1 20 111 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c053028bbf641b5b0450513ddcc24d63.pdf d76082df4a139ff2536318d76bc16819 PDF Text Text ������������������������������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 37 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The axiomatic drama of classical physics Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on December 11, 1981 by Charles Bell at St. John's College in Santa Fe. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bell, Charles G. (Charles Greenleaf), 1916-2010. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1981-12-11 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to include this item in its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Physics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000020 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/48680d0f9a3323a5ed61a08f821844a3.pdf 5a419c7fdc264de9ca6db20c25d5f820 PDF Text Text ����������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 21 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Shakespeare : (the phoenix and the turtle) Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in the fall of 1964 by Charles Bell. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bell, Charles G. (Charles Greenleaf), 1916-2010. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1964 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to add this item to its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000021 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e9ef6709017d7f99e6d7e5182c5d0e38.pdf 902c1ec671bd415e52ed8ed021f29445 PDF Text Text ���������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 22 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Satanic math Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given by Charles Bell. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bell, Charles G. (Charles Greenleaf), 1916-2010. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to add this item to its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Mathematics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000022 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/177e7d835e68529d0827071656dd1221.pdf db06218ee0a36e8e148194fffd1fce19 PDF Text Text “We Shall Be Monsters”: Frankenstein and the Ugliness of Enlightenment [F]or a person who is altogether ugly in appearance, or of poor birth, or solitary and childless cannot really be characterized as happy. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1099b1-5. I hate books. Rousseau, Emile, CW 13:331. �Two hundred years ago, in January 1818, the first edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was published anonymously in London [F 311, 334].1 Over the next two centuries Shelley’s “hideous progeny” [F 173] grew to mythic size, siring offspring in film and print, birthing the science fiction genre, and updating the story of Prometheus, which cautions us about the dangers of science and technology, of ambitious philanthropy, and of ‘playing god.’ Here is a sketch of Shelley’s story. A young chemistry student named Victor Frankenstein makes and animates a monster.2 Horrified by his work, he abandons it, and the monster flees. A few months later, Frankenstein is called home by the murder of his youngest brother. He returns to see a household servant accused, tried, condemned, and executed for the crime; but he suspects that the monster is the real murderer. During a hike in the Alps, his suspicion is confirmed: the monster confronts him, tells his story, and demands that Frankenstein build him a companion. To Frankenstein the monster’s demand at first seems just, despite his crime. Frankenstein travels to England to do research and gather his materials. After several months, he nearly completes an artificial woman; but at the last moment he tears his work to pieces, fearing she will birth a species of monsters to war on humanity. Seeing this betrayal, the monster vows revenge and departs, leaving Frankenstein to return home. During his return he discovers that his friend Henry Clerval has also been murdered; he is accused of the crime and tried, but acquitted. Home at last, Frankenstein prepares to marry his childhood companion Elizabeth Lavenza, promising to share with her his dreadful secret once they are wed. The night of his wedding, he sends Elizabeth away in order to confront and fight the monster. But he has misunderstood the monster’s vow: he hears two terrible screams, and Elizabeth is dead. Frankenstein vows revenge, and pursues the monster north. 1 �Victor Frankenstein tells this story to an explorer named Robert Walton, whom he meets on the ice of the Arctic Ocean. Walton records the details, reporting some of them in letters to his sister in London. Though Frankenstein is close to catching the monster when Walton finds him, he is also near death. He is too weak to continue his pursuit, and once he has told his story he dies on Walton’s ship. Soon afterward, Walton finds the monster crouching over Frankenstein’s corpse. They speak briefly, then the monster exits the ship and disappears. Walton sails for London, bringing the story of Frankenstein and his monster back to society. Many monsters have been assembled from the materials Frankenstein furnishes. Mine is animated by what strikes me as Mary Shelley’s chief question in the novel: is enlightenment good? This monster’s homogeneous parts are ugliness, solitude, reading, science, ambition, philanthropy, beauty, family, and nature. To learn how to mix these materials, I will trace the four enlightenments depicted in Shelley’s novel: those of the monster, of Frankenstein, of Walton, and of Shelley herself. These enlightenments make up the four proper parts of this lecture, parts neither proportionate in size, nor ordered as in the novel. I mean to build this monster from the inside out. Part One: The Enlightenment of the Monster Enlightenment makes the monster a monster. So he tells Frankenstein on the alpine sea of ice. Abandoned by his maker, lacking other guidance, he is at first shaped only by his confused sensations. When he sees light, he closes his eyes; when he sees darkness, he feels pain, and opens his eyes again. When he wakes in Frankenstein’s apartment, he feels cold, and grabs some clothes to cover himself. When he feels hot, he hides in a forest. Then there is hunger, which leads to berries, thirst, which leads to a stream, and fatigue, which leads to sleep. 2 �At night, the dark and cold return, and he weeps in pain. But then he sees moonlight, feels pleasure, and wonders. All this happens mechanically in response to sensations. The monster’s mind is empty of distinct ideas [F 68]. But soon, distinct ideas follow his distinct sensations. The monster finds a fire that some travelers have abandoned. Its warmth is pleasant, but it burns when he touches it [compare CW 2: 12 note *]. He learns to feed the fire, to fan it to life, and to cook nuts and roots over it [F 69]. But food is scarce, so he must abandon his fire to forage. This brings him to a shepherd’s hut. The shepherd, seeing the monster, shrieks and flees, leaving behind his breakfast and another fire. The monster remembers this hut as a kind of paradise;3 but hunger forces him to leave it too. He comes to a village, where signs of food draw him into a cottage. The terrified villagers assemble to repel him with a hail of missiles [F 70]. Now the monster suffers the first of three accidents. He hides in a hovel, improving it so that it shelters and conceals him, like the shepherd’s hut. But this hovel happens to adjoin an inhabited cottage. This guarantees the monster a source of food and water; but it also allows him to observe the cottagers unseen [F 71-72]: a blind old man, a young man, and a young girl. They seem kind, sad, and poor, and their relations give him “sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature… a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food” [F 72]. This experience of beauty stops the monster from stealing their food; instead, he gathers wood for them while they sleep. He becomes an invisible family member. Noticing his benefactions, they call him “wonderful,” and “a good spirit” [F 77; compare 65]. The monster also listens to his cottagers, and learns that they can communicate pleasure and pain through speech. Observing with care, he begins to acquire this “godlike science”: the 3 �old man is “father,” the young girl “Agatha” or “sister,” and the young man “son,” “brother,” or “Felix” [F 75]. But he also contrasts “the perfect forms” of his cottagers, “their grace, beauty, and delicate complexions,” with his own ugliness, which he first sees in a pool of water. Terrified by his own looks, the monster begins to call himself ‘monster’ [F 76].4 This, the monster tells Frankenstein, is the less moving part of his story, explaining how he became what he once was [F 77] – namely, good. His survival and flourishing do not require him to harm others: he is a vegetarian who will not steal food from those worse off [F 99].5 He admires beauty and benevolence, wants to imitate them, and wants to be admired in return. The more moving part of his story, which tells how he became what he now is [F 77], begins when he learns how to read. One day, a beautiful woman comes to the cottage. The monster hears that her name is Safie, a form of Sophie. At the very middle of the novel, then, Sophie comes to the abode of Felix and Agatha, that is, wisdom comes to the happy and the good. This moment is the peak of the monster’s life. Since Safie can neither speak nor write the cottagers’ language, Felix teaches her, and the monster listens in. He boasts to Frankenstein that he improved more rapidly than she did: he is a quicker study than wisdom herself [F 79]. Felix’s lessons are readings from a book of history, Volney’s Ruins of Empires,6 followed by explanations. The monster wonders at the many stories of murder, and at humankind’s need for laws and governments. Vice and bloodshed disgust him, and when he hears of the fate of the native Americans, he feels sorrow [F 80]. He learns about “the strange system of human society” [F 80], based on property, social standing, and inequality. He learns about male and female, about the birth and growth of children, and about family. Since Felix and Agatha are brother and sister, and the old man is their father, it takes Safie’s arrival to teach the monster about sex.7 4 �These lessons make the monster reflect. He lacks both social rank and riches, the only possessions human beings esteem. He admires beauty, but he is “hideously deformed and loathsome” [F 80]. He may not even be human; he has yet to see anyone like him. He has no family, and remembers nothing of his previous life. “I can not describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted on me,” he says. “I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge,” and knowledge “clings to the mind… like lichen on a rock” [F 81]. He wishes he could shake off thought and feeling, and return to his life of sensations in the woods. But he knows only death can release him from his sorrow: a fate he fears and does not understand. Now a second accident befalls the monster.8 While seeking food and wood in the forest, he finds copies of Milton’s Paradise Lost, the first volume of Plutarch’s Lives, and Goethe’s Sorrows of Werther, all in the language he can read. He studies these books, taking each for a “true history” [F 87]. Reading Goethe, he judges Werther a divine being with a deep and honest character, wonders at his suicide for love, weeps at his death, and shares his opinions without understanding his fate.9 This book throws the monster into “despondency and gloom” [F 86], and renews his sorrowful reflections.10 Reading Plutarch, he finds “the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics,” and learns “high thoughts,” and “to admire and love the heroes of past ages” [F 86]. He prefers the peaceful lawgivers Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus to the violent founders Romulus and Theseus, but only by accident. Had he first observed humanity in the form of a young soldier, rather than of his cottagers, the monster tells Frankenstein, “I should have been imbued with different sensations” [F 87].11 But reading Paradise Lost moves the monster most strongly, because it depicts situations similar to his own. Like Adam, the monster sees himself “apparently united by no link to any other being in existence” [F 87]; though unlike Adam, “no Eve soothed my sorrows, or shared my thoughts” [F 88]. Like Satan, he envies the 5 �happiness of his cottagers [F 87]. About Eve’s fall, the situation that most resembles his own, the monster is silent. The monster also deciphers the journal pages he finds in a pocket of the clothes he grabbed from Frankenstein’s apartment [F 87; compare 68]. They detail his “accursed origin,” the “disgusting circumstances” that made his “odious and loathsome person” [F 88]. Frankenstein’s notes also make the monster think of Adam and Satan. “God in pity made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image,” he tells his maker, “but my form is a filthy type of your’s, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested” [F 88]. Having tasted, through his reading, from the tree of knowledge, the monster quickly falls. He wants to become a visible member of his cottagers’ family, so he decides to reveal himself to them [F 85]. Since his “unnatural hideousness” causes the horror he inspires, while his voice, “although harsh, [has] nothing terrible in it” [F 89; compare 69],12 he plans to address himself first to the blind old man. He hopes the old man will defend him to the other cottagers, convey his admiration for them, and provoke their compassion, despite his looks [F 88]. When the old man is alone, the monster knocks, enters, and speaks with him. He argues sincerely that he is a victim of injustice, and throws himself on the old man’s mercy, just as the cottagers come home. Seeing the monster, Agatha faints, Safie flees, Felix attacks, and the monster retreats to his hovel [F 91]. This reception makes the monster rage and despair. He declares “everlasting war against the human species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me, and sent me forth to this insupportable misery” [F 92]. To open hostilities he burns the cottagers’ home, and sets off to find Frankenstein, to demand pity and justice [F 94].13 6 �Now the monster suffers a third accident. Arriving in Frankenstein’s home town, and pondering how to address his creator, he meets a small child. He thinks, “this little creature [is] unprejudiced, and [has] lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity” [F 96]. If he can educate the child to be his friend, he will not be alone. He seizes the child, who screams, calls him “monster,” and threatens punishment from his father, “Monsieur Frankenstein” [F 9697]. Hearing the name of his maker, the monster makes the child his first victim. He grasps his throat, and William Frankenstein is dead. When the monster finds a locket on William’s body, he slips it unseen into the pocket of a nearby girl [F 97]. Soon enough this girl, Justine Moritz, is executed for the murder of Frankenstein’s brother [F 44-58].14 This concludes the more moving part of the monster’s story. Here he first refers to his own “malignity” [F 97]. These murders, he thinks, have completed his fall from goodness to wickedness. But while the hated name ‘Frankenstein’ provokes him to murder, he continues to hope for his maker’s pity and justice. The monster’s mere thought of Frankenstein is not enough to explain William’s murder. A contributing cause must be William’s revulsion at the monster’s ugliness, which shows the monster that the horror he inspires is not learned, but natural.15 And while the monster claims that “the lessons of Felix, and the sanguinary laws of man” [F 97] taught him how to frame Justine Moritz, the portrait of Frankenstein’s beautiful mother inside the locket teaches us why he frames her. He is ugly; the smiles of beautiful women are not for him. He is by nature cut off from human society. Concluding his story, the monster thus demands of Frankenstein, “create a female for me” [F 98]. He insists it is Frankenstein’s duty to comply, since a creator has a duty to make his creation happy; if Frankenstein does not comply, he will slaughter the rest of his family, as well as “thousands of others” [F 66].16 Frankenstein’s choice, he says, will determine whether he 7 �remains wicked, or returns to his original goodness [F 66]. He sees these possibilities in terms of Paradise Lost: “I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed” [F 66]. Despite his fall, he is silent again about the resemblance of his story to Eve’s. He can be Adam or Satan; he sees no third possibility.17 Frankenstein agrees with the monster about his duty [F 67].18 But if he makes a female monster, he worries, “their joint wickedness might desolate the world” [F 98]. To reassure him, the monster promises he and his mate will quit human society. “It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world,” he says, “but on that account we shall be more attached to one another” [F 99].19 His words move Frankenstein to compassion, and he consents to make the monster a companion. He believes the monster’s claim that his wickedness is due only to his solitude [F 100].20 For his part, the monster does not touch Frankenstein’s family again until Frankenstein changes his mind, and destroys his second creation [F 115-116].21 Then the monster vows revenge, resumes killing, and drags Frankenstein to his death [F 152-154]. He kills because he is wicked, the monster claims; he is wicked because he is alone;22 and he is alone because Frankenstein did not make him a companion. But he is also alone because he is ugly. Can a companion be made for him? Human beings naturally find him ugly [F 98], he thinks; he even finds himself ugly [F 76]. As Frankenstein realizes later, even a companion created for the monster will likely find him ugly [F 114];23 and worse, soon we will see that such a companion will likely also be ugly.24 The monster’s hope for a companion is due to seeing himself as Adam in Paradise Lost, just as his later pursuit of revenge is due to seeing himself as Satan.25 His reading has hidden other possibilities, and this will ruin his life. The monster is alone, and must be alone, not by Frankenstein’s choice, but simply because he is ugly.26 But why is he ugly? 8 �Part Two: The Enlightenment of Victor Frankenstein Enlightenment also makes Frankenstein a monster. So he tells Walton aboard ship on the sea of ice. “No youth could have passed more happily than mine” [F 20], he says. His parents are tender, his father as indulgent and as little dictatorial as possible [F 19, 105]. Yet his family is strangely constituted. Victor’s mother Caroline is the daughter of a friend of his father Alphonse [F 19]. Caroline marries him after her father’s early death, so she is much younger than her husband. Victor is the eldest of his brothers: he is an only child until age six [F 19], when his brother Ernest is born. When Victor turns seventeen, his youngest brother William is still an infant [F 24]. Elizabeth Lavenza, Victor’s cousin, is the only child close to his age. She joined the family when Victor was four, because her mother – Alphonse’s sister – had died, and her father had remarried. Victor and Elizabeth grow up together, first as playmates, then as friends. His mother Caroline intends them to marry [F 19]. Victor’s practice of calling his family his ‘friends’ perhaps results from the differences in age this accidental family embraces [F 147].27 Alphonse Frankenstein is old, and has put politics before family [F 18]. But now that his family is started, he has retired, to direct his children’s education [F 19, 24]. He is thus the cause of the first accident to befall Victor. One rainy day, the thirteen year-old Victor finds a volume of Cornelius Agrippa, a sixteenth-century writer on alchemy and other subjects.28 The theory of chemistry and the other “wonderful facts” he finds in its pages dazzle him. But when tells his father, Alphonse replies, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash” [F 21]. Had his father instead explained patiently how Agrippa’s system had been refuted and replaced by a more rational and powerful modern chemistry, Victor thinks, he 9 �would have thrown the book aside. Finding his father’s judgment to be ignorant, he instead acquires and reads Agrippa’s complete works, followed by those of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus [F 22].29 As Victor tells it, his father’s carelessness gave his ideas “the fatal impulse that led to my ruin” and made natural philosophy “the genius that has regulated my fate” [F 21]. The projects of these authors – raising ghosts and devils, and finding the elixir of life [F 22] – become his projects, and emulation combines with “bright visions of extensive usefulness” [F 21] to power his studies. Books like Agrippa’s appeal to him not only because they teach that materials have occult properties, but also because their teachings are esoteric, “treasures known to few besides myself” [F 22]. Their projects are private, but Victor’s successes will be public: “what glory would attend the discovery,” he fantasizes, “if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!” [F 22]. Later events loosen Victor’s attachment to his alchemical writers. He studies distillation, steam, the air-pump, and electricity, and his alchemical writers lose credit with him for their ignorance of these phenomena [F 22-23]. His father sends him to lectures on natural philosophy at the local school, but a second accident keeps Victor from all but the last few, and from understanding even these [F 23]. Victor’s home schooling ends with him disgusted with natural philosophy, and occupied instead with mathematics, German, and Greek [F 23].30 He does not learn a modern chemical system to replace that of his alchemical writers. Then, when he is about to leave for university at age seventeen, Victor’s mother Caroline dies from a scarlet fever contracted from Elizabeth [F 24-25].31 Losing his mother to death, “that most irreparable evil” [F 25], likely returned his thoughts to the alchemical pursuit of immortality. 10 �A final accident befalls Victor when he arrives at the University of Ingolstadt.32 Away from his family, alone in a “solitary apartment,” unable to make new friends, he pursues his ardent desire for knowledge [F 26]. He makes only two new acquaintances outside his childhood circle: Professors Krempe and Waldman.33 When Victor meets Krempe, and confesses his interest in alchemy, Krempe calls his reading “nonsense,” and says he must begin his studies anew, since “these fancies… are a thousand years old” [F 26].34 He fails to interest Victor in modern natural philosophy, however, because he says it means to annihilate the alchemists’ visions of immortality and power – the very visions that interest Victor [F 27]. But when Victor meets Waldman, he shows no contempt for Agrippa, and defends the alchemists as the founders of modern philosophy. Charmed, Victor heeds Waldman’s argument that modern science has traded the miraculous visions of alchemy for the “new and almost unlimited powers” promised by scientists like Harvey and Boyle [F 27-28]. Waldman defeats Victor’s prejudice against modern chemistry, and Victor decides to study under Waldman and Krempe [F 28], The day he met these professors, Victor tells Walton, “decided my future destiny,” since “natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry… became nearly my sole occupation” [F 29]. It did not hurt, Victor adds, that Waldman had a benevolent aspect and sweet voice, since it was also Krempe’s “repulsive countenance” that deterred Victor from taking his advice [F 29 and 27]. Victor’s sensitivity to beauty has terrible consequences when, at age nineteen [F 19] – nearly Mary Shelley’s age when she begins to write Frankenstein35 – he begins to build his monster. The desire to end disease interests Victor in the principle of life, and in physiology, anatomy, and the causes of decay. An “almost supernatural enthusiasm” [F 30] drives his solitary studies, which require dissections and vivisections [F 32]. His enthusiasm is almost supernatural because his father was careful to keep supernatural horrors from entering the young 11 �Victor’s mind [F 30]. He is not averse to his work because he fears divine punishment. Instead, his aversion is natural: he finds his continual occupation with dead things to be ugly. But at last, after “examining and analyzing all the minutiæ of causation” involved in death and birth, he is suddenly enlightened [F 30].36 He finds a secret reserved for him alone: “the cause of generation and life,” which gives him the power of “bestowing animation upon lifeless matter” [F 30 and 32].37 Since his newfound power is general – he could animate a worm or a human being – Victor must decide how to use it. He resolves to animate a being like himself. Even if the result of his first try is not perfect, he reasons, like any other invention it could be the basis for future improvements [F 31]. The only constraint on his choice is practical: since working on minute parts will slow him down, he further resolves “to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large” [F 31 and 32; see also 13 and 65]. The reasons for his haste are not clear. Perhaps he fears that another will animate a lifeless being before he does – though the novel gives us no evidence that others are pursuing his project. To gather materials, Victor frequents “charnel houses,” the “dissecting room,” and the “slaughterhouse” [F 32]. If he succeeds in animating his lifeless construct, he hopes that he might learn how to reanimate the dead – something as yet he cannot do [F 32]. Despite later depictions, this construct cannot be an assembly of corpse parts animated by electricity.38 No human corpse could furnish proper parts – hands, feet, heart – proportionate to an eight-foot humanoid. If Victor cannot reanimate a dead human being, furthermore, he likely also cannot reanimate their proper parts. It is more likely that the monster is built out of homogeneous parts – bone, muscle, skin – harvested from human and animal corpses – hence the need to visit the slaughter-house – and shaped into proper parts proportionate to the whole. The 12 �monster later tells Victor, “thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints more supple” [F 66]. When he compares himself to humans, the monster judges, “I was more agile than they, and could subsist on coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded their’s” [F 80; see also 89]. So Victor fails to make a being like himself; instead, he makes a being in many ways better than himself. He also intends this being to reproduce. Anticipating the completion of his project, he exults: “[a] new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their’s” [F 32].39 Either Victor already plans to make his being a female companion, or he intends it to reproduce with human females. This mention of the gratitude he expects from his creations is the only thought he reports about their mental lives.40 Victor’s concern with beauty extends to his creation. “His limbs were in proportion,” he tells Walton, “and I had selected his features as beautiful” [F 34]. But as soon as he animates his being, his enthusiasm for his project dissipates, and he sees the monster as horribly ugly. Victor catalogs his “dull yellow eye,” “watery [and] clouded,” “his shriveled complexion, and straight black lips,” and his “yellow skin [that] scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath” [F 34; see also 126].41 The problem is not just that Victor failed to harvest enough skin. The monster is ugly especially because of the contrast his ugly parts make with others that on their own are beautiful: his “hair… of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness” [F 34]. He is so ugly that, “unable to endure [his] aspect” [F 34], Victor abandons him almost at first sight. “I had gazed upon him while unfinished,” Victor tells Walton; “he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived” [F 35; see also 48]. Perhaps Victor hoped that 13 �motion would beautify his monster’s matter, making a ‘he’ out of an ‘it,’ rather than the reverse. Only after seeing him move does Victor first call his work ‘monster’ [F 35]. The monster’s unintended ugliness is an image of Victor’s enlightenment. His combination of marvelous alchemical projects and powerful modern techniques is stitched together with the hope that form and matter can be separated from one another, and so too beauty and life, and ugliness and death. He hopes to shape the ugly leavings of charnel houses, dissecting rooms, and slaughter-houses into a beautiful living being. But this hope is suggested by a truth of metabolism: by eating we make ourselves out of dead materials. Frankenstein’s accidental reading makes for an accidental enlightenment, which makes an ugly monster, which will ruin Frankenstein’s life. Once the monster begins to move, Frankenstein begins to fall. He soon flees his laboratory. When he collects himself enough to return, the monster is gone [F 35 and 37].42 He does not see the monster again until he returns home after his brother William’s murder [F 48]; he does not speak with the monster until they are alone together later on the Alpine sea of ice [F 65]. Then, Frankenstein tries to kill his monster, presuming him guilty of William’s murder [F 65-66 and 60].43 But the monster persuades Frankenstein to hear his story, and to make him a female companion. This new project does not rekindle Frankenstein’s “almost supernatural enthusiasm” [F 30]. Instead, he is possessed by “a kind of insanity” that shows him “continually about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant torture” [F 101], as if he were undergoing, rather than conducting, his vivisections.44 Collecting his materials, he tells Walton, “was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head” [F 109]. Constructing the female monster is a “horrible and irksome task,” a “filthy process.” “During my first 14 �experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment,” he reports; “my mind was intently fixed on the sequel of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands” [F 113].45 Qualms about his promise accompany Frankenstein’s disgust. It is “probable,” he thinks, that a female monster will think and reason; but what will be her character? If the male monster became wicked, a female one “might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness” [F 114] – something, he implies, the male monster does not do. While the male monster swore to quit human society, a female one might not keep a promise made before her creation [F 114].46 Even if she is good, a female monster might not provide the male the companionship he seeks. Frankenstein assumes she will turn out ugly; so the male monster might find his own ugliness more abhorrent in female form, while the female might turn from him in disgust to the superior beauty of man.47 This fresh insult to the male monster might return him to human society [F 114]. But if the monsters can stand one another, their intercourse will quickly produce children; thus “a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror” [F 114]. Without knowing exactly how his monsters reproduce,48 we cannot know whether Frankenstein imagines a species terrifying for its ugliness, or its superiority, or both. This last reflection shows Frankenstein the wickedness of his promise. Earlier he had dreamed of the blessings of mankind and of a new species [F 32]; now, he tells Walton, “I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the existence of the whole human race” [F 15 �114-115 and 118]. Overcome by disgust and doubt, Frankenstein looks up from his gore-strewn workbench to see the monster watching him. The monster grins. Frankenstein sees in this only “malice and treachery,” and tears the female monster to pieces [F 115; compare 35]. Once his Eve is destroyed, for the monster only the path of Satan remains. “I shall be with you on your wedding-night,” he swears [F 116], and departs. Hearing this, Frankenstein also thinks of Adam and Eve: “the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope” [F 131]. He expects to be banished from the paradise of marriage and family on the eve of his wedding to Elizabeth Lavenza; he expects to die then by the monster’s hand. Instead, the monster first kills his friend Henry Clerval, then, on the wedding-night in question, Elizabeth herself. Soon after, Alphonse Frankenstein dies from sorrow [F 137]. Now Frankenstein too compares himself to Satan, “the archangel who aspired to omnipotence” [F 147]. The monster’s reading has possessed Frankenstein as well. Revenge, he tells Walton, became “the devouring and only passion of my soul” [F 139]. Urged on by the monster, Frankenstein pursues him across Europe and north to the arctic sea of ice,49 where Robert Walton first meets the monster and his shadow. Part Three: The Enlightenment of Robert Walton Enlightenment nearly makes Robert Walton a monster. After an accident kills his father while Walton is still a child, his uncle raises him. By neglecting his education, this uncle leaves Walton free for solitary readings of tales of discovery, the only books in his uncle’s library. Young Walton loves above all tales of voyages to the Pacific over the North Pole. He reads them day and night. Poetry distracts him briefly from his youthful dreams of discovery, but then a second accident – inheriting a cousin’s fortune – returns him to his projects of exploration, and 16 �equips him to pursue them [F 8]. Walton does not say whether this second accident was his cousin’s death. But death shapes his family and his education, as it did Frankenstein’s. Walton writes all this in letters to his sister, where he calls his self-education an evil. “Now I am twenty-eight, and in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen,” he laments. “It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the painters call it) keeping,” or proportion [F 10]. Walton’s circumstances, like Frankenstein’s, have made him an imaginative and extravagant projector. But while Frankenstein had Clerval to regulate his mind, failed to confide in him, and lost him to his monster, Walton lacks such a friend, and feels this lack acutely [F 10 and 16].50 To Walton, the North Pole is “the region of beauty and delight” where “the sun is forever visible” [F 7] – a land of both literal and figurative enlightenment. “What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?” [F 7], he wonders: certainly new discoveries in geography and physics. “[Y]ou cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation,” he writes his sister, “by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine” [F 8]. To these philanthropic ambitions Walton adds a personal one: to be the first human to reach the pole. “I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man” [F 7]. Walton’s public and private motives recall the combination that moved Frankenstein to pursue the principle of life.51 To pursue his project, Walton learns seamanship by day; by night, he studies mathematics, medicine, and the physical sciences of naval use. He inures his body to hardship.52 17 �Then he travels to northern Russia, to a city named Archangel – he too is living in Paradise Lost – where he hires a ship, assembles a crew, and sails north into the sea of ice [F 8]. He reassures his sister by letter: “you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness wherever the safety of others is committed to my care” [F 11]. “I will not rashly encounter danger,” Walton promises; “I will be cool, persevering, and prudent” [F 12]. Despite his promise, many of his men will die [F 149]. Walton is also ready to risk his own life. His sister will be happy, even if he dies in the north, because she has a husband and “lovely children” [F 148]. Walton himself does not want a family, but a friend. With no one to share his joy at success, to temper his dejection at failure, to amend his faults, to supply proportion to his projects, when a third accident crosses his path with the monster’s and Frankenstein’s, and he takes the latter aboard, he is eager to regard Frankenstein as a friend. As Walton tells his sister, “I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart” [F 15]. Though Frankenstein approves of Walton’s desire, he declines to reciprocate, explaining, “I have lost every thing, and cannot begin life anew” [F 16; see also 147]. Yet Frankenstein does call Walton “my friend” [F 17], he helps him by suggesting useful improvements to his plan, and he rallies his sailors when their fear of death makes them demand that Walton sail for home [F 149].53 But the chief help he gives Walton is to tell his story. “You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did,” he says, “and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been” [F 17]. His story will provide Walton “a view of nature, which may enlarge your faculties and understanding,” concerning “powers and occurrences, such as you have been accustomed to believe impossible” [F 17].54 When Walton 18 �presses Frankenstein to share the secret of the monster’s animation, Frankenstein rebuffs Walton for his “senseless curiosity.”55 “[L]earn my miseries,” Frankenstein tells him, “and do not seek to increase your own” [F 146]. His tale completed, Frankenstein corrects and augments Walton’s notes, especially of his conversations with the monster, and shows him Felix and Safie’s letters, received from the hand of the monster himself [F 146; see also 83].56 Perhaps Frankenstein’s final hope is to win glory and benefit mankind by making his story public. But the meaning of his story is ambiguous. Walton, for example, does not learn from him to give up on enlightenment, perhaps because of Frankenstein’s conclusion. “During these last days,” he says, “I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blameable” [F 151]. He does implore Walton to “[s]eek happiness in tranquility, and avoid ambition, even… the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries” [F 152]. But then he recants: “[y]et why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed” [F 151]. ‘Succeed’ is Victor’s last word, one worthy of his name. His last request is that Walton catch and kill the monster, though he does not insist that Walton do so at the cost of his ship and crew. But Walton turns home. So did Victor succeed or fail? Even after hearing Frankenstein’s story, Walton tells his sister, “I had rather die, than return shamefully, – my purpose unfulfilled” [F 150]. Frankenstein’s last words do not change his mind. Instead, his crew compels Walton to return.57 Nor does he fulfill Frankenstein’s last request, though he has his chance when the monster boards his ship to see Frankenstein’s corpse. “Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness” [F 152], Walton writes his sister; but despite the monster’s ugliness Walton listens to him, and seems persuaded by his promise: “I shall… seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and 19 �consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been” [F 155]. The monster means to extinguish his light at the pole, by becoming a light at the pole. Not the monster’s ugliness but Frankenstein’s corpse angers Walton [F 154]. He lets the monster escape without trying to kill him [F 156]. Walton does not kill the monster, nor does he kill himself and his crew in his quest for the pole. But only the rebellion of his crew spares him the latter.58 Maybe the monster finds the pole in his place. Part Four: The Enlightenment of Mary Shelley Did enlightenment make Mary Shelley a monster? She pursued it with a vengeance. As the daughter of two famous writers, Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin, and the lover and later wife of a third, Percy Shelley, she set herself an intense program of reading and writing, beginning at age seventeen, if not earlier. Starting with biographies, novels, and her parents’ books, later adding history and philosophy, she recorded each book she and Percy read, day by day and year by year, in her journal. Thirty-six books in the latter half of 1814, seventy-four in 1815, sixty-five in 1816, seventy-one in 1817 – all told she read well more than two hundred books in her late teens and early twenties, in the four years preceding the publication of Frankenstein.59 She read the Iliad, the Bible, the Aeneid, Plutarch’s Lives, Tacitus’ Annals, the Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare’s plays, Don Quixote, Paradise Lost – twice – and Gulliver’s Travels [J 48-49, 73, and 89-90]. Here is a typical journal entry, from Saturday, November 17, 1816: “Draw, write; read Locke and Curtius. [Percy] Shelley reads Plutarch and Locke; he reads “Paradise Lost” aloud in the evening. I work” [J 68]. At this point Mary’s second child is eleven months old [F 333]. 20 �Shelley herself tells us that Frankenstein is a warning about the dangers posed by science and technology, ambitious philanthropy, and especially ‘playing god.’ In her preface to the third, 1831 edition of the novel, she writes of Frankenstein’s success in animating his monster, “supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world” [F 172]. But in the first, 1818 edition, the supremely frightful thing is the monster’s ugliness. Perhaps marking this shift in emphasis, the frontispiece of the 1831 edition depicts a monster who, though goggling at his reflection in a mirror, looks positively beautiful. No character in the novel means to ‘play god,’ nor displays a lasting concern with doing so. Frankenstein and his monster mostly see themselves as Adam or as Satan. Theological claims that god’s providence is better than man’s, or that imitating his providence is hubris or sin, are notably absent. Instead, Frankenstein is more secular, personal, even autobiographical than Shelley’s 1831 preface suggests. Its foreground concerns are with the monster’s ugliness, the perils of solitary reading, the mundane risks of philanthropic ambition, the loss of the family, and the meaning of nature. The novel is a Paradise Lost without God, a Prometheus Bound without Zeus. The monster, Frankenstein, and Walton are all shadows of Shelley herself,60 and they repeat the novel’s fundamental question: is enlightenment good, or does it make us ugly monsters, cut off from family and nature? We have plenty of evidence that Shelley finds enlightenment to be costly. Take the monster: he is attracted to family life and sensitive to the beauties of nature, but his extreme ugliness cuts him off from both [F 77]. Were it not for his enlightenment, especially by Paradise Lost, he might have seen a possibility for his life other than retirement with a mate, or war with his maker. Solitary contemplation, masked social activity in person or in writing,61 and 21 �scientific inquiry do not occur to him. He does not consider a life of exploration, though his build would suit him, more than any other reasoning being, to such a life. Though he may be smarter than his maker, he does not build a wife or a child for himself. Take Frankenstein: he is also attracted to and suited to family and nature. But his enlightenment, at the hands of the alchemists and the modern chemists, makes him an ugly monster, and cuts him off from family and nature [F 43-44], before dragging him to death across the sea of ice. And take Walton: he longs for and is suited to friendship, if not to family, but his enlightenment through books about voyages of discovery has sent him and his crew to risk their lives at the edge of the world. These three neglect the rule Frankenstein proposes to Walton: if your study “has the tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind” [F 33].62 Percy Shelley, writing as the anonymous author, endorses this rule in his preface, claiming that the chief concern of the novel is “limited to the avoiding [sic] the enervating effects of the novels of the present day,63 and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue” [F 5-6]. At the book’s center is a family of the good, the happy, and the wise – but the monster scares them away and burns down their home. Still, we have Frankenstein’s first name, Victor, and his last words, “another may succeed” [F 152]; we have Walton, the audience of the story we are reading, who is deflected from the pole not by Frankenstein’s tale, nor by Frankenstein’s death, nor by his own interview with the monster, but by the near-mutiny of his sailors. Perhaps had he and his sailors all been monsters, he would have succeeded. Perhaps these details indicate that Shelley herself doubted “the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue.” Perhaps 22 �enlightenment shows us the truth about the family and nature, by showing us the extent to which death and chance, not life and providence, makes our families, nature, and us. Perhaps enlightenment reveals our world not as an amiable home, but as monstrous.64 When Frankenstein, hiking alone in the Alps, considers the “awful majesty” of the mountains, the “wonderful and stupendous scene” of the “sea, or rather the vast river of ice,” he calls out to the “[w]andering spirits” of the place. The spirit that answers his call is the monster [F 65 and 77]. Another lie Percy Shelly tells in his preface is, “[t]he opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind” [F 6]. He, and perhaps Shelley herself, could fear a reader’s inference of prejudice against the theological doctrine of Milton, given the damage Paradise Lost does to Frankenstein, and above all to his monster. But a philosophical doctrine is also being judged throughout the novel, even though its author’s name is not mentioned. Consider: Victor Frankenstein is a Genevan who makes a “man born big and strong” [CW 13: 162, see also 189-190], but fails to educate him adequately. This being is born into a state of nature, and perfected by circumstances; he claims that he was naturally good, but society has made him wicked; he begins life as a savage, is mistaken for a savage [F 13], and wishes to end his life living as a savage with his mate in South America [F 99]. Consider further: in Shelley’s time, the park outside Geneva where the monster murders William and frames Justine featured an obelisk dedicated to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, before which the Genevans murdered their magistrates during the Revolution.65 Rousseau depicts himself as a modern Prometheus in the Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts, the first public writing of his philosophic career [CW 2: 2 and 179]. In Emile, his best and most important work [CW 5: 480], he mentions “another 23 �Prometheus” who had made a tiny man “by the science of alchemy” [CW 13: 436 note *].66 Rousseau claims in his Confessions to have abandoned five children to a foundling hospital [CW 5: 289, 299-301, 551-552], where they likely died. Later in life, when Shelley writes an encyclopedia article on Rousseau, she returns repeatedly to the subject of these children [F 545].67 But the monster claims five victims before Frankenstein himself: William, Justine Moritz, Henry Clerval, Elizabeth Lavenza, and Alphonse Frankenstein. The amiableness of domestic affection, the excellence of universal virtue, and the beauty of nature are themes of Rousseau’s novel Julie, or the New Héloïse. Lastly, among the more than two hundred books that Mary Shelley read in the four years before Frankenstein was published are Rousseau’s Confessions, Emile, Julie, and The Reveries of the Solitary Walker – and she read all but the last of these twice [J 47-49, 55, 64, 72-73, 85-86, 89-90].68 Frankenstein is thus a meditation on the doctrine of the modern philosopher who launched his career by questioning the goodness of enlightenment. Rousseau defended the amiableness of domestic affection, but abandoned his children. He lauded the excellence of universal virtue, but sparked the Revolution. “I have seen these contradictions,” Rousseau writes about his claims in the Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts, “and they have not rebuffed me” [CW 2: 4]. Nor is Mary Shelley rebuffed. The ambiguities of her “hideous progeny” suggest she is willing to pay the price of enlightenment. She pronounces her judgment in the voice of Frankenstein’s creation: “[w]e shall be monsters.” Jeff J.S. Black Annapolis, Maryland February 23, 2018 24 �Leftover Materials This lecture is dedicated to my father, Paul David Black. It was delivered on his birthday, March 2, 2018, at St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Thanks to Michael W. Grenke for the invitation to give this lecture. Thanks to the members of the 2016-2017 Mellon Study Group on Digital Technology for a galvanizing first discussion of the themes of Frankenstein. Thanks to Lise van Boxel and Brian Wilson, founding members of the Combat & Classics podcast team, for an animating discussion of the ideas in the lecture. Thanks to my sister, Katherine Melissa Watson, for her helpful comments on an earlier draft. The engraving on the lecture’s cover page is Theodore von Holst’s, and was the frontispiece to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein. See https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Frontispiece_to_Frankenstein_1831.jpg. Retrieved on February 15, 2018. 1 Citations in the text of this lecture follow these conventions: CW refers to volume and page numbers in JeanJacques Rousseau, The Collected Writings of Rousseau. Edited by Christopher Kelly and Roger D. Masters. Thirteen Volumes. (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1990-2010). F refers to page numbers in Mary Shelley, Frankenstein. Edited by J. Paul Hunter. (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996), which contains the 1818 text. FN refers to part and page numbers in Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, The Frankenstein Notebooks. Volume IX of Shelley’s Manuscripts, Two Parts. Edited by Charles E. Robinson. (New York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1996). J refers to page numbers in Mary Shelley, Mary Shelley’s Journal. Edited by Frederick L. Jones. (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1947). L refers to volume and page numbers in Mary Shelley, The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Edited by Betty T. Bennett. Three Volumes. (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980). PL refers to book and line numbers of Paradise Lost, in the edition John Milton, Paradise Lost. Second Edition. Edited by Scott Elledge. (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1993). 2 In calling Frankenstein’s product a ‘monster,’ I am following both Frankenstein’s practice and the monster’s own. They each give reasons for using this term. They mean by it something so unprecedented in its deformity as to serve as a warning. 3 He says, “it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire” [F 70; see PL 1:710-730]. 4 “At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification” [F 76]. 5 The monster does taste the offal left behind by the travelers who abandoned their fire, finding it “much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees” [F 69]. But he apparently does not begin eating meat because of this experience. In the only case where he kills for food, he does so to feed Frankenstein [F 142]. See also Marilyn Butler, “Frankenstein and Radical Science” [F 311]. Since the monster was not born and did not grow, it is not entirely clear why he needs to eat. But Rousseau would endorse his vegetarianism [CW 13: 184-186 and 297-299], which might be obscurely connected with his construction: since he is made out of dead flesh, perhaps he does not want to add to his substance by consuming dead flesh. 6 Constantin François Chasseboeuf, Comte de Volney, Les Ruines, ou Meditations sur les Revolutions des Empires, 1791. Published in English as Constantin-François Chasseboeuf, Marquis de Volney, The Ruins: or a Survey of the Revolutions of Empires. Third Edition. London: J. Johnson, 1796. It is available in the Liberty Fund’s Online Library of Liberty at http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/1706. Retrieved on February 2, 2018. There is no record in her journal of Mary Shelley having read this work. 7 The connection between sex and a woman named Sophie is a theme of Book Five of Rousseau’s Emile. 25 �8 Prior to relating this accident, the monster tells Frankenstein the history of his cottagers, which “could not fail to impress itself deeply” on his mind [F 81]. This is so much that case that the monster makes copies of letters Safie exchanged with Felix, letters which testify to the truth of their story, in order to offer them to Frankenstein to “prove the truth of my tale” [F 83]. Yet it is not clear what the monster learns from the history of the cottagers that is different from what he learns from Safie and Felix’s readings and discussion of Volney. Perhaps the former history teaches the same lessons as the latter, but is more striking because the monster can see the participants in the flesh. 9 When suicide later occurs to the monster as an alternative to demanding a mate from Frankenstein or taking revenge on him, he rules it out, claiming that life is dear to him, despite his misery [F 66]. Yet once it is clear he will not have a companion, and once Frankenstein is dead, the monster claims that he will commit suicide [F 155]. 10 One new element appears in these reflections after reading Werther: the monster tries to infer his origin and purpose from his physical constitution. “My person was hideous,” he reflects, “and my stature gigantic: what did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them” [F 86]. So far as I can tell, the monster makes no progress in this new line of inquiry. It seems that his other readings closed off this line of thinking for him. 11 Here we see the damage done by Frankenstein’s abandonment of the monster. Had he overcome his disgust and stayed to educate his product, Frankenstein might have imbued the monster with scientific and philanthropic ambitions. 12 This contrast is the basis of the only joke I have found in Frankenstein. When the monster confronts Victor Frankenstein to tell his story, he repeatedly demands that Frankenstein listen to him [F 66-67], likely because he knows that his speech is more attractive than his looks. Frankenstein responds, “relieve me from the sight of your detested form” [F 67]. “Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” the monster intones, while placing his massive hands in front of Frankenstein’s eyes. Enraged, Frankenstein flings them away. This was not the time for a joke. 13 The monster’s halfheartedness in seeking revenge is suggested by several details. He tells Frankenstein he could have torn Felix “limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope” [F 91], or destroyed the cottage and the cottagers, glutting himself “with their shrieks and misery” [F 92] – but he does neither of these things, though he could have. In addition, consider this episode that occurs on the road to Geneva. On an especially fine spring day, he sees a young girl fall in a river, and leaps in to save her from drowning. He is trying to revive her when one of the locals approaches him and snatches the child away. When the monster tries to follow, the man shoots him with his gun [F 95]. This bald ingratitude makes the monster renew his vow of “eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind” [F 96], but even this renewed vow does not prevent the monster from imagining that he might befriend William Frankenstein when he first encounters him in Geneva. 14 The story of Justine Moritz’s fate includes an anticipation of the question the monster means his story to answer. Ernest Frankenstein, the elder of Victor’s two younger brothers, asks “who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?” [F 50; see also 54-55]. No one should credit such a miraculous change, though, since Justine is not guilty of the murder for which she is accused. But Justine is beautiful [F 52]. The monster, who is ugly, is guilty of the murder; the question becomes how he, being benevolent and fond of all his cottagers, could become so extremely wicked. Reflecting on Justine Moritz’s execution, Elizabeth Lavenza says, “men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood” [F 61]. 15 In the immediate sequel the monster asserts to Frankenstein that “the human senses are insurmountable barriers” to any sort of union between the monster and a human being [F 98]. 16 In the end Frankenstein does not comply, and the monster only kills members of his family. So it seems that his threat to kill “thousands of others” was a bluff or an exaggeration. 17 “I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous” [F 66]. 18 Frankenstein asks, “did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow?” [F 99]. We might wonder, since some of us are makers of children, to what extent this rhetorical question should be answered in the affirmative. 26 �19 “Our lives will not be happy,” the monster continues, “but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel” [F 99]. If the monster is not content with harmlessness, and seeks happiness as well, then he will be drawn back to human society. 20 Shelley would have been familiar with the argument that links solitude with wickedness through the dispute between Rousseau and Diderot communicated by a footnote in Emile. Against this link, Rousseau writes, The precept of never hurting another carries with it that of being attached to human society as little as possible, for in the social state the good of one necessarily constitutes the harm of another. This relation is in the essence of the thing, and nothing can change it. On the basis of this principle, let one investigate who is the better: the social man or the solitary man. An illustrious author [Diderot] says it is only the wicked man who is alone. I say that it is only the good man who is alone. If this proposition is less sententious, it is truer and better reasoned than the former one. If the wicked man were alone, what harm would he do? It is in society that he sets up his devices for hurting others [CW 13:240 note *]. 21 Seeing Frankenstein destroy the inanimate body of his companion, the monster says, “You can blast my other passions; but revenge remains – revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food!” [F 116]. 22 “My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now excluded” [F 100]. 23 The two monsters “might even hate each other,” Frankenstein muses; “the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species” [F 114]. 24 Indeed, the monster demands that his mate be “as hideous as myself” because “once as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species, and have the same defects” [F 99, 97]. He gives no other indication of why he thinks the effects of his own ugliness can be overcome. His thought seems to be either that two solitary and isolated members of the same species will feel compelled to unite [F see 99], despite their ugliness, or that because his mate will have been created particularly for him, they will be connected in a way that overcomes the effects of their ugliness. The former thought seems naïve, while the latter thought depends on the monster’s identification with Adam. 25 After the monster recounts his failed attempt to reveal himself to his cottagers, he says, “I, like the arch fiend, bore a hell within me” [F 92]. See PL 4:73-75. 26 To be ugly is to have bad looks, to be dis-specied, without species. See Plato, Sophist, 228a. 27 One wonders whether it is the difference in age between Alphonse and Caroline Frankenstein, and the youthful acquaintance of Victor Frankenstein and Elizabeth Lavenza, that explains how unerotic these relationships are – or whether this simply should be attributed to authorial discretion. The lack of eros between these partners might also contribute to Victor Frankenstein’s easy elision between his family and his friends. The reason for this elision is that friends who are not family cannot be true friends. “Even where the affections are not moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain,” Victor explains. “They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himselF be invaded with suspicion” [F 147]. Alphonse Frankenstein delicately mentions his romantic coolness to Victor when the latter postpones his marriage to Elizabeth Lavenza: “You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might become your wife” [F 104]. Elizabeth sees no difficulty in this arrangement: “our union has been the favorite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this while young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place” [F 130]. The coolness of the connection between Victor and Elizabeth might explain why Victor does not realize that the monster’s threat, “I shall be with you on your wedding-night,” is 27 �directed against Elizabeth, rather than against himself – as his reply, “before you sign my death-warrant, be sure you are yourself safe” [F 116] indicates. Victor seems to lack self-knowledge when he later says, “if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions” [F 133]. 28 The editors of the Norton Critical Edition of Frankenstein supply here “Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535), German physician, author of De Occulta Philosophia (1531), and reputed magician” [F 21 note 6]. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy adds that Three Books on Occult Philosophy (1510 and, reworked and enlarged, 1533) is “a comprehensive treatise on magic and occult arts,” and that Agrippa was also known for On the Uncertainty and Vanity of the Arts and Sciences: An Invective Declamation, “a rigorous refutation of all products of human reason.” See https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/agrippa-nettesheim. Retrieved on February 2, 2018. Is it a coincidence that Agrippa’s other major work resembles, in its title at least, the Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts? Is Agrippa a stand-in for Rousseau? 29 Paracelsus (1493-1541) was, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica, a German-Swiss physician and alchemist who established the role of chemistry in medicine. See https://www.britannica.com/biography/Paracelsus. Retrieved on February 4, 2018. Consider also CW 13: 436-437. According to the same source, Albertus Magnus was a teacher of Thomas Aquinas and a proponent of Aristotle who established the legitimacy of the study of nature for Christians. See https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Albertus-Magnus. Retrieved on February 4, 2018. 30 Though his disgust is not so great as to prevent him from studying Pliny and Buffon at this point [F 23]. Victor also learned Latin and English when he was much younger [F 20]. 31 Louis Pasteur did not succeed in spreading the germ theory of disease until the 1870’s. Frankenstein is set sometime in the eighteenth century. See https://www.britannica.com/biography/Louis-Pasteur/Vaccinedevelopment. Retrieved on February 16, 2018. 32 Shelley may have chosen Ingolstadt for Victor Frankenstein’s education because the secret society of the Illuminati was founded at this university in 1776 [F 24 n 1]. 33 This childhood circle includes Victor’s friend, Henry Clerval [F 21], who later studies with him at Ingolstadt [F 36], and ends by being murdered by the monster [F 122]. There is not enough time in this lecture to treat Clerval in detail, let alone Elizabeth Lavenza, Victor’s other companion from childhood [F 26]. But it is worth nothing that, even though Shelley presents Clerval’s favored subjects as a kind of antithesis and antidote to Victor’s reading [F 44] – Clerval recalls Victor to his friends, his family, and his love of nature [F 43-44] – Victor is quite familiar with the kind of works Clerval reads [F 15-16, 31, 35-36, 101, 107-108, 143, 146-147], and this familiarity on its own is not enough to deflect him from his path. 34 Krempe seems to be tracing the projects of the alchemists back to the eighth century, whereas the writings he is criticizing date from the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. It’s not clear to me why he does this. 35 Mary Shelley was born on 30 August 1797, and began writing Frankenstein sometime in June 1816 [FN lxxvi and lxxviii]. 36 Compare Rousseau’s account of his sudden illumination on the road to Vincennes in the second of his Letters to Malesherbes [CW 5: 575-576]. 37 Almost immediately, Frankenstein tells Walton, he forgot the steps that showed him the cause, but retained the power [F 31]. It is puzzling that Frankenstein does not use this detail as an excuse when Walton asks him later for the secret of the monster’s animation [F 146]. 38 Shelley’s claim that Frankenstein uses his “instruments of life” to “infuse a spark of being” into the monster [F 34] may be metaphorical, since there is no other reference to electricity in the account of the monster’s animation. 39 The mention of the gratitude due to a father in this passage could give the impression that Victor intends to supplant the role of the mother in generation, and to claim the gratitude that is her due. While there is something to 28 �this reading, I am more struck by the contrast between the mention of the father in this sentence and the mention of the creator in the previous sentence. To say nothing about the pagan gods, the Hebrew one has already twice supplanted the role of the mother in generation. Most striking, however, are the reflections Victor’s exultation encourages about gratitude. Compare Rousseau’s reflections on gratitude in Book IV of Emile [CW 13: 387-388]. 40 Victor later admits to himself that he “thoughtlessly” bestowed life on the monster [F 60]. 41 The lack of skin also argues for the theory that the monster is not an assemblage of proper parts, taken from corpses. Each of these parts would have had skin of its own, and more than enough, had they been harvested as wholes. 42 As he sleeps after animating the monster, but before his flight, Victor has a horrible dream: I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel [F 34]. Not only does this dream depict the thought that we are all made of dead materials, and so in a sense dead things, but it connects this interpretation of metabolism and growth with sex and generation. 43 Frankenstein infers the monster’s guilt directly from his ugliness. Seeing a figure in the trees, he says, “its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon to whom I had given life. Could he be,” Frankenstein asks, “the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth… […] Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. […] The mere presence of the idea,” he concludes, “was an irresistible proof of the fact” [F 48]. 44 Frankenstein realizes that he cannot create a female monster without “again devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition” [F 103]. In particular, “I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to my success” [F 103]. Since it is hard to imagine that Frankenstein needs additional anatomical information, which he acquires in any case through direct experimentation, this comment might indicate that he has, reasonably, started to think about the moral formation of a female monster. Perhaps the English philosopher Frankenstein has in mind is Mary Wollstonecraft, author of Thoughts on the Education of Daughters and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, and Mary Shelley’s mother. This would also explain why he puts such weight on the uncertain character of a female monster in his ultimate decision to destroy his second creation. However this may be, Frankenstein’s need for additional study is another indication that he might not have planned from the beginning to make a female monster, perhaps because he intended his monster to interbreed with human women. 45 Even cleaning up the aftermath of his interrupted work is sickening to Frankenstein. “The remains of the halffinished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being” [F 118]. 46 Frankenstein thus anticipates a problem that arises in Paradise Lost: Adam is prohibited from eating from the tree of knowledge before Eve is created. She does not hear the prohibition directly, but from Adam; this inclines her less to obey it. See PL 8:323-333 and 9:758-760. We will soon see that Frankenstein too seems to have read Milton’s epic poem [F 131 and 147]. He does not voice, but presumably could have anticipated, a similar but greater problem regarding the monsters’ offspring, whom the monster has said nothing to bind. 47 Perhaps this also indicates that, if Frankenstein makes his monsters capable of reproduction with one another, he also makes them capable of reproduction with human beings. 48 Frankenstein’s fears are another indication that he does not manufacture his monsters from the proper parts of corpses. If they were assemblages of corpse parts, would not their offspring be human? 29 �49 The monster encourages Frankenstein to pursue him in order to draw out his revenge. As Frankenstein tells it, “sometimes he himselF who feared that if I lost all trace I should despair and die, often left some mark to guide me” [F 141]. Oddly, Victor adds, “yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps, and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature overcome by hunger, sunk under exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me… I may not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me” [F 141]. Since the monster occasionally leaves food for Frankenstein [F 142], it seems likely that he is also responsible for the activities of Frankenstein’s ‘spirits of good.’ Frankenstein’s meeting with the monster on the alpine glacier is preceded by his invocation of “Wandering spirits” [F 65]. 50 As Walton tells his sister, “I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavor to regulate my mind” [F 10]. Later, he adds that his desire for friendship is “one want I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil” [F 10; see also 16], 51 Walton asks his sister: “do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose. My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path” [F 9]. 52 Frankenstein also claims to have superior physical endurance: “I had ever inured myself to rain, moisture, and cold” [F 63]. But there is some reason to doubt this: he is forever swooning, for example, or struggling with madness [F 37 and 122]. In his superior endurance Walton more resembles the monster; the same resemblance can be found in their respective longings for a companion. Walton may be a chimera of Frankenstein and his monster. 53 “Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition?” Frankenstein asks them. “You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your name adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. […] Oh, be men, or be more than men” [F 149]. Frankenstein himself has encountered death for glory and the benefit of mankind; he has been a man and made more than a man; and he has suffered greatly for it. It is striking that he is willing to repeat an appeal that has cost him so much to heed. 54 If the monster is the gratification of Frankenstein’s wishes, then by calling him a “serpent” here Frankenstein anticipates the later moment when, certain he will not receive a mate from Frankenstein, the monster compares himself to a “snake” [F 116]. The image is Biblical, if it is not once again from Paradise Lost. 55 This is odd, since in his story Frankenstein claims to forget “all the steps” that “progressively led” to his discovery, and to be left with “only the result” [F 31]. He clearly thinks he can continue to animate dead matter, since otherwise he would have begged his incapacity in reply to the monster’s demand for a mate. But can he teach this power to others? 56 Walton says, “the letters of Felix and Safie, which he shewed me, and the apparition of the monster, seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected” [F 146]. 57 Nor can we say he is secretly relieved by their compulsion. He writes to his sister, “The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience” [F 150]. 58 In an early letter to his sister Walton considers the possibility that he might find a friend among his crew. “My lieutenant,” he writes, “is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity” [F 10]. Walton also tells his sister a lengthy story about the heroic generosity of his master, but adds, “he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud” [F 11]. Walton concludes, “I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen” [F 10]. His crew is thus composed not of family nor of friends, but of associates made necessary by Walton’s inability to reach the pole alone. 30 �59 Since Shelley read a few of these books twice during this period, and since she sometimes gives several works a single entry in her journal – for example, “Shakespeare’s Plays” – this is only a rough count [J 32-33, 47-49, 71-73, 88-90]. 60 The defect mentioned by at least one modern critic, that the novel’s three major characters all sound the same, is thus not a bug but a feature, an indication that they are repetitions of the same person. See Germaine Greer, “Yes, Frankenstein really was written by Mary Shelley. It’s obvious – because the book is so bad,” The Guardian. April 9, 2007. See https://www.theguardian.com/world/2007/apr/09/gender.books. Retrieved on February 4, 2018. Greer complains, “There are three narrators: Thomas Walton, Victor Frankenstein and the monster himself. The three of them, including the inarticulate monster, speak in paragraphs, with the same tendency to proliferating parallel clauses and phrases and the occasional theatrical ejaculation.” It’s not clear why Greer thinks that the monster is, or should be, inarticulate. 61 “It seems that all great things,” Nietzsche tells us in Beyond Good and Evil, “in order to inscribe themselves with eternal demands upon the heart of humanity, must first stalk the earth as colossal and fear-inducing masks” [Preface, see also Sections 25 and 40]. See Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil / On The Genealogy of Morality. Translated, with an Afterword, by Adrian Del Caro. (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014). Even if the fear and disgust the monster inspires are natural rather than learned, it does not follow that his ugliness expresses the truth about his interior, nor that his ugliness is a disability. Since the monster’s vengeful path is ultimately due to his accidental reading, since he was born good but was made wicked by society, Shelley can refer to Frankenstein in one of her letters as “a book in favor defence of Polypheme” [L I: 91]. 62 “If this rule were always observed,” Frankenstein continues, “if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquility of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed” [F, 33]. 63 Rousseau discusses the arguments for and against novels in the dialogue that serves as the Second Preface of Julie [CW 6: 7-22]. 64 In the Critique of Judgment, Kant asks us to consider bold, overhanging and, as it were, threatening rocks, thunderclouds piling high up in the sky and moving about accompanied by lightning and thunderclaps, volcanoes with all their destructive power, hurricanes with all the devastation they leave behind, the boundless ocean heaved up, the high waterfall of a mighty river, and so on. Compared to the might of any of these, our ability to resist becomes an insignificant trifle. Yet the sight of them becomes all the more attractive the more fearful it is, provided we are in a safe place. And we like to call these objects sublime because they raise the soul’s fortitude above its usual middle range and allow us to discover in ourselves an ability to resist which is of a quite different kind, and which gives us the courage [to believe] that we could be a match for nature’s seeming omnipotence [Ak. 261]. Note that the ability and the courage Kant mentions in this passage are not dependent on our safety from nature. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment. Translated, with an Introduction, by Werner S. Pluhar. (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 1987), 120. 65 In a letter to Fanny Imlay, Mary Shelley describes the promenade of Plainpalais, outside of Geneva: Here a small obelisk is erected to the glory of Rousseau, and here (such is the mutability of human life) the magistrates, the successors of those who exiled him from his native country, were shot by the populace during that revolution, which his writings mainly contributed to mature, and which, notwithstanding the temporary bloodshed and injustice with which it was polluted, has produced enduring benefits to mankind, which all the chicanery of statesmen, nor even the great conspiracy of kings, can entirely render vain [F 174 or L I: 20]. 66 “Would anyone believe, if he did not have the proof,” Rousseau writes in the Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar, 31 �that human foolishness could have been brought to this point? Amatus Lusitanus affirmed that he had seen a little man an inch long, closed up in a bottle, whom Julius Camillus, like another Prometheus, had made by the science of alchemy. Paracelsus, De natura rerum, teaches the way to produce these little men and maintains that the pygmies, the fauns, the satyrs, and the nymphs were engendered by chemistry, Indeed, I do not see anything that further remains to be done to establish the possibility of these facts, other than to advance that organic matter resists the heat of fire and that its molecules can be preserved alive in a reverberatory furnace “ [CW 13:436-437 note *]. What would Rousseau have his Vicar say if the alleged generation did not require the use of fire? 67 For more on Shelley’s concern with this matter, see James O’Rourke, “‘Nothing More Unnatural’: Mary Shelley’s Revision of Rousseau,” in ELH. Volume 56, Number 3. (Autumn, 1989), reprinted in in F, 543-569. O’Rourke quotes from Shelley’s 1838 encyclopedia essay on Rousseau: Our first duty is to render those to whom we give birth, wise, virtuous, and happy, as far as in us lies. Rousseau failed in this, – can we wonder that his after course was replete with sorrow? The distortion of intellect that blinded him to the first duties of life, we are inclined to believe to be allied to that vein of insanity, that made him an example among men for self-inflicted sufferings [F, 547]. 68 It is difficult to be sure exactly what Shelley read of Rousseau in the years before the publication of Frankenstein, mostly because she does not name Rousseau’s works consistently in her journal. In 1815 she records reading Rousseau’s Confessions, Emile, and Nouvelle Heloise [J, 47-49]. In 1816 she adds Rousseau’s Reveries, over four days in late July and early August [J, 55]. She was writing Frankenstein at this point, having begun in June [F, 333]. She also reads something she calls the “Letters of Emile” over two days in September 1816 [J, 64]: could this refer to Emile and Sophie? In the summary of her reading for that year, she repeats these titles, listing the Reveries and the “Letters of Emile” [J, 72-73]. Shelley turned to correcting and transcribing Frankenstein in April, May, and October 1817 [J, 78-79, 85]. Over six days in late June and early July 1817, she records re-reading Rousseau’s Julie, having completed Frankenstein in May that year [F, 334]. She re-reads the Confessions over three days in October 1817, followed by three days on something she calls “Rousseau’s Letters” – perhaps those referred to in the Confessions, which would have included the April 20, 1751 letter to Mme. de Francueil where Rousseau discusses his treatment of his children [CW 5: 551-552; J, 85-86]. She lists the Nouvelle Heloise and “Confessions et Lettres de Rousseau” in her reading for 1817 [J, 89-90]. 32 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 33 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "We shall be monsters" : Frankenstein and the ugliness of enlightenment Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on March 2, 2018 by Jeff J.S. Black as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Black, Jeff J. S., 1970- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018-03-02 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24004715 Relation A related resource <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3733">Sound recording</a> Subject The topic of the resource Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797-1851. Frankenstein Deans Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1a135bd3b37632671bd685e6783aff92.pdf 8340866e44df736be5798caad20b9287 PDF Text Text �������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 24 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Leo Strauss and classical political philosophy Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on January 1, 1990 by David Bolotin. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1990-01-01 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Strauss, Leo. Politics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000036 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/838edbf1365f7a1dc3cd2352142a4c8f.pdf 9b716a27fb427ec2207176abff91afc5 PDF Text Text THE QUESTION OF FINAL CAUSALITY IN ARISTOTLE'S PHYSICS _( . David Bolotin I • I St. John's College, Santa Fe April 3, 1992 �t ee _g0s &J' 63~ ..... , '""' ... .