Tuesday, April 25, 2023

Logical Principles, by Destutt de Tracy

Logical Principles, or, a Comprehensive Collection of Facts and Observations Related to Human Intelligence: Exploring the Fundamentals of Rational Thinking, Reasoning, and Understanding, as Expounded by Mr. DESTUTT de TRACY, Count, Peer of France, Distinguished Member of the Institute of France, and of the Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, Published in Paris in 1817 by Mrs. Ve COURCIER, a Respected Printer-Librarian Located in the Picturesque Saint-André-des-Arcs District on Rue du Jardinet.

Warning.

This small writing has existed for a long time, and I had completely forgotten about it. I am publishing it today because I am assured that it can be useful to young people who are engaged in this kind of research, by indicating to them the main facts that they must observe and verify, and to those who might be tempted to neglect this important branch of our knowledge, by arousing their curiosity. I hope it produces these two effects.

If there are some assertions here that at first glance and on a simple statement may seem doubtful, or risky, or even false, I ask that they not be definitively condemned without having sought and examined the developments and proofs in my Elements of Ideology; for this is intended to facilitate its reading, but not to replace it.

First Chapter: On Logic. What is it? What ought it to be?

Until now, Logic has only been the art of drawing legitimate consequences from a proposition assumed to be true and acknowledged as such.

But firstly, the rules we have been given to achieve this goal, even if they are good, all lack a guarantee that assures us of their correctness; because they are all based on the syllogism; and the various forms of the syllogism rely on this famous principle: two things are equal to each other when both are equal to the same third thing; and consequently the syllogism consists solely in introducing a middle term between the major and minor term.

This principle is true, but it is irrelevant; because it is not true that the major, minor, and middle term of a syllogism are exactly equal to each other; if that were the case, they would express only one and the same thing; and it is no more true that the major, minor, and conclusion of a syllogism are equal propositions. If they were perfectly equal, one would not say anything more than the other, and we would not be any further ahead at the third than at the first. If, on the contrary, the minor says something different from the major, and the conclusion more than both, then they are not equal to each other. This is undeniable.1 Thus our whole system of argumentation and reasoning is poorly founded.

Moreover, even if the principle on which this system is based fully justifies it, it would still be necessary to prove this principle itself, and all the other undisputed principles from which one argues, to find out why they are true and why they are true; but Logic has not even attempted to do this. It establishes as a first principle, that one should not dispute principles, and yet every logician admits a greater or lesser number of them than his predecessors, approves some, criticizes others; but none shows the first cause of the truth of those he admits, the falsehood of those he rejects.

Some say that we must rely on common sense, on intimate conviction, on the deep feeling of anyone who enjoys his reason. Others say that a proposition is certain, indubitable when it presents a clear and distinct sense, or when, translated into other words, it can never make a clearer and more certain sense, or when the contradictory implies contradiction and absurdity, etc., etc.

All of this, although quite vague and subject to a thousand difficulties in applications, can be just and true; but it would be necessary to show why. However, no one has done this. These are propositions like others, whose truth needs to be proved and explained; for they were not arrived at all at once. One must be able to clearly show how they were arrived at, and why it was right to attach importance to them. Man necessarily felt before he judged. He made confused judgments before making explicit propositions; he made particular propositions before making general ones. All of this needs to be developed.

This not being done, let us agree that our Logic, even if supposed faultless in its procedures, relies on a false idea in deducing consequences; and above all, it lacks a fixed point to which all its principles can be attached; and therefore it has no certain basis from which we can start, and which can assure us of the solidity and reality of all that we know or believe we know; that is why one has never been able to refute victoriously and methodically the most daring skeptics, and why one has contented oneself with pushing them aside and overwhelming them with affected contempt, which at the same time hides and reveals the powerlessness to overcome them; for it is easier to scorn than to answer.

Perhaps one could and should have been content with this precarious state, as long as human science had made little progress and was scarcely composed of a few more or less happy insights, and did not even allow hope of reaching the source and first cause of all certainty. But today many successes have shown the strength of the human mind. Many of our discoveries are no longer chance fruits of genius that guesses, but effects of reason that sees. Many methodically established assertions have been found confirmed by subsequent facts. Everything finally proves that there are certain truths for us, and that our intelligence is capable of a sure and always the same march in all parts of its research. We therefore have the right and duty to demand that Logic, which claims to preside over all our knowledge, be itself a rigorous science, that it have a certain starting point, that all its principles be only consequences of a first fact taken from nature, that it account for our deviations and successes, in short, that it be truly the science of truth, and that it show us clearly what it consists of. This is what it must do and what it must be. Until then, it can only be regarded as a futile game, and the most deceptive of all. It must be completely renewed.

Second Chapter: On our existence. That it consists in what we feel.

It follows from what we have just said, firstly, that Logic can only consist in the study of our intelligence, since it is the processes of our intelligence that we must examine and judge; secondly, that its first concern must be to seek what is the first thing of which we are sure, in order to move from that to all those which necessarily derive from it and which, therefore, will also be certain. Now, these two conditions equally lead us back to the study of ourselves; for where shall we find this first fact, if not within ourselves? Let us try to delve into our inner selves. What do we find there? Feeling. We only exist because we feel; we would not exist if we did not feel. Our existence consists in feeling it in the different modifications it undergoes, and at the same time we are quite sure of feeling what we feel. Thus the first thing we know is our own existence, and we know it beyond doubt.

That is a certain first fact. That is the first of all certainties. That is a first step of milk, and it is Descartes who took it. After agreeing with himself to regard as doubtful everything he had ever been able to know and understand, he said: I doubt, I feel that I doubt, I am sure I doubt, or at least believe I doubt: but to doubt, or even to believe to doubt, is to feel, is to think something; and to think or feel is to exist; I am therefore sure of being, of existing as a thinking being. Thus, he, the first of all men, found the true beginning of all Logic; and since then, all that has been truly important in this science has been to ruin the hypothesis of innate ideas, which he himself had imprudently created2; to examine more closely than he did our various intellectual operations, and to learn how they teach us the existence of beings that are not ourselves. But Descartes, immediately after such a fine beginning, went astray because he skipped intermediaries; those who followed him have not yet proceeded with sufficient rigor. Let us therefore resume the road he opened up at the moment he entered it, and let us follow it step by step, as he himself should have done, without being bothered to follow him, and even less any other guide.

I am certain of feeling, and my existence consists of feeling. Thus, I am more immediately assured of my existence than of that of anything else whatsoever. Let us therefore begin by examining this existence directly and separately from all other things, and see what we can observe in the sensitivity that constitutes it.

The only aim here is to observe our sensitivity, its acts, that is to say its different modes, which constitute our different ways of existing, and the consequences that result from these ways of being; and there is no question of discovering what being is endowed with this sensitivity, nor what its nature, beginning, end or ultimate destination is. These latter investigations may be part of Metaphysics, which falls within the realm of Theology, but they are foreign to Ideology, which belongs only to Logic. Moreover, it is clear that we should not concern ourselves with them first; for our sensitivity, like any other object, only manifests itself to us through its effects. To trace it back to its causes, it is necessary first to know it, and to know it, it is necessary to study its effects. If then I want to attempt to discover the causes of my sensitivity, it will be by using the methods that the study of this same sensitivity will have made me recognize as the best. Thus this research will be an application of Logic, and not a part of Logic itself.

Third Chapter: Different modes of our sensitivity.

I am certain that I can feel, and I am sure that I can experience or know nothing except by virtue of this property I have of being susceptible to being affected. But I am no less certain that I am capable of a multitude of diverse affections. Let us see if in this multitude we can recognize some distinct modes which we can classify differently, under which it is possible to arrange all our perceptions, in order to begin to bring some order to them and shed some light on them.

