WITH THE AUTHOR’S REPLIES*
It is clear from what is said in this Meditation, that there is no criterion* by which our dreams may be distinguished from the waking state and from true sensation; and, therefore, that the phantasms* we have when awake and sentient are not accidents inhering in external objects, nor a proof that such external objects exist at all. Hence if we go along with our senses without any further reasoning-process, we shall rightly doubt whether anything exists or not. Therefore we recognize the truth of this Meditation. But since Plato and other ancient philosophers argued for the uncertainty of sensible things, and the difficulty of distinguishing sleep from waking is a matter of common observation, I would have wished this excellent author of new speculations to refrain from publishing these old ones.
The reasons for doubting, which are here admitted to be true by the Philosopher,* were put forward by me only as probable; and when I made use of them, I was not intending to pass them off as new, but
partly to prepare readers’ minds to consider intellectual things and to
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distinguish them from those of the body, for which purpose they seem to me to be altogether necessary; partly to answer them in the succeeding Meditations; and partly also to show how firm are the truths I later advance, since they cannot be shaken by these metaphysical doubts.* So in listing them here I was not seeking for praise; but I think I could no more have omitted them here than a writer on medicine can omit the description of the disease he aims to show us the method of curing.
I am a thinking thing (p. 19): all well and good. For from the fact that I think, or have a phantasm, whether I am asleep or awake, it can be inferred that I am thinking; for ‘I think’ and ‘I am thinking’ mean the same. From the fact that I am thinking, it follows that I exist, since what thinks is not nothing. But where he goes on to say that is, I am a mind, a soul, an understanding, a reason (p. 19), this is where doubt creeps in. For it does not seem a valid piece of reasoning to say, ‘I am thinking, therefore I am a thought’; or ‘I am understanding, therefore I am an understanding’. For I could similarly argue ‘I am walking, therefore I am a walk’. Therefore M. Descartes is running together the thing that understands and intellection, which is an act of the thing that understands; or at least he is taking the thing that understands to be the same thing as the understanding, which is a power of the intelligent thing. Yet all philosophers distinguish the subject from its faculties and acts, that is, from its
properties and essences; for the ‘being’ itself is one thing, and its ‘essence’ is
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another. Therefore it may be the case that a thinking thing is the subject of the mind, the reason, or the understanding, and therefore something bodily. M. Descartes assumes the contrary without proof. But his inference is the foundation of the conclusion he seems to be trying to establish here.
In the same place, we find this: I know that I exist; I am trying to find out what this ‘I’ is, whose existence I know. It is absolutely certain that this knowledge, in the precise sense in question here, does not depend on things of which I do not yet know whether they exist (p. 20).
It is absolutely certain that the knowledge of this proposition ‘I exist’ depends on this one ‘I am thinking’, as he himself has rightly shown. But where does the knowledge that ‘I am thinking’ come from? Certainly from nothing else than this: that we cannot conceive any action without its subject: we cannot conceive dancing without a dancer, knowledge without one who knows, thinking without a thinker.
And it seems to follow from this that the thinking thing is something bodily; for it seems that the subject of any act* can be understood only in bodily or material terms. He shows this himself later by the example of the wax, which, although its colour, hardness, shape, and other acts are changed, is still understood to be the same thing all along, that is, the same matter, subjected to all these transformations. For ‘I am thinking’ is not inferred from another thought: someone may think that he has thought (which is the same as remembering he has thought), but it is altogether impossible to think that one is thinking, just as one cannot know one is knowing. For there would then be an infinite string of questions: how do you know that you know that you know that you are knowing?
Since, therefore, the knowledge of this proposition ‘I exist’ depends on the knowledge of this one, ‘I am thinking’; and the knowledge of the latter on the fact that we cannot separate the act of thought from the matter that
thinks, it seems the inference should be that a thinking thing is material
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rather than immaterial.
When I said, ‘that is, a mind, a soul, an understanding, a reason’, I did not use these words merely to denote the various faculties, but to denote the things endowed with the faculty of thinking. The first two are usually understood in this sense, and the other two are often used in this way. And I have said this so explicitly and in so many places, that there seems to be no room for doubt here.
Nor does the comparison between walking and thinking hold good here. For the word ‘walk’ is normally understood only as denoting the action; but ‘thought’ is sometimes taken to refer to the action, sometimes to the faculty, and sometimes to the thing possessing the faculty.
