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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi
Leibniz’s Naturalized
Philosophy of Mind
Larry M. Jorgensen
1
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3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
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© Larry M. Jorgensen 2019
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First Edition published in 2019
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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
List of Abbreviations xi
Introduction 1
Bibliography 291
Index 301
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Acknowledgments
¹ Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, trans. Edwyn C. Hoskyns (London: Oxford University Press,
1933), v. The first edition was printed in 1918.
² Ibid., 1.
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x
I emphasize to my students the need for a strong community of philosophers, and this is
my community.
But my community extends much wider than this. I presented portions of this work
at the X Leibniz Congress in Hannover, Germany; the Second Arctic Circle Seminar in
Early Modern Philosophy in Finland; the “Force Forschung: Modern Philosophical
Conceptions of Force” at Cornell University; the Second and Sixth Biennial Margaret
Dauler Wilson Conferences at UCSD and Dartmouth; the Scottish Seminar in
Early Modern Philosophy in Aberdeen, Scotland; “Early Modern Conceptions of
Consciousness” at Humboldt University, Berlin; the Midwest Seminar in Early Mod-
ern Philosophy at Marquette University; the First Annual Leibniz Society Conference
at Rice University; the Houston Early Modern Group; and the Central Canada Seminar
for the Study of Early Modern Philosophy at the University of Guelph. I am grateful for
the many conversations I had with participants at each of these conferences.
I would like to acknowledge the Department of Philosophy and the administration
of Skidmore College and an NEH Summer Grant for support of this project. The
writing groups at Skidmore College were an invaluable source of encouragement.
Colleagues and students at Skidmore College and Valparaiso University and friends
in Saratoga Springs have been endlessly supportive of my work, and I find it a real
boon to work and live amongst these amazing and wonderful people.
At a more fundamental level, this book took shape around a rich and complicated
life with my family. For Lillian, this book has taken shape around cooperative full-
time childcare, a brief life in London, and concerts ranging from chamber ensembles
to Imagine Dragons. From the beginning of this project—naming a neighborhood cat
“Light Miss” (after Leibniz)—until today, Lily has become a fellow traveler out of The
Cave, full of insight and a passion for justice. For Evan, this book took shape around
trampolines and ADK fire towers. He is the only kid I know who is enticed into
drinking his milk by Zeno’s paradox. Through his unending curiosity and question-
ing, Evan has shown the polymath drive that Leibniz himself had: science, philoso-
phy, math, history, theology, and literature all have a space in Evan’s head (and often
in unexpected ways!). And, finally, Caitlin’s encouragement and grace infuse this
book with meaning. She has been my full partner in exploring with wonder the life of
the mind, and we are together building something that we merely glimpsed twenty
years ago. She is our local superhero (seriously!), and she persists.
* * *
Portions of this book have been published previously, although most of the work has
been revised and reworked for this volume. A part of chapter 2 overlaps with “By
Leaps and Bounds: Leibniz on Transcreation, Motion, and the Generation of Minds,”
The Leibniz Review 23 (2013): 73–98. Chapters 3 and 7 make use of material from
“The Principle of Continuity and Leibniz’s Theory of Consciousness,” Journal of the
History of Philosophy 47 (2009): 223–48. Chapters 5 and 6 make use of material from
“Leibniz on Perceptual Distinctness, Activity, and Sensation,” Journal of the History
of Philosophy 53 (2015): 49–77. Chapters 8 and 9 revisit material from “Leibniz on
Memory and Consciousness,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 19 (2011):
887–916 and “Mind the Gap: Reflection and Consciousness in Leibniz,” Studia
Leibnitiana 43 (2011): 179–95. The conclusion draws in part from “Consciousness
in Western Philosophy” in The Routledge Handbook of Consciousness, ed. Rocco
Gennaro (New York: Routledge, 2018), 24–37.
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List of Abbreviations
Introduction
The moderns have cut the Gordian knot with Alexander’s sword, and have
introduced miracles into a natural thing, like gods in the theatre at the denoue-
ment of an opera.¹
My aim was to explain naturally what they explain by perpetual miracles.²
even as these minds provide an image of the divine. As stated in the epigraph, what
the others sought to explain by means of an appeal to the divine, Leibniz sought to
explain in a natural way.
The main argument of this book is easy to state: Leibniz offers a fully natural theory
of mind. In today’s philosophical climate, in which much effort has been put into
discovering a naturalized theory of mind, Leibniz’s efforts to reach a similar goal
300 years earlier will provide a critical stance from which we can assess our own
theories. But while the goals might be similar, the content of Leibniz’s theory
significantly diverges from the majority of today’s theories. Many philosophers
today are working towards an account of mind in fully physical terms. In contrast,
the most fundamental elements of Leibniz’s mature theory of mind are indivisible,
unextended substances, which he terms monads to identify them as the true unities of
nature. Despite this stark difference in the basic elements of the system, or perhaps
because of it, Leibniz provides us with a valuable alternative and a possible way
forward amidst otherwise intractable debates. Indeed, it is helpful in at least this
sense: it allows us to distinguish a broad naturalizing project from the more narrowly
conceived physicalist project.