I first observe that I am often affected in a certain way that we call “willing”. We all know, through experience, through feeling, this modification of our being. We know that it consists in desiring to experience or avoid some state of being. I cannot confuse it with any other; thus, here is a distinct mode of my sensitivity that I call “will”, and its acts are “desires”.

I then notice that I cannot conceive of a desire in myself, or even in any living being, without a prior judgment, implicit or explicit, which pronounces that such an affection is good to seek or avoid. When one judges that a thing is desirable, one does not yet desire it for that reason. One is affected in judging differently than in desiring; it is another act of our sensitivity. This new action, this new function, is called “judgment”, and the perceptions that result from it are also called “judgments”, so poor and ill-suited are our languages for everything related to the operations of our mind. This must be so, because these operations, having always been poorly distinguished, can only be poorly designated.

This action of judging consists in seeing that the idea I have of one thing belongs to the idea I have of another. When I see that the triangle has three angles equal to two right angles, I judge that this proposition belongs to the idea I have of the triangle.

This act of judging consists of seeing that the idea I have of one thing belongs to the idea I have of another. For instance, I am born with the property of being susceptible to being affected. But I am no less certain that I am capable of a multitude of diverse affections. Let us try if, in this multitude, we can recognize some distinct modes that we can make different classes of, under which it is possible to arrange all our perceptions, in order to begin to put some order into them and shed some light on them.

First, I observe that I am often affected in a certain way that we call “willing”. We all know, through experience, through feeling, this modification of our being. We know that it consists of desiring to experience or avoid some kind of being. I cannot confuse it with any other; thus here is a distinct mode of my sensitivity that I call “will”, and its acts are “desires”.

Then I notice that I cannot conceive in myself, nor even in any living being, a desire without a prior judgment, implicit or explicit, which pronounces that such an affection is good to seek or to avoid. When one judges that a thing is desirable, one does not yet desire it for that reason. One is affected by judging differently than by desiring; it is another act of our sensitivity. This new action, this new function, is called “judgment”, and the perceptions that result from it are also called “judgments”, so poor and ill-made are our languages for everything related to the operations of our minds. This must be so, because these operations, having always been poorly distinguished, can only be poorly designated.

This act of judging consists of seeing that the idea I have of one thing belongs to the idea I have of another. When I judge that a fruit is good or not good, I perceive, I sense that in the total idea I have of this fruit, is included the idea of being good or that of not being good. Thus the perception called “judgment”, which results from this act called “judging”, is always the perception that one idea contains another.

This leads me to another observation. In order for me to perceive that one idea contains another, I must have previously perceived both of these ideas. Therefore, there is another act of my sensitivity that consists of simply feeling, perceiving an idea or any perception. This act is neither that of judging nor that of desiring; it is distinct; it is necessarily prior, even if only for an instant: it can be called specifically “feeling.”

However, the perception that I feel, the idea that I perceive, may be the direct effect of a cause currently present, or may be only the recall of a previously experienced impression or idea. This circumstance is striking and important enough to distinguish two species in the act of simply feeling, without yet judging or desiring. The second of these two ways of feeling can be called “remembering,” and its effects “memories.”

Thus, although every effect of our sensitivity, every act of our thought, every mode of our existence always consists of feeling something, we can distinguish four essentially different modifications in this action of “feeling”: that of “simply feeling,” of “remembering,” of “judging,” and of “willing.” We will call their effects “sensations” (in the sense of direct perceptions), “memories,” “judgments,” and “desires.”

These distinctions are as many new facts of which I am just as certain as of the general fact “I feel”; and I am certain of them in the same way, that is, because I feel them - which is my only way of being sure of anything.

I know that many observers of man have noted several modifications of our sensitivity that they have deemed necessary to distinguish, such as reflection, comparison, imagination, etc. I do not deny that these are indeed states of our sensitivity, or operations of our thought, which really differ from one another; but this does not result for us immediately in perceptions of a new kind that we can name “reflections,” “comparisons,” “imaginations.” When I compare two ideas, I feel them and judge them or I do nothing; it is the same when I reflect on them. When I imagine, I differently assemble ideas that I have already had; I separate some, I unite others, I form new combinations; but all of this by virtue of my perceiving them and making judgments about them. Thus, these are all different intellectual operations, if you will, but they are not elementary and primordial operations, since they all resolve themselves into those that we have observed. The same thing will be found in all cases that one wants to take the trouble to examine well. Therefore, we never do anything other than perceive, judge, and will. Let us try to penetrate further.

Fourth Chapter: Of our perceptions or ideas.

I continue the examination of my own existence, because it is the only one of which I am directly and immediately certain. It consists in what I feel; and I continue to observe it abstractly and separately from the existence of any other being, because I only know the latter subsequently and indirectly. We will then see how we discover this second existence, what it consists of, what we know about it, and what we must think about it. However, in the meantime, I will always speak of bodies as if they really exist. This is the common opinion, and we will soon see that it is well-founded.

All these perceptions or ideas that we only “feel,” and consequently from which we “judge” and “desire,” are very different from each other.

We first have proper sensations, which are only simple impressions that we receive from all beings that affect our sensibility, including our own body; such is the perception of burning or pricking. We have ideas of these beings that act on us, which are composed of the combination of all the affections that they cause us; such is the idea of a pear tree or a stone. Similarly, we have ideas of the properties, actions, and qualities of these same beings, which are still only the impressions that we receive from them, considered not within us, but in the beings that produce them; such is the idea of heat or weight.

All these ideas are first relative to a single fact. They are individual and particular. We then extend them to all facts that resemble them, regardless of their differences: they become general and abstract. Thus the idea of “burn” is no longer that of such a burn, but of all burns; the idea of a “tree” is no longer that of such a tree, but of all trees; the idea of “heat” is no longer that of the heat of such a body, but of the heat of all hot bodies.

Then we establish degrees in these general and abstract ideas, and we form ideas of species, genera, classes, by successive eliminations, so that the less they fit a large number of beings, the more they retain peculiarities of each of them, and the more they extend to a great multitude, the less they contain elements specific to each individual: thus we successively form the ideas of a pear tree, a tree, a plant, a body, and finally an being, which being the most general of all, only includes one property common to all beings, that of existing, no matter how.

All this has not always, perhaps never, been seen very clearly, and yet it could have been with a slight attention, if observers had not been preoccupied with prior prejudices.

Whatever the case may be, there are many different kinds of perceptions; their number and diversity may have dazzled us; but if we are not possessed by the incurable mania of substituting hypotheses and conjectures for observation, we will not, to explain the formation of these ideas, assume that they are all given to us immediately and at every moment by a supernatural power, or that they all existed at a time that we cannot determine, in a part of our individual that we cannot determine, which has forgotten them all, and which remembers all of them as the occasions that could produce them remind it of them; or that, etc., etc. Fortunately, it is useless today to insist on such dreams, which have filled heads for so long.

It is easy for us to see, by looking at ourselves, that all these ideas are easily formed in us, by the simple operations of feeling and judging; that they are as many compounds and overcompounds of a small number of primitive elements, our simple sensations, which, although fairly undiversified, provide a truly infinite quantity of combinations, much like how thirty or forty characters suffice for the formation of all imaginable words of all possible spoken languages; and what completes the demonstration is that in this countless multitude of ideas, it is absolutely impossible for us to discover one that does not have its origin more or less distant in these sensations, and that, on the contrary, it is just as impossible for us to invent a single sensation or sense essentially different from those with which we are endowed. Everything through our sensations and nothing without them, that is our story; and our constant way of elaborating them is to “remember” as a result of “feeling,” and to “will” as a result of “judging.”