- " . • �From the time that I first read Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics as a sophomore in college, I fell in love with it, and I looked to it for guidance as to how I should live. It appealed to me by its presentation of the moral life as a life of fineness, rather than of mere obedience to law, and also by its encouragement to the striving for excellence. was intrigued by its suggestion, so unlike anything I had heard before, that taking pride in one's excellence is not a vice but a virtue, which as such can coexist with and.which ( even enhances the comprehensive social virtue of justice. And above all, the E1b.ics. struck a chord in me by its claim that activity in accordance with virtue is both the natural end of man and the core of happiness; for although I scarcely understood this claim at the time, I was moved by its promise of a meaningful and happy life, a life that seemed beautifully reflected, moreover, in the discussions of friendship and contemplation with which the book concludes. But as I continued to study, and became more and more persuaded by Aristotle's teaching about human life, I began to be troubled by the fear that this teaching might depend on an obsolete and indefensible view of nature. For how can virtuous activity be the natural end or purpose of human life if, as I had been 1 \,. taught to believe, modern natural science has shown that there are no such things in nature as ends or purposes? Must we not say, therefore, that ends are not given to us �2 by nature, but that we give ourselves our own ends and create our own meanings? For a time, I tried to ignore this difficulty by telling myself that natural science was not relevant to an understanding of human life, and by giving it, accordingly, as little thought as possible. But this evasion could not go on forever, and I eventually had to face the challenge that modern, natural science presents for anyone who wants to return to the Aristotelian teaching about man. I therefore welcomed the opportunity as a tutor at St. John's to study this science in some detail. At the same time, I began to study Aristotle's Physics, and in particular his arguments for the existence of ends or purposes in nature, to try to see whether his natural philosophy, on which his moral philosophy at least in part seems to depend, might possibly be true. . But enough of this talking about myself. Instead, let me proceed by discussing the question of natural ends - or_of teleology, as it has come to be called - directly. My discussion will focus primarily on Aristotle's treatment of this question in his Physics. For the modern objections to teleology are already present, and responded to, in the Physics itself. And modern science, it turns out, has nothing conclusive to say about the matter. Contrary to what I had been told in school, modern science has nm shown that there are no purposes in nature. Indeed, it has not even attempted to do so. What it does, rather, is systematically to disregard the possibility of their existence. As Jacques Monad, a Nobel Prize-winning biologist, has written in his work Chance and. Necessity, The cornerstone of the scientific method is the postulate that nature is objective. In other words, the systematic denial that "true" knowledge can be got at by interpreting phenomena in terms of final causes -- that is to say, of "purpose." An exact date may be given for the discovery of this canon. The formulation by Galileo and Descartes of the principle of inertia �3 laid the groundwork not only for mechanics but for the epistemology of modern science, by abolishing Aristotelian physics and cosmology. ..... science as we understand it today ... required the unbending stricture implicit in the postulate of objectivity -- ironclad, pure, forever undemonstrable. For it is obviously impossible to imagine an experiment which could prove the nonexistence anywhere in nature of a purpose, of a pursued end. But the postulate of objectivity is consubstantial with science; it has guided the whole of its ~ digious development for three centuries. There is no way to be rid of it, even tentatively or in a limited area, without 1 departure from the domain of science itself. I will not bother to quarrel here with Monad's contention that the systematic denial of purposes in nature is a requirement of science. What is important, rather, is his clear awareness that this denial is merely a postulate of modern science, not the assertion of an evident truth. And Monad's statement to this effect, far from being the unmasking of ( a hitherto unseen limitation of modern science, is only the restatement of a thought that was well understood by its originators. Indeed, some of the founders of modern science appear personally to have believed in purposes in nature, even as they excluded all reference to them from their strictly scientific work. As Descartes put it in his Fourth Meditation, in addressing the question whether it is for the better that God made him subject to error, l ... it occurs to me in the first place that I should not be astonished if my intelligence is not capable of comprehending why God acts as he does; ... knowing that my nature is extremely feeble and limited, and that' the nature of God is on the contrary immense, incomprehensible, and infinite, I have no further difficulty in recognizing that there is an infinitude of matters in His power, the causes of which transcend my knowledge; and this reason suffices to convince me that the species of cause tem,ed final finds no useful employment in physical [or natural] things; for it does not appear to me that I can without temerity seek to investigate the [inscrutable] ends of 2 God. �4 Now questions have been raised about whether Descartes' professions of piety are wholly sincere. But at all events, his argument against the attempt to explain natural things in terms of ends or purposes is compatible -- to say the least - with there being such purposes in fact. Or to take another example, Newton himself, whose account of the motions in the solar system remainsu ne of the greatest achievements of modern science, claimed that the solar system was originally put together by an intelligent God acting for a purpose. For although the planets and the comets, he wrote, may, indeed, continue in their orbits by the mere laws of gravity, yet they could by no means have first derived the regular position of the orbits themselves from those laws . ... This most beautiful system of the sun, planets, and comets, could only proceed from the counsel and dominion of 3 an intelligent and powerful Being. Newton's claim, however, about the origin of the solar system appears only in a General Scholium that he appended to his Principia twenty-six years after its first publication. And these theological reflections play no role in the body of the work, just as they have played no role in the subsequent history of modern physics. More generally, modern science from the beginning has sidestepped the question of ends or purposes in nature, while encouraging people to take less and less seriously the possibility of their existence, by trying to formulate laws that would encompass as many phenomena as possible without any reference to such ends. And even in the case of those phenomena that it does encompass, the claim that it has understood them adequately is dubious. For its laws are mathematical idealizations, idealizations, moreover, with no immediate basis in experience and with no evident connection to the �5 ultimate causes of the natural world. Newton's First Law of Motion, for instance, the law of inertia, requires us first to imagine a body that is always at rest or else moving aimlessly in a straight line at a constant speed, even though we never see such a body, and even though according to his own theory of universal gravitation it is impossible that there could be one. This fundamental law, then, which begins with a claim about what would happen in a situation that never exists, carries no conviction except insofar as it helps to predict observable events. Thus, despite the amazing success of Newton's laws in predicting the observed positions of the planets and other bodies, Einstein and lnfeld are correct to say, in I.he Evolution Qf Physics, that "we can well imagine that ( · another system, based on different assumptions, might work just as well." Einstein and lnfeld go on to assert that "physical concepts are free creations of the human mind, and are not, however it may seem, uniquely determined by the external world." To illustrate what they mean by this assertion, they compare the modem scientist to a man trying to understand the mechanism of a closed watch. If he is ingenious, they acknowledge, this man "may form some picture of a mechanism which could be responsible for all the things he observes." But they add that he "may never be quite sure his picture is the only one which could explain his observations. He will never be able to compare his picture with the real mechanism and he cannot even imagine the possibility or the 4 meaning of such a comparison. " In other words, modern science cannot claim, and it will never be able to claim, that it has the definitive understanding of any natural �6 phenomenon. And accordingly, we should not allow ourselves to be so dazzled by it as to suppose that it has refuted Aristotle's teaching about natural ends. Let me now turn to my discussion of Aristotle and begin by reminding you of his doctrine of the four causes, among which the end or final cause is included. In trying to explain anything, or to answer the question "why?" about it, there are four ways, according to Aristotle, that we can respond. These four kinds of responses , these four ways of saying "because," are each a kind of cause of the matter in question. In one sense, we speak of the cause of something as the constituent or constituents from which it comes into being and of which it is composed. Thus, for instance, we call the bronze in a statue a cause of it, because the statue could not exist without the bronze that it is made of. In another and more important sense, however, we say that the cause of something is its form, since it is the form, rather than the constituent material, that explains why the being is what it is. Thus the bronze constitutes a statue because it has the form of a statue, not because it is bronze. And by the "form" of a being we do not mean its visible shape alone, but rather its whole character, a character that we may not be able to articulate clearly at first, but that we must already understand to a considerable degree simply to identify the being as what it is. To take our example again, we call a statue a statue because of its form , by which we do not mean its shape alone, but more impertantly its being the sculpted image of some other being, such as a man or a god. Similarly, we call a human being a human being because of its form, by which we mean �7 above all that we are animals capable of reason. Now in addition to the constituent cause and the formal cause, a third kind of cause, which helps to explain coming into being as well as all other changes or motions, is the source from which a given change begins. Hence, for example, the sculptor is a cau·se of the statue's coming into being, and therefore also, in a sense, of the statue itself, as the parent is a cause of the birth of its offspring and the wind is a cause of rustling in the leaves. This principle of change, which Aristotle sometimes calls the moving cause, can also, however, be a cause of a state of rest, as when a man decides to stop running and to remain still. Finally, a fourth kind of cause is the end or purpose for which something comes into being or for which it exists. Thus health, for instance, can be a cause of walking by being the purpose for the ( sake of which someone might take walks. Or to return to our first example, giving honor to a god or perhaps pleasure to the human beholders might be the end - or the final cause, as it is also called - for the sake of which the sculptor produced the statue. To focus specifically now on final causality, the examples I have just given, like those that Aristotle gives himself, suggest a definite manner in which the end of a motion operates as a cause. First, it is present in thought to the agent who begins the motion, and it is thought of as being good, and as being attainable by his own efforts. And as a consequence, the agent proceeds to try to realize in deed the end that he originally had in mind. In these cases, then, the final cause is itself a factor, together with what we have called the moving cause, in initiating the motion that leads up to it as an end. And �8 most of us would agree, I think, that this is a true account of such motions as that of a statue being sculpted, for it is the craftsman's anticipation of the completed work that directs his hands and tools. But Aristotle says explicitly that the end is a cause of natural motions, such as the growth and reproduction of living beings, and not only of motions initiated by human art. 5 Indeed, he justifies his use of analogies from the arts to help explain natural processes by claiming that art imitates nature; and he means by this not merely that some arts are representational, but more broadly that all the arts 6 derive their own directedness toward ends from that already to be found in nature. He even goes so far as to speak of Nature herself as a kind of artisan who makes all things for a purpose and nothing in vain. 7 Yet we have no clear evidence to suggest that na- ture is an intelligent or even _a con~c_ic,us being, and so it is difficult for us to understand how it can act for a purpose. Nor is it easy to conceive of a way, other than as the object of intelligent forethought, that the end of a motion could play any role at all in first bringing that motion about. So couldn't it be, instead, the result of accident that natural processes often turn out in a manner that seems to suggest motion for the sake of an end? Now this is not, as it might appear, an anachronistic or post-Darwinian question, but is in fact a central question that Aristotle explicitly confronts throughout his account of purposes in nature. To see how he responds to it, let us look more closely at the text of the Physics itself. �9 Aristotle discusses accidental causation immediately after his account of the four causes, and he indicates the tremendous scope of the question about it by noting that some men had attributed the existence of this world, and indeed of all ordered worlds, to chance. Now by "this world" Aristotle does not mean the hypothetically expanding uni~ verse of contemporary science, but rather this perceptible world, the world in which we live, along with other animals and plants, upon the earth and under the heaven. The beauty and grandeur of this world have always aroused in men a sense of wonder, and many have felt, as Newton did, that it must be the product of intelligent forethought. 8 I Yet according to some of the early philosophers, this world of ours came into being, like many other worlds, merely by chance. Now in response to these philosophers, Aristotle begins by saying that their claim is worthy of wonder. For those, he says, who attribute the world and the most divine of the manifest beings (L.e..., the stars) to chance do not speak of animals and plants as coming into being by mere luck, but rather by nature or mind or some other such cause, on the grounds that each kind of seed typically produces some definite kind of result. And on precisely these grounds, he continues, what they say about the world as a whole is especially strange, since we see nothing in the heavens coming into being by chance, whereas we see many things resulting from luck 9 among the perishable beings here on earth. Now at this point, it would certainly be possible for us to raise objections to Aristotle's argument, and some of these may have occurred to you already. But I would suggest that we defer our objections and consider �10 instead that Aristotle has not said, at least not yet, that those who attribute the world to chance are wrong, but merely that their assertion is wonderful and strange -- as I venture to say it is. And he adds that if what they say is true, this very fact deserves careful attention, as indeed it does. Rather than assume, then, that Aristotle has already rejected the view in question about the origin of the world - whether on adequate or on inadequate grounds - we would do better to follow him as he goes further into the matter by investigating more generally what chance is and what its relation is to nature. Aristotle begins his account of chance by first discussing what he calls luck, and by observing that we do not speak of luck as a cause of those things that come into being always or for the most part in the same way, but rather of those that come about contrary to any such necessary or usual patterns. Yet it is not simply the unusualness of an occurrence that makes it a case of luck. It is also necessary that it be the kind of occurrence that mi.gb1 have been brought about for the sake of something and from intelligent choice. Such a result, when it comes about, however, merely by concomitance, is what is properly said to be from luck. Aristotle offers an example to help clarify what he means in saying that luck is a cause of its results by mere concomitance. A certain man, he says, would have gone to the marketplace to recover the money he was owed if only he had known that his debtor was there. But he did not know, and so he did not go to the market for that purpose; it was merely a concomitant of his going for some other reason that his trip served the purpose of recovering his debt. Thus, the �11 result came about from luck, and the man is said to h~ve gone to the marketplace from luck. If, however, he had chosen to go to the market for the sake of this result, or if he always or for the most part recovered money when he went there, neither his going nor its result would be from luck. To speak of luck as a cause, then, is not to deny that there must always be some definite, particular cause of a lucky result. Indeed, in keeping with the fact that luck is responsible only for the kinds of outcomes that might have resulted from intelligent choice, only agents who are capable of such choice can be said to act from luck. But we attribute the result to luck when the agent's action merely happens to serve a purpose without his having intended it to do so. After preparing the way with this account of luck, which has the merit of being ( immediately intelligible, Arist~tle turns to the discussion of chance, or spontaneity, as we ' might also translate the Greek term. Chance is a broader class that includes luck as a subclass. Like luck in particular, chance in general belongs to the over-all category of moving causes. 10 And it too is a cause of something which, while it is the kind of thing that might have been brought about for a purpose, does not in fact occur for the sake of what results. The greater extension of the term "chance" is due largely to the fact that the particular cause of what we call a chance outcome need not be an intelligent agent, as it must in the case of luck, but can be any being, whether animate or even inanimate. Yet Aristotle suggests more of a difference between chance in the wider sense and luck in particular than this. He also suggests that chance results need not be of such a kind �12 as even normally to require an intelligent agent, but that in some cases they are ones that might have been brought about by nature, where nature is understood as a power, distinct from intelligence, that nevertheless also acts for a purpose. 11 This suggestion, however, is a difficult one. For as I have already mentioned, it is hard to see what it can /4,. mean to act for a purpose if not to act from intelligent forethought, and so it is hard to understand what that nature could be that Aristotle is contrasting with chance. The examples, moreover, that he gives as illustrations of chance serve to highlight this difficulty. Let me mention only one of these examples, in which the difficulty becomes explicit. Aristotle says that a stone fell by chance when it hit a man who was passing by below; and the reason he gives for attributing its fall to chance is that it might have fallen •·through someone's agency, and for the sake of striking the man, although in fact it did not. In other words, to explain what he means by a chance event, he contrasts it, not with one that might have come about from nature, but with one that might have been chosen by an intelligent, if in this case an unfriendly, being. 12 Now Aristotle is aware that his examples do not fulfill our expectation that chance results are sometimes to be contrasted with what nature, as distinct from intelligence, might have brought forth. And so he adds that chance in the wider sense is most distinct from luck in the sphere of natural generation, when an animal or plant comes into being contrary to nature, i.£, maimed or with some deformity. In such cases, he says, we do not speak of luck, but rather of chance, and this not merely, it seems, �13 because these particular beings have not been produced by intelligent agents, but also because the nature that might have produced them, and done so for a purpose, ·is itself not an intelligence. Aristotle adds, on the basis of a consideration that we will come back to later, that these impairments and deformities are not precisely even from chance. Nevertheless, his reference to them serves to support the suggestion that chance, as distinct from luck, can be a cause of what might have arisen from the purposive action of nature. The question remains, however, of what it can mean for nature to act for a purpose. And Aristotle again calls our attention to this difficulty, in the course of a renewed attempt to answer the question about the cause of the world. What he says is this: since chance and luck are causes by mere concomitance of what either mind or nature might have caused, they cannot be prior to mind and nature themselves; so that even if chance is responsible for the world, mind and nature are necessarily prior causes, both of many other things and of this whole. 13 , Now it is not immediately clear, of course, how Aristotle arrives at this conclusion, or how it is to be understood. But what I would first like to emphasize is his claim that b.Q1h mind and nature must be prior to chance, even on the assumption that chance is responsible for the world. That he makes this claim about mind, in particular, comes as a surprise. For the assumption about a chance origin of the world can refer, and almost certainly does refer, to chance in the wider sense, as distinct from luck. After all, the philosophic position to which �14 Aristotle is responding claims that our world came into being through the blind interaction of the elements, not from the lucky or unlucky actions of an intelligent being. Yet if we assume that chance in this sense is responsible for the world, one might have supposed,· perhaps, that nature is a still prior cause, on the grounds that chance is a cause of what might have been produced by nature, which must, therefore, already be at work. But what Aristotle says, to repeat, is that nature arui mind must b.Q1b. be prior causes of the world. And if mind, as well as nature, must already exist for there to be chance in .the wider sense, this would seem to imply that nature is not capable of acting for the sake of ends - those ends that are presupposed whenever we speak of chance - unless it is somehow accompanied by intelligence. And however much this view of nature might help us to understand how nature can act for a purpose, it is at odds with Aristotle's earlier suggestion that it can do so on its own. And yet perhaps this new suggestion, that nature depends on intelligence in order to do its work, is an intentional modification of the earlier one; and in fact, the very next chapter tends to support this modified view of nature. Aristotle says there that a natural being has two sorts of moving causes, one of which is not natural itself, since it is wholly unmoved. He then identifies this unmoved mover with the being's end, or final cause, and also with its form; but the form he is referring to cannot be the form as it exists in perishable beings, since we have already been told that these forms are perishable themselves, and hence not entirely unmoved. 14 The reference must therefore be to ·, �15 some other kind of form, and the only other kind that Aristotle believes to exist is the form as it exists in thought, whether in human thought or divine thought. If natural change, then, is to be initiated in part by final causes that are also unchanging forms, it seems that these forms must be present in a divine mind, a mind that somehow solicits natural beings to move to~ard the perfection of their exemplars. 15 And indeed, Aris- totle has already suggested something like this earlier in the Physics. where he said that the two highest principles of nature include one that is divine and good and aimed for and another that naturally aims for and reaches toward the first one. 16 And there are quite a few passages scattered throughout Aristotle's works that speak of a divine mind as the prime mover and ultimate source of all life and nature. 17 ( And yet despite the attractiveness of this suggestion about the subordination of nature to a divine mind, it does not yet allow us to see how natural motion as such can be for a purpose. For purposive motion, at least as we understand it, presupposes more than the mere existence in some mind of the form that is to be aimed for as its end. It also presupposes that this form exist in the mind of an agent, such as a craftsman, that can set itself in motion with a view to that end. Thus, for instance, if the heavenly spheres are intelligent, living beings, as Aristotle says they are, it is at least conceivable that they might set themselves in motion in order to approximate the perfection of the divine forms. 18 But unless even the seeds of natural beings here on earth are self- moving, intelligent agents, or unless they are tools in the hands of some other such �16 agent, the assertion that the forms exist in a divine mind does not yet make it intelligible how natural growth, for instance, can be purposive. Perhaps, then, the claim that led us to these speculations about the divine mind, the claim that .Q.Q1b. mind .and. nature must necessarily be prior to chance, allows for another interpretation. In particular, in saying that mind. must be prior to chance, even if chance is responsible for our world, Aristotle may not be trying to help us to see how nature could act for a purpose, Le.., in conjunc- tion with mind, but rather to indicate something about mind and chance in themselves. And in fact, there is such a way of interpreting the claim about mind being prior to chance. For according to Aristotle, there are different senses of priority, not all of which need apply to the same member of a given pair. In particular, if knowledge of one thing • is presupposed by that of another, the former is said to be prior in terms of knowledge, and yet it is not necessarily prior in other senses, such as that of existing earlier in 19 time. Thus, if we assume, as Aristotle invites us to do, that the world emerged through chance, it might still be true, as he claims, that mind must be a prior cause of it; but perhaps this is only because of priority in terms of knowledge. At all events, Aristotle would have good grounds for saying that mind is prior to chance in this sense, for chance results are defined as those that might have been brought about for a purpose, and we understand purpose as that for the sake of which an intelligent being would act. Knowledge of chance, then, presupposes a prior knowledge of mind, or, more precisely, of the kind of minds that are capable of choice. 20 Moreover, if being in the paramount �17 sense is what is true, or what is truly understood by some intelligence -- and Aristotle makes this claim in the Metaphysics - then this priority of mind to chance in terms of 21 knowledge also implies a certain priority in terms of being. Chance would not be fully what it is if it were not understood, understood, that is, in its relation to the ends pursued by intelligent beings. And to say all this is indeed compatible with the possibility that such intelligent beings may have come into existence, as our world itself may have done, through chance. In trying to account for the priority of mind to chance, I said that the definition of chance contains the notion of purpose, and that purpose is understood as that for the ( sake of which an intelligent being would act. And yet we cannot forget Aristotle's earlier suggestion that what is for a purpose is what might have been done filthfil from intelligence .Q.C ~ from nature.22 Thus, it seems that I have been ov.erhasty in claiming that we need to understand intelligent choice, as distinct from nature, in order to understand chance. However, the difficulty of even conceiving what it can mean for nature to act for a purpose has been our chief puzzle all along. And so let me suggest that natural ends themselves, like the ends that just happen to result from chance, can not be understood without a prior understanding of those ends that are pursued through intelligent • 23 choice. l Now it is true that when Aristotle first speaks of purpose in the Physics, he makes no explicit reference to intelligence or choice. What he says, rather, is that "nature," by which he means the form of a natural being, "is an end and [that] for the sake �18 of which; for in the case of those beings whose motion is continuous and has some end, this last stage is also that for the sake of which. " 24 And yet he has to add immediately that not just .a.D¥ last stage of a being's continuous motion is a true end or purpose; after all, he observes, it was ridiculous of the poet - presumably a comic poet -- to say that • death was the purpose for which a certain man had been born. Aristotle goes on to explain that only the best kind of last stage wishes to be an end; and he speaks repeatedly of ends or purposes as being, or as wishing to be, what is better or best. 25 But to be better or best presupposes a range of alternatives, and some being with the intelligence to compare these alternatives and to choose among them . Accordingly, all knowledge of what it is to be an end, including a natural end, depends on knowledge of the features of intelligent choice. My argument has now shown, I think, how Aristotle could justify his claim that even on the hypothesis that our world emerged through chance, mind would still be prior in causality to chance. But it has not made sense of the other half of Aristotle's claim, namely, that nature would also, on this hypothesis, be prior to chance. For I have not relied on the assumption that nature, as distinct from mind, acts for the sake of ends. But unless nature does act in this way, it is not even clear how it differs from chance, let alone how it must be prior to it. After all, chance happenings themselves are of such a kind that they m.igb1 have come about for the sake of ends. Now there is one difference between nature and chance, which I alluded to earlier, when I said that congenital �19 impairments and deformities in natural beings are not precisely from chance. For Aristotle's definition of chance included a criterion that I have not yet mentioned, namely, that the causes of chance results must be external. 26 Congenital impairments and deformities, by contrast, are said to have an internal cause. And it is not only such h deformities in natural beings that can be distinguished from chance results on the basis of this criterion. Their normal development is also said to originate from a cause within themselves. 27 Thus, the normal growth of living beings is said to be from nature, rather than chance, since it begins from a parental seed, which has within itself, as the parent did already, the power to initiate those motions that lead to a mature animal or plant. On the other hand, Aristotle thinks, rightly or wrongly, that in some species of living beings the usual mode of generation is spontaneous, La., from chance. Such generation comes about, he says, because the material, such as putrefying slime, from which these animals or plants begin their development can be moved by itself with the kind of motion that more typically must be caused in maternal residue by a paternal seed. 28 In generation from chance, then, the original source of motion is something other than the kind of being that results from it; and in general, we can distinguish nature, as an internal -source of change, from all external causes such as chance. Still, however, this criterion by itself does not suffice to explain why natural motion is said to be for a purpose. And neither does it allow us to understand Aristotle's claim that nature must be prior to '--. chance. Indeed, the view that nature is only an internal cause of motion adds an �20 additional reason for doubt on this score. After all, the survival, growth, and reproduction of natural beings are dependent on a great many external conditions. Accordingly, nature, or at least the nature of each kind of perishable being that we know of here on earth, must depend for its very existence on something else - either on some higher &> 29 principle of order or else on chance. And on the hypothesis that our world as a whole emerged through chance, chance would seem to be prior to nature, rather than the other way around. If, moreover, one holds that the world as a whole emerged through chance, it becomes all the harder to see how there could be a purpose behind the internal development of particular natural beings. And some of Aristotle's philosophic predecessors had in fact argued that there was none. Aristotle recasts their argument in the form of a perplexity, as follows. Zeus does not cause rain, the argument begins, in order to make the crops grow, any more than it rains in order to damage the crops on some poor farmer's threshing-floor; rather, the rain falls by necessity as the evaporated moisture rises and then cools, and it just happens to be advantageous or harmful for human beings. And if such blind causality is the truth behind the apparently benevolent order of the world as a whole, what prevents there being the same kind of causality at work in the formation of particular natural beings? This argument acknowledges that the parts of organic beings are suitably arranged for the activities through which they survive and reproduce. But it claims that these arrangements first originated from blind necessity, as �21 did many others, and that it merely turned out that these were serviceable, as the others were not, for survival and reproduction. The animals and plants that we see around us continue to survive because their parts turned out as. if they had been organized for a purpose; but they were not organized for any purpose in fact. Aristotle admits that one might be perplexed by this attempt to explain away the apparent purposiveness in the structure of organic beings, but he denies that things could have happened in the way that it suggests. He offers in rebuttal a whole series of arguments that nature is truly a cause for the sake of something. And at least the first of these arguments suggests that natural purposiveness is not limited to the internal ( structure of organic beings. For instead of granting the premise that the causes of rain are indifferent to good and bad, and arguing that the parts of living beings are nevertheless arranged for a purpose, he disputes even about the rain, or at least about its seasonal pattems. 30 Apparently, then, he agrees that it does not make sense to think of nature as acting for a purpose within a limited realm unless the world as a whole is ordered for the sake of ends. Unfortunately, however, this first in his series of arguments for natural' purpose is extremely problematic. And yet partly for this very reason, it is of such importance that I wish to go through it in detail. Aristotle begins by saying that "these things, and indeed all things that are by nature, come into being either always or for the most part in the same way," but that "nothing that is from luck or from chance does so." In support of �22 this assertion about luck and chance, he adds that "it is not believed to be from luck or from coincidence" - which latter term appears to be a synonym for chance -- "when there are frequent rains in winter, but [only] if they come during the dog days [~. in summer]." Similarly, he says, "heat during the dog days is not [believed to be from luck or from coincidence], but [only] if [it happens] in winter." 31 Now it is noteworthy that the explicit basis for Aristotle's claim that normal weather patterns are not from coincidence is what is commonly believed. For those who make the argument against him, and who speak of a temporal origin of the various species of living beings, would object that common opinion has too limited a time frame, and that the patterns whose regularity it is struck by exist only for a short time, in the light of eternity, as does our world itself. 32 They would say that even if the persistence of these regular patterns is not merely coincidental, but a necessary consequence of the elements in their juxtaposition, the whole order within which these patterns exist is the temporary and unintended aftereffect of an original coincidence. And yet despite the obviousness of this objection, Aristotle does not even attempt to justify, at least not here, his reliance on the common perspective regarding the permanence of our world; and by being explicit about this reliance, he calls attention to the question of whether that perspective is adequate. Aristotle continues his argument as follows: "If, then, [things] are believed [to be] either from coincidence or for the sake of something, and if it is not possible for these things to be either from coincidence or from chance, they would be for the sake of some- �23 thing." 33 Now this conclusion follows, of course, if its premises are sound. But the premise that things must be either from coincidence or else for the sake of something is open to doubt. For what about the bad things that happen always or for the most part? In particular, what about the death that comes inevitably to all living beings here on earth? The fact that birth is followed by death is no mere coincidence, if anything is not, and yet it is hard to see a purpose for it. Aristotle helps us, moreover, to see the dubiousness of the claim that being from coincidence or else being for a purpose is an exhaustive alternative by explicitly basing this premise too on common opinion. And a further sign that he is aware of its weakness is that he dqes not go on to claim that everything by nature is for a purpose, even though he had begun his argument by asserting that everything by nature comes about always or for the most part in the same way. For if nothing that happens with such regularity can be from coincidence, as he asserts, and if being from coincidence and being for a purpose are the only alternatives, it would follow that everything by nature is. for a purpose. And yet, to repeat, Aristotle does not even claim that this is true. What he says, rather, is that if the particular things in question, such as normal weather patterns or the arrangement of parts in living beings, cannot be from coincidence or from chance, then ~ things would be for a purpose. By thus retreating from the full implications of his argument, Aristotle suggests that this more limited conclusion, regarding the parts of organic beings and the like, is not meant to rely wholly on the reasons that have been made explicit. Finally, Aristotle �24 concludes his over-all argument by observing that all such things are by nature, so that there is purpose, or "the for the sake of something," among the beings that come into being and that are by nature. But this final conclusion, since it is based on the previous one, can also not be justified by the explicit argument alone. The disregard, in Aristotle's explicit argument, of natural evils such as death is closely related to its other difficulty, its failure to respond to his adversaries' contention about the origin of the world. For whatever weaknesses there may be in the doctrine that our world order, and in particular its species of living beings, emerged through chance and ne_cessity alone, this view certainly allows for a straightforward account of death and other natural evils. And so by pointing to his awareness that he has failed to acknowledge these evils in his own argument, Aristotle calls still further attention to his having left it open, at least for now, that his adversaries might be right about the question of ultimate origins. But what, then, is the basis for Aristotle's emphatic assertion, throughout this whole series of arguments and elsewhere, that the end or purpose is a cause of natural development? For if there is no evidence that such development is initiated by a selfmoving, intelligent agent, and if the possibility must even remain open that life itself first emerged through chance and blind necessity alone, how can he speak with such confidence of purposes or ends in nature? Now to answer this question, we must begin by noting that whatever the origin of life, if it had an origin, and whatever the more �25 immediate moving causes of natural development may be, it remains.true.that this motion issues regularly, throughout human experience, in living beings whose parts work wonderfully well together in carrying out their life activities. These activities, such as nutrition, reproduction, perception, locomotion, and thought, are the manifestations of the form, or soul, of the being in question, and this form cannot be understood in the light of its material conditions alone. Rather, it is only in the light of the form that the material conditions can be seen as what they are. The bodily organs of a living being must be seen as instruments for performing its characteristic activities, activities. without some of which, at least, the body itself would cease to exist; and even the more ultimate conditions of life must be understood, at least in part, in the light of their contribution to ( this end. 34 Accordingly, even if in general the term of natural development plays no role at all in initiating it, as it would do if.it were a purpose in the strict sense, the notion of purpose, or of what something is good for, remains central to the proper understanding of natural beings. And since living beings become what they most truly are by attaining their mature form, their typical growth toward maturity must also be seen in the light of this end. This is not to deny that mature development may indeed result from the same kind of blind necessity, given certain conditions, as does deformity or premature death, given certain others. But as words like "deformity," "mature," and "premature" themselves already suggest, we nonetheless see·these outcomes either as successes or as failures of a tendency toward a natural goal. We can disregard, or pretend not to �26 notice, this privileged status of the mature form; but it remains an inescapable fact of the world as it presents itself to our experience. Now these conclusions, to repeat, are independent of the question whether the world as a whole emerged through chance. And thus the centrality of form to the understanding of natural beings also allows us to make sense of the claim that even if the world did emerge through chance, nature would still be a prior cause of it. For the world consists primarily of natural beings, and of living beings in particular, which are properly seen as what they are in the light of their forms. Hence knowledge of these natural forms, and of these forms as the normal ends of growth, is presupposed by the very question of whether the beings they characterize, or even the world as a whole, first .originated through chance. Nature as form and as the end of motion is necessarily prior to chance, at least in the sense that chance can not be understood without a prior knowledge of this nature, just as we saw that it could not be understood without a prior knowledge of the features of intelligent choice. 