason does not require this, take
away the body, and fare you well. Only we must not do it inconsiderately, nor
weakly, nor for any slight reason; for, on the other hand, God does not wish it
to be done, and he has need of such a world and such inhabitants in it. But if
he sounds the signal for retreat, as he did to Socrates, we must obey him who
gives the signal, as if he were a general.
“Well, then, ought we to say such things to the many?” Why should we? Is it
not enough for a man to be persuaded himself? When children come clapping their
hands and crying out, “To-day is the good Saturnalia,” do we say, “The
Saturnalia are not good?” By no means, but we clap our hands also. Do you also
then, when you are not able to make a man change his mind, be assured that he
is a child, and clap your hands with him, and if you do not choose to do this,
keep silent.
A man must keep this in mind; and when he is called to any such difficulty,
he should know that the time is come for showing if he has been instructed. For
he who is come into a difficulty is like a young man from a school who has
practiced the resolution of syllogisms; and if any person proposes to him an
easy syllogism, he says, “Rather propose to me a syllogism which is skillfully
complicated that I may exercise myself on it.” Even athletes are dissatisfied
with slight young men, and say “He cannot lift me.” “This is a youth of noble
disposition.” But when the time of trial is come, one of you must weep and say,
“I wish that I had learned more.” A little more of what? If you did not learn
these things in order to show them in practice, why did you learn them? I think
that there is some one among you who are sitting here, who is suffering like a
woman in labour, and saying, “Oh, that such a difficulty does not present
itself to me as that which has come to this man; oh, that I should be wasting
my life in a corner, when I might be crowned at Olympia. When will any one
announce to me such a contest?” Such ought to be the disposition of all of you.
Even among the gladiators of Caesar there are some who complain grievously that
they are not brought forward and matched, and they offer up prayers to God and
address themselves to their superintendents entreating that they might fight.
And will no one among you show himself such? I would willingly take a voyage
for this purpose and see what my athlete is doing, how he is studying his
subject. “I do not choose such a subject,” he says. Why, is it in your power to
take what subject you choose? There has been given to you such a body as you
have, such parents, such brethren, such a country, such a place in your
country: then you come to me and say, “Change my subject.” Have you not
abilities which enable you to manage the subject which has been given to you?
“It is your business to propose; it is mine to exercise myself well.” However,
you do not say so, but you say, “Do not propose to me such a tropic, but such:
do not urge against me such an objection, but such.” There will be a time,
perhaps, when tragic actors will suppose that they are masks and buskins and
the long cloak. I say, these things, man, are your material and subject. Utter
something that we may know whether you are a tragic actor or a buffoon; for
both of you have all the rest in common. If any one then should take away the
tragic actor’s buskins and his mask, and introduce him on the stage as a
phantom, is the tragic actor lost, or does he still remain? If he has voice, he
still remains.
An example of another kind. “Assume the governorship of a province.” I
assume it, and when I have assumed it, I show how an instructed man behaves.
“Lay aside the laticlave and, clothing yourself in rags, come forward in this
character.” What then have I not the power of displaying a good voice? How,
then, do you now appear? As a witness summoned by God. “Come forward, you, and
bear testimony for me, for you are worthy to be brought forward as a witness by
me: is anything external to the will good or bad? do I hurt any man? have I
made every man’s interest dependent on any man except himself?” What testimony
do you give for God? “I am in a wretched condition, Master, and I am
unfortunate; no man cares for me, no man gives me anything; all blame me, all
speak ill of me.” Is this the evidence that you are going to give, and disgrace
his summons, who has conferred so much honour on you, and thought you worthy of
being called to bear such testimony?
But suppose that he who has the power has declared, “I judge you to be
impious and profane.” What has happened to you? “I have been judged to be
impious and profane?” Nothing else? “Nothing else.” But if the same person had
passed judgment on an hypothetical syllogism, and had made a declaration, “the
conclusion that, if it is day, it is light, I declare to be false,” what has
happened to the hypothetical syllogism? who is judged in this case? who has
been condemned? the hypothetical syllogism, or the man who has been deceived by
it? Does he, then, who has the power of making any declaration about you know
what is pious or impious? Has he studied it, and has he learned it? Where? From
whom? Then is it the fact that a musician pays no regard to him who declares
that the lowest chord in the lyre is the highest; nor yet a geometrician, if he
declares that the lines from the centre of a circle to the circumference are
not equal; and shall he who is really instructed pay any regard to the
uninstructed man when he pronounces judgment on what is pious and what is
impious, on what is just and unjust? Oh, the signal wrong done by the
instructed. Did they learn this here?
Will you not leave the small arguments about these matters to others, to
lazy fellows, that they may sit in a corner and receive their sorry pay, or
grumble that no one gives them anything; and will you not come forward and make
use of what you have learned? For it is not these small arguments that are
wanted now: the writings of the Stoics are full of them. What then is the thing
which is wanted? A man who shall apply them, one who by his acts shall bear
testimony to his words. Assume, I, entreat you, this character, that we may no
longer use in the schools the examples of the ancients but may have some
example of our own.
To whom then does the contemplation of these matters belong? To him who has
leisure, for man is an animal that loves contemplation. But it is shameful to
contemplate these things as runaway slaves do; we should sit, as in a theatre,
free from distraction, and listen at one time to the tragic actor, at another
time to the lute-player; and not do as slaves do. As soon as the slave has
taken his station he praises the actor and at the same time looks round: then
if any one calls out his master’s name, the slave is immediately frightened and
disturbed. It is shameful for philosophers thus to contemplate the works of
nature. For what is a master? Man is not the master of man; but death is, and
life and pleasure and pain; for if he comes without these things, bring Caesar
to me and you will see how firm I am. But when he shall come with these things,
thundering and lightning, and when I am afraid of them, what do I do then
except to recognize my master like the runaway slave? But so long as I have any
respite from these terrors, as a runaway slave stands in the theatre, so do I:
I bathe, I drink, I sing; but all this I do with terror and uneasiness. But if
I shall release myself from my masters, that is from those things by means of
which masters are formidable, what further trouble have I, what master have I
still?
“What then, ought we to publish these things to all men?” No, but we ought
to accommodate ourselves to the ignorant and to say: “This man recommends to me
that which he thinks good for himself: I excuse him.” For Socrates also excused
the gaoler, who had the charge of him in prison and was weeping when Socrates
was going to drink the poison, and said, “How generously he laments over us.”
Does he then say to the gaoler that for this reason we have sent away the
women? No, but he says it to his friends who were able to hear it; and he
treats the gaoler as a child.
Chapter 30
What we ought to have ready in difficult circumstances
When you are going into any great personage, remember that Another also
from above sees what is going on, and that you ought to please Him rather than
the other. He, then, who sees from above asks you: “In the schools what used
you to say about exile and bonds and death and disgrace?” I used to say that
they are things indifferent. “What then do you say of them now? Are they
changed at all?” No. “Are you changed then?” No. “Tell me then what things are
indifferent?” The things which are independent of the will. “Tell me, also,
what follows from this.” The things which are independent of the will are
nothing to me. “Tell me also about the Good, what was your opinion?” A will
such as we ought to have and also such a use of appearances. “And the end, what
is it?” To follow Thee. “Do you say this now also?” I say the same now also.
Then go into the great personage boldly and remember these things; and you
will see what a youth is who has studied these things when he is among men who
have not studied them. I indeed imagine that you will have such thoughts as
these: “Why do we make so great and so many preparations for nothing? Is this
the thing which men name power? Is this the antechamber? this the men of the
bedchamber? this the armed guards? Is it for this that I listened to so many
discourses? All this is nothing: but I have been preparing myself for something
great.”
http://classics.mit.edu/Epictetus/discourses.mb.txt
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Chapter 8: Mary Wollstonecraft
Mary Wollstonecraft - On the Rights of Women
A Vindication of the Rights or Woman: With Stricture on Political and Moral Subjects
To account for, and excuse the tyranny of man, many ingenious arguments have been brought forward to prove, that the two sexes, in the acquirement of virtue, ought to aim at attaining a very different character: or, to speak explicitly, women are not allowed to have sufficient strength of mind to acquire what really deserves the name of virtue. Yet it should seem, allowing them to have souls, that there is but one way appointed by Providence to lead mankind to either virtue or happiness.
If then women are not a swarm of ephemeron triflers, why should they be kept in ignorance under the specious name of innocence? Men complain, and with reason, of the follies and caprices of our sex, when they do not keenly satirize our head- strong passions and groveling vices. Behold, I should answer, the natural effect of ignorance! The mind will ever be unstable that has only prejudices to rest on, and the current will run with destructive fury when there are no barriers to break its force. Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness, justly termed cunning, softness or temper, outward obedience, and a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety, will obtain for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful, every thing else is needless, for, at least, twenty years of their lives.
