Fundamental Philosophy, Vol. I (of 2)

149. We include in the testimony of consciousness all that which we experience in our soul, all that which affects what some call the human me, ideas, thoughts of every class, acts of the will, sentiments, sensations; in a word, every thing of which we can say: I experience it.

150. Manifestly the truths of consciousness are rather facts to be pointed out, than combinations to be enunciated. This is not to say that they cannot be enunciated, but that in themselves they abstract all intellectual form, are simple elements, in ordering and comparing which the intellect may occupy itself, but which of themselves give no light, represent nothing, but only present what they are; that they are mere facts, beyond which we cannot go.

151. The habit of reflecting upon consciousness, and of joining purely intellectual operations with facts of simple internal experience, makes it difficult to conceive this isolation, in which every thing purely subjective is by its nature found. We endeavor to abstract reflection, but we reflect upon our very effort to abstract it. Our intellect is a fire, which, extinguished on one side, burns on the other; the very effort to extinguish it ordinarily makes it burn brighter. Hence the difficulty of distinguishing the two characters of purely subjective and purely objective, to mark the dividing line between evidence and consciousness, between the known and the experienced. Nevertheless, the separation of two such different elements may be made easy, by considering that brutes are, in their own way, conscious of what they inwardly experience; not supposing them to be mere machines, we must allow them consciousness, or the intimate presence of their sensations. Without this even sensation is inconceivable, for that can have no sensation which does not perceive that it feels. Brutes reflect not on what passes within themselves; they experience it, but nothing more. Sensations succeed one another in their soul, connected only by the unity of the being experiencing them; but they do not take them for objects and consequently, do not combine or transform them in any manner; they leave them as they are, simple facts. From this we may derive some light for the conception of what the simple facts of consciousness are in us when abandoned to themselves, perfectly isolated, separated from purely intellectual operations, and under no subjection to reflective activity, which, combining them in various ways, and elevating them to the region of the purely ideal, presents them to us in such a manner as to make us forget their primitive purity.

An effort is necessary in order clearly to perceive what the facts of consciousness are, and what its testimony is; for without this it is impossible to advance one step in the investigation of the first principle of human knowledge. Confusion on this point makes us fall into transcendental equivocations. We shall hereafter have occasion to observe this, and we have already encountered lamentable examples of such deviations in the errors of the philosophy of the me.

152. Evidence is usually called an intellectual light. This is a very happy metaphor, and even exact; but, like all metaphors, it has the defect of being of but little service to explain the mysteries of philosophy. We also find intellectual light in many acts of consciousness. There is also a sort of clear light in that intimate presence by which an operation or an impression is offered to the mind; it shines upon the eye of the soul, and makes it see what is before it. If, then, we define evidence only by calling it the light of the intellect, we confound it with consciousness, or, at least, by the use of ambiguous language, give others occasion of confounding them.

Let us not be thought to blame those who have used the metaphor of light, or to flatter ourselves with being able to define evidence with all exactness; for who can express in words this phenomenon of our mind? If we are to have any metaphor, that of the intellectual light seems to be the most adequate. For, in truth, when we fix our attention upon evidence, in order to examine its nature and its effects on the mind, it very naturally presents itself under the image of a light, whose splendor illumines the objects, and enables the mind to contemplate them: but this, we repeat, is not enough. We will, then, although we do not undertake exactly to define it, point out a mark to distinguish it from every thing else.

153. Evidence is always accompanied by the necessity, and consequently, by the universality, of the truths which it attests. There is no evidence of the contingent, except in so far as subjected to a necessary principle.

Let us explain this doctrine by comparing examples taken respectively from consciousness and evidence.

That there is in me a being which thinks, I know, not by evidence, but by consciousness. That whatever thinks exists, I know, not by consciousness, but by evidence. In both cases the certainty is absolute, irresistible; but in the first it rests upon a particular, contingent fact; in the second upon a universal and necessary truth. That I think is certain for me, but not necessarily so for others; the disappearance of my thought does not overturn the world of intelligences; if my thought should now cease to exist, truth in itself would suffer no change; other intellects might and would continue to perceive truth; and neither in the real nor in the ideal order would there be less concert and harmony.

