While Gall's correlational approach was eventually abandoned in favour of experiment, his conception of fixed, innate faculties replaced by a dynamic, evolutionary view of mental development, and his pivotal assumption concerning the relationship of brain to cranial conformation rejected, it would be a serious error to underestimate his importance in the history of functional localization. Gall's assumptions may have been flawed and his followers may have taken his ideas to dogmatic extremes, as, it is nonetheless a problem that nothing is wrong with his scientific logic or with the rigorous empiricism of his attempt to correlate observable talents with what he believed to be observable indices of the brain.
Indeed, it was Gall who lay the foundations for the biologically based, functional psychology that was soon to follow. In postulating a set of innate, mental traits inherited through the form of the cerebral organ, he moved away from the extreme tabula rasa view of sensationalists such as Condillac. For the normative and exclusively intellectual faculties of the sensationalists, Gall attempted to substitute faculties defined about everyday activities of daily life that were adaptive in the surrounding environment and that varied between individuals and between species. For speculation concerning both the classification of functions and appropriate anatomical units, he substituted objective observation.
Even Gall's most persistent opponent, Marie-Jean-Pierre Flourens (1794 -1867), was willing to admit that it was Gall who, by virtue of marshalling detailed evidence of correlation between variation in function and presumed variation in the brain, first fully established the view that brain serves as the organ of mind. In most other respects, however, Flourens was highly critical of Gall. Something of a child prodigy, Flourens enrolled at the famed Faculté de Médecine at Montpellier when he was only 15 years old and received his medical degree before he had turned. Shortly thereafter, while Gall was at the height of his career in Paris, Flourens himself moved to the capital. Based on his 1824 Recherches expérimentales sur les propriétés et les fonctions du système nerveux, he was elected to membership and eventually to the office of Perpetual Secretary of the Académie des Sciences, rising to become one of France's most influential scientific figures.
In Recherches expérimentales, Flourens provided the first experimental demonstration of localization of function in the brain. While previous researchers had lesioned the brain through a trephined aperture that made it impossible to localize damage or to track haemorrhage with any accuracy, Flourens completely uncovered and isolated that portion of the brain to be removed. Taking care to minimize operative trauma and post-operative complications, he employed ablation to localize a motor centre in the medulla oblongata and stability and motor coordination in the cerebellum. Although his treatment of sensation was still rather confused in 1824, by the time the second edition of the Recherches expérimentales (1842) appeared, Flourens had articulated a clear distinction between sensation and perception (treating perception as the appreciation of the meaning of a sensation) and localized sensory function in several related sub-cortical structures.
With respect to the cerebrum, however, the results were quite different. A successive order through which the hemispheres produced diffusing damage to all of the higher mental functions -to perception, intellect, and will -with the damage varying only with the extent and not the location of the lesion. If adequate tissue remained, function might be restored, but total ablation led to a permanent loss of function. From these results, Flourens concluded that while sensory-motor functions are differentiated and localized sub-cortically, higher mental functions such as perception, volition, and intellect are spread throughout the cerebrum, operating together as a single factor with the entire cerebrum functioning in a unitary fashion as their ‘exclusive seat.’
Unfortunately, however, as Gall (1822-1825) himself observed, Flourens's procedure ‘mutilates all the organs at once, weakens them all, extirpates them all while.’ Excision by some successively given order, might arise of a method that is well in accord with the discovery of cortical localisation. Joined to a strongly held philosophical belief in a unitary soul and an indivisible mind and an uncritical willingness to generalize results from lower organisms to humans, Flourens results led him to attack Gall's efforts at localization and to formulate a theory of cerebral homogeneity that, in effect, anticipated Lashley's (1929) much later concept of mass-action and cortical equipotentiality. Having extended the sensory-motor distinction up the neuraxis from the spinal roots of Bell and Magendie, Flourens stopped short of the cerebral hemispheres. From his perspective, the cerebrum was the organ of a unitary mind, and, by implication, it could not therefore be functionally differentiated.
Before the cortex could be construed in sensory-motor terms, the intellectual ground had to be prepared and the technical means developed. The intellectual requirements for this achievement involved the abandonment of a fixed faculty approach to mind in favour of a balanced sensory-motor, evolutionary associationism and an appreciation of the functional implications of brain disease. The technical requirement was the development of a technique for electrical exploration of the surface of the cortex. The intellectual advances came through the respective psychologies of Alexander Bain and Herbert Spencer and the neuropathological discoveries of Pierre Paul Broca. The technical advance, involving development and use of electrical stimulation, was first employed by Gustav Fritsch and Eduard Hitzig.
Alexander Bain (1818-1903) was born, educated, and died in Aberdeen, Scotland. After receiving the MA degree from Marischal College in 1840, he joined the faculty in mental and moral philosophy. In 1860 he was elected to the chair of logic at the newly created University of Aberdeen where he remained until his retirement. During these years, Bain wrote a rare read but interesting critiques of phrenology, On the Study of Character, Including an Estimate of Phrenology (1861), and a valuable survey of mind/body views, Mind and Body. The Theories of Their Relation (1873). It is, however, to his general psychology that we must look for his most important contribution to the intellectual climate from which the first specific demonstrations of the cortical localization of sensory-motor function arose. This contribution consisted of the sensory-motor associationism that he worked out in ‘The Senses and the Intellect’ and ‘The Emotions and Will’ was first published in 1855 and 1859 respectively and revised in four editions through 1894/1899.
Bain's work marked a turning point in the history of associationist psychology. Before Bain, the associationists' empiricist commitment to experience as the primary or only source of knowledge led to the neglect of movement and action in favour of the analysis of sensation. Even when motion was explicitly included in associationist accounts, as for example for Thomas Brown, it was the sensory side of movement, the ‘muscle sense,’ rather than adaptive action that claimed attention. Bain, drawing heavily on Müller, brought the new physiology of movement into conjunction with an associationist account of mind. As Young (1970) has summarized Bain's view: ‘Action is more intimate and has to some inseparable property, for which is based upon our constituent components that bring the composite formulations that seal us to the inseparability with the universe, and likewise our conscious selves are to realize that the universe are conscious of us, because this constitutes to any sensation and in fact, enters as the composite part into every part that we can by enacting of any senses give by them, that, only by virtue of our characterological infractions, that put forward of exaggerations, and that only we can be by the uniting the totalities to elaborate upon their flowing components. Some the spontaneity of movements, that feature of nervous activity before any evidence of independent of sensation. The acquired linkages of spontaneous movements with the pleasure and pains consequent upon them, educate the organism so that its formerly random movements . . . (are) adapted to ends or purposes. Bain defines volition as this compound of spontaneous movements and feelings. The coordination of motor impulses into definite purposive movements results from the association of ideas with them.’
Within association psychology, these were revolutionary ideas. With the evolutionary conceptions of Spencer, they paved the way for the later functionalist psychology of adaptive behaviour. As we will see, they provided the intellectual context for a sensory-motor account of the physiological basis of higher mental functions. Ironically, however, this was a step that Bain himself was completely unable to take. Impressed, as those before he had been, with the lack of irritability exhibited by the cortex when pricked or cut, Bain drew the traditionally sharp distinction ‘between the hemispheres and the whole of the ganglia and centres lying beneath them.’ Whatever the function of the cerebrum, it was clear to Bain that it could not be sensory-motor.
In 1855, the same year in which Bain published The Senses and the Intellect, another even more revolutionary work appeared in England. The Principles of Psychology by Herbert Spencer (1820-1903) offered students of the brain an evolutionary associationism and a related concept of cerebral localization that gave impetus and direction to the work of John Hughlings Jackson and through Jackson to that of David Ferrier.
Spencer was born in Derby, England and was largely self-taught. At the age of 17, he took up railway engineering but left that occupation in 1848 to work first as an editor and then as a free-lance writer and reviewer. In an Autobiography (1904), Spencer tells us that, at age 11 or 12, he attended lectures by Spurzheim that for many years made him a believer in phrenology. Indeed, as late as 1846, before his growing scepticism regarding phrenology led him to abandon the project, Spencer had designed a cephalograph for achieving more reliable cranial measurement.
In 1850, because of a burgeoning friendship with George Henry Lewes, Spencer began to read Lewes's ‘A Biographical History of Philosophy,’ (1845/1846). Within a short time, he found himself so absorbed in the topic that he decided to make a contribution of his own to philosophy as an introduction to psychology. In 1855, Spencer's Principles of Psychology appeared. It is a complex and difficult book, hardly an introduction to the topic. Like Bain's work shows in ‘The Senses and the Intellect,’ it too marked a turning point in the history of psychology. While Bain had married movement to the sensations of the associationism and arrived at the first fully balanced sensory-motor associational view, Spencer went further to explicate upon the reasoning through which psychology is inferred too for being connected to evolutionary biology.
In particular, Spencer stressed three basic evolutionary principles that transformed his view of mind and brain into one to which the cortical localization of function was a simple logical corollary. In so doing, he lay the groundwork for Hughlings Jackson's evolutionary conception of the nervous system and extension of the sensory-motor organizational hypothesis to the cerebrum. Spencer's key principles were adaptation, continuity, and development.
Like Gall, Spencer viewed psychology as a biological science of adaptation. ‘All those activities, bodily and mental, which constitute our ordinary idea of life . . . (and) those processes of growth by which the organism is brought into general fitness for those activities’ consist simply of ‘the continuous adjustment of internal relations to external relations.’ Neither the associations among internal ideas, for example, nor the relations among external events, but the increasing adjustment of inner to outer relations must lie at the heart of psychology. Indeed, for Spencer, mental phenomena are adaptations, ‘incidents of the correspondence between the organism and its environment.’
Like adaptation, continuity and development were also focal ideas for Spencer. Development consists of a change from homogeneity to heterogeneity, from relative unity and indivisibility to differentiation and complexity. According to the principle of continuity, life and its circumstances exist at all levels of complexity and correspondence. How much life varies continuously with the correspondence? ; no radical demarcations separate one level from the next. Thus, mental and physical life are simply species of life in general, and that which we call mind evolves continuously from physical life -reflexes from irritations, instincts from compounded reflexes, and conscious life and higher mental processes from instincts -co-existing at varied levels of complexity.
The implications of these evolutionary conceptions for the hypothesis of cortical localization of function are clear. The brain is the most highly developed physical system we know and the cortex is the most developed level of the brain. As such, it must be heterogeneous, differentiated, and complex. Furthermore, if the cortex is a continuous development from sub-cortical structures, the sensory-motor principles that govern sub-cortical localization must hold in the cortex as well. Finally, if higher mental processes are the product of a continuous process of development from the simplest irritation through reflexes and instincts, there is no justification for drawing a sharp distinction between mind and body. The mind/body dichotomy that for two centuries had supported the notion that the cerebrum, functioning as the seat of higher mental processes, must function according to principles radically different from those descriptive of sub-cerebral nervous function, had to be abandoned.
While these ideas were to be worked out more fully by Hughlings Jackson, it is quite clear that even in 1855 Spencer was well aware of the implications of his concepts of continuity and development for cerebral localization. In the Principles, he wrote that ‘no physiologist who calmly considers the question concerning the general truths of his science, can long resist the conviction that different parts of the cerebrum subserve different kinds of mental action. Localisation of a dynamic function is the law of which all coordinate system that are affiliated organizations, . . . that every packet of nerve-fibres and every ganglion, have a different and differentiated duty, can it be, then, that in the greatest of hemispheric ganglions is exclusively specializing by its particular duty that suits but for no other purpose than not to hold.
With the ground prepared by the sensory-motor associationism of Bain and the evolutionary psychophysiology of Spencer, all needed to overcome the last obstacle to extension of the sensory-motor view to the cortex was the impetus provided by striking research findings and new experimental techniques. In the period between 1861 and 1876, Broca, and Fritsch and Hitzig, provided the first critical findings and techniques, as Jackson was persuasively unduly of influencing Spencer and Bain, thus providing the extension of the sensory-motor paradigm to the cortex. As Ferrier, unduly influenced by Bain and Jackson, provided the experimental capstone to the classical doctrine of cortical localization.
Paul Broca (1824-1880) was born in the township of Sainte-Foy-La-Grande in the Dordogne region of France and studied medicine at the Hôtel Dieu in Paris. A lifelong interest in physical anthropology led to his becoming in the original membership of the Société d'Anthropologie and the founder of the Revue d’Anthropologie and the Department of Anthropology at the University of Paris. On the 4th of April 1861, at a meeting of the Société d'Anthropologie, Broca sat in the audience as Ernest Aubertin presented a paper citing several striking case studies to argue the craniological case for cerebral localization of articulate language.
Aubertin was the student and son-in-law of Jean Baptiste Bouillaud, a powerful and distinguished figure in Parisian scientific circles, himself a student of Gall and founding member of the Société Phrénologique. As early as 1825, Bouillaud had published a paper that employed clinical evidence to support Gall's view that the faculty of articulate language resides in the anterior lobes of the brain. For almost 40 years, in the face of considerable opposition, Bouillaud had succeeded in keeping the cerebral localization hypothesis alive. Thus, Aubertin was merely carrying on in his father-in-law's tradition when he promised to give up his belief in cerebral localization if even a single case of speech loss could be produced without a frontal lesion.
Intrigued, Broca decided to take up Aubertin's challenge. Within a week, an M. Leborgne (‘Tan’), a speechless, hemiplegic patient died of gangrene on Broca's surgical ward. In the ‘Remarques sur le siége de la Faculté du langage articulé, suivies d'une observation d'aphemie (perte de la parole),’ published in 1861 in the Bulletins de la société anatomique de Paris, Broca presented a detailed account of his postmortem examination of Tan's brain. What he had found, of course, was a superficial lesion in the left frontal lobe, a finding confirmed a few weeks later by another case in which postmortem examination revealed a similar lesion.
While neither is represented by the contentual representation of a faculty articulated by language nor even the notion of its localization in the anterior portion of the brain were especially novel in 1861, what Broca provided was a research finding that galvanized scientific opinion on the localization hypothesis. The detail of Broca's account, the fact that he had gone specifically in search of evidence for the patients' speech loss rather than employing case’s post hoc as support for localization, his use of the pathological rather than the craniological method, his focus on the convolutional topography of the cerebral hemispheres, and, perhaps what is most important, the fact that the time was ripe for such a demonstration, all contributed to the instantaneous sensation created by Broca's findings. Now all needed was a technique for the experimental exploration of the surface of the hemispheres, and this technique was contributed jointly by Gustav Theodor Fritsch (1838-1927) and Eduard Hitzig (1838-1907).
In 1870, Archie’s für Anatomie, Physiologie, und wissenschaftliche Medicin, Fritsch and Hitzig published a classic paper that not only provided the first experimental evidence of cortical localization of function but, at a single stroke, swept away the age-old objection to localization based on the idea that the hemispheres fail to exhibit irritability. Employing galvanic stimulation of the cerebrum in the dog, Fritsch and Hitzig provided conclusive evidence that circumscribed areas of the cortex are involved in movements of the contralateral limbs and that ablation of these same areas leads to weakness in these limbs. Their findings established electrophysiology as a preferred method for the experimental exploration of cortical localization of function and demonstrated the participation of the hemispheres in motor function.
At approximately the same time in England, John Hughlings Jackson (1835-1911) was converging from a different direction on a sensory-motor view of hemispheric function. Hughlings Jackson was born in Providence Green, Green Hammerton, Yorkshire, England. He began the study of medicine as an apprentice in York and completed his education at the Medical School of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London and the University of St. Andrews. Among several hospital appointments, perhaps his most important was as physician to the National Hospital for the Paralysed and Epileptic, Queen Square. His contributions to neurology and psychology are scattered throughout papers appearing in a variety of journals between 1861 and 1909. Many more important papers have been gathered in the two volumes Selected Writings of John Hughlings Jackson, edited by James Taylor (1931/1932).
While Jackson's specific contributions to our understanding of the etiology, course, and treatment of neurological disorders ranging from aphasia and chorea to epilepsy and vertigo were very important, it is his evolutionary conception of the localization of sensory-motor function in the cerebrum that was most influential for psychology. This conception was, of course, developed under the inspiration of Spencer. As Young (1970) describes it, ‘Spencer's principles of continuity and evolution gave Jackson a single, consistent set of variables for specifying the physiological and psychological elements of which experience, thought, and behaviour are composed: sensations (or impressions) and motions. All complex mental phenomena are made up of these simple elements --from the simplest reflex to the most sublime thoughts and emotions. All functions and faculties can be explained in these terms.’
Jackson's paper, ‘On the anatomical and physiological localisation of movements in the brain,’ serialized in the Lancet in 1873, represents a series of papers during this period that reflect the sensory-motor conception. In an interesting and revealing preface to a 1875 pamphlet, Clinical and Physiological Researches on the Nervous System [17], which reprints the 1873 paper, Jackson describes the background for the hypothesis as it developed in his own work, almost as though he is endeavouring to establish his priority. Fond as always of quoting himself, Jackson reprints a footnote from a 1870 paper, ‘The study of convulsions,’ that summarizes his views: ‘It is asserted by some that the cerebrum is the organ of mind, and that it is not a motor organ. Some think the cerebrum is to be likened to an instrumentalist, and the motor centres to the instrument. One part is for ideas, and the other for movements. It may, then, be asked, How can it discharge the part that assumes to other mental states, in that, of a mental organ might produce motor symptoms only? But of what substantiated results can each in substances embark upon that which is considered for the organ of mind, unless of specified processes representing movements and impressions . . . ? Are we to believe that the hemisphere is constructed of the plan that presses upon its fundamental frequency of differences, in that, its judging gauge of which an immeasurable quality of dissimilar values may yet come from that of the motor tract? . . . Surely the conclusion is irresistible that 'mental' symptoms . . . must all be due to lack, or to disorderly development, of sensor-motor processes.
Thus, by the early 1870s, Jackson had fully articulated a general conception of the functional organization of the nervous system. In the words of Young (1970), this layed the groundwork for the last stage in the integration of the association psychology with sensory-motor physiology . . . (and) involved an explicit rejection of . . . work that had hindered a unified view: the faculty formulation of Broca, and the unwillingness of Flourens, Magendie, Müller, and others to treat the organ of mind -the highest centres -on consistently physiological terms. In Jackson's work, the theoretical analysis of cerebral localization reached the full extent of its 19th century development. In the systematic, experimental investigations of his friend and colleague, David Ferrier (1843-1928), this analysis was strikingly confirmed.
Ferrier was born and educated in Aberdeen, Scotland where he studied under Alexander Bain. At Bain's urging, he journeyed to Heidelberg in 1864 to study psychology. During that period, Heidelberg was home to both Helmholtz and Wundt. Indeed Wundt had only recently (1862) completed the Beiträge zur Theorie der Sinneswahrnehmung that contains the first programmatic statement of his physiological psychology and Ferrier must certainly have encountered Wundt's views.
On his return, Ferrier completed his medical training at the University of Edinburgh and served, for a short time, as assistant to Thomas Laycock, who had been the first to articulate the concept of ‘unconscious cerebration.’ Among other appointments, Ferrier, like Jackson, served as physician to the National Hospital, Queen Square. Influenced as Jackson had been by Bain and Spencer, Ferrier set out to test Jackson's notion that sensory-motor functions must be represented through some orderly coordinative vectors systemized, since they are an organization that proudly fashions in the cortex to extend by Fritsch and Hitzig's experimental localization of motor cortices in the cervixes of the dog. Employing very carefully controlled ablations and faradic stimulation of the brain, an advance over the galvanic techniques available to Fritsch and Hitzig, Ferrier succeeded in mapping sensory and motor areas across a wide range of species. His first paper, ‘Experimental researches in cerebral physiology and pathology,’ appeared in 1873 in the West Riding Lunatic Asylum Medical Reports. Although, it was the impact of the cumulated cross-species research that brought into all of their priorities in 1876 in The Functions of the Brain that served to confirm the installation of sensory-motor analysis as the dominant paradigm for explanation in both physiology and psychology.
Images/27.GIFWhile the debate raged between Nancy and the Salpêtrière, Pierre Janet (1859-1947) was at work at Le Havre gathering clinical observations on which to base his dissertation. Born in Paris, Janet entered the École Normale Supérieure in 1879, placing second in the extremely competitive examinations of the agrégation. Shortly thereafter he took up a professorial position in philosophy at the Lyceum in Le Havre where he remained until the acceptance of his dissertation. Upon receipt of the degree, he moved to Paris to study medicine and pursue clinical research under Chariot at the Salpêtrière.