35 This notion of the mature form as the end of natural development is a far cry from the strict sense of purpose, according to which the end is anticipated by thought and thus helps to initiate the motions that lead up to its realization. And much of the difficulty in understanding Aristotle's account stems from the fact that he has blurred the distinction between these two senses of final cause. Now it would have been easy enough for him to insist on this distinction, and so I conclude that he chose not to, even though it is �27 only the weaker sense of final cause that he regards as being applicable to nature in general. In other words, I contend, he consciously wrote in such a way as to mislead his readers. Now I know that it will strike many of you as an odd suggestion that Aristotle would thus mislead his readers, and especially in what seems to be a purely theoretical account of the natural world. And yet there is considerable support for this suggestion, at least in general, among the ancient and medieval commentators. Themistius, for instance, writing in the fourth century of our era, practically begins his paraphrase of the Posterior Analytics by saying that "many of the books of Aristotle appear to have been 36 contrived with a view to concealment ...." Simplicius, writing two centuries later, concludes the introductory section of his commentary on the Physics with a fuller statement of the same thought. He says, and I quote, that [Aristotle's) writings are divided into two classes, into the exoteric ones, such as those in the form of inquiries and dialogues and in general those that are not concerned with the highest accuracy, and into the esoteric ones, [or those that are meant for hearing onlyJ, which include this treatise [i..e.., the Physics]; and in the[seJ esoteric ones, he deliberately introduced obscurity, repelling by this means those who are too easy-going, so that it might seem to them that they had not even been written. 37 And still later, in the tenth century, the Islamic philosopher Alfarabi wrote in his "Harmonization of the Opinions of Plato and Aristotle" that whoever inquires into Aristotle's sciences, peruses his books, and takes pains with them will not miss the many modes of concealment, blinding and complicating in his approach, despite his apparent intention to explain and clarify.38 �28 This consensus, then, across the centuries, that Aristotle deliberately concealed some of his thought should help make it at least conceivable that my interpretation of his account of natural purpose is correct. But why, you will ask, would Aristotle write books in which he deliberately concealed his thought? Now the primary answer to this question, an answer that will seem surprising only to those who are unfamiliar with political conditions in the ancient world, is the fear of persecution. We are told, in fact, that despite all his precautions, Aristotle was indicted on the charge of impiety late in his life and that he had to flee Athens in order to escape the fate of Socrates. And underlying this charge against Aristotle is the fact that the study of nature was not in his time a respectable pursuit. Those who devoted themselves to natural philosophy were suspected of being atheists and corruptors of the young, and even Plato's Socrates did not try to dispel this suspi•cion at his trial, choosing instead to deny that he had ever been a natural philosopher himself. 39 Now in this precarious situation for the study of nature, Aristotle undertook the project of trying to make it a permissible, and even a respectable, activity. And largely for this reason, I think, he exaggerated the extent of his agreement with popular beliefs about the world - such as the popular belief that things happen, in general, for a purpose - and he concealed from his less careful readers much of his deepest thought about nature and the divine. He was, moreover, quite successful in this project of _winning respectability for the study of nature. One measure of his success is the unbroken tradition of commentary on his works that extended for several millennia after �29 his death, a tradition to which we largely owe the little that still survives from the writings of his predecessors in natural philosophy. However, fear of persecution and concern for the respectability of natural science are not the only reasons for Aristotle's willingness to accommodate the expression of his thought to popular opinion. T~'1ere are also educational reasons, which stem from his insight that natural science, unlike mathematics, is necessarily an ascent from what is more familiar to us, in all its confusion, toward what is clearer or more knowable by na40 ture. Given our remoteness from the ultimate causes of things, natural philosophy can not be taught as a deductive science, but must begin, at least, as an ascent from common opinion. Thus, for instance, insight into the truth that natural beings become what they most truly are by attaining their mature form emerges more or less directly as a refinement of the common belief in higher purposes. 41 And one of the surest ways to prevent access to this insight is dogmatically to reject that common belief or dogmatically to pretend that it doesn't matter whether its claims are true. For these reasons as well, then, Aristotle first presents himself as being in fuller agreement with that belief than he really is. In conclusion, let me return briefly to the question of the origin of the world. For although my account of why Aristotle speaks of nature as an end is compatible - as is the bulk of the Physics - with the possibility that our world emerged through chance, the fact remains that the final book of the Physics and the first book of Qn the Heavens contain elaborate arguments for its being eternal. And since Aristotle also claims, as I mentioned earlier, that the highest principle of the world is a divine mind, he holds out �30 the hope that natural motion is somehow, in a way that we may never perhaps be able to understand, activity for a purpose in the strict sense of the word. Yet I do not think that Aristotle himself could have placed much stock in a suggestion that anything other than a self-moving, intelligent agent - which the divine mind of his theology is not - can act for a purpose in the strict sense. 42 And at all events, there is a more importanF reason for his attempt to show that the world as we know it is eternal, and dependent on an intelligence more or less like our own. For if it is not, this does not necessarily mean that it is the product of natural elements that have come together by chance; there is also the possibility that it owes its existence to the will of a mysterious god or gods. And in that case, what we call nature would be at most a subordinate order whose continuance depends on the sufferance of this god or these gods; 43 and so science, or the attempt to understand nature in the light of its intelligible principles, would be a questionable and perhaps even a wholly misguided_pursuit. Accordingly, Aristotle's own theology, and the associated doctrine of the eternity of the world, serves above all as a response to this radical challenge to the scientific enterprise. It is not, however, an adequate response to it, since his arguments for the eternity of the world, at any rate, are inconclusive. Indeed, some of the deficiencies in these arguments are so manifest, it seems to me, that Maimonides must surely be correct to say, in The Guide Qf too Perplexed, that Aristotle himself did not regard them as genuine demonstrations. 44 Aristotle either had some other way, then, of justifying the life of science, and its first premise that the world is a natural one, or else he too must have been perplexed by this fundamental question. �31 ENDNOTES 1. Chance aruf. Necessity. Jacques Monod, translated from the French by Austin Wainhouse (New York: Vintage Books, 1972), p. 21. The claim made in this passage is significantly qualified on p. 41 (which should be read in connection with p. 104, along with the slightly more tentative remarks on pp. 112-113). The original claim is restored, however, on pp. 176-177. Note also the quotation marks around the word "true" on pp. 21 and 176. 2. Ib.e Philosophical Works Qf Descartes. translated by Elizabeth Haldane and G.R.T. Ross, Volume One (London: Cambridge University Press, 1972), p. 173; contrast. however, p. 194. 3. Principia. Volume ll, JJN System Qf ~ Wfill.d., Motte's Translation Revised by Florian Cajori (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1934), pp. 543-544. Compare p. 546 and pp. 668-670. 4. Ihe Evolution SJf Physics, Albert Einstein and Leopold lnfeld (New York: Touchstone Books. 1966), p. 31 . 5. See, for instance. Qn ~ Sm!.l 415a22-b21; Qn 1lle. E.ar1s. Qf Animals 641 b23-33; Qn ~ Generation Qf Animals 730b8-32; Physics 199a20-b14. 6. Physics 194a21-22; 199a 15-17. 7. Qn ~ J:.am. of Animals 641b10-12; Qn ~ Heaven 291b13-14, 271a33; Politics 1256b20-22; Posterior Analytics 94b36. I 8. See Qn ~ Eans. Qf Animals 641 b10-23; compare Plato, Philebos 30a9-c8; ~ 885e 7-886a4. • • 9. Physics 196a24-b5. 10. Physics 198a2-4. 11 . Physics 196b21-22; 198a3-6; cf. 197a5-6 and 197b18-22. 12. cf. Aristotle's "Physics" (Books 1aruf.11), translated with introduction and notes by W. Charlton (London: Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 109-110. 13. Physics 198a5-12. 14. Physics 192a34-b1; 198b1-4 (but contrast 224b5-6). �32 15. Physics 194b26; Compare Charles H. Kahn, "The Place of the Prime Mover in Aristotle's Teleology," in Aristotle .Qil Nature and .LMng Things: Philosophical and Historical Studies Presented tQ D.aYid. ~ Balme (Pittsburgh: Mathesis Publications, 1985), pp. 182-205. See also Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica I, 0 .2, A.3; 1-11, O.40, A.3. 16. Physics 192a16-19. 17. See, for instance, Metaphysics 1072b13-14; Qn the Heaven 279a22-30. 18. Qn too Heavens 292a14-22; 285a29-30; Qn the Motion Qf Animals 700b25-32; Metaphysics 1072a19-b4; 1073a22-b1. 19. Compare Metaphysics 1018b14-37; Categories 14a26-b8. 20. Compare Wolfgang Wieland, Qie. aristotelische Physik, 2nd edition (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1970), pp. 259-260. 21. Contrast Metaphysics 1051a34-b6 with 1027b18-1028a6. See also Qntb.eSo.ui 426a15-26; 430a19-22; 431a1-4; and compare Physics 223a16-29. 22. Physics 196b21-22; cf. endnote 10. 23. Physics 194a28-30 ff. Translations from the Greek are my own. 24. Physics 194a32-33; 195a23-26; 198b8-9; 198b16-17. 25. Physics 197b18-22; 197b35-37; 196b34-197a2. 26. Physics 192b8-32: 199b14-17; and contrast 197a1-2. 27. Metaphysics 1034b4-7; cf. 1032a25-32; Qn the Generation of Animals 715b25-30; 762a8-763b16; History of Animals 539a21-25; 547b18-23. 28. Consider Posterior Analytics 95a3-6. 29. Cf. David Furley, "The Rainfall Example in Physics ii 8," in Aristotle QD Nature and .Living Things: Philosophical and Historical Studies Presented tQ DaY.k1 ~ Balme (Pittsburgh: Mathesis Publications, 1985), pp. 177-182. 30. Physics 198b34-199a3. 31. John M. Cooper claims that Aristotle's argument is based on the premise of the eternity of our world. See his "Hypothetical Necessity and Natural Teleology," in ebikc sophical Issues in Aristotle's Biology, ed. Gotthelf and Lennox (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 243-274, especially pp. 246-253. Compare, however, Meteorology 347a5-6, where Aristotle himself says that the season.al cycle of the rains �-' •,::-_... ~ 33 merely "wishes (emphasis mine) to be perpetual in its order," ... Kat TouT' iv8EAEXES l0EAEL -yt-yvEa0at KaTci 'YE TTJV Tci{tv. 32. Physics 199a3-5. 33. Physics 199b34-200a32. See also 199b5-7. 34. Cf. Qn 1b.e .P.ar:ts. 2f Animals 646a8-647a3. 35. See above pp. 16-18. 36. See above p. 15. Cf. Maimonides, The~ .Qf tw Perplexed, translated by Shlomo Pines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), Part II, Chapter 20, pp. 313=314. 37. TTOAA.a µev oov EOLKE TWV 'AptaTOTEAOIJS' ~l~AlWV ELS ETTlKpU!pLV µEµT)xavficr0m ... Themistius, Analyticorum Posteriorum Paraphrasis, in Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca, Volume 5, Part 1, ed. M. Wallies (Berlin: 1900), p. 1. 1 38. ALxfj 8€ 8t1JpT)µEVWV airrou TWV crunpaµµciTWV ELS TE Ta E~WTEPLKCl ola TO. 'taTOpLKCl Kal Ta 8taAO)'LKCl Kat CAWS Ta µT) aKpas rucpt~Etas cf>poVTL(OVTa Kai. ElsTa ciKpoaµanKci, wv Kal OVTTJ foTlv ,; rrpayµaTEta, lv To1s dKpoaµaTtKo1S cia<icf>ELaV ETTETT}8EUOE Sta TOUTTJS TOUS p<;t6uµOTEp01JS' QTTOKpouoµEvos-. rrap' ws Simplicius, 1n Aristotelis Physicorum Ubros Quattuor Pciores Commentana, in Commentana in Aristotelem Graeca. Volume 9, ed. H. Diels (Berlin: 1882), p. 8. lKetvots µT)BE -yEyp<icf>0m 8oKE1v. 39. Alfarabi, "Harmonization of the Opinions of Plato and Aristotle," unpublished translation by M. Galston, p. 9. Quoted with permission of the translator. 40. Plato. Apology of Socrates 18b4-c3; 19b2-d7; 26d 1-e2; contrast, however, Phaedo 96a6-99d2 ff. 41 . Physics 184a16-21; cf. Posterior Analytics 71 b33-72a5; Topics 141 a26-142a 16. 42. Compare the relation between Socrates' youthful hopes that he would learn from Anaxagoras how nature as a whole is ordered for the better and his mature effort to understand the beings in the light of their forms; Plato, Phaedo 97b8-1 00a 7. 43. Given the political constraints that I mentioned earlier in the text, and in the light of Aristotle's project to make science respectable, the evidence that he had a genuine concern with this radical alternative is necessarily sketchy. But one might note an astonishing example that he gives in Book One of the Physics to illustrate his response to those philosophers who had denied the possibility of becoming. The difficulty that led to their denial arose on the basis of a premise that Aristotle speaks of as being common to all the students of nature, namely that nothing comes into being from non-being. For •: . . �.,. 34 the only other alternative is coming into being from being, and yet this too seems impossible, since being already is. Aristotle's first response to this argument is that becoming is neither from being nor from non-being, except by concomitance; what comes into being does so from a being, to be sure, but not insofar as that being is a being, but rather insofar as it is not the being that comes from it. This is, of course, a plausible claim. But to illustrate it, he gives the example of a dog coming into being from a horse, and the example is so fantastic that modem editors have surmised, with no manuscript support except for a single variant reported as such by Simplicius, that the text needs to be emended. What I suggest instead is that Aristotle uses the strange example on purpose, in order to hint that this first, or "formal," attempt to show that becoming is possible fails to meet the underlying challenge, which is to show, rather, that becoming is limited to what is possible by nature. At any rate, he goes on to supplement this first argument with a second one, based on the distinction between possibility and actuality, and he adds that he has given a more precise account of this distinction elsewhere. [See Physics 191 a23-b34, ·especially 191 b20-21 , and compare 187a26-b1 and 188a31-34. On the distinction between possibility and actuality, see Metaphysics e.J Another indication of Aristotle's concern with the theoretical challenge that the question of the gods presents for science is found in the first chapter of Book Two of the Posterior Analytics, at the beginning of a long and difficult discussion of how we come to know the first principles of science or demonstration. Aristotle includes in that chapter, seemingly as a mere example of the "what is?" questions that must be answered for there to be science in the strict sense, the question "what is a god?" [See Posterior Analytics 89b23-35.J 44. Ib.e. Guide Qf ~ Perplexed, Part 11, Chapter 15, pp. 289-293. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 34 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The question of final causality in Aristotle's Physics Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on April 3, 1992 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1992-04-03 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. Physics. 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Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 45 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Thucydides : circa 460-400 B.C. Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on May 19, 1986 by David Bolotin. 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Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 22 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Aristotle on the principles of natural beings : Physics, book 1 Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in 1995 by David Bolotin. 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Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000280 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/bf1141512bb6534e0dfce68c50fba7d6.pdf dd8731522da0db58e3717aabedd03046 PDF Text Text ��������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 26 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The discussion of time in Aristotle's Physics Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on March 1, 1996 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996-03-01 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. Physics. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000304 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c1ae03052355f66c0c8b35ef9fb75eaa.pdf bf3dd4c34ee36dbfc5a427ff08c81eac PDF Text Text ������������������������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 41 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The life of philosophy and the immortality of the soul : an introduction to Plato Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in 1997 by David Bolotin. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Plato. Phaedo. Philosophy Immortality (Philosophy) Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000443 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/cbff1dc40eb7620071b4d21fb16dbdc5.pdf fd9082271c835964f33331154d394dd4 PDF Text Text ������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 23 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource On Aristotle's Parts of animals : book one, chapter one Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on September 2, 1998 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1998-09-02 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle -- Contributions in biology Animal nature Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000470 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/82bf7a49a6e2285432ad3fe9b8f84a3b.pdf b6b81e467ed3935b6a6cf058ae090bc6 PDF Text Text ���������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 27 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The concerns of Odysseus : an introduction to the Odyssey Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on September 16, 1998 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1988-09-16 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Homer. Odyssey. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000598 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/5a1db5b2b3c779f6c4783ffb4a8b7575.pdf 4b507e1e87cf48685695181db9181c49 PDF Text Text �������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 25 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Is there a right to live as we please? : (So long as we respect the right of others to do the same) Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on January 25, 2002 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2002-01-25 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804 -- Ethics. Locke, John, 1632-1704. Hobbes, Thomas, 1588-1679. Leviathan. Plato. Gorgias. Ethics -- History Liberty Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000621 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d63b02c11c5014993eb4cc18d603d85b.pdf 861d63eba2d554a8184abed01a2057be PDF Text Text ��������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 13 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource On Sophocles' Ajax Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on January 7, 1977 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1977-01-07 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Sophocles. Ajax. Ajax (Greek mythological figure) -- Drama Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000754 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/423d873589c3cdcfe4e18fb3be73484c.pdf ef657b8adcde0dc9153d93264df80396 PDF Text Text ������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 23 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Eleatic stranger and Parmenides in Plato's Sophist Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on January 28, 2004 by David Bolotin as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2004-01-28 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Plato. Sophist. Plato Eleatics Philosophy, Ancient Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000881 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/5f137a68293223dc39a2274aab3c918b.pdf fd8b0d4719762726a82a488d69fba459 PDF Text Text ������������������������������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 47 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The question of place in Aristotle's Physics Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in 1994 by David Bolotin. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bolotin, David, 1944- Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. Physics. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24003315 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/36bd9bb3f40d2f5c8aa89c1c1df3b371.pdf 4b9d5a444b0ec23556aece25a82e6e60 PDF Text Text Kant’s Grounding of a Dual Metaphysics1 James Carey – 03 07 2017 1. Metaphysics reinterpreted Prior to Kant, metaphysics was understood as the enquiry into being, into the different kinds of beings, and into how these beings are, as distinct from how they merely appear. Kant redefines metaphysics as a priori synthetic knowledge of objects. It is characterized by universality and necessity. Metaphysics is not derived from experience, which for him is always bound up with sensation. And yet metaphysics consists of more than mere definitions and what can be analytically or logically deduced from them. With this redefinition of metaphysics as a priori synthetic knowledge of objects there comes a new division. Metaphysics is divided into that of the speculative and that of the practical employment of pure reason, and is therefore either metaphysics of nature or metaphysics of morals.2 Kant grounds this dual metaphysics in the Critique of Pure Reason and in the Critique of Practical Reason, which attempt to show that we have a priori synthetic knowledge pertaining to both natural science and morality respectively. And Kant develops this dual metaphysics in the 1 A rewritten and expanded version of a lecture first given at St. John’s College, Santa Fe, in 1994, and again in 2017. 2 Critique of Pure Reason A 841, B 869 (emphasis in the original). Passages from this work are cited according to the first (A) and second (B) edition, the pagination of which is included in the margins of English translations. When A and B are both cited, the text appears in both editions, When A alone is cited, the text is found only in the first edition; and when B alone is cited, the text is found only in the second edition. I have made ample of use of Norman Kemp Smith’s translation of the Critique of Pure Reason, though altering it with some frequency in the interest of greater literalness. Unless otherwise noted, translations of passages from other works are my own. Passages quoted or translated directly from the German text are taken from Kritik der Reinen Vernunft, Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1956. Passages from other texts by Kant are taken from Werke in Zehn Banden (edited by Wilhelm Weischedel, Darmstadt: Wissenchaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1981 – Sonderausgabe), hereafter Werke. 1 �Metaphysical Foundation of Natural Science and the Metaphysics of Morals.3 In what follows I shall attempt to identify the ultimate ground of Kant’s dual metaphysics. Kant’s task is to give a solution to the problem of how man can have ends, or telē, while nonetheless dwelling within nature, which according to modern natural science is devoid of ends. It is by virtue of his reason that man is oriented toward theoretical and practical ends. Everything in nature works according to laws. Only a rational being has the ability to act according to the notion of laws, i.e., according to principles, or a will.4 Man is not just pushed and pulled through life by irresistible forces, or even instincts. He has immediate and incontestable awareness of himself as an agent. The evidence we have that we act, that we do things for the sake of ends, that is, with purposes in mind, and that we are not just acted upon by other things, is immediate, incontestable, and irrefutable by any theory, scientific or otherwise. No theory of natural science, however much it may contribute to our understanding of non-human nature, carries, or could carry, as much evidence in its favor as does our immediate awareness of acting for the sake of ends. We even think—as distinct from freely associating—for the sake of an end, minimally for subjective clarity and consistency, maximally for objective knowledge. And we are aware that we have to make some effort to achieve clarity, consistency, and knowledge. This effort, which we all experience, is immediate evidence of our teleological constitution. We can speculate or refrain from speculating about the origin of our 3 The Metaphysics of Morals should not be confused with the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals. Section 2, 412: “Ein jedes Ding der Natur wirkt nach Gesetzen. Nur ein vernünftiges Wesen hat das Vermögen, nach der Vorstellung der Gesetze d.i. nach Prinzipien zu handeln, oder einen Willen.” (Emphasis in the original.) Werke, Band 6, 41. 4 2 �teleological constitution, as we wish. But we cannot explain it away.5 Our orientation toward ends is the genuine “first for us.” According to Aristotle and his followers, man is at home within a world, within a cosmos that is itself teleological. Not only plants and animals, but simple bodies at one extreme and stars at the other, all seem to exhibit teleology, as does the very topology of the cosmos: things have their proper places, and when displaced from them by force, they return to them by nature. Enforced motion is virtually defined by Aristotle as motion contrary to nature.6 With the scientific revolution of early modernity, the Aristotelian perspective got seriously called into question. The distinction between celestial and terrestrial bodies collapsed, as did the distinction between natural and enforced motion. Modern natural science attempted to demonstrate that, in the case of inanimate beings, motion can be explained by mechanical or push-pull, causality alone. And the hope was held open that the motion of animate beings, man included, could be explained the same way. Natural ends came to be regarded as superfluous principles. Kant is in general agreement with modern science in its non-teleological account of non-human human nature. But Kant is in general agreement with Aristotle in his teleological account of human nature, though the specifics of his account of human nature differ in important ways from Aristotle’s. Kant’s metaphysics of nature consists of a body of interrelated a priori synthetic propositions or judgments. The architectonic propositions pertaining to the metaphysics of nature are the concern of roughly the first half of the Critique of Pure Reason. I shall focus on only one 5 It is as self-evident as any law of logic that we act for the sake of ends, for pleasure and knowledge among other things. If modern science cannot make sense of this fact, then modern science needs to restrict the scope of its claims or revisit its presuppositions, or both. 6 Physics 215a1-4. 3 �of these: “Every event has a cause,” or as Kant also puts it, “All alterations take place in conformity with the law of the connection of cause and effect.” Kant agrees with Hume that the proposition, “Every event has a cause,” cannot be strictly inferred from experience. We see an event, A, followed by another event, B. But we do not see A cause B. We see one event happen after another, to be sure. We see temporal consecution all the time and in recurring patterns. But we never see temporal connection, no matter how many times we see B followed by A. The regularity with which B follows A does not permit us to infer, by any known rule of logic, that A causes B. (And it is for that reason that we sometimes make mistakes in predicting that B will follow A.) Moreover, even if we could see in a given case that A causes B, we would not be able to logically infer, given our spatially and temporally limited experience, that whenever A occurs again it will cause B again, or even be followed by B. We cannot logically infer even that every time B occurs it must have a cause, much less that everything that has ever happened, is happening now, or ever will happen, must have a cause. Such a so-called inference is only an empirical generalization. It lacks any claim to apodicticity inasmuch as it is always colored by some tincture, however slight, of dubitability. Because I can think of an event without having to think of its having a cause, I can think without logical contradiction of its not having a cause at all. And the same is true of an act, whether construed as event within time or as an act of some other kind.7 I can think, without logical contradiction, of an act’s not having any cause at all. And so I can also think, without contradiction, of an event or an act’s being its own cause. There is nothing logically contradictory about a free act. The stakes, it should be obvious, are rather high regarding what we can and cannot know about causality. 7 The possibility of an act that does not occur within time, and hence is not an event in the ordinary sense of the word, will be considered in Section 8, below. 4 �The judgment, “Every event must have a cause,” cannot then be known from experience, or as Kant says, a posteriori. If it can be known at all, it can be known only a priori, that is, without relying on experience. But if the judgment, “Every event must have a cause,” is an a priori judgment, it is not an analytic judgment. There is nothing in the mere concept of an event, of something that happens, that enables me to logically infer that it must, or even does, have a cause. (And if I say that to be an event means to have cause, then I am simply begging the question.) The judgment, “Every event must have cause,” if it is to be a knowable truth, must be both a priori and synthetic. It can be validated only by a new kind of argument, one that is neither empirical nor analytic-semantic. Kant calls this new kind of argument “transcendental,” because it transcends, or prescinds from, all particular content of experience—of sense experience—relying on none of it, and attempts to exhibit what makes experience possible in the first place.8 Kant’s well known formulation of the question—“How are a priori synthetic judgments possible?”—is somewhat misleading. For it could seem to suggest that Kant first assumes the existence of a priori synthetic judgments, and then tries to show how the mind would have to be constituted for there to be such judgments.9 But, as the best readers of Kant have pointed out, this style of argument cannot lead to the conclusion that every event must have a cause, but only to the conclusion that, if every event must have a cause, and if this proposition is knowable, then the mind must possess certain cognitive faculties (or cognitive abilities—Erkenntnisvermögen) 8 A 11, B 25; Cf. A 295-296, B 351-353. In the Introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant argues that there are a priori synthetic judgments in mathematics. His argument there serves chiefly as an incentive for seeking such judgments elsewhere. Even if, as many twentieth century logicians have argued, all judgments of mathematics are analytic and not synthetic, that fact, by itself, would not undermine Kant’s argument for a priori synthetic judgments functioning as architectonic propositions for knowledge of nature. 9 5 �whereby it is able to know this.10 Such a procedure would prove neither that every event must have a cause nor that the mind really does possess faculties enabling it to know this.11 Such a way of arguing is not fruitless, however. It is in fact the sole procedure of Kant’s Prolegomena. In that comparatively short and introductory book, Kant says that he “proceeds from that which is sought, as if it were given, and ascends to the conditions under which alone it is possible.”12 Kant calls this way of proceeding, “analytic” or “regressive.” The way of proceeding in the Critique of Pure Reason, however, he calls “synthetic or progressive.” Rather than assuming that every event must have a cause, Kant establishes, or attempts to establish, solely by considering how the human mind operates, that it really does possess faculties whereby it can know, indeed constitute, objects and events. He attempts to show that that one of the ways in which the mind constitutes objects and events is in accordance with the category of cause and effect—with the result that every event must have a cause. There is a problem, however. In the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant employs both analytic and synthetic procedures.13 And that leads some to say, understandably but falsely, that the Critique of Pure Reason presupposes modern mathematical physics as a body of truth, in order to validate modern mathematical physics as a body of truth—which is, of course, a fallacy. The deepest stratum of Kant’s argument in the Critique of Pure Reason does not commit this fallacy. The difficulty is in identifying the deepest stratum of his argument. 10 In Beyond Good and Evil, § 11 “On the Prejudices of the Philosophers,” Nietzsche has a merry time making fun of Kant’s use of the word “faculty” (Vermögen).” But Nietzsche’s criticism, such as it is, is not particularly penetrating. According to Kant, the human mind has the ability (another, less technical sounding, translation of Vermögen) to be affected; and it also has a quite different ability, namely the ability to think, in particular to judge. If Kant is right about this, then nothing of importance turns on his naming the former the “faculty of sensibility and the latter the “faculty of understanding.” 11 See Robert Paul Wolf, Kant's Theory of Mental Activity (Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1973), pp. 44-56. 12 Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, Preamble § 5 fn. 13 Kant employs both ways of arguing in the Critique of Pure Reason for the sake of thoroughness. The synthetic procedure only heuristically presupposes the analytic procedure. It does not logically presuppose the analytic procedure. That is to say, the synthetic procedure does not employ its hypothetically-conditioned result of the analytic procedure as an actual premise. 6 �This difficulty is greatly augmented by the rugged contours of Kant’s text. The first edition of the Critique of Pure Reason, published in 1781, was put together in a relatively short period of time. But Kant developed his main theses over the course of the preceding twelve years or so. According the prevailing though not universally accepted hypothesis, which has both soft and hard versions, the Critique of Pure Reason is something of a “patchwork,” including sentences and paragraphs written at different times during the decade prior to its publication. It is not hard to find inconsistencies and obscurities in his presentation.14 Moreover, Kant can be imprecise in his terminology. The word “knowledge” (or “cognition”—Erkenntnis) usually means the conceptual grasping of a synthesized intuition in a judgment proper, but it sometimes means only the synthesized intuition itself. In spite of making a rather sharp distinction between “transcendent” and “transcendental,” Kant occasionally uses the latter when he means the former. He makes a major distinction between a mere “form of intuition” and a “formal intuition,” but often uses the one word “intuition” for both. He distinguishes between two kinds of “synthesis,” but one has to determine from the context which synthesis he has in mind when he uses this word. Kant also uses the important word “unity” in more than one way. Most problematically, as we shall see, he sometimes speaks of “the understanding” in distinction from “the imagination,” but sometimes as including it. The reader who does want to dismiss Kant is inclined to blame himself for his confusion. But Kant is largely responsible for the confusion. If he were not saying something of immense significance, the reader would be justified in refusing to follow him through the “thorny paths of the Critique of Pure Reason.”15 And there is a further problem. Kant made major revisions for the second edition, published in 1787; and up until his death he continued to refine his thoughts on questions and 14 15 Kant himself acknowledges this. See the Preface to the second edition, B xxxvii-xliv, B xliii. 7 �problems dealt with Critique of Pure Reason in notes and in other publications, culminating in the unfinished but rich and wide-ranging Opus Postumum. One cannot call the Critique of Pure Reason a “snapshot” of Kant’s thinking. It is more like a scrapbook containing photographs taken over a period of about fifteen years, and not always arranged in chronological order. But what Kant is getting at has to be considered, if only because of his influence, which is greater than that of any philosopher since Aristotle. If Kant’s general argument of the Critique of Pure Reason is sound, he has answered Hume, validating the conception of science as a truly objective enterprise, while at the same exploding its pretentions to disclose the deepest foundation of things; and he has destroyed metaphysics as classically conceived. His speculations stimulated the work of his greatest successors, both when they attempt to develop his thoughts further and when they react against him.16 Kant is the central figure in modern philosophy. The contemporary distinction between “analytic philosophy” and “continental philosophy” can be understood as a distinction between two ways of philosophizing, both motored in almost opposite directions, by Kantian discoveries or, as the case may be, inventions. Whether and to what extent Kant is breaking new ground or making things up in the Critique of Pure Reason can be determined only by attempting to enter into his way of thinking and suspending judgment on the value of his project until the whole of it is brought as clearly into 16 See Eckart Förster, The Twenty Five Years of Philosophy (translated by Brady Bowman, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2012). Förster treats the revolution in metaphysical thinking that Kant effected in the Critique of Pure Reason, and the remarkable developments in philosophy that occurred in the aftermath of its publication. In the opening pages of his book, Förster makes amply clear what Kant meant in his startling claim that “prior to the development of critical philosophy there had been no philosophy at all.” Förster’s book can be understood as a kind of justification of the word “The” in its title. One does not have to agree with Kant’s opinion of the prior history of metaphysical speculation to recognize the massive import of the Critique of Pure Reason and the necessity of coming to terms with this work for those who take a serious interest in philosophy. 