Classic Audiobook Collection - Six Metaphysical Meditations by Rene Descartes ~ Full Audiobook [philosophy]

Episode Date: March 29, 2025

Six Metaphysical Meditations by Rene Descartes audiobook. Genre: philosophy In Six Metaphysical Meditations, Rene Descartes invites the listener into a rigorous, first-person investigation of what can be known with certainty. Through a sequence of six meditations, he stages an intellectual reset: setting aside inherited opinions and even the testimony of the senses, he searches for a foundation strong enough to support science, morality, and everyday belief. Along the way, Descartes confronts the unsettling possibility of radical deception and asks how a mind can distinguish truth from error. From that crisis, he develops a method of careful attention to ideas, examining which are clear, distinct, and trustworthy, and which arise from confusion or habit. He then turns to the nature of the self, the relationship between thinking and being, the possibility of a perfect divine source, and the status of the physical world we seem to inhabit. Written as a spiritual-like exercise as much as a philosophical argument, these meditations unfold with tense suspense: each step forward depends on defeating a deeper doubt. The result is a landmark exploration of certainty, consciousness, and the limits of human knowledge that continues to shape modern philosophy. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:11:14) Chapter 02 (00:32:50) Chapter 03 (01:11:58) Chapter 04 (01:32:17) Chapter 05 (01:48:59) Chapter 06 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Six metaphysical Meditations by René Descartes, translated by William Mullenou. Of things doubtful Some years past I perceived how many falsities I admitted as truths in my younger years, and how dubious those things were which I raised from thence, and therefore I thought it requisite, if I had a design to establish anything that should prove firm and permanent in sciences, that once in my life I should clearly cast aside all my former opinions, and begin anew from some first principles.

But this seemed a great task, and I still expected the maturity of years, then which none could be more apt to receive learning, upon which account I waited so long that at last I should deservedly be blamed had I spent that time in deliberation which remained only for action. This day, therefore, I conveniently released my mind from all cares. I procured myself a time quiet,

and free from all business, I retired myself alone, and now at length will I freely and seriously apply myself to the general overthrow of all my former opinions, to the accomplishment of which it will be necessary for me to prove them all false, for that perhaps I shall never achieve. But because my reason persuades me, that I must withdraw my assent no less from those opinions, which seem not so very certain and undoubted, then I should from those that are apparently false, it will be sufficient if I reject all those wherein I find any occasion of doubt. Neither to affect this is it necessary that they all should be run over particularly, which would be an endless trouble, but because the foundation being once

undermined, whatever is built thereon will of its own accord come to the ground. I shall therefore immediately assault the very principle on which whatever I have believed was grounded, viz whatever i have hitherto admitted is most true that i received either from or by my senses but these i have often found to deceive me and tis prudence never certainly to trust those that i have though but once deceived us one doubt but though sometimes the senses deceive us being exercised about remote or small objects yet there are many other things of which we cannot doubt though we know them only by the senses as that at present i am in this place that i am sitting by a fire that i have a winter gown on me that i feel this paper with my hands but how can it be denied that these hands or this body is mine unless i should compare myself to those madmen whose brains are disturbed by such a disorderly melancholic vapour that makes them continually profess themselves to be kings though they are very poor or fancy themselves clothed in purple robes though they are naked or that their heads are made of clay as a bottle or of glass etc but these are mad men and i should be as mad as they in following their example by fencing these things as they do one solution this truly would seem very clear to those that never sleep and suffer the same things and sometimes more likely in their repose than these mad men do whilst they are awake for how often am i persuaded in a dream of these usual occurrences

that I am in this place, that I have a gown on me, that I am sitting by a fire, etc., though all the while I am lying naked between the sheets. But now I am certain that I am awake, and look upon this paper, neither is this head which I shake asleep. I knowingly and willingly stretch out this hand, and am sensible that things so distinct could not happen to one that sleeps, as if I could not remember myself to have been deceived formerly in my sleep by the like thoughts, which while I was. I consider more attentively, I am so far convinced of the difficulty of distinguishing sleep

from waking that I am amazed, and this very amazement almost persuades me that I am asleep. Two, doubt. Wherefore, let us suppose ourselves asleep, and that these things are not true, viz, that we open our eyes, move our heads, stretch our hands, and perhaps that we have no such things as hands or a body. Yet we must confess that what we see in a dream is, is, as it were, a painted picture, which cannot be devised but after the likeness of some real thing, and that therefore these generals, at least, this, eyes, head, hands, and the whole body are things really existent and not imaginary. For painters themselves, even then when they design mermaids and satyrs in the most unusual shapes, do not give them natures altogether new,

but only add the diverse parts of different animals together, and if by chance they invent anything thing so new that nothing was ever seen like it, for that tis wholly fictitious and false, yet the colors, at least, of which they make it, must be true colors. So upon the same account, though these general things as eyes, heads, hands, etc., may be imaginary, yet nevertheless we must of necessity confess the more simple and universal things to be true, of which, as of true colors, these images of things, whether true or false, which are in our minds, are made. as are the nature of a body in general, and its extension, also the shape of things extended, with the quantity or bigness of them, their number also and place wherein they are,

the time in which they continue and the like, and therefore from hence we make no bad conclusion, that physics, both natural and medicinal, astronomy and all other sciences, which depend on the consideration of compound things, are doubtful, but that arithmetic, Geometry and the like, which treat only of the most simple and general things, not regarding whether they really are or not, have in them something certain and undoubted, for whether I sleep or wake, two and three make five. A square has no more sides than four, etc. Neither seems it possible that such plain truths can be doubted off. Two, solution. But all this, while there is rooted in my mind, a certain old opinion of the being of the being of

an omnipotent god by whom i am created in the state i am in and how know i but he caused that there should be no earth no heaven no body no figure no magnitude no place and yet that all these things should seem to me to be as now they are and as i very often judge others to err about those things which they think they thoroughly understand so why may i not be deceived whenever i add two and three or count the sides of a square or whatever other easy matter can be thought of. 3. Doubt. But perhaps God wills not that I should be deceived, for he is said to be infinitely good. 3. Solution. Yet if it were repugnant to his goodness to create me, so that I should always be deceived,