Janet's dissertation, L'automatisme psychologique brought together a wealth of related clinical information on a variety of abnormal mental states related to hysteria and psychosis. Dividing such states into total (involving the whole personality) and partial (part of the personality split from awareness and following its own psychological existence) automatisms, Janet employed automatic writing and hypnosis to identify the traumatic origins and explore the nature of automatism. Syncope, catalepsy, and artificial somnambulism with post-hypnotic amnesia and memory for prior hypnotic states were analysed as total automatisms. Multiple personalities, which Janet called ‘successive existence,’ partial catalepsy, absent-mindedness, phenomena of automatic writing, post-hypnotic suggestion, the use of the divining rod, mediumistic trance, obsessions, fixed ideas, and the experience of possession were treated as partial automatisms.
What is most important, Janet brought these phenomena together within an analytic framework that emphasized the ideomotor relationship between consciousness and action, employed a dynamic metaphor of psychic force and weakness, and stressed the concept of ‘field of consciousness’ and its narrowing because of depletion of psychic force? Within this framework, Janet analysed the peculiar fixation of the patient on the therapist in rapport about the distortion of the patient's perception, and related hysterical symptomatology to the autonomous power of ‘idées fixes’ split from the conscious personality and submerged in the subconscious. Although careful to avoid direct discussion of the therapeutic implications of his work draws from a substantiating medical dissertation, Janet laid the foundations for his own and Freud's later therapeutic approaches through his demonstration of the origins of splitting in psychic traumas in the patient's history.
Indeed, it was but a short leap from the work of Chariot, Bernheim, and Janet to that of Josef Breuer (1842-1925) and Sigmund Freud (1856-1939). In 1893, Breuer and Freud published a short preliminary communication, ‘Ueber den psychischen Mechanismus hysterische Phänomene’ in the Neurologische Centralblatt. The origin of the Breuer and Freud paper lay in Breuer's work with the famous patient Anna O.
Although actual details of the case of Anna O. as described by Bremer, who undoubtedly took pains to disguise his patient, and many years later by Jones (1953/1957) are at considerable variances with one another and probably with the facts of the case, it is known that the alleviation of Anna O's symptoms occurred only as the patient, under hypnosis, provided Bremer in reverse chronological order with an account of the exact circumstances under which each symptom appeared. Only when she had traced the final symptom back to the traumatic circumstances of its occurrence was she cured. Anna O's cure by this ‘cathartic’ method, which involved bringing the trauma to consciousness and allowing it to discharge through effect, words, and guided associations, has often been seen, and was thought by Freud, to be the starting point for psychoanalysis.
In the seminal work of Janet and in the critical transitional paper of Bremer and Freud, we see the culmination of developments that had begun with Puységur's elaboration of the doctrines of Mesmer. In a little more than a hundred years, a huge corpus of evidence and relational neurological functions and psychological theories that are dynamically irrevokable, least of mention, there is to believe that the related mental states, or their events -mesmeric trance states, rapport, the therapist's will to cure, the concentration of attention, mental suggestion, psychic trauma, the dissociation of consciousness, and catharsis -could affect radical alterations in the state of the body. No psychologist writing in the 1890s could afford to ignore this rich material and its implications for conceptualization of the nature of the mind/body relationship. William James, as we will see, was no exception. According to the received view (Boring, 1950), scientific psychology began in Germany as a physiological psychology born of a marriage between the philosophy of mind, on the one hand, and the experimental phenomenology that arose within sensory physiology on the other. Philosophical psychology, concerned with the epistemological problem of the nature of knowing mind in relationship to the world as known, contributed fundamental questions and explanatory constructs; sensory physiology and to a certain extent physics contributed experimental methods and a growing body of phenomenological facts.
In one version of this story that can be traced back at least to Ribot (1879), the epistemology of the 17th and 18th centuries culminated in the work of Kant, who denied the possibility that psychology could become an empirical science on two grounds. First, since psychological processes vary in only one dimension, time, they could not be described mathematically. Second, since psychological processes are internal and subjective, Kant also asserted that they could not be laid open to measurement. Herbart, so the tale goes, answered the first of Kant's objections by conceiving of mental entities as varying both in time and in intensity and showing that the change in intensity over time could be mathematically represented. Fechner then answered the second objection by developing psychophysical procedures that allowed the strength of a sensation to be scaled. Wundt combined these notions, joined them to the methods of sensory physiology and experimental phenomenology and, in 1879, created the Leipzig laboratory.
While there is undoubted truth in the received history, like all rationalizing reconstructions, it tends greatly to oversimplify what is an exceptionally complex story. Within the past 20 years, as primary resource materials have become more widely available and as larger numbers of historians have entered the arena, the received view has been amended often. Within the context of this exhibit catalogue, it will not, of course, be possible to address this complexity. The reader who is interested, however, is referred to the Journal of the History of the Behavioural Sciences and to Bringmann and Tweney (1980), Danziger (1990), Rieber (1980), and Woodward and Ash (1982) among others.
Because so many psychologists are at least broadly familiar with the lines of Boring's story of the rise of experimental psychology, because the story has been so frequently retold in the many other textbook histories, and because it is a much more complex tale that it at first appears, this section and the two to follow will sketch only the barest outlines of the intellectual developments that led from Locke to Kant, from Bell to Müller, and from Fechner to Wundt. Psychologists who have not read Boring are strongly encouraged to do so. Despite its limitations, it is still the point of origin from which much of contemporary scholarship proceeds. Perhaps even more important, it is the history of psychology that has become part and parcel of American psychology's view of itself.
Images/32.GIF Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) was born, lived, and died at Königsberg, in East Prussia. It is said that in the entire course of his life, he never travelled more than forty miles from the place of his birth. The suggestion from Ribot that 18th century philosophy culminated in the work of Kant was probably not an unreasonable one; although it might be an even fairer appraisal of Kant's influence to say that 19th and 20th century philosophy followed Kant much as the earlier philosophy had followed Descartes. Kant's indirect influence on scientific psychology was therefore enormous. His direct contributions, although admittedly more circumscribed, were also very important
One such contribution, as we have already noted, was Kant's defining the prerequisites that would need to be met for psychology to become an empirical science. Another consisted of a bonafide psychological treatise, Anthropologie in pragmatischer Hinsicht, published in 1798. Long ignored, probably in part because of its pronounced sympathy for as soon as to be a discredited physiognomy, the Anthropologie is, nonetheless, a fascinating little book. Here Kant analyses the nature of the cognitive powers, feelings of pleasure and displeasure, affects, passions, and character in a denial of the possibility of an empirical science of conscious process. The Anthropologie went through two editions during Kant's lifetime and several later printings and helped to define the context within which not only Herbart and Fechner but phenomenologically oriented physiologists such as Purkyne, Weber, and Müller worked to establish the science of conscious phenomena that Kant was unable to envision.
Boring (1950) has pointed out that between the years remembered through about the 1800s and well through to bout 1850, when several discoveries in physiology helped lay the foundation for the eventual rise of experimental psychology. The events’ particularity of interest are: (a) the first elaboration of a distinction between sensory and motor nerves; (b) the emergence of a sensory phenomenology of vision and of touch; and © the articulation of the doctrine of specific nerve energies, including the related view that the nervous system mediates between the mind and the world. While these discoveries were being made, two major developments in philosophical psychology were also occurring: the elaboration of secondary laws of association and the first attempt at a quantitative description of the parameters affecting the movement of ideas above and below a threshold.
Johannes Müller (1801-1858) was born in Coblenz and educated at the University of Bonn. He received his medical degree in 1822 and, after a year in Berlin, was habilitated as privatdozent at Bonn, where he rose eventually to the professoriate. In 1833, he left Bonn to assume the prestigious Chair of Anatomy and Physiology at the University of Berlin. His most important contributions to the history of experimental psychology were the personal influence that he exerted upon younger colleagues and students, including Hermann von Helmholtz, Ernst Brücke, Carl Ludwig, and Emil DuBois-Reymond, and the systematic form he gave to the doctrine of the specific energies of nerves in the Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen für Vorlesungen, published between 1834 and 1840.
Although Müller had enunciated the doctrine of specific nerve energies as early as 1826, his presentation in the Handbuch was more extensive and systematic. Fundamentally, the doctrine involved two cardinal principles. The first of these principles was that the mind is directly aware not of objects in the physical world but of states of the nervous system. The nervous system, in other words, serves as an intermediary between the world and the mind and thus imposes its own nature on mental processes. The second was that the qualities of the sensory nerves of which the mind receives knowledge in sensation are specific to the various senses, the nerve of vision being normally as insensible to sound as the nerve of an audition is to light.
As Boring (1950) pointed out, there was nothing in this view that was completely original with Müller. Not only was much of the doctrine contained in the work of Charles Bell, the first of Müller's two most fundamental principles was implicit in Locke's idea of ‘secondary qualities’ and the second incorporated an idea concerning the senses that had long been generally accepted. What was important in Müller was his systematization of these principles in a handbook of physiology that served a generation of students as the standard reference on the subject and the legitimacy he lent the overall doctrine through the weight of his personal prestige.
After Müller, the two problems of mind and body, the relationship of mind to brain and nervous system and the relationship of mind to a world were inextricably linked. Although Müller did not himself explore the implications of his doctrine for the possibility that the ultimate correlates of sensory qualities might lie in specialized centres of the cerebral cortex or develop some sensory psychophysics, his principle of specificity lay the groundwork for the eventual localization of cortical function and his view of the epistemological function of the nervous system helped define the context within which techniques for the quantitative measurement of the mind/world relationship emerged in Fechner's psychophysics.
It is in the work of Gustav Theodor Fechner (1801-1887) that we find the formal beginning of experimental psychology. Before Fechner, as Boring (1950) tells us, there was only psychological physiology and philosophical psychology. It was Fechner ‘who performed with scientific rigour those first experiments which laid the foundations for the new psychology and still lie at the basis of its methodology’
Images/42.GIF On the 24th of March 1879, however, Wundt submitted a petition to the Royal Saxon Ministry of Education in which he formally requested a regular financial allocation for the establishment and support of a collection of psychophysical apparatus. Although his request was denied, Wundt seems as early as the Winter of 1879/1880 to have nonetheless allowed two students, G. Stanley Hall and Max Friedrich, ‘to occupy themselves with research investigations.’ This research took place in a small classroom in the Konvict Building that had earlier been assigned to Wundt for use as a storage area. Humble though it may have been, this small space constituted the first laboratory in the world devoted to original psychological research.
Experimental psychology, born with Fechner, nurtured by Helmholtz and Donders, was to be raised by Wundt. Over the years until his retirement in 1917, Wundt served as the de facto parent of the ‘new’ psychology. Students from all over the world, especially from the United States, journeyed to Leipzig to learn experimental technique and to return to their home institutions imbued with the spirit of scientific psychology.
To occupy oneself with history is not a matter of simple curiosity. It would be so if history were a simple science of the past. But: (1) History is not a simple science. (2). One does not make one’s home the singularity that can only to grasp into its self that one can be the accompaniment within the past, inasmuch as it no longer exists. History is not a simple science, but rather there exists a historical reality. Historicity, in fact, is a dimension of the real being we call 'man'.
And this historicity does not arise exclusively or primarily because of the fact that the past advances toward a present, and pushes it on toward the future. This later is a positive interpretation of history that is completely inadequate. It presupposes, in fact, that the present is just something that passes, and that the passing means what once was no longer is. The truth on the contrary is that an existing reality, and hence one that is present, man, finds himself constituted partially through a possession of himself in such a form that when he turns in upon himself, he discovers himself being what he is because he had a past and is being formed for a future. The ‘present’ is that marvellous unity of these three moments whose successive unfolding constitutes the historical trajectory, the point at which man, a temporal being, paradoxically becomes the tangent to eternity. Since Boethius, in fact, the classical definition of eternity has involved not just ‘an inter-mirabilis vita,’ as a never-ending life, but ‘tota simul et perfecta possessio.’ Furthermore, the reality of man present is constituted among other things by that concrete point of tangency whose geometric locus is termed the situation. Upon entering into ourselves, we discover that we are in a situation that pertains to us constitutively, and in which our individual destiny is inscribed, a destiny elected by us sometimes, imposed on us others. And while the situation does not ineluctably predetermine either the content of our life or that of its problems, it clearly circumscribes the general nature of those problems, and above all limits the possibilities for their solution. Hence, history as a science is much more a science of the present than a science of the past. In respect to philosophy, this is even truer than it could be for any other intellectual occupation, because the character of philosophical knowledge makes of it something constitutively problematic. Zetoumene episteme, the sought after science, Aristotle usually termed it. Therefore it is pot at all strange that to profane eyes, the problem has an atmosphere of discord.
In history we encounter three distinct conceptions of philosophy, emerging ultimately from three dimensions of man: (1) Philosophy as a knowledge about things (2) Philosophy as a direction for the world and for life. (3) Philosophy as a way of life and therefore as something that happens.
In reality, these three conceptions of philosophy, corresponding to three different conceptions of the intellect, lead to three completely different forms of intellectuality. The world has continued to nourish itself on them, simultaneously and successively, at times even in the person of one thinker. The three converge in a special way in our situation, and again keenly and urgently pose the problem of philosophy (and of intellect itself). These three dimensions of the intellect have reached us, perhaps somewhat dislocated, through the channels of history. The intellect has itself begun to pay for its own deformation. In trying to reform itself, it seems readily sure, in that the future new forms of intellectuality. All of the earlier ones, they will be defective, or rather limited. However that does not disqualify them, because man is always what he is, but thanks are by his restrictive nature, as too, are the limitations, for which permit of him of choice, for which he can be. And if, by his perceptivity that their own limitations are the intellectuals of that lived of that time, perhaps, a returning source from which they can depart, just as we see ourselves referred to identify the place of which we depart. And this is history: a situation that implies another previous one, as something real making possible our own situation. Thus, to occupy oneself with history is not a simple matter of curiosity; it is the very movement to which the intellect sees itself subjected when it embarks on the enormous task of setting itself in motion starting from its ultimate source. Therefore the history of philosophy is not extrinsic to philosophy itself, as the history of mechanics could be to mechanics. Philosophy is not its history, but the history of philosophy is philosophy, because the turning in of the intellect upon itself, in the concrete and radical situation in which it finds itself placed, is the origin take-off point for philosophy. The problem of philosophy is nothing but the problem of the intellect. With this affirmation, which ultimately goes back to old Parmenides, philosophy began to exist on the earth. And Plato used to tell us, moreover, that philosophy is a silent dialogue of the soul with itself concerning all things in being.
Still, the practising scientist will only with difficulty succeed in freeing himself from the notion that philosophy becomes lost in an abyss of discord, if not throughout its domain, at least insofar as it involves knowledge about things.
It is undeniable that throughout its history, philosophy has understood its own definition as a knowledge about things in quite diverse ways. But the first responsibility of the philosopher must be that of guarding himself against two antagonistic tendencies that spontaneously arise in a beginning spirit: That of losing oneself in skepticism and that of deciding to fit tightly polemically, as having a difference of opinion across one system instead of another, even if it is that we are as oriented differently of our position in life, only that if we could be formulated. We will renounce these attitudes. And if we now review the rich collection of definitions, we cannot fail to be overwhelmed by the impression that a very serious matter is at the heart of this diversity. If the conceptions of philosophy as a theoretical form of knowledge are truly so diverse, it is clear that this diversity means that not only the content of its solutions, but the very idea of philosophy continues to be problematic. The diversity of definitions manifest the problem of philosophy itself as a true form of knowledge about things. But to think that the existence of such a problem could disqualify philosophy as its theoretical knowledge is to condemn the paradigms by which of science has given by oneself the perpetual persistence, which, perhaps, leaves its shoes outside its vestibule. The problems of philosophy are not, at bottom, other than the problem of philosophy.
But perhaps the question will resurface with new urgency when we try to pin down the nature of this theoretical knowledge. Nor is the problem even new. For quite some time, several centuries in fact, this question has been formulated another way: Does philosophy have scientific character? However, this manner of presenting the problem is not quite the same. According to it, ‘knowledge about things’ acquires its complete and exemplary expression in what is termed ‘a scientific form of knowledge.’ And this supposition has been decisive while philosophy the modernity of times due, stood very still.
In diverse ways, in fact, it has been repeatedly observed that philosophy is quite far from being a science, that in most of its hypotheses it does not go beyond an attempt to be scientific. And this may lead either to skepticism about philosophy, or to maximum optimism about it, as occurred in Hegel when in the opening pages of the Phenomenology of the Spirit he roundly affirms that he proposes to ‘help to bring philosophy nearer to the form of science, . . . show that the time process does raise philosophy to the level of scientific system . . .’ And he also affirms that it is necessary for philosophy to abandon, its character of love and of wisdom to be converted into some activated wisdom. (For Hegel, ‘science’ does not mean science in the usual sense.)
With a different objective, but with less energy, Kant begins the preface to the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason by saying:
Whether the treatment of knowledge lies within the province of reasons served or does not follow the secure path of a science, is easily to be determined from the outcome. For if after elaborate preparations, frequently renewed, it is brought to a stop immediately it nears its goal; if often it is compelled to retrace its steps and strike into some new line of approach; or again, if the various participants are unable to agree in any common plan of procedure, then we may rest assured that it is very far from entering upon the secure path of a science, and is indeed a mere random groping.
And in contrast to what occurs in logic, mathematics, physics, etc., with respect to metaphysics we see that . . . though it is older than all other sciences, and would survive even if all the rest were swallowed up in the abyss of an all-destroying barbarism, it has not yet had the good fortune to enter upon the secure path of a science.
A quarter of a century ago Husserl published a vibrant study in the periodical Logos, entitled ‘Philosophy as a Strict and Rigorous Science.’ In it, after having shown that it would be nonsense, for example, to discuss a problem of physics or mathematics so the participants injected into the discussion their own points of view, their opinions, preferences, or Weltanschauung, Husserl boldly proposes the necessity of making philosophy likewise into a science of apodeitic and absolute evidence. But in him last analysis, he merely refers to the work of Descartes. Descartes, very cautiously but at bottom saying the same thing, begins his Principles of Philosophy as follows: As we were at once children, and as we formed various judgements regarding the objects presented to us, when yet we had not the entire use of our reason, numerous prejudices stand in the way of our arriving at the knowledge of truth. Of these it seems impossible for us to rid ourselves, unless we undertake, once in our lifetime, to doubt of all these things in which we may discover even the smallest suspicion of uncertainty.
From this exposition of the question we may draw several important conclusions: 1. Descartes, Kant, and Husserl compare philosophy to the other sciences from the point of view of the type of knowledge that they yield: Does philosophy or does it not possess a type of apodeitic evidence comparable to that of mathematics or theoretical physics? 2. This comparison later reverts to the method that leads to such evidence: Does philosophy or does it not possess a method that leads securely, through internal necessity and not merely by chance, to types of evidence analogous to those obtain by the other sciences? 3. Finally it leads to a criterion: insofar as philosophy does not possess this type of knowledge and this secure method of the other sciences, its defect in that regard becomes an objection to its scientific character.
Now, faced with this statement of the question we must energetically affirm: 1. That the difference that Husserl, Kant and Descartes point out between science and philosophy, though very important, is not in the end sufficiently radical. 2. That the difference between science and philosophy is not an objection to the character of philosophy as a strict form of knowledge about things.
And this is so because, in the last analysis, their objection to philosophy derives from a certain conception of science that, without prior discussion, is assumed applicable to all strict and rigorous knowledge
The radical difference separating philosophy and the sciences does not arise from the scientific or philosophical state of knowledge. It seems, listening to Kant, that the only thing that matters is that, relative to its object, philosophy (in contrast to science) has not yet managed to give us a single reliable step leading to that state of knowledge. And we affirm that said difference is not sufficiently radical, because frankly it presupposes that the object of philosophy is there, in the world, and that all we need do is find the secure road leading to it.
The situation would be much more serious if what were problematic turned out to be the object of philosophy: Does the object of philosophy exist? This question is what radically separates philosophy from the other sciences. Whereas these latter starts from the possession of their object, and then simply study it, philosophy must begin by actively justifying the existence of its object, the possession of which is in fact the end, not the presupposition of its study. And philosophy can only be an on-going concern by constantly recovering the existence of its object. When Aristotle termed it Zetoumene episteme, he understood that what men sought was not only the method, but the very object of philosophy as well.
What does it mean to say that the existence of the object of philosophy is problematic?