I ask myself if I think, and in the bottom of my soul I read that I do think: I ask myself if this thought is necessary, and not only does experience tell me that it is not, but I can find no reason why it should be necessary. Even supposing that my thought ceases to exist, I perceive that I continue to reason in due form. Thus I examine what would have happened if I had not existed, or what may hereafter happen if I cease to exist; and I assent to principles and draw conclusions without transgressing any law of the intellect. The ideal world and the real world are presented to my eyes as a magnificent spectacle at which I indeed assist, but from which I may withdraw without the representation undergoing any change, except that I should leave vacant the imperceptible place which I now occupy. But it is very different with the truths which are the object of evidence. It is not necessary for me to think; but it is so necessary for whatever thinks to exist, that no efforts of mine could suffice to abstract this necessity for one moment. If, taking an absurd position, I suppose the contrary, and imagine for an instant the relation between thought and being to be cut short, I break the chain which supports the order of the entire universe; every thing is reversed, thrown into confusion; and I know not if what I see be chaos or nonentity. What has taken place? The intellect has only suffered a contradiction, at the same time affirming and denying thought, because it affirmed a thought to which it denied existence. It has violated a universal and absolutely necessary law, the violation of which throws every thing into chaos. Not the certainty of the soul's existence, supported by the testimony of consciousness, suffices to prevent the confusion: the intellect by contradicting itself has denied itself; from its insensate words, not being, but nonentity has resulted, not light, but darkness; and this darkness cast over whatever exists or is possible turns back upon it and involves it in eternal night.

154. We have here fixed and defined the conditions of consciousness and evidence. The object of the former is the individual, the contingent; that of the latter the universal and the necessary. Only in God, the source of all truth, the universal and necessary principle of being and of knowledge, is consciousness identified with evidence; and it is not possible to abstract the testimony of his consciousness, without annihilating everything. What would remain in the world were I to disappear? the creature asks itself, and answers: everything except myself. Were God to ask himself this question, he would answer: nothing.

155. We have given the name of intellectual instinct to the impulse which in many cases produces certainty without the aid of the testimony either of consciousness or of evidence. If you show a man a target, then blindfold his eyes, and turn him around at random several times, and, after this, place a bow in his hands, and assure him that the arrow will strike the precise centre of the target, he will say that this is impossible; and nothing can induce him to believe so great an absurdity. And why not? Because of the testimony of consciousness? No! For the question is now of external objects. Neither does he depend on evidence; for the objects of evidence are things necessary, and it is not intrinsically impossible for the arrow to hit the mark assigned. On what then rests his profound conviction that this is not possible? If we suppose him to know nothing of theories, of probabilities, and combinations, to have no knowledge of this science, and never to have so much as thought of such things, his certainty is just as great as it would be were he able to base it upon some sort of calculation. All the bystanders, whether rude or cultivated, ignorant or learned, need no reflection to be equally certain; all will say, or think, "this is impossible; it cannot happen." We again ask, what is the foundation of so strong a conviction? Not springing from consciousness, or from either mediate or immediate evidence, it manifestly can have no other origin than that internal force which we call intellectual instinct, and which may be called common sense, or anything else, so long as the fact itself is recognized. It is a precious gift, which the Creator has given to us, to make us reasonable even before we reason, and to enable us rightly to govern our conduct when we lack time to examine motives of prudence.

156. This intellectual instinct embraces many objects of different orders; it is the guide and the shield of reason: the guide, because it precedes and shows the way; the shield, because it defends reason from her own cavils, and because sophistry becomes dumb in its presence.

157. The testimony of human authority, equally necessary to the individual and to society, commands our assent, by means of an intellectual instinct. Man believes man, believes society, even before thinking of the motives of his faith; few examine them at all, and yet this faith is universal.

We do not here inquire if intellectual instinct sometimes deceives, or why, or in what cases it deceives; at present we only seek to establish its existence; and with regard to the errors to which it leads, we shall simply remark, that in a weak being, such as man, the rule is continually changing, and as it is not possible to find a man good, without any admixture of evil, so is it impossible to find truth without some admixture of error.