Nor am I saying that the thing that understands and the act of intellection are one and the same, or that the thing that understands is the same as the understanding, in the sense of the faculty of understanding; they are the same only when ‘understanding’ is taken to refer to the thing that understands. I readily admit that I have used the most abstract words possible when referring to a thing or a substance, which I wanted to strip of everything that does not belong to it; whereas, on the other hand, the Philosopher uses the most concrete words possible—‘subject’, ‘matter’, ‘body’—when he refers to the thinking thing, so as to prevent it being divested of its body.
Nor do I fear that a reader may think that his method of combining a number of things together* is better equipped for finding the truth than mine, in which I distinguish things as much as possible. But let us forget about words, and talk about things.
He says: ‘It may be the case that the thinking thing is something
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bodily. M. Descartes assumes the contrary without proof.’ I certainly did not assume the contrary, or treat it as a foundation. I left the issue completely open, until the Sixth Meditation, in which I prove my view. *
Then he says, rightly, that ‘we cannot conceive any action without its subject’, as thought without a thinker, because what thinks is not nothing. But without any reason, and contrary to all our ordinary ways of talking and all logic, he adds: It seems to follow from this that the thinking thing is something bodily; for indeed the subjects of all acts can be understood only in terms of substances (or, if you prefer, in terms of matter, that is, metaphysical matter), but this does not mean they can be understood only in bodily terms.*
But all logicians and nearly all ordinary people as well are accustomed to say that some substances are spiritual, others bodily. And all I proved by the example of the wax was that colour, hardness, shape do not belong to the essence (ratio formalis) of the wax itself. And I said nothing here of the essence of the mind, or indeed of the essence of body.
Nor is what the Philosopher says here, that one thought cannot be the subject of another thought, at all relevant. Whoever, apart from himself, ever imagined this?* But—to explain the issue as briefly as possible—it is certain that thought cannot exist without a thinking
thing, nor can any act or any accident at all exist without a substance
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in which it inheres.
But since we do not know substance itself immediately by itself, but only inasmuch as it is the subject of certain acts,* it is entirely reasonable and in accordance with ordinary usage to call those substances we recognize to be the subjects of quite different acts or accidents by different names, examining at a later stage whether those different names refer to different things or to one and the same thing. Now there are some acts we call ‘bodily’, such as size, shape, movement, and all those other things that cannot be conceived without extension in space; and we call the substance in which they inhere a ‘body’. Nor can we imagine that there is one substance that is the subject of shape, and another that is the subject of local motion, and so forth, because all these acts come together under a single common concept (ratio) of extension. Then there are other acts, which we call ‘cogitative’, such as understanding, willing, imagining, perceiving by the senses, and so on, which all come together under a common concept of thought, or perception, or consciousness; and the substance in which they inhere is called a ‘thinking thing’, or a ‘mind’, or any other name we choose, as long as we do not confuse this substance with bodily substance, since cogitative acts have no affinity with bodily acts, and thought, which is the common element in all of them, differs radically from extension, which is the common element of the other kind. But after we have formed two distinct concepts of these two substances, it is easy, from what is said in the Sixth Meditation, to discover whether they are one and the same or two different substances.
What therefore is there that can be distinguished from my thinking? What is there that can be said to be separate from me? (p. 21)*
Someone might perhaps answer this question as follows: I myself, who think, am to be distinguished from my thinking; and my thinking is not separate from me, but different from me, just as dancing is distinguished from the dancer (as was pointed out above). But if M. Descartes has shown that the one who understands and the understanding are one and the same, we shall fall back into the scholastic way of talking: ‘the understanding understands’, ‘the sight sees’, ‘the will wills’, and, to use an exact analogy, ‘the walk (or at least the faculty of walking) walks’. But all these expressions are obscure, inaccurate, and most unworthy of M. Descartes’s usual perspicuity.
I do not deny that I, who think, am to be distinguished from my thinking, as a thing from a mode; but when I ask ‘Is there any of them that can be distinguished from my thinking?’, I am talking about the various modes of thinking just listed, and not about my substance; and, when I add ‘Is there any of them that can be said to be separate from me?’, I mean only that all these modes of thinking are present in me; and I cannot see what can be imagined to be doubtful or obscure in any of this.
So I am left with no alternative, but to accept that I am not at all imagining what this wax is, I am conceiving* it with my mind alone (pp. 22–3).