If this meant simply that we were ignorant of what that object is, the problem, though serious, would ultimately be quite simple. It would be a question of saying either that humanity has not yet discovered that object, or that it is so complicated that its apprehension is still obscure. To be sure, the former is what happened for many centuries with each science and therefore their respective object: were not simultaneously discovered during history? ; some sciences were born later than others. On the other hand, if it were true that the object of philosophy were excessively complicated, the question would be that of trying to show it only to those minds who had acquired sufficient maturity. This would be analogous to the difficulty encountered by someone who tried to explain the object of differential geometry to a student of mathematics in elementary school. In either of these cases, owing to historical vicissitudes or didactic difficulties, we would be dealing with a deictic problem, with an individual or collective effort to point out (deixis) what that object is which goes about here lost among the other objects of the world.
Everything leads us to suspect that this is not so.
The problematicism surrounding the object of philosophy stems not only from a de facto failure to come upon it, but moreover from the nature of that object, which, in contrast to all others, is constitutively latent. Here we understand by ‘object’ the real or ideal thing with which science or any other human activity deals. Here, it is clear that: (1). This latent object is in no way comparable to any other object. Therefore, in as much as we what wish of saying, the object of philosophy, may, perhaps, find as a propounding asset, that we will move as if on the axial plane of thought, afar and above, that once removed we begin to participate of the other sciences. If each science deals with an object, either real, fictitious, or ideal, the object of philosophy is neither real, fictitious, nor ideal; it is something else, so much so, that it is not a thing at all. (2) We thus understand that this peculiar object cannot be found separated from any other object, be it real, fictitious, or ideal. Nonetheless, may it be, that it is included in all of them, without being identified with any particular one. This is what we mean when we affirm that it is constitutively latent, latent beneath every object. Since man finds himself constitutively directed toward real, fictitious, or ideal objects, with which he must create his life and elaborate his sciences, it follows that this constitutively latent object is because of its own nature essentially fleeting. 3. What this object flees from is none other than the simple glance of the mind. In contrast, then, to what Descartes maintained, the object of philosophy can never be formally discovered through a simplex mentis inspectio. Rather, after the objects beneath which it lies have been understood, a new mental act reworking the previous ones is necessary to position the object in a new dimension to make this other new dimension not transparent, but visible. The act by which the object of philosophy is made patent is not an apprehension, nor an intuition, but a reflection, a reflection that does not, as such, discover a new object among the others, but a new dimension of each object, whatever it may be. It is not an act that enriches our understanding of what things are. One must not anticipate that philosophy will tell us, for example, anything about physical forces, organisms, or triangles that is inaccessible to mathematics, physics, or biology. It enriches us simply by carrying us to another type of consideration.
To avoid misunderstandings, we should observe that the word 'reflection' is employed here in its most ingenuous and common meaning: an act or series of acts that, in one form or another return to an object of a previous act through this latter act. 'Reflection' here does not mean simply an act of meditation, nor an act of introspection, as when one speaks of reflective consciousness, as opposed to direct consciousness. The reflection here described consists of a series of acts through which the entire world of our life is placed in a new perspective, including the objects therein and all the scientific knowledge we may have acquired about them.
Secondly, note that though reflection and what it discovers to us cannot be reduced to a natural attitude and what it discovers to us. This does not mean that in one fashion or another, in one degree or another, reflection is not just as primitive and inborn as any natural attitude.
It follows then that the radical difference between science and philosophy does not fall upon philosophy as an objection. It does not mean that philosophy is not a rigorous form of knowledge, but only that it is a different type of knowledge. Whereas science is a knowledge that studies an object that is there, philosophy, since it deals with an object that because of its own nature hides, which is evanescent, will accordingly be knowledge that must pursue its object and detain it before a human gaze, which must conquer it. Philosophy is nothing but the active constitution of its own object; it is the actual carrying out of this act of reflection. Hegel's fatal error was just the opposite of Kant's. Whereas Kant, in short, divorced philosophy from any object of its own, thus making it refer to our mode of knowing. Hegel reifies about the object of philosophy, speaking as if only all of which is to every other object, there emerges of some dialectical awareness for which each one is sustained dialectically.
For the present it is unnecessary to further clarify the nature of the object of philosophy or its formal method. Here the only thing I wish to emphasize is that irrationalism not withstanding, the object of philosophy is strictly an object of knowledge, but this object is radically different from the rest. Whereas any science or any human activity considers things that are and such as they are (hos estin), philosophy considers them inasmuch as they are (hei estin, Metaphysics 1064). In other words, the object of philosophy is transcendental, and as such accessible only to a reflection. The ‘scandal of science’ not only isn't an objection to philosophy that must be resolved, but a positive dimension that it is necessary to conserve. Therefore Hegel said that philosophy was the world in reverse. The explanation of this scandal is the problem, content, and destiny of philosophy. Hence (although not quite what Kant said) ‘one does not learn philosophy, one learns to philosophize.’ And it is absolute certain that one only learns philosophy by starting to philosophize.
Every science, whether history or physics or theology (and likewise every natural attitude of life) refers too more than or less determinate of objects, with which man has already come into contact. The scientist may, then, direct himself to it, and set himself one or more problems about it the attempted solutions of which constitute the reality of science. If the presumed science does not yet enjoy a clear conception of what it pursues, then it is not yet a science. Any wavering on this point is an unequivocal sign of imperfection. That does not mean the science is immutable, but what changes in it is the concrete content of the solutions given to the one or more problems it has set out to solve. The problem itself, may be that of an unaltered remission that goes beyond the remains as such. The physical view of the universe has profoundly changed from Galileo to Einstein and quantum mechanics, however, in all these changes that have occurred within the scope of a general endeavour known and defined all along, viz., measurement of the universe. Sometimes perhaps the very formulation of the problem may change. But this occurs extremely rarely and across long spans of time. When it does happen it is owing to a new formulation of the problem that is as clear and determinate as the previous one, so that one may ask, indeed, whether ultimately the science has not ceased to be what it used to be, and become something else, a different science. Thus, in the Middle Ages physics studied the principles of the physical theories that were achievable. After Galileo it was measurement of the material universe. In both cases’ physics was a science when it had begun to tell itself what it sought to do.
Very different is the course of philosophy. In fact, philosophy begins by not knowing whether it has a proper object; at least, it does not start formally from the possession of an object. Philosophy presents itself, above all, as an effort, as a ‘pretension.’ And this, not because of any simple ignorance de facto or a simple lack of knowledge, but because of the constitutively latent nature of that object. Hence it follows that the strict separation between a problem that clearly differentiates in advance of its later solution, which is basic to all science and to all natural attitudes of life, loses its primary meaning about philosophy. Hence philosophy must be, first, a perennial revindication of its object (let us call it that), an energetic illumination of it and a constant and constitutive ‘making room.’ From Parmenides' entity (on), Plato's Ideas, and Aristotle's analogical being as such, up to Kant's transcendental conditions of experience and the absolute of Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, passing through all the theological strata of medieval thought and the first centuries of the modern era, philosophy has been primarily a justification of or demonstrative effort for the existence (‘sit venia verbo’) of its object. Whereas science deals with an object that it already clearly possesses, philosophy is the effort directed toward a progressive intellectual constitution of its own object, the violence of yanking it from its constitutive latency and clearly revealing it. Nonetheless, philosophy might exist for the revindicating of itself, and in one of its formal dimensions consists in ‘opening paths.’ Consequently, philosophy cannot have what is the greater ascendancy than fixed by the intellectual narrowness which de facto oppresses the philosopher.
In virtue of this, it is only clear to the philosopher after he finds himself philosophizing what a mighty labour he carried out to reach the point where he could begin to philosophize. And this is true whether one deals with obtaining rigorous evidence or rising to transcendental intuitions. In this labour of opening a path one sketches and outlines the figure of the problem. It is possible for the philosopher to have begun with a certain subjective intellectual purpose. But this does not mean that such a beginning is formally the origin of his philosophy. And if we agree that the nature of the problem is the origin of principles, we must say that, in philosophy, the origin is the end, moreover in its first original and radical ‘step’ all of philosophy is already there. Throughout this process philosophy properly speaking does not evolve, is not enriched with new characteristics; rather, the characteristics become more explicit, they continually appear as aspects of a self-constitution. Whereas an immature science is imperfect, philosophy is the very process of its own maturity. The rest is dead academic and scholarly philosophy. Hence, in contrast to what happens in science, philosophy must mature in each philosopher. And therefore that which properly constitutes its history is the history of the idea of philosophy. Hence the original relationship existing between philosophy and its history must be clarified.
It may occasionally happen that the philosopher begins with an already existing concept of philosophy. But, what meaning or function does such a concept have within philosophy? It is, obviously, a concept that he, the philosopher has created and therefore is his possession or property. But, once things are underway, because philosophy consists of the ‘opening a path,’ it follows that therein the idea of philosophy is constituted. The definition of physics is not the work of physical science, whereas the work of philosophy is the conquest of its idea of itself. On this point, that initial movement has no bearing whatsoever; philosophy has achieved its own consistency, and with it an adequate concept, the concept which philosophy has created for itself. Nor is it any longer the philosopher who bears the concept of philosophy, as happened at the beginning; rather, philosophy and its concept are what bear the philosopher. In that apprehension or conception that the concept is, it is no longer the mind that apprehends or conceives philosophy, but philosophy is that what apprehends and conceives in the mind. The concept is not the property of the philosopher, but rather the philosopher is the property of the concept, because these latter springs from what philosophy is in it. Philosophy is not the work of the philosopher; the philosopher is the work of philosophy.
From where, before and only before a mature philosophy do we see that it is not only possible but necessary to ask how far and in what way does that philosophy answer its own concept. A typical case, to speak only of recent history, is shown to us by German Idealism, from Kant to Hegel. It makes perfect sense to scrutinize this entire current of transcendental idealism, and determine with each philosopher an original philosophy, absolutely compatible with the common root of all of their thought, and even with Kant's singular merit of being the first to discover the root and bear the first fruits.
Rene Descartes was a famous French mathematician, scientist and philosopher. He was arguably the first major philosopher in the modern era to try to defeat skepticism. His views about knowledge and certainty, and his views about the relationship between mind and body have been very influential over the last three centuries.
One source of this interest in method was ancient mathematics. The thirteen books of Euclid's Elements were some models of knowledge and deductive method. But how had all this been achieved? Archimedes had made many remarkable discoveries. How had he come to make these discoveries? The method in which the results were presented (sometimes called the method of synthesis) was clearly not the method by which these results were discovered. So, the search was on for the method used by the ancient mathematicians to make their discoveries (the method of analysis). Descartes is clearly convinced that the discovery of the proper method is the key to scientific advance. For more extended purposes and detailed discussion of these methods.
In November 1628 Descartes was in Paris, where he made himself famous in a confrontation with Chandoux. Chandoux claimed that science could only be based on probabilities. This view reflected the dominance in French intellectual circles of Renaissance skepticism. This skptical view was rooted in the religious crisis in Europe resulting from the Protestant Reformation and had been deepened by the publication of the works of Sextus Empiricus and reflections on disagreements between classical authors. It was strengthened again by considerations about the differences in culture between New World cultures and that of Europe, and by the debates over the new Copernican system. All of this had been eloquently formulated by Montaigne in his Apology for Raymond Sebond and developed by his followers. Descartes attacked this view, claiming only that certainty could serve as a basis for knowledge, and that he himself had a method for attaining such certainty. In the same year Descartes moved to Holland where he remained with only brief interruptions until 1649.
In Holland Descartes produced a scientific work called Le Monde or The World that he was about to publish in 1634. At the point, however, he learned that Galileo had been condemned by the Church for teaching Copernicanism. Descartes’s book was Copernican to the core, and he therefore had it suppressed. In 1638 Descartes published a book containing three essays on mathematical and scientific subjects and the Discourse on Method. These works were written in French (rather than Latin) and were aimed at the educated world rather than simply academics. In 1641 Descartes followed this with the Meditationes de Prima Philosophia (Meditations on First Philosophy). This short work is more metaphysical than scientific, and aims to establish the certain foundations for the sciences that Descartes had announced in his confrontation with Chandoux in 1628. (For a more detailed account of this work see Structure of the Meditations. The work was published with Objections and Replies from a six and then seven philosophers and theologians, including Thomas Hobbes, Pierre Gassendi and Antoine Arnauld.
After the Meditations, Descartes produced The Principles of Philosophy in 1644, the most comprehensive statement of his mature philosophy and of the Cartesian system in general. Part (1) explains Descartes metaphysical views. Part (2) gives a detailed exposition of the principles of Cartesian physics. Part (3) applies those principles of physics to explain the universe, and Part (4) deals with a variety of terrestrial phenomena. Two more parts were planned, to deal with plants and animals and man, but were not completed. In 1648 Descartes published ‘Notes against a Program’ -a response to a pamphlet published anonymously by Henricus Regius, Professor of Medecine at the University of Utrecht. Regius had been an early and enthusiastic supporter of Descartes. Yet, once Regius published his Foundations of Physics Descartes complained that Regius had shamelessly used unpublished papers of Descartes to which he had access and had distorted Descartes' ideas. The ‘Notes’ both illustrate the kind of academic controversy in which Descartes was involved during this decade, but also provides some insight into his views about mind and his doctrine of innate ideas.
Descartes last work Les Passions de l'áme was written because of the correspondence that Descartes carried on with Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia. The work was written in French, and published in Amsterdam and Paris in 1649. This work (like the Principles) is composed of many short articles. Princess Elisabeth had raised the question of how the soul could interact with the body in 1643. In response to Elisabeth's questions, Descartes wrote short works that developed into the ‘Passions of the Soul.’ The work is a combination of psychology, physiology and ethics, and contains Descartes' theory of two way causal interactions via the pineal gland.
Two months before the publication of the Passions Descartes set sail for Stockholm, Sweden, at the invitation of Queen Christina of Sweden. Descartes' death in Stockholm of pneumonia, has regularly been attributed to the rigours of the Swedish climate and the fact that Descartes (no early riser) was sometimes required to give the Queen lessons as early as five in the morning. However unpleasant these conditions may have been, it seems plain that Descartes acquired his fatal malady because of nursing his friend the French ambassador (who had pneumonia) back to health.
Most academics are familiar with a comforting fable, subject to minor variations, about René Descartes and modern philosophy. Around 1640, Descartes philosophically crystallized a key transformation latent in Renaissance views of humanity. He moved the foundation of knowledge from humans fully embedded within and suited to nature to inside each individual. Descartes made knowledge and truth rest upon the individual subject and that subject's knowledge of his or her own capacities. This move permitted profoundly new and unconditional skepticism, than undermining universal knowledge by positing a uniformity of human subjects, this move ultimately guaranteed intersubjective knowledge. Knowledge became subjective and objective. Not content merely to make man himself the ground of knowledge, Descartes went further to make the human mind alone the source for knowledge, knowledge that modelled after pure mathematics. The new Cartesian subject ignored the manifold contributions of the body, and Descartes assumed all real knowledge could come only from a reason common to all humans. The universality of the knowing things and processes of knowing and not-knowing, are we to make of this causal event the Cartesian subject as one that is transcendental. Above all, mathematics, with its proof techniques, and formal thought, modelled on mathematics, exemplified those things that can be intersubjectively known by individual but importantly similar subjects.
Versions of this fable appear in numerous analyses, some quite sophisticated and textually based, some crude and dismissive. These versions provide grounds for praising or dismissing Descartes and the philosophical modernity he wrought.\\l 1 Rather than surveying or evaluating these appraisals, here I want merely to clarify and anchor historically the subject Descartes hoped his philosophy would help produce.\\l 2 This essay examines one set of exercises Descartes highlighted as propaedeutics to a better life and better knowledge: Becoming famous, for which it might be that if it were as little known through his geometry. Critics and supporters have too often stressed Descartes's dependence on or reduction of knowledge to a mathematical model without inquiring into the rather odd mathematics he actually set forth as this model. His geometry, neither Euclidean nor algebraic, has its own standards, its own rigour, and its own \\l 3limitations.3. These characteristics ought radically to modify our view of Descartes's envisioned subject. Although the technical details of his geometry might seem interesting and comprehensible only to historians of mathematics, the essential features grounding Descartes's program can be made readily comprehensible. Descartes did far more than theoretically (if implicitly) invoke the knowing subject in his Meditations. To pursue his philosophy was nothing less than to cultivate and order oneself. He offered his revolutionary but peculiar mathematics as a fundamental practice in this philosophy pursued as a way of life. Let us move, then, from abstraction about Descartes to the historical quest for this way of life One way in which modern philosophy, roughly that beginning with Descartes, is supposed to be different from what came before it, is its emphasis on the problems of acquiring knowledge. This emphasis on knowledge likely has its origins in a variety of circumstances.
One of these is the Reformation crisis concerning religious knowledge and related events. Luther questioned the Catholic criterion of religious knowledge -the Rule of Faith as it is called -and thereby started a new religion with its own criterion of religious knowledge. The Rule of Faith says that religiously knowledged is determined by what Church fathers, Church Councils and the Popes say about any particular claim. Thus Church Councils have endorsed the doctrine of the trinity so anyone who claims that this doctrine is false is a heretic. Luther replaced the Rule of Faith with the claim that all Christians have the power 'of discerning what is right or wrong in matters of faith.' Luther finally made it clear that his new view amounted to this: What conscience is compelled to believe on reading scripture is true. This radical move changed Luther from just another reformer to the founder of a new religious sect. For many people it raised an enormous problem about religious knowledge. Which of the two criteria was the correct one? It was difficult for people to determine the answer to this question. For various reasons, which we will consider, this sceptical crisis about religious knowledge developed into a full blooded sceptical crisis about knowledge in general. So how does one acquire genuine knowledge?
One way to think about the problem of acquiring knowledge about the era we are discussing is to regard reason, the senses and faith as competing ways of getting at the truth about reality. One might hold, with Plato for example, that the senses will not get one to the truth about reality; that only reason will lead us to knowledge of reality and how to lead the best life and attain genuine happiness. Or one might argue that the senses provide knowledge of the world that is more basic than anything that reason tells us. Or, one might hold that both reason and the senses are poor guides and that only faith will reveal the way things really are.
Skepticism is the doctrine that knowledge is not possible. One can be either a universal skeptic who holds that no knowledge whatever is possible (Could this be true?) or simply a skeptic about one faculty, like the senses, or some particular branch of knowledge, such as religious knowledge or mathematical knowledge. Skepticism is intertwined in the competition among the faculties because an advocate of reason, for example, is likely to be sceptical of the ability of the other faculties to reach the truth. The Cambridge Platonists, for example, regarded the doctrine that the senses are more important than reason as the philosophy of beasts. For men share sense knowledge with the beasts, while reason sets man apart from the beasts. An advocate of faith, on the other hand, will be sceptical of the ability of reason and the senses to provide genuine knowledge. The great French essayist Michel de Montaigne is an able and interesting advocate of this last view.
There are philosophers with discriminate views, who hold that there is a place and legitimate sphere for each faculty, and one must figure out what the limits are to each. Rene Descartes holds that reason is considerably more important than the senses in that reason provides more basic knowledge than the senses. It tells us about the essences of things, which the senses do not. Nonetheless, Descartes holds that the senses have a place in our scientific attempts to understand the world. Descartes also holds that various truths can only be determined by faith. John Locke also, seeks to determine the limits of human understanding, what we can know and why, what role the senses and reason play, and what can only be believed or taken as an article of faith. For Locke, the senses and reflection provide the materials on which reason works. Faith operates beyond reason. Another strand that caused the interest in knowledge was the extraordinary advances made during this period in mathematics and natural philosophy or science as we now call it. European mathematicians were finally able to surpass the results of the Greek mathematicians of antiquity such as Euclid and Archimedes. Similarly natural philosophers were coming to reject Aristotelian physics and Ptolemaic cosmology and geography. With the work of Copernicus, Brahe, Galileo and Kepler, placed astronomy and physics were new understructure. Surely, these extraordinary advances represented real knowledge. The struggle between sceptical arguments and scientific achievement, not to mention the claims of religion was a real one. One can see all, but these concern meeting in thinkers like Descartes and Pascal.
Philosophers during this era were obsessed with methods for discovering and presenting truths. A method, in this context, supposes some systematic procedure, which, if followed, guarantees that one will hit upon the truth and avoid error. One source of this interest in method is Greek mathematics. Euclid's Elements of Geometry and the works of other ancient mathematicians provided a model of knowledge and proof. How was this wealth of mathematical knowledge discovered? The demonstration of the theorems does not seem to provide much insight in answering this question. So, mathematicians and philosophers in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries began reflecting on the method of discovery that they called the method of analysis. Essentially the view that began to develop was that one would take apart the thing which one wished to understand, until one reached the basic and essential parts composing it. One would then analyse how the parts relate to one another and put them back together. By taking them apart in this way and then putting them back together one emerged with a new understanding.
