1642
MEDITATIONS ON THE FIRST PHILOSOPHY
IN WHICH THE EXISTENCE OF GOD, AND THE REAL DISTINCTION
OF MIND AND BODY, ARE DEMONSTRATED
by Rene Descartes
translated by John Veitch, LL.D.
TO THE VERY SAGE AND ILLUSTRIOUS
THE DEAN AND DOCTORS OF THE SACRED FACULTY
OF THEOLOGY OF PARIS
GENTLEMEN,- The motive which impels me to present this treatise to
you is so reasonable, and, when you shall learn its design, I am
confident that you also will consider that there is ground so valid
for your taking it under your protection, that I can in no way
better recommend it to you than by briefly stating the end which I
proposed to myself in it. I have always been of opinion that the two
questions respecting God and the soul were the chief of those that
ought to be determined by help of philosophy rather than of
theology; for although to us, the faithful, it be sufficient to hold
as matters of faith, that the human soul does not perish with the
body, and that God exists, it yet assuredly seems impossible ever to
persuade infidels of the reality of any religion, or almost even any
moral virtue, unless, first of all, those two things be proved to them
by natural reason. And since in this life there are frequently greater
rewards held out to vice than to virtue, few would prefer the right to
the useful, if they were restrained neither by the fear of God nor the
expectation of another life; and although it is quite true that the
existence of God is to be believed since it is taught in the sacred
Scriptures, and that, on the other hand, the sacred Scriptures are
to be believed because they come from God (for since faith is a gift
of God, the same Being who bestows grace to enable us to believe other
things, can likewise impart of it to enable us to believe his own
existence), nevertheless, this cannot be submitted to infidels, who
would consider that the reasoning proceeded in a circle. And,
indeed, I have observed that you, with all the other theologians,
not only affirmed the sufficiency of natural reason for the proof of
the existence of God, but also, that it may be inferred from sacred
Scripture, that the knowledge of God is much clearer than of many
created things, and that it is really so easy of acquisition as to
leave those who do not possess it blame-worthy. This is manifest
from these words of the Book of Wisdom, chap. xiii., where it is said,
Howbeit they are not to be excused; for if their understanding was so
great that they could discern the world and the creatures, why did
they not rather find out the Lord thereof? * And in Romans, chap. i.,
it is said that they are ®without excuse; and again, in the same
place, by these words,-That which may be known of God is manifest in
them- we seem to be admonished that all which can be known of God may
be made manifest by reasons obtained from no other source than the
inspection of our own minds. I have, therefore, thought that it
would not be unbecoming in me to inquire how and by what way,
without going out of ourselves, God may be more easily and certainly
known than the things of the world.
And as regards the soul, although many have judged that its nature
could not be easily discovered, and some have even ventured to say
that human reason led to the conclusion that it perished with the
body, and that the contrary opinion could be held through faith alone;
nevertheless, since the Lateran Council, held under Leo X. (in session
viii.), condemns these, and expressly enjoins Christian philosophers
to refute their arguments, and establish the truth according to
their ability, I have ventured to attempt it in this work. Moreover, I
am aware that most of the irreligious deny the existence of God, and
the distinctness of the human soul from the body, for no other
reason than because these points, as they allege, have never as yet
been demonstrated. Now, although I am by no means of their opinion,
but, on the contrary, hold that almost all the proofs which have
been adduced on these questions by great men, possess, when rightly
understood, the force of demonstrations, and that it is next to
impossible to discover new, yet there is, I apprehend, no more
useful service to be performed in philosophy, than if some one were,
once for all, carefully to seek out the best of these reasons, and
expound them so accurately and clearly that, for the future, it
might be manifest to all that they are real demonstrations. And
finally, since many persons were greatly desirous of this, who knew
that I had cultivated a certain method of resolving all kinds of
difficulties in the sciences, which is not indeed new (there being
nothing older than truth), but of which they were aware I had made
successful use in other instances, I judged it to be my duty to make
trial of it also on the present matter.