Given this, I hope that the acts of our sensibility are well clarified and our intimate existence well recognized, and recognized with as much certainty in its details as in its entirety. But what then links this existence with that of the rest of nature? Is it an illusion? Is it a reality? I think this is something we can currently account for. When we see ourselves clearly, that is to say, our means of knowing, we can also clearly see what these means are capable of teaching us; and it cannot be repeated too often, there is no other way to achieve it.

Fifth Chapter: On the existence of all beings other than ourselves.

By the mere fact that we feel, we are assured of our existence, of the existence of our feeling “self”; and since this existence consists solely in feeling, that of beings other than ourselves, if they exist, can only consist for us in being felt, or, as is commonly said, in the impressions they cause us. This is certain. But is this second existence real or illusory? That is the point that we must now clarify. Would to God that Descartes had thought of this inquiry, instead of imagining essences and substances right away, and boldly determining the intimate nature of what he had not observed enough.

If our sensitivity had no other property than that of producing perceptions, sensations, we would only know these perceptions; and certainly we would not know, we would never even suspect where they come from, or what causes them. We could feel them and remember them, judge them and accordingly want to elaborate and make a thousand combinations with them; but we would not be able to relate them to anything that is foreign to us, nor even have the idea of it. We would know our existence as we have just represented it, and nothing else. We would all do what we have explained in the preceding chapters, and nothing more. Therefore, we must find in our sensitivity a property that we have not yet noticed, which takes us, so to speak, out of ourselves, and puts us in relation to the rest of nature: this is what we will see.

I imagine myself a purely sensitive being, a simple feeling monad, without form, without figure, without relation, in short, a being such as we can hardly conceive, who would have absolutely no other property than that of feeling and combining his perceptions. It is clear that then I would know my perceptions, and through them my existence; but I could not even imagine that they come from elsewhere, and that they do not arise in me spontaneously and without external cause. Having no action on any being, I could not suspect that there are beings that act on me and that act on each other. I would only have the idea of passion and not that of action, that of feeling and not that of acting. In this state, if my will is successful, I cannot know why; if it is not fulfilled, I cannot guess the cause.

But we are not that. Whatever the principle of our sensitivity3, it is intimately connected to a set of parts, to a body, to organs. It is mainly exercised through our nervous system, and especially through the cerebral center, which is eminently the secreting organ of thought. As long as it acts and reacts only in this nervous system, we feel, we perceive, and that’s all. But it has another property; it also reacts on our muscular system. Our will makes our muscles contract and move our limbs, and we are informed of this by some feeling or other. Without doubt, at first, we do not know that it is movement that is taking place and that we feel; but in the end, we know that we often experience this feeling when we want to, and that sometimes we do not experience it even though we wish to.

Soon many experiments teach us that the existence of this feeling is due to the resistance of what is called “matter,” which yields to our will, and that its privation comes from this same resistance when it is invincible; and we certainly recognize that what resists our will is something other than our sentient virtue which desires, and that therefore there is something other than this sentient virtue that constitutes our self. This is obviously the basis of the existence for us of everything we call “bodies,” and the first way in which we discover it. Even if this phenomenon were not accompanied by any other, even if bodies did not show us any other property than that of resisting our will reduced to act, their existence would be no less certain and real for us than our own; for for us, to exist is to have perceptions, and to exist relative to us is to cause us perceptions; and we can never know anything except through its relations with us and our sensitivity. But we soon discover in bodies many other properties, such as being movable, extended, figured, heavy, sonorous, colored, etc., and in some, the property of being animated, sentient and willing like us. We add all these properties to the first one, that of being resistant; and from their combination we form the ideas we have of these beings; for our idea of a being is never anything but the combination of the perceptions it causes us, of the qualities we know about it.

I will not go into the details of how we gradually acquire knowledge of all these properties of bodies, and how we learn to distinguish the one that obeys our will immediately, and through which our sensitivity is exercised, from those that are foreign to it. That is irrelevant to the subject I am dealing with. It was important for me to determine the meaning of the word “existence,” to prove that the existence of the beings that surround us is very real, and to show what it consists of, because the obscurity surrounding these questions has cast a lot of doubt on the history of the processes of our mind. For the same reason, I must provide some further clarification on the formation of two or three ideas that are related to these, and that have therefore always been poorly understood.

Sixth Chapter: On the ideas of time, movement, and extension.

We have just seen what this famous question, which has been so thoroughly confused by always wanting to suppose and imagine instead of observing, comes down to. If our will had never acted directly and immediately on any body, we would never have suspected the existence of bodies; but as soon as it is reduced to act, it feels a resistance sometimes conquerable, sometimes invincible, depending on the circumstances. What resists it is something other than itself, and what resists is a real being. For to resist is to be resistant, to be, to exist. Then this being, or rather these resisting beings, are recognized, through a thousand experiments, as possessors of a multitude of properties that appear or disappear depending on whether the fundamental property of resistance subsists, is modified or vanishes.

As long as this primordial phenomenon has not been reduced to this state of simplicity, there are some of our ideas whose generation and true value it has been impossible to see. Such are the ideas of time, movement, and extension. It is good to dwell on them for a moment, because they are so general that they confuse all branches of our knowledge as long as they remain vague.

A sentient being who knew only his own existence, without any means of knowing beings other than himself, could have the idea of duration; it would suffice for that to be endowed with “memory,” to have a “recollection,” and to recognize it as such. He would judge that he had lasted since the first time he had this perception, and that the impression of this perception had lasted in him; but this being would not have the idea of “time,” which is that of a measured duration, or at least he could not have the clear idea of a time determined with precision; for our perceptions being fugitive and transitory, their succession in our mind provides no means of dividing their duration and ours into distinct portions, separated in a fixed and precise manner. That is why we always measure duration by movement. Time is always manifested by a performed movement. A day, a year, are by the two movements of the earth, and their subdivisions by those of our clocks. But the being we are talking about cannot have the idea of movement; organs are needed to acquire it, as well as the idea of extension.

Even equipped with organs on which our will immediately acts, we do not know what movement is from the moment we make it. We feel a sensation when our limbs move; but we only learn that their movement consists of passing from one point in space to another, of covering a portion of distance, by learning that the property of beings called “extension” consists of their being able to be traversed by movement, of the fact that movement must be made to go from one part of them to another. When I pass my hand over the surface of a body, always having the sensation of the movement of my arm and the resistance of this body, I discover at the same time that this body is extended, and that my movement consists in traversing it; these two ideas are essentially and absolutely correlative, and cannot exist without each other. It follows from this that two things: one, that we form these two ideas at the same time; the other, that every operation of movement is always exactly represented by the amount of space traversed; for it is the same fact considered in two ways in the moving body and in the body traversed, in the agent and in the patient. 4 5

Or, the extent of bodies, alone among all their properties, has an invaluable advantage, that of being extremely divisible and invariable. We can distribute it into distinct parts by precise and permanent divisions, which are always clear and always the same to our senses; this is what makes it eminently measurable; for it can always be compared to one of its parts taken as a unit, and this is what is called measuring. Now, this is what we cannot do with color, heat, hardness, etc., nor with duration.

