I am in doubt as to the propriety of making my first meditations in the
place above mentioned matter of discourse; for these are so
metaphysical, and so uncommon, as not, perhaps, to be acceptable to
every one. And yet, that it may be determined whether the foundations
that I have laid are sufficiently secure, I find myself in a measure
constrained to advert to them. I had long before remarked that, in
relation to practice, it is sometimes necessary to adopt, as if above
doubt, opinions which we discern to be highly uncertain, as has been
already said; but as I then desired to give my attention solely to the
search after truth, I thought that a procedure exactly the opposite was
called for, and that I ought to reject as absolutely false all opinions
in regard to which I could suppose the least ground for doubt, in order
to ascertain whether after that there remained aught in my belief that
was wholly indubitable. Accordingly, seeing that our senses sometimes
deceive us, I was willing to suppose that there existed nothing really
such as they presented to us; and because some men err in reasoning,
and fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of geometry, I,
convinced that I was as open to error as any other, rejected as false
all the reasonings I had hitherto taken for demonstrations; and
finally, when I considered that the very same thoughts (presentations)
which we experience when awake may also be experienced when we are
asleep, while there is at that time not one of them true, I supposed
that all the objects (presentations) that had ever entered into my mind
when awake, had in them no more truth than the illusions of my dreams.
But immediately upon this I observed that, whilst I thus wished to
think that all was false, it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus
thought, should be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth, I
think, therefore I am (COGITO ERGO SUM), was so certain and of such
evidence that no ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged
by the sceptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might,
without scruple, accept it as the first principle of the philosophy of
which I was in search.
In the next place, I attentively examined what I was and as I observed
that I could suppose that I had no body, and that there was no world
nor any place in which I might be; but that I could not therefore
suppose that I was not; and that, on the contrary, from the very
circumstance that I thought to doubt of the truth of other things, it
most clearly and certainly followed that I was; while, on the other
hand, if I had only ceased to think, although all the other objects
which I had ever imagined had been in reality existent, I would have
had no reason to believe that I existed; I thence concluded that I was
a substance whose whole essence or nature consists only in thinking,
and which, that it may exist, has need of no place, nor is dependent on
any material thing; so that “I,” that is to say, the mind by which I am
what I am, is wholly distinct from the body, and is even more easily
known than the latter, and is such, that although the latter were not,
it would still continue to be all that it is.
After this I inquired in general into what is essential to the truth
and certainty of a proposition; for since I had discovered one which I
knew to be true, I thought that I must likewise be able to discover the
ground of this certitude. And as I observed that in the words I think,
therefore I am, there is nothing at all which gives me assurance of
their truth beyond this, that I see very clearly that in order to think
it is necessary to exist, I concluded that I might take, as a general
rule, the principle, that all the things which we very clearly and
distinctly conceive are true, only observing, however, that there is
some difficulty in rightly determining the objects which we distinctly
conceive.
In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that I doubted,
and that consequently my being was not wholly perfect (for I clearly
saw that it was a greater perfection to know than to doubt), I was led
to inquire whence I had learned to think of something more perfect than
myself; and I clearly recognized that I must hold this notion from some
nature which in reality was more perfect. As for the thoughts of many
other objects external to me, as of the sky, the earth, light, heat,
and a thousand more, I was less at a loss to know whence these came;
for since I remarked in them nothing which seemed to render them
superior to myself, I could believe that, if these were true, they were
dependencies on my own nature, in so far as it possessed a certain
perfection, and, if they were false, that I held them from nothing,
that is to say, that they were in me because of a certain imperfection
of my nature. But this could not be the case with-the idea of a nature
more perfect than myself; for to receive it from nothing was a thing
manifestly impossible; and, because it is not less repugnant that the
more perfect should be an effect of, and dependence on the less
perfect, than that something should proceed from nothing, it was
equally impossible that I could hold it from myself: accordingly, it
but remained that it had been placed in me by a nature which was in
reality more perfect than mine, and which even possessed within itself
all the perfections of which I could form any idea; that is to say, in
a single word, which was God. And to this I added that, since I knew
some perfections which I did not possess, I was not the only being in
existence (I will here, with your permission, freely use the terms of
the schools); but, on the contrary, that there was of necessity some
other more perfect Being upon whom I was dependent, and from whom I had
received all that I possessed; for if I had existed alone, and
independently of every other being, so as to have had from myself all
the perfection, however little, which I actually possessed, I should
have been able, for the same reason, to have had from myself the whole
remainder of perfection, of the want of which I was conscious, and thus
could of myself have become infinite, eternal, immutable, omniscient,
all-powerful, and, in fine, have possessed all the perfections which I
could recognize in God. For in order to know the nature of God (whose
existence has been established by the preceding reasonings), as far as
my own nature permitted, I had only to consider in reference to all the
properties of which I found in my mind some idea, whether their
possession was a mark of perfection; and I was assured that no one
which indicated any imperfection was in him, and that none of the rest
was awanting. Thus I perceived that doubt, inconstancy, sadness, and
such like, could not be found in God, since I myself would have been
happy to be free from them. Besides, I had ideas of many sensible and
corporeal things; for although I might suppose that I was dreaming, and
that all which I saw or imagined was false, I could not, nevertheless,
deny that the ideas were in reality in my thoughts. But, because I had
already very clearly recognized in myself that the intelligent nature
is distinct from the corporeal, and as I observed that all composition
is an evidence of dependency, and that a state of dependency is
manifestly a state of imperfection, I therefore determined that it
could not be a perfection in God to be compounded of these two natures
and that consequently he was not so compounded; but that if there were
any bodies in the world, or even any intelligences, or other natures
that were not wholly perfect, their existence depended on his power in
such a way that they could not subsist without him for a single moment.
I was disposed straightway to search for other truths and when I had
represented to myself the object of the geometers, which I conceived to
be a continuous body or a space indefinitely extended in length,
breadth, and height or depth, divisible into divers parts which admit
of different figures and sizes, and of being moved or transposed in all
manner of ways (for all this the geometers suppose to be in the object
they contemplate), I went over some of their simplest demonstrations.
And, in the first place, I observed, that the great certitude which by
common consent is accorded to these demonstrations, is founded solely
upon this, that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the rules
I have already laid down In the next place, I perceived that there was
nothing at all in these demonstrations which could assure me of the
existence of their object: thus, for example, supposing a triangle to
be given, I distinctly perceived that its three angles were necessarily
equal to two right angles, but I did not on that account perceive
anything which could assure me that any triangle existed: while, on the
contrary, recurring to the examination of the idea of a Perfect Being,
I found that the existence of the Being was comprised in the idea in
the same way that the equality of its three angles to two right angles
is comprised in the idea of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere,
the equidistance of all points on its surface from the center, or even
still more clearly; and that consequently it is at least as certain
that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as any
demonstration of geometry can be.
But the reason which leads many to persuade them selves that there is a
difficulty in knowing this truth, and even also in knowing what their
mind really is, is that they never raise their thoughts above sensible
objects, and are so accustomed to consider nothing except by way of
imagination, which is a mode of thinking limited to material objects,
that all that is not imaginable seems to them not intelligible. The
truth of this is sufficiently manifest from the single circumstance,
that the philosophers of the schools accept as a maxim that there is
nothing in the understanding which was not previously in the senses, in
which however it is certain that the ideas of God and of the soul have
never been; and it appears to me that they who make use of their
imagination to comprehend these ideas do exactly the some thing as if,
in order to hear sounds or smell odors, they strove to avail themselves
of their eyes; unless indeed that there is this difference, that the
sense of sight does not afford us an inferior assurance to those of
smell or hearing; in place of which, neither our imagination nor our
senses can give us assurance of anything unless our understanding
intervene.
Finally, if there be still persons who are not sufficiently persuaded
of the existence of God and of the soul, by the reasons I have adduced,
I am desirous that they should know that all the other propositions, of
the truth of which they deem themselves perhaps more assured, as that
we have a body, and that there exist stars and an earth, and such like,
are less certain; for, although we have a moral assurance of these
things, which is so strong that there is an appearance of extravagance
in doubting of their existence, yet at the same time no one, unless his
intellect is impaired, can deny, when the question relates to a
metaphysical certitude, that there is sufficient reason to exclude
entire assurance, in the observation that when asleep we can in the
same way imagine ourselves possessed of another body and that we see
other stars and another earth, when there is nothing of the kind. For
how do we know that the thoughts which occur in dreaming are false
rather than those other which we experience when awake, since the
former are often not less vivid and distinct than the latter? And
though men of the highest genius study this question as long as they
please, I do not believe that they will be able to give any reason
which can be sufficient to remove this doubt, unless they presuppose
the existence of God. For, in the first place even the principle which
I have already taken as a rule, viz., that all the things which we
clearly and distinctly conceive are true, is certain only because God
is or exists and because he is a Perfect Being, and because all that we
possess is derived from him: whence it follows that our ideas or
notions, which to the extent of their clearness and distinctness are
real, and proceed from God, must to that extent be true. Accordingly,
whereas we not infrequently have ideas or notions in which some falsity
is contained, this can only be the case with such as are to some extent
confused and obscure, and in this proceed from nothing (participate of
negation), that is, exist in us thus confused because we are not wholly
perfect. And it is evident that it is not less repugnant that falsity
or imperfection, in so far as it is imperfection, should proceed from
God, than that truth or perfection should proceed from nothing. But if
we did not know that all which we possess of real and true proceeds
from a Perfect and Infinite Being, however clear and distinct our ideas
might be, we should have no ground on that account for the assurance
that they possessed the perfection of being true.
But after the knowledge of God and of the soul has rendered us certain
of this rule, we can easily understand that the truth of the thoughts
we experience when awake, ought not in the slightest degree to be
called in question on account of the illusions of our dreams. For if it
happened that an individual, even when asleep, had some very distinct
idea, as, for example, if a geometer should discover some new
demonstration, the circumstance of his being asleep would not militate
against its truth; and as for the most ordinary error of our dreams,
which consists in their representing to us various objects in the same
way as our external senses, this is not prejudicial, since it leads us
very properly to suspect the truth of the ideas of sense; for we are
not infrequently deceived in the same manner when awake; as when
persons in the jaundice see all objects yellow, or when the stars or
bodies at a great distance appear to us much smaller than they are.
For, in fine, whether awake or asleep, we ought never to allow
ourselves to be persuaded of the truth of anything unless on the
evidence of our reason. And it must be noted that I say of our reason,
and not of our imagination or of our senses: thus, for example,
although we very clearly see the sun, we ought not therefore to
determine that it is only of the size which our sense of sight
presents; and we may very distinctly imagine the head of a lion joined
to the body of a goat, without being therefore shut up to the
conclusion that a chimaera exists; for it is not a dictate of reason
that what we thus see or imagine is in reality existent; but it plainly
tells us that all our ideas or notions contain in them some truth; for
otherwise it could not be that God, who is wholly perfect and
veracious, should have placed them in us. And because our reasonings
are never so clear or so complete during sleep as when we are awake,
although sometimes the acts of our imagination are then as lively and
distinct, if not more so than in our waking moments, reason further
dictates that, since all our thoughts cannot be true because of our
partial imperfection, those possessing truth must infallibly be found
in the experience of our waking moments rather than in that of our
dreams.