Now the sum of what I have been able to accomplish on the subject is
contained in this treatise. Not that I here essayed to collect all the
diverse reasons which might be adduced as proofs on this subject,
for this does not seem to be necessary, unless on matters where no one
proof of adequate certainty is to be had; but I treated the first
and chief alone in such a manner that I should venture now to
propose them as demonstrations of the highest certainty and
evidence. And I will also add that they are such as to lead me to
think that there is no way open to the mind of man by which proofs
superior to them can ever be discovered; for the importance of the
subject, and the glory of God, to which all this relates, constrain me
to speak here somewhat more freely of myself than I have been
accustomed to do. Nevertheless, whatever certitude and evidence I
may find in these demonstrations, I cannot therefore persuade myself
that they are level to the comprehension of all. But just as in
geometry there are many of the demonstrations of Archimedes,
Apollonius, Pappus, and others, which, though received by all as
evident even and certain (because indeed they manifestly contain
nothing which, considered by itself, it is not very easy to
understand, and no consequents that are inaccurately related to
their antecedents), are nevertheless understood by a very limited
number, because they are somewhat long, and demand the whole attention
of the reader: so in the same way, although I consider the
demonstrations of which I here make use, to be equal or even
superior to the geometrical in certitude and evidence, I am afraid,
nevertheless, that they will not be adequately understood by many,
as well because they also are somewhat long and involved, as chiefly
because they require the mind to be entirely free from prejudice,
and able with ease to detach itself from the commerce of the senses.
And, to speak the truth, the ability for metaphysical studies is
less general than for those of geometry. And, besides, there is
still this difference that, as in geometry, all are persuaded that
nothing is usually advanced of which there is not a certain
demonstration, those but partially versed in it err more frequently in
assenting to what is false, from a desire of seeming to understand it,
than in denying what is true. In philosophy, on the other hand,
where it is believed that all is doubtful, few sincerely give
themselves to the search after truth, and by far the greater number
seek the reputation of bold thinkers by audaciously impugning such
truths as are of the greatest moment.
Hence it is that, whatever force my reasonings may possess, yet
because they belong to philosophy, I do not expect they will have much
effect on the minds of men, unless you extend to them your patronage
and approval. But since your faculty is held in so great esteem by
all, and since the name of SORBONNE is of such authority, that not
only in matters of faith, but even also in what regards human
philosophy, has the judgment of no other society, after the sacred
councils, received so great deference, it being the universal
conviction that it is impossible elsewhere to find greater
perspicacity and solidity, or greater wisdom and integrity in giving
judgment, I doubt not,- if you but condescend to pay so much regard to
this treatise as to be willing, in the first place, to correct it
(for, mindful not only of my humanity, but chiefly also of my
ignorance, I do not affirm that it is free from errors); in the second
place, to supply what is wanting in it, to perfect what is incomplete,
and to give more ample illustration where it is demanded, or at
least to indicate these defects to myself that I may endeavour to
remedy them; and, finally, when the reasonings contained in it, by
which the existence of God and the distinction of the human soul
from the body are established, shall have been brought to such
degree of perspicuity as to be esteemed exact demonstrations, of which
I am assured they admit, if you condescend to accord them the
authority of your approbation, and render a public testimony of
their truth and certainty,- I doubt not, I say, but that
henceforward all the errors which have ever been entertained on
these questions will very soon be effaced from the minds of men. For
truth itself will readily lead the remainder of the ingenious and
the learned to subscribe to your judgment; and your authority will
cause the atheists, who are in general sciolists rather than ingenious
or learned, to lay aside the spirit of contradiction, and lead them,
perhaps, to do battle in their own persons for reasonings which they
find considered demonstrations by all men of genius, lest they
should seem not to understand them; and, finally, the rest of
mankind will readily trust to so many testimonies, and there will no
longer be any one who will venture to doubt either the existence of
God or the real distinction of mind and body. It is for you, in your
singular wisdom, to judge of the importance of the establishment of
such beliefs [who are cognisant of the disorders which doubt of
these truths produces]. * But it would not here become me to commend
at greater length the cause of God and religion to you, who have
always proved the strongest support of the Catholic Church.
* The square brackets, here and throughout the volume, are used to
mark additions to the original of the revised French translation.