it seems also unagreable to his goodness to permit me to be deceived at any time, which last no one will affirm. Some there are truly who had rather deny God's omnipotence then believe all things uncertain. But there are at present we may not contradict, and we will suppose all this of God to be false, yet whether they will suppose me to become what I am by fate,

by chance, by a continued chain of causes, or any other way, because to err is an imperfection, by how much the less power they will assign to the author of my being, so much the more probable it will be, that I am so imperfect as to be always deceived. to which arguments I know not what to answer, but am forced to confess that there is nothing of all those things which are formerly received as truths, whereof at present I may not doubt, and this doubt shall not be grounded in inadvertency or levity, but upon strong and premeditated

reasons, and therefore I must hereafter, if I design to discover any truths, withdraw my assent from them no less than from apparent falsehoods. but tis not sufficient to think only transiently on these things but i must take care to remember them for daily my old opinions return upon me and much against my will almost possess my belief tied to them as it were by a continued use and right of familiarity neither shall i ever cease to assent and trust in them whilst i suppose them as in themselves they really are that is to say something doubtful as now i have proved yet notwithstanding high probably, which it is much more reasonable to believe than disbelieve. Wherefore I conceive I should not do amiss, if, with my mind bent clearly to the contrary side, I should deceive myself, and suppose them for a while altogether false and imaginary. Till at length the weights of prejudice being equal in each scale, no ill-custom may any more

draw my judgment from the true conception of things, for I know from hints will follow no dangerous error, and I can't too immoderately pamper my own incredulity, seeing what I am about, concerns not practice, but speculation. To which end I will suppose, not an infinitely perfect God, the fountain of truth, but that some evil spirit which is very powerful and crafty, has used all his endeavors to deceive me. I will conceive the heavens, air, earth, colors, figures, sounds, and all outward things are nothing else but the delusions of dreams, by which he has laid snares to catch my easy belief. I will consider myself as not having hands, eyes, flesh, blood, or senses,

and that I falsely think that I have all these. I will continue firmly in this meditation, and though it lies not in my power to discover any truth, yet this is my power not to assent to falsities, and with a strong resolution take care that the mighty deceiver, though never so powerful or cunning, impose not anything on my belief. But this is a laborious intention, and a certain sloth reduces me to the usual course of life, and like a prisoner who is in his sleep, perhaps enjoyed an imaginary liberty,

and when he begins to suppose that he is asleep, is afraid to waken, but is willing to be deceived by the pleasant delusion. So I willingly fall into my opinions, and am afraid to be roused, least a toilsome waking, succeeding a pleasant rest, I may hereafter live not in the light, but in the confused darkness of the doubts now raised. End of Meditation 1. Meditation 2 of six metaphysical meditations. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Brian Applegate. Six metaphysical Meditations by René Descartes, translated by William Malinou. Meditation 2. Of the nature of man's mind, and that tis easier proved to be than our body. By yesterday's meditation, I am cast into so great

doubts that I shall never forget them, and yet I know not how to answer them. But being plunged on a sudden into a deep gulf, I am so amazed that I can neither touch the bottom, nor swim at the top. Nevertheless, I will endeavor once more, and try the way I set on yesterday by removing from me whatever is in the least doubtful, as if I had certainly discovered it to be altogether false, and will proceed till I find out some certainty, or if nothing else, yet at least this certainty, that there is nothing sure. Archimedes required but a point which was firm and immovable that he might move the whole earth. So in the perfect undertaking, great things may be expected. If I can discover,

but the least thing that is true and indisputable. Wherefore I suppose all things I see are false, and believe that nothing of those things are really existent, which my deceitful memory represents to me, tis evident I have no senses that a body, figure, extension, motion, place, etc. are mere fictions. What thing, therefore, is there? That is true. Perhaps only this, that there is nothing certain. But how no one I am I?

that there is nothing distinct from all these things, which I have now reckoned, of which I have no reason to doubt. Is there no God, or whatever other name I may call him, who has put these thoughts into me? Yet, why should I think this? When I myself, perhaps, am the author of them? Upon which account, therefore, must not I be something? Tis but just now that I denied, that I had any senses, or any body? Hold a while. Am I so tied to a body and senses that I cannot exist without them? But I have persuaded myself that there is nothing in the world, no heaven, no earth, no souls, no bodies, and then why not that I myself am not?

Yet surely if I could persuade myself anything, I was. But there is, I know not what sort of deceiver, very powerful and very crafty, who always strives to deceive me. Without doubt, therefore, I am, if he can deceive me. And let him deceive me as much as he can, yet he can never make me not to be whilst I think that I am. Wherefore I may lay this down as a principle that whenever this sentence I am, I exist, is spoken or thought of by me, tis necessarily true. But I do not yet fully understand who I am that now necessarily exist, and I must hereafter take care. At least I foolishly mistake some other thing for myself,

and by that means be deceived in that thought, which I defend as the most certain and evident of all. Wherefore, I will again recollect what I believed myself to be heretofore, before I had set upon these meditations from which notion I will withdraw whatever may be disproved, by the forementioned reasons, that in the end that only may remain which is true and indisputable. What, therefore, have I heretofore thought myself? A man, but what is a man? Shall I answer a rational animal, by no means, because afterwards it may be asked, what an animal is, and what rational is. And so, from one question I may fall into greater difficulties, neither at present have I so much time as to spend it about such niceties. But I shall rather here consider what heretofore

represented itself to my thoughts freely and naturally whenever I set myself to understand what I, myself, was. And the first thing I find representing itself is that I have face, hands, arms, and this whole frame of parts which is seen in my body and which I call my body. The next thing represented to me was that I was nourished, could walk, had senses, and could think, which functions I attributed to my soul. Yet what this soul of mine was, I did not fully conceive or else supposed it a small thing like wind or fire or air infused through my stronger part, As to my body, truly, I doubted not, but that I rightly understood its nature, which, if I should endeavor to describe as I conceive it, I should thus explain, viz, by a body, I mean whatever is