158. We make sensations objective only by virtue of an irresistible instinct. Nothing is more certain, more evident to the eyes of philosophy, than the subjectivity of all sensations; that is, sensations are immanent phenomena, are within us, and do not go out of us; and yet nothing is more constant than the transition made by the whole human race from the subjective to the objective, from the internal to the external, from the phenomenon to the reality. On what is this transition grounded? If the most eminent philosophers experienced so much difficulty in finding the bridge, which unites the two opposite banks; if some of them, wearied with investigation, resolutely asserted that it was not possible to discover it, will the commonalty of mankind discover it from their very childhood? Evidently, motives of reasoning do not explain the transition; appeal must be made to the instinct of nature. There is then an instinct, which by itself assures us of a truth demonstrated with difficulty by the most abstruse philosophy.

159. Here I shall notice the errors of those methods which isolate man's faculties, and, in order better to know the mind, disfigure and mutilate it. One of the most constant and fundamental facts of ideological and psychological science, is the multiplicity of acts and faculties of the soul, notwithstanding its simplicity attested by the unity of consciousness. There is in man, and in the universe, an assemblage of laws, the effects of which are simultaneously evolved with harmonious regularity; to separate them, is often equivalent to placing them in contradiction; for, no one of them being capable of producing its effect if isolated, but requiring to be combined with the others, they produce, when made to operate alone, instead of their regular effects, the most hideous monstrosities. If you retain in the world only the law of gravitation not combined with that of projection, every thing will be precipitated towards one centre; instead of that infinity of systems which adorn the firmament, you will have only a rude and indigested mass. If you destroy gravitation, and preserve the force of projection, all bodies will be decomposed into imperceptible atoms, and be dispersed, like most subtle ether, through regions of immensity.(15) (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER XVI.

CONFUSION OF IDEAS IN DISPUTES ON THE FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE

160. There are, in our opinion, various principles, which, with regard to the human intellect, may be called equally fundamental, both because they serve as foundation in the common and scientific orders, and because they do not rest upon any other, since it is impossible to assign any one which enjoys this quality as an exclusive privilege. In seeking the fundamental principle, it is customary in the schools to observe that they do not endeavor to find a truth from which all others emanate, but an axiom the destruction of which draws with it that of all other truths, and the firmness of which sustains them, at least indirectly, in such manner that whoever denies them may be refuted by indirect demonstration, or reduction ad absurdum; that is, admitting the above axiom, it may follow that whoever denies the others will be convicted of being in opposition to one which he himself has acknowledged to be true.

161. It has been much disputed whether this or that principle merit the preference. We believe that there is here a confusion of ideas, proceeding in great part from not sufficiently marking the limits of testimonies so distinct as those of consciousness, of evidence, and of common sense.

Descartes' famous principle, I think, therefore I am; that of contradiction, it is impossible for a thing to be and not to be at the same time; and what is called the principle of the Cartesians, whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may be affirmed of it with all certainty; are the three principles that have divided the schools. In favor of each, reasons the most powerful, and even conclusive against the others, considering the ground on which the question was placed, have been brought forward.

If you are not certain that you think, argues the partisan of Descartes, you cannot be certain even of the principle of contradiction, or know the criterion of evidence to be valid; for both, it is necessary to think; whoever affirms or denies anything, thinks; without thought, neither affirmation nor negation is possible. But let us admit thought: we have already a foundation, and one of such a nature that we find it in ourselves, attested by consciousness, irresistibly forcing upon us the certainty of its existence. The foundation once laid, we see how the edifice can be raised; for this we need not go out of our own thought; there is the luminous point to conduct us in the path to truth; let us follow its splendor, and having established an immovable point, let us draw from it the mysterious thread to guide us in the labyrinth of science. Thus our principle is the first, the basis of all others; it has sufficient power to sustain itself, sufficient also to impart firmness to others.

This language is certainly reasonable; but it has this fault, that the conviction which it is intended to produce, is neutralized by the not less reasonable language of those who hold a directly contrary opinion. One who maintains the principle of contradiction may reason thus: if you do not admit it to be impossible for the same thing to be and not be at the same time, it may be possible that you think and do not think at the same time; your assertion, then, I think, is of no weight, for its opposite, I do not think, may, at the same time, be true. In this case, the conclusion of existence is invalid; for, even admitting the legitimacy of the consequence, I think, therefore I am, as we know on the other hand that this other premise, I do not think, is possible, the deduction cannot be made. Nor is the other principle: whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may he affirmed of it with all certainty, of any more value without the principle of contradiction; because if being and not-being are possible at the same time, an idea may be clear and obscure, distinct and confused; a predicate may be contained and not contained in the subject; we may be certain and uncertain, affirm and deny; therefore it is of no service.