Of course, I recognize that the term “naturalism” is deeply disputed. Leibniz
himself used the term “naturalism” in a negative sense, although, at the same time,
he described his theory as “more natural” than the competitors. Given that, I think
there is something important captured in viewing Leibniz’s theory as a naturalized
theory of mind. Although the term “naturalism” is a slippery one even today, it is
widely regarded as a desirable goal. But it remains unclear just what the goal is.
One way to state the goal of contemporary theorists is this: a naturalized theory
will be one that has no irresolvable “mysteries”—mysteries like those presented by
phenomenal consciousness (i.e., the qualitative aspect of our experience), which
David Chalmers has famously called a “hard problem” because it is fundamentally
mysterious and it is unclear how to resolve the mystery.⁷ Thomas Nagel thinks the
mysteries will remain until we have retooled our conceptual framework.⁸ But natur-
alists of many stripes offer theories that purport to explain consciousness, removing
the mysteries. As Fred Dretske has put it, a naturalized theory may not “remove
all the mysteries [but] it removes enough of them . . . to justify putting one’s money
on the nose of this philosophical horse.”⁹
So, one way to recognize a naturalized theory is that it provides plausible or
satisfactory explanations of all mental states and events in a way that is intelligible
to human beings. Naturalism is about discharging explanatory demands. In this,
Leibniz was extraordinarily prescient, defending an account of the mind that pro-
vides fully natural explanations for mental states and events and providing an
explanatory framework that removes any residual mysteries, or at least “enough of
them,” to echo Dretske.
⁷ David J. Chalmers, “Consciousness and its Place in Nature,” in Philosophy of Mind: Classical and
Contemporary Readings, ed. David J. Chalmers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
⁸ Thomas Nagel, “Conceiving the Impossible and the Mind–Body Problem,” Philosophy 73 (1998).
⁹ Fred Dretske, Naturalizing the Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), xiii.
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There is also a way in which the historical context of Leibniz’s theory reflects our
own situation. In the seventeenth century, the Scientific Revolution was well under-
way, and numerous previously arcane aspects of nature were being explained in
increasingly mechanical terms. But at the same time there were persistent questions
about how far these mechanical explanations could extend. Some, like Descartes,
limited mechanical explanations to bodies—minds were excluded from that sort of
explanation. Others, like Hobbes, were fully prepared to incorporate minds into the
material machine, causing some anxiety among philosophers and theologians that
important moral and theological categories would be eliminated. Leibniz’s response to
this situation was to carve out a middle ground: minds are fully a part of the natural
system, but they are not merely material machines. His naturalism is one that, he
plausibly thought, is consistent with central moral and theological positions. While this
might be seen as an important historical consequence, it also provides a framework for
evaluating for ourselves how naturalized theories might cohere with moral and reli-
gious philosophical views. This is an issue that has captured popular attention even
today—Leibniz stood at the nexus of many of the important debates then and now.
Additionally, liberal societies have long been committed to the natural sciences
and to religious pluralism. It is a source of much grief that these two positions are
now regarded, by people on both sides, as incompatible. The incompatibility is
having bad effects on our ability to live together in community, to talk civilly, and
to make progress in both science and theology. And so a Leibnizian harmony
between nature and the domain of faith is not merely theoretical.
This book is an effort to see how the Leibnizian harmony holds up from the
perspective of his philosophy of mind. Granted, many of the details of Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind would need to be updated in order to make it a plausible
candidate theory of mind in today’s discussions, a task I don’t intend to do in this
volume, but the overall metaphysic is one that might cast some light on our own
thinking. Indeed, as I have worked through Leibniz’s system, I have seen some ways
in which I might depart from what he has presented (not all of which are noted in this
volume), but this benefit of vision comes only through the hard work of seeing things
through his eyes for a bit.
Of course, by identifying a broader motivation for this project in the introduction,
I open myself to various charges: of taking Leibniz’s metaphysics out of its historical
context, of anachronism, or of pressing Leibniz into my own mold. But, for me, this
intersection of currents—those that motivate Leibniz’s thinking and those that
motivate our own thinking—animates the project all the more. And I suspect that
Leibniz would have welcomed the project. Remember that Leibniz is known for
continuously revisiting key conclusions, trying out new avenues of thought and
revising his thinking in light of the evidence. And it is clear that Leibniz never did
finish his project. And so, even a statement of Leibniz’s views will be of a dynamic
position, one that was still responding to the worries of his time and the challenges of
his own thinking. This dynamics of thought makes Leibniz difficult to interpret, but it
also gives us a picture of a highly intelligent person wrestling with difficult issues, and
it invites us to do the same.