capable of shape or can be contained in a place, and so fills a space that it excludes all other bodies out of the same, that which may be touched, seen, heard, tasted, or smelt, which is capable of various motions and modifications, not from itself, but from any other thing moving it, for I judged it against, or rather above, the nature of a body to move itself, or perceive, or think, but rather admired that I should find these operations in certain bodies. But how now, since I suppose a certain powerful, and if it be lawful to call him so, evil deluder, who useeth all his endeavors to deceive me in all things? Can I affirm that I have any of those things, which I have now said belong to the nature of a body? Hold. Let me consider,

let me think, let me reflect. I can find no answer, and I am weary with repeating the same things over again in vain. But which of these faculties did I attribute to my soul, my nutritive or motive faculty, yet now seeing I have no body, these also are mere delusions. Was it my sensitive faculty? But this also cannot be performed without a body. And I have seemed to perceive many things in my sleep, of which I afterwards understood myself not to be sensible. Was it my cogitative faculty? Here I have discovered it. Tis my thought. This alone cannot be separated from me. I am. I exist. Tis true, but for what time am I? Why, I am, as long as I think. For it may be that when I cease from thinking, I may cease from being. Now I admit of nothing

but what is necessarily true. In short, therefore, I am only a thinking thing, that is to say, a mind or a soul or understanding or reason, words which formerly I understood not, I am a real thing and really exist, but what sort of thing? I have just now said it. A thinking thing. But am I nothing besides? I will consider. I am not that structure of parts which is called a man's body. Neither am I any sort of thin air infused into the those parts, nor a wind, nor fire, nor vapor, nor breath, nor whatever I myself can feign, for all these things I have supposed not to be. Yet my position stands firm, nevertheless I am something. Yet perhaps it so falls out that these very things, which I suppose not to exist, because to me,

unknown, are in reality nothing different from that very self, which I know. I cannot tell. I dispute it not now. I can only. give my opinion of those things whereof I have some knowledge. I am sure that I exist. I ask who I am, whom I thus know, certainly. The knowledge of me, precisely taken, depends not on those things whose existence I am yet ignorant of, and therefore not on any other things that I can feign by my imagination. And this very word, feign, puts me in mind of my error, for I should fain. For I should fain. indeed, if I should imagine myself anything, for to imagine is nothing else but to think upon the shape or image of a corporeal thing, but now I certainly know that I am. And I know also that

tis possible that all these images, and generally whatever belongs to the nature of a body, are nothing but deluding dreams. Which things considered, I should be no less foolish in saying, I will imagine that I may more thoroughly understand what I am, than if I should say, at present I am awake and perceive something true, but because it appears not evidently enough, I shall endeavor to sleep, that in a dream I may perceive it more evidently and truly. Wherefore I know that nothing I can comprehend by my imagination can belong to the notion I have of myself, and that I must carefully withdraw my mind from those things, that it may more distinctly perceive its own nature.

Let me ask, therefore, what I am, a thinking thing, but what is that? That is a thing, doubting, understanding, affirming, denying, willing, milling, imagining also, and sensitive. These truly are not a few properties, if they all belong to me. And why should they not belong to me? for am not I the very same, who at present doubt almost of all things, yet understand something? Which thing only I affirm to be true, I deny all other things. I am willing to know more. I would not be deceived. I imagine many things unwillingly, and consider many things as coming to me by my senses.

Which of all these faculties is it, which is not as true, as that I exist, though I should sleep, or my creator should as much as in him lay strive to deceive me, which of them is it that is distinct from my thought? Which of them is it that can be separated from me? For that I am the same, that doubt, understand, and will is so evident that I know not how to explain it more manifestly, and that I also am the same that imagine, for though perhaps, as I have supposed, no thing that can be imagined is true, yet the imaginative power itself is really existent, and makes up a part of my thought. And last of all, that I am the same that am sensitive, or perceive corporeal things as by my senses, yet that I now see light, hear a noise,

feel heat. These things are false, for I suppose myself asleep, but I know that I see here and am heated. That cannot be false. And this it is that in me is properly called sense, and this strictly taken is the same with thought. By these considerations, I begin a little better to understand myself what I am, but yet it seems, and I cannot but think that corporeal things whose images are formed in my thought and which by my senses I perceive are much more distinctly known than that confused notion of myself which imagination cannot afford me. And yet it is strange that things doubtful, unknown, distinct from me, should be apprehended more clearly by me, than a thing that is true, then a thing that is known, or then I, myself. But the reason is

that my mind loves to wander, and suffers not itself to be bounded within the strict limits of truth. Let it therefore wander, and once more let me give it the free reins, that hereafter being conveniently curbed it may suffer itself to be more easily governed. Let me consider those things which of all things I formerly conceived most evident. That is to say, bodies which we touch, which we see, not bodies in general, for those general conceptions are usually confused, but some one body in particular. Let us choose, for example, this piece of beeswax. It was lately taken from the comb. It is not yet lost all the taste of the honey. It retained something of the smell of the

flowers from whence t'was gathered, its color, shape, and bignness are manifest. Tis hard, tis cold, tis easily felt, and if you will knock it with your finger, t'will make a noise. In fine, it hath all things requisite to the most perfect notion of a body. But behold, whilst I am speaking, tis put to the fire, its taste is purged away, the smell is vanished, the color is changed, The shape is altered, its bulk is increased, it's become soft. Tis hot, it can scarce be felt, and now, though you strike it, it makes no noise. Does it yet continue the same wax? Surely it does. This all confess. No one denies it. No one doubts it. What therefore was there in it that was so evidently known? Surely none of those things which I perceived by my senses.

for what I smelt, tasted, have seen, felt, or heard are all vanished, and yet the wax remains. Perhaps it was this, only that I now think on, viz, that the wax itself was not that taste of honey, that smell of flowers, that whiteness, that shape, or that sound, but it was a body, which a while before appeared to me so and so modified, but now otherwise. But what is it strictly that I thus imagine? Let me consider. And having rejected whatever belongs not to the wax, let me see what will remain. Is this only? A thing extended, flexible, and mutable. But what is this flexible and mutable? Is it that I imagine that this wax from being round may be made square, or from being square, can be made triangular? No, this is not it, for I conceive it,

capable of innumerable such changes, and yet I cannot, by my imagination, run over these innumerables. Wherefore, this notion of its mutability proceeds not from my imagination. What then is extended? Is not its extension also unknown? For when it melts tis greater, when it boils tis greater, and yet greater, when the heat is increased? And I should not rightly judge of this wax. Did I not think it capable of more various extensions than I can imagine? It remains, therefore, for me only to confess that I cannot imagine what this wax is, but that I perceive with my mind what it is. I speak of this particular wax, for of wax in general the notion is more clear. But what wax is this that I only conceive by my mind?