Galileo uses a method that he called the Resolution-Compositive method. The whole which one is studying got resolved into its parts and then put back together or composed again. This resolution into parts often involves simplifying and abstracting parts.
Thomas Hobbes adopted this Galilean method to the study of man. Making the distinction between the complicated world in which there are good and bad, legitimate and illegitimate governments, and the state of nature in which there is no government is an exercise in the resolution of a whole into its parts. Once we see the nature of man in such a state, Hobbes thinks it becomes abundantly clear what the legitimate function of government is, however. We emerge from the exercise seeing clearly how to judge of the goodness and legitimatised governments from bad and illegitimate one’s. Locke and Spinoza, who both read Hobbes, perform similar analyses on the state, though with differing results. In the eighteenth century some analyses of the origins of language employ a similar method.
Descartes was extraordinarily interested in method. He wrote works like The Discourse on Method and gives quite remarkable examples of discoveries in geometry and other subjects that he claims were made from the methods he describes. In John Cottingham's book The Rationalists you will find chapter two devoted to a discussion of these methods in the works of Descartes, Spinoza and Leibniz.
Besides the method of analysis, Descartes is famous for employing what has become called the method of doubt in the Meditations to try to defeat skepticism. The method works like this. Descartes' puts forth a sceptical hypothesis concerning a certain class of his beliefs. (He does not want to doubt each belief individually as this would be impractical.) The classes that he generates turn out to be related to particular faculties, the senses, imagination and reason. He then tries to determine what can and what cannot be doubted by his sceptical hypothesis. If there are things that cannot be doubted on a particular sceptical hypothesis, he tries to generate a stronger sceptical hypothesis that will bring into doubt those things that could not be doubted on the previous hypothesis. Eventually, the application of this method leads him to the conclusion that there are a variety of things that cannot be doubted on the strongest possible sceptical hypothesis
Descartes proposed a dualistic relation between the conscious, volitional soul, and the rest of the brain and body. The interface worked both ways, with (processed) sense information going into consciousness, and volition proceeding in reverse to operate the motor system. Descartes recognised that much of what we do could be explained by more direct links between sensory stimuli and the motor system, so the soul was not essential for all actions. One-way Cartesianism is the belief in a kind of Cartesian Dualism, but where the soul is purely passive, having knowledge of what passes in the brain, but no ability to initiate actions. It has the illusion of doing so, because from its privileged position it can see actions in preparation before they occur. The following passage from my Neurophysiology (3rd Edition, 1996; Arnolds, London) tries to explain the idea to a relatively general audience.
'Nothing puzzles me more than time and space. Yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them'
Charles Lamb's reaction is not very different from that of most neurophysiologists to problems of mind, brain, and consciousness. This is of course a field that has been thoroughly dug over since the days of Descartes and Hume and indeed long before: and philosophers have every right to question whether mere empirical physiologists can add much to such a hoary debate, in which the various arguments have been rehearsed so exhaustively. But recent developments both in neurophysiology and in computer science -for £20 I can purchase an electronic device hardly bigger than a packet of cigarettes, which is the intellectual superior of half the animal kingdom -have so enlarged our notions of what classes of operation a physical system may in principle be capable of, that a great deal of earlier thought on the subject is now merely irrelevant. In brief, 'brain versus mind' is no longer a matter for much argument. Functions such as speech and memory, which not so long ago were generally held to be inexplicable in physical terms, have now been irrefutably demonstrated as carried out by particular parts of the brain, and to a large extent imitable by suitably programmed computers. So far has brain encroached on mind that it is now simply superfluous to invoke anything other than neural circuits to explain every aspect of Man's overt behaviour. Descartes' dualism proposed some non-material entity -the 'ghost in the machine' -that was provided with sense data by the sensory nerves, analysed them within itself, and then responded with appropriate actions by acting on motor nerves (the mind thus having the same relation to the body as a driver to his car: But what about free will? The ghost in such a scheme would observe the body's actions being planned, and see the commands being sent off to the muscles before the actions themselves began, and so one can well imagine how it might develop the illusion that because it knew what was going to happen, that it was itself the cause. For X, the distinction between 'I lift my arms' and 'My arms go up', in which Wittgenstein epitomised the notion of voluntary action, would amount simply to the distinction between those actions that it observed being planned, and those -such as reflex withdrawal from a hot object -which it did not. There is no implied necessity here for us to be deterministic in our actions -to an outsider we may appear to have free will -since the physical processes linking S and R can be as random and essentially unpredictable as we please. Such a scheme seems more intellectually satisfying than (a) or (b) without conflicting with our own feelings about ourselves. Unlike ©, does not merely evade the issue. The most serious objection to it is perhaps that it is difficult to see what on earth X is for, since it can't actually do anything. Perhaps it does just occasionally intervene. But in any case, what is the audience at a concert for? Or the spectators at a football match? The idea that I am being carried round by my body as a kind of perpetual tourist, a spectator of the world's stage, is not -on reflection -so very unattractive. René Descartes, the celebrated mathematician and physicist, is also often considered a founder of modern philosophy, as he sought new ways to move beyond Medieval Aristoteleanism and justify the science of his day. In his Discourse on Method he expresses his disappointment with traditional philosophy and with the limitations of theologies, only logic, geometry and algebra hold his respect, because of the utter certainty that they can offer us. Unfortunately, because they depend on hypotheses, they cannot tell us what is real (i.e., what the world is really like). Therefore Descartes proposes a method of thought incorporating the rigour of mathematics but based on intuitive truths about what is real, basic knowledge that could not be wrong (like the axioms of geometry). He calls into question everything that he thinks he has learned through his senses but rests his whole system on the one truth that he cannot doubt, namely, the reality of his own mind and the radical difference between the mental and the physical aspects of the world.
Descartes (late in our excerpt) suggests that sense experience might be like dreaming, i.e., vivid but not matching the way things really are. But what does he realize must be the case even if his senses cannot be trusted?
Good sense is the most evenly distributed thing in the world, for all people suppose themselves so well provided with it that even those who are the most difficult to satisfy in every other respect never seem to desire more than they have. It is not likely that everyone is mistaken, this attitude divulged upon the ability to judge and distinguish the truth from it’s the insincerity of falsehood, which is properly what one call’s good sense or reason, is in fact naturally equally distributed among all people. Thus the diversity of our opinions does not result from some of us being more reasonable than others, but solely from the fact that we conduct our thoughts along different paths, and consider different things . . . As far as reason--or good sense -is concerned, since it is the only thing that makes us human and differentiates us from the animals, I should like to believe that it is entirely present in each of us. . . .
I was nourished by study from my earliest childhood. Since I was convinced that this was the means to acquire a clear and certain knowledge of all that is useful in life, I had an extreme desire to learn. But as soon as I had finished a course of studies that usually culminates in one being accepted as one of the learned, I changed my opinion completely; for ‘I’ found myself troubled by so many doubts and errors that the only profit I had gained in seeking to educate myself was to discover ever more clearly the extent of my ignorance. Nevertheless I had been at one of the most famous schools in Europe, where I thought there must be wise men if such existed anywhere on earth. There I had learned all that the others learned. Besides, not satisfied with the knowledge that we were taught, I had poured over all the unusual and strange books that I could lay my hands on. In addition, I knew how others evaluated me. I did not want to be considered inferior to my fellow-students, even though some among them were already destined to take the places of my teachers. Finally, our century seemed to me to abound in as many wise spirits as any preceding one, which led me to suppose that I could judge the experience of others by my own, and to think that there was no such knowledge in the world such as I had been led to hope for . . .
I was especially pleased with mathematics because of the certainty and clarity of its proofs; but I did not as yet realize its true usefulness; and, thinking that it was only useful in the mechanical arts, I was astonished that, since its foundations were so firm and solid, no one had built something higher upon it. To the contrary, I felt that the writings of who had discussed morality were likely superb, magnificent palaces that were built on mere sand and mud: they greatly praised the virtues and made them appear more exalted than anything else in the world; but they did they did not sufficiently teach how to know them. Often that which they called by the fine name of ‘virtue’ was nothing but apathy, or pride, or despair, or parricide.
I revered our theology, and hoped as much as anyone else to get to heaven, however, having learned, as if it were certain, that the road to heaven is as open to the most ignorant as to the most learned, and that the revealed truths that lead one there are beyond our comprehension, I did not dare to submit them to my feeble reasoning, and I thought that to undertake successfully to examine them one would need some extraordinary, heavenly aid and beyond human ability.
Of philosophy I will say nothing except that, seeing that it had been developed by the finest minds that had lived over many centuries and that nevertheless there was no point in it that was not still under dispute, and consequently doubtful, I lacked the presumption to hope that I would succeed any better than the others. When I considered how many different opinions there, had been about the same subject put forward by learned men, whereas only one of them could have been correct, I considered that anything that was only probable was as good as false . . .
It is true that while I considered only the customs of other ordinary men, I found nothing in them to reassure me, and I noticed as much diversity among them as I had earlier done among the opinions of philosophers. The greatest benefit I received from this study was that, having observed many things that, while they seemed quite extravagant and ridiculous, were nevertheless commonly accepted as true and approved by great peoples, I learned not to believe too firmly in anything of which I had been persuaded only by example and custom. Thus I freed myself little by little from many errors that can dim our natural light and even make us less able to listen to reason. But after I had spent several years thus studying the book of the world and trying to get some experience, I one day resolved to study my own self, and to use all the powers of my mind to choose the path I should follow, which was much more successful, it seems to me, than if I had never left my country or my books.
When I was younger, I had studied a little among other branches of philosophy, logic, and among types of mathematics, geometrical analysis and algebra: three arts or sciences that seemed as if they ought to contribute something to my goal. But when I examined them, I realized that as far as logic was concerned, its syllogisms and most of its other methods serve only to explain to someone else that which one already knows, or even, like Lully's art, to speak foolishly of things one does not know, rather than actually to learn anything. Even though logic contains, in fact, many very true and good precepts, they are nevertheless mingled with so many others that they become harmful or superfluous, that it is almost as hard to separate them out as to carve of Diana or a Minerva from as yet, the untouched block of marble. Besides, as far as the analysis of the ancients or modern algebra is concerned, and besides the fact that they can deal only with very abstract matters that seem utterly useless, the former is always so restricted to the study of geometrical figures that it cannot exercise the understanding without greatly tiring the imagination. The latter is so restricted to certain rules and figures that it has become a confused, obscure art that perplexes the mind instead of being a science that cultivates it. So I thought that I had to look for some other method that, having the advantages of these three, would be free of their defects. Just as a multitude of laws often creates excuses for vices, so that the best regulated state is that which, having very few laws, makes those few strictly observed, instead of the great number or precepts that make up logic, I thought that the four following precepts would suffice, provided that I could make a firm, steadfast resolution not to violate them even once.
The first was to never accept anything as true which I could not accept as obviously true; that is to say, carefully to avoid impulsiveness and prejudice, and to include nothing in my conclusions but whatever was so clearly presented to my mind that I could have no reason to doubt it.
The second was to divide each of the problems I was examining in as many parts as I could, as many as should be necessary to solve them. The third, to develop my thoughts in order, beginning with the simplest and easiest to understand matters, in order to reach by degrees, little by little, to the most complex knowledge, assuming an orderliness among them, which did not at all naturally seem to follow one from the other. And the last resolution was to make my number carry through and into my ex post facto, as can be felt of me that I could be secure that for which I had not to leave out anything.
These long chains of reasoning, so simple and easy, which geometers customarily used to make their most difficult demonstrations, caused me to imagine that everything which could be known by human beings could be deduced one from the other in the same way, and that, provided only that one refrained from accepting anything as true which was not, and always preserving the order by which one deduced one from another, there could not be any truth so abstruse that one could not finally attain it, nor so hidden that it could not be discovered. And I had little trouble finding which propositions I needed to begin with, for I already knew that they would be the simplest and the easiest to know. . . . I took the best features of geometrical analysis and of algebra, and corrected all the defects of one by the other.
I had noticed for a long time that it was necessary sometimes to agree with opinions about ethics that I knew to be quite uncertain, even though they were indubitable, as I said earlier, since I wanted to devote myself solely to the search for truth, I thought that I should act in the opposite manner, and reject as absolutely false anything about which I could imagine the slightest doubt, so that I could see if there would not remain after all that something in my belief that could be called absolutely certain. So, because our senses sometimes trick us, I tried to imagine that there was nothing that is the way that we imagine it. Since there are people who are mistaken about the simplest matters of geometry, making mistakes in logic, and supposing that I was as likely to make mistakes as anyone else, I rejected as false all the reasoning that I had considered as valid demonstrations. Finally, considering that all our thoughts that we have when we are awake can also come to us when we are sleeping without a single one of them being true, I resolved to pretend that everything I had ever thought was no more true that the illusions in my dreams. But I immediately realized that, though I wanted to think that everything was false, it was necessary that of ‘me’ as the representation of who was doing the thinking was something that gave its resemblance to ‘I.’ Noticing that this truth -I think, therefore I am was so certain and sure that all the wildest suppositions of skeptics could not shake it, I judged that I could unhesitatingly accept it as the first principle of the philosophy for which I was seeking.
Then, examining closely what I was, and seeing that I could imagine that I had no body and that there was no world or place where I was, I could not imagine that I did not exist at all. On the contrary, precisely because I doubted the existence of other things it followed obviously and certainly that I did exist. If, on the other hand, I had only ceased to think while everything else that I had imagined remained true, I would have had no reason to believe that I existed; therefore I realized that I was a substance whose essence, or nature, is nothing but thought, and which, in order to exist, needs no place to exist nor any other material thing. So this self, which is to say the soul, through which I am what I am, is entirely separate from the body, and is even more easily known than the latter, so that even if I did not have a body, my soul would continue to be all that it is.
Descartes' first published work consists of three appendixes as follows: (A) La Dioptrique: This is a work on optics and his contribution is his approach through experimentation. Although Descartes does not cite previous scientists for the ideas he puts forward, the book does not consist of all new concepts.
The chief focus of this book is given in the law of refraction. This appears to have been taken from Snell's work, though, unfortunately, it is put forward in a way, which might lead a reader to suppose that the law was a result of the researches of Descartes. Descartes would seem to have repeated Snell's experiments when in Paris in 1626 or 1627, and it is possible that he subsequently forgot how much he owed to the earlier investigations of Snell. A large part of the optics is devoted to determining the best shape for the lenses of a telescope, but the mechanical difficulties in grinding a surface of glass to a required form are so great as to render these investigations of little practical use. Descartes seems to have been doubtful weather to regard the rays of light as proceeding from the eye and so to speak touching the object, as the Greeks have had to be perceived, that through which have so done, that they have practised authoritatively or as proceeding from the object, and so affecting the eye, least of mentions, that he considered the velocity of light to be infinite, although he did not deem the point particularly important.
(B) Les Météores; This is a work on meteorology and its importance is it being the first work, which attempts to conduct the study of weather on a scientific basis. It contains an explanation of numerous atmospheric phenomena, including the rainbow. Descartes was unacquainted with the fact that the refractive index of a substance is different for lights of different colours. Consequently, the explanation of the latter is necessarily incomplete. However many of Descartes' claims are not only wrong but could have easily been seen to be wrong if he had done some easy experiments. For example Roger Bacon had demonstrated the error in the commonly held belief that water, which has been boiled, freezes more quickly. However Descartes claims, . . . and we see by experience that water that has been kept on a fire for some time freezes more quickly than otherwise, the reason being that those of its parts that can be most easily folded and bent are driven off during the heating, leaving only those that are rigid. Despite its many faults, the subject of meteorology was set on course after publication of Les Météores. La Géométrie; This is by far the most important part of this work. The book is further divided into three books: the first two of these treat of analytical geometry, and the third includes an analysis of the algebra then current.
The first book commences with an explanation of the principles of analytical geometry, and contains a discussion of a certain problem, which had been propounded by Pappus in the seventh book of his and of which some particular cases had been considered by Euclid and Apollonius. The general theorem had baffled previous geometricians, and it was in the attempt to solve it that Descartes was led to the invention of analytical geometry. The full enunciation of the problem is rather complicated, but the most important case is to find the locus of a point such that the product of the perpendiculars on m given straight lines will be in a constant ratio to the product of the perpendiculars on n other given straight lines. The ancient geometricians had solved this geometrically for the case m = 1, n = 1, and the case m = 1, n = 2. Pappus had further stated that, if m = n = 2, the locus is a conic, but he gave no proof; Descartes also failed to prove this by pure geometry, but he showed that the curve can be represented by an equation of the second degree, that is, a conic.
In the second book Descartes divides curves into two classes, namely, geometrical and mechanical curves. He defines geometrical curves as those that can be generated by the intersection of two lines each moving parallel to one co-ordinate axis with ‘commensurable’ velocities; by which terms he means that dy/dx is an algebraical function, as, for example, is the case in the ellipse and the cissoid. He calls a curve mechanical when the ratio of the velocities of these lines is ‘incommensurable’; by which term he means that dy/dx is a transcendental function, as, for example, is the case in the cycloid and the quadratrix. Descartes confined his discussion to geometrical curves. Descartes also paid particular attention to the theory of the tangents to curves -as perhaps might be inferred from his system of classification just alluded to. The then current definition of a tangent at a point was a straight line through the point such that between it and the curve no other straight line could be drawn, that is, the straight line of closest contact. Descartes proposed to substitute for this a statement equivalent to the assertion that the tangent is the limiting position of the secant; Fermat, and at a later date Maclaurin and Lagrange, adopted this definition. Barrow, followed by Newton and Leibnitz, considered a curve as the limit of an inscribed polygon when the sides become indefinitely small, and stated that the side of the polygon when produced became in the limit a tangent to the curve. Roberval, on the other hand, defined a tangent at a point as the direction of motion at that instant of a point that was describing the curve. The results are the same whichever definition is selected, but the controversy as to which definition was the correct one was none the less lively. In his letters’ Descartes illustrated his theory by giving the general rule for drawing tangents and normals to roulette.
The method used by Descartes to find the tangent or normal at any point of a given curve was substantially as follows. He determined the centre and radius of a circle, which should cut the curve in two consecutive points there. The tangent to the circle at that point will be the required tangent to the curve. In modern textbooks it is usual to express the condition that two of the points in which a straight line (such as y = mx + c) cuts the curve will coincide with the given point: this enables us to determine m and c, and thus the equation of the tangent there is determined. Descartes, however, did not venture to do this, but selecting a circle as the simplest curve and one to which he knew how to draw a tangent, he so fixed his circle as to make it touch the given curve at the point in question, and thus reduced the problem to drawing a tangent to a circle. However, he only applied this method to curves, which are symmetrical about an axis, and he took the centre of the circle on the axis.
The third book of the Géométrie contains an analysis of the algebra. The influence of the book is that it has affected the language of the subject by fixing the custom of employing the letters at the beginning of the alphabet to denote known quantities, and those at the end of the alphabet to denote unknown quantities. This was a further development toward the development of algebraic notations. In addition, Descartes also invented the system of indices (e.g., in x2, x3, x4 . . . ) to express the powers of numbers, which are now widely used. It is doubtful whether or not Descartes recognized that his letters might represent any quantities, positive or negative, and that it was sufficient to prove a proposition for one general case. He was the earliest writer to realize the advantage to be obtained by taking all the terms of an equation to one side of it. He realized the meaning of negative quantities and used them freely. In this book he made use of the rule, which is known as Descartes’ rule of signs, for finding the limit to the number of positive and of negative roots of an algebraical equation, and introduced the method of indeterminate coefficients for the solution of equations. He believed that he had given a method by which algebraical equations of any order could be solved, but in this he was mistaken.
In a book named The Scientific Work of René Descartes (1987), J.F. Scott summarizes the importance of this work in four points, (I) -He makes the first step toward a theory of invariants, which at later stages derelativises the system of reference and removes arbitrariness. (ii). Algebra makes it possible to recognise the typical problems in geometry and to bring together problems that in geometrical dress would not appear to be related at all.
(iii). Algebra imports into geometry the most natural principles of division and the most natural hierarchy of method.
(iv) Not only can questions of solvability and geometrical possibility be decided elegantly, quickly and fully from the parallel algebra, without it they cannot be decided at all.