There is a great difference between imagining, that is, having some
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idea, and conceiving with the mind, that is, inferring that something is, or exists, by a process of reasoning. But M. Descartes has not explained to us in what the difference consists. The Peripatetics* of old also showed quite clearly that substance is not perceived by the senses, but inferred by reasoning.
But what if reasoning is nothing other than a coupling and attachment of names or labels, by means of the word ‘is’?* It would follow that by reasoning we infer nothing at all about the nature of things but only about their labels—that is, whether or not we are combining the names of things according to the stipulations we have laid down about the meanings we have decided to attach to the names. If this is so (and it may be), then reasoning depends on names, names on the imagination, and the imagination perhaps (as I myself hold) on the motion of the bodily organs; and thus the mind would be no more than a motion in certain parts of the organic body.
I explained the difference between imagination and the pure concept of the mind at this point, when I listed, using the example of the wax, the things we imagine in it and those we conceive by the mind alone. But I have also explained elsewhere the difference between how we understand something, say, a pentagon, and how we imagine the same thing.* Besides, in reasoning, there is a coupling not of names, but of the things signified by the names; and I am amazed that
anyone can think the contrary. No one doubts that a Frenchman and
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a German can both reason about the very same things, though the words they conceive are utterly different. And is not the Philosopher condemning himself out of his own mouth when he speaks of the stipulations we lay down about the meanings of words? For if he admits that words mean something, why can he not accept that our reasonings are about the thing that is signified, rather than about the words alone? But as far as his conclusion that the mind is motion is concerned, he might just as well conclude at the same time that the earth is the sky, or anything he likes.
Some of these thoughts are apparently images of things, and to these alone the name ‘idea’ is properly applied: for instance, when I think of a human being, or a chimera, or the heavens, or an angel, or God. (pp. 26–7).
When I think of a human being, I recognize an idea, or an image composed of shape and colour, about which I may ask myself whether it is the likeness of a human being or not. The same applies when I think of the heavens. When I think of a chimera, I recognize an idea, or an image, about which I can ask myself whether or not it is the likeness of some animal that does not exist, but that could exist, or that existed at some earlier time.
But when someone is thinking of an angel, there comes to his mind sometimes the image of a flame, sometimes that of a beautiful boy with wings, about which I think I can be certain that it is not the likeness of an
angel, and therefore that this is not the idea of an angel. But believing
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that there are immaterial and invisible creatures that wait upon God, we attach the name ‘angel’ to this thing we believe or suppose exists, although the idea, by means of which I imagine an angel, is put together from the ideas of visible things.
The same is true of the holy name of God of whom we have no image or idea; and therefore we are forbidden to worship God in the form of an image, in case we should think we can conceive him who is beyond our conception.
It seems, then, that there is no idea of God in us. But just as a person born blind, who has often come close to the fire and felt himself grow hot, recognizes that there is something by which he is heated, and hearing it called a ‘fire’, concludes that fire exists, yet does not know what shape or colour it is, nor has any idea or image of fire arising in his mind; so man, realizing that there must be some cause of his images or ideas, and that this cause too must have another cause prior to it, and so on, is finally led to an end-point, or to the supposition of some eternal cause that, since it never began to be, can have no cause prior to itself. He necessarily concludes that something eternal exists.* Yet he has no idea that he could call the idea of this eternal being, but gives this thing he believes in or acknowledges the name or label ‘God’.
Now, since it is from this supposition, that we have the idea of God in our soul, that M. Descartes proceeds to prove the theorem that God (that is, a supremely wise and powerful creator of the world) exists, he should have given a better explanation of this idea of God, and deduced from it not only God’s existence but his creation of the world as well.
Here he intends the term ‘idea’ to be taken purely in the sense of the images of material things that are depicted in the bodily imagination. On this basis, it is easy for him to prove that there can be no proper idea of an angel or of God. And yet throughout my work and especially here, I make clear that I take the term ‘idea’ to signify everything that is directly perceived by the mind.* This means that, because, when I will or fear, I perceive at the same time that I am willing or fearing, willing and fearing count for me as ideas. And I used this term ‘ideas’, because it had already been very commonly used by philosophers to denote the forms of perception of the divine mind, although we recognize that there is no imagination in God; and I had no more suitable term to hand. But I think I have sufficiently explained the idea of God to all who will take the trouble to bear in mind the sense in which I use it; as for those, on the other hand, who prefer to understand my terms in a different sense from me, I could never do enough to satisfy them. The concluding remarks he adds about the creation of the world are entirely irrelevant.