Narrowing in from this broader set of issues, the more specific argument of this
book is that Leibniz’s philosophy of mind meets the standards of what he would
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mind actually lays claim to explaining more than merely higher-order mental
phenomena. It aims to explain much that goes by in minds entirely unnoticed, and
which explains how it could be that the basic elements of nature are non-extended.
No one (to my knowledge) has brought forward these three commitments—the
commitment to a natural theory and the commitments to substances as essentially
active and as representational—in an adequate way. These will be the three pillars
upon which the theory rests.
consider carefully how the use of terms, the historical context, and the systematic
connections within the theory itself might be distinctive in the seventeenth century.
With that in mind, this book will start by considering what, for Leibniz, it means
for a theory to be a natural theory. How does he use the term “nature” and what does
the division between natural and non-natural amount to? What are Leibniz’s criteria
for a natural theory, and why is it that the Cartesian theories do not pass the test?
Once we grasp Leibniz’s own account of a natural theory, Part I of this book, only
then can we consider how (or whether) his own theory of mind is itself fully natural.
This book is in four parts. The first two parts provide the systematic and historical
context for the philosophy of mind that is developed in the second half of the book.
Readers who are primarily interested in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind may discover
that the second half of the book could stand largely on its own. However, the full
defense for the systematic constraints I apply in defense of the interpretation
developed in the second half of the book is presented in the first half of the book,
and so the full picture emerges only with this background in place.
The structure of the book will follow this story line. In Part I, I will outline
Leibniz’s naturalism. Chapter 1 investigates Leibniz’s concept of “nature,” which
focuses on the demand for explanation. Chapters 2 and 3 outline two principles
that Leibniz believes will aid in our discovery of natural explanations: (1) the
principle of continuity, and (2) the principle of the best. Both of these principles,
according to Leibniz, derive from the nature of God’s activity. Since, according to
Leibniz, God does nothing without a reason, this gives us confidence that there is a
reason or explanation available for any given phenomenon. But beyond a mere
promise of explanation, the principle of continuity and the principle of the best
prove to be useful heuristics in discovering natural explanations. Part I shows that
Leibniz has a clear conception of the requirements of a fully natural theory and that
such a theory does not immediately undermine the sharp species distinctions that he
argues for in his theory of mind.
Part II presents the basic structures of Leibniz’s theory of mind—the things that
minds and simpler substances have in common. In this section, I present a new
interpretation of Leibniz’s theories of perception and mental representation, which
provide the most basic building blocks for his theory of mind. While very good work
has been done on Leibniz’s theory of representation, I argue in Part II that interpret-
ers have not given sufficient attention to two other central concepts for Leibniz’s
theory of perception: (a) activity and (b) mediation. Chapters 5 and 6 develop
Leibniz’s theory of substance, with attention to activity and representation respect-
ively. Chapter 7 supplements Leibniz’s accounts of representation and activity with
an account of the mediation of perceptions via the body. An account of perceptual
distinctness requires all three. The benefit of this new interpretation will be to dispel
some of the oddities (or possible inconsistencies) in Leibniz’s use of the concept of
perceptual distinctness. At the end of Part II, the main underlying structures of the
Leibnizian mind will be in place.
In Part III, I present an account of Leibniz’s theory of what one might call an
animal mind, the aspects of perception, sensation, consciousness, appetite, and desire
that humans share in common with other animals. Here I investigate his theories of
consciousness, memory, and appetite, focusing on how Leibniz explains each of these
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Second, while there is very good work being done on how Leibniz’s views changed
or developed over time, this volume does not take up that question in a central way.
There are moments where the development of his views is important, especially with
respect to the naturalizing constraints in Part I, and I will address those there. But for
the broader metaphysical views that serve as the backdrop for Leibniz’s philosophy
of mind, I will present here what I take to be views that Leibniz consistently held
(perhaps with minor variations) over the latter half of his career (roughly, from 1686
on), with an emphasis on the metaphysics he was working out from around 1695
(with the publication of the “New System”) through 1716.¹⁴ In those contexts, I will
bring in earlier texts or discuss the development of Leibniz’s views only to the extent
that I think it clarifies or illuminates his more mature views. My own sense is that
while it may be controversial when and to what extent Leibniz was an idealist about
bodies, Leibniz’s theory of mind was more stable from the middle period onwards.
¹⁴ Readers who wish to learn more about the controversies about Leibniz’s fundamental metaphysics
should consult Robert Merrihew Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1994) and Daniel Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
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PART I
Leibniz’s Naturalizing Project
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1
Nature and Natures
Some things exist by nature and some things exist from other causes. For example,
animals, plants, earth, air, fire, and water exist naturally, while beds, houses, and coats
exist only because they were caused to exist by something else. Aristotle launches
book two of his Physics with this intuitive distinction between nature and artifice. The
question, then, is what we mean by “nature” (φύσις) when we make such distinctions.