8 �view as possible. Needless to say, what follows is only introductory exposition of the basic principles of his critical philosophy. 17 2. The two sources of human knowledge Kant’s distinctive interpretation of the human mind turns on his account of, and his sharp distinction between, intuitions and judgments. Kant tells us that it is by means intuition that the mind is in an immediate relation to objects (Gegenstande).18 He thinks that there are only two ways a mind could be in immediate relation to objects: it could immediately create them or it could be immediately affected by them. The former is how an infinite, or divine, mind (if there is such a thing), immediately relates itself to objects. The latter is how our finite, human mind is immediately related to objects. We are affected by them; and all we know of them immediately is that we are affected them. A divine mind (should one exist) would have an intellectual intuition, such that in actively creating things it would know them fully for what they are, not just as they 17 I have reservations of my own about various aspects of Kant’s project. Because it is not possible to take issue with Kant intelligently without understanding him first, I refrain from expressing my reservations in this introductory exposition. 18 When Kant speaks of being affected by objects (Gegenstande), at A 19, B34, he is not yet distinguishing between things-in-themselves and appearances. Sometimes Kant uses “object” (Gegenstand) as equivalent to “thing” (Ding). And in this sense he will speak both of “things-in-themselves” (e.g., A 26, B 42) and of “objects-in-themselves” (e.g., A 36, B 52). Kant also uses the word Objekt, which, like Gegenstand, is naturally translated into English as “object.” For a brief but clear summary of how Kant uses the words Gegenstand and Objekt, see the entry, “object,” in A Kant Dictionary. Caygill, Howard (ed). Blackwell Publishing, 1995 ( Blackwell Reference Online. 21 July 2007). Compare Kant’s use of Gegenstand and Objekt in the sentence at A 89, B 121 beginning, “Denn da nur vermittlest….,” with the use of Gegenstand in the sentence that immediately follows and with the definition of Objekt at B 137. On the basis of these two passages, we can say that when Kant is speaking carefully he uses the word Gegenstand broadly to name what (unlike a thing-in-itself) is within and present to the mind, though exclusive of the mind’s own acts (cf. infra, fn. 28.); and that he uses Objekt narrowly to name a Gegenstand that is conceptually unified. Objekt and Gegenstand are not exactly opposed. For every Objekt is a Gegenstand, though the reverse is not the case. Kemp Smith translates Gegenstand and Objekt both as “object,” which is an infelicitous solution to be sure, but one that is not so easy to improve on in an extended translation. In what follows I shall frequently place an “(o)” or a “(g)” after “object” and its derivatives, when I think something important turns, or could be thought to turn, on the distinction between Objekt and Gegenstand. 9 �appear but as they are “in themselves.”19 Our intuition, however, is not intellectual but sensible only. It gives us no access to things as they are “in themselves,” but only to things as they appear to us. Early in the Critique of Pure Reason, in the section titled the Transcendental Aesthetic, Kant argues that space and time are merely subjective conditions of receptivity. They are two indefinitely extended intra-mental vestibules in which we receive sense data entering from without. In space, the data are simultaneously given; in time, they are successively given. These data are not things. In fact, considered by themselves, they are not even appearances. They are only the matter of appearances. Appearances owe their unity and interconnection to something other than bare given-ness. If we abstract from the sensible filling, from the empirical data received within space and time, two forms of intuition remain; and they are precisely space and time. As forms of our sensible intuition, they do not pertain to things as they are in themselves. The human mind does not get space and time from experience because, Kant argues, we would have to receive them as empirical data—our intuition being, again, only sensible and not intellectual. But if the human mind received space and time from experience, it would need mental receptacles into which space and time could be received. Space and time, however, are themselves these very mental receptacles. And they are nothing more than this—or so Kant argues. Though we can imagine away all the empirical filling of space and time, such as shapes, colors, and events, we cannot imagine away space and time themselves. Kant regards this fact as evidence that space and time belong intrinsically to the human mind, that they are part of its a priori endowment. They are no 19 B 72. Kant speaks both of God’s possessing an intellectual intuition and of his possessing an intuitive understanding. B 145; cf. B 135. Eckart Förster makes a strong case that, contrary to the common assumption, Kant did not understand these two to be simply identical. The Twenty-Five Years of Philosophy, 144-152. 10 �more properties of things-in-themselves than the act of judging is. Perhaps things-in-themselves do exist in some kind spatio-temporal order “in-itself.” Since we cannot know exactly what things-in- themselves are, we cannot definitively rule this possibility out. But there is no reason, according to Kant, to think of things-in-themselves as spatially and temporally ordered in any sense. These and other arguments go to make up the Metaphysical Exposition of the concepts of space and time. In the Transcendental Exposition of these concepts he attempts to show that only as he has interprets them in the Metaphysical Exposition is it possible to have an a priori science of space and time.20 We understand geometry to be an a priori science of space, inasmuch as it does not rely on the particular content of experience—we do not need a laboratory and special equipment, nor do we need to engage in field research, to prove geometrical propositions.21 To be sure, we do proofs at a blackboard. But these proofs are not experiments. We all “see,” somehow, that takes it only one proof, illustrated with any isosceles triangle you like, to establishes that the base angles are equal in all isosceles triangles.22 We “see,” so to speak, that we do not have to repeat the proof with n number of isosceles triangles, breaking off arbitrarily when we are more or less satisfied that the evidence thus far is in favor isosceles triangles’ having their base angles equals. This “seeing” on the basis of one example is possible, Kant argues, because we recognize that space is homogenous in its character, that we shall never find out anything about any part of space, no matter how far away, no matter how small or large, that 20 Kant does not, as some have thought, infer the a priori character of space from the a priori character of geometry. Rather, it is only because space is an a priori endowment of the mind that there can be a priori science of it, i.e., geometry. See Rolf Peter Horstmann, “Transcendental Idealism and Space,” in Reading Kant—New Perspectives on Transcendental Arguments and Critical Philosophy, edited by Eva Schaper and Wilhelm Vossenkuhl, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989. 21 The possibility of an a priori science of time is more complicated. What Kant says in the Transcendental Exposition of Time (B 48-49) is developed at much greater length in the chapter entitled “Analogies of Experience.” 22 Euclid, Elements Bk. 1 Prop..5. 11 �is different from the space that is close by.23 If geometry is an a priori science, then space “as a whole” is present to, by virtue of being an intrinsic feature of, the human mind. So Kant argues; and he would challenge anyone who disagrees to show how we can be more confident about the findings of geometry than about the findings of a manifestly empirical science, such as physics which, unlike geometry, relies on repeated observations and experiments, arbitrarily broken off at some point and their findings empirically generalized into putatively necessary and universal laws of nature. The innate cognitive faculty that we have been considering Kant calls “sensibility.” It yields intuitions. The other innate cognitive faculty, which Kant calls the “understanding,” yields concepts (Begriffe) and judgments (which employ concepts). Sensibility puts us in an immediate but passive relation to objects (g); the understanding puts us in a mediate but active relation to objects.24 We have a faculty of understanding because, and only because, our intuition is sensible and affected by its object. If our intuition were intellectual and creative of its object (as God’s intellect is, if he exists), we would not need concepts. By means of sensibility, the human mind is 23 It is frequently said that non-Euclidean geometry poses a problem for Kant’s understanding of space, which is surely Euclidean. Lobachevsky and Riemann develop alternate geometries by denying, in opposite ways, Playfair’s axiom, which can be construed as a restatement of Euclid’s Fifth Postulate. If Kant had known of Lobachevsky and Riemann, he would likely have argued that these new geometries, like Euclid’s, also contain a priori synthetic propositions. For this is all Kant needs to support his claim, in the Introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason (and well in advance of the chapter titled “System of All Principles of Pure Understanding”) that a priori synthetic judgments are possible, more precisely, that they are actual, in the case of geometrical constructions most obviously. If certain appearances, met with in the empirical investigation of nature, turn out to be better accounted for by Lobachevskian or Riemannian geometry than by Euclidean geometry, that would be of very great interest to Kant, to be sure. And, in that he case, he would definitely have to modify some of his statements about the relation of geometry to experience. (Consider B 206- 207.) But he would likely deny that such findings require him to abandon his brief argument, in the Transcendental Aesthetic, that geometry per se consists of a priori synthetic (and demonstrable) propositions, whatever (non-refutable) postulates it may adopt, or that such findings require him to abandon his extended argument, in the Second Analogy, that all alterations take place in the conformity with the law of the connection of cause and effect. The burden would be on Kant’s critics to show otherwise. 24 See Gerhardt Krüger, Philosophie und Moral in der Kantischen Kritik (Tübingen: J.C.B Mohr, 1931), 16-21, on the “pre-critical” limitation of discursive thinking, or judgment, as such. 12 �affected; by means of the understanding, the human mind acts.25 Sensibility is merely open to what is given to it; it is the business of the understanding to connect and grasp (or comprehend— begreifen) what is given to sensibility. 26 And as the counterpart of the passivity of sensibility is the activity of the understanding, so the counterpart of the receptivity of sensibility is the spontaneity of the understanding—about which, more later. We judge by means of concepts. We predicate one concept of another in a categorical judgment, and we connect two or more judgments, consisting of concepts, with each other in hypothetical and disjunctive judgments. In the Metaphysical Deduction,27 Kant presents a table of judgments, from which he derives a table of categories. Categories are concepts, but they are not empirical concepts. The concept of a dog, for example, is empirical; it is gotten from experience. Not so, as we have seen, with the concept of cause and effect. This is a nonempirical, or pure, concept. And since we cannot get this concept from experience, or a posteriori, it is either a spurious concept, as Hume had suggested, or a concept that we possess a priori, a concept intrinsic to the operation of the human mind necessarily functions. Kant argues for the latter. 25 And so, according to Kant, though we do not know by creating things, as presumably God (if he exists) does, we do know by constituting objects (via concepts). In both cases, different as they surely are, knowing is active. It is not just passively “taking in.” 26 A concept (Begriff) is a kind of grasp (Griff—the English words, “conceive” and “comprehend,” have similar etymologies.) Kant regards a concept as placing its own imprint on what it grasps, so that what one knows through concepts is, in part, a product of the mind’s own operation. This is particularly true of pure concepts, i.e., categories. Kant’s claim that we cannot have knowledge without concepts, and that a concept contributes to knowledge only by unifying something that would otherwise lack unity, rules out metaphysics as classically conceived, that is, as knowledge of what is, in itself and independently of the unifying operations of the human mind. Any attempt to substantively rehabilitate classical metaphysics in the face of Kant’s critique requires developing a clear and consistent alternative to his account of what a concept is. 27 In the second edition version of the Transcendental Deduction, at B 159, Kant refers to the “Metaphysical Deduction,” in which he has attempted to prove the a priori origin of the categories. He does not use this expression as the title of any section of the Critique of Pure Reason, but it is generally agreed that he is referring to Chapter 1 of the Analytic of Concepts, especially to Sections 2 and 3 of that chapter. 13 �A judgment is not just a string of concepts. It has a coherence, actually a unity. According to Kant, judgments can be brought under four “heads” (Titel): quantity, quality, relation, and modality; and each of these is subdivided into three “moments.” There are then twelve forms of judgment. Each has its own unique unifying function. This unifying function Kant calls a category.28 Categories are concepts, but they are not empirical concepts. They are pure concepts that “apply (or extend—gehen) a priori to objects (o).”29 The twelve forms of judgment are not gotten from experience. They are, rather, intrinsic to the very way we think. Since the categories are unifying functions in these forms of judgement, the twelve categories are, like the forms of intuition—space and time—part of the original endowment of the human mind. A common criticism of Kant’s table of the categories—more precisely, of his table of judgments, from which the table of categories is derived—is that he has not demonstrated the table’s “completeness.” There are two different questions here that are not always kept distinct. (1) Does the table include too many forms of judgment? And (2) does the table include too few forms of judgment? 28 A 68, B 93: “By a ‘function’ I mean the unity of the act of ordering different representations under one common representation.” The German word translated here and elsewhere as “representation” is Vorstellung, literally a “placing-before.” A more accurate translation would be “presentation.” Kant uses Vorstellung broadly to name something that is simply present to the mind, which may or may not “represent” something outside the mind. Kant calls the apperceptive act, “I think,” a Vorstellung (e.g., at B 132; cf. B 157), and it certainly represents nothing outside the mind. Consider also the distinctively Kantian claim at beginning of § 14 that a certain kind of Vorstellung, namely a pure concept of the understanding, i.e., a category, is a priori determinate of its object (g) and not vice versa—something that would be impossible if Vorstellung always meant “representation” in the ordinary sense the word. (Kant could seem to confuse things at A 320, B 376. But the primary sense of the Latin repraesentatio, just like praesentatio, is simply a “placing before”, i.e., a “presentation.”) The German word Vorstellung does not carry with it the sense re-presenting, i.e., presenting again, a sense that in some contexts can be squeezed out of the English word “representation.” I translate Vorstellung as “representation” with misgivings. But this is how the word is typically rendered in English translations of Kant’s works (and also in English commentaries on his works). I am following suit so that passages that I quote can be located without confusion in the text. But the reader should keep in mind that the word “representation” here and in English translations of Kant’s works is a broad term that can stand for anything that is present to the mind, however much certain kinds of representations differ from each other. 29 A 79, B 105. 14 �To show that the table of judgments does not contain too many forms of judgment one need point to only a single judgment that expresses a quantity, a quality, and relation, and a modality. Take the judgment, “All dogs are animals.” This judgment has a quantity: universal (and not, say, particular). It has a quality: affirmative (and not, say, negative). It has a relation: categorical (and not, say, hypothetical). And it has a modality: necessary. Unlike the quantity, quality, and relation expressed in the judgment, “All dogs are animals,” the modality is unexpressed. But it is easy to add it in: “All dogs are necessarily animals.” This is an analytic judgment. Even though the concepts, dog and animal, derive from experience, they are so closely connected that being an animal pertains to the very meaning of being a dog: if it is not an animal, then it is not a dog. This particular judgment and countless others like it contain a quantity, a quality, a relation, and a modality (even if unexpressed). All four of these characteristics are embedded in these judgments. Hence the table does not contain too many forms of judgment. No less than four distinct forms of judgment are identifiable in judgments of the type that we have just considered.30 Kant’s table of judgments is not excessive.31 Is it, however, deficient? Does it contain too few forms of judgment? This is quite a different question: and it concerns the “completeness” of the table in the precise sense of the 30 That each of the four general characteristics of judgment exhibits three subtypes (amounting to a total of twelve forms of judgment) is, I think, easy to see. The only ambiguous case is quality. Kant thinks that the infinite judgment “A is non-B” is distinct from the negative judgment, “A is not B.” The infinite judgment (unlike the negative judgment) says that “A” is something, but (unlike the affirmative judgment) it names this “something” only negatively. And yet, “only negatively,” is somewhat misleading, inasmuch as the whole indefinitely extended class of “non-B” is predicated of “A.” So the form of “A is non-B” is distinguishable, in transcendental (vs. general) logic), from both of the other two forms, “A is B” and “A is not B.” Cf. A 71-73, B 97-98. 31 A judgment that might appear to lack one of these characteristics can easily be shown, on reformulation, to possess it implicitly. The judgment, “John drinks beer,” can be reformulated, somewhat awkwardly but without essential modification of its sense, as “John is a beer drinker.” This judgment is singular in quantity, negative in quality, and categorical in relation. Its unexpressed modality is likely assertoric. The one making this judgment likely intends it neither as apodictic (“John must be a beer drinker”) nor as problematic (“John may be a beer drinker”). I say “likely” here because, if the modality of a judgment is unexpressed, we can determine what it is with confidence only by asking the speaker what he intends. But whatever uncertainty we might have regarding what the modality of a given judgment is does not mean that it lacks a modality. A judgment essentially lacking modality is not a judgment at all. 15 �word. Does this individual judgment, “All dogs are (necessarily) animals,” according to its form, exhibit a fifth general characteristic, like quantity, quality, relation, and modality, distinct from but on a level with these. It is hard, to say the least, to see how it does. What could it be? Still, one might ask, is there not perhaps some other individual judgment that exhibits a fifth general characteristic in addition to quantity, quality, relation, and modality? This question obviously cannot be answered by taking every possible individual judgment and examining it to see if it happens to exhibit a fifth general characteristic on a level with quantity, quality, relation, and modality, for there is no limit to the number of possible individual judgments. Kant can challenge his critic to find a single individual judgment that does exhibit this (ostensibly) fifth general characteristic. And, in the absence of such a finding, Kant can plausibly argue that his table is complete: there are only four general characteristics of judgment. Rather than advance either a definitive argument for his table’s not containing too many forms of judgment (as I have tried to do in the preceding paragraph) or a plausible argument for his table’s not containing too few forms of judgment (as I have tried to do in this paragraph) Kant advanced no argument in the Critique of Pure Reason at all.32 It should be noted, however, that if his table in fact contains too few forms of judgment, then the derived table of categories contains too few categories as well. And, in that case nature, as the complex of phenomena governed by a priori laws prescribed to it by the human understanding,33 would be more, not less, architectonically determined than Kant thought it was. If that were so, it should go without saying, Kant’s response to Hume would not be compromised in the least. 32 Kant says that we cannot know exactly why we have twelve and only twelve forms of judgment, and hence twelve and only twelve categories. See the last sentence of § 21, B 146. He may at some point have entertained the possibility of deriving these forms from the primordial judgment “I think.” But, as far as I know, he never carried out such a derivation. In Notes and Fragments (a volume in The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005, edited by Paul Guyer), Note 5854 (p. 300), Kant gives a short but quite interesting account of why, under each of the four general “titles” of judgments, there must be exactly three “moments,” no more and no fewer. 33 B 163. Cf. B xix. 16 �3. The question of right (quid juris) As noted earlier, we have a faculty of understanding, which is to say, a faculty of concepts, only because our intuition is sensible rather than intellectual. We think, not intuitively, but discursively only. As Kant says, in a much quoted sentence, “Thoughts without content are empty. Intuitions without concepts are blind.”34 So, neither (sensible) intuition nor concepts yield knowledge by themselves. But intuition has a kind of primacy over concepts. To repeat, Kant argues that the only reason we even have concepts is to make up for the fact that do not have an intellectual intuition.35 But what is their origin? In the case of empirical concepts, the answer is a relatively obvious. We derive them from sense experience, via generalization, by attending to what perceived individuals have in common. We cannot, however, derive pure concepts, or categories, from experience. This is how Kant describes the relation of categories to intuition in the Metaphysical Deduction. The same function that gives unity to the synthesis of various representations in a judgment also gives unity to the mere synthesis of various representations in an intuition; and this unity, generally expressed, we entitle the pure concept of the understanding. The same understanding then, indeed through the same operations by which in concepts, by means of analytical unity, it produced the logical form 34 A 51, B 75. In this sentence, Kant is speaking only of sensible intuitions. See B 72; A 50-52, B 74-76. According to Kant, the human understanding, is discursive only, not intuitive, as God’s understanding is, if he exists. 35 17 �of a judgment, also introduces a transcendental content into its representations, by means of the synthetic unity of the manifold in intuition in general.36 Kant has argued that we need concepts only because our intuition is merely sensible; and he has argued that we have not just empirical concepts but pure concepts, the categories, which are resident a priori in the human understanding, manifesting themselves in the very way we think, that is, in the very way we judge. If Kant is right on these two points, it follows that the pure concepts have a relation, an a priori and necessary relation, to intuition. He announces in the passage just quoted what this relation has to be, if the categories apply to intuitions in such a way as to yield a priori knowledge of the general structure of human experience, and thereby of the general structure of nature itself as the sum of all appearances.37 The categories can have this relation by virtue of their unifying function, which is at work in both the logical forms of judgment and—he says without yet accounting for the manner in which this happens—in intuition as well. The account of the manner in which this happens is the task of the Transcendental Deduction.38 It is striking how sharply Kant distinguishes between the two modes of cognition we have at our disposal, sensibility and the understanding. The understanding can intuit nothing, the senses can think nothing. Only insofar as they unite (sich vereinigen), can knowledge arise. But that is no reason to 36 A 79, B 105. B 163-165. 38 A 85, B 117. In the Transcendental Deduction, Kant argues generally that a priori categories are applied with “right” to what is provided by the senses. In the chapters following the Transcendental Deduction, Kant tries to show how each of the a priori categories is applied to what is provided by the senses. 37 18 �confound the contribution of either with that of the other; rather it is a strong reason to carefully separate and distinguish the one from the other.39 It is the very sharpness of this distinction that requires Kant to undertake a Transcendental Deduction of the categories, which purports to show that the categories of the understanding apply, with right,40 to whatever is encountered in spatio-temporal sense experience. On the other hand, it also the very sharpness of the distinction that enables Kant to carry out the Transcendental Deduction and, among other things, begin to answer Hume by justifying the claim that the category of cause and effect, though not derived from experience nonetheless determines experience.41 Put with greatest possible simplicity, Kant’s project in the Transcendental Aesthetic and in the Transcendental Analytic is to show that and how, in spite of the sharpness of the distinction between sensibility and the understanding, these two modes of cognition are nonetheless intimately, and intelligibly, related to each other. His project is to show that the categories, which are unifying functions in judgments, are at the same time unifying functions in objects (o). Whatever can be given to us in sense experience, whatever can enter our receiving rooms of space and time, is subject to the categories. It can be grasped a priori with respect to its general features, and moreover judged with respect to these features in fundamental propositions that hold a priori for whatever can be met with in experience. Such is the accomplishment of the faculty of understanding in relation to the faculty of sensibility. Or so Kant attempts to show. 39 A 51-52, B 75-76. A 84-85, B 116-117; cf. B xxxiv-xxxx. 41 I say that Kant begins to answer Hume on the question of causality in the Transcendental Deduction. He completes his answer to Hume in the Second Analogy of the Chapter entitled “System of All Principles (or fundamental propositions—Grundsätze) of Pure Understanding.” 40 19 �Let us focus on only one of the judgments and its corresponding category. The hypothetical judgment, “if p then q,” is one judgment. But it possesses two components. Each of these components is a proposition, a judgment, and can be considered by itself: I can think the proposition, “p”, by itself and without a preceding “if”; and I can think the proposition, “q”, by itself and without a preceding “then.” The complex judgment, “if p then q” unites these two propositions, and it unites them as ground and consequence.42 This relation is a purely logical one and does not rely on temporal entities or on time itself. Consider the judgment, “If a triangle has two sides equal, then the angles subtending them are equal as well.” In this judgment, the “if” clause names the ground, the “then” clause names the consequent. This relationship is nontemporal, though, of course, we need time to think it through. Our mind moves discursively through time as it thinks the proposition. But the proposition itself does not move through time. Such a thing is not even conceivable. Thinking through a proposition occurs rapidly or slowly. The proposition that is thought through does not itself move rapidly or slowly. It does not move at all. The proposition retains its identity across multiple acts of thinking about it, acts separated by intervals when it is not thought about. And it retains its identity for multiple subjects thinking at the same time and at different times as well.43 These subjects can agree about the truth of the proposition and its provability, or they can disagree about one or the other of these, or they can disagree about both.44 But this proposition has to be self-identical, it has to be the same proposition for multiple subjects, for them to have either meaningful agreement or meaningful disagreement about its truth and provability. 42 A 73, B 98. A sentence is bound to a particular language; a proposition is not. For that reason, one and the same proposition can be expressed in multiple languages, or even reformulated (slightly) in different sentences within the same language. For example, in the geometrical proposition stated above we can substitute “also” for “as well,” and we can omit “then”: “If a triangle has two sides equal, the angles subtending them are also equal.” There is a difference between these two sentences. But the same proposition is expressed in both of them. 44 By “proposition” here, I mean only what is to be proved, not the actual proof itself. 43 20 �To restate the matter for the sake of clarity and emphasis, in the general hypothetical judgment form, “if p then q,” each of the two component propositions can be considered in isolation from the other. Neither “p,” taken by itself, nor “q,” taken by itself, need have a reference to the other, inasmuch as “p” here just stands for a proposition you like, and “q” likewise.45 Only when they are united in the single hypothetical judgment form do “p” and “q” refer to each other. Their reference is of ground to consequence. Now a ground according to its sense is the ground of a consequent, and a consequent according to its sense is the consequent of a ground. The relation of ground and consequent is the unifying function in the hypothetical judgment, “if p then q.” We can also express this unifying function as the single, albeit complex, category of causality and dependence, or of cause and effect.46 It is a single category because it expresses a relation in which “p” and “q” are united in a special way, not as “p and q,” nor as “either p or q, but not both,” nor in any way other than “if p then q.” We can say that the premises are the cause of the conclusion.47 When speaking of a-temporal relation, as in a logical or geometrical proof, the single category of cause and effect says nothing at all about temporal causation. In the Second Analogy, however, Kant will try to demonstrate that every event, everything that happens in time (unlike the conclusion of a proof), has a temporally antecedent 45 There can be false as well as true instantiations of “if p then q.” E.g., “If a lead weight is dropped from the top of mast in a rapidly sailing ship, then it will land some distance behind the mast.” We can come up with particular instantiations of “p” and “q” that do have a logical relationship to each other—e.g., where “p” stands for “All men are animals and all animals are mortal” and “q” stands for “All men are mortal.” But in speaking of the form of the hypothetical judgment, our concern is only with the general “if… then” relationship, without regard to how “p” or “q” get instantiated in this or that concrete judgment. 46 At A 73, B 98, prior to identifying the categories, Kant names one of the “relations of thought in judgment” as that “of ground to consequent” (des Grundes zur Folge). This is the relation of the propositions “p” and “q,” respectively, in the hypothetical judgment, “if p then q.” At B 112, after he has identified the categories, he equates, in passing, the relation of cause to effect (der Ursache zur Wirkung, alternatively expressed as Kausalität und Dependenz), which is one of the categories, with the relation of ground to consequent. It should be kept in mind that Kant is not yet speaking of the categories as schematized, i.e., as endowed with a temporal significance. Accordingly, cause and effect, or ground and consequent, need not be thought of as relation holding only within time. See Section 8, below. 47 Cf. Aristotle, Posteriori Analytics 71b16-33; Metaphysics 1013b 20 21 �cause.48 On the way to the Second Analogy, Kant will try to show that the logical concept of cause and effect gets endowed with a temporal meaning, as do all the other categories. Showing that is the task of the Schematism chapter. Kant’s claim is that specifically temporal causation, like causation of any kind, has an anticipatory logical foundation in the unifying function of the hypothetical judgment.49 Time is an a priori form of pure sensible intuition, and the logical category of cause and effect is an a priori category, a pure concept of the understanding. Both are a priori endowments of the human mind. They seem then to fit together perfectly: whatever enters the a priori receiving room of time, which the human mind possesses a priori, occurs there as an event or as a component of an event; and this event is thus subject to the category of cause and effect, which the human mind also possesses a priori.50 Now this is in fact Kant’s view. And it could seem that he has validated it on the basis of the Transcendental Aesthetic and the Metaphysical Deduction. And so it could seem that with the Transcendental Aesthetic and the Metaphysical Deduction, Kant has answered Hume: everything entering the human mind from without, events included, enter the a priori spatiotemporal receptacle of the human mind are thereby subject to the a priori categories of the same human mind. But Kant realizes that he has not yet answered Hume. For there was an “analytic” or “regressive” element in the argument of the Metaphysical Deduction, that requires a 48 See again, A 79, B 105” “The same understanding, through the same operations by which in concepts, by means of analytic unity, it produced the logical form of judgment…etc.” Note that whereas the judgment, “Every effect must have a cause,” is analytic, the judgment, “Every event must have a cause,” is (as we have already seen) synthetic. 49 See Hans Jonas, The Phenomenon of Life (New York: Harper and Rowe, 1966), 26-33, for an intriguing argument that, even if Kant’s argument in the Second Analogy establishes that events are necessarily connected according to a rule, it still fails to account for the actual experience of causation, this experience being rooted primordially in the role that our own living and moving bodies play in perception (and not, or not solely, in a schematized category derived from the form of the hypothetical judgment). 50 A 144, B 183. 22 �“synthetic” or “progressive, supplementation . Granted that we have a priori forms of intuition, and granted that we have a priori concepts, both of which are necessary for a priori knowledge of nature (including knowledge that “all alterations take place in conformity with the law of the connection of cause and effect”), Kant has still not shown that our a priori forms of intuition and concepts are sufficient for a priori knowledge of nature. For the sharp distinction between sensibility and the understanding, between sensible intuition and concept, the sustained elaboration of which is one of Kant’s most impressive achievements, raises a new question of its own, a question that only Kant could have raised: by what right do we apply a category, an a priori concept of the understanding, to what is found in our a priori forms of intuition, space and time?51 It is a tribute to Kant’s intelligence that he realized that this question cannot be adequately answered just by noting that the faculties of the understanding and sensibility, even as he has so carefully described them, are faculties of one and the same mind. And it is a tribute to Kant’s honesty that he did not gloss over the awkward fact that his account raises the question of the unity of human mind in its cognitive functioning—a question that few, if any, other thinkers before Kant raised, and none with his sharpness of focus and intensity of concentration. Kant realized that the human mind might be originally cleft in such a way that a perfect fit between its two parts was impossible. The question of right (quid juris), that is, the question by what right can a pure concept of the understanding be applied to what is present in sensibility, is the question of the Transcendental Deduction. The Metaphysical Deduction purported to demonstrate that we have, in the very way that the human mind is articulated, what is necessary for a priori knowledge of the general structure of nature. The Transcendental Deduction will 51 The legitimacy of applying empirical concepts to appearances, which are in space and time, is not essentially problematic, since empirical concepts are derived, by way of generalization, from spatio-temporal experience to begin with. Because, for Kant, the categories are not derived from appearances, the legitimacy of their application to appearances is a special problem, a specifically Kantian problem. 23 �attempt to demonstrate also that we have, in the very way that the human mind operates, what is sufficient for a priori knowledge of the general structure of nature. Since Kant conceded that the first edition version of the Deduction was insufficiently clear,52 I shall limit my remarks in the following to what is going on (some of it) in the second edition version. 4. The Structure of the Transcendental Deduction The two versions of Transcendental Deduction are the most widely contested texts in the history of philosophy, with the exception of Aristotle’s De Anima 3.5, to which the Transcendental Deduction is not entirely unrelated, both texts dealing with what is necessarily and irreducibly active in the mind. Though Kant attempted to clear up obscurities that he thought marred the first edition version of the Transcendental Deduction, the second edition itself is not free of obscurity. Certain terms are used without the qualification that the reader has to supply by attending to the context not just in light of what has already been said elsewhere but even in light of what will be said only later in the Deduction. The text is replete with side observations that, though they are always of considerable interest, can cause the reader to lose the thread of the argument. Assertions are made early on that do not get fully justified until later on. Most strikingly, at the end of § 20 we have what appears to be an announcement that the Deduction has been successfully brought to a conclusion—“Consequently, the manifold of a given intuition is necessarily subject to the categories”—only to discover, in § 21 ff., that we have hardly reached the halfway point of the argument. And the Deduction includes, near the end, what 52 In what follows, when I use the abbreviated expression, “Deduction,” by itself, I am referring to the Transcendental Deduction only, not to the Metaphysical Deduction, and only to the version in the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason. 24 �appears to be an overstatement that, assuming it is not a simple mistake, cries out to be brought into some kind of agreement with what Kant says a few pages earlier in the Deduction. Here is what I take to be the structure of the Transcendental Deduction in the second edition: The first section, § 15, is introductory and speaks of combination in its general character. Kant argues here that any analysis of what is present to the mind, of our representations, always presupposes synthesis. The next three sections, §§ 16-20, comprise the first half of the Deduction. This half can be subdivided into two stages. In the first stage, §§ 16-17, Kant gives an account of apperception—self-consciousness in the act “I think” 53—as such. In the second stage, §§ 18-20, he argues that objectivity (o) is constituted by apperception—though it is in the first stage, in the second paragraph of § 17, that Kant says what he means by an object (o) in the context of the Deduction. In § 20, Kant concludes the first half of the Deduction by arguing that all sensible intuitions are subject to the categories. But he realizes that the Deduction is not finished at this point because he has not yet fully accounted for the synthetic character of sensible intuition itself, which is a presupposition, not a consequence, of the explicit application of categories to intuition in a judgment. § 21 is the bridge from the first to the second half of the Deduction §§ 22-26 comprise the second half of the Deduction. This half too can be subdivided into stages. In the first stage, §§ 22-23, Kant argues that the categories yield no knowledge of things53 By apperception, Kant means self-consciousness (B 68). By transcendental apperception, he means consciousness of self as engaged in the act “I think,” and as thereby constitutive of all a priori knowledge, even (as we shall see) of objectivity itself. Empirical apperception is consciousness of self as having particular memories, inclinations, aspirations, etc. Unlike transcendental apperception, empirical apperception varies from individual to individual. 