Tis the same which I see, which I touch, which I imagine, and in fine, the same which at first I judged it to be. But this is to be noted that the perception thereof is not sight, the touch, or the imagination thereof, neither was it ever so, though at first it seemed so. But the perception thereof is the inspection or beholding of the mind only, which may be either imperfect and confused, as formerly it was, or clear and distinct, as now it is, the more or the less I consider the composition of the wax. In the interim, I cannot but admire how prone my mind is to air. for though I revolve these things with myself silently and without speaking, yet am I entangled in mere words,

and am almost deceived by the usual way of expression. For we commonly say, that we see the wax itself if it be present, and not, that we judge it present by its color or shape. From whence I should immediately thus conclude, therefore the wax is known by the sight of the eye, and not by the inspection of the mind only. Thus, I should have concluded, had not I by chance looked out of my window and seen men passing by in the street, which men I, as usually say,

that I see, as I do now, that I see this wax, and yet I see nothing but their hair and garments, which perhaps may cover only artificial machines and movements, but I judge them to be men, so that what I thought I only saw with my eyes, I comprehend by my judicative faculty, which is my soul. But it becomes not one who desires to be wiser than the vulgar,

to draw matter of doubt from those ways of expression which the vulgar have invented. Wherefore? Let us proceed and consider whether I perceived more perfectly and evidently what the wax was when I first looked on and believed that I knew it by my outward senses, or at least by my common sense, as they call it, that is to say, by my imagination, or whether at present I better understand it, after I have more diligently inquired both what it is and how it may be known. Surely it would be a foolish thing to make it a matter of doubt to know which of these parts

are true. What was there in my first perception that was distinct? What was there that seemed not incident to every other animal? But now when I distinguish the wax from its outward adherence, and consider it as if it were naked, with its coverings pulled off, then I cannot but really perceive it with my mind, though yet perhaps my judgment may err. But what shall I now say as to my mind or myself, for as yet I admit nothing is belonging to me but a mind? Why, shall I say, should not I, who seemed to perceive this wax so distinctly, know myself, not only more truly and more certainly, but more. distinctly and evidently. For if I judge that this wax exists because I see this wax, surely it will be

much more evident that I myself exist because I see this wax, for it may be that this that I see is not really wax. Also, it may be that I have no eyes wherewith to see anything, but it cannot be when I see, or which is the same thing, when I think that I see, that I see, that I who think should not exist. The same thing will follow if I judge that this wax exists because I touch, or imagine it, etc., and what has been said of wax may be applied to all other outward things. Moreover, if the notion of wax seems more distinct after it is made known to me, not only by my sight or touch, but by more and other causes, how much the more distinctly must I confess myself known unto myself? Seeing that all sort of

reasoning which furthers me in the perception of wax or any other body, does also increase the proofs of the nature of my mind. But there are so many more things in the very mind itself, by which the notion of it may be made more distinct, that those things which drawn from body conduce to its knowledge are scarce to be mentioned. And now, behold, of my own accord, am I come to the place I would be in? For seeing I have now discovered that bodies themselves are not properly perceived by our senses or imagination, but only by our understanding, and are not therefore perceived because they are felt or seen, but because they are understood. It plainly appears to me that nothing can possibly be perceived by me easier or more evidently than my mind.

But because I cannot so soon shake off the acquaintance of my former opinion, I am willing to stop here that this my new knowledge may be better fit. fixed in my memory, the longer I meditate thereon. End of Meditation 2. Meditation 3 of 6 metaphysical meditations. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org.

Read by Brent Patrick. Six metaphysical Meditations by René Descartes. Translated by William Mullinue. God and that there is a God. Now will I shut my eyes. I will stop my ears and withdraw all my senses. I will blot out the images of corporeal things clearly from my mind, or, because that can scarce be accomplished, I will give no heed to them, as being vain and false, and by discoursing with myself and prying more rightly into my own nature, will endeavor to make myself by degrees more known and familiar to myself.

I am a thinking thing, that is to say, doubting, affirming, denying, understanding few things, ignorant of many things, willing, nilling, imagining also, and sensitive. For as before I have noted, though perhaps whatever I imagine, or I'm sensible of, as without me is not. Yet that manner of thinking which I call sense and imagination,

as they are only certain modes of thinking, I am certain are in me, so that in these few words I have mentioned whatever I know, or at least whatever as yet I perceive myself to know. Now will I look about me more carefully to see whether there be some other thing in me, of which I have not yet taken notice. I am sure that I am a thinking thing,

and therefore do not I know what is required to make certain of anything? I answer that in this my first knowledge tis nothing but a clear and distinct perception of what I affirm, which would not be sufficient to make me certain of the truth of a thing, if it were possible that anything that I so clearly and distinctly perceive should be false. Wherever I may lay this down as a principle, whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive is certainly true. But I have formerly admitted of many things as very certain and manifest, which I afterwards found to be doubtful. Therefore, what sort of things were they, vis-a-vis heaven, earth, stars, and all other things which I perceived by my senses? But what did I perceive of these clearly, vis-a-vis that I had the ideas of thoughts of these things in my mind,

and at present I cannot deny that I have these ideas in me? but there was some other thing which I affirmed, and which, by reason of the common way of belief, I thought that I clearly perceived, which nevertheless I did not really perceive, and that was that there were certain things without me from whence these ideas proceeded, and to which they were exactly like, and this it was, wherein I was either deceived, or if by chance I judged truly, yet it proceeded not for, from the strength of my perception. But when I was exercised about any single and easy proposition in arithmetic or geometry,