Aristotle argues:
[E]ach of [the things that exist by nature] has within itself a principle of motion and of
stationariness . . . Nature is a principle or cause of being moved and of being at rest in that to
which it belongs primarily, in virtue of itself and not accidentally.²
He goes on to say that “things have a nature which have a principle of this kind. Each
of them is a substance: for it is a subject, and nature is always in a subject.”³
Aristotle’s conception of nature focuses on the internal principles of change, which
are intrinsic to an object, as opposed to the principles of change that are either
accidental or extrinsic to the object.⁴ Aristotle goes on to argue that “form is nature
rather than the matter,”⁵ since the nature of a thing derives more from actuality than
potentiality.
While Aristotelian natural philosophy had hit upon hard times in the late 1600s,
Leibniz sought to restore at least this aspect of Aristotelianism. In his familiar attacks
¹ LC Leibniz 5, §107.
² Aristotle, “Physics,” in The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1984), 192b10–20.
³ Ibid. 192b30.
⁴ There is interpretive disagreement over whether Aristotle’s conception of nature is of a self-moved
thing or of a thing that is moved by something else, since the Greek verb in use could be read as either in the
passive or the middle voice. It seems to me that Aristotle’s appeal to form in his discussion of nature will
favor reading this in the middle voice, although I realize that this is not decisive. I will not attempt to
address this controversy, since it is more important to my argument to see how Leibniz incorporates this
notion of nature into his own system. For Leibniz, individual natures will have principles of motion and
rest intrinsic to them. For discussion of this interpretive controversy in Aristotle, see Helen S. Lang, The
Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 39–54.
⁵ Aristotle, “Physics,” 193b5.
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The ordinary Cartesians confess that they cannot account for [the union of mind and body];
the authors of the hypothesis of occasional causes think that it is a “difficulty worthy of a
liberator, for which the intervention of a Deus ex machina is necessary;” for myself, I explain it
in a natural manner.⁶
⁶ To Arnauld, October 9, 1687 (A 2.2.242/LA 145), last emphasis mine. A similar point was made in
Leibniz’s letter to Clarke, LC Leibniz 5, §107, which again emphasizes the need to appeal to the natures of
things in our philosophy.
⁷ G 6.595/AG 197, emphasis mine. ⁸ G 4.375–6/L 398.
⁹ It is noteworthy that Leibniz thought his promised Elements of Mind would also provide a defense of
certain theological positions in a natural way, such as the immortality of the soul. In a letter to Arnauld
(A 2.1.279/L 149), he claims that the Elements would shed light on controversies over the trinity, the
incarnation, predestination, and the Eucharist. Leibniz wrote a proposal, which included a reference to the
Elements of Mind, to Duke Johann Friedrich of Hannover on May 21, 1671 (A 2.1.182), and his preliminary
work on the Elements can be found at A 6.2.276–291.
For discussion of the influence of Hobbes on Leibniz, see Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad,
14–22 and Howard R. Bernstein, “Conatus, Hobbes, and the Young Leibniz,” Studies in the History and
Philosophy of Science 11 (1980).
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have considered a version of monism in 1676, departing from Spinoza in ways that
would preserve God’s moral nature.¹⁰
And so Leibniz, from very early in his career, found himself between the two poles:
Hobbes and Spinoza, on the one hand, whose theories compromise important moral
and religious truths, and Descartes and the Cartesians, on the other hand, whose
natural philosophy is full of holes. It is well known that, in response to these
concerns, Leibniz eventually came to see that a fully natural account of the laws of
motion or of the union of mind and body would require the revival of substantial
forms. And so, while Leibniz departed from Aristotle in many ways, Aristotle’s
emphasis on individual natures, which have their principles of change internal and
intrinsic to them, can be seen as motivating Leibniz’s broader naturalizing project.¹¹
Two aspects of Aristotle’s account are worth emphasizing as we approach Leibniz’s
theory of mind. First, Aristotle’s emphasis is on the natures of individual things
(plural). This will play out in Leibniz’s system as he attempts to avoid charges of
Spinozism—there are individual natures that are substantial and present in the
plurality of things. Interestingly, Aristotle himself did not set out to prove this
claim. Aristotle says:
That nature exists, it would be absurd to try to prove; for it is obvious that there are many
things of this kind, and to prove what is obvious by what is not is the mark of a man who is
unable to distinguish what is self-evident from what is not.¹²
Leibniz will try to provide a fuller argument than this, but at certain points this is
precisely the kind of argument he provides, identifying the clearest example from
within ourselves—our experience of our own minds gives us evidence of an individ-
ual nature.¹³
The second aspect of Aristotle’s discussion of nature worth highlighting is that the
natures themselves provide an account of change. This will also become central to
Leibniz’s theory, and it will be an important part of the discussion in this volume as
he attempts to avoid the two boundaries: this claim will allow Leibniz to avoid
the subsumption of individuals into the whole, and it will allow him to avoid the
problems of a view (like Cartesianism, especially in its Occasionalist forms) that
places the source of activity outside of the subject. These two boundaries define the
¹⁰ For the argument that Leibniz was briefly tempted by monism, see Adams, Leibniz: Determinist,
Theist, Idealist, 123–30 and Mark Kulstad, “Leibniz, Spinoza, Tschirnhaus: Metaphysics à Trois,
1675–1676,” in Spinoza: Metaphysical Themes, ed. Olli I. Koistinen and John I. Biro (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2002). For a thorough discussion of Leibniz’s relation to Spinoza, see Mogens Laerke,
Leibniz Lecteur de Spinoza: La Genèse Opposition Complexe (Paris: Champion, 2008).