He who argues thus seems quite reasonable; but strangely enough, the advocate of the third principle brings equally strong arguments against his two adversaries. How is it known, he asks, that the principle of contradiction is true? Only because we see in the idea of being the impossibility of its being and not being at the same time, and vice versa; therefore, we are sure of the principle of contradiction only from the application of the principle: whatever is contained in the clear and distinct idea of anything, may he affirmed of it with all certainty. If nothing can be sustained without relying upon the principle of contradiction, – and this is based upon our principle, – ours is the foundation of them all.

162. They are all three right, and all three wrong. They are right in asserting that the denial of their respective principles is the ruin of the others. They are all wrong in pretending that the denial of the others is not the ruin of their own. Whence then the dispute? From the confusion of ideas, by which they compare principles of very different orders, all indeed very true, but not to be compared with each other for the same reason that we cannot compare the white and the warm, and dispute whether a thing has more degrees of heat or whiteness. Comparison requires not only opposition in the extremes, but also something in common; if things are totally unlike, comparison is impossible.

Descartes' principle is the enunciation of a simple fact of consciousness; that of contradiction is a truth known by evidence; and that of the Cartesians is an assertion that the criterion of evidence is valid, and that it is a truth of reflection expressing the intellectual impulse by which we are borne to believe the truth of what we know by evidence.

The importance of this question requires a special examination of each of the three principles, which we shall make in the next chapters.(16) (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER XVII.

THOUGHT AND EXISTENCE. – DESCARTES' PRINCIPLE

163. Am I certain that I exist? Yes. Can I prove it? No. Proof supposes reasoning; there is no solid reasoning without a firm principle on which to rest it; and there is no firm principle unless we suppose the existence of the reasoning being.

In effect, if he who reasons is not certain of his own existence, he cannot be certain of his own reasoning, since there will be no reasoning if there be no one to reason. Therefore there are, unless we suppose this, no principles on which to rest; there is nothing but illusion, or rather there is neither any illusion, for there can be none where there is no one illuded.

Our existence cannot be demonstrated: we have so clear and strong a consciousness of it that it leaves us no uncertainty; but it is impossible to prove it by reasoning.

164. It is a prejudice and a fatal error to believe ourselves able to prove everything by the use of reason; the principles on which it is founded are prior to its use; the existence of reason, and that of the being that reasons, are prior to both.

Not only are not all things demonstrated, but it may even be demonstrated that some things are indemonstrable. Demonstration is a ratiocination in which we infer from evident propositions, a proposition evidently connected with them. If the premises are of themselves evident, they do not admit of demonstration; if we suppose them in their turn demonstrable, we shall have the same difficulty with respect to those on which the new demonstration is founded; therefore we must either stop at an indemonstrable point, or proceed to infinity, which would be never to finish the demonstration.

165. And it is to be remarked that indemonstrability does not belong solely to certain premises; it is found, in some measure, in every argument by its very nature, abstracting the propositions which compose it. We know that the premises A and B are certain; from them we infer the proposition C. By what right? Because we see that C is connected with A and B. But how do we know this? If by immediate evidence, by intuition, here is something else that cannot be demonstrated, the connection of the conclusion with the premises. If by argument, ratiocination, establishing ourselves on the art of reasoning, there are two considerations, both tending to demonstrate indemonstrability. I. If the principles of the art are indemonstrable, we have at once something indemonstrable; if they are demonstrable, we must make use of others which serve as their basis, and at last either come to one which does not admit of demonstration, or else proceed to infinity. II. How do we know the principles of reasoning to be applicable to this case? By another act of reasoning? Then we shall encounter the same difficulty as in the other case. Is it because we see that it is so? because it is immediately evident? Then here again we have an indemonstrable point. These reflections will clearly show that to demand proof of everything is to demand what is impossible.