25 �in-themselves, and yet that they extend to objects (g) of sensible intuition in general, that is to any intuition, be it like or unlike ours, that is receptive and not active (or intellectual, as God’s is, if he exists). In the second stage, the first three paragraphs of § 24, Kant introduces the imagination, barely even alluded to up to this point in the Deduction, though silently presupposed all along; and here he distinguishes between two a priori syntheses, figurative and intellectual. The remainder of § 24 through the whole of § 25 arrests the development of the second half of the Deduction. This passage could be called a “digression,” did not the observations made in it have such a massive bearing, not only on the chief claims of the Critique of Pure Reason, but on the whole of Kant’s mature philosophy.54 The third stage (proper) of the second half of the Deduction, § 26, continues from where the third paragraph of § 24 left off. Here Kant completes the Deduction by arguing that the categories apply to our sensible intuition, hence to whatever data enter into it from without, hence to whatever can be perceived, and that they are therefore valid a priori for all possible objects (g) of experience. § 27 states the “Outcome” of the Transcendental Deduction, and argues briefly against two alternative ways of construing the relation between experience and categories. 5. The Transcendental Deduction §§15-20 54 Kant begins this passage with, “This is a suitable place for explaining the paradox…etc.” I think that it is, in fact, not a suitable place, and that he should have treated this paradox after § 26. Still, this passage does speak to questions that, even as early as § 16, will likely have occurred to an intelligent reader. Kant may have placed it where he did in order to forestall objections to the winding up of his argument in § 26 (which is entitled “Transcendental Deduction of the Universally Possible Use in Experience of the Pure Concepts of the Understanding”). The passage in § 24 beginning, “This is a suitable place…etc.,” and the whole of § 25 looks like an insert. I suspect that Kant originally ended § 24 after the first three paragraphs and the section now given as § 26 followed immediately as § 25. Hence the reference in the note at B 136 to § 25, when the more obvious reference would be to § 26. 26 �Kant holds that all synthesis of what is present to the mind is performed by the understanding which, construed broadly, is the faculty of combination. We are not, according to Kant, originally given wholes—whether single individuals, Gestalten, eidē, or any other kind of organized wholes—but only manifolds of discontinuous and unconnected discreta.55 Because sensibility, considered independently of the synthetic contribution of the understanding, is nothing more than a passive faculty of receptivity, it cannot combine. It can only “take in.” Lacking spatial and temporal continuity, sense data are not yet appearances but, again, the matter of appearances. Appearances owe their form to the synthetic operation of the mind. Analysis, according to Kant, presupposes synthesis. The human mind can know something about its objects by analyzing them only because it has originally synthesized them.56 In breaking down an empirical object into its constituent parts in order to understand how it is, as we tellingly say, “put together,” the mind aims, or should aim, at following up this analysis with a recombination of the parts back into a whole. In such recombining, the mind recapitulates and makes explicit to itself its own prior activity. The synthesis that follows analysis is always, for Kant, a re-synthesis. The power of the human understanding consists, then, less in taking things apart than in putting them together in the first place. Synthesis, regarded as mere putting together, does not by itself does result in knowledge. For knowledge, what has been merely put together must be conceptually unified. In the Metaphysical Deduction Kant said, 55 How broad this claim is becomes clear only in the second half of the Transcendental Deduction. See especially B 160, note. 56 This claim has been disputed at length and in numerous studies by Aron Gurwitsch, both on phenomenological grounds and in light of the empirical findings of gestalt psychologists such as Kurt Kofka and Wolfgang Köhler. See especially Gurwitsch’s Studies in Phenomenology and Psychology (Evanston IL: Northwestern University Press, 1966), 3-68, 175-286. 27 �By means of analysis different representations are brought under one concept—a procedure (Geschäft) with which general logic deals. What transcendental logic [in the Transcendental Analytic], on the other hand, teaches is how we bring to concepts not representations [merely] but the pure synthesis of representations.57 It is through the pure concepts of the understanding, the categories, that this pure synthesis of representations gets unified. That which bestows conceptual unity on the pure synthesis of representations is the thinking subject, the ego. The ego bestows this unity in a self-conscious act that Kant calls transcendental apperception, expressed in the fundamental proposition (Grundsatz), “I think,” which, Kant says, is “the highest [proposition] in the whole sphere of human knowledge.”58 It should be obvious that we do not, and cannot, infer the fundamental proposition, “I think,” from the assumed validity of Newtonian science or from anything else. As an act, the “I think” is originally present, and I can attend to thematically as long as I exist. As an act, regardless of what it acts upon, that is, regardless of what content, representation, or object (g), the “I think,” in an act of attention, is actually directed to at any given moment, it is abiding and unchanging throughout consciousness. Otherwise I would not know, it would not even occur to me, that I have thought, and can think, of different things at different times; or even that I who am thinking the middle of this sentence is the same I that thought the beginning of it. I am a priori conscious of the act, “I think,” as self-identical regardless of what I happen to think about.59 The act, “I think,” does not depend on the particular content of empirical thinking, 57 A 78, B 104 (emphasis in the original). Kant speaks frequently of bringing something already synthesized to concepts or to the unity of apperception.. 58 B 135. 59 A 108: “This very transcendental unity of apperception makes out of all possible appearances, which can always be together in one experience, a connection of all these representations according to laws. For this unity of 28 �which may undergo all kinds of changes. I am a priori self-conscious. I am conscious of myself as doing, as putting together representations in various ways.60 And that means that even at the level of speculative reason, quite apart from practical (i.e., moral) reason, I am conscious of myself as an agent. Human thinking is not just a matter of passively gazing at bits and pieces of mental data as they happen to float by in time. Rather, human thinking is active. It does not create; but it does synthesize.61 That I think is self-evident. The question about the act, “I think,” concerns not its existence its scope. Kant says: It must be possible for the “I think” to accompany all my representations for otherwise something would be represented in me (in mir vorgestellt) that could not be thought at all, and that is equivalent to saying that the representation would be impossible, or at least would be nothing for me (für mich nichts). This single sentence deserves more scrutiny than can be given here.62 I limit myself to a few observations. (1) By representations, Kant means broadly whatever is present to the mind: its acts, objects, appearances, sense data, even fictions and fantasies. (2) Kant says that it must be possible for the “I think” to accompany all my representations; he does not say that the “I think” consciousness would be impossible, if the mind in cognition (Erkenntnis) of the manifold could not become conscious of the identity of the function whereby it synthetically combines it in one cognition.” 60 For an alternative account see Aron Gurwitsch, “A Non-egological Conception of Consciousness,” in Studies in Phenomenology and Psychology, 287-300. 61 As we shall see in Section 9, below, though I am conscious that I think, and of course that I am, I do not know exactly what I am. I am conscious that the act, “I think,” has a unifying effect. (A proposition or judgment constituted by thought has a unity, of subject and predicate in the simplest case: it is one judgment, not two.) So I do know that I am a unifying agent. But I do not know that this unifying agent that I am—“in myself,” apart from this act and apart from how I merely appear to myself—is itself an indissoluble unity. Or so Kant argues. 62 This sentence was considered in detail by Dieter Henrich in a course on the Critique of Pure Reason given at Columbia University in the spring of 1972. See also his article, “The Proof Structure of Kant’s’ Transcendental Deduction” (Kant on Pure Reason, edited by Ralph C.S. Walker, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), 77. 29 �does accompany all my representations.63 For the “I think” to accompany a representation, that representation must be actually thought about, that is, it must be homed in on, or targeted, in a focused act of attention and conceptually grasped in a judgment. There are many representations that are mine, that are present in my spatial and temporal field of view, but which I do not attend to, such as colors and shapes at the periphery of my vision, or barely audible noises, such as the sound of an air conditioner that, strangely enough, I seem to become aware of only when it goes off. (Another example: distinctive odors in a certain building that one never noticed until returning to it after having been away for some time.) What Kant is claiming is that it must possible for me to think about, to think about coherently with categories, or to judge, any particular representation that I have, though by no means all of them at once. The “I think” need not, or rather cannot, accompany all my representations. I might never have thought about the sound of the air conditioner, had it not gone off and ceased to make a sound. The “I think” cannot even accompany all the representations it has at any given moment. I cannot think about Kant’s Transcendental Deduction, and at the same time think about the background noise in this room, the ambient temperature, all the different colors and shapes in it, the texture of the pencil I am holding, etc., even though all these representations are present—as a twentieth century philosopher will say—at the margin of my field of consciousness, though not as the theme of my consciousness.64 What Kant is claiming in this sentence is only that I can think about any of these representations simply by attending to them.65 (3) Kant concludes this sentence with a 63 Cf. A 116: “For in me [representations]…must be at least capable [!] of being so connected….etc.” Aron Gurwitsch, The Field of Consciousness, Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1964. 65 See B 134: “The thought: these representations given in intuition one and all belong to me, means…that I unite them in one consciousness, or can at least unite them therein….[O]nly insofar as I can grasp the manifold of the representations in one consciousness, do I call them (nenne ich dieselben) one and all mine.” (Emphasis added in the translation.) That I can unite representations given in intuition is sufficient to establish that the manifold representations in an intuition are subject to (or stand under--stehen unter) the categories. Even representations of mine that are not accompanied by the “I think” are nonetheless subject to the categories. B 136: “[I]nsofar as [the manifold representations of intuition] must be capable [!] of being combined (müssen verbunden werden können) in 64 30 �reason justifying the first part of it: “for otherwise something would be represented in me that could not be thought at all, and that is equivalent to saying that the representation would be impossible.” By this Kant means that something present in the mind that nonetheless could not be thought about would impossible. But (4!) he ends the sentence with striking qualification, “or at least would be nothing for me.” Kant does not think that the oddity of something’s being “in me” but nonetheless “nothing for me” can be dismissed out of hand. Such a thing is conceivable, again, in light of his earlier and sharp distinction—a distinction that has to be, certainly not abandoned, but modified, something Kant has not yet done but will do shortly—between sensibility and the understanding.66 The qualification “or at least would be nothing for me,” points to one of the principal tasks of the Transcendental Deduction: to show that whatever is in me, in particular, whatever is in my spatio-temporal receiving room, really can become something for me, by being accompanied by the “I think”—which, for Kant, is just a different way of saying that whatever is in space and time really is subject to the categories.67 In the Metaphysical Deduction, Kant had argued that the categories are unifying functions in judgment. In the Transcendental Deduction, he states the relation between judgment and the apperceptive act, “I think.” [A] judgment is nothing more than the manner of bringing given cognitions to the objective (o) unity of apperception. 68 one consciousness, they are subject to [the conditions of the original-synthetic unity of apperception].” (Emphasis in the original.) 66 Henrich “The Proof Structure of Kant’s’ Transcendental Deduction,” p. 77. 67 Cf. A 90. B 123; A 116. 68 B 141. The word translated here as “cognitions,” Erkenntnisse, Kemp Smith translates as “modes of knowledge,” since “knowledges,” in the plural, does not accord with English usage. A cognition need not take the form of a 31 �Every individual judgment can be reformulated, without any sacrifice to its essential meaning, by employing the copula “is” (or “are” in the case of subjects expressed in the plural) which connects subject with predicate.69 The copula “is,” Kant says, is used in order to distinguish the objective (o) unity of given representations from the subjective. It indicates their reference (Beziehung) to original apperception and its necessary unity….Only in this way does there arise… a judgment, that is, a relation (Verhältnis) that is objectively (o) valid.70 Kant has given objectivity a new meaning. It does not mean things as they are in themselves and independent of whatever relation they have to our cognitive faculties. Nor does objectivity mean what all subjects may happen to agree upon, for all subjects may get something wrong, say, judging (long ago) that things resting on the surface of the earth would necessarily fly off it if the earth were spinning about its axis. Kant distinguishes objects (o) both from merely subjective representations and from things-in-themselves. He defines an object and explicates his definition of it thus. Object (o) is that in the concept of which the manifold of a given intuition is united (vereinigt). Now all unification of representations demands unity of proposition. Kant explicitly speaks of intuition as a cognition (A 19,B 33); and an intuition, pure or empirical, is not a proposition. When he speaks in the above passage of given cognitions, I understand him to be thinking of intuitions. For given cognitions can be brought to the unity of apperception only if they preexist being brought to the unity of apperception. See the passages quoted at the end fn. 79, infra. 69 See fn. 31, supra. The judgment “Bodies of different weights fall with the same speed in a vacuum,” can be reformulated as “Bodies of different weights are in the class of bodies of that fall with the same speed in a vacuum.” Such reformulations are certainly odd-sounding. Still, they can be made while perfectly preserving the essential meaning of the original sentence. Judgments are not, according to Kant, all categorical. Hypothetical and disjunctive judgements cannot be reduced to categorical judgments. See B 141. But their component judgments, or propositions, can be formulated, or reformulated, by employing the copula “is.” For example the general hypothetical judgment, “If p then q,” can be reformulated, depending on the content of the judgments “p” and “q,” along the lines of “If A is B, then A is C,” where each these two judgments is categorical. 70 B 141-142. 32 �consciousness in the synthesis of them. Consequently unity of consciousness is that which alone constitutes (ausmacht) the reference (Beziehung) of representations to an object (g), and therefore their objective (o) validity.71 My consciousness has a dimension, one might say, that is peculiar to me as distinct from you, hence subjective in the usual sense of the word. But my consciousness also has a dimension that is not peculiar to me but is common to all of us—and it is consciousness in this latter sense that constitutes objects (o), and thereby objectivity itself. Kant distinguishes within consciousness between the empirical ego and the transcendental ego. The empirical ego differs essentially from subject to subject: my upbringing, antipathies, inclinations, etc., vs. yours. The transcendental ego does not differ essentially from subject to subject. Though “instantiated” in multiple thinking human beings, the transcendental ego is essentially the same in all of them. The intersubjective agreement that can be achieved in mathematics and the sciences—an agreement that is quite remarkable, indeed astonishing, when you think about it—Kant accounts for by reference to transcendental ego; and in the same way he accounts for agreement about ordinary objects of experience as well. It is because you and I constitute objects in the same way, by means of the same categories and within the same space and time, that we can agree on what we have constituted. As a consequence, I can say not only that, to use Kant’s example, “If I support a body, I feel an impression of heaviness (einen Druck der Schwere),” but that “It, the body, is heavy.”72 So, though we have knowledge only of appearances within the mind, we nonetheless can distinguish between what is merely subjective in these appearances, what holds for you but not necessarily for me, and what is objective in them, what necessarily holds for both of us— 71 B 137 (emphasis in the original). When Kant uses Gegenstand the second sentence in this passage, he surely seems to mean that special kind of Gegenstand that is an Objekt. One cannot fault Kemp Smith too harshly for translating both terms as “object,” not only for reasons of style but also because Kant himself does not always use these terms precisely. 72 B 142. 33 �objectivity being (to repeat) constituted by the subject not in its private and empirical functioning but in its common and transcendental functioning. As a consequence, science can be a common enterprise and an objective one too, without pretending to transcend appearances and determine what is in-itself.73 In concluding the first half of the Deduction, Kant says that “all sensible intuitions are subject to the categories.” [T]that act of understanding… by which the manifold of given representations (be they intuitions or concepts) is brought under one apperception, is the logical function of judgment....The categories are nothing other than these functions of judging, insofar as the manifold of a given intuition is determined in view of them (in Ansehung ihrer).74 The first half of the Transcendental Deduction has at its conclusion that the manifold in a given intuition—an already synthesized intuition, it must be emphasized 75—is necessarily subject to 73 And so Kant can say that “the proud name of an ontology, which ps to give, in systematic doctrinal form, synthetic a priori knowledge of things in general…must give place to a mere Analytic of the pure understanding.” A 247, B 303. 74 B 143. 75 See § 20. “Also steht auch das Mannigfaltige in einer gegebnenen Anschauung notwendig unter Kategorien.” Two sentences earlier Kant writes, “Also ist alles Mannigfaltige, sofern es in Einer empirische Anschauung gegeben ist, in Ansehung einer der logischen Funtionen zu urteilen bestimmt, durch die es nämlich zu einem Bewusstsein überhaupt gebracht wird. Henrich notes that, whereas the German word “einer” can be translated as the indefinite article, “a” or “an,” it can also be translated as “one.” It is, in fact, cognate with Einheit (unity). Henrich interprets the peculiar capitalization of Einer as a hint from Kant that what he has in mind here is the “inner unity” of the intuition. (“The Proof Structure of Kant’s Transcendental Deduction,” 70.) This seems right to me. We must keep in mind, however, that Kant had another word at his disposal. He could have used vereinigt (unified), also cognate with Einheit. But he has used vereinigt earlier and with emphasis, in his definition of an object (o): “Objekt aber ist das, in dessen Begriff das Mannigfaltige einer gegebenen Anschauung vereinigt ist” (§ 17, at B 137). In that sentence he was speaking of the unity effected by the apperceptive act, “I think.” In § 20, on the other hand, he is speaking of a unity presupposed by the apperceptive act: “All the manifold, insofar (!) as it is given in Einer empirical intuition…etc.” (Note the expression, gebracht wird, which is used twice in § 20.) Since Kant has spoken earlier, and twice in this very section also, of the “unity” (“Einheit”) of apperception, he needs to distinguish the unity that characterizes the intuition, qua intuition, from the unity of apperception. His way of doing this in § 20 is by capitalizing “Einer” when speaking of the former. In the concluding sentence of § 20, he does not resort to the artificial capitalization of “einer” But he expects the reader to keep in mind what the previous capitalization of the 34 �(steht unter) the categories.76 The prior synthesis of the manifold of intuition can be brought to the unity of apperception in a judgment. But the scope of this prior synthesis has to be determined in order to rule out the worrisome possibility that some datum of sensibility might be in me but nothing for me. The first half of the Deduction proceeded on the assumption that whatever is in me, that whatever happens to be in my spatial and temporal forms of intuition, really can be something for me. This assumption, it turns out, is equivalent to the assumption that the pure manifold of sensible intuition provided by sensibility has already been synthesized into a formal intuition.77 A formal intuition can then be conceptually grasped (begriffen) in an act of judgment, which employs concepts (Begriffe). The second half of the Transcendental Deduction aims at validating this assumption. 6. The Transcendental Deduction §§21-24 (first three paragraphs), § 26. I must apologize in advance for belaboring certain points in this section. My hope is that the overkill, though inelegant, will contribute to clarity. The important passage from the Metaphysical Deduction that I quoted in Section 3 above, bears requoting here. words was intended to convey. Consider the first sentence of § 21; the note to that sentence; the second sentence of § 21, where he capitalizes “Einer” again; and the entire note in § 26, at B 160, beginning “Der Raum, als Gegenstand vorgestellt….” 76 The expressions “stehen unter” in the title of § 20 and “steht unter” in the concluding sentence of § 20, do not mean that all sensible intuitions are united in a judgment employing categories, but only that any and every sensible intuition, because it has been antecedently synthesized by the imagination can be united by category application-which occurs when the synthesis already accomplished by the imagination is subsequently brought to concepts (A 79, B 104) in the act, “I think.” 77 On “formal intuition” vs. mere “form of intuition” (the latter is all that sensibility considered by itself contains), see again B 160, note. We shall return to this distinction shortly. 35 �The same function that gives unity to the synthesis of various representations in a judgment also gives unity to the mere synthesis of various representations in an intuition; and this unity, in its most general expression, we entitle the pure concept of the understanding. The same understanding, through the same operations by which in concepts, by means of analytical unity, it produced the logical form of a judgment, also introduces a transcendental content into its representations, by means of the synthetic unity of the manifold in intuition in general.78 As I noted, this passage claims that the categories, derived a priori not from intuition but from the understanding, can through their unifying function be applied to sensible intuition and make knowledge possible. On the basis of the first half of the Transcendental Deduction, we can begin to appreciate Kant’s earlier statement, here in the Metaphysical Deduction, that the category “gives unity to the mere synthesis of various representations in an intuition.” The unity effected by the category, is itself a synthesis. But it presupposes a synthesis, which in this passage from the Metaphysical Deduction Kant calls a “mere” (blossen) synthesis, presumably because it produces only contiguous unity of temporal and spatial representations. But once synthesized at this level, these representations can be accompanied by the “I think,” in a synthesis that is anything but “mere,” for it produces conceptual unity. As Kant put the matter at the end of § 16, I am conscious to myself a priori of a necessary synthesis [of representations], which is called the original synthetic unity of apperception, under which all 78 A 79, B 105. 36 �representations that are given to me must stand, but under which they must also be brought by means of a synthesis.79 The first synthesis mentioned in this sentence can be called a “higher-order synthesis.” It is the chief theme of the first half of the Deduction. The second synthesis mentioned in this sentence is a “lower-order synthesis.” It is the chief theme of the second half of the Deduction. The passage from the Metaphysical Deduction that I have now quoted twice ends with a curious formulation that is easy to overlook, given all the other interesting things Kant says there. In speaking of “intuition in general,” Kant is clearly speaking of sensible, not intellectual, intuition which, to repeat, we do not possess. But he is not speaking exclusively of our sensible intuition. By sensible intuition in general, Kant means neither an intellectual intuition nor our special sensible intuition, that is, our spatio-temporal sensible intuition. If there are other finite but thinking beings, then they too possess a merely sensible intuition; but it need not be a spatiotemporal sensible intuition.80 We cannot know what alternative form(s) of sensible intuition other finite thinking beings would possess, or even if there are such beings (angels?), like us in possessing sensible intuition, but unlike us in possessing a sensible intuition different from ours. 79 “[I]ch mir einer notwendigen Synthesis [gegenbenen Vorstellungen] a priori bewusst bin, welche die ursprünglische synthetische Einhiet der Apperzeption heisst, unter der alle mir gegenben Vorstelungen stehen, aber unter die sie auch durch eine Synthesis gebracht werden müssen.” B 135-36. Cf. Jonathan Bennet (Kant’s Analytic, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996, 112) points out that Norman Kemp Smith inserts the word “first” into his translation of the concluding clause: “…but under which they have also first to be brought by means of a synthesis.” Kemp Smith’s translation is indeed inaccurate, but as an interpretation it is on target. See the use of “first” (erste) at A 78, B 104; and especially at B 152: “die erste Anwendung…,” a formulation that we shall consider further in what follows. Regarding the formulation in quoted text above, “but under which they must also be brought by means of a synthesis,” consider A 78, B 103: “[T]o bring this synthesis [accomplished by the imagination] to concepts is a function that belongs to the understanding,” and A 78, B 104”: “What transcendental logic teaches is how we bring to concepts…the pure synthesis of representations.” (Emphasis in the original in both these sentences.) 80 As forms of sensible intuition, space and time allow for manifolds to be given simultaneously and successively. But there is no reason in principle why manifolds could not be given some other way than simultaneously and successively, though we cannot imagine, i.e., form an image of, other modes of receptivity besides these two. There is no analytic connection between the concept of receptivity and the concepts of spatiality and temporality. 37 �Kant is not just indulging his fancy by entertaining the possibility of a sensible intuition other than ours. The notion of a sensible intuition in general plays an important role in the argument of the second half of the Deduction. 81 These are the points Kant wishes to make: (1) The categories of their very nature have a relation to sensible intuition. (2) There is no reason to think that our sensible intuition is the only sensible intuition that is possible. (3) Because the categories are not derived from our sensible intuition, they are in their application not restricted to our sensible intuition, though this application is of no cognitive use to us. (4) And so, since the categories do not of their very nature refer to our specifically spatio-temporal intuition, it is possible to think, without contradiction, of a-spatial and a-temporal things, though by means of the categories we can know nothing of them.82 Finally (5), on this interpretation of the broad scope of category application, the locus of the categories in the a priori forms of judgment is reasserted. If the categories of their own nature had a relation only to our specifically spatiotemporal intuition, one might suspect, falsely, that they were somehow derived from spatiotemporal intuition, as empirical judgments are derived from experience. If, per impossibile, the 81 See B 148: “The pure concepts of the understanding are free from this limitation [i.e., restriction to spatiotemporal objects] and extend to objects (g) of intuition in general, be [the intuition] similar to ours or not, if only it be sensible.” Cf. B 146: “space and time are the only forms of our [!] possible intuition”; B 150: first sentence of § 24; B 159: first two sentences of § 26—note the distinction here between “objects (g) of a [sensible] intuition in general” and “whatever objects (g) may present themselves to our [!] senses” (emphasis in the original); B 161: note the formulation “combination of the manifold of a given [= sensible] intuition in general ” in relation to the formulation “…in so far as the combination is applied to our [!] sensible intuition” (both emphases in the original); and B 72 (in a part of the Transcendental Aesthetic that appears only in the second edition.) In § 20, which concludes the first half of the Deduction, Kant says that all sensible intuitions as subject to the categories. The full force of this sentence does not become clear until the first paragraph of § 23. John Wetlaufer, in an important but underappreciated article, “On the Transcendental Deduction: Some Problems of Interpretation and Elements of a New Reading” (Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal 5:1, 1975, 113–131), places appropriate emphasis on Kant’s distinction between our sensible intuition and a sensible intuition in general (126-127). 82 If we had other forms of sensible intuition, in addition to, or even instead of, space and time, their manifolds too would be subject to the categories. We would still not in any way know things-in-themselves by means of the categories. For things-in-themselves, according to Kant, cannot be given in any sensible intuition, be it like or unlike ours. Knowledge by means of the categories is limited to what can be antecedently given to sensible intuition. What is given to sensible intuition—vs. what is produced, or created, by intellectual intuition—are not things (inthemselves) but mere representations (Vorstellungen) of things. These representations, mere pointillistic sense data prior to the syntheses carried out by the faculty of spontaneity, are not extra-mental things but only the effects that extra-mental things produce on our (finite) mind. These representations are, however, worked up by the understanding via its categories into that law-governed whole of phenomena that goes by the name of “nature.” 38 �categories were derived from the forms of intuition that characterize our passive faculty of sensibility, they could not play the role Kant assigns to them in our active faculty of the understanding. Having spoken in §§ 22-23 of the relation of categories to sensible intuition in general, Kant turns in § 24 to the relation of categories to our sensible intuition. Here he distinguishes between (1) the original synthetic unity of apperception, the “I think,” which constitutes what I have called the “higher-order” order synthesis and which Kant calls “intellectual,” and (2) the “lower-order” synthesis, which he calls “figurative.”83 The latter synthesis is accomplished by the imagination, more precisely, by what Kant calls the productive imagination, which is also a priori and hence is distinct from the reproductive imagination, the latter being subject to empirical laws of association and not a priori.84 The productive imagination is responsible for the original synthesis of the pure a priori manifold of space and time. As a result of this original synthesis, any empirical manifold, any data entering space and time from outside the mind, gets synthesized as a matter of course. Though the Transcendental Aesthetic spoke of the a priori forms of intuition, space and time, as though they were originally present to us as already unified, the question of how they come to possess unity was temporarily suppressed. It resurfaces in the second half of the Transcendental Deduction. According to Kant, even the mere togetherness of points in empty space or of moments in empty time is a product of the synthetic activity of the understanding, construed not narrowly as judgment solely but broadly as combination in general.85 83 B 151. B 152. 85 For some places where Kant speaks of manifold of pure or a priori intuition (as distinct from a manifold of empirical or a posteriori intuition, i.e., a manifold of sense data), see A 77, B 103; A 78-79, B 104; A 99-100; B 130; B 140; B 150; B 160, note.; cf. B 202-203. 84 39 �Combination, then, takes two distinct forms: what is accomplished by the productive imagination and what is accomplished by apperception. Time itself undergoes the synthesis of the productive imagination, without which it would be only a manifold of moments. It would not be one continuously flowing time. The synthesis of time is not an accomplishment of sensibility, for this faculty is, again, only passive. Synthesis, or combination, however, is active; and “all combination—whether we become (werden) conscious of it or not, whether it is a combination of the manifold of intuition, or of various concepts…is an act of the understanding.” And yet, to repeat, the original synthesis of time is not an act of judgment, an apperceptive synthesis, but a synthesis that precedes this. In what is the most helpful footnote in the Transcendental Deduction, Kant writes. Space represented as object (g) (as we need to do in geometry) contains more than more form of intuition, [it also contains] combination (Zusammenfassung) of the manifold, given according to the form of sensibility, in an intuitive representation, so that the form of intuition gives only a manifold, the formal intuition gives unity of representation. In the Aesthetic I have reckoned this unity as belonging merely to sensibility, in order to note that it precedes any concept, although, as a matter of fact, it presupposes as syntheses that does not belong to the senses but through which all concepts of space and time first become possible. For since by its means (in that the understanding determines sensibility) space and time are first given as intuitions, the unity (Einheit) of this a priori intuition belongs to space and time, and not to the concept of the understanding. 86 86 B 160, note.. Why Kant says in this context that the understanding, and not the imagination, determines sensibility we shall consider below. 40 �The a priori synthesis of time, as the form of inner sense, is eo ipso the a priori synthesis of space, as form of outer space. For whatever I am conscious of as being in space, I am also conscious of as being in time, if only as enduring motionless against the flow of time. In this way, the a priori synthesis of time affects whatever material or empirical content is received a posteriori in space and time from sources outside the mind. This “figurative synthesis,” Kant also calls “the transcendental synthesis of the imagination.” Immediately after identifying the figurative synthesis and the transcendental synthesis of the imagination, Kant writes, “Imagination is the faculty of representing in intuition an object (g) that is not itself present.”87 Imagination can do this in fantasy, of course, and it has an especially important role to play in artistic production.88 But it also does this in the recollection, memory, retention, anticipation, and expectation of such things as colors, sounds, and actual objects of experience. This is the work of the empirical or reproductive synthesis of the imagination. But the imagination, as transcendental and productive, retains the past moments of pure time themselves in intuition, prior to and independently of the particular empirical content of what happens to be met with in time. Similarly, the imagination functioning at this a priori level also anticipates the future moments of pure time themselves in intuition. This synthesis accomplished by the productive imagination makes what is in one sense “absent”—the “no-longer” and the “not-yet”—in another most peculiar sense “present” or, perhaps better, “quasi-present”89 Without this foundational transcendental synthesis of the imagination, a thoroughgoing empirical and reproductive synthesis of sense data given from without not be possible. Without the transcendental synthesis of the imagination, the manifold of pure intuition itself would be only a 87 B 151 “Einbildungskraft ist das Vermögen, einen Gegenstand auch ohne dessen Gegenwart in der Anschauung vorzustellen.” (Emphasis in the original.) 88 Kant also speaks of the imagination as productive, not only in artistic production, but in even in a judgment of taste. Critique of Judgment, “General Remark” following § 22. 89 The imagination accomplishes these syntheses in what Husserl will later call “retention” and “protention.” 41 �manifold of unconnected points in space and time, a manifold of pure discreta. But, one might object, we cannot imagine unconnected points in space and time. Exactly! We cannot do such a thing, Kant would reply, because to imagine points in space and time is precisely to combine them. Pure, or empty, space and time, considered apart from the transcendental synthesis of the imagination, are forms of intuition only. The points of pure space and time are originally unconnected because they belong to a faculty of the mind, sensibility, that is, considered by itself, simply passive and receptive. As formal intuitions, however, space and time can be analyzed. They can be divided indefinitely into smaller and smaller elements. And that means, for Kant, that they were originally synthesized. These formal intuitions, as synthesized wholes, owe the unity they possess to the transcendental synthesis of the imagination. The members, elements, or data of the manifold, pure or empirical, that is synthesized by the imagination are side by side contiguously in space and they succeed one another contiguously in time. But they are not just somehow stuck together. The effect of the synthesis accomplished by the imagination is that each element of the synthesized manifold refers, or “points,” from within outward and beyond itself, to other spatially and temporally contiguous elements.90 At every moment of my mental life, I am retaining past moments and anticipating future moments. As retained and anticipated, these moments are both present and not present, though in two different senses of “present,” in different senses that we are manifestly aware of in temporal consciousness. These difference between the immediate presence of “the now,” and the imagined presence of the “no longer” and the “not yet,” we can describe, since we all recognize it. But we cannot explicate the difference between these two senses of “present” beyond attending to it and describing it. 90 Compare Hegel, Encyclopedia - Philosophy of Nature §§ 255-259.. 