Thus Milton describes our first frail mother; though when he tells us that women are formed for softness and sweet attractive grace[1], I cannot comprehend his meaning, unless, in the true Mahometan strain, he meant to deprive us of souls, and insinuate that we were beings only designed by sweet attractive grace, and docile blind obedience, to gratify the senses of man when he can no longer soar on the wing of contemplation.
How grossly do they insult us who thus advise us only to render ourselves gentle, domestic brutes! For instance, the winning softness so warmly, and frequently, recommended, that governs by obeying. What childish expression, and how insignificant is the being – can it be an immortal one? who will condescend to govern by such sinister methods! ‘Certainly,’ says Lord Bacon, ‘man is of kin to the beasts by his body; and if he be not of kin to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble creature!'[2] Men, indeed, appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempting to keep them always in a state of childhood. Rousseau was more consistent when he wished to stop the progress of reason in both sexes, for if men eat of the tree of knowledge, women will come in for a taste; but, from the imperfect cultivation which their understandings now receive, they only attain a knowledge of evil.
Children, I grant, should be innocent; but when the epithet is applied to men, or women, it is but a civil term for weakness. For if it be allowed that women were destined by Providence to acquire human virtues, and by the exercise of their understandings, that stability of character which is the firmest ground to rest our future hopes upon, they must be permitted to turn to the fountain of light, and not forced to shape their course by the twinkling of a mere satellite. Milton, I grant, was of a very different opinion; for he only bends to the indefeasible right of beauty, though it would be difficult to render two passages which I now mean to contrast, consistent. But into similar inconsistencies are great men often led by their senses.
‘To whom thus Eve with perfect beauty adorn’d. My Author and Disposer, what thou bidst Unargued I obey; so God ordains;
God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more
Is Woman’s happiest knowledge and her praise.'[3]
These are exactly the arguments that I have used to children; but I have added, your reason is now gaining strength, and, till it arrives at some degree of maturity, you must look up to me for advice – then you ought to think, and only rely on God.
Yet in the following lines Milton seems to coincide with me; when he makes Adam thus expostulate with his Maker.
Hast thou not made me here thy substitute,
And these inferior far beneath me set? Among unequals what society
Can sort, what harmony or true delight? Which must be mutual, in proportion due Giv’n and receiv’d; but in disparity
The one intense, the other still remiss Cannot well suit with either, but soon prove Tedious alike: of fellowship I speak
Such as I seek, fit to participate All rational delight –'[4]
In treating, therefore, of the manners of women, let us, disregarding sensual arguments, trace what we should endeavour to make them in order to co-operate, if the expression be not too bold, with the supreme Being.
By individual education, I mean, for the sense of the word is not precisely defined, such an attention to a child as will slowly sharpen the senses, form the temper, regulate the passions as they begin to ferment, and set the understanding to work before the body arrives at maturity; so that the man may only have to proceed, not to begin, the important task of learning to think and reason.
To prevent any misconstruction, I must add, that I do not believe that a private education can work the wonders which some sanguine writers have attributed to it. Men and women must be educated, in a great degree, by the opinions and manners of the society they live in. In every age there has been a stream of popular opinion that has carried all before it, and given a family character, as it were, to the century. It may then fairly be inferred, that, till society be differently constituted, much cannot be expected from education. It is, however, sufficient for my present purpose to assert, that, whatever effect circumstances have on the abilities, every being may become virtuous by the exercise of its own reason; for if but one being was created with vicious inclinations, that is positively bad, what can save us from atheism? or if we worship a God, is not that God a devil?
Consequently, the most perfect education, in my opinion, is such an exercise of the understanding as is best calculated to strengthen the body and form the heart. Or, in other words, to enable the individual to attain such habits of virtue as will render it independent. In fact, it is a farce to call any being virtuous whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own reason. This was Rousseau’s opinion respecting men: I extend it to women, and confidently assert that they have been drawn out of their sphere by false refinement, and not by an endeavour to acquire masculine qualities. Still the regal homage which they receive is so intoxicating, that till the manners of the times are changed, and formed on more reasonable principles, it may be impossible to convince them that the illegitimate power, which they obtain, by degrading themselves, is a curse, and that they must return to nature and equality, if they wish to secure the placid satisfaction that unsophisticated affections impart. But for this epoch we must wait – wait, perhaps, till kings and nobles, enlightened by reason, and, preferring the real dignity of man to childish state, throw off their gaudy hereditary trappings: and if then women do not resign the arbitrary power of beauty – they will prove that they have less mind than man.
I may be accused of arrogance; still I must declare what I firmly believe, that all the writers who have written on the subject of female education and manners from Rousseau to Dr Gregory[5], have contributed to render women more artificial, weak characters, than they would otherwise have been; and, consequently, more useless members of society. I might have expressed this conviction in a lower key; but I am afraid it would have been the whine of affectation, and not the faithful expression of my feelings, of the clear result, which experience and reflection have led me to draw. When I come to that division of the subject, I shall advert to the passages that I more particularly disapprove of, in the works of the authors I have just alluded to; but it is first necessary to observe, that my objection extends to the whole purport of those books, which tend, in my opinion, to degrade one half of the human species, and render women pleasing at the expence of every solid virtue.
Though, to reason on Rousseau’s ground, if man did attain a degree of perfection of mind when his body arrived at maturity, it might be proper, in order to make a man and his wife one, that she should rely entirely on his understanding; and the graceful ivy, clasping the oak that supported it, would form a whole in which strength and beauty would be equally conspicuous. But, alas! husbands, as well as their helpmates, are often only overgrown children; nay, thanks to early debauchery, scarcely men in their outward form – and if the blind lead the blind, one need not come from heaven to tell us the consequence.
Many are the causes that, in the present corrupt state of society, contribute to enslave women by cramping their understandings and sharpening their senses. One, perhaps, that silently does more mischief than all the rest, is their disregard of order.
To do every thing in an orderly manner, is a most important precept, which women, who, generally speaking, receive only a disorderly kind of education, seldom attend to with that degree of exactness that men, who from their infancy are broken into method, observe. This negligent kind of guesswork, for what other epithet can be used to point out the random exertions of a sort of instinctive common sense, never brought to the test of reason? prevents their generalizing matters of fact – so they do to- day, what they did yesterday, merely because they did it yesterday.
This contempt of the understanding in early life has more baneful consequences than is commonly supposed; for the little knowledge which women of strong minds attain, is, from various circumstances, of a more desultory kind than the knowledge of men, and it is acquired more by sheer observations on real life, than from comparing what has been individually observed with the results of experience generalized by speculation. Led by their dependent situation and domestic employments more into society, what they learn is rather by snatches; and as learning is with them, in general, only a secondary thing, they do not pursue any one branch with that persevering ardour necessary to give vigour to the faculties, and clearness to the judgment. In the present state of society, a little learning is required to support the character of a gentleman; and boys are obliged to submit to a few years of discipline. But in the education of women, the cultivation of the understanding is always subordinate to the acquirement of some corporeal accomplishment; even while enervated by confinement and false notions of modesty, the body is prevented from attaining that grace and beauty which relaxed half-formed limbs never exhibit. Besides, in youth their faculties are not brought forward by emulation; and having no serious scientific study, if they have natural sagacity it is turned too soon on life and manners. They dwell on effects, and modifications, without tracing them back to causes; and complicated rules to adjust behaviour are a weak substitute for simple principles.
As a proof that education gives this appearance of weakness to females, we may instance the example of military men, who are, like them, sent into the world before their minds have been stored with knowledge or fortified by principles. The consequences are similar, soldiers acquire a little superficial knowledge, snatched from the muddy current of conversation, and, from continually mixing with society, they gain, what is termed a knowledge of the world, and this acquaintance with manners and customs has frequently been confounded with a knowledge of the human heart. But can the crude fruit of casual observation, never brough to the test of judgment, formed by comparing speculation and experience, deserve such a distinction? Soldiers, as well as women, practise the minor virtues with punctilious politeness. Where is then the sexual difference, when the education has been the same? All the difference that I can discern, arises from the superior advantage of liberty, which enables the former to see more of life.
It is wandering from my present subject, perhaps, to make a political remark; but, as it was produced naturally by the train of my reflections, I shall not pass it silently over.
Standing armies can never consist of resolute, robust men; they may be well disciplined machines, but they will seldom contain men under the influence of strong passions, or with very vigorous faculties. And as for any depth of understanding, I will venture to affirm, that it is as rarely to be found in the army as amongst women; and the cause, I maintain, is the same. It may be further observed, that officers are also particularly attentive to their persons, fond of dancing, crowded rooms, adventures, and ridicule.[6] Like the fair sex, the business of their lives is gallantry. – They were taught to please, and they only live to please. Yet they do not lose their rank in the distinction of sexes, for they are still reckoned superior to women, though in what their superiority consists, beyond what I have just mentioned, it is difficult to discover.