PREFACE TO THE READER
I HAVE already slightly touched upon the questions respecting the
existence of God and the nature of the human soul, in the Discourse
on the Method of rightly conducting the Reason, and seeking truth in
the Sciences, published in French in the year 1637; not, however,
with the design of there treating of them fully, but only, as it were,
in passing, that I might learn from the judgments of my readers in
what way I should afterwards handle them: for these questions appeared
to me to be of such moment as to be worthy of being considered more
than once, and the path which I follow in discussing them is so little
trodden, and so remote from the ordinary route, that I thought it
would not be expedient to illustrate it at greater length in French,
and in a discourse that might be read by all, lest even the more
feeble minds should believe that this path might be entered upon by
them.
But, as in the discourse on Method, I had requested all who might
find aught meriting censure in my writings, to do me the favour of
pointing it out to me, I may state that no objections worthy of remark
have been alleged against what I then said on these questions,
except two, to which I will here briefly reply, before undertaking
their more detailed discussion.
The first objection is that though, while the human mind reflects on
itself, it does not perceive that it is any other than a thinking
thing, it does not follow that its nature or essence consists only
in its being a thing which thinks; so that the word only shall
exclude all other things which might also perhaps be said to pertain
to the nature of the mind.
To this objection I reply, that it was not my intention in that
place to exclude these according to the order of truth in the matter
(of which I did not then treat), but only according to the order of
thought (perception); so that my meaning was, that I clearly
apprehended nothing, so far as I was conscious, as belonging to my
essence, except that I was a thinking thing, or a thing possessing
in itself the faculty of thinking. But I will show hereafter how, from
the consciousness that nothing besides thinking belongs to the essence
of the mind, it follows that nothing else does in truth belong to it.
The second objection is that it does not follow, from my
possessing the idea of a thing more perfect than I am, that the idea
itself is more perfect than myself, and much less that what is
represented by the idea exists.
But I reply that in the term idea there is here something
equivocal; for it may be taken either materially for an act of the
understanding, and in this sense it cannot be said to be more
perfect than I, or objectively, for the thing represented by that act,
which, although it be not supposed to exist out of my understanding,
may, nevertheless, be more perfect than myself, by reason of its
essence. But, in the sequel of this treatise I will show more amply
how, from my possessing the idea of a thing more perfect than
myself, it follows that this thing really exists.
Besides these two objections, I have seen, indeed, two treatises
of sufficient length relating to the present matter. In these,
however, my conclusions, much more than my premises, were impugned,
and that by arguments borrowed from the common-places of the atheists.
But, as arguments of this sort can make no impression on the minds
of those who shall rightly understand my reasonings, and as the
judgments of many are so irrational and weak that they are persuaded
rather by the opinions on a subject that are first presented to
them, however false and opposed to reason they may be, than by a
true and solid, but subsequently received, refutation of them, I am
unwilling here to reply to these strictures from a dread of being,
in the first instance, obliged to state them.
I will only say, in general, that all which the atheists commonly
allege in favour of the non-existence of God arises continually from
one or other of these two things, namely, either the ascription of
human affections to deity, or the undue attribution to our minds of so
much vigour and wisdom that we may essay to determine and comprehend
both what God can and ought to do; hence all that is alleged by them
will occasion us no difficulty, provided only we keep in remembrance
that our minds must be considered finite, while Deity is
incomprehensible and infinite.
Now that I have once, in some measure, made proof of the opinions of
men regarding my work, I again undertake to treat of God and the human
soul, and at the same time to discuss the principles of the entire
first philosophy, without, however, expecting any commendation from
the crowd for my endeavours, or a wide circle of readers. On the
contrary, I would advise none to read this work, unless such as are
able and willing to meditate with me in earnest, to detach their minds
from commerce with the senses, and likewise to deliver themselves from
all prejudice; and individuals of this character are, I well know,
remarkably rare. But with regard to those who, without caring to
comprehend the order and connection of the reasonings, shall study
only detached clauses for the purpose of small but noisy criticism, as
is the custom with many, I may say that such persons will not profit
greatly by the reading of this treatise; and although perhaps they may
find opportunity for cavilling in several places, they will yet hardly
start any pressing objections, or such as shall be deserving of reply.