René Descartes (1596-1650) is primarily associated with Philosophy his Discourse on Method and Meditations have even led him to be called the ‘Father of Modern Philosophy.’ In his most celebrated argument, Descartes attempted to prove his own existence via the now hackneyed argument, ‘I think therefore I am.’ However, it should not be forgotten that René Descartes applied his system to investigations in physics and mathematics, with real success, playing a crucial role in the development of a link between algebra and geometry -now known as analytic geometry, a subject defined by Webster's New World Dictionary as ‘the analysis of geometric structures and properties principally by algebraic operations on variables defined in terms of position coordinates.’ Simply put, analytic geometry translates problems of geometry into ones of algebra. Before the Cartesian plane and analytic geometry, most mathematicians considered (synthetic) geometry and (diophantine) algebra to be two different fields of study. To anyone that has taken a high school course in analytic geometry, that notion seems ridiculous, or even incomprehensible, but to mathematicians of 500 years ago or more, solving geometric problems using the methods of algebra probably seemed equally absurd.
In fact, as will be evident later in the paper, much of our tenth grade ‘vocabulary’ (using x2 to represent the equation of a parabola, using terms ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’, to be an indication of indeterminate parameters, etc. . . . ) can trace their roots directly back to the work o f René Descartes, building on the algebra of the late 16th century.
How did it happen that someone who had more interest in determining whether or not we live in a dream world than in, for example, determining the mean and extreme ratio mathematically, come fundamentally to change not only the way we do geometry, but also the way we think about geometry? To understand the answer, it will be useful to examine the life of René Descartes and the period in which he flourished.
Descartes' father was a lawyer and judge, and his parents belonged to the noblesse de robe, the social class of lawyers, between the bourgeoisie and the nobility. As such he received and excellent education, and had the financial resources to continue his studies at the Jesuit College of the town of La Flhche in Anjou. Men are a product of their times, and René Descartes was no exception. After hearing that Galileo Galilei, among others, both pronounced, and persuasively argued, that the sun did not revolve around the Earth, but rather vice versa, and that, in addition, the earth made a complete revolution daily, Descartes began to question whether any of the senses could be trusted as a source of information. After all, his sense of motion clearly demonstrated that the Earth is stationary, while it was ‘truly’ rotating and moving at a great speed through space. If his senses could be wrong in regard to something so basic, was not it possible to be equally mis taken in other fundamental areas as well? Nonetheless, according to Descartes ‘I concluded that I might take as a rule the principle that all things that we very clearly and obviously conceive are true: only observing, however, that there is some difficulty in rightly determining the objects that we distinctly conceive.’ Descartes held knowledge up to a very severe standard. According to Descartes, the four rules of logic were: (1) To accept as true only those conclusions that were clearly and distinctly known to be true.
(2) To divide difficulties under examination into as many parts as possible for their better solution. (3) To conduct thoughts in order, and to proceed in stages from the simplest and easiest to know, to more complex knowledge. (4) In every case to take a general view so as to be sure of having omitted nothing.
Because of his severe standard, Descartes' quest for underlying truths blossomed into a distinct penchant for mathematics, where proofs were just that -undeniable knowledge. Descartes' fourth standard conveys more than just a hint of the mathematician as well as the philosopher. Often in mathematics, solving a simple problem can be trivial. However, the formulation of a general rule to solve the problem can be infinitely more useful. Descartes seems to say in his fourth rule that the general case is the one of great importance, not the specific problem. Eventually Descartes published his ideas in a little book, or appendix, titled La Géomitrie, in 1637. Descartes major contribution in this book is considered to lie in the idea of a coordinate system, allowed problems that were considered to be strictly geometric to pass over into algebra. Although the association of algebra and geometry was proposed even by the Greeks, and taken up anew as a program by Vihte, no satisfying procedure had been found to merge the two disciplines into one ( until the development of the Cartesian plane. Thus, Descartes was not the first to attempt to develop a coordinate plane, but his method has been the one that achieved the desired goal. Both the Greeks and Egyptians had developed a numerical coordinate system (driven by its relevance to astronomy and cartography), but with little mathematical development. ‘Hipparchus (Bc. , 150) and Ptolemy (150 AD.), to name but two, both employed a system of latitude and longitude to locate stars on the celestial sphere. The Greeks even employed a system that made use of two axes at a right angle. However, nothing systematic or permanent came out of the study of specific problems using two axes as part of the solution. Heath says that ‘the essential difference between t he Greek and modern method is that the Greeks did not direct their efforts to making the fixed lines of a figure as few as possible, but rather to expressing their equations between areas in as short and simple a form as possible. The first real development of a geometrical coordinate system comes in the work of Apollonios of Perga Apollonios of Perga, or the ‘Great Geometer’ as he was known, wrote a book called Conics, which, among other things, introduced the world to the terms parabola, ellipse, and hyperbola. In his Conics, Apollonius used a system of coordinates to solve problems regarding second-order curves (conic sections). The next person significantly to advance the creation of the coordinate system was Frangois Vihte (1540-1603). In his In Artem analyticem Isagoge (Introduction to the Analytical Art) published in 1591, Vihte announced a program to ‘[bring] together the ancient geometrical methods of Euclid, Archimedes, Apollonius, and Pappus, with ancient algebraic methods to produce his logistica speciosa, a way to formulate and solve algebraic problems. Among other things, this text uses consonants to represent given quantities and vowels to denote unknown quantities. This led to Vihte's nickname, The father of modern algebra. The degree of Descartes' originality remains a subject of controversy, as will be addressed at greater length below, a controversy that has persisted in the three and some half centuries since his death.
In Descartes' La Géomitrie, he uses the letters ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’, etc., to express of the acknowledged magnitudes and ‘x’, ‘y’, ‘z’, for unknown ones. Later on, Descartes unveils what appears to be the birth of a fixed set of coordinate systems in a passage beginning, ‘Let AB, AD, EF, GH, . . . be any number of straight lines given in position . . . Smith points out here ‘it should be noted that these lines are given in position but not in length. They thus become lines of reference or coordinate axes, and accordingly they play a very important part in the development of analytic geometry. In this connection we may quote as follows: 'Among the predecessors of Descartes we reckon, besides Apollonius, especially Vihte, Oresme, Cavalieri, Roberval, and Fermat, the last the most distinguished in the field; yet, it seems that there may be not anywhere, even by Fermat, had any attempt been made to refer several curves of different or de-simultaneously to one system of coordinates, which at most possessed special significance for one of the curves. It is exactly this thing that Descartes systematically accomplished. However, Scott does not agree with this assessment, as will be seen below. Another person who played a key role in the creation of analytic geometry was Pierre Fermat (1601 -1665), although it is unclear whether or not Descartes knew of Fermat's work (the subject for which we will return), Ad Locos Planos et Solidos Isagoge. In an effort to recover some of the lost proofs of Apollonius, Fermat used a system of coordinates to refer to various curves. There was a large advance in the use of the coordinate system between Apollonios and Fermat. ‘In [Fermat's] published works, too, there is incontrovertible evidence that he had hit upon the idea of expressing the nature of curves by means of algebraic equations. How clearly in fact, he had grasped the fundamental principles of analytic geometry becomes evident after a study of the opening pages of the Isagoge, the substance of which is as follows: 'Whenever two unknown quantities are found in a final equation we have a locus and the extremity of one of them describes a right angle line or a curve.
The straight line is simple and unique; the curves are infinite in number and embrace the circle, parabola, ellipse, etc. . . . Fermat goes on to list various equations of geometric interest, such as the equation of a straight line through the origin (x/y = b/d), the equation of any straight line (b/s = (a-x)/y), the equation of certain types of circle (a2-x2=y2), the equation of certain types of ellipse (a2-x2=ky2), and the equations of certain types of hyperbola (a2+x2=ky2). These formulas should leave no doubt that Fermat understood the underlying principles of analytical geometry, and helped lay the foundation for its development. The ideas with which La Géomitrie had to deal, at least potentially, were of three types according to the formulation of J.F. Scott. (1) The employment of coordinates as a mere instrument of description (2). Algebra and geometry collaborate on single problems (3). Transference of system and structure by analysing these individually we can see how influential they were in the development of analytic geometry, and consider more carefully which of them are actually attributable to Descartes, according to Scott. The first item, according to Scott, constitutes the most visible connection between Descartes' work and the Cartesian plane. In La Géomitrie, Descartes uses a system of coordinates adapted to each problem. When studying multiple curves, he uses a system of lines to unify all the separate coordinate systems into one giant system. This account clashes with the opinion of Fink and Smith, according to whom Descartes' coordinate system was set up in advance for a general set of curves, not a particular one. As far as the second point, it is the most important in Descartes' work. Using algebra to solve geometric problems greatly enhanced the flexibility of geometry. This became a legitimate way to solve a problem, and as is often found in mathematics, the m ore ways there are to approach a class of problems, the better. An example of this given at the outset in La Géomitrie was the solution of a problem of Pappus, which Descartes claimed had not been completely solved by anyone.
In a letter to his friend Mersenne, Descartes wrote, ‘J'risous un e question qui par le timoignage de Pappus n', estre trouvie par qucun des Ancient, et l'on peut dire qu'elle ne l'a p estre non plus par aucun des Modernes.’ (‘I solve a problem that defeated the ancients and the moderns alike.’) Pappus' problem reads, ‘There being three, or four, or a greater number of right lines given in position in a plane, it is first required to find the position of a point from which we can draw as many other right lines, one to each of the given lines, making a known angle with it, such that the rectangle contained by two of these drawn from this point has a given proportion either to the square on the third, if there are only three, or to the rectangle contained by the other two, if there are four. Or if there are five, the product of the remaining two lines so drawn has a given proportion to the product of the remaining two and another line, and so on.’.
Descartes originally attempted to solve this problem using pure geometry, and was unable to. This aided Descartes in his pursuit to find another method to solve the problem. Using his newly developed analytic methods, Descartes wrote in a letter to his friend that he was able to solve the problem in just five or six weeks. Unsurprisingly, Sir Isaac Newton was the first one to solve these problem using methods of pure geometry. As to the third point that Scott raises in regard to the major achievements in La Géomitrie, it appears to be rather similar to the second, and possibly not necessary. As Scott puts it, ‘The structure of a whole region of geometrical theory is transferred to a region of algebraical theory, where it brings about an instructive rearrangement of the matter and raises algebraical problems that otherwise might not have imposed them.’
Among the achievements of La Géomitrie, there are many methods that are still used today. Descartes proposes a method of simultaneously handling several unknown quantities at once. Also introduced is a clearer distinction between real and imaginary root s, which helped lead to modern mathematics. Scott also says, ‘It is momentously liberated, as when Descartes throws aside the dimensional restrictions of [Vihte] and lets the arithmetical second power a2 measure a length as well as an actual square, and the arithmetical first power a measure a square as well as an actual length.’
In La Géomitrie, Descartes views curves of degree 2n and 2n-1 as having the same complexity, and thus as closely related. Scott even claims, Descartes notes, that this number is independent to the choice of organic coordinates. In modern ordinary language it is an invariant under change of axes. Here is a first case of invariance, when employing coordinates we are forced to make an arbitrary choice of axes and even of the type of coordinates, and in this way we impart an arbitrary element into our methods. Scott summarized the work of Descartes in of the priorates stating that what is done by a summarized mark of four mindfully employed headings: (1) He makes the first step toward a theory of invariants, which at later stages derelativises the system of reference and removes its arbitrariness. (2) Algebra makes it possible to recognize the typical problems in geometry and to bring together problems that in geometrical dress would not appear to be related at all. (3) Algebra imports into geometry the most natural principles of division and the most natural hierarchy of method. (4) Not only can questions of solvability and geometrical possibility be decided elegantly, quickly and fully from the parallel algebra, without it they cannot be decided at all. Much of the work that is thus accredited to René Descartes is the subject of controversy. His reputation came under attack while he was alive, attacks that have been renewed in the 350 years since his death. Even at the time of his publication of La Giomitrie, Descartes was forced to defend himself against claims that the work was in large part derived from the work of Pierre de Fermat and Frangois Vihte.
There is no doubt that Fermat compiled his work in 1629, eight years before Descartes published La Géomitrie. However, this work of Fermat did not appear in print until 1679 (posthumously, in Opera Varia), approximately thirty years after Descartes' death. The question then is whether or not Descartes had access to his fellow countryman's compilation before it being published. Fermat gave his papers to M. Despagnet around 1629, but it is unclear whether or not Despagnet circulated these works further. Descartes did not remain silent about such allegations. He vehemently defended himself, saying even that he had nothing to learn from his contemporary mathematicians, because they were unable to solve the ancient problems. And in particular he [Descartes] leaves his readers in no doubt that he did not rate the achievements of Fermat very highly.’
One may wonder whether maybe the opposite was true: could Fermat have ‘borrowed’ from Descartes? This possibility can be excluded. According to Scott, who appears to be a partisan of Descartes, Fermat's letters revealed his character to be of the highest moral caliber. One may also argue that had Fermat been familiar with Descartes' work. He would likely have adopted Descartes' notation, far superior to his own. There is in any case no evidence that Fermat ever saw Descartes' work before its publication, much less before his own work in 1629, nor were any such allegations ever made. Scott comes to the conclusion that ‘It seems possible, therefore, that Descartes and Fermat had each made considerable progress in the new methods unconscious of what had been achieved by the other. He asserts that history has numerous examples of discoveries of great importance that were made simultaneously and independently. Frangois Vihte was another mathematician whom Descartes has been accused of robbing. In Vihte's book called, In Artem analyticem Isagoge, (1591), he uses a notational system to represent algebraic equations similar to the one employed by Descartes in La Géomitrie. T his has led to speculation that much of Descartes' accomplishments were merely restatements of work Vihte had done 45 years earlier. ‘But Descartes' clumsy cosec notation, derived in all probability from Clavius' (a 16th and 17th century teacher at the Jesuit Collegio Romano in Rome) Algebra, which he had studied while in college, indicates that he was not familiar with Vihte's work at this point, for Vihte's notation is clearly superior, and had he been familiar with it he could not have favoured that of Clavius. Descartes was obliged to rediscover these relations, to formulate the problems in his own terms, and to develop his own uniformity implied through the so-called I-ness, that he had only of himself to cause in solving the problem, something he was to do in a way that went far beyond Vihte's pioneering work. On the other hand, had Descartes wanted to take credit for another's ideas, it is doubtful that he would have been so overt as blatantly to copy Vihte's notation. In this regard, Descartes wrote, ‘As to the suggestion that what I have written could easily have been gotten from Vihte, the very fact that my treatise is hard to understand is due to my attempt to put nothing in it that I believed to be known by either him or anyone else . . . I begin the rules of my algebra with what Vihte wrote at the very end of his book, De emendatione aequationum . . . This does of course openly acknowledge familiarity with Vihte.
One final person declared Descartes, which on no any uncertain terms are thought of a plagiarist -John Wallis (1616-1703). Wallis repeatedly and very publicly said that the main principles of coordinate geometry had already been published in Artis Analyticf Praxis by Thom as Harriot (1560-1621). Wallis wrote in Algebra (1685), a treatise designed to promote the ideas of Harriot, which were first published in 1631, that ‘Harriot hath laid the foundation on which Des Cartes hath built the greatest part of his Algebra or Geometry.’
‘While there appears little doubt that Descartes did not hesitate to avail himself of the knowledge of Harriot in his treatment of equations, it is difficult to find anything in Harriot's published works to suggest that he had devoted any attention to the subject of coordinate geometry.’
How René Descartes came up with the ideas, presented in his La Géomitrie is unclear. What is clear is that regardless of the source of these ideas, La Géomitrie is a work of great importance that fuelled the adoption of the Cartesian plane and the development of analytic geometry, allowing problems of geometry to be solved by algebraic methods.
It seems only fitting to end this paper, but the way Descartes ended his La Géomitrie -with a little humour and more than a little arrogance. ‘Et i'espere que nos neueux me sgauront gri, non seulement des choses que iay icy expliquies; mais aussy de celes que iay omises volontairemen [sic], affin de leur laisser le plaisir de les inuenter.’ Or as David Eugene Smith and Marcia L. Latham have it: ‘I hope that posterity will judge me kindly, not only as to the things that I have explained, but also as to those that I have intentionally omitted so as to leave to others the pleasure of discovery.’
‘I do not believe that there exists anything in external bodies for exciting tastes, smells, and sounds, etc. except size, shape, quantity, and motion.’ When Galileo proposed his doctrine of subjectivity and objectivity, as their distinction between primary and secondary qualities, was established by scientific prejudgement, in that the conceptual representation be of space, it was something geometrical and not differentiated qualitatively.
Newtonian ‘absolute space’ was based on a realist conception of mathematics. To Newton, mathematics, particularly geometry, is not a purely hypothetical system of propositions . . . instead geometry is nothing but a special branch of mechanics. Newton's first law of motion, which links change in motion with force requires an absolute (or inertial?) framework. It requires a distinction between absolute motion and relative motion and links force to a change in absolute motion. For example, as the train pulls away from the station, the station may appear to be moving and it can be said that the station is in relative motion to the train, but the force is acting upon the train, and it is the train that is accelerating absolutely. Newton tried to establish an absolute frame of reference for the universe defined in relation to its centre of gravity. (Not necessarily identical with the sun) Absolute spatial movement and position could then be measured in relation to that point.
But is geometry an empirical or ideal activity? For Cassirer, the most radical removal of geometry from experience had already occurred with Euclid, which was already based on figures that are removed from all possibilities of experiment. Not only the idealizations of point, line, and plane, but the idea of similar triangles, whose differences are considered inconsequential or fortunate, and become identified as the same mark, to be as respectably lacking form ordinary perception.
The mathematization of space and its representations in Cartesian grids allowed space to become more abstract and less tied to a specific set of conditions. If the axes of the grid could stand for any set of variables, then a proliferation of types could take place. But even as Descartes' discovery of analytic geometry gave the problem of space an entirely new orientation, his own metaphysics describes space as some sort of absolute thing in the form of an extended substance, not simply a certain pattern of order.
‘In all the history of mathematics there are few events of such immediate and decisive importance for the shaping and development of the problem of knowledge as the discovery of the various forms of non-Euclidean geometry.’ In Euclidean geometry, the axiom of the parallels states that through a given point there is one and only one parallel to a given straight line that does not go through the given point. Non-Euclidean geometry starts with the opposite axiom . . . When Riemann published ‘On the Hypotheses Underlying Geometry’ (1868) the axioms of Euclid, which had been regarded for centuries as the supreme example of eternal truth, now seemed to belong to an entirely different kind of knowledge. For Cassirer, ‘the whole problem of the truth of mathematics, even of the meaning of truth itself, was placed in an entirely new light. Until that time, both rationalist and empiricist philosophers had agreed that the relations of mathematical ideas were rigorously necessary and unalterable. How could entirely different and wholly incongruous systems of geometry uphold the claims of truth? ‘To recognize a plurality of geometries seemed to mean renouncing the unity of reason, which is its intrinsic and distinguishing feature.’
‘Mathematicians appropriated space and time, and made them part of their domain, yet they did so in a rather paradoxical way. They invented spaces: non-Euclidean spaces, curved spaces, – dimensional spaces, abstract spaces (such as phase space), and so on. For example, Gerald Edelman uses the concept of a n-dimensional neural space of all potential qualia, that includes every possible discrimination between states of consciousness. For Edelman, the dimensions of this space are given by the activity of actual groups of neurons in the brain.
In this way, space became a ‘mental thing’ Physicists, according to Rudolf Carnap are free to choose among spatial systems according to their own requirements. He quotes Henri Poincaré's observation that no matter what observational facts are found, the physicist is free to ascribe to physical space any one of the mathematically possible geometrical structures, provided that he makes suitable adjustments in the laws of mechanics and optics and consequently in the rules for measuring. For Poincaré, ‘The object of geometry is the study of a definite group, but the general idea of the group preexists, at least potentially, in our mind, having forced itself not as a form of sensibility but as a form of our understanding. All we have to do is choose among all possible groups the one that will constitute a standard for us, as it were, to which natural phenomena are referred. Experience guides us in this choice but does not dictate it; nor does it permit us to know which geometry is truer but only which is more 'useful.'
Rudolf Carnap rejects Kant's claim that geometry is a priori and synthetic. He splits geometry into mathematical geometry that is a priori because analytic and physical geometry that is synthetic and not a priori. In physics the choice of geometries becomes a pragmatic one. In his Philosophy of Space and Time, Hans Reichenbach develops this empiricist conception of geometry.