However, if we represent the elapsed duration by a movement performed, since the performed movement is necessarily represented by the extent covered, both participate in the excellent divisions of extent. But there is still one condition missing for both to be measured exactly; for the covered extent being always the same, the quantity of movement may be greater and that of duration smaller, or vice versa. To remedy this inconvenience, it is sufficient to relate all duration to a uniform and constant movement, which is always the same, and to take for unit of duration one of its periods, such as a day. This is what we do. Then all duration is measurable, for the same reason all movement is also measurable; for when we have the extent it has covered and the duration it has consumed, we have its proportion with the diurnal movement. Thus, duration and movement are measured with the utmost precision, thanks to extent, and so are all other properties of beings, more or less well depending on how possible it is for us to bring their effects back to measures of extent.

This last consideration shows us the cause of the different degrees of certainty of the various sciences, or at least of the different degrees of ease of their certainty; for certainty can always occur, but the more difficult and elusive the precision of the measures, the easier it is to be mistaken about the values and nuances of the perceptions that we are trying to appreciate. The way we know extent also shows that we do not immediately feel the shapes and figures of bodies which are modifications of their extent, nor their distances and positions which are circumstances, as we feel their color, taste or smell; but that we discover them through successive experiences, or judge them by analogies; moreover, this is not the time to go into details, I intend to give the principles of Logic at present, and not yet those of all other sciences. It is enough to have laid down some foundations. Perhaps it will be found that these already clarify many ideas that have greatly embarrassed physicists, geometers, and metaphysicians who were not ideologists.

After accounting for our intimate existence, the different modes of our sensibility, the generation of the perceptions it gives us, its relation to the existence of other beings, and the main consequences of this relation, in short, the general course of our mind, it seems that all that is left is to draw conclusions for the direction of our intelligence. However, there is still a necessary preliminary, which we must deal with beforehand; we must talk about the sensible signs of our ideas; for it is only by means of these signs that we elaborate our first ideas; without them, most of those we have would either never have been formed, or would have vanished immediately; and it is only when they are clothed in signs that they appear to us, and that we form new combinations of them. Thus, to properly account for these combinations, we must have explained the origin, nature, and effects of these signs. The necessity of this examination will be better felt when it is executed. This is why we must engage in it now.

Seventh Chapter: Signs of our ideas, natural language, and necessity.

We are made in such a way (and perhaps the same is true for other sentient beings) that when we have an idea, if we do not promptly clothe it in a sensible sign, it soon escapes us, and we cannot recall it at will or fix it in our thought in order to develop it, break it down, make it the subject of a deep reflection; thus the sensible signs with which our ideas are all clothed are very necessary for us to elaborate them, to combine them, to form different groups that are as many new ideas, and to represent these new ideas to us; consequently, they have a great influence on the operations of our intelligence. This is the reason why we have to deal with them here, but it is not the reason why they were imagined.

An animated being has no sooner discovered that there are other sentient and willing beings like himself than he feels the need to communicate his perceptions and affections to them, either merely for the pleasure of sympathizing with them, or to determine their will in his favor, or at least to prevent it from harming him.

But an idea is not something that can pass directly and immediately from one being to another. It is absolutely internal and untransmittable in itself. Therefore, in order for a sentient being to share his idea with another sentient being, he must make an impression on his senses that represents this idea. This can be done as soon as they have agreed that such an impression is the sign of such an idea; but to make this agreement, they must already understand each other, that is to say, they must have communicated ideas. Thus, such an agreement presupposes that which is to be done. Therefore, it cannot be the beginning of language; and our ideas would never have had conventional signs if they had not had necessary signs before. Fortunately, they have such signs, and they owe them to the property that our will has of reacting on our organs and directing our movements.

By the very fact that our actions are the effects of what happens in our mind, they are the signs of it. When a man wants to approach or move away from anything, he extends his arms to reach or push it away. Thus these movements prove that this man desires or rejects the thing toward which they are directed. When the same man is affected by joy, pain, or fear, he utters cries, and different cries in these three occasions; these cries thus show what feeling he is affected by. Therefore, these movements and cries are the necessary signs of the sentiments that cause them; and they inevitably manifest them to the man who perceives them, and who realizes that such things are happening in him when he experiences such affections.

It is only through this means that a man discovers that there are other sentient and thinking beings like himself. It is because he sees that they do the same things that he does himself when he has certain thoughts and affections, that he judges that they have similar ones. Thus, as soon as he knows that they are sentient beings, he has elements of communication with them; and without any convention, he can, when he wants to, redo for them to show them what is happening in him, the same actions that he did to execute his will or to obey his affections.

All this is true of other animals as well as of men. Therefore, all have a common language, more or less developed in proportion to their organization, more or less suitable for manifesting their feelings, and more or less circumscribed as their way of being is more or less similar. All understand each other above all with individuals of their own species; but all also understand to a certain extent those of other species, and all also end up not recognizing as animated beings those who have no means of manifesting that they are, or whose nature is too foreign to theirs. It is again by their actions that all this is proved.

But it appears that animals, even the best organized, add almost no express convention to this natural and necessary language: they use it, but do not perfect it. Man, on the contrary, has made it the basis of many different systems of signs, so complicated, so artificial, so purely conventional, that it is no longer easy to unravel their first origin and the gradation of their generation. However, this is what must be achieved if we want to know the successive operations of our mind, to which these sign systems are due, and the proportional reaction of these signs on these same operations.

Eighth Chapter: Signs of our ideas, artificial and conventional language.

Since our actions are the natural signs of our ideas, natural language has been called, with good reason, the “language of action” by philosophers who first realized its existence and its consequences. It is composed of gestures and cries.

Artificial language neglects none of these means; for even we who use the most advanced spoken languages still almost always use gestures that add to the effect of our speech and often modify it; which, on many occasions, completely changes the meaning of our words, and sometimes even supplements them absolutely, especially in moments when the intensity of passion does not allow us to be satisfied with slow and reflective expression.

However, it is the vocal signs that primarily form conventional language, as they are more convenient and capable of an infinitely greater number of subtle and delicate variations and nuances, and perhaps also as they are more immediately the expression of the felt affection; for one acts to do and one cries to say. They are what make up all our spoken languages; but in this final state, our primitive signs are so denatured that it is difficult to see how they got there. Let us try, however, to achieve this.

This is not about etymology. The question is not to find out how all our words are formed from each other, and how they all derive from some primitive sounds or syllables. This type of research is useful in certain respects; but this is the genealogy of sounds and not that of ideas. What we want to see now is how our natural cries become a language, that is, by what intellectual operations it is done that they are replaced by phrases composed of words, none of which make complete sense on their own, and most of which have absolutely no meaning when taken separately. The series of successive transmutations that produce this last order of things may not be as difficult to trace as it first seems.

Let us start from the current state and first notice that all of our speeches are composed of what we call propositions, and that all of our propositions, no matter in what diverse forms they are dressed, can all be reduced to propositions of the kind that we call “declarative propositions”; for when I say “do this,” or “what is that?” I am actually saying “I want you to do that,” or “I am asking you what that is.” Now, this is what we originally expressed by a single cry, aided if one wishes, by gestures. So, our cries initially express a complete declarative proposition, just as in our languages, the words that grammarians call “interjections” and others to which they refuse this name, but to which they should give it, since they have the same effect; such as “yes, no,” etc.; for “yes” means I agree with that, and “no,” I deny that. The first state of speech is therefore to be composed of interjections that each express a declarative proposition.

Now, what is a declarative proposition? It is the statement of a judgment. And what is a judgment? It is the perception that one idea is part of another, can and should be attributed to another. A proposition therefore always contains two ideas, the subject and the attribute; and originally the interjection or cry expresses both.

One could even say that since we feel, know and understand nothing except in relation to ourselves, the idea, the subject of the proposition, is always ultimately our self; for when I say “this tree is green,” I am actually saying “I feel, I know, I see that this tree is green.” But precisely because this preamble is always and necessarily included in all our propositions, we suppress it when we want to; and any idea can be the subject of the proposition. Let us go back.