42 �To illustrate with a few examples from experience: In the middle of listening to a piece of music, say, a simple melody, I retain what I have just heard and I anticipate what I am about to hear.91 When listening to a symphony, I retain, depending on the capacity of my tonal memory, what I have already heard, and I anticipate what I am about to hear. Even when I anticipate incorrectly and get a surprise, the surprise is effective because there was an immediately preceding anticipation that went “unfulfilled” (as Husserl will say). Without that anticipation, no surprise would be possible. In watching a leaf fall, I am aware of its falling by means of my imagination’s making what is absent, the immediate past and the immediate future, present or quasi-present. When turning my head and looking about this room, I retain what I have just seen and I anticipate what I am about to see. Even when staring fixedly at an immobile object, say, a painting, my awareness that it is not moving is made possible by seeing that it is now what and where it was a moment ago, or even an hour ago. To return from the empirical to the a priori, Kant says that the transcendental synthesis of the imagination is an action (Wirkung) of the understanding [!] on sensibility; and is its first application (and thereby the ground of all its other applications) to the objects (g) of our possible intuition.92 91 This happens even at first note of the melody. It is by retaining in imagination the absence of a prior note that I hear this one as the first note, as the beginning. And at the last note of the melody, something comparable happens. I anticipate the absence of a following note, especially if the melody is tonal and the last note is the tonic. 92 B 152. The use of the expression “first application,” to say nothing of “ground,” in this passage should remove any doubt one might have that the transcendental synthesis of the imagination precedes and conditions the a priori apperceptive synthesis, as well all a posteriori synthesis of empirical representations or data. Already in the Aesthetic Kant has said, at B 67, “that which, as representation, can precede (vorhergehen) any and every act of thinking, is intuition”—a formulation that takes on considerable weight in light of the note at B 160-161. Consider A 79, B 104. “The concepts…give unity (Einheit) to this pure synthesis [i.e., the synthesis of the imagination].” Kant virtually defines thinking (Denken) as “the act (Handlung) of bringing the synthesis of a manifold, given to the understanding from elsewhere in intuition, to the unity of apperception.” B 145. In a note to the Preface of the 43 �So the imagination is not a third distinct faculty situated between the distinct faculties of sensibility and the understanding, as certain passages in the first edition of the Transcendental Deduction have mislead some to think.93 The imagination is the understanding itself—but qua acting on what is available to it from sensibility, at the transcendental level by acting on the manifolds of pure temporal and spatial discreta. By connecting these discreta, the imagination bestows unity on space and time. It turns them from forms of intuition into formal intuitions, and thereby makes possible a priori sciences of them, geometry most obviously.94 But it also makes possible an a priori science of the architectonic propositions of nature in general. Without the transcendental synthesis of the imagination, our a priori forms of intuition would be, strange to say, porous, like a net. All sensory data entering the mind from without would be, by virtue of entering it, in me. But those data that did not caught in fabric of the net, that slipped through the gaps in it, could become nothing for me. By virtue of the transcendental synthesis of the imagination, there are no “gaps” in our forms of intuitions. They are formal, which is to say unified, intuitions. They are not porous. Kant understands the figurative synthesis of the imagination to be, qua synthesis, an expression of the spontaneity of the human understanding, which he says is responsible for whatever synthetic features our representations exhibit—and these features are synthetic because they can be analyzed, or broken down into smaller parts. The understanding as spontaneity is at second edition, where Kant is speaking of his Refutation of Idealism, he distinguishes between “empirical consciousness” and “intellectual consciousness;” and he says that the latter precedes (vorangeht) consciousness of a relation to something outside me. He is speaking there of the priority of apperception to consciousness of anything empirical whatsoever. 93 Consider A 124, where a pure imagination is said to be “one of the fundamental [!] faculties of the human soul.” 94 Arithmetic also makes use of space. I count two spatial objects, e.g., two fingers ( B 15-16). But I could in principle count any discrete spatial objects. Because counting does not rely on any particular spatial object and its particular features, arithmetic is also an a priori science. 44 �work, and it is at work on two levels. But it is not compelled to be at work at all. It is at work by virtue of what it is. Kant says, It is one and the same spontaneity that, in the one case, under the name (unter den Namen) of the imagination, and in the other, under the name of the understanding, brings combination to the manifold of intuition.95 Though the vast majority of my representations are never attended to by the “I think” in a specifically intellectual synthesis, they are all effected by the figurative synthesis.96 The intellectual synthesis that takes place in the apperceptive act, “I think,” is the accomplishment of the faculty of spontaneity’s judging, under the “name” of the understanding, this or that item within the figurative synthesis that has already been accomplished by the same faculty of spontaneity, under the “name” of the imagination. What the faculty of spontaneity accomplishes in the figurative synthesis is the preparation of the entirety of sensibility, both its intrinsic, a priori, and pure manifold of intuition, and its contingent, a posteriori and empirical filling, for explicit category application in the intellectual synthesis that occurs when the “I think” accompanies a particular representation in a judgment.97 The figurative synthesis is in fact performed with reference to a possible, hence subsequent, intellectual synthesis, whether or not the latter synthesis is actually performed in the case of a given empirical representation, 95 B 162, note b (emphasis added). Cf. B 153: “The understanding, under the title (unter der Benennung) of a transcendental synthesis of the imagination….” Compare B 152: “[The imagination’s] synthesis is an exercise (Ausübung) of spontaneity….Imagination is spontaneity.” 96 By “representations” here, I exclude the elemental and unconnected manifold data of intuition, since prior to the figurative synthesis of the imagination, we are not even marginally, much less thematically, conscious of them. We are not and cannot be conscious of mere discreta, certainly not of unconnected points in pure, empty space and unconnected moments in pure, empty time, for consciousness is essentially synthetic. As for empirical discreta, such as separate and small points of color in space and separate and brief sounds in time, these are still synthetically connected to the stretches of space and time that surround them. It is that very connection to the surrounding space and time that enables us to be conscious of distinct points of color as separate from each other and of intermittently occurring sounds as separate from each other. 97 Compare Aristotle, De Anima, 431b3: “ta men oun eidē to noētikon en tois phantasmasi noei…” 45 �synthesized by the imagination. It is the intimate relationship between these two syntheses that enables Kant to understand them as two operations of one and the same spontaneity. Had Kant treated the imagination as a third faculty of the human mind, situated between and distinct from both sensibility and the understanding, he would have had to show not only that and how the faculty of the imagination is related to a faculty of sensibility distinct it—which is difficult enough to show, but which he does show in §§ 24 and 26—he would also have had to show that and how the faculty of the understanding is related to a faculty of the imagination ostensibly distinct from it. Kant’s understanding of the human mind as irreducibly two-fold—as sensibility and the understanding—generates for him the formidable task of showing that, and how, these two heterogeneous cognitive faculties can fit together so as to yield knowledge (albeit of what is in space and time only). If he understood the human mind as irreducibly threefold—the faculty of sensibility and the faculty of understanding, and also, between these two, a separate faculty of imagination—his task would have been impossible to fulfill. By construing the synthesis of the imagination and the synthesis of apperception as two teleologically related accomplishments—a lower-order synthesis for the sake of a higher-order synthesis—of “one and the same faculty of spontaneity,” Kant is disburdened of this impossible task. But, one might ask, has he not thereby made things too easy for himself. I think not. There is nothing contradictory about one faculty functioning at two levels. A comparison might help here. It is by one and the same “faculty” that I both pick up a hammer and subsequently hammer a nail with it. I cannot do the latter without doing the former, though I can do the former without doing the latter. And yet I am doing, with one and the same “faculty,” both things. What is distinctive about the figurative synthesis of the productive imagination and the subsequent 46 �intellectual synthesis of apperception is that both are “doings,” unlike sensibility which is a passive and receptive “being done to,” only. The combination that allows for human knowledge, as distinct from sensation merely, requires a priori the following: (1) a given manifold, a plethora of discrete “pointillistic” data, which is the original content of sensibility; (2) a putting together of these data, side by side and one after the other, which is accomplished by the imagination; and (3) an expressly conceptual unifying of this togetherness, which is accomplished by the “I think” in an act of judgment. The bare “given-ness” of the manifold, whether pure or empirical, is all that sensibility by itself provides. The putting together, simultaneously and successively, of the manifold, and the subsequent conceptual unifying of what has been put together, are the two different syntheses accomplished by one faculty of combination, that is, of spontaneity, or the understanding construed broadly. The first synthesis is for the sake of the latter synthesis. I noted earlier that the second edition version of the Deduction contains what appears to be an overstatement. It occurs in the concluding paragraph of § 26. As mere representations, [appearances] are subject to (stehen unter) no law of connection (Verknüpfung) save what the connecting faculty (das verknüpfnede Vermögen) prescribes. Now it is imagination that connects the manifold of sensible intuition; and imagination is dependent for the unity (Einheit) of its intellectual [!] synthesis upon the understanding, and for the manifoldness of its apprehension upon sensibility. All possible perception is thus dependent upon synthesis of apprehension, and this empirical synthesis in turn upon transcendental synthesis, and therefore upon the categories. Consequently, all 47 �possible perceptions, and therefore everything that can [!] come to empirical consciousness, that is, all appearances of nature must, so far as their connection is concerned, be subject to the categories.98 In this passage, Kant is emphasizing the dependency of all that we can be conscious of a posteriori, on the categories. What is surprising is his speaking of an intellectual synthesis accomplished by the imagination. For, as we have seen, a few pages earlier he identified the transcendental synthesis of the imagination with figurative synthesis, and he contrasted it with intellectual synthesis: “the intellectual synthesis…is carried out by the understanding alone without aid of the imagination.”99 Kant also glossed “figurative synthesis” with the Latin “synthesis speciosa”—and the word speiciosa (from specio—to see or look at) has a reference to sight.100 In the above passage, Kant is arguing that perception is dependent upon the categories by way of being conditioned by the unity accomplished a priori by the productive synthesis of the imagination, which of course conditions everything than can be given to us in space and time, sights most obviously, but perceptions of any kind. But how can Kant speak of an intellectual synthesis of the imagination? To address this question, let us return to the empirical example from § 19 that we briefly considered earlier. I can say, “If I support a body, I feel an impression of heaviness.” According 98 B164. By consciousness (Bewusstsein), Kant typically means not just any awareness, however so vague or “marginal,” but the apperceptive act in its reference to an already synthesized intuition. Hence when Kant writes here, “everything that can come to empirical consciousness,” he is thinking of anything that be a matter of experience. And by “experience” he typically means not just any awareness but empirical cognition (B 161, 166, 218). Kant uses “can” here as he used “must be able to” in the first sentence of § 16 (which I commented on earlier), and with the same import. 99 B 152. 100 In the Metaphysical Deduction, at A 78, B 103, Kant wrote of the imagination that it is “a blind, but indispensable function of the soul, without which we should have no knowledge whatsoever, but of which we are scarcely ever conscious.” This sentence, though preserved in the second edition, was part of the first edition, as was the passage at A 79, B 105 where Kant spoke of a “mere” synthesis. As Kant explicates the performance of the imagination in the second edition, it turns out that its synthesis is not exactly “blind” after all. And its synthesis is “mere” only in the sense that it is not a judgment. 48 �to Kant, this formulation possesses only subjective validity. It says something about me, about what I feel. But if I employ the copula “is,” I make a judgment, and it possesses objective validity. To say, “The body is heavy,” is not merely to state that the two representations have always been conjoined in my perception, however often that perception is repeated; what we are asserting is that they are combined in the object, whatever the state of the subject may be.101 The two representations are “body” and “heavy.” Each of these two representations, taken by itself, is a synthesis of a manifold. These representations are not a mere multiplicity of sense data. They are perceptual representations, apprehended through sight and touch; and, as Kant has said, even perception is subject to the categories. So the perceptions of both “body” and “heavy” are subject to the categories; but neither the individual body, seen as extended, nor its particular heaviness, felt as pressure, is an object (o), strictly so called. One can say that each of these is an object in the sense of a Gegenstand. But because neither of them, in the two perceptions achieved by the synthesis of the imagination, is yet judged, neither is yet an object in the sense of an Objekt.102 For if they were objects in this latter sense, then concepts would be used in the synthesis of them that is accomplished by the imagination.103 Kant has said, however, 101 B 142 (emphasis in the original). In this connection see B 234 – A 191, B 236, where Kant distinguishes between loose and strict use of the word, Objekt. 103 B 137. 102 49 �Concepts are based on the spontaneity of thinking (Denkens)….The only use the understanding can make of concepts is to judge by means of them…. Thinking is cognition (Erkenntnis) through concepts.104 Perceiving is not thinking; it is not judging. Still, what the imagination has synthesized—in this case body and heaviness—has a reference, according to its very sense, to a possible judgment. It is in this sense, and only in this sense, that each of these two representations of perception is subject to the categories. But when these two representations are actually brought to concepts in a judgment, something new emerges, not merely two representations, even two Gegenstände, a seen body and a felt heaviness, but an Objekt, in which the two representations are combined, indeed unified, in the apperceptive act, I think. This empirical judgment, “The body is heavy,” is, to be sure, not deducible from what is accomplished at the a priori level. It presupposes experience. But though a posteriori, the judgment is made possible by, and must conform to, what is accomplished at the a priori level. The above passages shed should make more understandable the implication of the first sentence of § 16 that, though not every one of my representations, even when construed as having an inner unity produced by synthesis of the imagination, is in fact accompanied by the “I think,” it can be accompanied by it. The inner unity of space and of time, which they possess by being elevated from mere forms of intuitions to formal intuitions, is a unity that, Kant says, “precedes any concept.” But, he also says, “it presupposes a synthesis,” by means of which “the understanding determines sensibility.”105 One might have expected him to say that, in this synthesis, “the imagination determines sensibility.” But he is using the term, “understanding,” 104 105 A 68-69, B 93-94. B 160, note. 50 �broadly, as spontaneity and combination of any kind and at any level. He uses the term “understanding” broadly this way not only in second edition of the Transcendental Deduction, but in the first edition as well: The unity of apperception in reference (or relation, Beziehung) to the synthesis of the imagination is the understanding, and this same unity, with respect (beziehungsweise) to the transcendental synthesis of imagination, [is] the pure understanding.106 This sentence is actually a definition of the faculty of understanding, broadly construed, which is so far from being a faculty distinct from the imagination that it said here to be precisely the reference of the “I think” to what the imagination, by synthesizing the manifold of intuition, offers to it, originally at the a priori level, and subsequently at the empirical level.107 Since there would be no productive synthesis of the imagination at all without its having a necessary relation to a possible judgment, the inner unity of a formal intuition, which is accomplished by the productive synthesis of the imagination, is said to depend upon the categories.108 The figurative 106 A 119 (emphasis in the original). Compare the sentence occurring at A 118: “Thus the transcendental unity of apperception refers itself (bezieht sich) to the pure synthesis of imagination.” In an unpublished fragment, Kant writes, “The unity of apperception in relation to the faculty of imagination is the understanding.” Notes and Fragments (translated by Curtis Bowman, Paul Guyer, and Frederick Rauscher, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005—from the series, The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant.), 258. Immediately following this sentence, Kant has written the one word, “Rules,” after which he expatiates further along the lines of the second clause quoted in the text above. 107 The distinction between or “originally” and “subsequently,” or between a priori and a posteriori, should not be taken in a literally temporal sense, as though there was some time when a priori operations alone took place, after which empirical operations followed. Kant’s distinction between a priori and a posteriori should be understood only in terms of what in cognition is, respectively, “founding” and “founded,” or between what the human mind supplies out of its own resources and what is supplied to it from without. “[T]he impressions of the senses supplying the first stimulus, the whole faculty of knowledge opens out to them (in Ansehung ihrer), and experience is brought into existence” (A 86). “In the order of time…no knowledge in us precedes experience, and with experience all our knowledge begins. But though all our knowledge begins with experience it does not follow that it all arises out of experience.” (B 1—emphasis in the original.) 108 B 144 note: “[T]he unity of intuition, whereby an object (g) is given…always includes in itself a synthesis of the manifold given for an intuition, and already contains the reference (Beziehung) of this manifold to the unity of apperception.” (Emphasis added.). In § 24, Kant can speak of the understanding both as determining inner sense and 51 �synthesis and the intellectual synthesis are as intimately connected as is possible without being simply identical.109 It is for this reason, I think, that Kant momentarily, and in opposition to what he has said earlier, speaks of an intellectual synthesis of the imagination. The imagination would not be what it is without its intrinsic reference to the unity of apperception. The Transcendental Deduction, with all its twists and turns, returns in § 26 to the claim made in § 15 that all combination—whether we become conscious of it or not, whether it is a combination of the manifold of intuition, or of various concepts…is an act of the understanding. To this act the general name “synthesis” may be assigned….110 as thinking (i.e., judging): B 150: “the understanding, as spontaneity, is able to determine (bestimmen) inner sense through the manifold of given representations in conformity with (gemäss) the synthetic unity of apperception, and thus [so] to think synthetic unity of the apperception of the manifold of a priori sensible intuition….” And yet, in the same section, at B 152, he can assign the first of these two but intimately related operations to the imagination: The, the synthesis of the imagination “.insofar as it is an exercise of spontaneity… is able to determine sense a priori in respect of its form in conformity with the unity of apperception….[I]ts synthesis of intuition, conforming as it does to categories, must be the transcendental synthesis of imagination.” (Emphasis in the original.) That the manifold representations of intuition must be capable of being combined in one consciousness, and that they thereby subject to the conditions of the original-synthetic unity of apperception (B 136), whether are not they are attended to in an act of judgment, is the reason why Kant can call the synthesis of the imagination both “figurative” and, in his apparent overstatement, “intellectual.” Without this intrinsic reference of the imagination to the synthetic unity of apperception the former would provide us with, at most, a mere “rhapsody of perceptions” (A156, B 195). Since for Kant, the categories extend to objects (g) of a sensible intuition in general (B 148, 159, discussed in Section 6, above), one might raise the question of whether those (hypothetically entertained) thinking and finite beings different from us and possessing forms of sensible intuition different from ours would also need imagination to synthesize the manifold of their sensible intuition prior to judgment. The answer is that they would definitiely need imagination. But, no more for them than for us, would they need or even have an imagination independent of the understanding. The imagination, as Kant makes amply clear, especially in the second edition version of the Transcendental Deduction, is so to speak part and parcel of the understanding. For the very purpose of the understanding, in the case of being whose intuition is only sensible, is to connect and unify what sensibility, taken by itself, can only receive. From the great mass of data present in sensibility, but already synthesized figuratively by the imagination, the “I think” selectively attends to, or “accompanies,” this or that representation, thereby synthesizing it intellectually in a judgment. 109 John Wetlaufer speaks of the manifold in an intuition (synthesized by the imagination) as possessing a kind of “pre-predicative unity.” (“On the Transcendental Deduction: Some Problems of Interpretation and Elements of a New Reading,” 124). That’s sound right. But one could go a bit further and say that, for Kant, the manifold in an intuition synthesized by the imagination possesses a “proto-predicative unity.” For it does not just precede predication (or judgment); it has an intrinsic, anticipatory, and prefigured reference to a possible predication. 110 § 15 B 130 (emphasis added). In this sentence, Kant writes, in reference to the manifold of intuition, “sinnlichen oder nicht sinnlichen.” Because our understanding does not combine the manifold of an intellectual intuition, it has 52 �That, and how,111 one faculty—call it “synthesis in general,”112 “combination in general,” “spontaneity” simply, or “understanding” broadly—accomplishes two distinct but intimately related a priori syntheses is what Kant attempts to show in the Transcendental Deduction. The validity of the argument of the Transcendental Deduction, which is progressive and synthetic throughout, stands or falls with the success or failure of this attempt. Representations synthesized in me virtue of the productive synthesis of the imagination, which conditions all reproductive and empirical syntheses of the imagination, are not just in me. Every representation, synthesized in me by virtue of the faculty of spontaneity “under the title of the imagination,” can become an object (o) synthesized for me by virtue of the faculty of spontaneity “under the title of the understanding.” And this is just what happens when I turn my attention to something already synthesized by the imagination. From the fact that a representation has been synthesized by the imagination it follows that it is, as Kant says, subject to the categories, a formulation that means this much, but, as far as I can see, not more than this: it is possible for the ‘I think’ to accompany it. This is what the Transcendental Deduction has purportedly demonstrated. And so it can now be said, at the end of the Transcendental Deduction, simply and without a qualifying clause: It must be possible for the “I think” to accompany all my representations. been proposed that this phrase be emended to “empirischen oder nicht empirischen.” It is conceivable, though just barely, that Kant was thinking momentarily of an intuitive understanding—cf. supra fn. 19—which might well combine, or rather create and order, the manifold of a “nicht sinnlichen” intuition. Yet in the continuation of the sentence Kant speaks about how we represent things to ourselves. But whatever we are to make of the phrase, “sinnlichen oder nicht sinnlichen,” Kant’s general claim in § 15 is clear, though controversial: whatever we can analyze into parts, we ourselves have previously synthesized into wholes. 111 With, however, more to be said about “how” in the Schematism chapter. 112 Even in the first edition, Kant ties the imagination to conceptual unifying, i.e., to judgment, as two moments or stages of synthesis, broadly construed. Cf., e.g., A 77-78, B103: “By synthesis in its most general sense, I mean the act (Handlung) of putting different representations together and [!] of grasping what is manifold in them in one cognition….[S]ynthesis is that which gathers (sammelt) the elements for cognition and [!] unites (vereinigt) them into (zu) a certain content.” 53 �Period. There can be only one source of unity, even if it is effective at two levels. I have emphasized the productive synthesis of the imagination as “first”—following Kant: “the understanding’s first application and the ground of all its other applications.” Kant may have thought that there was never a time when an imaginative synthesis was occurring without apperception taking place. Apperception is always directed to something synthesized. But, to repeat, not all that gets synthesized by the imagination gets “apperceived.” The synthesis of the imagination includes vastly more than does the synthesis of apperception. It should be noted that the Transcendental Deduction does not depend on the specific table of categories that Kant presents earlier in the Transcendental Analytic. Its conclusion therefore holds whether or not the table is complete. But Kant has argued that the category of ground and consequent is embedded in the hypothetical judgment—if p then q—as its unifying function. It makes no sense to claim that we received this form of judgment from experience. It is simply one of the ways in which the human mind thinks and must think. To the objection that we cannot be so confident that how we humans think applies to things “outside” the mind, Kant would respond, “Right on!” The categories apply only to appearances which, as such, are in space and time, hence “inside” the mind.113 An appearance, as a distinct from a thing-in- itself, exists only within, or as coordinated with, the human mind. So Kant grants, or rather insists on, the inapplicability of the human mind’s categories to things “outside,” or beyond, or existing independently of, the human mind, to things-in-themselves as distinct from appearances. But it is 113 I put “outside” and “inside” in quotations here, because these terms have spatial connotations, and space itself is, for Kant, “inside” the mind. In the “Refutation of Idealism” (B 274-279), Kant sets out to prove “the existence of objects (g) in space [!] outside me” (emphasis added). Contrary to what is occasionally said, he does not attempt in the “Refutation of Idealism” to prove the existence of things-in-themselves in space outside me. For the latter are not in space at all. 54 �the application of categories to intra-mental appearances that elevates them to objects (o), to rule-governed features of an objective, hence inter-subjectively accessible, world of spatiotemporal experience, or nature. The Transcendental Deduction does not purport to show in detail how the categories apply to objects of experience. To answer the question of “how” more adequately, and that means with reference to the table presented in the Metaphysical Deduction, Kant needs the following “Schematism” chapter, the task of which is to show how each of the categories get endowed with a temporal meaning. Nor does the Transcendental Deduction demonstrate the individual a priori principles, or fundamental propositions (Grundsätze), among which is the a priori synthetic judgment, “Every event has a cause.” These fundamental propositions need their own proofs, and supplying them is the task of the chapter Principles” chapter, which purports to demonstrate that these fundamental propositions are true and hold for nature as such, that is, that they are true regardless of the particular empirical findings of natural science.114 These propositions are not proven by, nor do they immediately follow from, the Transcendental Deduction’s preparatory proof that the categories can be applied with right to appearances. What the Transcendental Aesthetic and the Transcendental Analytic (the latter being only first part of the Transcendental Logic) together purport to show is there are a priori synthetic judgments, demonstratively true, and serving as general architectonic laws of nature, laws to which special empirical laws—discovered a posteriori through experience—must conform, but from which they cannot be derived, either by logical deduction or in any other way.115 Kant’s 114 See A.C. Ewing, A Short Commentary on Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason (London: Methuen & Co., Second Edition, 1950), 134-135 for a helpful table coordinating in detail the various forms of judgment, categories, schemata, and fundamental propositions. 115 B 163-165. If properly empirical laws were somehow deducible in their particularity from the architectonic laws of nature, from the fundamental propositions treated in the “Principles” chapter, they too would be a priori and not 55 �grounding of natural science does not go so far as to endow specific empirical laws of nature with the certainty that can hold only for a priori laws. But—assuming it is successful—this grounding does demonstrate (1) that there must be causes for all events in nature, causes distinct from and preceding the events themselves, (2) that these causes are also events in nature and depend on further causes, which are also events, and (3) that the natural scientist who is engaged in searching for causes is engaged in an objective enterprise. This is the advance that Kant has made over Hume’s skepticism; and the modesty of this advance, given the extraordinary complex and extended argumentation that Kant has to employ, can only deepen our respect for the penetration of Hume’s insight into the problem of causality. 7. Reason and the Unconditioned The Transcendental Analytic, with reliance on the Transcendental Aesthetic, aims at demonstrating a set of a priori synthetic judgments that hold for everything that appears or can appear to human mind. These are the fundamental propositions of a metaphysics of nature. The The Transcendental Dialectic, aims at showing that the most venerable arguments of classical metaphysics, arguments pertaining to things, not just as they appear to the human mind, but as they are in themselves, are irremediably flawed. Such are the arguments advanced on behalf of the immortality of the soul and arguments advanced on behalf of the existence of God. Such also are the arguments advanced for the limited or unlimited extent of the world in space and time, and arguments for and against freedom of the will. These last two, and arguments relating to empirical at all. That empirical laws of nature in their particularity and interconnectedness are not constituted, or even anticipated, a priori is, for Kant, a source of “a marked pleasure, even of admiration (Bewunderung),” as they should be for all of us. Critique of Judgment, Introduction, VI (Werke Band 8, 261). Kant realizes that, even on his interpretation of the human mind, there are limits to what it constitutes in the phenomenal realm (to say nothing of the noumenal realm). 56 �them, generate, Kant tries to show, antinomies—or opposed conclusions—by logically valid proofs that are nonetheless unsound because they assume without warrant that space and time, and the sum of appearances in space and time called nature, have an existence independent from our minds. A solution to the antinomies, Kant holds, is possible only if we make the distinction between nature, as the sum of appearances in space and time, and things-in-themselves. The existence of the Antinomies is not deduced from the argument of first part of the Critique, but is met with, Kant argues, in the investigation of nature itself. The existence of the Antinomies serves, then, as an independent confirmation of the argument of the first part of the Critique. That argument can, however, be appealed to in working out a solution to the Antinomies. According to Kant, the inconclusive proofs and contradictory conclusions that have marred the history of metaphysics have arisen from the attempts of speculative reason to comprehend what he calls “the Unconditioned,” that is, an ultimate uncaused cause or ground of all that, on inspection, presents itself as conditioned. Kant maintains that we set out in quest for the Unconditioned, not because of a mere psychological need, be it hubris, insecurity, fear of the death, unwillingness to gaze into the abyss, or what have you, but because this quest is demanded—Kant even says commanded—by reason itself.116 Dialectical illusion arises unavoidably only to the extent that reason seeks its fulfillment, its telos, in a theoretical apprehension of the Unconditioned. In the Canon of the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant suggests that reason might find its telos, the Unconditioned, not in theoria but in praxis, in the realm of human willing and action. Turning this suggestion into a demonstration is initiated in the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals and is completed in the Critique of Practical Reason. 116 B xx; A 296, B 353. 57 �In the latter work, Kant attempts to show that reason can legislate an unconditional moral law, a law expressing to us humans not what is, unconditionally, but what ought to be, unconditionally. The word “ought”—when used in reference to human action—expresses an imperative addressed to a rational being, who by virtue of his sensuous (or animal) nature, is inclined to disobey it. This [practical] rule … is, for a being in whom reason is not the sole determining ground of the will [but who has inclinations that can be opposed to reason], an imperative, that is, a rule that is designated by an “ought” (ein Sollen), which expresses the objective (o) necessity of the act, and signifies that if reason entirely determined the will the act would inevitably happen according to the rule.117 Kant agrees with Hume that “the ought” cannot be derived from “the is”—unless, of course, we already endow “the is” with a moral character. But, that “the ought” cannot be derived from “the is” does not mean that it is irrational. Quite the opposite. The “ought” is derived from the conditional “would.” What I, a rational being encumbered by sensuous inclinations, ought to do is what a rational being unencumbered by sensuous inclinations would do.118 117 Critique of Practical Reason. Book 1, Chapter 1, 1, Definition, Remark (Werke, Band 6, 126). Inclinations for Kant pertain to the senses and feelings, to what he calls the lower faculty of desire. The higher faculty of desire is practical reason itself. See ibid. Chapter 1, Theorem 2, Remark 1 (129-133). 118 Though Kant defines obligation with reference to what a purely rational being, i.e., God, would do, he does not derive the moral law from religious belief. Quite the opposite: “Even the Holy One of the Gospel must first be compared with our ideal of moral perfection before he is recognized as such.” Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Second Section, (James Ellington translation, Indianapolis IN: Hackett, 1981, 21); Werke, Band VI, 36. Leo Strauss, who is generally worlds away from Kant in his understanding of morality, agrees with him that morality does not come from religious belief. Quite the opposite: “One has not to be naturally pious, he has merely to have a passionate interest in genuine morality, in order to long with all his heart for revelation: moral man as such is the potential [!] believer.” The Law of Reason in the Kuzari (in Persecution and the Art of Writing, Glencoe IL: The Free Press, 1952), 140. Kant would add that, since the moral law cannot issue from religion, even less from experience, it can only issue from reason itself. 58 �Acting rationally means, minimally, not acting inconsistently. Acting inconsistently means acting in opposition to what he calls the categorical imperative. 119 Kant gives several formulations of the categorical imperative. I shall focus here on the formulation that is, in my opinion, the clearest and least vulnerable to criticism. Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of another, always as an end [that is, as possessing intrinsic worth] and never as a means, or instrument, merely [that is, as possessing worth only for someone else.].120 Kant holds that every rational being must think of himself as an end. It is not possible for a rational being, Kant says, to think of himself as mere means—as, we sometimes say, merely a “doormat” for others to wipe their feet on. If I think that you have slighted me, I say naturally something along the lines of, “Treat me like a human being.” I do not naturally say, “Treat me like a person who lives three hundred miles north of here,” or “Treat me like a music lover,” or “Treat me like a hunter.” I can say these latter things to be sure, and in certain very odd contexts they may be exactly the right things to say.” But it is much more natural to say “Treat me like a human being.” Now a human being is a rational animal. And since I do not mean, “Treat me like an animal,” when I say “Treat me like a human being,” I must mean by this expression, “Treat me like a rational being.”121 We insist on being treated as rational beings because we immediately recognize that rationality, which is constitutive of our humanity, has intrinsic worth. 