¹¹ Commentators have noted this connection with Aristotle (for example, see J.A. Cover and John
O’Leary-Hawthorne, Substance and Individuation in Leibniz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1999), 219), but to my knowledge none have fully developed the naturalizing claim that I will be developing
throughout this book.
¹² Aristotle, “Physics,” 193a1.
¹³ For example, in a letter to Lady Masham in May 1704, Leibniz argues that “the principle of uniformity”
allows him to infer that what we recognize in substances “within our range” extends to “substances beyond
our sight and observation.” Therefore, Leibniz argues, “taking it as now agreed that there is in us a simple
being endowed with action and perception . . . this leads me to think that there are such active beings
everywhere in matter, and that they differ only in the manner of their perception” (G 3.339/NS 204).
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territory within which Leibniz develops his theory of substance, and these two aspects
of Aristotle’s account of nature, if he can give them a proper development within the
new science of the seventeenth century, will give him a way to tread this line.
In broad outlines, the project of this book is to see how Leibniz develops a natural
theory of the mind. Others have emphasized Leibniz’s natural philosophy, but few
have brought this discussion to bear on Leibniz’s theory of mind. In this first part of
the book, I will unpack more clearly what it is to be a natural theory, according to
Leibniz. In this chapter I will try to formulate Leibniz’s naturalizing claims more
precisely. In the following two chapters, I will emphasize the systematic principles
that help shape his theory—the principle of continuity, the principle of sufficient
reason, and the principle of the best.
There are three things that I will emphasize in this chapter: (a) Leibniz’s focus on
individual natures, (b) Leibniz’s appeal to “rules of the good and beautiful,” and
(c) the representational nature of individual substances, building the “rules of the
good and beautiful” into the individual, active natures. This allows for a robust
natural theory that is informed by the good, and, hence, final causes will form a
part of the overall natural theory. There is a problem, however, in identifying the
scope of Leibniz’s natural theory. It is not clear how Leibniz can avoid either
(1) extending his natural theory to include God’s actions (hence, natural philosophy
extends to theology) or, on the other hand, (2) identifying the boundaries of his
natural philosophy in an ad hoc way. I will argue that Leibniz does avoid these two
landmines. Regardless, we can focus the question more specifically by considering
whether he avoids these problems within his philosophy of mind (even if he didn’t in
the broader scope of his philosophy). That is, even if Leibniz cannot find a principled
way of limiting his natural theory in a global sense, he might nevertheless be able to
avoid such problems in his theory of mind. The working hypothesis of this book is
that Leibniz can and does develop such a theory of mind.
The path to this conclusion may seem a bit digressive at first, since Leibniz
establishes what I will call his naturalizing constraints through considerations of
the relation of the universe to God. In what follows, I will suggest that it is because of
a certain conception of God that Leibniz thinks that the naturalizing constraints hold.
So a bit of patience is cautioned—Part I will be giving something of a theological
argument for naturalism, which will seem unusual in today’s context but is necessary
if we are to see the strength of these constraints for Leibniz.
¹⁴ I am indebted to Robert Adams for bringing this correspondence to our attention. See Adams,
Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 91–2. The correspondence can be found at A 1.7.29–46 or A 2.2.452ff.
The translation here is Adams’s.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi
Leibniz responds:
That is very solid, provided it is explained correctly. It is very true, then, that everything that is
done is always natural to the one that does it, or to the one that aids in doing it. Thus what a
human being does with the aid of God, if it is not entirely natural to the human being, will at
least be natural to God, inasmuch as he aids in it; and it cannot surpass the divine nature, nor
consequently all nature in general. But popularly when Nature is spoken of, that of finite substances
is understood, and in this sense it is not impossible for there to be something supernatural, which
surpasses the force of every created being. It is when an event cannot be explained by the laws of
movement of bodies, or by other similar rules that are noticed in finite substances. And I have
shown in an earlier letter that one encounters that every time one finds a succession of true
prophecies that go into detail. It is true that they are rare, like all other supernatural things.¹⁹
Leibniz’s analysis of “natural” here is enlightening, since it focuses on the activity of a
substance—what it is able to do. The ability of a substance to act derives from its
nature, which is consistent with Leibniz’s description of nature in DM §16 and in
“A Specimen of Dynamics.”²⁰ (These texts will be discussed more fully in chapter 4.)