Originally, our cries or primitive interjections therefore express our entire propositions. By means of them, we already begin to make ourselves understood. Soon we can add a modification, that is to say another cry, to indicate more specifically the object that occupies us, and that we often show by a gesture. This is how in hunting, one says “vlau” to mean “I see the hunted animal”; and “vlau-hou” to specify that this animal is a wolf. These cries, added before or after the first one, become the names of the objects: they are our nouns; and they can all subsequently be the subjects of new propositions.

But what happens when a noun expresses the subject of the proposition? Here it is. When I say “ouf,” the cry “ouf” means “I’m suffocating”; it represents the entire proposition. When I say “I ouf,” I express the subject, “ouf” expresses more than the attribute. This is the interjection that has become a verb, because the verb always expresses the attribute of the proposition. This is the essence of the word that has embarrassed grammarians so much, which has seemed so difficult to imagine, and yet arises so naturally from the primitive cry, when we have given names to some objects. By means of these names, we can vary indefinitely the subjects of the same attribute; we can also complete its meaning.

Once we have reached this point, we can easily imagine new cries or monosyllables to express all our ways of being, and even soon imagine one to simply signify “to be,” or exist, without saying how. These words will be all that we call “adjective verbs”; and the last will be the substantive verb, which is properly speaking the only verb, or attribute, and the one from whom all the others derive this quality.

We will do the same with cries, or monosyllables, to designate all sensible objects, as we indicate them with our gestures, and these words will become their proper names. Soon by generalizing them they will become names of classes, genders, and species; we can also give names to the different qualities of an object, which will be particular, then become general.

Then it is easy to see that we can use these latter adjectives as modifications of a noun or complement of the verb “to be,” then give them an adjective form to mark this new function, as we will give different forms to verbs to mark their moods, tenses, and persons. Thus we will say first: “deer lightness being” or “being beauty”; then “light deer is” or “was beautiful.” It is thus that subsequently we will make some of these adjectives into prepositions to link nouns together, and perhaps conjunctions to link phrases together, and that from some nouns we will make pronouns and personal names; thus little by little we will have all the elements, not of discourse, as grammarians say, but of the proposition; for it is the propositions themselves that are the elements of discourse. Soon we will also invent elliptical or rhetorical constructions, and various expedients that grammar and rhetoric will provide to make the expression of our ideas more prompt or lively, and we will have languages, if not very well made, at least very complicated. All this is easily conceivable; this is not the place to go into details.

Let us only note that all of this is done through successive judgments, by which we untangle the different parts of an idea, that is to say the different partial ideas that compose it, and by means of this faculty that we have to separate these different parts to consider them separately or to combine them in different ways and form new ideas. This is what is called abstraction, and it is this faculty of abstraction that, I believe, is lacking in other animals, which essentially distinguishes us from them, and which makes it so that only among all beings, humans have a developed and detailed language.

This language, as we have already seen, is infinitely useful to us, not only for communicating our ideas, but even for forming and combining them; because our general ideas, and we have no others except those that are expressed by proper nouns, our general ideas, I say, have no model in nature. They have no other support in our mind than the word that represents them. They are therefore extremely fleeting, and would be as quickly erased as formed, as happens to those that we continually create without giving them a particular name. In addition, since words are composed of sounds, they participate in the property of sensations, which is to make a more tangible impression on us, so that it is easier to remember them. These signs therefore already have great advantages; but they are still fleeting and transitory. We have two ways of making them capable of preserving our ideas for all time and carrying them to all places. Let us examine them successively.

Words are composed of sounds, each sound is essentially composed of an articulation or a weak or strong aspiration which is also a kind of articulation, a voice, a tone, and a duration. We represent the articulation by a character called a consonant, the voice by another character called a vowel, the tone by a sign called an accent, and the duration by another sign called a quantity sign, at least that is how we should always do it; and then we would not see in our writings, either two consonants in a row, or a vowel that is not preceded by a consonant, or a consonant that is not followed by a vowel, or syllables that have neither accent nor quantity sign. But in the end, well or poorly, these are the circumstances of the sound that we represent, and this is what is called writing.

It seems likely that one could have started by writing the tones; because people have been singing for a long time, and their early languages are very accentuated. That is the note proper; to this note one would have added a character to mark the articulation, leaving the vowel implied. This is roughly the writing of ancient Hebrew. At other times, no doubt, one could have started with a character representing a whole syllable, which one would have detailed afterwards; but it is always the same process. This way of making the fleeting signs of our ideas durable and permanent is excellent and exposes the ideas to no alteration, since, as one sees, by the notation of the sounds, it is the signs that are reproduced, and not the ideas themselves.

We have another way of representing our ideas, which is used in what is very improperly called hieroglyphic and symbolic writing, such as those of the ancient Egyptians, Chinese, and Japanese; such are also pasigraphies, which are only shapeless sketches. They consist of imagining a character to represent each word of the spoken language, or at least, as it would be impossible, given the large number of words, to create one for each of the radical words, the primitive character is then modified to represent the derived words, by different strokes which actually make new characters. This whole series of characters is composed according to the rules of the syntax of the spoken language on which this painted language is originally based. But apart from the fact that these characters can only imperfectly render the fine and countless inflections that the sense of words undergoes in the use of spoken languages, it is clear that this is not writing, and that the essence of the operation is essentially different; for here it is not the sounds of the word that are noted, but a stroke of the pen or brush that is substituted for the word itself, it is a new sign given to the idea; in short, it is a real translation, and a translation in a language that is necessarily very poor, very clumsy, very indistinct, and which can never become common, because it can never be spoken. When it is read, it is translated back into the spoken language, and this is a second source of errors. The disastrous effects of this kind of signs are impossible to detail and incalculable; the more one reflects on them, the more immense they are seen to be; and history proves that peoples who use them make no progress; well studied, it even makes us suspect that the weak knowledge they have is only the debris of what they have received from elsewhere, and that they have let it become obscured, not even knowing how to preserve it. Add to this that these painted languages have the unfortunate inconvenience of not being able to lend themselves to the use of the precious invention of printing, because of the enormous multiplicity of characters, which also means that a studious man spends the greater part of his life learning to know them imperfectly.

However, it should be observed that the science of quantities uses a language of this kind, whose numerals and algebraic signs are the characters, and whose rules of calculation are the syntax, and that this language not only has no inconvenience, but has tremendous advantages. This is due to the nature of the ideas that make up this science. They are all and only of one kind, ideas of quantity; they are never considered except under one aspect, that of quantity; and they are of such exactitude and precision that they are not subject to any confusion, and lend themselves to the strongest ellipses, that is the effect of algebraic formulas; and to the use of pronouns that are far removed from what they recall, that is often the function performed by an algebraic sign substituted for an entire equation.

Anyway, here we have detailed signs of our ideas, and even permanent signs; their usefulness is evident. We all experience that as we have noted a collection of ideas with a word, it becomes a single idea that can be the convenient subject of new judgments and through which we easily form other subsequent ideas. This is so true that we never think without words, at least I believe so, although some people claim that they are capable of purely mental reflections and combinations, but I am convinced that they are deceiving themselves. It is certain that most men not only use words to think, but also repeat them to themselves often in a low voice, and sometimes aloud when they want to strongly focus their attention. Then the idea has the advantage of striking the sense of hearing. When it is written, it has an even greater advantage of striking that of sight, and I experience how powerful this latter effect is, and how being deprived of it hinders reflection. Everyone can also notice that it is easier to judge what one reads than what one hears. Multiplying writing, and especially printing, is the greatest safeguard against the storms so easily stirred up by eloquence, and especially by popular eloquence, besides being the most powerful means of instruction and communication, and the only one of preserving the memory of our actions and thoughts in all times.