166. A being which does not think has no consciousness of itself: the stone exists, but does not know that it exists, neither would man himself in a similar case, were all his intellectual and sensible faculties in complete inaction. We easily conceive the difference of these two states by calling to mind what occurs, when from waking we pass into a profound sleep, and again when we awake from it. The first starting-point of our cognitions is this intimate presence of our internal acts, abstraction made of the questions which may be raised upon their nature. If every thing existed as at present, and there also existed, besides the world which we see, infinite other worlds, not even then would any thing exist for us, had we not those internal acts of which we are speaking. We should be like an insensible body placed in the immensity of space, which would suffer no mutation were every thing around it to disappear, and would perceive no change even if it were itself to sink into the abyss of nothing. On the other hand, if we suppose every thing to be annihilated except this being within us which feels, thinks, and wills, there still remains a point whereon to base the edifice of human cognitions: this being, though alone in immensity, would render itself an account of its own acts to the extent of its ability, and might go into numberless combinations having for their object the possible though not the real.

167. The famous principle of Descartes, I think, therefore I am, has been often attacked, and justly and conclusively so, if this philosopher really understood his principle in the sense which the schools are accustomed to give it. If Descartes presented it as a true argument, as an enthymema with an antecedent and a consequent, the argument was clearly defective in its foundation. For when he said, "I am going to prove my existence with this enthymema: I think, therefore I am: " this objection might have been made; your enthymema is equivalent to a syllogism in this form: whatever thinks, exists; but I think; therefore, I exist. This syllogism, in the supposition of a universal doubt, excluding even the supposition of existence itself, is inadmissable in its propositions and in their connection. In the first place, how do you know that whatever thinks exists? Because nothing can think without existing. How do you know that? Because what does not exist, does not act. But how in its turn do you know this? Supposing every thing to be doubted, nothing to be known, these principles are not known; otherwise we fall short of the supposition of universal doubt, and consequently go out of the question. If any one of these principles must be admitted without proof, it is just as well to admit your own existence and save yourself the trouble of proving it with an enthymema.

In the second place, how do you know that you think? Your argument may be retorted, as dialecticians say, in the following manner: nothing can think without existing; but your existence is doubtful, for you are trying to prove it; therefore you are not sure that you think.

168. Manifestly, then, Descartes' principle, taken as a true argument, cannot be defended; and it is so easy to see its defect, that it seems impossible for so clear and penetrating an intellect to have overlooked it. It is therefore probable that Descartes understood his principle in a very different sense; and we will now briefly show what meaning, in our judgment, the illustrious philosopher must have given to it.

Supposing himself for a moment in universal doubt, without accepting for certain anything that is known, he concentrated himself on himself, and in the depth of his soul sought a point whereon to base the edifice of human cognitions. Although we abstract all around us, we clearly cannot abstract ourselves, our mind, which is present to its own eyes, only the more lucidly, the greater the abstraction in which we place ourselves with respect to eternal objects. Now in this concentration, this collection of himself within himself, this withdrawal from every thing for fear of error, and asking himself if there be any thing certain, if there be any foundation and starting-point in the career of knowledge; first of all is presented to him the consciousness of thought, the very presence of the acts of his mind. If we mistake not, this was Descartes' thought: I wish to doubt of every thing; I refrain from affirming as from denying any thing; I isolate myself from whatever surrounds me, because I know not if it be any thing more than an illusion. But in this very isolation, I meet with the intimate sense of my internal acts, with the presence of my mind; I think, therefore I am; this I feel in a manner that leaves no room for doubt or uncertainty; therefore, I am; that is to say, this sense of my thought makes me know my existence.

169. This explains why Descartes did not present his principle as a mere enthymema, as an ordinary argument, but as determining a fact presented to him and first in the order of facts: even if he inferred existence from thought, it was not by deduction, properly so called, but as one fact contained in another, or rather identified with it.

We say identified, because it really is so in Descartes' opinion; and this confirms what we have already advanced, that this philosopher did not offer an argument, but laid down a fact. According to him, the essence of the soul consists in thought; and as other schools of philosophy distinguish between substance and its acts, considering the mind in the first class, and thought in the second, so Descartes held that there was no distinction between mind and thought, that they were the same thing, that thought constituted the essence of the soul. "Although one attribute," he says, "suffices to make us know the substance, there is, nevertheless, in every substance one attribute, which constitutes its nature and its essence, and on which all the others depend. Extension in length, breadth, and depth, constitutes the essence of corporeal substance; and thought constitutes the nature of the substance which thinks."[9 - Descartes. Principes de la Philosophie, 1ière partie.] From this it follows that Descartes, in laying down the principle, I think, therefore I exist, only declared a fact attested by consciousness; and so simple did he consider it, and so unique, that in evolving his system, he identified thought with the soul, and its essence with its existence. He was conscious of thought, and said: "this thought is my soul; I am." It is not now our purpose to weigh the value of this doctrine, but only to explain in what it consists.(17) (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PRINCIPLE OF DESCARTES, CONTINUED. – HIS METHOD

170. Descartes did not always express himself with, sufficient accuracy when announcing and explaining his principle; and hence his words have been misinterpreted. In the passage where he establishes consciousness of our own thought and existence as the foundation whereon all our cognitions must rest, he uses terms from which it can be inferred that he not only means to declare a fact, but that he also intends to afford a true argument. Nevertheless, if we read his words attentively, and compare them with one another, it will be evident that such was not his idea, although we should not sometimes be wrong in saying that he did not make sufficient account of the difference, which we have just pointed out, between an argument and the simple declaration of a fact; and that, when concentrating himself on himself, he did not have a sufficiently clear reflex knowledge of the manner in which he rested upon his fundamental principle. To convince ourselves of this, let us examine his own words: "While we thus reject every thing of which we can have the least doubt, and even feign that it is false, we easily suppose that there is no God, no heaven, no earth; that we have not a body: but we cannot in like manner suppose that we are not whilst we doubt the truth of all these things; for we experience so great repugnance to conceive that what thinks is not at the same time that it thinks, that notwithstanding all the most extravagant suppositions, we cannot help believing this conclusion, I think, therefore I am, to be true, and consequently the first and most certain to present itself to him who orders well his thoughts."[10 - Descartes. Principes de la Philosophie, 1ière partie, N. 7.]

In this passage we detect a true syllogism: whatever thinks, exists; but I think; therefore I exist. "We have," says Descartes, "so great repugnance to conceive that what thinks is not at the same time that it thinks;" which is the same as to say, whatever thinks, exists; and this, in scholastic terms, is to establish the major. He then says: "notwithstanding all the most extravagant suppositions, we cannot help believing this conclusion, I think, therefore I am, to be true;" which is equivalent to proving the minor, and the conclusion of the syllogism. We know that Descartes was somewhat taken up with the idea of proving at the same time that he was engaged in declaring. This was the general tendency of his age, and even the most ardent reformers with difficulty preserved themselves from the surrounding atmosphere. We encounter this same spirit throughout his meditations, admirably joined, however, with the spirit of observation.

But through these obscure or ambiguous explanations, what thought do we discover at the bottom of Descartes' system when we abstract his having, or not having, rendered himself an exact account of what he experienced? This thought: "By an effort of my mind I can doubt the truth of everything; but this effort has a limit in myself. When I turn my attention upon myself, upon the consciousness of my internal acts, upon my existence, doubt is at an end; it cannot extend so far: I find so great repugnance that the most extravagant suppositions cannot overcome it." This his very words show: besides declaring this fact, he rises to a general and undoubtedly true proposition; he draws a conclusion also very legitimate; but neither of these was at all necessary to the present case; neither seemed to explain well his opinion, but either served to confuse it.

171. Descartes did nothing more in this point than what all philosophers do; and strange as it may seem, he did not differ from the chiefs of the metaphysical school diametrically opposed to his own, that of Locke and Condillac. That man, in seeking to examine the origin of his cognitions, and the principles on which his certainty is based, encounters the fact of consciousness of his internal acts, that this consciousness produces a firm certainty, and that we can conceive nothing more certain, is a fact on which all ideologists agree, and which all establish, although not in the same words. The more we reflect on these matters, the more we discover in them the realization of a principle confirmed by reason and experience, that many truths are not new, but only presented under a new form, and that many systems are not new, but only expressed in new formulas.

172. Even the universal doubt of Descartes, rightly understood, is practised by every philosopher; whence we see that the basis of his system, opposed by many, is in fact adopted by all. In what does his method consist? It may all be reduced to these two points: I. I wish to doubt of everything: II. When I wish to doubt of myself, I cannot.