The great misfortune is this, that they both acquire manners before morals, and a knowledge of life before they have, from reflection, any acquaintance with the grand ideal outline of human nature. The consequence is natural; satisfied with common nature, they become a prey to prejudices, and taking all their opinions on credity, they blindly submit to authority. So that if they have any sense, it is a kind of instinctive glance, that catches proportions, and decides with respect to manners; but fails when arguments are to be pursued below the surface, or opinions analyzed.
May not the same remark be applied to women? Nay, the argument may be carried still further, for they are both thrown out of a useful station by the unnatural distinctions established in civilized life. Riches and hereditary honours have made cyphers of women to give consequence to the numerical figure; and idleness has produced a mixture of gallantry and despotism into society, which leads the very men who are the slaves of their mistresses to tyrannize over their sisters, wives, and daughters. This is only keeping them in rank and file, it is true. Strengthen the female mind by enlarging it, and there will be an end to blind obedience; but, as blind obedience is ever sought for by power, tyrants and sensualists are in the right when they endeavour to keep women in the dark, because the former only want slaves, and the latter a play-thing. The sensualist, indeed, has been the most dangerous of tyrants, and women have been duped by their lovers, as princes by their ministers, whilst dreaming that they reigned over them.
I now principally allude to Rousseau, for his character of Sophia is, undoubtedly, a captivating one, though it appears to me grossly unnatural; however it is not the superstructure, but the foundation of her character, the principles on which her education was built, that I mean to attack; nay, warmly as I admire the genius of that able writer, whose opinions I shall often have occasion to cite, indignation always takes place of admiration, and the rigid frown of insulted virtue effaces the smile of complacency, which his eloquent periods are wont to raise, when I read his voluptuous reveries. Is this the man, who, in his ardour for virtue, would banish all the soft arts of peace, and almost carry us back to Spartan discipline? Is this the man who delights to paint the useful struggles of passion, the triumphs of good dispositions, and the heroic flights which carry the glowing soul out of itself? – How are these mighty sentiments lowered when he describes the pretty foot and enticing airs of his little favourite! But, for the present, I wave the subject, and, instead of severely reprehending the transient effusions of overweening sensibility, I shall only observe, that whoever has cast a benevolent eye on society, must often have been gratified by the sight of humble mutual love, not dignified by sentiment, or strengthened by a union in intellectual pursuits. The domestic trifles of the day have afforded matters for cheerful converse, and innocent caresses have softened toils which did not require great exercise of mind or stretch of thought: yet, has not the sight of this moderate felicity excited more tenderness than respect? An emotion similar to what we feel when children are playing, or animals sporting,[7] whilst the contemplation of the noble struggles of suffering merit has raised admiration, and carried our thoughts to that world where sensation will give place to reason.
Women are, therefore, to be considered either as moral beings, or so weak that they must be entirely subjected to the superior faculties of men.
Let us examine this question. Rousseau declares that a woman should never, for a moment, feel herself independent, that she should be governed by fear to exercise her natural cunning, and made a coquetish slave in order to render her a more alluring object of desire, a sweeter companion to man, whenever he chooses to relax himself. He carries the arguments, which he pretends to draw from the indications of nature, still further, and insinuates that truth and fortitude, the corner stones of all human virtue, should be cultivated with certain restrictions, because, with respect to the female character, obedience is the grand lesson which ought to be impressed with unrelenting rigour.
What nonsense! when will a great man arise with sufficient strength of mind to puff away the fumes which pride and sensuality have thus spread over the subject! If women are by nature inferior to men, their virtues must be the same in quality, if not in degree, or virtue is a relative idea; consequently, their conduct should be founded on the same principles, and have the same aim.
Connected with man as daughters, wives, and mothers, their moral character may be estimated by their manner of fulfilling those simple duties; but the end, the grand end of their exertions should be to unfold their own faculties and acquire the dignity of conscious virtue. They may try to render their road pleasant; but ought never to forget, in common with man, that life yields not the felicity which can satisfy an immortal soul. I do not mean to insinuate, that either sex should be so lost in abstract reflections or distant views, as to forget the affections and duties that lie before them, and are, in truth, the means appointed to produce the fruit of life; on the contrary, I would warmly recommend them, even while I assert, that they afford most satisfaction when they are considered in their true, sober light.
Probably the prevailing opinion, that woman was created for man, may have taken its rise from Moses’s poetical story; yet, as very few, it is presumed, who have bestowed any serious thought on the subject, ever supposed that Eve was, literally speaking, one of Adam’s ribs, the deduction must be allowed to fall to the ground; or, only be so far admitted as it proves that man, from the remotest antiquity, found it convenient to exert his strength to subjugate his companion, and his invention to shew that she ought to have her neck bent under the yoke, because the whole creation was only created for his convenience or pleasure.
Let it not be concluded that I wish to invert the order of things; I have already granted, that, from the constitution of their bodies, men seem to be designed by Providence to attain a greater degree of virtue. I speak collectively of the whole sex; but I see not the shadow of a reason to conclude that their virtues should differ in respect to their nature. In fact, how can they, if virtue has only one eternal standard? I must therefore, if I reason consequentially, as strenuously maintain that they have the same simple direction, as that there is a God.
It follows then that cunning should not be opposed to wisdom, little cares to great exertions, or insipid softness, varnished over with the name of gentleness, to that fortitude which grand views alone can inspire.
I shall be told that woman would then lose many of her peculiar graces, and the opinion of a well known poet might be quoted to refute my unqualified assertion. For Pope has said, in the name of the whole male sex,
‘Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,
As when she touch’d the brink of all we hate.'[8]
In what light this sally places men and women, I shall leave to the judicious to determine; meanwhile I shall content myself with observing, that I cannot discover why, unless they are mortal, females should always be degraded by being made subservient to love or lust.
To speak disrespectfully of love is, I know, high treason against sentiment and fine feelings; but I wish to speak the simple language of truth, and rather to address the head than the heart. To endeavour to reason love out of the world, would be to out Quixote Cervantes, and equally offend against common sense; but an endeavour to restrain this tumultuous passion, and to prove that it should not be allowed to dethrone superior powers, or to usurp the sceptre which the understanding should ever cooly wield, appears less wild.
Youth is the season for love in both sexes; but in those days of thoughtless enjoyment provision should be made for the more important years of life, when reflection takes place of sensation. But Rousseau, and most of the male writers who have followed his steps, have warmly inculcated that the whole tendency of female education ought to be directed to one point: – to render them pleasing.
Let me reason with the supporters of this opinion who have any knowledge of human nature, do they imagine that marriage can eradicate the habitude of life? The woman who has only been taught to please will soon find that her charms are oblique sunbeams, and that they cannot have much effect on her husband’s heart when they are seen every day, when the summer is passed and gone. Will she then have sufficient native energy to look into herself for comfort, and cultivate her dormant faculties? or, is it not more rational to expect that she will try to please other men; and, in the emotions raised by the expectation of new conquests, endeavour to forget the mortification her love or pride has received? When the husband ceases to be a lover – and the time will inevitably come, her desire of pleasing will then grow languid, or become a spring of bitterness; and love, perhaps, the most evanescent of all passions, gives place to jealousy or vanity.
I now speak of women who are restrained by principle or prejudice; such women, though they would shrink from an intrigue with real abhorrence, yet, nevertheless, wish to be convinced by the homage of gallantry that they are cruelly neglected by their husbands; or, days and weeks are spent in dreaming of the happiness enjoyed by congenial souls till their health is undermined and their spirits broken by discontent. How then can the great art of pleasing be such a necessary study; it is only useful to a mistress; the chaste wife, and serious mother, should only consider her power to please as the polish of her virtues, and the affection of her husband as one of the comforts that render her task less difficult and her life happier. – But, whether she be loved or neglected, her first wish should be to make herself respectable, and not to rely for all her happiness on a being subject to like infirmities with herself.
The worthy Dr Gregory fell into a similar error. I respect his heart; but entirely disapprove of his celebrated Legacy to his Daughters.
He advises them to cultivate a fondness for dress, because a fondness for dress, he asserts, is natural to them. I am unable to comprehend what either he or Rousseau mean, when they frequently use this indefinite term. If they told us that in a pre- existent state the soul was fond of dress, and brought this inclination with it into a new body, I should listen to them with a half smile, as I often do when I hear a rant about innate elegance. – But if he only meant to say that the exercise of the faculties will produce this fondness – I deny it. It is not natural; but arises, like false ambition in men, from a love of power.