as that two and three added make five, did not I perceive them clearly enough to make me affirm them true? Truly concerning these I had no other reason afterwards to doubt, but that I thought perhaps there may be a God who might have so created me that I should be deceived even in those things which seemed most clear to me. And as often as this preconceived opinion of God's great power comes into my mind, I cannot but confess that he may easily cause me to err

even in those things which I think I perceive most evidently with my mind. Yet as often as I consider the things themselves which I judge myself to perceive so clearly, I am so fully persuaded by them that I easily break out into these expressions. Let who can deceive me, yet he shall never cause me not to be whilst I think that I am, or that it shall ever be true, that I never was, whilst at present tis true that I am, or perhaps that two and three added make more or less than five. for in these things I perceive a manifest repugnancy, and truly seeing I have no reason to think any God a deceiver,

nor as yet fully know whether there be any God or not, tis but a slight and, as I may say, metaphysical reason of doubt, which depends only on that opinion of which I am not yet persuaded. Wherefore that this hindrance may be taken away, When I have time, I ought to inquire whether there be a God, and if there be one, whether he can be a deceiver. For whilst I am ignorant of this, I cannot possibly be fully certain of any other thing. But now method seems to require me to rank all my thoughts under certain heads,

and to search in which of them truth or falsehood properly consists. Some of them are, as it were, the images of things, and to these are, alone the name of an idea properly belongs, as when I think upon a man, a chimera or monster, heaven, an angel, or God. But there are others of them that have superadded forms to them, as when I will, when I fear, when I affirm, when I deny. I know I have always, whenever I think, some certain thing as the subject or object of my thought. But in this last sort of, of thoughts, there is something more which I think upon than barely the likeness of the thing. And of these thoughts, some are called wills and affections, and others of them judgments.

Now, as touching ideas, if they be considered alone as they are in themselves, without respect to any other things, they cannot properly be false. For whether I imagine a goat or a chimera, tis as certain that I imagine, in one as tether. Also in the will and affections I need not fear any falsehood, for though I should wish for evil things, or things that are not, it is not therefore not true that I wish for them. Wherefore there only remains my judgments of things, in which I must take care that I be not deceived, now the chief and most usual error that I discover in them is that I judge those ideas that are within me to be conformable and like to certain things that are without me.

For truly, if I consider those ideas as certain modes of my thought without respect to any other thing, they will scarce afford me an occasion of airing. Of these ideas, some are innate, some adventitious, and some others seem to me as created by myself, for that I understand what a thing is, what is truth, what a thought, seems to proceed merely from my own nature. But that I now hear a noise, see the sun, or feel heat, I have always judged to proceed from things external. But lastly, mermaids, griffens, and such-like monsters, are made merely by myself. And yet I may well think all of them either Adventitious or all of them innate, or all of them made by myself, for I have not, as yet discovered, their true original. But I ought chiefly to search after those of them which I count

adventitious, and which I consider as coming from outward objects, that I may know what reason I have to think them like the things themselves, which they represent. V-a-vis, nature so teaches me. and also I know that they depend not on my will, and therefore not on me, for they are often present with me against my inclinations, or, as they say in spite of my teeth, as now whether I will or know, I feel heat, and therefore I think that the sense or idea of heat is propagated to me by a thing really distinct from myself, and that is by the heat of the fire. at which I sit. And nothing is more obvious then for me to judge that that thing should transmit its own likeness into me, rather than that any other thing should be transmitted by it.

Which sort of arguments, whether firm enough or not, I shall now try? When I hear say that nature so teaches me, I understand only that I am as it were willingly forced to believe it, and not that tis discovered to me to be true by any natural light. For these two differ very much. For whatever is discovered to me by the light of nature, as that it necessarily follows that I am, because I think, cannot possibly be doubted, because I am endowed with no other faculty in which I may put so great confidence as I can in the light of nature, or which can possibly tell me that those things are false, which nature light teaches me to be true, and as to my natural inclinations.

I have heretofore often judged myself led by them to the election of the worst part when I was in the choosing one of two goods, and therefore I see no reason why I should ever trust them in any other thing. And then, though these ideas depend not on my will, it does not therefore follow that they necessarily proceed from things external, for as, although those inclinations, which I but now mentioned, are in me, yet they seem distinct and different from my will. So perhaps there may be in me some other faculty, to me unknown,

which may prove the efficient cause of these ideas, As hitherto, I have observed them to be formed in me whilst I dream, without the help of any external object. And last of all, though they should proceed from things which are different from me, it does not therefore follow that they must be like those things. For oftentimes I have found the thing and the idea differing much. As for example, I find in myself two diverse ideas of the sun, one as received by my senses, and which chiefly I reckon among those I call

adventitious, by which it appears to me very small, another is taken from the arguments of astronomers, that is to say, consequentially collected, or some other ways by me from certain natural notions, by which tis rendered something bigger than the globe of the earth. Certainly both of these cannot be like that sun which is without me, and my reason persuades me that that idea is most unlike the sun, which seems to proceed immediately from itself. All which things sufficiently prove that I have hitherto, not from a true judgment, but from a blind impulse, believe that there are certain things different from myself, and which have sent their ideas or images into me by the organs of my senses, or some other way.

But I have yet another way of inquiring whether any of these things, whose ideas I have within me, are really existent without me, and that is thus. As those ideas are only modes of thinking, I acknowledge no inequality between them, and they all proceed from me in the same manner. But as one represents one thing, an other, an other thing, tis evident there is a great difference between them, for without doubt those of them which represent substances are something more, or as I may say, have more of objective reality in them, than those that represent only modes or accidents, and again, that by which I understand a mighty God, eternal, infinite, omniscient, omnipotent creator of all things besides himself, a certainly in it more objective reality

than those ideas by which finite substances are exhibited. But now it is evident by the light of nature that there must be as much at least in the total efficient cause as there is in the effect of that cause. For from whence can the effect have its reality, but from the cause, and how can the cause give it that reality, unless itself have it? And from hence it follows, that neither a thing can be made out of nothing, neither a thing which is more perfect, that is, which has in itself more reality, proceed from that which is less perfect. And this is clearly true, not only in those effects whose actual or formal reality is considered, but in those ideas also whose objective reality is only respected. That is to say, for example,

of illustration, it is not only impossible that a stone which was not should now begin to be, unless it were produced by something, in which whatever goes to the making of a stone is either formally or virtually. Neither can heat be produced in any thing, which before was not hot, but by a thing which is at least of as equal a degree of perfection as heat is, but also tis impossible that I should have an idea of heat or of a stone, unless it were put into me by some cause, in which there is at least as much reality as I conceive there is in heat or a stone, for though that cause transfers none of its own actual or formal reality into my idea, I must not from thence conclude that tis less real,

but I may think that the nature of the idea itself is such, that of itself it requires no other formal reality, but what it has from my thought, of which tis a mode, but that this idea has this or that objective reality rather than any, other, proceeds clearly from some cause, in which there ought to be at least as much formal reality as there is of objective reality in the idea itself. For if we suppose anything in the idea, which was not in its cause, it must of necessity have this from nothing. But, though it be a most imperfect manner of existing, by which the thing is objectively in the

intellect by an idea yet, it is not altogether nothing, and therefore cannot proceed from nothing. Neither ought I to doubt, seeing the reality which I perceive in my ideas is only an objective reality, that therefore it must of necessity follow, that the same reality should be in the causes of these ideas formally. But I may conclude that tis sufficient that this reality be in the very causes only objectively. For as that objective manner of being appertains to the very nature of an idea, so that formal manner of being appertains to the very nature of a cause of ideas, at least to the first and chiefest causes of them. For though perhaps one idea may receive its birth from another, yet we cannot proceed in infinitum, but at last we must arrive at some first idea

whose cause is, as it were, an original copy, in which all the objective reality of the ideas formerly contained, so that I plainly discover by the light of nature that the ideas which are in me are, as it were, pictures, which may easily come short of the perfection of those things from whence they are taken, but cannot contain anything great. greater or more perfect than them. And the longer and more diligently I pry into these things, so much the more clearly and distinctly do I discover them to be true. But what shall I conclude from hence?

Thus that if the objective reality of any of my ideas be such that it cannot be in me either formally or eminently, and that therefore I cannot be the cause of that idea, from hence it necessarily follows, that I alone do not only exist, but that some other thing, which is cause of that idea, does exist also. But if I can find no such idea in me, I have no argument to persuade me of the existence of anything besides myself, for I have diligently inquired, and hitherto I could discover no other persuasive. Some of these ideas there are besides that which represents myself to myself, of which in this place I cannot doubt, which represent to me one of them a God, others of them corporeal and inanimate things,

some of them angels, others animals, and lastly some of them which exhibit to me men like myself. As touching those that represent men or angels or animals, I easily understand that they may be made up of those ideas, which I have of myself, of corporeal things, and of God, though there were neither man but myself, nor angel, nor animal in being. And as to the ideas of corporeal things, I find nothing in them of that perfection, but it may proceed from myself,

for if I look into them more narrowly and examine them more particularly, as yesterday in the second meditation, I did the idea of wax. find there are but few things which I perceive clearly and distinctly in them, vis-a-vis magnitude, or extension and longitude, latitude, and profundity, the figure or shape which arises from the termination of that extension, the position or place which diverse figured bodies have in respect of each other, their motion or change of place, to which may be added their substance, continuance, and number.

As to the other, such as are light, color, sounds, smells, tastes, heat, and cold, with the other tactile qualities, I have but very obscure and confused thoughts of them, so that I know not whether they are true or false. That is to say, whether the ideas I have of them are the ideas of things which really are or are not. For although falsehood formerly and properly so called, consists only in the judgment, as before I have observed, yet there is another sort of material falsehood in ideas, when they represent a thing as really existent,

though it does not exist. So, for example, the ideas I have of heat and cold are so obscure and confused that I cannot collect from them whether cold be a privation of heat or heat a privation of cold, or whether either of them be a real quality, or whether neither of them be real. And since every idea must be like the thing it represents, if it be true that cold is nothing but the privation of heat, that idea which represents it to me as a thing real and positive may deservedly be called false.

The same may be applied to other ideas. And now I see no necessity why I should assign any other author of these ideas. but myself. For if they are false, that is, represent things that are not, I know by the light of nature that they proceed from nothing. That is to say I harbor them upon no other account, but because my nature is deficient in something and imperfect. But if they are true, yet seeing I discover so little reality in them, that that very reality scarce seems to be real. I see no reason why I myself should not be the author of them. But also some of those very ideas of corporeal things,

which are clear and distinct, I may seem to have borrowed from the idea I have of myself, vis-a-vis substance, duration, number, and the like. For when I conceive a stone to be a substance, that is, a thing apt of itself to exist, and also that I myself am a substance, though I conceive myself a thinking substance and not extended, and the stone and extended substance, and not thinking,

by which there is a great diversity between both the conceptions, yet they agree in this that they are both substances. So when I conceive myself as now in being, and also remember that heretofore I have been, and since I have diverse thoughts, which I can number or count, from hence it is that I come by the notions of duration and number, which afterwards I apply to other things. As to those other things of which the idea of a body is made up,

as extension, figure, place, and motion, there are not formally in me, seeing I am only a thinking thing, yet seeing they are only certain modes of substance, and I myself also am a substance, they may seem to be in me eminently. Wherefore there only remains the idea of a God, wherein I must consider whether there be not something included, which cannot possibly have its original from me.

By the word God, I mean a certain infinite substance, independent, omniscient, almighty, by whom both I myself and everything else that is, if anything do actually exist, was created. all which attributes are of such a high nature that the more attentively I consider them, the less I conceive myself possible to be the author of these notions. From what therefore has been said I must conclude that there is a God, for though the idea of a substance may arise in me,

because that I myself am a substance, yet I could not have the idea of an infinite substance, seeing I myself am finite, unless it proceeded from a substance which is really infinite. Neither ought I to think that I have no true identity of infinity, or that I perceive it only by the negation of what is finite, as I conceive rest and darkness by the negation or absence of motion or light. But on the contrary, I plainly understand that there is more reality in an infinite substance than in a finite,

and that therefore the perception of an infinite as God is antecedent to the notion I have of a finite, as myself. For how should I know that I doubt or desire, that is to say, that I want something, and that I am not altogether perfect, unless I had the idea of a being more perfect than myself, by comparing myself to which I may discover my own imperfections? Neither can it be said that this idea of God is a false materialiter, and that therefore it proceeds from nothing, as before I observed of the ideas of heat and cold, etc. For on the contrary, seeing this notion is most clear and distinct, and contains in itself more objective reality than any other idea.

None can be more true in itself, nor in which less suspicion of falsehood can be found. This idea, I say, of a being infinitely perfect is most true, for though it may be supposed that such a being does not exist, yet it cannot be supposed that the idea of such a being exhibits to me nothing real, as before I have said of the idea of cold. This idea also is most clear and distinct, for whatever I perceive clearly and distinctly to be real and true and perfect is wholly contained in this idea of God. Neither can it be objected that I cannot comprehend an infinite or that there are innumerable other things in God, which I can neither conceive nor in the least think upon. for it is of the very nature of an infinite not to be apprehendable by me who am finite, and tis sufficient to me to prove this my idea of God to be the most true, the most clear, and the most distinct idea of all those ideas I have, upon this account, that I understand that God is not to be understood,

and that I judge that whatever I clearly perceive and know implies any perfection. as also perhaps other innumerable perfections, which I am ignorant of, are in God either formally or eminently. Doubt, but perhaps I am something more than I take myself to be, and perhaps all these perfections which I attribute to God are potentially in me, though at present they do not show themselves and break into action, for I am now fully experienced that my knowledge may be increased. and I see nothing that hinders why it may not increase by degrees in infinitum, nor why by my knowledge so increased I may not attain to the other perfections of God,

nor lastly why the power or aptitude of having these perfections may not be sufficient to produce the idea of them in me. Solution But none of these will do. For first, though it be true that my knowledge, knowledge is capable of being increased, and that many things are in me potentially, which actually are not, yet none of these go to the making of an idea of God, in which I conceive nothing potentially, for tis a certain argument of imperfection that a thing may be increased

gradually. Moreover, though my knowledge may be more and more increased, yet I know that I can never be actually infinite, for it can never arrive to that height of perfection, which admits not of a higher degree, but I conceive God to be actually so infinite that nothing can be added to his perfections. And lastly, I perceive that the objective being of an idea cannot be produced only by the potential being of a thing, which in proper speech is nothing, but requires an actual or formal being to its production. Of all which forementioned things, there is nothing that is not evident by the light of reason to anyone that will diligently consider them. Yet because that, when I am careless and the images of sensible things blind my understanding, I do not so easily call to mind

the reasons, why the idea of a being more perfect than myself should of necessity proceed from a being which is really more perfect. It will be requisite to inquire further whether I, who have this idea, can possibly be, unless such a being did exist, to which end let me ask, from when should I be, from myself or from my parents, or from any other thing less perfect than God, for nothing can be thought or supposed more perfect or equally perfect with God. But first, if If I were from myself, I should neither doubt nor desire nor want anything, for I should have given myself all those perfections, of which I have any idea, and consequently I myself should be God.

And I cannot think that those things I want are to be acquired with greater difficulty than those things I have. But on the contrary, tis manifest, that it were much more difficult that I, that is, a substance that thinks should arise out of nothing, than that I should acquire the knowledge of many things whereof I am ignorant, which is only the accident of that substance. And certainly if I had that greater thing,

vis-a-vis being, from myself, I should not have denied myself. Not only those things which may be easier acquired, but also all those things, which I perceived are contained in the idea of a God. And the reason is for that no other things seem to me to be more difficulty done, and certainly if they were really more difficult, they would seem more difficult to me, if whatever I have, I have for myself.

For in those things I should find my power put to a stop. Neither can I evade the force of these arguments by supposing myself to have always been, what now I am, and that therefore I need not seek for an authoritative, of my being. For the duration or continuance of my life may be divided into innumerable parts, each of which does not at all depend on the other parts. Therefore it will not follow that because a while ago I was, I must of necessity now be. I say this will not follow unless I suppose some cause to create me, as it were, anew for this moment, that is, conserve me. For tis evident to one that considers the nature of duration, that the same power and action is requisite to the

conservation of a thing each moment of its being, as there is to the creation of that thing anew, if it did not exist, so that tis one of those principles which are evident by the light of nature, that the act of conservation differs only rationi, as the philosophers term it, from the act of creation. Wherefore, I ought to ask myself this question, whether I, who now am, have any power to cause myself to be hereafter. For had I any such power, I should certainly know of it, seeing I am nothing but a thinking thing, or at least at present I only treat of that part of me which is a thing that thinks, to which I answer, that I can discover no such power in me, and consequently I evidently know that I depend on some other being distinct from myself.

But what if I say that perhaps this being is not God, but that I am produced either by my parents or some other causes less perfect than God, in answer to which let me consider, as I have said before, that tis manifest that whatever is in the effect so much at least ought to be in the cause, And therefore, seeing I am a thing that thinks, and have in me an idea of God, it will confessedly follow that whatever sort of cause I assign of my own being, it also must be a thinking thing, and must have an idea of all those perfections which I attribute to God,

of which cause it may be again asked, whether it be from itself or from any other cause. if from itself tis evident from what has been said that it must be God, for seeing it has the power of existing of itself, without doubt it has also the power of actually possessing all those perfections whereof it has an idea in itself, that is, all those perfections which I conceive in God. But if it be from another cause, it may again be asked of that cause, whether it be of itself or from another, till at length we arrive at the last cause of all,

which will be God, for tis evident that this inquiry will not admit of progressus in infinitum, especially when at present I treat not only of that cause which at first made me, but chiefly of that which conserves me in this instant time. Neither can it be supposed that many partial causes have concurred to the making me, me, and that I receive the idea of one of God's perfections from one of them, and from another of them the idea of another, and that therefore all these perfections are to be found scattered in the world, but not all of them joined in any one which may be God, for on the contrary, unity, simplicity, or the inseparability of all God's attributes is one of the chief

perfections which I conceive in him. And certainly the idea of the unity of the divine perfections could not be created in me by any other cause than by that. From whence I have received the ideas of his other perfections, or tis impossible to make me conceive these perfections, conjunct and inseparable, unless he should also make me know what perfections these are. Lastly, as touching my having, my being from my parents. Though whatever thoughts I have heretofore harbored of them were true, yet certainly they contribute nothing to my conservation. Neither proceed I from them, as I am a thing that thinks, for they have only predisposed that material thing, wherein I, that is my mind, which only at present I take for myself, inhabits.