119 Kant also calls the categorical imperative the moral law, more precisely, the moral law as it holds for a rational, but nonetheless finite being. An infinite rational being, or God (if he exists), acts according to the moral law. But the moral law does not address him in the form of an imperative, since, unlike finite rational beings, he has no inclination to act against it. 120 Werke, Band 6, 61: “Handle so, dass du die Menschheit, sowohl in deiner Person, als in der Person eines jeden andern, jederzeit zugleich als Zweck, niemals bloss als Mittel brauchest.” Consider Thomas Aquinas, ST 2-2 q. 64 art. 2, ad 3: “man is naturally free and existing for himself” (homo est naturaliter liber et propter seipsum existens,). 121 I mean something similar when I say, “Treat me like an adult.” We understand an adult to have reached, as we say, the age of reason and to be, as we also say, responsible for his actions. 59 �Reason has intrinsic worth because through it we humans, unlike irrationals animals, are oriented to the Unconditioned. Now, any reason I can give for why you should treat me as an end, and not a means merely, is at the same time a reason that you can give for why I should treat you as an end and not as a means merely.122 Reason, as such, ignores what is private about us, and speaks only to what we have in common. If you are an end, and I treat you as a means merely, I am treating you as something you are not. I am acting irrationally. For me to treat you as means merely is as irrational as treating an automobile as a washing machine, or a shoe as a pencil. In fact, it is much more irrational. For in these amusing cases, I would only be treating one thing as another thing. But in treating you as a mere means, I am now treating a person as a thing;123 and that is not so amusing. It is reason itself commands us not to act irrationally and opposition to the categorical imperative, just as it commands us not to think irrationally and in opposition to the principle of non-contradiction.124 122 If you say that you do not regard yourself as an end but as a means merely, I cannot prove that you are wrong, though I can doubt that you are telling the truth. If, however, I come to think that you are telling the truth and really do regard yourself as a means merely, then I have to be wary of the implications of how you regard yourself for how you will treat me. Still, your regarding yourself as a mere means does not entitle me to treat you as a mere means, not if I think you are mistaken in how you regard yourself. Should one assert, circumspectly and sotto voce of course, that, though some human beings (the wise few?) are ends, others (the unwise many?) are means merely, i.e., that they are only things and not persons, Kant would respond that, until and unless a rigorous argument is advanced on behalf of this assertion, it does not merit serious consideration. For it is too much at odds with how we actually encounter and interact with others, especially with how we require them to treat us. We cannot reasonably require those we treat as mere things to treat us as something other than mere things, or reasonably expect, or even hope, that they will do so. 123 Consider Boethius’s definition of person, “A person is an individual substance of a rational nature,” and Thomas Aquinas’s defense of this definition in Summa Theologiae 1, q. 29, art. 1. Boethius’ definition is elegant. An individual substance of a non-rational nature is only a thing. A universal substance of a rational nature is only a concept, such as a genus or a species. Compare Kant’s definition, which is in basic agreement with Boethius’s. “A person is a subject whose acts admit of imputation. Moral personality is nothing other than the freedom of a rational being under moral laws.” Metaphysics of Morals, Introduction IV “Preliminary Concepts.” 124 The categorical imperative (especially in the formulation considered above) causes, or should cause, the phenomenal world itself to look differently that it would without it. See the striking formulation in the Critique of Practical Reason, On the Deduction of the Fundamental Propositions of Pure Practical Reason: “This law is to procure for the sensible world, as a sensible nature (regarding what pertains to rational beings), the form of an intelligible, that is, of a supersensible, nature, though without interrupting the mechanism of the former.” (Dieses 60 �Kant understands the categorical imperative to be constituted by reason itself, which precisely qua reason frames its propositions in the language of universals. This is true of ordinary political legislation too; and it is true of speculative reason in all its ventures as well. Because reason is not private but common, we can reason together, about both practical matters and speculative matters. Reason has, we might say, “a mind of its own.” We can ignore reason, to be sure. But doing so will lead to error, to falsity in speculation and to immorality in action. There is a striking parallelism in the accounts of our relationship to others in the first and second Critiques. Just as, in the Critique of Pure Reason, the possibility of intersubjective agreement in theoretical matters is founded upon an objectivity made possible by distinguishing between the empirical ego and the transcendental ego, so, in the Critique of Practical Reason, the recognition of others as ends in themselves with respect to whom I have obligations is founded on consciousness of the moral law as an expression of the ego, not as a bundle of subjective inclinations, but as rational will articulating objective law. And just as the self that knows by constituting objectivity differs in no essential way from other human knowers, so the self that acts morally differs in no essential way from other human actors.125 The Critique of Pure Reason grounds a metaphysics of nature, and the Critique of Practical Reason grounds a metaphysics of morals. The dual metaphysics that emerges from these two critiques is an account of human nature that harmonizes the modern conception of nature, the world of appearances Gesetz soll der Sinnenwelt, als einer sinnliche Natur (was die vernünftigen Wesen betrifft), die Form einer Verstandeswelt, d.i., einer übersinnlichen Natur verschaffen, ohne doch jener ihrem Mechanism Abbruch zu tun. Werke, Band 6, 156.) Kant is saying here that, though we know (through the argument of the Transcendental Analytic of the Critique of Pure Reason) that all appearances in space and time, including the bodies of human beings, are governed by thoroughgoing determinism, our consciousness of the moral law actually makes human beings appear as persons, and not as spatio-temporal objects merely. 125 There are, of course, many empirical egos. But there are just as many transcendental egos, or—perhaps it would be better to say—just as many instantiations of the transcendental ego, although in the rules of their proper operation they do not differ from one another. 61 �standing under architectonic laws prescribed a priori by the human understanding, with the with the ancient and medieval conception of man as teleological. The Transcendental Analytic of the Critique of Pure Reason could seem to rule out the very freedom that the Critique of Practical Reason presupposes. Such a thing would be catastrophic for reason, for it would then be in conflict with itself. Kant attempts to solve this problem by arguing that we human beings are members of two worlds, the world as it appears, which (Kant argues) can be known to be exhibit thoroughgoing determinism, and the world as it is “in itself,” which (Kant also argues) can be thought, without the slightest contradiction, to have room for freedom. Both metaphysics are rooted ultimately in the consciousness that the ego has of itself, as a synthesizing agent in the act of knowing and as a rationally autonomous agent in the act of willing, the former characterized by spontaneity, the latter by freedom. 126 We have already considered something of what Kant means by spontaneity, but we need to take a closer look at it. 8. Empirical character and intelligible character It is sometimes is sometimes said that, according to Kant, everything of which we are conscious is subject to time. Whereas this is true of what we know in the strict sense of that word, it is not true of what we are only conscious of. Knowledge always requires an intuition adequate to the thing known. 126 In Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason (concluding note to Part 1), Kant equates freedom with spontaneity. 62 �In whatever manner and by whatever means a cognition may refer (beziehen) to objects (g), intuition is that through which it immediately refers to them, and to which all thought as a means is directed… Thought must…refer ultimately to intuitions, and therefore, with us, to sensibility because in no other way can an object (g) be given to us.127 It is clear that in this passage, as in others that we have considered, Kant is concerned with how objects are known, with how they are constituted. But what of the subject that engages in the act of constituting objects? I do not mean here the empirical ego, with its particular perceptions, feelings, memories, anticipations, hopes, fears, pleasures, pains, longings and the like, all of which go into distinguishing you from me. For Kant, just as much as for Hume, the ego understood this way is only a process of transitory perceptions and feelings. By the subject engaged in the act of constituting objects I am speaking of the transcendental ego. In his solution to the Third Antinomy, Kant does not base his argument for the possibility of freedom on our consciousness of the moral law, for the latter does not get thematically treated until the Critique of Practical Reason. In the solution to the Third Antimony, Kant argues for a freedom that is presupposed by, but not yet identified with, properly moral freedom—a “freedom-from,” one might call it, not yet identified with “freedom-for.” Kant says, We should, therefore, in a subject belonging to the sensible world have, first, an empirical character, whereby its actions (Handlungen) as appearances, stand in thoroughgoing connection with other appearances in accordance with unvarying laws of nature. And since these actions can be derived from the other 127 A 19, B 33. 63 �appearances, they constitute together with them a single series in the order of nature.128 The “empirical character” of the subject is what makes it an empirical ago. Its actions are appearances in time, and these are connected with other appearances, forming “a single series in the order of nature.” In this sense the empirical ego or subject is entirely subject to the principle of cause and effect. It is not free. But, Kant continues: Secondly, we should also have to allow the subject an intelligible character, by which it is indeed the cause of those same actions as appearances, but which does not itself stand under any conditions of sensibility, and is not itself appearance. We can entitle the former [i.e., the empirical character of the subject] the character of such a thing as (or in) appearance, the latter [i.e., the intelligible character of the subject] its character as thing-in-itself. Now this acting subject would not, in its intelligible character, stand under any conditions of time, for time is only the condition of appearances, not of things-inthemselves. In this subject [as a thing-in-itself], no action would begin or cease; and it would not, therefore, have to conform to the law of the determination of all that is alterable in time: that everything that happens must have its cause in the appearances that precede it. In its causality [as a thing-in-itself], so far as it is intellectual (intellektuell), it would not have a place in the series of those 128 A 539, B 567 ff. 64 �empirical conditions through which the event is rendered necessary in the world of sense.129 Kant argues that the thing-in-itself can be consistently thought of as both free, because it is not in time and thereby not subject to the schematized category of cause and effect, and yet also as a cause, because without the thing-in-itself there would be no appearances (appearances being, for Kant, appearances of something that does not itself appear). For these reasons the thing-in-itself can be consistently thought of as a free cause, even a free will. Kant removes the will from the phenomenal realm and lodges it in the noumenal realm of things-in-themselves. But he also argues that the subject as thinking, and not only as willing, must be thought of as thing-in-itself, and equally free from the thoroughgoing determinism of nature. Man is one of the appearances of the sensible world, and in so far one of the natural causes, whose causality must stand under empirical laws. Like all other things in nature he must have an empirical character. This character we observe (bemerken) through the powers and faculties which he reveals in his actions. In lifeless or merely animal nature we find no basis for thinking that any faculty is conditioned otherwise than in a merely sensible manner. Man however, who knows (kennt) all the rest of nature through the sense, cognizes himself (erkennt 129 Ibid., cont. Kemp Smith mistranslates intellektuell as “intelligible.” His note 3 (p. 468) suggests that he does not understand exactly what is going on in this particular passage. The subject has an intelligible character, insofar as it can be thought, and must be thought, apart from the data of sense-experience. But its activity is an intellectual (vs. phenomenal) causality—not identical to an intellectual (i.e., divine) intuition, but imaging it, one might say. 65 �sich selbst) through pure apperception; and this indeed in inner acts and inner determinations which he cannot reckon as impressions of the senses.130 Kant’s claim here that man “cognizes himself through pure apperception” is striking. For “pure apperception” clearly means non-empirical apperception. Pure apperception is the act of the transcendental ego. So this particular thing-in-itself, the transcendental ego, can be in some sense known, or cognized, after all. But how is this possible if all concepts, pure as well as empirical, have meaning and yield knowledge only of objects of possible experience,131 that is, knowledge of what can be given to us from without—however our much our faculty of understanding in its syntheses contributes to making what is given objective? Kant answers, more precisely he gives us the means to answer, this question in the apparent digression from the argument of Transcendental Deduction that I referred to earlier. 9. Transcendental Deduction, § 24 (last five paragraphs) - § 25. The passages dealing with the intelligible vs. the empirical character of the ego that I have quoted above occur in the first edition of the Critique of Pure Reason. Like most of what occurs in the first edition, these passages are included in the second edition as well. In rewriting the Transcendental Deduction for the second edition, Kant elaborates further on his conception of the transcendental ego as active in thinking, not just in willing. [The understanding’s] synthesis, therefore, if the synthesis be considered by itself alone is nothing but the unity of the act, of which as an act, it is conscious to 130 A 546, B 574. Kant claims at B 147 that even mathematical concepts yield knowledge only insofar as they can be applied to empirical intuition. Cf. A 156, B 195. 131 66 �itself, even without sensibility, but through which it is yet able to determine sensibility.132 When Kant says here, “if the synthesis be viewed by itself,” he means if it be considered independently of exactly what it synthesizes. The unity of the act is the unity of the “I think.” Thought is an act. It is, to be sure “empty”, without a corresponding intuition, for then it has no content, it has nothing to synthetically grasp, that is, to conceptualize.133 It is for this reason that, when Kant says that the understanding is conscious to itself of the unity of its act “even apart from sensibility,” I understand him to mean that the act of the understanding can be isolated from the particular content of sensibility that it is able to determine through its acts.134 Still, this selfconsciousness, as Kant elaborates it in the second edition of Transcendental Deduction, is not knowledge strictly so-called. [I]n the transcendental synthesis of the manifold of representations in general, and therefore in the synthetic original unity of apperception, I am 132 B 153. Kemp Smith glosses “without sensibility” as “without the aid of sensibility.” The consciousness “I think” is not consciousness of a manifold merely but rather consciousness of an act, albeit an act of synthesizing a manifold. I interpret Kant to be arguing, not that the “I think” could occur even without any manifold, pure or empirical, to synthesize, but only that self-consciousness, as occurring in the apperceptive act, does not rely on any particular manifold given through sensibility, not even on the pure manifolds of the forms of sensible intuition that are peculiar to us. Still, some form of sensible intuition must be given for the “I think” to be the act of synthesis that Kant holds it to be. B 133; 135. 133 See B 422, note, concluding sentence. 134 See B 135. “The fundamental proposition of the necessary unity of apperception (the ‘I think’)…reveals the necessity of a synthesis of the manifold given in intuition, without which the thoroughgoing identity of selfconsciousness cannot be thought” (emphasis added). What is at issue here is the identity of self-consciousness, its identity over time, as distinct from the manifold of representations, which vary over time. Identity of selfconsciousness over time surely presupposes the unity of its act: the former is a consequence of the latter, not vice versa. 67 �conscious (bewusst) of myself, not as I appear to myself, not as I am in myself, but only that I am.135 Note the absence of the apophantic “as” in transcendental apperception. In transcendental apperception I am conscious of myself, neither as I appear not as I am, but only that I am.136 Indeed, Kant has said earlier in the Deduction, This fundamental proposition of the necessary unity of apperception is…an identical, and therefore analytic proposition.137 The fundamental proposition is the very “I think” that can accompany all my representations. The predicate “think” is analytically contained in the concept of the subject “I.” The ego is conscious of itself in thinking, and thinking is, according to Kant, an act. The contradictory of any analytic proposition is one that cannot be thought without contradiction, and the proposition “I think” is no exception. The proposition, “I do not think,” is a proposition that I cannot think without contradiction. But as an analytic proposition, or judgment, the “I think,” does not extend my knowledge. The predicate only explicates what is already thought that in the subject.138 This representation [i.e., the original synthetic unity of apperception – the “I think] is a thought, not an intuition. Now in order to know ourselves, there is required in addition to (or beyond—ausser) the act of thought, which brings the manifold of every possible intuition to the unity of apperception, a determinate 135 B 157. Consider the distinction Kant makes, in the Preface to second edition between “intellectual consciousness of my existence” [which I possess] and “determination of my existence through intellectual intuition [which I do not possess].” B xi (emphasis in the original). 136 There is a curious parallel between what Kant says here about the transcendental ego and what Thomas Aquinas repeatedly says about God: we can know that he exists, but we cannot know his essence. 137 B 135. 138 Kant calls analytic judgments “explicative,” and synthetic judgments “ampliative.” Only the predicates in the latter add something beyond what is already thought (even if confusedly thought) in the concept of the subject. A 7, B 11. 68 �mode of intuition, whereby this manifold is given; it therefore follows that although my own existence is not indeed appearance (still less illusion), the determination of my existence can take place only in conformity with the form of inner sense [i.e., time]….Accordingly I have no knowledge of myself as I am but merely as I appear to myself. The consciousness of self is very far from being knowledge of the self….I exist as intelligence, which is conscious solely of its power of combination (Verbindungsvermögen); but in respect of the manifold which it has to combine I am subject to a limiting condition (entitled inner sense), namely, that this combination can be made intuitable only according to relations of time, which lie entirely outside the concepts of the understanding strictly regarded (eigentlichen Verstandesbegriffen).139 Mere consciousness of self is not genuine knowledge of self because it lacks the appropriate intuition. By means of sensible, temporal intuition I can know myself as I appear. The consciousness that “I am,” however, is not the consciousness of myself as just appearing (whatever that might mean), but as being, as existing, unequivocally. But to this selfconsciousness I have no corresponding intuition, no intellectual intuition, that would enable me to determine in what manner I exist, i.e., what I am in addition to that I am. Nonetheless mere consciousness of self, though not knowledge properly so called, is not insignificant. The “I think” expresses the act of determining my existence. Existence is already given thereby, but the mode in which I am to determine this existence, that is, the manifold belonging to it, is not thereby given.140 139 140 B 157 – B 159. B 158, note. 69 �Kant emphasizes again that in the “I think,” existence is thereby given. “I think” (hence “I exist’) is an analytic, indeed an identical proposition.”141 …since I do not have another self-intuition which gives the determining in me (I am conscious only of the spontaneity of it) prior to the act of determination, as time does in the case of determinable, I cannot determine my existence as that of a self-active being.142 Note again that knowledge is the determination of what something is, determination through concepts and intuition. “I cannot [in the “I think” of transcendental apperception] determine my existence as a self-active being.” A self-active being would be active in the strongest sense of the expression. It would be able act in relation to itself and not only in relation to what is given to it. A self-active being would be would be self-determining or morally free. But, according to Kant, consciousness of my synthetic, productive, and determining activity in relation to what is other than me (a manifold of intuition, pure or empirical, to be united; or even diverse concepts to be connected) is not conscious of self-determination. Whether I—as I am “in-myself”—am morally free or not, or for that matter, immortal or mortal, remains unknown. [All] that I can do is to represent to myself the spontaneity of my thought, that is [the spontaneity] of the determination [or, more precisely, the spontaneity of the act of determination]; and my existence is still only determinable, sensibly, that is, as the existence of an appearance.” (Emphasis added). 141 Compare B 420-425 (from the Paralogisms) with B 131-135 and B 155-159 (both from the Transcendental Deduction). If we take these passages together it looks as though a fourth possibility not explored in the Introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason, and tempting to dismiss as nonsensical, is taken seriously by Kant. “I think” is an analytic, but nonetheless empirical, proposition (or judgment). Only by making this claim, strange though it sounds, can Kant both accomplish the task Transcendental Deduction and rule out the possibility of a proof for the immortality of the soul. This matter requires further exploration, which, however, will not be undertaken here. 142 Ibid. 70 �To this Kant adds a qualification. But it is owing to this spontaneity [of my thought] that I entitle myself an intelligence.143 It is only consciousness of the spontaneity of thought that (assuming he did not change his mind on this point) Kant must have been thinking of when, in the solution to the Second Antinomy, he said that man “cognizes himself through pure apperception.” We are now in a position to respond to one of the most common criticisms of the Critique of Pure Reason, namely, that Kant applies the categories to the things-in-themselves, which transcend any possible experience, by saying that they exist, even that they are causes. But in doing so he violates his express claim that the categories, existence and cause among them, apply only to objects of experience. Kant cannot be rescued from this criticism solely by repeating his observation that the categories can be used to think, though not to know, things-in-themselves. For we must really know, and not just think, that at least one a-spatial, a-temporal thing-in-itself really does exist in order to be able to say that our spatial, temporal experience is of appearances only and not of things as they are in-themselves. The whole argument of the Critique of Pure Reason depends on our knowing at least this much. Nor can Kant be rescued from the charge of applying the categories to things that transcends any possible experience solely by saying that it is the unschematized categories, the categories without temporal meaning, that he applies to things-in- 143 Ibid. 71 �themselves. For Kant also teaches that, without this temporal meaning, the categories yield not even the slightest knowledge of objects.144. Of objects. But what does this say about the relation of categories to the subject, to the ego itself? Here we note a curiosity: though Kant uses the expression “things-in-themselves,” in the plural, to name the unknowable that lies behind appearances, he also frequently uses the expression “the thing-in-itself,” in the singular, to name the same unknowable that lies behind appearances. As far as I know, the only individual thing-in-itself that Kant ever says that we know exists, the only thing that he says we know is not just a spatio-temporal appearance, is the transcendental ego itself.145 Now, in transcendental apperception I am conscious that I am, but I do not know what I am, for this self-consciousness lacks the intuition that would elevate it to knowledge properly so called, to a knowledge that would determine my existence, to a knowledge of what I am. And yet the consciousness that I am is surely, in some circumscribed sense of the word, knowledge that I am. This knowledge that I am is highly restricted in that 1) it is not knowledge of an object at all, but of the subject; and 2) it is expressed in the analytic proposition “I think,”146 which as analytic does count as an extension of our knowledge. The existence, then, and not just the appearance, of the knowing subject is self-evident, precisely because “I think” is an analytic judgment. My existence is given with, is in fact identical with, 144 A 146, B 185: “The schemata of the pure concepts of the understanding are thus the true and sole conditions under which these concepts obtain relation to objects (o) and so possess significance (or meaning—Bedeutung).” (Emphasis in the original.) See the sentence that at the end of B 150. 145 The other candidate for a thing-in-itself, not construable as an appearance only, would be God. However, Kant argues at great length in the section of Critique of Pure Reason called “The Ideal of Pure Reason,” that we do not and cannot know that God exists. But he also argues there and elsewhere that we can think, without contradiction, that God exists. And more than that. He argues in the Critique of Practical Reason (Book II, Chapter II, sections 46; Werke, Band 6, 252-264) that we must postulate that God exists (and also that the soul is immortal) in order to make sense to ourselves of how the highest good—according to Kant, happiness in proportion to moral worth— which ought to be, could be. 146 B 135; 407. 72 �my thinking.147 Consequently, it is self-evident that at least one thing-in itself exists, namely, the ego that which is that is engaged in thinking. This self-evident knowledge is sufficient to ground the distinction between appearances and the thing-in-itself that the argument of the book turns on. Two questions arise. Does this distinction itself entail an illegitimate application of the category of existence? And when we say that the ego as thing-in-itself is a transcendental cause of appearances, does this amount to an illegitimate application of the category of causality? No. For the issue of legitimate vs. illegitimate category application (in relation to knowing, as distinct from thinking merely) always concerns application of the categories to objects, legitimately to objects of a possible experience and illegitimately to objects that transcend any possible experience. In fact, even when these categories are employed in speaking about the subject, they are not applied to the subject.148 Rather, the subject—in a way that Kant, unlike his greatest successors, seems to have thought does not admit of further explication—is itself the origin of the categories.149 We must remember that the categories are functions of unity in judgments, and that the table of categories is derived from the table of judgments. A judgment expresses the “I think” and the different forms of judgment express the different ways in which I think. Accordingly the categories are originally, though, so to speak, only latently, present “within” the “I think.” In saying that the “I think” discloses my existence to me, and even the causality of my thought as regards the constitution of objects, these two categories are not applied at all, for there is nothing genuinely distinct from them, like an intuition, to which they could be applied. The fundamental proposition “I think,” even “I think” actively and not passively, is explicative only, not ampliative. Because the proposition is analytic, the predicate, 147 B 422, note. B 131; B 408-409; 422, and note. 149 The subject, unlike an object, is surely not constituted as existing by applying the category of existence to it. For all category application presupposes an existing subject to perform it. 148 73 �“think,” adds nothing to the subject, “I,” but only makes explicit what already thought in this subject.150 When categories are applied to an object, the application extends them beyond their origin in the subject. When the categories are employed with reference to the knowing subject, they remain where they are: they come with the subject, originally. The existence and the causality (in constituting objects) of the transcendental subject, and the unity of its act, are evident in self-consciousness. In fact, not only is it a mistake to say that the categories are applied to the subject, to the ego that thinks; when one uses expressions like “existence,” “causality,” and “unity” with reference to the “I think,” it is a mistake even to call then “categories,” which are, after all, only “concepts of an object [g] in general.” [T]he concept of combination (Verbindung) contains, besides the concept of the manifold and of its synthesis, also the concept of the unity of the manifold. Combination is representation of the synthetic unity of the manifold. The representation of this unity cannot, therefore, arise out of the combination. Rather, it is what, by adding itself to the representation of the manifold, first makes possible the concept of the combination. This unity, which precedes a priori all concepts of combination, is not the category [!] of unity (§ 10); for all categories are grounded in logical functions of judgment, and in these functions combination, and therefore unity of given concepts is already thought. Thus the 150 I cannot, for example, infer from the proposition, “I think,” not even from the “I think” understood as existent and actively constituting objects in categorial syntheses, the proposition, “I am a simple substance” (and hence, by virtue of being simple that I cannot be de-composed, i.e. that I am naturally immortal). For the latter is a synthetic judgment that goes outside of the subject “I” and appends to it a predicate “simple substance” that is not thought in the subject. On other hand, and as already noted several times, the proposition, “I think,” is analytic. The concept of the subject, “I,” contains within itself the predicate “think”—and thinking, as Kant understands it, is essentially active, constitutive of objects, even causative of them qua objects. 74 �category already presupposes combination. We must therefore seek yet higher for this unity (as qualitative, § 12), namely in that which itself contains the ground of the unity of diverse concepts in judgments, and therefore of the possibility of the understanding, even as regards its logical employment.151 The question of how Kant can apply the categories to things-in-themselves resolves into the question of how the thinking subject can know that he is and not simply that he appears. Kant’s answer is that it is immediately evident that the thinking subject is self-conscious and, moreover, can it direct itself to its own faculties and operation. The transcendental ego’s recognition that it exists as thinking, and thereby as active, even causative (of combination), and that its act possesses unity, is—instead of category application to something given from without— reflection, a self-relation that is inward and original, even originating. One may not be fully satisfied with this answer to the question of how Kant can employ the terms “existence,” “causality,” and “unity” when speaking of the thing-in-itself that is the transcendental ego. But it is, I submit, Kant’s answer, indeed, the only possible answer that can be given in Kantian terms. And it bears serious consideration, touching as it does and the overarching question that will occur to the thoughtful reader of the First Critique: “How is a Critique of Pure Reason Possible?”152 However that question is to be answered adequately, or even adequately addressed, Kant was surely not deaf to it. He did not, as is commonly alleged, thoughtlessly violate his own rules of category application any more than he naively assumed the validity of Newtonian science in order to prove the validity of Newtonian science. He did not spend the decade in which he wrote the Critique of Pure Reason in a stupor. 151 B 128. B 129-131. The part of the First Critique that includes Kant’s treatment of the “I think,” he calls the “Transcendental Analytic.” It consists, he says, in the dissection (Zergliederung) of all our a priori knowledge into the elements of the pure understanding (Verstaneserkenntnis). A 64, B 89. 152 75 �In conclusion I draw attention to a most interesting parallel and opposition between the self-consciousness of transcendental apperception and the consciousness of the moral law, between the a priori analytic proposition, “I think,” and the a priori synthetic proposition, “I am obliged” (to act such that the maxim of my will could always hold at the same as principle establishing universal law). The predicate “think” is analytically contained in the concept of the ego. But the predicate “am obliged etc.” is not analytically contained in concept of the ego; it is synthetically connected to the concept of the ego by an act of practical reason, which thereby makes the consciousness of the moral law “a fact of reason,” even “the sole fact of reason.” 153 The analytic proposition, “I think,” expresses the spontaneity of the understanding; the a priori synthetic proposition “I am obliged…” expresses the freedom of the will. In both propositions the ego is conscious of itself as active.154 The conception of the ego as active, in both thinking and willing, is the ultimate ground of Kant’s dual metaphysics, of nature and of morals. 153 B 135; Critique of Practical Reason § 7 (Werke, Band 6, 141-142). Needless to say, the fact of reason is not what gets called “a brute fact.” A fact of reason is something made (factum) by reason. 154 The general parallelisms within the dual metaphysics that Kant attempts to ground are striking. Speculative Reason: The argument of the Prolegomena moves “regressively” from taking the existence of natural science properly so called—which Hume had called into question—as given, without a rigorously justifying argument, to the point of departure for the Critique of Pure Reason. The latter then moves “progressively” by arguing rigorously from what Kant attempts to show pertains to the very nature of speculative reason to a justification of what was merely assumed in the Prolegomena—thereby answering Hume. The Prolegomena is not an essential part of Kant’s speculative philosophy, but only an introduction to it, starting from what is commonly taken for granted. The Critique of Pure Reason, however, grounds an a priori science of nature, explicated in the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, which in turn grounds empirical natural science (which for Kant is, paradigmatically, physics, since he holds, controversially, that there is only so much science in given field of inquiry as there is mathematics in it). Practical Reason: The argument of the Groundwork moves “regressively” from taking the existence of free choice and duty (which the “eudaemonists” had called into question) as given, without a rigorously justifying argument, to the point of departure for the Critique of Practical Reason. The latter work then moves “progressively” by arguing rigorously from what Kant thinks pertains to the very nature of practical reason to a justification of what was merely assumed in the Groundwork (thereby answering the “eudaemonists,” and also Hume, who says: “Reason is, and ought [!] only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office but to serve and obey them.” A Treatise of Human Nature, II, iii, 3). The Groundwork is not an essential part of Kant’s practical philosophy, but only an introduction to it, starting from what is commonly taken for granted. The Critique of Practical Reason, however, grounds an a priori science of morals, explicated in the Metaphysics of Morals (consisting of a “Doctrine of Right” and a “Doctrine of Virtue”),which in turn grounds an empirical moral science, explicated in Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View. Publication dates of the above works: Critique of Pure Reason (1781; second edition: 1787) 76 �Prolegomena to any Future Metaphysics (1783) Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (1785) Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science (1786) Critique of Practical Reason (1788) Metaphysics of Morals (1797) Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View (1798) Publication dates of three other late, and major works. Critique of Judgment (1790); Religion within the Limits of Mere Reason (1793), Opus Postumum (1804). 77 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. 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Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Carey, James Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2017-02-08 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Carey, J. 2017-02-08 Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/5b72b61057ff88194b4ab48e75d38d3b.pdf 69959dfd9ea75643ba6aa6150fac82c5 PDF Text Text ������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 24 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Memorial to a woman with an alabaster jar : speculations on Matthew 24 to 26 Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in 1998 by John Cornell. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cornell, John F. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1998 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Bible. Matthew -- Criticism, interpretation, etc. Poetry Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000471 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ca698e5400e8cdc307dde0479171a7e3.pdf 86fcb74798920eb76700bd820b75d121 PDF Text Text ������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 24 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Anatomy of a scandal : self-dismemberment in the Gospel of Matthew (and in Gogol's "The Nose") Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on October 27, 2000 by John Cornell as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cornell, John F. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2000-10-27 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Gogol, Nicolaĭ Vasil'evich, 1809-1852. Bible. Matthew -- Criticism, interpretation, etc. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000597 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/53da1c2e1fa58e259af1a50c01eb6d08.pdf fbcd98de8a646bdc6561e4b62e1523af PDF Text Text ������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College at the Santa Fe, NM campus. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 21 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Philosophy and resurrection : Spinoza's account of Christianity Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on October 11, 2002 by John Cornell as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cornell, John F. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2002-10-11 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Spinoza, Benedictus de, 1632-1677. Bible Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000670 Friday night lecture