Dr Gregory goes much further; he actually recommends dissimulation, and advises an innocent girl to give the lie to her feelings, and not dance with spirit, when gaiety of heart would make her feet eloquent without making her gestures immodest. In the name of truth and common sense, why should not one woman acknowledge that she can take more exercise than another? or, in other words, that she has a sound constitution; and why, to damp innocent vivacity, is she darkly to be told that men will draw conclusions which she little thinks of? – Let the libertine draw what inference he pleases; but, I hope, that no sensible mother will restrain the natural frankness of youth by instilling such indecent cautions. Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh[9]; and a wiser than Solomon hath said, that the heart should be made clean, and not trivial ceremonies observed, which it is not very difficult to fulfil with scrupulous exactness when vice reigns in the heart.
Women ought to endeavour to purify their heart; but can they do so when their uncultivated understandings make them entirely dependent on their senses for employment and amusement, when no noble pursuit sets them above the little vanities of the day, or enables them to curb the wild emotions that agitate a reed over which every passing breeze has power? To gain the affections of a virtuous man is affectation necessary? Nature has given woman a weaker frame than man; but, to ensure her husband’s affections, must a wife, who by the exercise of her mind and body whilst she was discharging the duties of a daughter, wife, and mother, has allowed her constitution to retain its natural strength, and her nerves a healthy tone, is she, I say, to condescend to use art and feign a sickly delicacy in order to secure her husband’s affection? Weakness may excite tenderness, and gratify the arrogant pride of man; but the lordly caresses of a protector will not gratify a noble mind that pants for, and deserves to be respected. Fondness is a poor substitute for friendship!
In a seraglio, I grant, that all these arts are necessary; the epicure must have his palate tickled, or he will sink into apathy; but have women so little ambition as to be satisfied with such a condition? Can they supinely dream life away in the lap of pleasure, or the languor of weariness, rather than assert their claim to pursue reasonable pleasures and render themselves conspicuous by practising the virtues which dignify mankind? Surely she has not an immortal soul who can loiter life away merely employed to adorn her person, that she may amuse the languid hours, and soften the cares of a fellow-creature who is willing to be enlivened by her smiles and tricks, when the serious business of life is over.
Besides, the woman who strengthens her body and exercises her mind will, by managing her family and practising various virtues, become the friend, and not the humble dependent of her husband; and if she, by possessing such substantial qualities, merit his regard, she will not find it necessary to conceal her affection, nor to pretend to an unnatural coldness of constitution to excite her husband’s passions. In fact, if we revert to history, we shall find that the women who have distinguished themselves have neither been the most beautiful nor the most gentle of their sex.
Nature, or, to speak with strict propriety, God, has made all things right; but man has sought him out many inventions to mar the work. I now allude to that part of Dr Gregory’s treatise, where he advises a wife never to let her husband know the extent of her sensibility or affection. Voluptuous precaution, and as ineffectual as absurd. – Love, from its very nature, must be transitory. To seek for a secret that would render it constant, would be as wild a search as for the philosopher’s stone, or the grand panacea: and the discovery would be equally useless, or rather pernicious, to mankind. The most holy band of society is friendship. It has been well said, by a shrewd satirist, ‘that rare as true love is, true friendship is still rarer.'[10]
This is an obvious truth, and the cause not lying deep, will not elude a slight glance of inquiry.
Love, the common passion, in which chance and sensation take place of choice and reason, is, in some degree, felt by the mass of mankind; for it is not necessary to speak, at present, of the emotions that rise above or sink below love. This passion, naturally increased by suspense and difficulties, draws the mind out of its accustomed state, and exalts the affections; but the security of marriage, allowing the fever of love to subside, a healthy temperature is thought insipid, only by those who have not sufficient intellect to substitute the calm tenderness of friendship, the confidence of respect, instead of blind admiration, and the sensual emotions of fondness.
This is, must be, the course of nature – friendship or indifference inevitably succeeds love. – And this constitution seems perfectly to harmonize with the system of government which prevails in the moral world. Passions are spurs to action, and open the mind; but they sink into mere appetites, become a personal and momentary gratification, when the object is gained, and the satisfied mind rests in enjoyment. The man who had some virtue whilst he was struggling for a crown, often becomes a voluptuous tyrant when it graces his brow; and, when the lover is not lost in the husband, the dotard, a prey to childish caprices, and fond jealousies, neglects the serious duties of life, and the caresses which should excite confidence in his children are lavished on the overgrown child, his wife.
In order to fulfil the duties of life, and to be able to pursue with vigour the various employments which form the moral character, a master and mistress of a family ought not to continue to love each other with passion. I mean to say, that they ought not to indulge those emotions which disturb the order of society, and engross the thoughts that should be otherwise employed. The mind that has never been engrossed by one object wants vigour – if it can long be so, it is weak.
A mistaken education, a narrow, uncultivated mind, and many sexual prejudices, tend to make women more constant than men; but, for the present, I shall not touch on this branch of the subject. I will go still further, and advance, without dreaming of a paradox, that an unhappy marriage is often very advantageous to a family, and that the neglected wife is, in general, the best mother. And this would almost always be the consequence if the female mind were more enlarged: for, it seems to be the common dispensation of Providence, that what we gain in present enjoyment should be deducted from the treasure of life, experience; and that when we are gathering the flowers of the day and revelling in pleasure, the solid fruit of toil and wisdom should not be caught at the same time. The way lies before us, we must turn to the right or left; and he who will pass life away in bounding from one pleasure to another, must not complain if he acquire neither wisdom nor respectability of character.
Supposing, for a moment, that the soul is not immortal, and that man was only created for the present scene, – I think we should have reason to complain that love, infantine fondness, ever grew insipid and palled upon the sense. Let us eat, drink, and love, for to-morrow we die, would be, in fact, the language of reason, the morality of life; and who but a fool would part with a reality for a fleeting shadow? But, if awed by observing the improbable powers of the mind, we disdain to confine our wishes or thoughts to such a comparatively mean field of action; that only appears grand and important, as it is connected with a boundless prospect and sublime hopes, what necessity is there for falsehood in conduct, and why must the sacred majesty of truth be violated to detain a deceitful good that saps the very foundation of virtue? Why must the female mind be tainted by coquetish arts to gratify the sensualist, and prevent love from subsiding into friendship, or compassionate tenderness, when there are not qualities on which friendship can be built? Let the honest heart shew itself, and reason teach passion to submit to necessity; or, let the dignified pursuit of virtue and knowledge raise the mind above those emotions which rather imbitter than sweeten the cup of life, when they are not restrained within due bounds.
I do not mean to allude to the romantic passion, which is the concomitant of genius. – Who can clip its wing? But that grand passion not proportioned to the puny enjoyments of life, is only true to the sentiment, and feeds on itself. The passions which have been celebrated for their durability have always been unfortunate. They have acquired strength by absence and constitutional melancholy. – The fancy has hovered round a form of beauty dimly seen – but familiarity might have turned admiration into disgust; or, at least, into indifference, and allowed the imagination leisure to start fresh game. With perfect propriety, according to this view of things, does Rousseau make the mistress of his soul, Eloisa, love St Preux, when life was fading before her; but this is no proof of the immortality of the passion.
Of the same complexion is Dr Gregory’s advice respecting delicacy of sentiment, which he advises a woman not to acquire, if she have determined to marry. This determination, however, perfectly consistent with his former advice, he calls indelicate, and earnestly persuades his daughters to conceal it, though it may govern their conduct: – as if it were indelicate to have the common appetites of human nature.
Noble morality! and consistent with the cautious prudence of a little soul that cannot extend its views beyond the present minute division of existence. If all the faculties of woman’s mind are only to be cultivated as they respect her dependence on man; if, when a husband be obtained, she have arrived at her goal, and meanly proud rests satisfied with such a paltry crown, let her grovel contentedly, scarcely raised by her employments above the animal kingdom; but, if, struggling for the prize of her high calling, she looks beyond the present scene, let her cultivate her understanding without stopping to consider what character the husband may have whom she is destined to marry. Let her only determine, without being too anxious about present happiness, to acquire the qualities that ennoble a rational being, and a rough inelegant husband may shock her taste without destroying her peace of mind. She will not model her soul to suit the frailties of her companion, but to bear with them: his character may be a trial, but not an impediment to virtue.
If Dr Gregory confined his remark to romantic expectations of constant love and congenial feelings, he should have recollected that experience will banish what advice can never make us cease to wish for, when the imagination is kept alive at the expence of reason.
I own it frequently happens that women who have fostered a romantic unnatural delicacy of feeling, waste their[11] lives in imagining how happy they should have been with a husband who could love them with a fervid increasing affection every day, and all day. But they might as well pine married as single – and would not be a jot more unhappy with a bad husband than longing for a good one. That a proper education; or, to speak with more precision, a well stored mind, would enable a woman to support a single life with dignity, I grant; but that she should avoid cultivating her taste, lest her husband should occasionally shock it, is quitting a substance for a shadow. To say the truth, I do not know of what use is an improved taste, if the individual be not rendered more independent of the casualties of life; if new sources of enjoyment, only dependent on the solitary operations of the mind, are not opened. People of taste, married or single, without distinction, will ever be disgusted by various things that touch not less observing minds. On this conclusion the argument must not be allowed to hinge; but in the whole sum of enjoyment is taste to be denominated a blessing?