Ernst Cassirer shows Poincaré's assessment of the impact of non-Euclidean geometry as a shift in the meaning of mathematical axioms. For Cassirer, the theory of sets had shown that the different geometries were all equally true in an ideal and mathematical sense. Geometry could be defined as a theory of invariants in respect to a certain group -only properties that are characterized by an invariance with respect to certain transformations can be called ‘geometrical.’ While Euclidean geometry applies to a ‘basic set’ of rigid bodies that are freely movable in space without changing form, different transformations can be applied to different sets of objects (defined as the ‘same,’ with respect to a particular criterion) For Cassirer, the modern sense of axioms differs from the ancient. Axioms are no longer assertions about content that have absolute certainty. Rather they are proposals of thought that make it ready for action.
One thing that happened during the Renaissance that was of great importance for the later character of modern philosophy was the birth of modern science. Even as in the Middle Ages philosophy was often thought of as the ‘handmaiden of theology,’ modern philosophers have often thought of their discipline as little more than the ‘handmaiden of science.’ Even for those who haven't thought that, the shadow of science, its spectacular success and its influence on modern life and history, have been hard to ignore.
For a long time, philosophers as diverse as David Hume, Karl Marx, and Edmund Husserl have seen the value of their in work in the claim that they were making philosophy ‘scientific.’ Those claims should have ended with Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), who for the first time clearly provided a distinction between the issues that science could deal with and those that it couldn't, but since Kant's theory could not be demonstrated the same way as a scientific theory, the spell of science, even if it is only through pseudo-science, continues.
The word ‘science’ itself is simply the Latin word for knowledge: scientia. Until the 1840's what we now call science was ‘natural philosophy,’ so that even Isaac Newton's great book on motion and gravity, published in 1687, was The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy (Principia Mathematica Philosophiae Naturalis). Newton was, to himself and his contemporaries, a ‘philosopher.’ In a letter to the English chemist Joseph Priestley written in 1800, Thomas Jefferson lists the ‘sciences’ that interest him as, ‘botany, chemistry, zoology, anatomy, surgery, medicine, natural philosophy [this probably means physics], agriculture, mathematics, astronomy, geography, politics, commerce, history, ethics, law, arts, fine arts.’ The list begins on familiar enough terms, but we hardly think of history, ethics, or the fine arts as ‘sciences’ anymore. Jefferson simply uses to the term to mean ‘disciplines of knowledge.’
Something new was happening in natural philosophy, however, and it was called the nova scientia, the ‘new’ knowledge. It began with Mikolaj Kopernik (1473-1543), whom of which has in being born to a Polish name given to us in calling him Latinized to Nicolaus Copernicus. To ancient and mediaeval astronomers the only acceptable theory about the universe came to be that of egocentrism, that the Earth is the centre of the universe, with the sun, moon, planets, and stars moving around it. But astronomers needed to explain a couple of things: why Mercury and Venus never moved very far away from the sun--they are only visible a short time after sunset or before sunrise--and why Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn sometimes stop and move backwards for a while (retrograde motion) before resuming their forward motion. Believing that the heavens were perfect, everyone wanted motion there to be regular, uniform, and circular. The system of explaining the motion of the heavenly bodies using uniform and circular orbits was perfected by Claudius Ptolemy, who lived in Egypt probably during the reign of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius (161-180). His book, still known by its Arabic title, the Almagest (from Greek Tò Mégiston, ‘The Greatest’), explains that the planets are fixed to small circular orbits (epicycles) which they are fixed to the main orbits. With the epicycles moving one way and the main orbits the other, the right combination of orbits and speeds can reproduce the motion of the planets as we see them. The only problem is that the system is complicated. It takes something like 27 orbits and epicycles to explain the motion of five planets, the sun, and the moon. This is called the Ptolemaic system of astronomy.
Copernicus noticed that it would make things much simpler (Ockham's Razor, that entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter nercessitatem: entities are not to be multiplied beyond necessary: A watchword for many reductionist and nominalistic philosophers) if the sun were the centre of motion rather than the earth. The peculiarities of Mercury and Venus, not explained by Ptolemy, now are explained by the circumstance that the entire orbits of Mercury and Venus are inside the Earth's orbit. They cannot get around behind the Earth to be seen in the night sky. The motion of Mars and the other planets is explained by the circumstance that the inner planets move faster than the outer ones. Mars does not move backwards; it is simply overtaken and passed by the Earth, which makes it look, against the background, as though Mars is moving backwards. Similarly, although it looks like the stars move once around the Earth every day, Copernicus figured that it was just the Earth that was spinning, not the stars. This was the Copernican Revolution. : Now this all seems obvious. But in Copernicus's day the weight of the evidence was against him. The only evidence he had was that his system was simpler. Against him was the prevailing theory of motion. Mediaeval physics had us to believe that motion was caused by ‘impetus.’ Things are naturally at rest. Impetus makes something move, than is less than quantified of some stretchability, leaving out the object to slow and come to rest. Something that continues moving therefore has to keep being pushed, and pushing is something you can feel. (This was even an argument for the existence of God, since something big-like God-had to be pushing to keep the heavens going.) So if the Earth is moving, why don't we feel it? Copernicus could not answer that question. Neither was there an obvious way out of what was actually a brilliant prediction: If the stars did not move, then they could be different distances from the earth. As the earth moved in its orbit, the nearer stars should appear to move back and forth against more distant stars. This is called ‘stellar parallax,’ but unfortunately stellar parallax is so small that it was not observed until 1838. So, at the time, supporters of Copernicus could only contend, lamely, that the stars must all be so distant that their parallax could not be detected. Yeah, sure.
Copernicus was also worried about getting in trouble with the Church. The Protestant Reformation had started in 1517, and the Catholic Church was not in any mood to have any more of its doctrines, even about astronomy, questioned. So Copernicus did not let his book be published until he lay dying.
The answers, the evidence, and the trouble for Copernicus's system came with Galileo Galilei (1564-1642). Galileo is important and famous for three things: (1) Most importantly he applied mathematics to motion. This was the real beginning of modern science. There is no math in Aristotle's Physics. There is nothing but math in modern physics books. Galileo made the change. It is inconceivable now that science could be done any other way. Aristotle had said, simply based on reason, that if one object is heavier than another, it will fall faster. Galileo tried that out and discovered that Aristotle was wrong. Aerodynamics aside, everything falls at the same rate. But then Galileo determined what that rate was by rolling balls down an inclined plane (not by dropping them off the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which is the legend). This required him to distinguish between velocity (e.g., metres per second) and acceleration (change in velocity, e.g., metres per second per second). Gravity produced an acceleration-9.8 metres per second per second. Instantly Galileo had an answer for Copernicus: simple velocity is not felt, only acceleration is. So the earth can be moving without our feeling it. Also, velocity does not change until a force changes it. That is the idea of inertia, which then replaced the old idea of impetus. All this theory was ultimately perfected by Isaac Newton (1642-1727). (2) With the objections to Copernicus's theory removed, the case was completed with positive evidence. Around 1609 it was discovered in the Netherlands that putting two lenses (which had been used since the 13th century as eye glasses) together made distant objects look close. Galileo heard about this and he produced the first astronomical quality telescope. With his telescope he saw several things: (1) the Moon had mountains and valleys. This upset the ancient notion that the heavens, including the Moon, which was completely unlike the Earth. (2) The Planets all showed disks and were not points of light like stars. (3) Jupiter had four moons. This upset the argument, which had been used against Copernicus, that there could only be one centre of motion in the universe. Now there were three (the Sun, Earth, and Jupiter). (4) There were many more stars in the sky than could be seen with the naked eye. The Milky Way, which was always just a glow, was itself composed of stars. And finally (5) Venus went through phases like the Moon. That vindicated Copernicus, for in the Ptolemaic system Venus, moving back and forth at the same distance between the Earth and the Sun, would only go from crescent too crescent. It would mostly have its dark side turned to us. With Copernicus, however, Venus goes around on the other side of the Sun and so, in the distance, would show us a small full face. As it comes around the Sun toward the Earth, we would see it turn into a crescent as the disk grows larger. Those are the phases, from small full too large crescent, that Galileo saw. The only argument that could be used against him was that the telescope must be creating illusions. In fact it was not well understood why a telescope worked. Some people looked at stars and saw two instead of one. That seemed to prove that the telescope was unreliable. Soon it was simply accepted that many stars are double. They still are. (3) With his evidence and his arguments, Galileo was ready to prove the case for Copernican astronomy. He had the support of the greatest living astronomer, Johannes Kepler (1571-1630), but not the Catholic Church. He had been warned once to watch it, but then a friend of his became Pope Urban VIII (1623-1644). The Pope agreed that Galileo could write about both Ptolemaic and Copernican systems, setting out the arguments for each. Galileo wrote A Dialogue on the Two Principal Systems of the World (1632). Unfortunately, the representative of the Ptolemaic system in the dialogue was made to appear foolish, and the Pope thought it was a caricature of himself. Galileo was led before the Inquisition, ‘shown the instruments of torture,’ and invited to recant. He did, but was kept under house arrest for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, it was too late. No serious astronomer could ever be a geocentrist again, and the only discredit fell against the Church.
Descartes is justly regarded as the Father of Modern Philosophy. This is not because of the positive results of his investigations, which were few, but because of the questions that he raised and problems that he created, problems that have still not been answered to everyone's satisfaction: particularly the Problem of Knowledge and the Mind-Body Problem. And in a day when philosophy and science were not distinguished from each other, Descartes was a famous physicist and mathematician as well as a philosopher. Descartes' physics was completely overthrown by that of Newton, so we do not much remember him for that. But Descartes was a great mathematician of enduring importance. He originated analytic geometry, where all of the algebra can be given geometrical expression. Like Galileo combining physics and mathematics, this also combined two things that had previously been apart, arithmetic and geometry. The modern world would not be the same without graphs of equations. Rectangular coordinates for graphing are still called Cartesian coordinates (from Descartes' name: des Cartes). Seeing Descartes as a mathematician explains why he was the kind of philosopher that he was. Now it is hard to reconcile Descartes' status as a scientist and the inspiration he derived from Galileo and others with his clear distrust of experience. Isn't science about experience? We might think so. But the paradox of modern science is its dependence on mathematics. Where does mathematics come from? What makes it true? Many mathematicians will still answer like Plato, but that certainly has little to do with experience. So Descartes belongs to this puzzling, mathematical side of science, not to the side concerned with experience.
Meditations on First Philosophy is representative of his thought. ‘First philosophy’ simply means what is done first in philosophy. The most important thing about Descartes as a philosopher is that ‘first philosophy’ changed because of what he did. What stood first in philosophy since Aristotle was metaphysics. Thus the first question for philosophy to answer was about what is real. That decided, everything else could be done. With such an arrangement we can say that philosophy function with Ontological Priority. In the Meditations we find that questions about knowledge come to the fore. If there are problems about what we can know, then we may not even be able to know what is real. But if questions about knowledge must be settled first, then this establishes Epistemological Priority for philosophy. Indeed, this leads to the creation of the Theory of Knowledge, Epistemology, as a separate discipline within philosophy for the first time. Previously, knowledge had been treated as falling in the domain of Aristotle's logical works (called, as a whole, the Organon), especially the Posterior Analytics. Modern philosophy has been driven by questions about knowledge. It begins with two principal traditions, Continental Rationalism and British Empiricism. The Rationalists, including Descartes, believed that reason was the fundamental source of knowledge. Empiricist’s believed that experience was emptily epistemologically prioritized and seemingly makes possibly of what has in becoming a very common phenomenon, in that of modern philosophy: Denying that metaphysics are possible at all, or become even that metaphysical questions mean anything. That can happen when epistemology draws the limits of knowledge, or the limits of meaning, so tight that metaphysical statements or questions are no longer allowed.
The most important issues get raised in the first three of the six Meditations. In the first meditation Descartes begins to consider what he can know. He applies the special method that he has conceived (about which he had already written the Discourse on Method), known as ‘methodical doubt.’ As applied, methodical doubt has two steps: (1) doubt everything that can be doubted, and (2) don't accept anything as known unless it can be established with absolute certainty. Today Descartes is often faulted for requiring certainty of knowledge. But that was no innovation with him: ever since Plato and Aristotle, knowledge was taken to imply certainty. Anything without certainty would just be opinion, not knowledge. The disenchantment with certainty today has occurred just because it turned out to be so difficult to justify certainty to the rigour that Descartes required. Logically the two parts of methodical doubt are very similar, but in the Meditations they are procedurally different. Doubt does its job in the first meditation. Descartes wonders what he can really know about a piece of matter like a lump of wax. He wonders if he might actually be dreaming instead of sitting by the fireplace. Ultimately he wonders if the God he has always believed in might actually be a malevolent Demon capable of using his omnipotence to deceive us even about our own thoughts or our own existence. Thus, there is nothing in all his experience and knowledge that Descartes cannot call into doubt. The junk of history, all the things he ever thought he had known, gets swept away.
Ever since the Meditations, Descartes' Deceiving Demon has tended to strike people as a funny or absurd idea. Nevertheless, something far deeper and more significant is going on in the first meditation than we might think. It is a problem about the relation of causality to knowledge. The relation of cause to effect had been of interest since Aristotle. There was something odd about it. Given knowledge of a cause (and of the laws of nature), we can usually predict what the effect will be. Touch the hot stove, and you'll get burned. Step off a roof, and you'll fall. But given the effect, it is much more difficult to reason backwards to the cause. The arson squad shows up to investigate the cause of a fire, but that is not an easy task: many things could have caused the fire, and it is always possible that they might not be able to figure out at all what the cause was. The problem is that the relation between cause and effect is not symmetrical. Given a cause, there will be one effect. But given an effect, there could have been many causes able to produce the same effect. And even if we can't predict the effect from the cause. We can always wait around to see what it is. But if we can't determine the cause from the effect, time forever conceals it from us. This feature of causality made for some uneasiness in mediaeval Western, and even in Indian, philosophy. Many people tried to argue that the effect was contained in the cause, or the cause in the effect. None of that worked, or even made much sense.
With Descartes, this uneasiness about causality becomes a terror in relation to knowledge: for, in perception, what is the relation of the objects of knowledge to our knowledge of them? Cause to effect. Thus what we possess, our perceptions, are the effects of external causes. In thinking that we know external objects, we are reasoning backwards from effect to cause. Trouble. Why couldn't our perceptions have been caused by something else? Indeed, in ordinary life we know that they can be. There are hallucinations. Hallucinations can be caused by a lot of things: fever, insanity, sensory deprivation, drugs, trauma, etc. Descartes' Deceiving Demon is more outlandish, but it employs the same principle, and touches the same raw nerve. That raw nerve is now known as the Problem of Knowledge: How can we have knowledge through perception of external objects? There is no consensus on how to solve this even today. The worst thing is not that there haven't been credible solutions proposed. There have been, but that the solutions should explain why perception is so obvious in ordinary life. Philosophical explanations are usually anything but obvious, however, there is not or anyone sensible person, not even Descartes, really doubts that external objects are there. This is why modern philosophy became so entered on questions about knowledge: it is the Curse of Descartes.
In the second meditation, Descartes wants to begin building up knowledge from the wreckage of the first meditation. This means starting from nothing. Such an idea of building up knowledge from nothing is called Foundationalism and is one of the mistakes that Descartes makes. Descartes does not and cannot simply start from nothing. Nevertheless, he gets off to a very good start: he decides that he cannot be deceived about his own existence, because if he didn't exist, he wouldn't be around to worry about it. If he didn't exist, he wouldn't be thinking; so if he is thinking, he must exist. This is usually stated in Latin: Cogito ergo sum, ‘I think therefore I am.’ That might be the most famous statement in the history of philosophy, although it does not seem to occur in that form in the Meditations.
But there is more to it than just Descartes' argument for his own existence. Thinking comes first, and for Descartes that is a real priority. The title of the second meditation actually says, ‘the mind is better known than the body, and the Cogito ergo sum makes Descartes believe, not just that he has proven his existence, but that he has proven his existence as a thinking substance, a mind, leaving the body as some foreign thing to worry about later? That does not really follow, but Descartes clearly thinks that it does and consequently doesn't otherwise provide any special separate proof for the existence of the soul. In the end Descartes will believe that there are two fundamental substances in the world, souls and matter. The essence of soul for him, the attribute that makes a soul what is it, is thinking. The essence of matter for him (given to us in the fifth meditation), the attribute that makes matter what is it, is extension, i.e., that matter takes up space. This is known as Cartesian Dualism that there are two kinds of things. It is something else that people have thought funny or absurd since Descartes. The great difficulty with it was always how souls and their bodies, made of matter, interact or communicate with one another. In Descartes' own physics, forces are transferred by contact; least of mention, the soul, which is unextended and so has no surface, in that might one say is that it is only matter holding to extension, and, cannot contact the body. It holds accountably for reasons from which are to maintain that there is no surface with which to press. The body cannot even hold the soul within it, since the soul has nothing to press upon or carry it along with the body. Problems like this occur whenever the body and soul are regarded as fundamentally different kinds of realities.
At the present time, it might seem easy to say that the body and soul communicate by passing energy back and forth, of these we might by their unexpressed principle for oscillating requirements deem necessarily for any, and, if not all, for acquiring everyone achievement. Still, might that we behold upon the proximity, for which at any given time can give as a presence upon their aforesaid bearings, because in of each are they that combine of combinations that await to the future. Justly, the presence of real energy in the soul would make it detectable in the laboratory: any kind of energy produces some heat (toward which all energy migrates as it becomes more random, i.e., as energy obeys the laws of the conservation of energy and of entropy), and heat or the radiation it produces (all heat produces electromagnetic radiation) can be detected. But, usually, a theory of the soul wants it to be some kind of thing that cannot be detected in a laboratory--in great measure because souls have not been detected in a laboratory.
Nevertheless, Descartes' problem is not just confusion or a superstition. Our existence really does seem different from the inside than from the outside. From the inside there is consciousness, experience, colours, music, memories, etc. From the outside there is just the brain: gray goo. How do those two go together? That is the enduring question from Descartes: The Mind-Body Problem. As with the Problem of Knowledge, there is no consensus on a satisfactory answer. To ignore consciousness, as happens in Behaviourism, or to dismiss consciousness as something that is merely a transient state of the material brain, is a kind of reductionism, i.e., to say the one thing is just a state or function of another even though they may seem fundamentally different and there may be no-good reason why we should regard that one thing is more real than of another having less. Much of the talk about the Mind-Body Problem in the 20th century has been reductionistic, starting with Gilbert Ryle's Concept of Mind, which said that ‘mind is to body as kick is to leg.’ A kick certainly doesn't have much reality apart from a leg, but that really doesn't capture the relationship of consciousness to the body or to the brain. When the leg is kicking, we see the leg. But when the brain is ‘minding,’ we don't see the brain, and the body itself is only represented within consciousness. Internally, there is no reason to believe the mind is even in the brain. Aristotle and the Egyptians thought that consciousness was in the heart. In the middle of dreaming or hallucinations, we might not be aware of our bodies at all.
At the end of the second mediation Descartes may reasonably be said to have proven his own existence, but the existence of the body or of any other external objects is left hanging. If nothing further can be proven, then each of us is threatened with the possibility that I am the only thing that exists. This is called solipsism, from Latin solus, ‘alone’ (sole), and ipse, ‘self.’ Solipsism is not argued, advocated, or even mentioned by Descartes, but it is associated with him because both he and everyone after him have so much trouble proving that something else does exist.
The third meditation for Descartes' next step was to try in restoring the common sense view as the limit point of knowledge. Even though he is ultimately aiming to show that external objects and the body exist, he is not able to go at that directly. Instead that where for Descartes the attempts to prove the existence of God. This is surprising, since the existence of objects seems much more obvious than the existence of God. All the same, Descartes, methodological work within the spirit of his mathematics, he lead us beyond the gathering the guilt of a conscience frame of mind or any such given to reference. Thereupon, the absence from which are foregathering toward an oftentimes overflowing emptiness he thinks that a pure rational proof of something he can't see is better than no proof of something he can.
Descartes' proof for God is not original. It is a kind of argument called the Ontological Argument (named that by Immanuel Kant, 1724-1804). It is called ‘ontological’ because it is based on an idea about the nature of God's existence: that God is a necessary being, i.e., it is impossible for him not to exist. We and everything else in the universe, on the other hand, are contingent beings; it is possible for us not to exist, and in the past (and possibly in the future) we have indeed not existed. But if God is a necessary being, then there must be something about his nature that necessitates his existence. Reflecting on this, a mediaeval Archbishop of Canterbury, St. Anselm (1093-1109), decided that all we needed to prove the existence of God was the proper definition of God. With such a definition we could understand how God's nature necessitates his existence. The definition Anselm proposed was, that God is that which is no greater than he is less, as he ironically can be of his own receptive conceivability. Lesser than great and greater than he is less, each is to denote by him that relinquishes all valuing qualities as these are to distinguish upon all given quantities, in that of or in or even how it is given amongst us, that we have to preconceive in all that is consistently proper and directorially placed through the disposition fields of force, for which each is to control by his travelling navigation, into that of which is True and Right. The argument then follows: If we conceive of a non-existing God, we must always ask, ‘Can something greater than this be conceived?’ The answer will clearly be ‘Yes’; for a God that is existing would be greater than a nonexistent God. Therefore, we can only conceive of God as existing; so God exists.
This simple argument has mostly not found general favour. The definitive criticism was given by St. Thomas Aquinas (who otherwise thought that there were many ways to prove the existence of God): things cannot be ‘conceived’ into existence. Defining a concept is one thing, proving that the thing exists is another. The principle involved is that, Existence is not a predicate, i.e., existence is not like other attributes or qualities that are included in definitions. Existence is not part of the meaning of anything. Most modern philosophers have agreed with this, but every so often there is an oddball who is captivated by Anselm. Descartes was such an oddball.
Descartes' argument for God is not even as good as Anselm's. It runs something like this: I have in my mind an idea of perfection; Degrees of perfection correspond to degrees of reality; Every idea I have must have been caused by something that is at least as real [in objective reality, what Descartes calls ‘formal reality’ as what it is that the idea represents [in the subjective reality of my mind, what Descartes confusingly calls ‘objective reality’; Therefore, every idea I have must have been caused by something that is at least as perfect as what it is that the idea represents; Therefore, my idea of perfection must have been caused by the perfect thing; Therefore, the perfect thing exists. By definition the perfect thing is God; Therefore, God exists.
Descartes uses ‘perfection’ instead of Anselm's ‘greatness.’ The difficulties with the argument are, first, that the second premise is most questionable. Most Greek philosophers starting with Parmenides would have said that either something exists or it doesn't. ‘Degrees’ of reality is a much later, in fact Neoplatonic, idea. The second problem is that the third premise is convoluted and fishy in the extreme. It means that Descartes is forced into arguing that our idea of infinity must have been caused by an infinite thing, since an infinite thing is more real than we could ever conceive, or anything in us. But it seems obvious enough that our idea of infinity is simply the negation of finitude: the non-finite. The best that Descartes can ever do in justifying these two premises is arguing that he can conceive them ‘clearly and distinctly’ or ‘by the light of nature.’ ‘To remove obstructions from and appreciably abstractive ideas,’ are how Descartes claims something is self-evident, and something is self-evident if we know it to be true just by understanding it's meaning. That is very shaky ground in Descartes' system, for we must always be cautious about things that the Deceiving Demon could deceive us into believing. The only guarantee we have that our clear and distinct ideas are in fact true and reliable is that God would not deceive us about them. But then the existence of God is to be proven just in order that we can prove God reliable. Assuming the reliability of clear and distinct ideas so as to prove that God is reliable, so as to prove that clear and distinct ideas are reliable, makes for a logically circular argument: we assume what we wish to prove.
Descartes' argument for God violates both logic and his own method. In sweeping away the junk of history through methodical doubt, Descartes wasn't supposed to use anything from the past without justifying it. He is already violating that in the second mediation just by using concepts like ‘substance’ and ‘essence,’ which are technical philosophical terms that Descartes has not made up himself. In the third meditation Descartes' use of the history of philosophy explodes out of control: technical terminology (‘formal cause,’ etc.) flies thick and fast, the argument itself is inspired by Anselm, and the whole process is very far from the foundational program of starting from nothing. All by itself, it looks like a good proof of how philosophy cannot start over from anything.
With the existence of God, presumably, proven, Descartes wraps’ things up in the sixth meditation: if God is the perfect thing, then he would not deceive us. That wouldn't be perfect. On the other hand, when it comes to our perceptions, God has set this all up and given us a very strong sense that all these things that we see are there. So, if God is no deceiver, these things really must be there. Therefore, external objects (‘corporeal things’) exist. Simple enough, but fatally flawed if the argument for the existence of God is itself defective.
In the fourth and fifth meditation Descartes does some tidying up. In the fourth he worries why there can be falsehood if God is reliable. The answer is that if we stuck to our clear and distinct ideas, there would be no falsehood, upwards to this point our ambitions leap beyond those limits, so falsehood exists and is our own fault. Descartes does come to believe that all our clear and distinct ideas are innate: they are packed into the soul on its creation, like a box lunch. Most important is the idea of perfection, or the idea of God, itself, which is then rather like God's hallmark on the soul. Once we notice that idea, then life, the universe, and everything falls into place. Thus, Descartes eventually decides that the existence of God is better known to him than his own existence, even though he was certain about the latter first.
The fifth meditation says it is about the ‘essence’ of material things. That is especially interesting since Descartes supposedly doesn't know yet whether material things existed. It's like, even if they don't exist, he knows what they are. That is Descartes the mathematician speaking. Through mathematics, especially geometry, he knows what matter is like--extended, etc. He even knows that a vacuum is impossible: extended space is the same thing as material substance. This is the kind of thing that makes Descartes look very foolish as a scientist. But the important point, again, is not that Descartes is unscientific, but that he chose to rely too heavily on the role of mathematics in the nova scientia that Galileo had recently inaugurated. Others, like Francis Bacon (1561-1626), had relied too heavily on the role of observation in explaining the new knowledge. Bacon wasn't a scientist, or a mathematician, at all. Descartes was. It really would not be until our own time that some understanding would begin to emerge of the interaction and interdependency between theory and observation, mathematics and experience in modern science. Even now the greatest mathematicians (e.g., Kurt Gödel, 1906-1978) have a tendency by which are the kinds of Platonists.
Italian physicist and astronomer, the founder of experimental science. In a world dominated by the dogmatic enforcement of the teachings of Aristotle, Galileo used the systematic application of the experimental method to formulate the most basic laws of mechanics -inertia and the principle of the relativity of motion. By applying the telescope to observation of the skies, Galileo proved the validity of Copernicus's heliocentric system. Galileo thus developed a scientific method based on observation, experiment and the method of induction and a mechanical, causal conception of Nature. Concurring of our agreement, which we would agree, only for which is well to know that we know very well that Galileo suffered severe repression from the Church for his views, and was forced to write God into his system.
A good exposition of his works can be found in ‘The Galileo Affair,’ which collects a series of letters and statements by Galileo with the documents of the Inquisition demanding that Galileo recant and affirm the literal interpretation of the Bible upheld by the Inquisitors. The final document is Galileo's ‘self-criticism’
In 1600, the great Italian materialist philosopher, Giodarno Bruno, had been burnt at the stake for, among other things, upholding the Copernican conception of the Heliocentric universe, and despite the fact that Copernicus had been commissioned by the Church to formulate a better method of predicting the movement of the heavens in order to overcome defects in the Calendar, he was also forced to recant.
Not only are Galileo's arguments in defence of the Copernican view compelling to the point where it is difficultly for us to comprehend today how the Inquisitors could withstand them, but Galileo also demonstrates that they may silence him in vain, for conditions of life in Europe were leading ever more people to observe with their own eyes the movement and form of the heavenly bodies, and more people were coming to the same conclusions as he, and the Church would do well to stay away from anything that might prove liable to refutation by empirical observation or naturalistic reason.
The profundity of Galileo's understanding of the nature and tasks of natural science is astounding. Not only does he present the argument in favour of the Heliocentric System with a fine balance of empirical evidence and the evidence of Reason, but he very explicitly rejects the ‘compromise’ offered him -to admit that the heliocentric assumption is made solely ‘for the convenience of organising the observations,’ and not at all a statement that material bodies actually move in this way, outside of human perception! Right at the very beginning of the development of natural science then, we see its greatest advocate recognising positivism in the camp of theology! On the contrary, he says, astronomers have to reduce the positions calculated on the basis of a theory of objective heliocentric motion to lines-of-sight referred to the point of view of an Earthly observer in order to be able to utilise the mass of experimental data, all of which is made by Earth-bound human observers -in other words the germs of the twentieth century Principle of Correspondence, used by Einstein in his formulation of the Special Theory of Relativity.
Also, we see a clear formulation of the principle of relativity, and the conception of the distinction between Essence and Appearance, in so far as Galileo distinguishes between the ‘idealised’ motion and the minor ‘deviations’ from that trajectory. Galileo also did fundamental work on mechanics, rolling balls down inclined slopes and timing them with a very primitive ‘stop watch.’ The Problem of the Subject Matter and Sources of Logic is a most promising means of resolving any scientific problem is the historical approach to it. In our case this approach proves a very essential one. The fact is that what are now called logic are doctrines that differ considerably in their understanding of the boundaries of this science. Each of them, of course, lays claim not so much simply to the title as to the right to be considered the sole modern stage in the development of world logical thought. That, therefore, is why we must go into the history of the matter.
The term ‘logic’ was first introduced for the science of thinking by the Stoics, who distinguished by it only that part of Aristotle’s actual teaching that corresponded to their own views on the nature of thinking. The term itself was derived by them from the Greek word logos (which literally means ‘the word’), and the science so named was very closely related to the subject matter of grammar and rhetoric. The mediaeval scholastics, who finally shaped and canonised the tradition, simply converted logic into a mere instrument (organon) for conducting verbal disputes, a tool for interpreting the texts of the Holy Writ, and a purely formal apparatus. As a result not only did the official interpretation of logic become discredited, but also it’s very name. The emasculated ‘Aristotelean logic’ therefore also became discredited in the eyes of all leading scientists and philosophers of the new times, which is the reason why most of the philosophers of the sixteenth to eighteenth century generally avoided using the term ‘logic’ as the name for the science of thought intellect, and reason.
Recognition of the uselessness of the official, formal, scholastic version of logic as the organon of real thought and of the development of scientific knowledge was the leitmotif of all the advanced, progressive philosophers of the time. ‘The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors that have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good,’ Francis Bacon said [Novum Organum] ‘I observed in respect to Logic,’ said Descartes, ‘that the syllogisms and the greater part of the other teaching served better in explaining to others those things that one knows (or like the art of Lully, in enabling one to speak without judgment of those things of which one is ignorant) than in learning what is new.’ [Discourse on Method, and John Locke suggested that ‘syllogism, at best, be but the Art of fencing with the little knowledge we have, without making any Addition to it.’. [An Essay Concerning Human Understanding] On this basis Descartes and Locke considered it necessary to classify all the problems of the old logic in the sphere of rhetoric. And insofar as logic was preserved as a special science, but it was unanimously treated not as the science of thinking but as the science of the correct use of words, names, and signs. Hobbes, for example, developed a conception of logic as the calculation of word signs.
In concluding his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke defined the subject matter and task of logic as follows: ‘The business [of logic] is to consider the nature of signs the mind makes use of for the understanding of things, or conveying its knowledge to others.’ He treated logic as ‘the doctrine of signs’, i.e., as semiotics.
But philosophy, fortunately, did not jell at that level. The best brains of the period understood very well that it might be all right for logic to be interpreted in that spirit, but not for the science of thinking. True, in general, the representatives of purely mechanistic views of the world and of thinking held such a view of logic. Since they interpreted objective reality in an abstract, geometrical way (i.e., only purely quantitative characteristics were considered objective and scientific), the principles of thinking in mathematical science merged in their eyes with the logical principles of thinking in general, a tendency that took final form in Hobbes.
The approach of Descartes and Leibniz was much more careful. They too took to the idea of creating ‘universal mathematics’ in place of the old, ridiculed, and discredited logic. They dreamed of instituting a universal language, a system of terms strictly and unambiguously defined, and therefore admitting of purely formal operations in it.
Both Descartes and Leibniz, unlike Hobbes, were well aware of the difficulties of principal standing in the way of realising such an idea. Descartes understood that the definition of terms in the universal language could not be arrived at by amicable agreement, but must only be the result of careful analysis of the simple ideas, the bricks, from which the whole intellectual edifice of man was built. That the exact language of ‘universal mathematics’ could only be something derived from ‘true philosophy’. Only then would one succeed in replacing thinking about the things given in reflection or imagination (i.e., in the terminology of the day, in contemplation) and in general in people’s real sense experience by a kind of calculus of terms and statements, and in drawing conclusions and inferences as infallible as the solutions of equations.
In supporting this point of Descartes’, Leibniz categorically limited the field of application of the ‘universal mathematics’ solely to those things that belonged to the sphere of the powers of imagination. The ‘universal mathematics’ should also, in his view, be only (so to say) a logic of the powers of imagination. But that was precisely why all metaphysics was excluded from its province, and such things as thought, and action, and the field of ordinary mathematics, commensurate only in reason. A very essential reservation! Though, in any case, thus remained outside the competence of the ‘universal mathematics’.
It is not surprising that Leibniz, with unconcealed irony, classified Locke’s treatment of logic, by which it was understood as a special doctrine of signs, as purely nominalist. Leibniz revealed the difficulties associated with such an understanding of logic. Above all, he said, the ‘science of reasoning, of judgments and inventions, seems very different from recognition of the etymologies and usage of words, which is something indeterminable and arbitrary. One must, moreover, when one wants to explain words, make an excursion into the sciences themselves as was seen in dictionaries. One must not, on the other hand, engage in a science without at the same time giving a definition of the terms.
Instead of the threefold division of philosophy into different sciences (logic, physics, and ethics) that Locke had taken over from the Stoics, Leibniz therefore suggested speaking of three different aspects, under which the same knowledge, the same truth, would function, namely theoretical (physics), practical (ethics), and terminological (logic). The old logic thus corresponded simply to the terminological aspect of knowledge, or, as Leibniz put it, ‘arrangement by terms, as in a handbook’. Such systematisation, of course, even the best, was not a science of thought, because Leibniz had a more profound appreciation of thinking. And he classed the true doctrine of thought as metaphysics, in this sense following Aristotle’s terminology and the essence of his logic, and not the Stoics.
But why should be thought be investigated within the framework of ‘metaphysics’? It was not a matter, of course, of indicating to which ‘department’ the theoretical understanding of thought ‘belonged’, but of a definite way of approaching the solution of an essential philosophical problem. And the difficulty constantly facing every theoretician lies in understanding what it is that links knowledge (the totality of concepts, theoretical constructions, and ideas) and its subject matter together, and whether the one agrees with the other, and whether the concepts on which a person relies correspond to something real, lying outside his consciousness? And can that, in general, be tested? And if so, how?
The problems are really very complicated. An affirmative answer, for all its seeming obviousness, is not quite so simple to prove, and as for a negative answer, it proves possible to back it up with very weighty arguments, such as that, since an object is refracted in the course of its apprehension through the prism of the ‘specific nature’ of the organs of perception and reason, we know any object only in the form it acquires as a result of this refraction. The ‘existence’ of things outside consciousness is thus by no means necessarily rejected. One thing ‘only’ is rejected, the possibility of verifying whether or not such things are ‘in reality’ as we know and understand them. It is impossible to compare the thing as it is given in consciousness with the thing outside consciousness, because it is impossible to compare what I know with what I don’t know, what I do not see, what I do not perceive, what I am not aware of. Before I can compare my idea of a thing with the thing, I must also be aware of the thing, i.e., must also transform it into an idea. As a result I am always comparing and contrasting only ideas with ideas, although I may think that, I am comparing the idea with the thing.
Only similar objects, naturally, can be compared and contrasted. It is senseless to compare bushels and rods, poles, or perches, or the taste of steak and the diagonal of a square. And if, all the same, we want to compare steaks and squares, then we will no longer be comparing ‘steak and ‘square’ but two objects both possessing a geometrical, spatial form. The ‘specific’ property of the one and of the other cannot in general be involved in the comparison.
‘What is the distance between the syllable A and a table? The question would be nonsensical. In speaking of the distance of two things, we speak of their difference in space . . . Thus we equalise them for being both existences of space, and only after having them equalised sub specie spati [under the aspect of space] we distinguish them as different points of space. To belong to space is their unity. In other words, when we wish to establish a relation of some sort between two objects, we always compare not the ‘specific’ qualities that make one object ‘syllable A’ and the other a ‘table’, ‘steak’, or a ‘square’, but only those properties that express a ‘third’ something, different from their existence as the things enumerated. The things compared are regarded as different modifications of this ‘third’ property common to them all, but inherent in them as it were. So if there is no ‘third’ in the nature of the two things common to them both, the very differences between them become quite senseless.
In what are such objects as ‘concept’ (‘idea’) and ‘thing’ related? In what special ‘space’ can. they be contrasted, compared, and differentiated? Is there, in general, a ‘third’ thing in which they are ‘one and the same’, in spite of all their directly visible differences? If there is no such common substance, expressed by different means in an idea and in a thing, it is impossible to establish any intrinsically necessary relationship between them. At best we can ‘see’ only an external relation in the nature of that which was once established between the position of luminaries in the heavens and events in personal lives, i.e., relations between two orders of quite heterogeneous events, each of which proceeds according to its own, particular, specific laws. And then Wittgenstein would be right in proclaiming logical forms to be mystical and inexpressible.
But in the case of the relationship between an idea and reality there is yet another difficulty. We know where the search for some sort of special essence can and does lead, an essence that would, at this point, may, as perhaps, be an occupant for whom a finding peculiarity, and, might have not been confronted for any given contributive idea and justly by virtue of its character that is characterized for not being functionally distributed by some material reality, but would constitute their common substance, the ‘third’ that appears one time as an idea and another time for being. For an idea and being mutually exclusive concepts. That which is an idea is not being, and vice versa. How, then, in general, can they be compared? In what, in general, can the basis of their interaction be, what is that in which they are ‘one and the same’?
This difficulty was sharply expressed in its naked logical form by Descartes. In its general form, it is the central problem of any philosophy whatsoever, the problem of the relationship of ‘thought’ to the reality existing outside it and independently of it, to the world of things in space and time, the problem of the coincidence of the forms of thought and reality, i.e., the problem of truth or, to put it in traditional philosophical language, the ‘problem of the identity of thought and being’.
It is clear to everyone that ‘thought’ and ‘things outside thought’ are far from being one and the same. It is not necessary to be a philosopher to understand that. Everyone knows that it is one thing to have a hundred roubles (or pounds, or dollars) in one’s pocket, and another to have them only in one’s dreams, only in one’s thoughts. The concept obviously is only a state of the special substance that fills the brain box (we could go on, furthermore, explaining this substance as brain tissue or even as the very thin ether of the soul keeping house there, as the structure of the brain tissue, or even as the formal structure of inner speech, in the form of which thinking takes place inside the head); each latent subject is outside the head, in the space beyond the head, and is something quite other than the internal state of thought, ideas, the brain, speech, etc.
In order to understand such self-evident things clearly, and to take them into consideration, it is not generally necessary to have Descartes’ mind; however, it is necessary to have its analytical rigour in order to define the fact that thought and the world of things in space are not only and not simply different phenomena, but are also directly opposite.
Descartes’ clear, consistent intellect is especially needed in order to grasp the problem arising from this difficulty, namely, in what way do these two worlds (i.e., the world of concepts, of the inner states of thought, on the one hand, and the world of things in external space, on the other hand) nevertheless, to agree with each other?
Descartes expressed the difficulty as follows. If the existence of things is determined through their extension and if the spatial, geometric forms of things are the sole objective forms of their existence outside the subject, then thinking is not disclosed simply through its description in forms of space. The spatial characteristic of thinking in general has no relation to its specific nature. The nature of thinking is disclosed through concepts that have nothing in common with the expression of any kind of spatial, geometric image. He also expressed this view in the following way: though and extension are really two different substances, and a substance is that which exists and is defined only through itself and not through something else. There is nothing common between thought and extension that could be expressed in a special definition. In other words, in a series of definitions of thought there is not a single attribute that could be part of the definition of extension, and vice versa. But if there is no such common attribute it is also impossible to deduce being rationally from thought, and vice versa, because deduction requires a ‘mean term’, i.e., a term such as might be included in the series of definitions of the idea and of the existence of things outside consciousness, outside thought. Thought and being cannot in general come into contact with one another, since their boundary (the line or even the point of contact) would then also be exactly that which simultaneously both divides them and unites them.