An action is natural if it is a consequence of the natures of the substances involved.
That is, if the action falls within the scope of the things the substance is able to do on
its own (without assistance), then it is a fully natural outcome for that substance. But
if the action falls outside of the scope of what a particular substance is able to do,
but that substance could do it with assistance, then it is a natural outcome of the
combined substances participating in the action. Therefore, all events are natural,
since even those events that might be regarded as miraculous, as being beyond the
power of any combination of finite substances, still include the assistance of God,
which is to say the divine nature.
So, one way to understand Sophie’s claim is this:
(1) Every event follows either from the natures of finite beings (individually or
collectively), from the nature of God, or from the natures of finite beings
assisted by the nature of God.
The editors of the Academy edition note that the prophetess in question is Rosamunde Juliane von der
Asseburg. For more on Leibniz’s attitude towards modern-day prophets, see Daniel J. Cook, “Leibniz on
Enthusiasm,” in Leibniz, Mysticism and Religion, ed. A.P. Coudert, R.H. Popkin, and G.M. Weiner (Dordrecht:
Kluwer, 1998).
¹⁵ A 2.2.452/Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 91. ¹⁶ A 2.2.454/ibid. ¹⁷ Ibid.
¹⁸ A 1.7.44/ibid., 91. ¹⁹ A 1.7.46f; A 2.2.460f/ibid., 91–2, emphasis mine.
²⁰ GM 6.235/AG 118.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi
This is a quick route to naturalism for anyone inclined to join the party. All one needs
to do is to count actions that derive from God’s nature as natural events.
This maneuver would seem strange to most naturalists, and rightly so. It is a
cheater’s naturalism, and Leibniz doesn’t fully endorse it. Under this construal,
Descartes’s and Malebranche’s theories could be considered natural theories.
Leibniz’s resistance to Cartesian theories of mind and motion is evidence that he
did not subscribe to such a broad construal of naturalism. But what makes this
broad form of naturalism coherent and intelligible is a theory of individual natures
that underlies Leibniz’s substance metaphysics. For Leibniz, the claim that an event
is natural involves an implicit reference to the natures of the acting substances that
participate in or cause the event—we must rephrase any statement of the form
“X is natural” to “X is natural for Y ” (where Y might pick out an individual or a set
of individuals).
²¹ Note that this would be problematic for Spinoza as well—if this is the way we should contrast natural
and supernatural events, then Spinoza’s philosophy is not a natural philosophy.
²² For discussion of Leibniz’s views about the link between popular usage and the clarity of one’s theory,
see Mogens Laerke, “The Problem of Alloglossia: Leibniz on Spinoza’s Innovative Use of Philosophical
Language,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 17 (2009): §2.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Title Page of Baskerville’s Virgil, Birmingham, 1757 (8½ × 5⅜ inches)
Text Page of Baskerville’s Virgil, Birmingham, 1757 (8½ × 5⅜ inches)
The Virgil itself, beyond the interest that exists in its type, shows grace and
dignity in its composition and margins. For the first time we have a type title
(page 247) that shows a printer’s appreciation of its possibilities. Baskerville
affected extreme simplicity, employing no head or tail pieces and no
ornamental initials to accomplish his effects (page 249).
The copy of Baskerville’s Virgil in my library contains a copper-plate
frontispiece. The advertisement which particularly emphasized this feature
excited my curiosity, as no book of Baskerville’s is known to have contained
illustrations. When I secured the copy I found that the frontispiece was a steel
engraving stamped on water-marked paper which indicated its age to be at
least two hundred years earlier than the publication of the book. The owner of
this particular copy had inserted the illustration in re-binding, and it was no
part of the original edition!
The glossy paper referred to in Franklin’s letter was an outcome of
Baskerville’s earlier business experience. It occurred to him that type would
print better upon highly finished paper, and that this finish could be secured
by pressing the regular book paper of the time between heated japan plates
made at his own establishment. Baskerville is entitled to the credit of having
been the first printer to use highly finished paper, and, beyond this, as Dibdin
says of him, “He united, in a singularly happy manner, the elegance of Plantin
with the clearness of the Elzevirs.”
Interest in the Baskerville books, and in fact in all books printed in what is
known as “old-style” type, ceased suddenly with the inexplicable popularity
attained about 1800 by the so-called “modern” face. The characteristics of the
old-style letter are heavy ascending and descending strokes with small serifs,
whereas the modern face accentuates the difference between the light and the
heavy lines, and has more angular serifs. The engraved work of Thomas
Bewick, in England, the publication of the Racine by the Didots, and the
Bodoni volumes in Italy, offered the public an absolute innovation from the
types with which they had been familiar since the invention of printing, and
the new designs leaped into such popular favor that many of the foundries
destroyed the matrices of their old-style faces, believing that the call for them
had forever disappeared. As a matter of fact, it was not until the London
publisher Pickering revived the old-style letter in 1844, that the modern face
had any competition. Since then the two styles have been maintained side by
side.