The question is, whether it procures most pain or pleasure? The answer will decide the propriety of Dr Gregory’s advice, and shew how absurd and tyrannic it is thus to lay down a system of slavery; or to attempt to educate moral beings by any other rules than those deduced from pure reason, which apply to the whole species.
Gentleness of manners, forbearance and long-suffering, are such amiable Godlike qualities, that in sublime poetic strains the Deity has been invested with them; and, perhaps, no representation of his goodness so strongly fastens on the human affections as those that represent him abundant in mercy and willing to pardon. Gentleness, considered in this point of view, bears on its front all the characteristics of grandeur, combined with the winning graces of condescension; but what a different aspect it assumes when it is the submissive demeanour of dependence, the support of weakness that loves, because it wants protection; and is forbearing, because it must silently endure injuries; smiling under the lash at which it dare not snarl. Abject as this picture appears, it is the portrait of an accomplished woman, according to the received opinion of female excellence, separated by specious reasoners from human excellence. Or, they[12] kindly restore the rib, and make one moral being of a man and woman; not forgetting to give her all the ‘submissive charms.'[13]
How woman are to exist in that state where there is to be neither marrying nor giving in marriage, we are not told. For though moralists have agreed that the tenor of life seems to prove that man is prepared by various circumstances for a future state, they constantly concur in advising woman only to provide for the present. Gentleness, docility, and a spaniel-like affection are, on this ground, consistently recommended as the cardinal virtues of the sex; and, disregarding the arbitrary economy of nature, one writer has declared that it is masculine for a woman to be melancholy. She was created to be the toy of man, his rattle, and it must jingle in his ears whenever, dismissing reason, he chooses to be amused.
To recommend gentleness, indeed, on a broad basis is strictly philosophical. A frail being should labour to be gentle. But when forbearance confounds right and wrong, it ceases to be a virtue; and, however convenient it may be found in a companion – that companion will ever be considered as an inferior, and only inspire a vapid tenderness, which easily degenerates into contempt. Still, if advice could really make a being gentle, whose natural disposition admitted not of such a fine polish, something towards the advancement of order would be attained; but if, as might quickly be demonstrated, only affectation be produced by this indiscriminate counsel, which throws a stumbling-block in the way of gradual improvement, and true melioration of temper, the sex is not much benefited by sacrificing solid virtues to the attainment of superficial graces, though for a few years they may procure the individuals regal sway.
As a philosopher, I read with indignation the plausible epithets which men use to soften their insults; and, as a moralist, I ask what is meant by such heterogeneous associations, as fair defects, amiable weaknesses, etc.? If there be but one criterion of morals, but one archetype for man, women appear to be suspended by destiny, according to the vulgar tale of Mahomet’s coffin; they have neither the unerring instinct of brutes, nor are allowed to fix the eye of reason on a perfect model. They were made to be loved, and must not aim at respect, lest they should be hunted out of society as masculine.
But to view the subject in another point of view. Do passive indolent women make the best wives? Confining our discussion to the present moment of existence, let us see how such weak creatures perform their part? Do the women who, by the attainment of a few superficial accomplishments, have strengthened the prevailing prejudice, merely contribute to the happiness of their husbands? Do they display their charms merely to amuse them? And have women, who have early imbibed notions of passive obedience, sufficient character to manage a family or educate children? So far from it, that, after surveying the history of woman, I cannot help, agreeing with the severest satirist, considering the sex as the weakest as well as the most oppressed half of the species. What does history disclose but marks of inferiority, and how few women have emancipated themselves from the galling yoke of sovereign man? – So few, that the exceptions remind me of an ingenious conjecture respecting Newton: that he was probably a being of a superior order, accidently caged in a human body. Following the same train of thinking, I have been led to imagine that the few extraordinary women who have rushed in eccentrical directions out of the orbit prescribed to their sex, were male spirits, confined by mistake in female frames. But if it be not philosophical to think of sex when the soul is mentioned, the inferiority must depend on the organs; or the heavenly fire, which is to ferment the clay, is not given in equal portions.
But avoiding, as I have hitherto done, any direct comparison of the two sexes collectively, or frankly acknowledging the inferiority of woman, according to the present appearance of things, I shall only insist that men have increased that inferiority till women are almost sunk below the standard of rational creatures. Let their faculties have room to unfold, and their virtues to gain strength, and then determine where the whole sex must stand in the intellectual scale. Yet let it be remembered, that for a small number of distinguished women I do not ask a place.
It is difficult for us purblind mortals to say to what height human discoveries and improvements may arrive when the gloom of despotism subsides, which makes us stumble at every step; but, when morality shall be settled on a more solid basis, then, without being gifted with a prophetic spirit, I will venture to predict that woman will be either the friend or slave of man. We shall not, as at present, doubt whether she is a moral agent, or the link which unites man with brutes. But, should it then appear, that like the brutes they were principally created for the use of man, he will let them patiently bite the bridle, and not mock them with empty praise; or, should their rationality be proved, he will not impede their improvement merely to gratify his sensual appetites. He will not, with all the graces of rhetoric, advise them to submit implicitly their understanding to the guidance of man. He will not, when he treats of the education of women, assert that they ought never to have the free use of reason, nor would he recommend cunning and dissimulation to beings who are acquiring, in like manner as himself, the virtues of humanity.
Surely there can be but one rule of right, if morality has an eternal foundation, and whoever sacrifices virtue, strictly so called, to present convenience, or whose duty it is to act in such a manner, lives only for the passing day, and cannot be an accountable creature.
The poet then should have dropped his sneer when he says, ‘If weak women go astray,
The stars are more in fault than they’ [15]
For that they are bound by the adamantine chain of destiny is most certain, if it be proved that they are never to exercise their own reason, never to be independent, never to rise above opinion, or to feel the dignity of a rational will that only bows to God, and often forgets that the universe contains any being but itself and the model of perfection to which its ardent gaze is turned, to adore attributes that, softened into virtues, may be imitated in kind, though the degree overwhelms the enraptured mind.
If, I say, for I would not impress by declamation when Reason offers her sober light, if they be really capable of acting like rational creatures, let them not be treated like slaves; or, like the brutes who are dependent on the reason of man, when they associate with him; but cultivate their minds, give them the salutary, sublime curb of principle, and let them attain conscious dignity by feeling themselves only dependent on God. Teach them, in common with man, to submit to necessity, instead of giving, to render them more pleasing, a sex to morals.
Further, should experience prove that they cannot attain the same degree of strength of mind, perseverance, and fortitude, let their virtues be the same in kind, though they may vainly struggle for the same degree; and the superiority of man will be equally clear, if not clearer; and truth, as it is a simple principle, which admits of no modification, would be common to both. Nay, the order of society as it is at present regulated would not be inverted, for woman would then only have the rank that reason assigned her, and arts could not be practised to bring the balance even, much less to turn it.
These may be termed utopian dreams. – Thanks to that Being who impressed them on my soul, and gave me sufficient strength of mind to dare to exert my own reason, till, becoming dependent only on him for the support of my virtue, I view, with indignation, the mistaken notions that enslave my sex.
I love man as my fellow; but his scepter, real, or usurped, extends not to me, unless the reason of an individual demands my homage; and even then the submission is to reason, and not to man. In fact, the conduct of an accountable being must be regulated by the operations of its own reason; or on what foundation rests the throne of God?
It appears to me necessary to dwell on these obvious truths, because females have been insulated, as it were; and, while they have been stripped of the virtues that should clothe humanity, they have been decked with artificial graces that enable them to exercise a short-lived tyranny. Love, in their bosoms, taking place of every nobler passion, their sole ambition is to be fair, to raise emotion instead of inspiring respect; and this ignoble desire, like the servility in absolute monarchies, destroys all strength of character. Liberty is the mother of virtue, and if women be, by their very constitution, slaves, and not allowed to breathe the sharp invigorating air of freedom, they must ever languish like exotics, and be reckoned beautiful flaws in nature.
As to the argument respecting the subjection in which the sex has ever been held, it retorts on man. The many have always been enthralled by the few; and monsters, who scarcely have shewn any discernment of human excellence, have tyrannized over thousands of their fellow-creatures. Why have men of superior endowments submitted to such degradation? For, is it not universally acknowledged that kings, viewed collectively, have ever been inferior, in abilities and virtue, to the same number of men taken from the common mass of mankind – yet, have they not, and are they not still treated with a degree of reverence that is an insult to reason; China is not the only country where a living man has been made a God. Men have submitted to superior strength to enjoy with impunity the pleasure of the moment – women have only done the same, and therefore till it is proved that the courtier, who servilely resigns the birthright of a man, is not a moral agent, it cannot be demonstrated that woman is essentially inferior to man because she has always been subjugated.