The signs of our ideas are therefore very useful, it cannot be repeated enough. However, we should not be persuaded, as has been asserted, that they are absolutely necessary for thinking, for if we had not had ideas beforehand, we would never have created signs; nor that once signs are created, they go before or without ideas, for what would they be signs of?

Above all, it must not be denied that they are not without disadvantages. I do not only mean when they are poorly made and their analogy does not follow that of ideas, and makes their filiation unrecognizable, as is all too often the case; but this is an accidental disadvantage that could be avoided to some extent. They have another much more essential inconvenience that cannot be completely avoided, which is that representing very complex and very fleeting ideas, they often only recall a very imperfect memory of them. They always remain the same, and the ideas they represent having acquired or lost several of their elements in our minds, are actually changed without us realizing it. We reason on the same word, we think we are reasoning on the same idea, but we are not. Moreover, each of us having learned the meaning of a word in different circumstances, on different occasions, by different means, and always by chance, it is almost impossible for each of us to attach precisely and completely the same meaning to it. This is especially evident in delicate or little-known subjects. But these very serious drawbacks, which are the source of all our errors and disputes, come much more from the ideas themselves than from their signs, and are due to the imperfection of our intellectual faculties. This brings us to the examination of the deduction of our ideas.

Ninth Chapter: On the Deduction of our Ideas.

If I have adequately explained in the preceding Chapters what our existence consists of, what our main intellectual operations really are, how they make up all our ideas, how they teach us to relate them to the external bodies which are their primary causes, and finally how we manage to clothe these same ideas with sensible signs that serve us to combine and multiply them, there will be very little left for me to say about the deduction of these ideas called “reasoning,” and about the causes of certainty and error.

Indeed, our entire existence consists of feeling, and we only exist through our internal and external sensations. The entire existence of beings that are not us consists for us only in the impressions they cause us, and we only know of them those impressions that we relate to them, because they resist our felt and willed movements. Thus we acquire all at once the essentially correlative ideas of movement and extension, and consequently the means of measuring duration, which is known to us by the succession of our perceptions.

Everything we feel and perceive is certainly and truly so for us; we are not even susceptible to any other certainty or reality. All the ideas we form from our first perceptions should therefore be as certain and as conformable to reality, if the judgments by which we compose them were faultless. But our judgments themselves are a kind of perception. It consists in seeing, in feeling that an idea can be attributed to another, that this idea “subject” implicitly contains in its comprehension the idea “attribute,” or at least that it can be added to it. This feeling is also a perception. It cannot be an illusion, it really exists when we experience it. A judgment is therefore never false in itself, it can only be so relatively to others; that is, when it consists in attributing to an idea an idea contradictory to other ideas that we have already attributed to it by other judgments. But then this “subject” idea, as we currently feel it, although represented by the same sign, is no longer exactly the same as when we made those previous judgments. It is no longer really the same, we have an imperfect memory of it, and we have already seen how unfortunately this is easy and frequent, and even how impossible it is for us to always avoid it. This is the cause of all our errors, and there cannot be any other. Let us conclude that there are only two kinds of evidence for us, that of feeling and that of deduction. That of feeling is of all certainty, therefore that of deduction is no less certain, when the deduction has been legitimate, that is, when nothing contradictory has crept into it; but unfortunately there is often a long way from the evidence of feeling to that of deduction, or from a first fact to its ultimate consequences, and the path from one to the other is slippery and rugged.

What then shall we do to walk without stumbling? and what support do logicians offer us for this purpose? Let’s examine them. Will we seek help in syllogistic art and in the form of reasoning? But it is obvious that the danger is in the substance, that is, in the ideas, and not in the form, that is, in the way of bringing these ideas together. Moreover, all this syllogistic art consists only in drawing a particular consequence from a more general proposition. But what assures us of the correctness of this general proposition? Here, art abandons us. It tells us that it is an axiom, that it is a principle, and that we should not dispute principles, that we should rely on common sense, on common sense, on inner sense, and a thousand other things of this kind, that is to say, as MM. de Port-Royal and Hobbes very rightly observe, the rules that are prescribed for our reasoning only guide us when we have no need of them, and abandon us in need. In addition, all these rules are based on a doubly false principle, namely that general propositions are the cause of the correctness of particular propositions, and that it is the general ideas that contain the particular ideas.

First, it is false that general propositions are the cause of the truth of particular propositions. On the contrary, it is particular facts well examined, and the just judgments we make about them, that are the principle of all truth, and that, carefully and with reserve, when brought together, authorize us to rise to more general considerations, that is, to make the same judgment of a larger number of facts in proportion as we see that it is just for each of them.

Secondly, it is also false that it is the general ideas that contain the particular ideas, or at least this deserves explanation. We have seen when we talked about the formation of our abstract ideas of different kinds, that by separating from many individual ideas those that are proper to them and retaining only those that are common to them, we form the idea of a species; that then, taking the ideas of several species and separating those by which they differ, we form the idea of a genus; and so always abstracting, we rise to the more general ideas of order and class. It is therefore the most general ideas that extend to a greater number of beings, which is what is called the extension of an idea; but it is the particular ideas that retain a greater number of component ideas, which is what constitutes the comprehension of an idea. MM. de Port-Royal had made this observation, but they should have made more of it; for it is not the number of beings to which an idea can be extended that has any bearing on what can be judged of it, it is the ideas it contains that make it possible or impossible to attribute another to it, that is to say, to make a particular judgment about it. So I can well say that a man is an animal, because the idea of man contains all the ideas that make up the idea of animal, but I cannot say that an animal is a man, because the idea of animal does not contain all the ideas that make up the idea of man. It is therefore true once again that the extension of an idea has nothing to do with the judgments that can be made about it. In addition, it should be noted, and I believe this has never been done, that as soon as two ideas are compared in a proposition, the extension of the more general is tacitly reduced to the extension of the more particular. For when I say that man is an animal, I certainly mean that he is an animal of the human species, and not

I could make yet another reproach to the syllogistic logicians. For, if we admit with them that general propositions are the cause of the correctness of particular propositions, and that general ideas include particular ideas, it is contradictory to say, as they do, that the middle term that they introduce in the syllogism is equal to the two compared terms, and that the major premise and the conclusion are equal and identical. Moreover, I have so many criticisms to make of this supposed syllogistic art that I dare to treat it unreservedly as illusory. I would not stop at this observation if it did not lead me to Condillac, to whom we owe a great deal for having rid us of it. By admitting this last principle of equality and identity, he at least rejected the other, which is opposed to it. But this principle of the alleged identity that he has retained, that he has increasingly exaggerated, and that he has ended up pushing to the point of saying that the known and the unknown are one and the same thing, seems to me to have still hindered him, to have stopped him in his tracks, and to be the cause that his latest writings are not the best, at least in my opinion.6 In fact, this was only half the way there. It was simply necessary to take the opposite of the old way, to see the source of all truth in particular facts and the general ideas contained in particular ideas, to say clearly that general maxims are not the true cause of any knowledge, and that one should at most use them, after having made sure of their correctness, as a shortcut to arrive at some consequences that they contain in their extension. This would have brought into theory the renovation so desired by Bacon, and which has been introduced into practice since, in all kinds of research, people generally rely only on observation and experience, which many people perhaps only do by imitation and without knowing why; hence they often deviate from this excellent method and even get angry with those who try to enlighten them and show them why it is good.