But since, indeed, I do not promise to satisfy others on all these
subjects at first sight, nor arrogate so much to myself as to
believe that I have been able to foresee all that may be the source of
difficulty to each one, I shall expound, first of all, in the
Meditations, those considerations by which I feel persuaded that I
have arrived at a certain and evident knowledge of truth, in order
that I may ascertain whether the reasonings which have prevailed
with myself will also be effectual in convincing others. I will then
reply to the objections of some men, illustrious for their genius
and learning, to whom these meditations were sent for criticism before
they were committed to the press; for these objections are so numerous
and varied that I venture to anticipate that nothing, at least nothing
of any moment, will readily occur to any mind which has not been
touched upon in them.
Hence it is that I earnestly entreat my readers not to come to any
judgment on the questions raised in the meditations until they have
taken care to read the whole of the objections, with the relative
replies.
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 afterwards 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 pre-requisite 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 afterwards
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 course 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 workmen; 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
generically, 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.
MEDITATION I
OF THE THINGS OF 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 afterwards 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. To-day, 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 labour; 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, perhaps, 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 vapours 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 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
colours 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 colours, 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 [or incertitude].
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 Deity 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 Deity 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 a Deity is fabulous: nevertheless, in whatever
way it be supposed that I reached 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 at 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 Deity, 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,
colours, 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.
MEDITATION II
OF THE NATURE OF THE HUMAN MIND; AND THAT IT IS
MORE EASILY KNOWN THAN THE BODY
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 made 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 (pronunciatum) 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 space 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 endeavours are directed towards 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 afterwards 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 aught besides? I will stimulate my
imagination with a view to discover whether I am not still something
more than a thinking being. Now it is 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 vapour, 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 truth
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 may be (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 thoughts. 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
[which fall under the senses], 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 afterwards 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 odour of the flowers from which it was
gathered; its colour, 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 colour 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 odour 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 (mens, Lat.; entendement, F.) 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 of] 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 colour
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.
MEDITATION III
OF GOD: THAT HE EXISTS
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 endeavour 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 endeavouring 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 afterwards 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
(the force of my perception, Lat.).
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 afterwards 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 Deity is
deceitful, and as, indeed, I have not even considered the reasons by
which the existence of a Deity 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 afterwards 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
[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 a
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 aught 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 [that is, participate by representation in higher degrees of
being or perfection] 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, not only 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 an 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 there 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 scrutinising 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 recognise 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, colours,
sounds, odours, 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
afterwards 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 the Deity, in whom
there is no perfection merely potentially [but 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 awanting 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 afterwards: 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 Deity. 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 Deity. 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 concerned in my
production, and that from one I received the idea of one of the
perfections I attribute to Deity, 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 Deity, is one of the chief
perfections I conceive him to possess; and the idea of this unity of
all the perfections of Deity 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 enclosed; 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 marvellous 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.
MEDITATION IV
OF TRUTH AND ERROR
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, can be found in God. In
the next place, I am conscious that I possess a certain faculty of
judging [or 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, it 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 (when I look
upon myself as coming from God, Fr.), 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 non-being, 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 Deity.
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 Deity, 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 certainly my own existence and
that of God, nevertheless, after having remarked the infinite power of
Deity, I cannot deny that he 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 (percipio) 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 skilful 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 Deity. 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
towards each of two contraries; but, on the contrary, the more I am
inclined towards 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 aught 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, in so far 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 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 Deity, because it is not a
thing [or 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 Deity 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 Deity 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 Deity 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 to-day 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.
MEDITATION V
OF THE ESSENCE OF MATERIAL THINGS; AND, AGAIN,
OF GOD; THAT HE 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 assent 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 awanting, 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 Deity, 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 store-house 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 aught 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 probation 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
preoccupied by prejudices, and my thoughts 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 afterwards 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 afterwards 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 afterwards 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].