Brutal force has hitherto governed the world, and that the science of politics is in its infancy, is evident from philosophers scrupling to give the knowledge most useful to man that determinate distinction.
I shall not pursue this argument any further than to establish an obvious inference, that as sound politics diffuse liberty, mankind, including woman, will become more wise and virtuous.
Notes
- Paradise Lost,Book IV, 298.
- From Bacon’s “Of Atheism” essay.
- Paradise Lost,Book IV, 634-8.
- Paradise Lost,Book VIII, 381-91.
- Dr. John Gregory (1724-1773), author of A Father’s Legacy To His Daughters (1774).
- Why should women be censured with petulant acrimony, because they seem to have a passion for a scarlet coat? Has not education placed them more on a level with soldiers than any other class of men?
- Similar feelings has Milton’s pleasing picture of paradisiacal happiness ever raised in my mind; yet, instead of envying the lovely pair, I have, with conscious dignity, or Satanic pride, turned to hell for sublimer objects. In the same style, when viewing some noble monument of human art, I have traced the emanation of the Deity in the order I admired, till, descending from that giddy height, I have caught myself contemplating the grandest of all human sights, – for fancy quickly placed, in some solitary recess, an outcast of fortune, rising superior to passion and discontent.
- Epistles to Several Persons (also known as the Moral Essays), Epistle II, “To a Lady: Of the Characters of Women”, 51-52.
- Matthew 12:34.
- François de La Rochefoucauld, Reflections; or Sentences and Moral Maxims, 473.
- For example, the herd of Novelists.
- Vide Rousseau, and Swedenborg.
- Paradise Lost, Book IV, 498.
- Matthew Prior, “Hans Carvel” (1700).
License:
The Originals: Classic Readings in Western Philosophy by Dr. Jeff McLaughlin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 8: Friedrich Nietzsche
Thus Spoke Zarathustra (excerpt), Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
1
When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed,—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:
Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest!
For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and my serpent.
But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow, and blessed thee for it.
Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.
I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.
Therefore must I descend into the deep: as thou doest in the evening, when thou goest behind the sea, and givest light also to the nether-world, thou exuberant star!
Like thee must I go down, as men say, to whom I shall descend.
Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest happiness without envy!
Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss!
Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man.
Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.
2
Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him. When he entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood before him an old man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to Zarathustra:
“No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by. Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered.
Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not the incendiary’s doom?
Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer?
Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers?
As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up. Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body thyself?”
Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.”
“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved men far too well?
Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfect for me. Love to man would be fatal to me.”
Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto men.”
“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Take rather part of their load, and carry it along with them—that will be most agreeable unto them: if only it be agreeable unto thee!
If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, and let them also beg for it!”
“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for that.”
The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake thus: “Then see to it that they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful of anchorites, and do not believe that we come with gifts.
The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets. And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth the thief?
Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not be like me—a bear amongst bears, a bird amongst birds?”
“And what doeth the saint in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.
The saint answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns I laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God.
With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?”
When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: “What should I have to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I take aught away from thee!”—And thus they parted from one another, the old man and Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys.
When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: “Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that God is dead!”
3
When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance. And Zarathustra spake thus unto the people:
I teach you the Overman. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man?
All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man?
What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Overman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.
Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes.
Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants?
Lo, I teach you the Overman!
The Overmanis the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Overman shall be the meaning of the earth!
I conjure you, my brethren, remain true to the earth, and believe not those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not.
Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is weary: so away with them!
Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!
Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing:—the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly, and famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth.
Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul!
But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency?
Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure.
Lo, I teach you the Overman: he is that sea; in him can your great contempt be submerged.
What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue.
The hour when ye say: “What good is my happiness! It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify existence itself!”
The hour when ye say: “What good is my reason! Doth it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!”
The hour when ye say: “What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!”
The hour when ye say: “What good is my justice! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!”
The hour when we say: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.”
Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had heard you crying thus!
It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven!
Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye should be inoculated?
Lo, I teach you the Overman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!—
When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: “We have now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to see him!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied to him, began his performance.
4
Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake thus:
Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Overman—a rope over an abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.
What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is lovable in man is that he is an over-going and a down-going.
I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are the over-goers.
I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other shore.
I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going down and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth of the Overman may hereafter arrive.
I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in order that the Overman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going.
I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may build the house for the Overman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: for thus seeketh he his own down-going.
I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going, and an arrow of longing.
I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he as spirit over the bridge.
I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more.
I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’s destiny to cling to.
I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself.
I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then asketh: “Am I a dishonest player?”—for he is willing to succumb.
I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and always doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his own down-going.
I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones: for he is willing to succumb through the present ones.
I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he must succumb through the wrath of his God.
I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and all things are in him: thus all things become his down-going.
I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is his head only the bowels of his heart; his heart, however, causeth his down-going.
I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and succumb as heralds.
Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the lightning, however, is the Overman.—
5
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent. “There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.
Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?
They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds.
They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.
I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is the last man!”
And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:
It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.
Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.
Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!
I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.
Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.
Lo! I show you the last man.
“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so asketh the last man and blinketh.
The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest.
“We have discovered happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby.
They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loveth one’s neighbour and rubbeth against him; for one needeth warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death.
One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every one is equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse.
“Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and blink thereby.
They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is no end to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon reconciled—otherwise it spoileth their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.
“We have discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.—
And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also called “The Prologue”: for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,”—they called out—”make us into these last men! Then will we make thee a present of the Overman!” And all the people exulted and smacked their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned sad, and said to his heart:
“They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears.
Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I hearkened unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the goatherds.
Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests.
And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter.”
6
Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had commenced his performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little door opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,” cried his frightful voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face!—lest I tickle thee with my heel! What dost thou here between the towers? In the tower is the place for thee, thou shouldst be locked up; to one better than thyself thou blockest the way!”—And with every word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed—he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-place and the people were like the sea when the storm cometh on: they all flew apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall.
Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What art thou doing there?” said he at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to hell: wilt thou prevent him?”
“On mine honour, my friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all that whereof thou speakest: there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy body: fear, therefore, nothing any more!”
The man looked up distrustfully. “If thou speakest the truth,” said he, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal which hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare.”
“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “thou hast made danger thy calling; therein there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest by thy calling: therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands.”
When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.
7
Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to his heart:
Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a man he hath caught, but a corpse.
Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful to it.
I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Overman, the lightning out of the dark cloud—man.
But still am I far from them, and my sense speaketh not unto their sense. To men I am still something between a fool and a corpse.
Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, thou cold and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee with mine own hands.
8
When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpse upon his shoulders and set out on his way. Yet had he not gone a hundred steps, when there stole a man up to him and whispered in his ear—and lo! he that spake was the buffoon from the tower. “Leave this town, O Zarathustra,” said he, “there are too many here who hate thee. The good and just hate thee, and call thee their enemy and despiser; the believers in the orthodox belief hate thee, and call thee a danger to the multitude. It was thy good fortune to be laughed at: and verily thou spakest like a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associate with the dead dog; by so humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy life today. Depart, however, from this town,—or tomorrow I shall jump over thee, a living man over a dead one.” And when he had said this, the buffoon vanished; Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark streets.
At the gate of the town the grave-diggers met him: they shone their torch on his face, and, recognising Zarathustra, they sorely derided him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing that Zarathustra hath turned a grave-digger! For our hands are too cleanly for that roast. Will Zarathustra steal the bite from the devil? Well then, good luck to the repast! If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!—he will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughed among themselves, and put their heads together.
Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but went on his way. When he had gone on for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heard too much of the hungry howling of the wolves, and he himself became hungry. So he halted at a lonely house in which a light was burning.
“Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacketh me, and late in the night.
“Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it cometh to me only after a repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hath it been?”
And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who cometh unto me and my bad sleep?”
“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot it during the day. He that feedeth the hungry refresheth his own soul, saith wisdom.”
The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “A bad country for the hungry,” said he; “that is why I live here. Animal and man come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than thou.” Zarathustra answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to eat.” “That doth not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “he that knocketh at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and fare ye well!”—
Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trusting to the path and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker, and liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned, however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and no path was any longer visible. He then put the dead man in a hollow tree at his head—for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid himself down on the ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in body, but with a tranquil soul.
9
Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the rosy dawn passed over his head, but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazedly he gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedly he gazed into himself. Then he arose quickly, like a seafarer who all at once seeth the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And he spake thus to his heart:
A light hath dawned upon me: I need companions—living ones; not dead companions and corpses, which I carry with me where I will.