But others have certain other forms as well; thus, when I will, or fear, or affirm, or deny, I am always in fact apprehending some thing as the subject of this thought, but I am including something further within the thought than the mere likeness of the thing; and of thoughts of this kind some are called volitions, or affects, whereas others are called judgements (p. 27).
When someone wills or fears, he has, to be sure, an image of the thing
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he fears and of the action he wills; but what he is further including within his thought is not made clear. Even if fear is a thought, I do not see what else it can be than the thought of the thing the person fears. For what is the fear of a charging lion, but the idea of a charging lion, plus the effect (which such an idea produces in the heart) by which the person in fear is impelled to the animal motion we call flight? But this motion of flight is not a thought. Hence we can only conclude that there is no other thought involved in fear beyond that which consists in the likeness of the thing. The same applies to the will.
Besides, affirmation and negation do not occur without words and labels. This is why brute beasts cannot affirm or deny, even in thought, and therefore cannot judge. Yet a thought may be similar in a human being and in an animal. For when we affirm that a man is running, our thought is no different from that of a dog seeing his master running. Affirmation or negation therefore add nothing to the bare thought itself, except perhaps the thought that the names in which the affirmation consists are the names of the actual thing that is in the person who affirms; but this adds nothing besides the likeness of the thing to the thought, it merely reproduces that likeness.
It is a thing directly known that there is a difference between, on the one hand, seeing a lion and at the same time fearing it, and, on the other, simply seeing it. Likewise it is one thing to see a man running, and
another to affirm to oneself that one is seeing him, which process occurs
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without speech. And I can see nothing here that requires an answer.
It remains for me only to examine in what fashion I received this idea from God. For I did not derive it from the senses, nor did it ever thrust itself spontaneously on my attention, as do the ideas of sensible things, when the things themselves make an impression on the external sense-organs (or appear to do so). Nor is it a fiction, a creation of my own, for I cannot subtract anything from it, or add anything at all to it. It must therefore be that the idea is innate within me, in the same way as the idea of myself is innate within me (pp. 36–7).
If there is no idea of God (and it has not been proved that there is), and in fact there seems not to be one, this whole investigation collapses. Besides, the idea of myself arises in me (from the point of view of the body) from sight; from the point of view of the soul, there is no idea of the soul at all, but we infer by reason that there is something inside the human body that imparts animal motion to it, and in virtue of which it perceives by the senses and is moved. And this, whatever it is, we call the soul: but we have no idea of it.
If there is an idea of God (as there manifestly is) this whole objection collapses. And when he adds that the idea of the soul is not given, but it is inferred by reason, this is tantamount to saying that we do not have an image of it represented in our imagination, but that we have what I have called an idea of it.
The other [idea of the sun], however, derives from astronomical reasoning—that is to say, it is derived from some notions innate within me (p. 28).
There seems to be only one idea of the sun at a given time, whether we are actually looking at it, or whether we are understanding by a process of reasoning that its real size is far greater than it appears. For in this second case, we are dealing not with an idea of the sun, but with an inference on the basis of arguments that the idea of the sun would be many times greater, if we were viewing it from much closer.
It is true that at different times there may be different ideas of the sun, for instance, if at one time it is viewed with the naked eye and at another through a telescope. But astronomical reasoning does not make the idea of the sun bigger or smaller; rather, it shows that the sensible idea of the sun is deceptive.
Here yet again what he says is not an idea of the sun, and yet describes, is exactly the same as what I call an idea.*
For beyond doubt those ideas that represent substances to me are something greater, and contain, if I may use the term, more ‘objective reality’ in themselves, than those that represent merely modes or accidents. And by the same token the idea by which I conceive a
supreme God, eternal, infinite, omniscient, all-powerful, and the
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creator of all things that exist beside himself, certainly has more objective reality in itself than those by which finite substances are represented (p. 29).
I have already remarked several times that we have no idea either of God or of the soul; I would add now, that there is none of substance either. For substance (considered as matter subject to various accidents and alterations) is inferred by reasoning alone; it is not conceived nor does it represent any idea to us. If this is the case, how can it be asserted that the ideas that represent substances to me are something greater, and contain more objective reality, than those that represent accidents to me? Besides M. Descartes should consider afresh what he means by ‘more reality’. Can there be more or less reality? Or if he thinks that one thing is more of a thing than another, he should consider how this notion can be explained to us with the degree of clarity that is required in any demonstration, and that he himself has achieved elsewhere.