Our ancient logicians have only given us rules that are either false or at least useless in guiding us in the form of our reasoning. Let us see if they have been more successful in teaching us how to clarify the ideas that are the basis of our reasoning, for that is essential.

The only advice they have given us in this regard is, when we are perplexed, to define the ideas that occupy us or on which we are disputing. This advice is good, but they have spoiled it: 1. by claiming that an idea is well defined when we have found or believed we have found what makes it of such a kind and what distinguishes it from the closest species; 2. by distinguishing between definitions of words and definitions of things; 3. by claiming that definitions are principles, and that therefore they should not be disputed. On the contrary, I believe that definitions are not principles, that if they were principles, it would be necessary to discuss very carefully whether these principles are true or false, that every definition is or should be the explanation of the idea, and therefore the determination of the value of the sign that represents it, and finally that it is always very useless to seek and often impossible to find what precisely makes it of such a kind or such a species.

What, then, shall I put in place of all these principles that I dare to reject? Only one observation provided by the careful study of our faculties and intellectual operations, and that of the formation of our ideas. Here it is:

I notice that all our ideas come from our sensations; that we no longer have perfectly simple ideas; that all are groups of ideas brought together by the judgments we have made about the first ones; that all our judgments consist in seeing, and all the propositions by which we express them consist in saying that the idea subject to these judgments and propositions contains the idea attributed to it; and that in all our reasoning this first attribute becomes the subject of a second, the second of a third, the third of a fourth, and so on as long as it is necessary to seek intermediate ideas between the first and the last, so that the last is included in the first, if the reasoning is correct, and that if the opposite happens, the reasoning is false and its conclusion erroneous; that is to say, in other words, that our reasoning is always what was called “sorites” in the school, and that the first figure of the famous syllogism in which, without knowing why, they placed the foundation of the correctness of all the others, was nothing but a sorites that was always limited to three terms, so that it looked like a syllogism.

I conclude from these reflections that there is nothing at all to say about the form of our reasoning; for they have only one real form. It is given to them by the nature of our intellectual faculties, and it is impossible for us to truly give them another, although it is often masked by elliptical or rhetorical turns.

As for ideas, that is to say, the subject and material of reasoning, I know of no other precaution necessary to take than that of forming them carefully, examining often whether we do not alter them, and whether they are always the same under the same sign. And when we have reason to doubt or suspect their first correctness, or when we see others not grasping them well, or drawing conclusions contrary to ours, there is no other way than to make, not a pedantic and arbitrary definition, but a review as scrupulous and an exposition of their component parts as detailed as possible. This also determines the value of the idea and that of its sign. It is clear that this review and exposition can never be absolutely complete. To make it so, it would perhaps be necessary, in the case of a single one of our ideas, to review almost all those we have ever formed, so closely are they all linked and connected. But this review and exposition must focus mainly on the doubtful points and those related to the research or dispute at hand.

Having done this examination, if we encounter something suspicious or false in our ideas, we must suspend all conclusions and resort to new research, that is, to new facts, in order to enable us to go further; otherwise, our conclusion would be at least risky. It could, strictly speaking, not be false, for from a composite idea containing both false and true elements, one can derive true consequences if they legitimately follow from the latter. One can even draw a just consequence from a false judgment, if, without realizing it, it does not really follow from it; both of these situations happen very often, but then there is no certainty, and the truth, if it exists, is only the result of a fortunate coincidence.

All this boils down to saying that our fundamental certainty consists in the evidence of sentiments, which we acquire through careful and rigorous observations and experiences; that our certainty of deduction is equally complete when we do not alter the first by the inaccuracy of our successive judgments; and that there is no other certainty for us, nor any other cause of error than the imperceptible changes that take place unknowingly in the ideas we express always by the same sign as if they were always the same.

I could stop there, but I must add a few more reflections.

First, we have already noticed when discussing the signs of our ideas, that each of us learns their meaning in different circumstances, and most often by chance, and thus it is difficult, if not impossible, for us to have learned to attach exactly and precisely the same idea to the same word. We have also observed, when speaking of our judgments, that our ideas often change in our minds without our knowledge, and thus the word that expresses them changes meaning in our mouth without us realizing it. It should be added here that this sad effect comes mainly from variations in our internal sensations, the general state of our individuals, the embarrassment or freedom of the functions of our organs, and that it is an inevitable consequence of differences in age, sex, temperaments, state of health or disease and different types of disease, habitual impressions, and dominant feelings and passions. It is indeed impossible for the word “love,” for example, to awaken exactly the same idea in the mind of a child or an elderly person, a passionate or timid woman, a flirtatious or interested one, a libertine or delicate young man, tired or vigorous. For similar although different reasons, it is impossible for the name of a science, the word “Chemistry,” for example, to awaken the same ideas in the mind of a learned or ignorant person, a well-bred or rustic man, although neither knows Chemistry, a man who has studied it for the love of science or humanity, or just to seek opportunities for gain. These examples are endless; often the nuances are very fine, but all are causes of errors and disagreements, and they are innumerable.

It is clear that certain classes of ideas are more susceptible to this than others. This is what constitutes not the degree of certainty of the different sciences, for in all of them the certainty is equally complete when the reasoning is sound; but it is more difficult to make these reasonings sound in some than in others. Moral ideas, for example, are very exposed to being altered without our knowledge by the disposition of our feelings, our characters, our ages, and the degrees of our experience. That is why moral sciences are so difficult, and why opinions are so variable. Physical and natural sciences are already more accessible to a smaller number of deceptions, but they are not exempt from them. Mathematical sciences, on the contrary, are almost entirely free from them. In whatever frame of mind we are, it is impossible for us, if we give them sufficient attention, not to perceive the accuracy or inaccuracy of a calculation or equation, or a reasoning on a proposition of geometry, because these ideas are too different from any other to be mixed with them, and for our affections to alter them.

This leads me to another observation; I confess that contrary to a fairly widespread opinion, which was even more general in the past, I do not think that the study of Mathematics is more effective than any other in making the mind just. I will not say, in support of my view, that there are mathematicians who are very wrong even though they are not mistaken about the objects of their science; for where are there not false minds? But I will note that what is quite improperly called Mathematics7 [I am only referring here to pure mathematics] consists of the science of arithmetic and algebraic calculations, and that of geometric propositions; that is, in the knowledge of the combinations that can be made of the abstract ideas of quantity, and in the knowledge of the consequences that can be drawn from the abstract properties of extension. Now, one reasons better and more surely in these two sciences than in the others, simply because it is easier, because they are less prone to error, because they are less exposed to imperceptible causes of deception. They therefore do not provide more opportunities to learn how to avoid them; I would even say that they provide fewer. Furthermore, the science of quantities, specifically, is absolutely monotonous; it deals with only one type of idea, always compared in relation to the same type. This is what makes it possible, as we have already seen, to use a separate language, which not only has signs, but its own syntax, consisting of the rules of calculation, which constitutes a true language. Because, to say it in passing, what is improperly called the particular language of other sciences is only a nomenclature, and they always use the syntax of spoken languages. The digital and algebraic language is completely different. I know that there is often a lot of intelligence and even genius in making good use of all the resources it offers, that is, in writing it well, but its rules are so sure that if one could learn them by heart, without understanding anything about them, provided one did not forget them, having written a first proposition, one could arrive at its final consequence without knowing what one is doing and without making a mistake, and perhaps this is what sometimes happens, with some small variation. This is certainly not the way to develop reasoning. Moreover, not giving rise to any observation or experience, it cannot habituate one to exercise the caution and sagacity that are necessary for these operations. Therefore, we see very great calculators have a tendency not to give a careful examination of the data from which they must start. The further they push their speculations, the more they stray, but without ever making a mistake in their calculations, because that is impossible if one follows the rules. Pure geometry is entirely in the same situation as regards observation and experience. True, its reasonings, when treated by the method which is still improperly called ‘synthetic’, are made in spoken languages, require ordinary precautions and are rigorous; but once again, it is because they are easy, and if they become tedious, it is only because of their length.