Thus the second supremacy of France came from a change in public taste
rather than from economic causes. For a time there was a question whether
Bodoni would win the distinction for Italy or the Didots for France, but the
French printers possessed a typographical background that Bodoni lacked, and
in their Racine produced a masterpiece which surpasses any production from
the Bodoni Press. The Didots were not only printers and publishers, but
manufactured paper and invented the process of stereotyping. While Minister
to France, in 1780, Benjamin Franklin visited the Didot establishment, and,
seizing the handle of a press, struck off several copies of a form with such
professional familiarity as to cause astonishment.
“Don’t be surprised,” Franklin exclaimed smiling. “This, you know, is my
real business.”
In 1797, the French Minister of the Interior placed at the disposal of
Pierre Didot l’aîné that portion of the Louvre which had formerly been
occupied by the Imprimerie Royale. Here was begun, and completed in 1801, an
edition of Racine in three volumes that aroused the enthusiasm of booklovers
all over the world, and brought to Pierre Didot the glory of being recognized
as a master-printer worthy to assume the mantle of Robert Étienne. This is the
typographic achievement I would select as the masterpiece of its period.
DIDOT’S RACINE, Paris, 1801
A Frontispiece
Designed by Prud’hon. Engraved by Marius (12 × 8 inches)
Title Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801 (12 × 8 inches)
Opening Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801
Text Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801
FIRMIN DIDOT, 1730–1804
From Engraving by Pierre Gustave Eugene Staal (1817–1882)
The large quarto volumes contain nearly five hundred pages each. The
type was designed and cut by Firmin Didot in conjunction with, or possibly in
collaboration with Giambattista Bodoni, of Parma, Italy. So closely do the two
faces match that the similarity of their design could scarcely have been a
coincidence (see page 81). There is a peculiar charm in the unusual length of
the ascending and descending characters; there is a grace in the slender capitals
in spite of the ultra-refinement; there is satisfaction in having the weight of the
Italic letter approach that of the Roman, thus preventing the usual blemish
which the lighter faced Italic gives to an otherwise perfectly balanced page.
The figures, really a cross between the old style and the modern, have a
distinct individuality entirely lost in the so-called “lining” figures which those
who have copied this face in America have introduced as an “improvement.”
The Racine contains magnificent steel engravings, of which one is
reproduced at page 253. The handmade paper is a return to the beautiful
sheets of the fifteenth century, and the presswork—the type just biting into
the paper without leaving an impression on the reverse side—is superbly
characteristic of the best French workmanship. The vellum copies show the
work at its best. The engravings stand out almost as original etchings. The ink
is the densest black I ever saw. Didot succeeded in overcoming the oil in the
vellum without the chalk surface that is given to the Morris vellum, the ink
being so heavy that it is slightly raised. I was particularly interested in this after
my own experiments in printing my humanistic Petrarch on vellum.
At the Exposition of 1801, in Paris, the Racine was proclaimed by a French
jury the “most perfect typographic product of any country and of any age.” Is
this not too high praise? To have equaled the Italian masterpieces of the
fifteenth century would have been enough glory for any printer to claim!
The Racine was a step in the direction of reclaiming typography from the
trade which it had become, but it was left for William Morris to place printing
squarely back among the arts.
WILLIAM MORRIS, 1834–1896
From Portrait by G. F. Watts, R. A. Painted in 1880
National Portrait Gallery, London
Morris was nearly sixty years of age when he finally settled upon the book
as the medium through which to express his message to the world. The Morris
wall papers, the Morris chair, the Morris end papers, are among his earlier
experiments, all sufficiently unique to perpetuate his name; yet his work as a
printer is what gave him undying glory. The Kelmscott Chaucer is his masterpiece,
and must be included whenever great typographic monuments are named. For
this the decorator-printer cut a smaller size of his Gothic font, secured the co-
operation of Sir Edward Burne-Jones as illustrator, and set himself the task of
designing the initial letters, borders, and decorations. This was in 1892, and for
four years they worked upon it, one delay following another to make Morris
fearful that the work might never be completed.
SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES, Bart., 1833–1898
From Photograph at the British Museum
The decoration for the first page was finished in March, 1893. Morris was
entirely satisfied with it, exclaiming, “My eyes! how good it is!” Then he laid
the whole project aside for over a year, while he devoted himself to his
metrical version of Beowulf. In the meantime Burne-Jones was experiencing
great difficulty in having his designs satisfactorily translated onto wood, and
Morris dolefully remarked, after comparing notes with his friend and
collaborator, “We shall be twenty years at this rate in getting it out!”
It was June, 1894, before the great work was fairly under way. “Chaucer
getting on well,” Morris notes in his diary,—“such lovely designs.” At the end
of June he records his expectation of beginning the actual printing within a
month, and that in about three months more all the pictures and nearly all the
borders would be ready for the whole of the Canterbury Tales.