But I need living companions, who will follow me because they want to follow themselves—and to the place where I will. A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the people is Zarathustra to speak, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the herd’s herdsman and hound!
To allure many from the herd–for that purpose have I come. The people and the herd must be angry with me: a robber shall Zarathustra be called by the herdsmen.
Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief.
Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker:—he, however, is the creator.
Behold the believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker—he, however, is the creator.
Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herds or believers either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh—those who grave new values on new tables.
Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed.
Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers.
Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses!
And thou, my first companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried thee in thy hollow tree; well have I hid thee from the wolves.
But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn there came unto me a new truth.
I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Not any more will I discourse unto the people; for the last time have I spoken unto the dead.
With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate: the rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to the Overman.
To the lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to the twain-dwellers; and unto him who hath still ears for the unheard, will I make the heart heavy with my happiness.
I make for my goal, I follow my course; over the loitering and tardy will I leap. Thus let my on-going be their down-going!
10
This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood at noon-tide. Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heard above him the sharp call of a bird. And behold! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles, and on it hung a serpent, not like a prey, but like a friend: for it kept itself coiled round the eagle’s neck.
“They are mine animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart.
“The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the sun,— they have come out to reconnoitre.
They want to know whether Zarathustra still liveth. Verily, do I still live?
More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; in dangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead me!
When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the saint in the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to his heart:
“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the very heart, like my serpent!
But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride to go always with my wisdom!
And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:—alas! it loveth to fly away!—may my pride then fly with my folly!”
Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.
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Radical Social Theory: An Appraisal, A Critique, and an Overcoming by Friedrich Nietzsche is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 8: John Rawls
John Rawls’s Veil of Ignorance is probably one of the most influential philosophical ideas of the 20th century. The Veil of Ignorance is a way of working out the basic institutions and structures of a just society. According to Rawls, [1], working out what justice requires demands that we think as if we are building society from the ground up, in a way that everyone who is reasonable can accept. We, therefore, need to imagine ourselves in a situation before any particular society exists; Rawls calls this situation the Original Position. To be clear, Rawls does not think we can actually return to this original position, or even that it ever existed. It is a purely hypothetical idea: our job in thinking about justice is to imagine that we are designing a society from scratch. The idea is that social justice will be whatever reasonable people would agree to in such a situation. We can then start thinking about how to make our actual society look more like the ideal picture we have imagined.
Of course, if we were designing a society in the Original Position, people might try to ensure that it works in their favor. The process is thus vulnerable to biases, disagreements, and the potential for majority groups ganging up on minority groups. Rawls’s solution to this problem comes in two parts. Firstly, he makes some assumptions about the people designing their own society. People in the Original Position are assumed to be free and equal, and to have certain motivations: they want to do well for themselves, but they are prepared to adhere to reasonable terms of cooperation, so long as others do too. Rawls also simplifies his discussion by imagining that people in the Original Position do not have total freedom to design society as they see fit. Rather, they must choose from a menu of views taken from traditional Western philosophy on what justice involves.
The second part of the solution is the Veil of Ignorance. This involves a further leap of imagination. When we are thinking about justice, Rawls suggests that we imagine that we do not know many of the facts – both about ourselves and the society we currently live in – that typically influence our thinking in biased ways. By intentionally ignoring these facts, Rawls hoped that we would be able to avoid the biases that might otherwise come into a group decision. For instance, if I were helping to design a society, I might be tempted to try to make sure that society is set up to benefit philosophers, or men, or people who love science fiction novels. But if I don’t know any of those facts about myself, I can’t be tempted. The Veil is meant to ensure that people’s concern for their personal benefit could translate into a set of arrangements that were fair for everyone, assuming that they had to stick to those choices once the Veil of Ignorance ‘lifts’, and they are given full information again.
One set of facts hidden from you behind the Veil is what we might call ‘demographic’ facts. You do not know your gender, race, wealth, or facts about your personal strengths and weaknesses, such as your intelligence or physical prowess. Rawls thought these facts are morally arbitrary: individuals do not earn or deserve these features, but simply have them by luck. As such, they do not deserve any benefits or harm that come from them. By removing the knowledge of the natural inequalities that give people unfair advantages, it becomes irrational to choose principles that discriminate against any particular group. The Veil also hides facts about society. You do not know anything other than general facts about human life, and in particular, you do not how their society is organized. Finally, the Veil hides facts about your “view of the good”: your values, preferences about how your own life should go, and specific moral and political beliefs. Rawls was a political liberal. That meant, among other things, that he thought the state should be neutral between different views about value. So, Rawls isn’t afraid to make several significant assumptions about the people involved in making decisions behind the Veil. Some of his assumptions aim to turn the conflicts that arise between self-interested people into a fair decision procedure. As we’ll see, however, others might be more fairly criticized as unreasonably narrowing the possible outcomes that people can reach behind the Veil.
I will outline Rawls’s justification for the Veil of Ignorance, raise some potential challenges for the conclusions he thinks people will reach from behind it, and lastly consider three criticisms of the Veil of Ignorance as a theoretical device. While these criticisms differ in their substance, they are united by a common feature: their skepticism of the way the Veil abstracts from real life in order to reach conclusions about justice. I’ll conclude that these criticisms have merit; the Veil of Ignorance, considered by itself, does lead us to ignore the real world too much. However, I’ll suggest that, at least in their strongest versions, these criticisms miss an important benefit of the Veil: quite simply, the fact that our own personal concerns and values can bias our thinking about justice, and that we can make important progress by considering things from different points of view.
The principles of justice
Imagine that you find yourself behind the Veil of Ignorance. You might want to make sure that your life will go well. If you had to design a good life for yourself, you’d go for the specific things you care about. But behind the Veil you don’t know those specifics; you only know things that generally make people’s lives go well. Rawls calls these ‘Primary Goods’. They include things like money and other resources; basic rights and freedoms; and finally, the “social bases of self-respect”: the things you need to feel like an equal member of society.
In Rawls’s view, a central challenge behind the Veil is the lack of probabilities available. If you knew that your society was 90% Catholic, you could set things up so that the rewards associated with being Catholic were much higher. That would be personally rational since you are very likely to end up in the better-off group. The Veil prevents this type of reasoning because it hides the information. In the complete absence of probabilities, Rawls thinks you should play it safe and maximize the minimum you could get (a policy he calls Maximin). Translated into society, that means that we should ensure that the worst-off people in society do as well as possible.
Rawls suggests two principles will emerge from the discussion behind the Veil:
First Principle: Each person has the same indefeasible claim to a fully adequate scheme of equal basic liberties, compatible with the same liberties for all;
Second Principle: Social and economic inequalities must be:
- Attached to offices and positions open to all under fair equality of opportunity;
- To the greatest benefit of the least-advantaged members of society (the difference principle).
Rawls opts for equality of basic liberties in the First Principle because he thinks this is essential for seeing yourself as a moral equal in society. For other Primary Goods, though, equality is less important. By allowing some inequality, we could make life better for everyone. If we attach higher salaries to certain jobs, they may attract the hardest-working people, producing greater economic benefits for everyone. The two parts of Rawls’s second principle of justice set limits on when inequalities are allowed. Fair equality of opportunity says that positions which bring unequal payoffs must be open to people of equal talents and equal willingness to use them on an equal basis. If two people are just as capable of doing a job, and just as hardworking and willing to apply themselves, neither should have a greater chance of securing the position because they are wealthier or because of their race or religion. Of course, we might wonder (and Rawls does not give a clear answer about this) when we are supposed to judge whether two people are equally hardworking and talented. The talents you choose to develop, and the amount of effort you put in, are heavily affected by education; so it might seem unfair to judge people if they have had very different educational experiences. Rawls’s argument, therefore, seems to support ensuring broad equality of education, encouraging people to find and develop their talents to the fullest, even if this isn’t a conclusion he explicitly draws.
Finally, the Difference Principle sets a further restriction on inequalities. Even if a particular inequality does not affect the equality of opportunities, the Difference Principle tells us that it must be beneficial for the very worst off. For instance, it might be that by allowing inequalities, we motivate people to work harder, generating more Primary Goods overall. If these then benefit the worst off in society, making them better off than they would have been in a more equal distribution, the Difference Principle will allow that inequality.
Criticisms
As with any influential philosopher, Rawls has been the subject of much criticism and disagreement. In this final section, we consider three objections to Rawls’s reasoning around the Veil of Ignorance.
Ownership and rights
We have already noted that Rawls explicitly makes several assumptions that shape the nature of the discussion behind the Veil of Ignorance, and the outcomes that are likely to come out of it. However, one might challenge Rawls by disputing the fairness or intuitiveness of one or more of his assumptions.