I have remarked several times that by ‘idea’ I mean precisely what is inferred by reason, as well as whatever else is perceived in any way. And I have sufficiently explained how there can be greater or lesser degrees of reality. For instance, a substance is more of a thing than a mode is; and if there are real qualities,* or incomplete substances, they are things in a greater degree than modes, but less than complete substances; and finally if there is an infinite and independent substance, it is more of a thing than finite and dependent substance. And all of this is manifestly known directly.
And so there remains only the idea of God, in which I must consider whether there is anything that could not derive from myself. By the name ‘God’ I understand an infinite, independent, supremely intelligent, supremely powerful substance, by which I myself and whatever else exists (if anything else does exist) was created. But certainly all these advantages are so great that, the more carefully I consider them, the less it seems possible that they can be derived from me alone. And so I must conclude that it necessarily follows from all that has been said up to now that God exists (p. 32).
Considering the attributes of God, in order that we may deduce the idea of God from them, and discern whether there is anything in it that could not have derived from ourselves, I find, if I am not mistaken, both that the things we think of in connection with the name of God do not derive from ourselves, and that it is not necessary that they should come from anywhere other than external objects. For by the name of God I mean a ‘substance’ (that is, I understand that God exists—not by means of an idea, but by a process of reasoning); that is ‘infinite’ (that is, I cannot conceive or imagine him as having any boundaries or extremities, without being able to imagine others still more remote: from this it follows that the word ‘infinite’ gives rise to an idea not of the divine infinity, but of my own boundaries or limitations); that is ‘independent’ (that is, I cannot conceive of a cause by which God has been produced; from which it is clear that the word ‘independent’ gives rise to no idea in me, beyond my remembrance of my ideas as beginning at different times, and thus as dependent.
Therefore, to say that God is ‘independent’ is to say no more than
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that God is one of those things the origin of which I cannot imagine. Likewise, to say God is ‘infinite’, is the same as saying that he is one of those things the limits of which we cannot conceive. And thus any idea of God is shown to be impossible: for what kind of idea can there be without origin and without limits?
‘Supremely intelligent.’ Here I ask: By what idea does M. Descartes understand the intellection of God?
‘Supremely powerful.’ Likewise, by what idea can we understand his power, which relates to future things, that is, things that do not exist? It is certain that I understand power on the basis of an image, or memory, of past events, by reasoning as follows: he did this, therefore he was able to do this; therefore the same being will be able to do the same thing again, that is, he has the power of doing it. Now all of these are ideas that can have arisen from external objects.
‘Creator of all that exists.’ I can form a certain image of creation in my mind based on what I have seen, such as a human being being born or growing as if from a tiny point into the shape and size it now has. That is the only idea that can arise in anyone’s mind at the word ‘creator’. But the fact that we can imagine the world being created is not sufficient proof that creation took place. Therefore, even if it were proved that some being infinite, independent, supremely powerful, &c. exists, it does not follow that there exists a creator. Unless someone were to think that from the fact that there exists something we believe created everything else, we can validly conclude that the world was therefore created at some time by that being.
Besides, when he says that the idea of God and of our soul is innate
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within us, I should like to know if the souls of people in a deep dreamless sleep are thinking. If not, then they have no ideas at that time. Therefore no idea is innate; for what is innate is always present.
None of the properties we ascribe to God can have been modelled on properties of external objects, since there is nothing in God similar to the properties of external—that is, bodily—objects. But whatever we think that is dissimilar to them, clearly derives not from them, but from a cause of this dissimilarity in our thought.*
And here I would ask how this philosopher deduces the intellection of God from external things. Whereas the idea I have of it, I can readily explain, by saying that by an idea, I mean whatever is the form of some perception. For anyone who understands something perceives that he understands. He therefore has this form, or idea, of intellection, by extending which indefinitely he forms the idea of the divine intellection. The same applies to the rest of God’s attributes.*
Since, indeed, I have used the idea of God that we have to demonstrate his existence, and since so much power is contained in this idea that we understand that it is impossible, if God exists, for anything else to exist alongside him, except what was created by him, it plainly follows, from the fact that his existence has been demonstrated, that it has also been demonstrated that the whole world, or in other words every thing other than God, whatever it is, that exists, was created by him.
Finally, when I say that some idea is innate within us, I do not
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mean that that idea is always present to us—for in that sense certainly there would be no innate ideas; I mean only that we have in ourselves the faculty of producing it.*
The whole force of the argument comes down to this, that I recognize that it cannot be that I should exist, with the nature I possess (that is, having the idea of God within myself), unless in reality God also exists—God, the same being whose idea is within me (p. 37).
Since, therefore, it has not been demonstrated that we have an idea of God, and the Christian religion requires us to believe that God is inconceivable, which means, it seems to me, that we do not have an idea of him, it follows that the existence of God has not been demonstrated, far less his creation [of the world].
When God is stated to be inconceivable, what this means is that there is no concept that grasps him adequately. But as for how we possess the idea of God, I have said this again and again ad nauseam; and nothing at all is asserted here that invalidates my demonstrations.
And thus I can understand, quite certainly, that error, in so far as it is error, is not something real dependent on God, but purely and simply a deficiency; and therefore that, in order to make mistakes I do not need a special faculty given me by God for this purpose (p. 39).
It is certain that ignorance is nothing but a deficiency, nor do we need any positive faculty to enable us to be ignorant. But this is not so clear as regards error. For it seems that stones and inanimate things cannot make mistakes, purely and simply because they do not have the faculty of reasoning, or of imagining. Hence one is inclined to infer that in order to make mistakes we need the faculty of reasoning, or at least imagining, and both of these are positive faculties, given to all those and only those who make mistakes.
Besides, M. Descartes says this: I realize that they [sc. my errors] depend on two simultaneously operative causes, namely, the faculty I possess of acquiring knowledge [cognoscendi] and the faculty of choosing, or free will (p. 40). This seems to contradict the preceding passage. We should also note here that the freedom of the will is assumed without proof, contrary to the opinion of the Calvinists.*
Even if in order to make mistakes the faculty of reasoning (or rather judging, that is, affirming or denying) is required, it does not follow
from the fact that error is a deficiency of this faculty that the
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deficiency is something real; just as blindness is not something real, even though stones are not said to be blind, purely and simply because they are not capable of vision. And I am amazed that so far I have not found a single valid inference in these objections. Besides, I made no assumptions about freedom here, except what we all experience in ourselves, and what is manifestly known by the natural light. Nor can I understand why this is alleged to be contradictory to what has gone before.*
Even though perhaps that are many people who, when they consider God’s foreordaining [of all things], cannot grasp how it can coexist with our freedom, no one, however, when he simply looks at himself, does not realize in his own experience that will and freedom are one and the same thing. And this is not the place to examine other people’s opinions about the matter.*
For example, when I was examining over these last few days, whether anything existed in the world, and realized that, from the very fact that I was examining this point, it clearly followed that I existed, I could not indeed refrain from judging that what I so clearly understood was true. It was not that I was compelled to this by some external force, but that a great illumination of the understanding was followed by a great inclination of the will; and in this way my belief was all the freer and more spontaneous for my being less indifferent (p. 42).
This expression, ‘a great illumination of the understanding’, is
metaphorical, and therefore has no argumentative value. Besides, every-one
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who is free from doubt, lays claim to such an illumination, and his inclination of the will to affirm what he has no doubt is true is just as strong as that of someone who really does have knowledge. Besides, not only knowing something to be true, but also believing it or assenting to it, are things that have nothing to do with the will. For if something is proved by valid arguments, or credibly reported, we believe it whether we want to or not. It is true that to affirm and deny, and to defend and refute propositions, are acts of the will. But it does not therefore follow that our internal assent depends on the will.
Therefore there is no sufficient demonstration of the subsequent conclusion: The privation in which the essence of error consists lies in this wrong use of free choice (p. 43).
It is entirely pointless to ask whether the expression ‘a great illumination’ has any argumentative value or not, as long as it has explanatory value, which is certainly does. For no one is unaware that what is meant by an ‘illumination of the understanding’ is perspicuity of knowledge; and perhaps not all those who think they possess it, possess it in fact. But this does not mean that there is not a very great difference between this illumination and an obstinate opinion formed without an evident perception.
When it is said here that we assent to things we clearly grasp whether we want to or not, that is like saying that we desire what is clearly known to be good whether we want to or not. For the expression ‘whether we want to or not’ is quite out of place in such matters as this, since it is self-contradictory to say that we want and do not want the same thing.*
For instance, when I imagine a triangle, even if perhaps such a figure does not exist, and has never existed, anywhere at all outside my thought, it nonetheless certainly has a determinate nature, or essence, or form, that is immutable and unchanging, which was not invented by me, and does not depend on my mind. This is clear from the fact that it is possible to demonstrate various properties of the triangle (p. 46).
If a triangle exists nowhere at all, I cannot understand how it can have a nature of any kind; for what is nowhere does not exist; therefore it has no being, or nature of any kind. The triangle in the mind arises from a triangle seen, or from an image based on things seen. However, once we have attached the name ‘triangle’ to the thing that we think has given rise to the idea of the triangle, then although the triangle itself may cease to exist, the name remains. Likewise, if we have once grasped in our thoughts that the sum of all the angles of the triangle is equal to two right angles, and we attach this other name to the triangle, ‘a shape having three angles equal to two right angles’, then even if no angle actually existed in the world, the name would still remain, and the corresponding proposition, ‘a triangle is a shape having three angles equal to two right angles’, would be eternally true. But the nature of the triangle would not be eternal, if it came about that all triangles ceased to exist.
Likewise, the proposition ‘man is an animal’ will be true for all eternity, since the names are eternal; but if the human race were to perish, then there would no longer be any human nature.
From this it is clear that essence, in so far as it is distinguished from
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existence, is nothing other than a coupling of names by the word ‘is’. Thus essence without existence is a fiction of our own creation. And it seems to be that the relation of the image of a human being in our mind to the actual human being is the same as the relation of essence to existence; or in other words, the relation of the proposition ‘Socrates is a human being’ to the proposition ‘Socrates is, or exists’ is the same as the relation of Socrates’s essence to his existence. Now the proposition ‘Socrates is a human being’, uttered at a time when Socrates does not exist, signifies simply a combination of names, and the word ‘is’ or ‘being’, involves the underlying image of the unity of a thing referred to by two different names.
The distinction between essence and existence is known to everybody; and what is said here about eternal names, instead of concepts and ideas that are eternally true, has been sufficiently refuted already.*
For since he has certainly given me no faculty by which I might realize this [that is to say, that God, by himself or by the intermediary of some creature more noble than bodies, conveys to me the ideas of body]* to be true, but has, on the contrary, endowed me with a strong propensity to believe that these ideas are conveyed by bodily things, I cannot see how, if they were in fact from some other source, it would be possible to think of him except as a deceiver. And therefore bodily things exist (p. 56).
There is a generally accepted view that doctors commit no sin who
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deceive their patients for the good of their health, or fathers who deceive their children for their own good; and that the wrongness of deception consists not in the falsity of what is said, but in the injustice done by deceivers. Therefore M. Descartes should examine whether the proposition ‘God cannot in any case deceive us’ is universally true; for if it is not universally true, the conclusion does not follow that therefore bodily things exist.
It is not necessary to my conclusion that we can in no case be deceived (for I have readily admitted that we are often deceived), only that we are not deceived, when an error on our part would indicate the will on God’s part to deceive us, which it is impossible to ascribe to him. Yet another faulty inference.
For now I realize that there is a massive difference between them [waking and dreaming], inasmuch as dreams are never combined by my memory with the rest of the actions of my life, as happens with my waking experiences (p. 63).
I would ask whether it is certain that someone dreaming that he is doubting whether he is dreaming or not cannot dream that his dream is connected with ideas of a long chain of past events. If he can, then the things that in his dream appear to him to be actions carried out in his past life, can be deemed to be true, just as much as if he were awake. Besides,
since, as M. Descartes himself asserts, all certitude of knowledge and all
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truth depend on the single knowledge of the true God, either an atheist cannot infer from the memory of his past life that he is awake or someone can know he is awake without the knowledge of the true God.
One who is dreaming cannot really connect his dreams with ideas of past events, although he may dream that he is making the connection. For who denies that a sleeper may be deceived? Yet when he subsequently awakes he will easily recognize his error.*
An atheist can certainly infer that he is awake from the memory of his past life; but he cannot know that this sign is sufficient for him to be certain he is not mistaken, unless he knows that he was created by a God that is not a deceiver.