MEDITATION VI
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 (intelligo) that it is a figure comprehended by three
lines, but at the same time also I look upon (intueor) these three
lines as present by the power and internal application of my mind
(acie mentis), 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 [with the eyes of
my mind]. 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 (ad intelligendum); and this special
exertion of mind clearly shows the difference between imagination
and pure intellection (imaginatio et intellectio pura). 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
towards 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, colours, 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 afterwards constrained me to
doubt of them; and, finally, I will consider what of them I ought
now to believe.
Firstly, 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 towards 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, colours,
odours, 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, afterwards, 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 aught 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 afterwards 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, firstly, 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
aught 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 [or 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 [that is, my mind, by which I
am what I am] is 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. Farther, 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 colours, sounds,
odours, 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 [or make an impression on] 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.
But I have already sufficiently considered how it happens that,
notwithstanding the supreme goodness of God, there is falsity in my
judgments. A difficulty, however, here presents itself, respecting the
things which I am taught by nature must be pursued or avoided, and
also respecting the internal sensations in which I seem to have
occasionally detected error [and thus to be directly deceived by
nature]: thus, for example, I may be so deceived by the agreeable
taste of some viand with which poison has been mixed, as to be induced
to take the poison. In this case, however, nature may be excused,
for it simply leads me to desire the viand for its agreeable taste,
and not the poison, which is unknown to it; and thus we can infer
nothing from this circumstance beyond that our nature is not
omniscient; at which there is assuredly no ground for surprise, since,
man being of a finite nature, his knowledge must likewise be of
limited perfection. But we also not unfrequently err in that to
which we are directly impelled by nature, as is the case with invalids
who desire drink or food that would be hurtful to them. It will
here, perhaps, be alleged that the reason why such persons are
deceived is that their nature is corrupted; but this leaves the
difficulty untouched, for a sick man is not less really the creature
of God than a man who is in full health; and therefore it is as
repugnant to the goodness of God that the nature of the former
should be deceitful as it is for that of the latter to be so. And,
as a clock, composed of wheels and counter-weights, observes not the
less accurately all the laws of nature when it is ill made, and points
out the hours incorrectly, than when it satisfies the desire of the
maker in every respect; so likewise if the body of man be considered
as a kind of machine, so made up and composed of bones, nerves,
muscles, veins, blood, and skin, that although there were in it no
mind, it would still exhibit the same motions which it at present
manifests involuntarily, and therefore without the aid of the mind
[and simply by the dispositions of its organs], I easily discern
that it would also be as natural for such a body, supposing it
dropsical, for example, to experience the parchedness of the throat
that is usually accompanied in the mind by the sensation of thirst,
and to be disposed by this parchedness to move its nerves and its
other parts in the way required for drinking, and thus increase its
malady and do itself harm, as it is natural for it, when it is not
indisposed to be stimulated to drink for its good by a similar
cause; and although looking to the use for which a clock was
destined by its maker, I may say that it is deflected from its
proper nature when it incorrectly indicates the hours, and on the same
principle, considering the machine of the human body as having been
formed by God for the sake of the motions which it usually
manifests, although I may likewise have ground for thinking that it
does not follow the order of its nature when the throat is parched and
drink does not tend to its preservation, nevertheless I yet plainly
discern that this latter acceptation of the term nature is very
different from the other; for this is nothing more than a certain
denomination, depending entirely on my thought, and hence called
extrinsic, by which I compare a sick man and an imperfectly
constructed clock with the idea I have of a man in good health and a
well-made clock; while by the other acceptation of nature is
understood something which is truly found in things, and therefore
possessed of some truth.
But certainly, although in respect of a dropsical body, it is only
by way of exterior denomination that we say its nature is corrupted,
when, without requiring drink, the throat is parched; yet, in
respect of the composite whole, that is, of the mind in its union with
the body, it is not a pure denomination, but really an error of
nature, for it to feel thirst when drink would be hurtful to it:
and, accordingly, it still remains to be considered why it is that the
goodness of God does not prevent the nature of man thus taken from
being fallacious.