Probably the most famous example of this comes from Robert Nozick.[2] Recall that Rawls’s principles establish rules to govern the institutions and principles that distribute goods. He thinks that if we work out what those institutions would look like in a perfectly just society, using the Veil of Ignorance, we can then start to move our current society in that direction. Nozick notes that in reality, most goods are already owned. Rawls’s view establishes a pattern that looks fair, but Nozick argues that we also need to look at the history of how various goods came to be owned. In some cases, we find that the person who owns those goods worked for them. In other cases, the individual will have inherited those goods, but they will have come from an ancestor who worked for them. In both cases, we cannot simply redistribute these goods to fit our pattern, because people have rights.
In Nozick’s view, once you have ownership rights, you can do pretty much what you want with it, so long as you do not violate anyone else’s rights. The fact that taking money you earned would benefit someone else cannot be the basis for government forcibly taking your money. One possible basis for this is the idea of ‘self-ownership’. Nozick thinks we will all agree that it would be wrong to force you to work if you didn’t want to. The reason for this is that your body is owned by you and nobody else. That principle extends, Nozick says, to what you do with your body: your labor. If you make something or work for money, that thing is yours and nobody else’s. Just as the state has no right to force you to do things with your body that you don’t want to do, it also has no right to force you to do things with your other property, like giving it away to the less fortunate. That might be a nice thing to do, but it isn’t something others can force you to do.
One problem with this argument, to which Rawls might appeal, is that my ability to work (and therefore gain property) depends on many other things:
- my education,
- my health that was guaranteed by a public health system,
- a stable society that affords me opportunities for employment, or
- for employing others.
So it’s not quite true that everything I produce comes from me alone.
Identity and ‘Neutrality’
A second criticism also concerns the fact that, behind the Veil, various facts are hidden from you. Rather than worrying about the substantive conclusions Rawls reaches, as Nozick does, this criticism worries about the very coherence of reasoned discussion behind the Veil of Ignorance.
Rawls’s Veil of Ignorance is an example of a theory of justice that has universal aspirations. Since one of the facts that is hidden by the veil is the nature of the society you live in, we may assume that the resulting principles are supposed to be applicable in all societies, though this is a view that Rawls attempted to reject in later work. In addition, people behind the Veil are supposed to come up with a view of how society should be structured while knowing almost nothing about themselves, and their lives.
One broad group who criticise these ideas are the so-called ‘communitarian’ philosophers, which includes Charles Taylor,[3], Michael Walzer[4], and Alasdair MacIntyre.[5] While their views differ, they tend to agree that what justice requires cannot be decided abstractly, but must instead be informed by local considerations and culture. Communitarians also suggest that Rawls’s conception of the individuals behind the Veil of Ignorance is problematic because they have so few defining features. Even if Rawls is right that people behind the Veil would agree on his two principles, communitarians think that the hypothetical agreement ignores much that is important.
Individuals behind the Veil are assumed to be largely self-interested and to have a strong interest in retaining the ability to abandon their current social roles and pursuits and take up new ones. According to the communitarians, however, we are born with existing social connections to particular people, cultures, and social roles. Whereas Rawls emphasizes our active engagement in shaping our own lives, communitarians want to remind us that our lives are unavoidably shaped by existing attachments that we do not choose. For instance, if you are born into a particular religious community, you can of course still renounce that religion. But your life will still be shaped by the fact that you are a member, or former member, of that community. It is worth noting, though, that this accusation is somewhat unfair to Rawls. While it is true that individuals behind the Veil do not know about their defining features, Rawls does not think that real people are like this. His interest is in trying to formulate a neutral way to decide between competing groups.
Certainly, it is a plausible worry that what justice requires may depend in part on the values of the society in question. As a liberal, Rawls is particularly worried about protecting individuals whose preferred lives go against the grain of the society in which they find themselves. Communitarians will object that the Veil of Ignorance goes beyond this protection, and rules out the possibility of different ideas of justice, informed by local values. Perhaps we should acknowledge that people behind the Veil of Ignorance would recognize the possibility that their society will turn out to be strongly attached to a particular set of values. A rational person behind the Veil might want to try to find a way to give a special place to such values while protecting dissenters.
Ideal justice?
Our final challenge also concerns the real-world applicability of Rawls’s principles. In brief, the claim from scholars of race and of gender is that Rawls’s abstract Veil of Ignorance ends up ignoring much that is relevant to justice.
The central criticism we consider here concerns the motivation of Rawls’s overall project. Rawls’s aim is to outline a theory of ‘ideal’ justice, or what a perfectly just society would look like. This ignores, purposefully, the many injustices that have happened and continue to happen, including the fact that most societies continue to exhibit racism, sexism, and other forms of discrimination.[6] As critics argue, we then get at best an incomplete theory, which does not tell us how to fix existing injustice or, as it is sometimes called, ‘non-ideal’ justice (an issue that Rawls himself describes as a “pressing and urgent matter”). For instance, people disagree about the idea of ‘reparations’ for racial slavery that shaped the United States. Yet because this is an issue of non-ideal justice (how should we respond to the fact that the United States and many of its citizens failed to comply with the basic requirements of justice?), the idealization of the Veil of Ignorance seems to give us no way to determine this important question.
This maps onto a more general question in political philosophy: if a theory of justice does not tell us how to act in our actual societies, does it have any value? While some[7] argue that Rawls’s work can be used to draw concrete conclusions about issues such as racial profiling and affirmative action, critics who reject this view may also argue that a theory of justice that is concerned only with the ideal ignores the most pressing issues of the day. In Rawls’s case, we may wonder whether we can accommodate such concerns by making small changes to his assumptions, or whether more radical changes (or even abandonment of the theory) are required.
Conclusion
The three criticisms outlined above all take issue, in different ways, with Rawls’s idealization away from the real world. Much of the value of Rawls’s work will depend on whether it is useful to construct ideal views of justice before, or at the same time as, thinking about the messier real world. Even a pessimistic conclusion on this issue, though, should recognize the following insight from Rawls: that what seems just or fair or right to any person is influenced not just by our background but by our own selfish interests. Even if the details face problems, Rawls’s Veil of Ignorance shows us that it can be valuable to imagine things from opposing points of view. While the criticisms from communitarians, scholars of race, and feminist scholars demonstrate the importance of considering the concrete features of our societies and lives, the basic idea of abstracting away from potential biases is an important one.
Nonetheless, this conclusion is consistent with recognizing two mistakes in making use of the Veil of Ignorance. Firstly, recognizing the importance of abstraction should not come at the cost of considering the real, concrete impact of policies we adopt, or of the social and historical context they are part of. Much political philosophy, at least in the USA and UK, can be criticized for neglecting these latter issues. Secondly, acknowledging the importance of the Veil of Ignorance does not mean that Rawls, and later philosophers, are right to have established an order of priority, where we first abstractly establish a view of ideal justice, and only then move on to non-ideal justice. It may be more productive to consider issues of justice from both the kind of abstract view represented by the Veil of Ignorance and from the more concrete view advocated by its critics.
Notes and Additional Readings
- John Rawls (1999) A Theory of Justice: Revised Edition, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press ↵
- Robert Nozick (1974) Anarchy, State and Utopia Blackwell Publishing (Oxford) pp.149-232 ↵
- Charles Taylor (1989) Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity Cambridge: CUP ↵
- Michael Walzer (1983) Spheres of Justice Oxford: Blackwell ↵
- Alasdair MacIntyre (1988) Whose Justice? Which Rationality? Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. ↵
- Carol Pateman and Charles Mills (2007) Contract and Domination Cambridge: Polity Press ↵
- Tommie Shelby (2004) ‘Race and Social Justice: Rawlsian Considerations’ Fordham Law Review 72: pp.1697‐1714. ↵
License:
Phronesis by Ben Davies is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Chapter 8: Cornel West
Chapter 8: Suggestions for further reading
Suggestions for further reading
- Angela Davis: Black Feminism – Angela Davis – Radical Social Theory: An Appraisal, A Critique, and an Overcoming (umass.edu) License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
- A vindication of the Rights of Women, Mary Wollstonecraft (full text) License: public domain
- PoliticalPhilosophyReader.pdf - Google Drive (Hannah Arendt, p 472 - links to Library of Congress Collection) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike International 4.0
- Mysteries of times of crisis: Hannah Arendt on morality under Nazism, Milen Jissov License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- John Rawls (Unrestricted Use) License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Michel Foucault and His Influences License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
- TRIBUTE: Professor Sophie Oluwole (1935-2018) | EduCeleb License: CC Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International
- Interview: Charles Mills on Racial Liberalism Always Already Podcast (wordpress.com) License: CC Attribution 4.0 International
- Difficult Dialogues: Dr. Charles W. Mills Internet Archive License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Judith Butler Goes to Norway | The Disorder Of Things License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
- Notes on bell hooks License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
- Race, Racism and the Law - Race, Racism and the Law, Anita L. Allen License: CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported