THE INDISPENSABLE CONDITION OF ALL HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.--MEANS OF
PERCEIVING TRUTH.
143. We have not been able to discover, either in the real or the ideal
order, a truth, the origin of all other truths to our intellect while
in this life. Therefore it stands proved that transcendental science
properly so called is for us a chimera. Our cognitions must, doubtless,
have some resting-point, and this we shall now investigate.
For the better understanding of the subject now before us, we will
recall the true state of the question. We do not seek a first
principle, which of itself alone illumines or produces all truths;
but we seek a truth which shall be the indispensable condition of
all knowledge; for this reason, we do not call it an origin, but a
resting-point. The edifice does not originate in the foundation,
but rests upon it. We must consider the principle sought for as
a foundation, just as in the preceding chapters, we treated of
discovering a seed. These two images _seed_ and _foundation_, perfectly
express our ideas, and exactly trace the limits of the two questions.
144. Is there a resting-point of all science, and of all knowledge,
scientific or not scientific? If there is, what is it? Are there many,
or only one? Evidently there must be a resting-point. If asked the
reason of an assent, we must at last come to a fact or a proposition,
beyond which we cannot go; for we cannot admit the process _ad
infinitum_. This is the point where we must of necessity stop, and
consequently the resting-point of certainty.
145. Starting with a given assent, we may, perhaps, arrive at different
principles, independent one of the other, all equally fundamental, as
regards our mind: in this case there will be not only one, but many
resting-points.
We do not believe it possible to determine _a priori_, whether there
is unity or plurality for our intellect in this matter. That human
science must be reduced to a single principle is a proposition that
has been asserted, but never yet proved. Since the source of all
truth, as has been shown in the preceding chapters, is not in man, it
is evident that the principles, on which his knowledge is founded,
must be communicated. Who shall assure us that they are not many in
number, and of different orders? Nothing then in the present question
can be resolved _a priori_, and we must descend to ideological and
psychological observations.
146. Our mind acquires truth, or at least the appearance of truth; that
is to say, that in one way or another, it performs those acts which we
call perception and sensation. Whether the reality does or does not
correspond to the acts of our soul, is at present of no consequence, is
not what we now seek: we place the question on a ground accessible to
the most skeptical; for even they do not deny perception and sensation;
although they destroy reality, they admit appearance.
147. The means by which we perceive truth are of different orders; and
this is why truths perceived correspond equally to different orders,
parallel, so to speak, with the respective means of perception.
Consciousness, evidence, and intellectual instinct or common sense, are
the three means; to which correspond truths of consciousness, necessary
truths, and common-sense truths. These are distinct, different, and
in many cases unconnected with each other; and he, who seeks to
acquire complete and accurate ideas upon matters relating to the first
principle of human knowledge, must mark out their limits with great
care.
148. That means which we have called consciousness, or the intimate
sense of that which passes within us, that which we experience, is
independent of all the others. Destroy evidence, destroy intellectual
instinct, yet consciousness remains. In order to feel, and to be sure
that we feel, and what we feel, we need only experience. If we suppose
the principle of contradiction to be doubtful, still it will not shake
our certainty that we suffer when we suffer, that we rejoice when we
rejoice, that we think when we think. The presence of the act, or the
impression at the bottom of our soul, is intimate, immediate to us,
and of irresistible efficacy to place us above all doubt. Sleeping or
waking, sane or insane, the testimony of consciousness is the same;
there may be an error in the object, but there can be none in the
internal phenomenon. The lunatic who believes that he counts numberless
bags of dollars, certainly does not count them, and in this he is
deceived; yet he has in his mind the consciousness of what he does, and
in this he is infallible. A man who dreams that he has fallen into the
hands of robbers, is deceived as to the external object, but not as
regards the act by which he believes it.
Consciousness is independent of all extrinsic testimony; its necessity
is inevitable, its force irresistible in producing certainty; it is
infallible in what concerns only itself; if it exist it must give
testimony of itself; if it does not exist it cannot give it. In it
reality and appearance are confounded; it cannot be apparent without
being real; the appearance alone is already a true consciousness.
149. We include in the testimony of consciousness all that which we
experience in our soul, all that which affects what some call the human
_me_, ideas, thoughts of every class, acts of the will, sentiments,
sensations; in a word, every thing of which we can say: I experience it.
150. Manifestly the truths of consciousness are rather facts to be
pointed out, than combinations to be enunciated. This is not to say
that they cannot be enunciated, but that in themselves they abstract
all intellectual form, are simple elements, in ordering and comparing
which the intellect may occupy itself, but which of themselves give no
light, _represent_ nothing, but only _present_ what they are; that they
are mere facts, beyond which we cannot go.
151. The habit of reflecting upon consciousness, and of joining purely
intellectual operations with facts of simple internal experience, makes
it difficult to conceive this isolation, in which every thing purely
subjective is by its nature found. We endeavor to abstract reflection,
but we reflect upon our very effort to abstract it. Our intellect is
a fire, which, extinguished on one side, burns on the other; the very
effort to extinguish it ordinarily makes it burn brighter. Hence the
difficulty of distinguishing the two characters of purely subjective
and purely objective, to mark the dividing line between evidence and
consciousness, between the known and the experienced. Nevertheless,
the separation of two such different elements may be made easy, by
considering that brutes are, in their own way, conscious of what they
inwardly experience; not supposing them to be mere machines, we must
allow them consciousness, or the intimate presence of their sensations.
Without this even sensation is inconceivable, for that can have no
sensation which does not perceive that it feels. Brutes reflect not
on what passes within themselves; they experience it, but nothing
more. Sensations succeed one another in their soul, connected only
by the unity of the being experiencing them; but they do not take
them for objects and consequently, do not combine or transform them
in any manner; they leave them as they are, simple facts. From this
we may derive some light for the conception of what the simple facts
of consciousness are in us when abandoned to themselves, perfectly
isolated, separated from purely intellectual operations, and under no
subjection to reflective activity, which, combining them in various
ways, and elevating them to the region of the purely ideal, presents
them to us in such a manner as to make us forget their primitive purity.
An effort is necessary in order clearly to perceive what the facts
of consciousness are, and what its testimony is; for without this it
is impossible to advance one step in the investigation of the first
principle of human knowledge. Confusion on this point makes us fall
into transcendental equivocations. We shall hereafter have occasion to
observe this, and we have already encountered lamentable examples of
such deviations in the errors of the philosophy of the _me_.
152. Evidence is usually called an intellectual light. This is a
very happy metaphor, and even exact; but, like all metaphors, it has
the defect of being of but little service to explain the mysteries
of philosophy. We also find intellectual light in many acts of
consciousness. There is also a sort of clear light in that intimate
presence by which an operation or an impression is offered to the mind;
it shines upon the eye of the soul, and makes it see what is before
it. If, then, we define evidence only by calling it the light of the
intellect, we confound it with consciousness, or, at least, by the use
of ambiguous language, give others occasion of confounding them.
Let us not be thought to blame those who have used the metaphor of
light, or to flatter ourselves with being able to define evidence
with all exactness; for who can express in words this phenomenon of
our mind? If we are to have any metaphor, that of the intellectual
light seems to be the most adequate. For, in truth, when we fix our
attention upon evidence, in order to examine its nature and its effects
on the mind, it very naturally presents itself under the image of a
light, whose splendor illumines the objects, and enables the mind to
contemplate them: but this, we repeat, is not enough. We will, then,
although we do not undertake exactly to define it, point out a mark to
distinguish it from every thing else.
153. Evidence is always accompanied by the necessity, and consequently,
by the universality, of the truths which it attests. There is no
evidence of the contingent, except in so far as subjected to a
necessary principle.
Let us explain this doctrine by comparing examples taken respectively
from consciousness and evidence.
That there is in me a being which thinks, I know, not by evidence,
but by consciousness. That whatever thinks exists, I know, not by
consciousness, but by evidence. In both cases the certainty is
absolute, irresistible; but in the first it rests upon a particular,
contingent fact; in the second upon a universal and necessary truth.
That I think is certain for me, but not necessarily so for others;
the disappearance of my thought does not overturn the world of
intelligences; if my thought should now cease to exist, truth in itself
would suffer no change; other intellects might and would continue to
perceive truth; and neither in the real nor in the ideal order would
there be less concert and harmony.
I ask myself if I think, and in the bottom of my soul I read that I do
think: I ask myself if this thought is necessary, and not only does
experience tell me that it is not, but I can find no reason why it
should be necessary. Even supposing that my thought ceases to exist,
I perceive that I continue to reason in due form. Thus I examine what
would have happened if I had not existed, or what may hereafter happen
if I cease to exist; and I assent to principles and draw conclusions
without transgressing any law of the intellect. The ideal world and
the real world are presented to my eyes as a magnificent spectacle
at which I indeed assist, but from which I may withdraw without the
representation undergoing any change, except that I should leave vacant
the imperceptible place which I now occupy. But it is very different
with the truths which are the object of evidence. It is not necessary
for me to think; but it is so necessary for whatever thinks to exist,
that no efforts of mine could suffice to abstract this necessity for
one moment. If, taking an absurd position, I suppose the contrary,
and imagine for an instant the relation between thought and being
to be cut short, I break the chain which supports the order of the
entire universe; every thing is reversed, thrown into confusion;
and I know not if what I see be chaos or nonentity. What has taken
place? The intellect has only suffered a contradiction, at the same
time affirming and denying thought, because it affirmed a thought to
which it denied existence. It has violated a universal and absolutely
necessary law, the violation of which throws every thing into chaos.
Not the certainty of the soul's existence, supported by the testimony
of consciousness, suffices to prevent the confusion: the intellect by
contradicting itself has denied itself; from its insensate words, not
being, but nonentity has resulted, not light, but darkness; and this
darkness cast over whatever exists or is possible turns back upon it
and involves it in eternal night.
154. We have here fixed and defined the conditions of consciousness and
evidence. The object of the former is the individual, the contingent;
that of the latter the universal and the necessary. Only in God, the
source of all truth, the universal and necessary principle of being
and of knowledge, is consciousness identified with evidence; and it is
not possible to abstract the testimony of his consciousness, without
annihilating everything. What would remain in the world were I to
disappear? the creature asks itself, and answers: _everything except
myself_. Were God to ask himself this question, he would answer:
_nothing_.
155. We have given the name of intellectual instinct to the impulse
which in many cases produces certainty without the aid of the testimony
either of consciousness or of evidence. If you show a man a target,
then blindfold his eyes, and turn him around at random several times,
and, after this, place a bow in his hands, and assure him that the
arrow will strike the precise centre of the target, he will say that
this is impossible; and nothing can induce him to believe so great an
absurdity. And why not? Because of the testimony of consciousness? No!
For the question is now of external objects. Neither does he depend on
evidence; for the objects of evidence are things necessary, and it is
not intrinsically impossible for the arrow to hit the mark assigned.
On what then rests his profound conviction that this is not possible?
If we suppose him to know nothing of theories, of probabilities, and
combinations, to have no knowledge of this science, and never to have
so much as thought of such things, his certainty is just as great as
it would be were he able to base it upon some sort of calculation. All
the bystanders, whether rude or cultivated, ignorant or learned, need
no reflection to be equally certain; all will say, or think, "this is
impossible; it cannot happen." We again ask, what is the foundation
of so strong a conviction? Not springing from consciousness, or from
either mediate or immediate evidence, it manifestly can have no other
origin than that internal force which we call intellectual instinct,
and which may be called common sense, or anything else, so long as the
fact itself is recognized. It is a precious gift, which the Creator has
given to us, to make us reasonable even before we reason, and to enable
us rightly to govern our conduct when we lack time to examine motives
of prudence.
156. This intellectual instinct embraces many objects of different
orders; it is the guide and the shield of reason: the guide, because it
precedes and shows the way; the shield, because it defends reason from
her own cavils, and because sophistry becomes dumb in its presence.
157. The testimony of human authority, equally necessary to the
individual and to society, commands our assent, by means of an
intellectual instinct. Man believes man, believes society, even before
thinking of the motives of his faith; few examine them at all, and yet
this faith is universal.
We do not here inquire if intellectual instinct sometimes deceives,
or why, or in what cases it deceives; at present we only seek to
establish its existence; and with regard to the errors to which it
leads, we shall simply remark, that in a weak being, such as man, the
rule is continually changing, and as it is not possible to find a man
good, without any admixture of evil, so is it impossible to find truth
without some admixture of error.
158. We make sensations objective only by virtue of an irresistible
instinct. Nothing is more certain, more evident to the eyes of
philosophy, than the subjectivity of all sensations; that is,
sensations are immanent phenomena, are within us, and do not go out
of us; and yet nothing is more constant than the transition made by
the whole human race from the subjective to the objective, from the
internal to the external, from the phenomenon to the reality. On
what is this transition grounded? If the most eminent philosophers
experienced so much difficulty in finding the bridge, which unites
the two opposite banks; if some of them, wearied with investigation,
resolutely asserted that it was not possible to discover it, will the
commonalty of mankind discover it from their very childhood? Evidently,
motives of reasoning do not explain the transition; appeal must be made
to the instinct of nature. There is then an instinct, which by itself
assures us of a truth demonstrated with difficulty by the most abstruse
philosophy.
159. Here I shall notice the errors of those methods which isolate
man's faculties, and, in order better to know the mind, disfigure
and mutilate it. One of the most constant and fundamental facts of
ideological and psychological science, is the multiplicity of acts
and faculties of the soul, notwithstanding its simplicity attested by
the unity of consciousness. There is in man, and in the universe, an
assemblage of laws, the effects of which are simultaneously evolved
with harmonious regularity; to separate them, is often equivalent to
placing them in contradiction; for, no one of them being capable of
producing its effect if isolated, but requiring to be combined with
the others, they produce, when made to operate alone, instead of their
regular effects, the most hideous monstrosities. If you retain in the
world only the law of gravitation not combined with that of projection,
every thing will be precipitated towards one centre; instead of that
infinity of systems which adorn the firmament, you will have only a
rude and indigested mass. If you destroy gravitation, and preserve the
force of projection, all bodies will be decomposed into imperceptible
atoms, and be dispersed, like most subtle ether, through regions of
immensity.(15)