To commence this examination accordingly, I here remark, in the
first place, that there is a vast difference between mind and body, in
respect that body, from its nature, is always divisible, and that mind
is entirely indivisible. For in truth, when I consider the mind,
that is, when I consider myself in so far only as I am a thinking
thing, I can distinguish in myself no parts, but I very clearly
discern that I am somewhat absolutely one and entire; and although the
whole mind seems to be united to the whole body, yet, when a foot,
an arm, or any other part is cut off, I am conscious that nothing
has been taken from my mind; nor can the faculties of willing,
perceiving, conceiving, etc., properly be called its parts, for it
is the same mind that is exercised [all entire] in willing, in
perceiving, and in conceiving, etc. But quite the opposite holds in
corporeal or extended things; for I cannot imagine any one of them
[how small soever it may be], which I cannot easily sunder in thought,
and which, therefore, I do not know to be divisible. This would be
sufficient to teach me that the mind or soul of man is entirely
different from the body, if I had not already been apprised of it on
other grounds.
I remark, in the next place, that the mind does not immediately
receive the impression from all the parts of the body, but only from
the brain, or perhaps even from one small part of it, viz., that in
which the common sense (sensus communis) is said to be, which as
often as it is affected in the same way, gives rise to the same
perception in the mind, although meanwhile the other parts of the body
may be diversely disposed, as is proved by innumerable experiments,
which it is unnecessary here to enumerate.
I remark, besides, that the nature of body is such that none of
its parts can be moved by another part a little removed from the
other, which cannot likewise be moved in the same way by any one of
the parts that lie between those two, although the most remote part
does not act at all. As, for example, in the cord A, B, C, D [which is
in tension], if its last part D be pulled, the first part A will not
be moved in a different way than it would be were one of the
intermediate parts B or C to be pulled, and the last part D
meanwhile to remain fixed. And in the same way, when I feel pain in
the foot, the science of physics teaches me that this sensation is
experienced by means of the nerves dispersed over the foot, which,
extending like cords from it to the brain, when they are contracted in
the foot, contract at the same time the inmost parts of the brain in
which they have their origin, and excite in these parts a certain
motion appointed by nature to cause in the mind a sensation of pain,
as if existing in the foot: but as these nerves must pass through
the tibia, the leg, the loins, the back, and neck, in order to reach
the brain, it may happen that although their extremities in the foot
are not affected, but only certain of their parts that pass through
the loins or neck, the same movements, nevertheless, are excited in
the brain by this motion as would have been caused there by a hurt
received in the foot, and hence the mind will necessarily feel pain in
the foot, just as if it had been hurt; and the same is true of all the
other perceptions of our senses.
I remark, finally, that as each of the movements that are made in
the part of the brain by which the mind is immediately affected,
impresses it with but a single sensation, the most likely
supposition in the circumstances is, that this movement causes the
mind to experience, among all the sensations which it is capable of
impressing upon it, that one which is the best fitted, and generally
the most useful for the preservation of the human body when it is in
full health. But experience shows us that all the perceptions which
nature has given us are of such a kind as I have mentioned; and
accordingly, there is nothing found in them that does not manifest the
power and goodness of God. Thus, for example, when the nerves of the
foot are violently or more than usually shaken, the motion passing
through the medulla of the spine to the innermost parts of the brain
affords a sign to the mind on which it experiences a sensation,
viz., of pain, as if it were in the foot, by which the mind is
admonished and excited to do its utmost to remove the cause of it as
dangerous and hurtful to the foot. It is true that God could have so
constituted the nature of man as that the same motion in the brain
would have informed the mind of something altogether different: the
motion might, for example, have been the occasion on which the mind
became conscious of itself, in so far as it is in the brain, or in
so far as it is in some place intermediate between the foot and the
brain, or, finally, the occasion on which it perceived some other
object quite different, whatever that might be; but nothing of all
this would have so well contributed to the preservation of the body as
that which the mind actually feels. In the same way, when we stand
in need of drink, there arises from this want a certain parchedness in
the throat that moves its nerves, and by means of them the internal
parts of the brain, and this movement affects the mind with the
sensation of thirst, because there is nothing on that occasion which
is more useful for us than to be made aware that we have need of drink
for the preservation of our health; and so in other instances.
Whence 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 fallacious. 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 sense 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 recognise 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 spectre 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 those
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.
THE END OF MEDITATIONS ON THE FIRST PHILOSOPHY
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