About this time Morris was asked if he would accept the poet-laureateship
of England, made vacant by Tennyson’s death, if offered to him, and he
unhesitatingly declined. His health and strength were noticeably failing, yet at
the beginning of 1895, less than two years before his death, he was completely
submerged by multifarious occupations. Two presses were running upon the
Chaucer and still a third upon smaller books. He was designing new paper
hangings and writing new romances; he was collaborating in the translation of
Heimskringla and was supervising its production for the Saga Library; he was
engaged in getting together his splendid collection of thirteenth- and
fourteenth-century illuminated manuscripts.
It was not all smooth sailing with the Chaucer. In 1895 Morris discovered
that many of the sheets had become discolored by some unfortunate
ingredient of the ink, but to his immense relief he succeeded in removing the
yellow stains by bleaching. “The check of the Chaucer,” he writes, “flattens life
for me somewhat, but I am going hard into the matter, and in about a
fortnight hope to know the worst of it.”
In December the Chaucer was sufficiently near completion to encourage
him to design a binding for it. Even here he found another difficulty. “Leather
is not good now,” he complained; “what used to take nine months to cure is
now done in three. They used to say ‘What’s longest in the tanyard stays least
time in the market,’ but that no longer holds good. People don’t know how to
buy now; they’ll take anything.”
Morris’ anxiety over the Chaucer increased as it came nearer to completion.
“I’d like it finished tomorrow!” he exclaimed. “Every day beyond tomorrow
that it isn’t done is one too many.” To a visitor, looking through the printed
sheets in his library, who remarked upon the added beauty of those sheets that
follow the Canterbury Tales, where the picture pages face one another in pairs,
Morris exclaimed in alarm, “Now don’t you go saying that to Burne-Jones or
he’ll be wanting to do the first part over again; and the worst of that would be
that he’d want to do all the rest over again because the other would be so
much better, and then we should never get done, but be always going round
and round in a circle.”
The daily progress of the work upon the Chaucer was the one interest that
sustained his waning energies. The last three blocks were brought to him on
March 21, 1896. The Easter holidays almost killed him. “Four mouldy Sundays
in a mouldy row,” he writes in his diary. “The press shut and Chaucer at a
standstill.”
On May 6 all the picture sheets were printed and the block for the title
page was submitted for Morris’ approval, the final printing being completed
two days later. On June 2 the first two bound copies were delivered to him,
one of which he immediately sent to Burne-Jones, the other he placed in his
own library.
Thus the Kelmscott Chaucer came to completion. Four months later William
Morris was dead. The Chaucer had been nearly five years in preparation and
three and a half years in execution. The printing alone had consumed a year
and nine months. The volumes contain, besides eighty-seven illustrations by
Burne-Jones, a full-page woodcut title, fourteen large borders, eighteen frames
for pictures, and twenty-six large initial words, all designed by Morris, together
with the smaller initials and the design for binding, which was in white pigskin
with silver clasps, executed by Douglas Cockerell.
Text Page of Kelmscott Chaucer, London, 1896 (15 × 10¼ inches)
I have never felt that the Kelmscott volumes were books at all, but were,
rather, supreme examples of a master-decorator’s taste and skill. After all, a
book is made to read, and the Kelmscott Chaucer is made to be looked at. The
principles which should control the design of the ideal book as laid down by
William Morris cannot be improved upon, but when he undertook to put
them into execution he found himself so wholly under the control of his
decorating tendencies that he departed far from his text. William Morris’ work
is far greater than is shown in the volumes he printed. He awoke throughout
the world an interest in printing as an art beyond what any other man has ever
accomplished, the results of which have been a vital factor in bringing modern
bookmaking to its present high estate.
Surely no form of bibliomania can yield greater rewards in return for study
and perseverance. The great typographical monuments, dating from 1456 to
1905, have given me a composite picture of man’s successful struggle to free
himself from the bonds of ignorance. I have mingled with Lorenzo the
Magnificent and with the oppressed people of Florence; I have been a part of
François I’s sumptuous Court, and have seen the anxious faces of the clerical
faction as they read the writing on the wall; I have listened to the preaching of
Luther, and have heard the Spanish guns bombarding Antwerp; I have stood
with the brave defenders of Leyden, and have watched the center of learning
find its place in Holland; I have enjoyed Ben Franklin’s participation in the
typographical efforts of Baskerville and Didot; I have received the inspiration
of seeing William Morris and Cobden-Sanderson put a great art back into its
rightful place. These triumphs of the printing press are far more than books.
They stand as landmarks charting the path of culture and learning through
four marvelous centuries
What volume of the twentieth century and what master-printer shall be
included? That is yet to be determined by the test of retrospect; but the choice
will be more difficult to make. In America and England history is being made
in printing as an art, and the results are full of hopefulness and promise