I will explain here, in passing, why I do not like these words synthetic and analytical method. It is because there is no intellectual operation where one does not compose and decompose ideas, where there is no synthesis and analysis. For example, I do not see why people always say algebraic analysis, and even often analysis instead of algebra. Algebra is not a method, it is a written language, one uses this language like any other to compose and decompose. Very often, when one solves an equation into its elements, it is to reconstruct one or more others, so there is composition and decomposition there. I understand that one might say chemical analysis when the operation consists of decomposing a substance, and synthesis, on the contrary, when it is a matter of creating a new compound from scratch. But science is made up of all of this, and one cannot say that it employs the analytical method rather than the synthetic method. As for the so-called synthetic method that geometers believe they use when they demonstrate a new proposition by reasoning in the ordinary way, it is a true misuse of words; if they start from previously proven propositions, they make a deduction like any other and do not construct anything; if, as often happens, they speak of axioms or general maxims, perhaps true but which they have not taken the trouble to prove, or of definitions that do not make known the generation of the defined idea, they have only done half the job, they have not composed anything, they have only deduced, and not only is their synthesis not a method, but their approach is not rigorous as they believe, and even gives a very bad habit to the mind by accustoming it to be satisfied with not starting from the beginning. In short, decomposing is an act of the mind, and composing is another; we need both at every moment. But there is no purely analytical or synthetic method. Let’s go back to the sciences.

The study of physical and natural sciences, and particularly that of chemistry, seems to me to be the best suited to form a good mind, that is to say, to give good habits to our intelligence. In Chemistry, the facts are numerous and varied, they exercise the memory; they are complex and often difficult to unravel, this develops sagacity and accustoms one to attention. They provide material for many deductions and for drawing multiple consequences, this forms reasoning. But at the same time, since the objects are always there, one frequently resorts to experimentation and observation, either not to stray from the course of deduction, or to verify the result when it is finished. This is truly the use of the right method, which, once again, is neither analytical nor synthetic, or, if one wishes, both successively when necessary.

Physiology would still be very useful in forming a good mind. Like Chemistry, it has the advantage of getting used to delicate observations and fine reasoning that are frequently tested by new experiences. One may even add that it is superior to Chemistry in terms of the object it deals with because, as Pope so rightly said, the study of ourselves is the most important of all for us. Moreover, by understanding, as one should, in the knowledge of our organs and their functions, the knowledge of the sensitive center and our intellectual functions, Physiology8 directly teaches us what our means of knowing are, their strength and weakness, their extent and limit, and their mode of action. Thus it shows us how we should use them and is truly the first science and the introduction to all others. But the living nature is still so little known to us, it presents so many impenetrable mysteries until now, it shows us so many obscure or imperfectly illuminated points, and it so rarely gives rise to completely satisfactory explanations that I fear that by engaging in it, a mind that is still unformed, instead of getting used to the stubbornness of research and the courage of doubt, would instead get used to contenting itself with imperfect knowledge and engaging in risky conjectures. Physiology, in short, is still a science that is too difficult to serve as preparation and, so to speak, as training. We must be content with knowing its main results to use them as guides, but we should only aspire to push its limits when the mind is at its full strength.

In my opinion, the result of all this is that we must always start from the impressions we receive, that is to say, from the facts; examine them carefully to see nothing but what is there, take the greatest care to form from these facts compound ideas that are exact consequences of them, and take all possible precautions to ensure that these ideas, once determined, do not alter without our knowledge during the course of our deductions. This, in my opinion, is the only good method; it may be called whatever one wishes; and it is also the only conclusion of this writing, which is only a brief statement of the most important logical principles, or, if you will, the account of the main facts relating to human intelligence, for that is saying the same thing in two different ways.

P.S. If, after the preceding explanations, anyone still had difficulty believing that the perpetual and imperceptible variability of our ideas is the sufficient cause of all our errors, and that there can be no other, I would ask him to give a few moments' attention to what I have said on this subject in my Logic, and above all, I would invite him to reread the immortal work of the profound and judicious scholar whom I cited above. I am convinced that a careful study of the physiological history of our sensations and the modifications they undergo, as well as our moral dispositions, by the varied, continual or accidental effects of age, sex, temperament, illness and habits of all kinds, would leave him no doubt on this point. Here I have only drawn some conclusions from this magnificent picture of human nature, which could still provide many others, and which is equally, for all branches of our knowledge, a source of light from which we cannot draw too much.

THE END.

  1. On the other hand, we are told that the larger term contains the middle term, and the middle term contains the smaller term; this is true with respect to their extension, i.e., the number of objects to which the idea applies, and this is false with respect to comprehension, i.e., the number of ideas that the total idea contains. It is the comprehension of an idea that must be taken into account, and it is always the particular idea that contains the general idea in its comprehension. This is why one can say that a cherry tree is a tree, and why one cannot say that a tree is a cherry tree; it is also why the cause of truth is not in general propositions, but in particular propositions, the combination of which allows us to form a general proposition, from which we can conveniently deduce other particular propositions; all of this will be more fully explained later on.↩

  2. This supposition is not formally established either in the Essays on Philosophy, or in the Meditations, or in the Principles of Philosophy, which are the three works in which Descartes expressly and dogmatically expounded his doctrine; but it is positively established in his Notes against the program of Le Roi. See his letters, volume I. Letter 99, and elsewhere. Having made thought and extension two substances, he was obliged to say that thought, as soon as it is created, always thinks, and that therefore there are ideas prior to and foreign to sensations; that extension is always full, and that there is therefore no vacuum. Of these two assertions, one spoiled his entire metaphysics and the other his entire physics; and all this, for having wanted to determine the nature of the thinking principle, when all that was needed was to observe its effects.↩

  3. Once again, I am not concerned with determining it: this inquiry does not belong to this science.↩

  4. This is why one can say that emptiness, nothingness is extended. Nothingness is nothing, but bodies can move when nothing prevents them from doing so; and thus they cover an extension that exists only in relation to them. It is this abstract extension of every being, but in which a being can trace figures through its movements, which pure geometry deals with. Therefore, it is not limited in its speculations by any consideration peculiar to any particular being.↩

  5. For a sentient being that did not have the faculty of executing movements, there would be no extension, because it would never traverse it; and for a being without extension, there is no possibility of executing movements, because it must occupy space in order to change it.↩

  6. According to me, Condillac’s true titles of glory are his Treatises on Sensations, Animals, and Systems, and his beautiful pieces on the History of the Human Mind. I would also put his first work, the Treatise on the Origin of Human Knowledge, in the same category, despite its numerous imperfections; because it is the first time that someone has really tried to give a solid foundation to all our knowledge, by basing it on the detailed examination of our faculties and our intellectual operations.↩

  7. The word mathematics only means things learned, and what is not learned except what one invents?↩

  8. What is called “Ideology” can only be a part and a dependence of Physiology, which should not even have a particular name, and which henceforth physiologists cannot dispense with treating. For when they neglect this point, they render all their other explanations incomplete, as is well shown in the admirable work entitled: “Reports of the Physical and Moral”, in which Cabanis has truly laid the true foundations of all our philosophical and medical knowledge.↩

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