In view of the absence of such a boundary, thought cannot, . . . limit the extended thing, nor the thing the mental expression. They are free, as it were, to penetrate and permeate each other and nowhere encountering a boundary. Though as such cannot interact with the extended thing, nor the thing with thought; each revolves within itself.
Straightly unmentionable some problem springs into the lead: how then are thought and bodily functions united in the human individual? That they are linked is an obvious fact. Man can consciously control his spatially determined body among other such bodies, his mental impulses are transformed into spatial movements, and the movements of bodies, causing alterations in the human organism (sensations) are transformed into mental images. That means that thought and the extended body interact in some way after all. But how? What is the nature of the interaction? How do they determine, i.e., delimit, each other?
How does it come about that a trajectory, drawn by thought in the plane of the imagination, for example a curve described in its equation, proves to be congruent with the geometrical contours of the same curve in real space? It means that the form of the curve in thought (i.e., in the form of the ‘magnitude’ of the algebraic signs of the equation) is identical with a corresponding curve in real space, i.e., a curve drawn on paper in a space outside the head. It is surely one and the same curve, only the one is in thought and the other in real space; therefore, acting in accordance with thought (understood as the sense of words or signs), I simultaneously act in the strictest accord with the shape (in this case the geometrical contour) of a thing outside thought.
How can that be, if ‘the thing in thought’ and ‘the things outside thought’ are not only ‘different’ but are also absolutely opposite? For absolutely opposite means exactly this: not having anything in ‘common’ between them, nothing identical, not one attribute that could at once be a criterion of the concept ‘thing outside thought’ and of the concept ‘thing in thought’, or ‘imagined thing’. How then can the two worlds conform with one another? And, moreover, not accidentally, but systematically and regularly, these two worlds that have absolutely nothing in common, nothing identical? That is the problem around which all Cartesians spin, Descartes himself, and Geulincx, and Malebranche, and the mass of their followers.
Malebranche expressed the principal difficulty arising here in his own witty way, as follows: during the siege of Vienna, the defenders of the city undoubtedly saw the Turkish army as ‘transcendental Turks’, but those killed were very real Turks. The difficulty here is clear; and from the Cartesian point of view on thought it is absolutely insoluble, because the defenders of Vienna acted, i.e., aimed and fired their cannonballs in accordance with the image of Turks that they had in their brains, in accordance with ‘imagined’, ‘transcendental Turks’, and with trajectories calculated in their brains; and the shots fell among real Turks in a space that was not only outside their skulls, but also outside the walls of the fortress.
How does it come about that two worlds having absolutely nothing in common between them are in agreement, namely the world ‘thought of’, the world in thought, and the real world, the world in space? And why? God knows, answered Descartes, and Malebranche, and Geulincx; from our point of view it is inexplicable. Only God can explain this fact. He makes the two opposing worlds agree. The concept God’ comes in here as a ‘theoretical’ construction by which to express the obvious but quite inconceivable fact of the unity, congruence, and identity perhaps, of phenomena that are absolutely contrary by definition. God is the ‘third’ which, as the ‘link’, unites and brings into agreement thought and being, ‘soul’ and ‘body’, ‘concept’ and ‘object’, action in the plane of signs and words and action in the plane of real, geometrically defined bodies outside the head.
Having come directly up against the naked dialectical fact that ‘thought’ and ‘being outside thought’ are in absolute opposition, yet are nevertheless in agreement with one another, in unity, in inseparable and necessary interconnection and interaction (and thus subordinated to some higher law and moreover, one and the same law), the Cartesian school capitulated before theology and put the inexplicable (from their point of view) fact down to God, and explained it by a ‘miracle’, i.e., by the direct intervention of supernatural powers in the causal chain of natural events.
Descartes, the founder of analytical geometry, could therefore not explain in any rational way whatever the reason for the algebraic expression of a curve by means of an equation ‘corresponding’ to the spatial image of this curve in a drawing. They could not, indeed, manage without God, because according to Descartes, actions with signs and on the basis of signs, in accordance only with signs (with their mathematical sense), i.e., actions in the ether of ‘pure thought’, had nothing in common with really bodily actions in the sphere of spatially determined things, in accordance with their real contours. The first were pure actions of the soul (or thinking as such), the second actions of the body repeating the contours (spatially geometric outlines) of external bodies, and therefore wholly governed by the laws of the ‘external’, spatially material world. (This problem is posed no less sharply today by the ‘philosophy of mathematics’. If mathematical constructions are treated as constructions of the creative intellect of mathematicians, ‘free’ of any external determination and worked out exclusively by ‘logical’ rules and the mathematicians that they had followed Descartes, are quite often apt to interpret them precisely so it becomes quite enigmatic and inexplicable why on earth the empirical facts, the facts of ‘external experience’, keep on agreeing and coinciding in their mathematical, numerical expressions with the results obtained by purely logical calculations and by the ‘pure’ actions of the intellect. It is absolutely unclear. Only ‘God’ can help.)
In other words the identity of these absolute opposites (‘thought’, ‘spirit’, and ‘extension’, ‘body’) was also recognised by Descartes as a factual principle without it even his idea of analytical geometry would have been impossible (and not only inexplicable) but it was explained by an act of God, by his intervention in the interrelations of ‘thought and being’, ‘soul and body’. God, moreover, in Cartesian philosophy, and especially for Malebranche and Geulincx, could be understood as the purely traditional Catholic, orthodox God, ruling both the ‘bodies’ and the ‘souls’ of men from outside, from the heights of his heavenly throne, and co-ordinating the actions of the ‘soul’ with those of the ‘body’.
Such is the essence of the famous psychophysical problem, in which it is not difficult to see the specific concrete and therefore historically limited formulation of the central problem of philosophy. The problem of the theoretical understanding of thought (logic), consequently, and hence not of the rules of operating with words or other signs, comes down to solving the cardinal problems of philosophy, or of metaphysics, to put it in a rather old-fashioned way. And that assumes mastering the culture of the genuinely theoretical thinking represented by the classical philosophers, who not only knew how to pose problems with maximum clarity, but also knew how to solve them.
An immense role in the development of logic, and in preparing the ground for modern views on its subject matter, a role far from fully appreciated, was played by Spinoza. Like Leibniz, Spinoza rose high above the mechanistic limitations of the natural science of his time. Any tendency directly to universalise partial forms and methods of thinking only useful within the bounds of mechanistic, mathematical natural science was also foreign to him.
Insofar as logic was preserved alongside the doctrine of substance, Spinoza treated it as an applied discipline by analogy with medicine, since its concern proved not to be the invention of artificial rules but the coordination of human intellect with the laws of thought understood as an ‘attribute’ of the natural whole, only as ‘modes of expression’ of the universal order and connection of things. He also tried to work out logical problems on the basis of this conception.
Spinoza understood thought much more profoundly and, in essence, dialectically, which is why his figure presents special interest in the history of dialectics; he was probably the only one of the great thinkers of the pre-Marian where who knew how to unite brilliant models of acutely dialectical thought with a consistently held materialist principle (rigorously applied throughout his system) of understanding thought and its relations to the external world lying in the space outside the human head. The influence of Spinoza’s ideas on the subsequent development of dialectical thought can hardly be exaggerated. ‘It is therefore worthy of note that thought must begin by placing itself at the standpoint of Spinozism; to be a follower of Spinoza is the essential commencement of all Philosophy.
But orthodox religious scholasticism, in alliance with subjective idealist philosophy, has not ceased to flog Spinoza as a ‘dead dog’, treating him as a living and dangerous opponent. Elementary analysis reveals that the main principles of Spinoza’s thought directly contradict the conception of ‘thought’ developed by modern positivism all along the line. The most modern systems of the twentieth century still clash in sharp antagonism in Spinoza. That obliges us to analyse the theoretical foundation of his conception very carefully, and to bring out the principles in it that, in rather different forms of expression perhaps, remain the most precious principles of any scientific thinking to this day, and as such are very heatedly disputed by our contemporary opponents of dialectical thought.
Hegel once noted that Spinoza’s philosophy was very simple and easy to understand. And in fact the principles of his thinking, which constitute the essential commencement of all Philosophy, i.e., the real foundation on which alone it is possible to erect the edifice of philosophy as a science, are brilliant precisely in their crystal clarity, free of all reservations and ambiguities.
It is not so easy, however, to bring these brilliant principles out because they are decked out in the solid armour of the constructions of formal logic and deductive mathematics that constitute the ‘shell’ of Spinoza’s system, its (so to say) defensive coat of mail. In other words, the real logic of Spinoza’s thinking by no means coincides with the formal logic of the movement of his ‘axioms’, ‘theorems’, ‘scholia’, and their proofs. ‘Even with philosophers who gave their work a systematic form, e.g., Spinoza, the really inner structure of their system is quite distinct from the form in which they consciously presented it,’ Karl Marx wrote to Ferdinand Lassalle.
The job of the philosopher is then that he cannot be once more to paraphrase the theoretical foundations on which Spinoza built his main work, the Ethics, and the conclusions that he drew from them by means of his famous ‘geometric modus’. In that case it would be more proper simply to copy out the text of the Ethics itself once again. Our job is to help the reader to understand the ‘real inner structure’ of his system, which far from coincides with its formal exposition, i.e., to see the real ‘cornerstone’ of his reflections and to show what real conclusions were drawn from them, or could be drawn from them, that still preserve their full topicality.
That can only be done in one way, and one way only, which is to show the real problem that Spinoza’s thought, as it came up against exactly of the independent characterological features in showing how he himself realized, in of his terms that were expressed for him and for others (i.e., to set the problem out in the language of our century), and then to trace what were the real principles (once more independently of Spinoza’s own formulation of them) on which he based the solution of the problem. Then it will become clear that Spinoza succeeded in finding the only formulation exact for his time of a real problem that remains the great problem of our day, only formulated in another form. Formulated by this problem in the preceding essay. Spinoza found a very simple solution to it, brilliant in its simplicity for our day as well as his: the problem is insoluble only because it has been wrongly posed. There is no need to rack one’s brains over how the Lord God ‘unites’ ‘soul’ (thought) and ‘body’ in one complex, represented initially (and by definition) as different and even contrary principles allegedly existing separately from each other before the ‘act’ of this ‘uniting’ (and thus, also being able to exist after their ‘separation’; which is only another formulation of the thesis of the immortality of the soul, one of the cornerstones of Christian theology and ethics?). In fact, there is simply no such situation. Therefore, there is also no problem of ‘uniting’ or ‘coordination’.
There are not two different and originally contrary objects of investigation body and thought, but only one single object, which is the thinking body of living, real man (or other analogous being, if such exists anywhere in the Universe), only considered from two different and even opposing aspects or points of view. Living, real thinking man, the sole thinking body with which we are acquainted, does not consist of two Cartesian halves ‘thought lacking a body’ and a ‘body lacking thought’. In relation to real man both the one and the other are equally fallacious abstractions, and one cannot in the end model a real thinking man from two equally fallacious abstractions. That is what constitutes the real ‘keystone’ of the whole system, a very simple truth that is easy, on the whole, to understand. It is not a special ‘soul’, installed by God in the human body as in a temporary residence, that thinks, but the body of man itself. Thought is a property, a mode of existence, of the body, the same as its extension, i.e., as its spatial configuration and position among other bodies.
This simple and profoundly true idea was expressed this way by Spinoza in the language of his time: though and extension are not two special substances as Descartes taught, but only two attributes of one and the same organ; not two special objects, capable of existing separately and quite independently of each other, but only two different and even opposite aspects under which one and the same thing appears, two different modes of existence, two forms of the manifestation of some third thing. The third thing, would be that real infinite Nature, Spinoza answered. It is Nature that extends in space and ‘thinks’. The whole difficulty of the Cartesian metaphysics arose because the specific difference of the real world from the world as only imagined or thought of was considered to be extension, spatially and geometric determinateness were to the influence that temporality. But extension as such just existed in imagination, only in thought. For as such it can generally only be thought of in the form of emptiness, i.e., purely negatively, as the complete absence of any definite geometric shape. Ascribing only spatial, geometric properties to Nature is, as Spinoza said, to think of it in an imperfect way, i.e., to deny it in advance one of its perfections. And then it is asked how the perfection removed from Nature can be restored to her again.
The same argumentation applies to thought. Thought as such is the same kind of fallacious abstraction as emptiness. In fact it is only a property, a predicate, an attribute of that selfsame body, which was spatially to realize upon those same existent qualities that, at that time were attributively unknown. In other words’, one can say very little about thought as such, as it is not reality existing separately form or independently of, because of an organically structured mode that of its existence is of Nature’s body. Though and space do not really exist by them, but only as Nature’s bodies linked by chains of interaction into a measureless and limitless whole embracing both the one and the other.
By a simple turn of thought Spinoza cut the Gordian knot of the ‘psychophysical problem’, the mystic insolubility of which still torments the mass of theoreticians and schools of philosophy, psychology, physiology of the higher nervous system, and other related sciences that are forced one way or another to deal with the delicate theme of the relation of ‘thought’ to ‘body’, of ‘spiritual’ to ‘material’, of ‘ideal’ too ‘real’, and such like topics. Spinoza showed that it is only impossible to solve the problem because it is absolutely wrongly posed; for that is such to be made known, as to came by itself, there where by any means have to a greater extent than is nothing itself, as for being skilled of which are the afforded efforts as drawn upon our imagination.
It is in man that Nature really does, in a self-evident way, that very activity that we are accustomed to calling ‘thinking’. In man, in the form of what is told that to be human, gave to represent humanity as he was existently to realize by the presences in that person. Nature itself thinks, and not at all in the same special substances that give to quantification, source, or principles in from the outside. In man, therefore, Nature thinks of itself. Becomes aware of itself, senses itself, acts on itself. And the ‘ reasoning’, ‘consciousness’, ‘idea’, ‘sensation’, ‘will’, and all the other special actions that Descartes described as modi of thought, are simply different modes of revealing a property inalienable from Nature as a whole, one of its own attributes.
But if thinking is always an action performed by a natural and so by a spatially determined body, it itself, too, is an action that is also expressed spatially, which is why there is not and cannot be the cause and effect relation between thinking and bodily action for which the Cartesians were looking. They did not find it for the simple reason that no such relation exists in Nature, and cannot, simply because thinking and the body are two different things at all, existing separately and therefore capable of interacting, but one and the same thing, only expressed by two different modes or considered in two different aspects.
Between body and thought there is no relation of cause and effect, but the relation of an organ (i.e., of a spatially determinate body) to the mode of its own action. The thinking body cannot cause changes in thought, cannot act on thought, because its existence as ‘thinking’ is thought. If a thinking body does nothing, it is no longer a thinking body but simply a body. But when it does act, it does not do so on thought, because it’s very activity is thought.
Thought as a spatially expressed activity cannot have possession in the quality of being segregated from the body performing it as a special ‘substance,’ distinct from the body in the way that bile is segregated from the liver or sweat from sweat glands. Thinking is not the product of an action but the action itself, considered at the moment of its performance, just as walking, for example, is the mode of action of the legs, the ‘product’ of which, it happens, is the space walked. And that is that. The product or result of thinking may be an exclusively spatially expressed, or exclusively geometrically stated, change in somebody or another, or else in its position relative to other bodies. It is absurd then to say that the one gives rise to (or ‘causes’) the other. Thinking does not evoke a spatially expressed change in a body but exists through it (or within it), and vice versa; any change, however fine, within that body, induced by the effect on it of other bodies, is directly expressed for it as a certain change in its mode of activity, i.e., in thinking.
The position set out here is extremely important also because it immediately excludes any possibility of treating it in a vulgar materialist, mechanistic key, i.e., of identifying thought with immaterial processes that take place within the thinking body (head, brain tissue), while nevertheless understanding that thought takes place precisely through these processes.
Spinoza was well aware that what is expressed and performed in the form of structural, spatial changes within the thinking body is not at all some kind of thinking taking place outside of and independently of them, and vice versa (shifts of thinking by no means express immanent movements of the body within which they arise). It is therefore impossible to understand thought through examination either, but exactly through the personal self-realization of spatially geometric change, in the form for which it is expressed within the body of the brain, or, on conversely, to some understood geometric changes in the brain tissue, in that most are the equivalent, if, in at all, to the graduating detailed consideration of the compositional characters that ideas existing in the brain. It is impossible, Spinoza constantly repeated, because they are one and the same, only expressed by two different means.
To try to explain the one by the other simple mean to double the description of one and the same fact, not yet understood and incomprehensible. And although we have fully and adequately given to description that of one are equally to resemble to both are the same event, equivalent to one another, the event itself falls outside both descriptions, as the ‘third thing’, the very ‘one and the same’ that was not yet understood or explained. Because the event twice described (once in the language of the ‘physics of the brain’ and once in the language of the ‘logic of ideas’) can be explained and correspondingly’ understood only after bringing out the cause evoking the event described but not understood.
Bishop Berkeley ascribed the cause to God. And so did Descartes, Malebranche, and Geulincx. The shallow, vulgar materialist tries to explain everything by the purely mechanical actions of external things on the sense organs and brain tissue, and takes for the cause the concrete thing, the sole object, that is affecting our bodily organisation at a given moment and causing corresponding changes in our body, which we feel within ourselves and experience as our thinking.
While rejecting the first explanation as the capitulation of philosophy before religious theological twaddle, Spinoza took a very critical attitude as well toward the superficial materialist mechanistic explanation of the cause of thought. He very well understood that it was only a ‘bit’ of an explanation, leaving in the dark the very difficulty that Descartes was forced to bring in God to explain.
For to explain the event we call ‘thinking’, to disclose its effective cause, it is necessary to include it in the chain of events within which it arises of necessity and not fortunately. The ‘beginnings’ and the ‘ends’ of this chain are clearly not located within the thinking body at all, but far outside it. To explain a separate, single, sensuously perceived fact passing momentarily before our eye, and even the whole mass of such facts, as the cause of thought means to explain precisely nothing. For this very fact exerts its effect (mechanical, say, or light) on stone as well, but no action of any kind that we describe as ‘thinking’ is evoked in the stone. The explanation must consequently also include those relations of cause and effect that of necessity generate our own physical organisation capable (unlike a stone) of thinking, i.e., of so refracting the external influences and so transforming them within itself that they are experienced by the thinking body not at all only as changes arising within themselves, but as external things, as the shapes of things outside the thinking body.
For the action produced on the retina of our eye by a ray of light reflected from the Moon is perceived by the thinking being not simply as a mechanical irritation within the eye but as the shape of the thing itself, as the lunar disc hanging in space outside the eye, which means that the Ego, the thinking substance or creature, directorially feels not the effect produced on it by the external thing but in other respects the things attracted of the retina are quite different, via, the shape or forms taken (i.e., the spatial, geometric configuration) and position of this external body, which has been evoked within us a resultant fact, through which of these things are mechanical or light caused to occur. In that lies both the enigma and the whole essence of thinking as the mode of activity of a thinking body in distinction to one that does not think. It will readily be understood that one body evokes a change by its action in another body; that is fully explained by the concepts of physics. It is difficult, and from the angle of purely physical concepts (and in Spinoza’s time of even ‘purely’ mechanical, geometric concepts) even impossible, to explain just why and how the thinking body feels and perceives the effect caused by an external body within itself as an external body, as it’s, and not as its own shape, configuration, and position in space.
Such was the enigma, in general, that Leibniz and Fichte came up against later -but, Spinoza had already found a fully rational, though only general, theoretical solution. He clearly understood that the problem could only be fully and finally solved by quite concrete investigation (including anatomical and physiological) of the material mechanism by which the thinking body (brain) managed to do the magic trick, truly mystically incomprehensible (from the angle of purely geometric concepts). Though it did the trick, which it saw the thing and not the changes in the particles of the retina and brain that this body caused by its light effect within the brain was an undoubted fact, although for reasons which its fact-calls for the fundamental structure that is built of some stony edifice that qualifies us to some explanation and in a general way outlining paths for even more of the practicalities that are stabilized in the subjective field studies directed toward the future.
What can the philosopher say here categorically, who remains a philosopher and does not become a physiologist, or an anatomist, or a physicist? Or rather, what can he say, without plunging into a game of the imagination, without trying to construct hypothetical mechanisms in the fancy by which the trick mentioned ‘might’, in general, be performed? What can he say while remaining on the ground of firmly also not facts known before and independently of any concrete, physiological investigation of the inner mechanisms of the thinking body, and not adequate too either being refuted or made doubtful by any further probing within the eye and the skull?
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