Therefore, I cannot now question that I am sprung from them, but I must of necessity conclude that because I am, and because I have an idea of a being most perfect, that is of God, it evidently follows that there is a God. Now it only remains for me to examine how I have received this idea of God, for I have neither received it by means of my senses, neither comes it to me without my forethought, as the ideas of sensible things used to do, when such things work on the organs of my sense, or at least seem so to work. Neither is this idea framed by myself, for I can neither detract from nor add anything there too.

Wherefore I have only to conclude that it is innate, even as the idea of me, myself, is natural to myself. And truly tis not to be admired. that God in creating me should imprint this idea in me, that it may there remain as a stamp impressed by the workman God on me his work. Neither is it requisite that this stamp should be a thing different from the work itself, but tis very credible, from hence only that God created me, that I am made as it were according to his likeness and image, and that the same likeness in which the idea of God is contained, is perceived by me with the same faculty with which I perceive myself.

That is to say, whilst I reflect upon myself, I do not only perceive that I am an imperfect thing, having my dependence upon some other thing, and that I am a thing that desires more and better things indefinitely, but also at the same time I understand that he on whom I depend contains in him all those wished for things, not only indefinitely and potentially, but really indefinitely, and that therefore he is God. The whole stress of which argument lies thus, because I know it impossible for me to be of the same nature I am vis-a-vis having the idea of a God in me, unless really there were a God. A God, I say, that bearer. same God whose idea I have in my mind, that is, having all those perfections, which I cannot

comprehend, but can, as it were, think upon them, and who is not subject to any defects? By which tis evident that God is no deceiver, or tis manifest by the light of nature, that all fraud and deceit depends on some defect, but before I prosecute this any farther, or pry into other truths which may be deduced from this, I am willing here to stop and dwell upon the contemplation of this God, to consider with myself his divine attributes, to behold, admire, and adore the loveliness of this immense light, as much as possibly I am able to accomplish with my dark understanding. For as by faith, we believe that the greatest happiness of the next life consists alone in the contemplation of the divine majesty,

so we find by experience that now we receive from thence the greatest pleasure, wherever we are capable in this life, though it be much more imperfect than that in the next. End of Meditation 3. Meditation 4 of 6 metaphysical meditations. This is a Libra Vox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org.

Read by Cassandra Clever. Six metaphysical meditations by Renee Descartes, translated by William Molyneux of Truth and Falsehood. Meditation 4. Of Truth and Falsehood Of late, it has been so common with me to a withdraw my mind from my senses. And I have so thoroughly considered how few things there are appertaining to bodies that are truly perceived, and that there are more things touching man's mind, and yet more concerning God, which are well known, that now without any difficulty, I can turn my

thoughts from things sensible to those which are only intelligible, and abstracted from matter. And truly, I have a much more distinct idea of a man's mind, as it is a thinking thing, having no corporeal dimensions of length, breadth, and thickness, nor having any other corporeal quality, then the idea of any corporeal thing can be. And when I reflect upon myself and consider how that I doubt, that is, am an imperfect dependent being, I from hence collect such a clear and distinct idea of an independent being, which is God, and from hence only that I have such an idea that is because I, that have this idea, do myself exist. I do so clearly conclude that God also exists, and that on Him my being depends each minute, that I am confident nothing can

be known more evidently and certainly by humane understanding. And now I seem to perceive a method by which, from this contemplation of the true God, in whom the treasures of knowledge and wisdom are hidden, I may attain the knowledge of other things. And first, I know tis impossible that this God should deceive me. For in all cheating and deceit, there is something of imperfection, and though to be able to deceive may seem to be an argument of ingenuity and power, yet without a doubt to have the will of deceiving is a sign of malice and weakness, and therefore is not incident to God. I have also found in myself a judicative faculty, which certainly, as all other things I possess, I have received from God, and seeing He will not deceive me, he has surely given me such a

judgment that I can never err whilst I make right use of it. Of which truth I can make no doubt, unless it seems that from hence it will follow, that therefore I can never err, for if whatever I have I have from God, and if he gave me no faculty of airing, I may seem not to be able to err. And truly, so it is whilst I think upon God and wholly convert myself to the consideration of him, I find no occasion of error or deceit. But yet, when I return to the contemplation of myself, I find myself liable to innumerable, errors. Inquiring into the cause of which I find in myself an idea, not only a real and positive one of a God, that is, of a being infinitely perfect, but also, as I may so speak, a negative idea of nothing. That is to say, I am so constituted between God and nothing, or between a perfect

being and no being, that as I am created by the highest being, I have nothing in me, by which I may be deceived or drawn into error. But as I partake in a manner of nothing, or of a no-being, that is, as I myself am not the highest being, and I want many perfections, tis no wonder that I should be deceived. By which I understand that error, as it is error, is not any real being dependent on God, but it is only a defect. And that therefore, to make me err, there is no requisite a faculty of erring given to me by God, but only it so happens that I err merely because the judicative faculty which he has given me is not infinite. But yet, this account is not fully satisfactory, for error is not only a mere negation, but tis a privation, or I want of a certain knowledge,

which ought, as it were, to be in me. And when I consider the nature of God, It seems impossible that he should give me any faculty, which is not perfect in its kind, or which should want any of its due perfections, for if by how much the more skillful the workman is, by so much the perfecter works proceed from him, what can be made by the great maker of all things, which is not fully perfect, for I cannot doubt, but God may create me so that I may never be deceived. Neither can I doubt, but that he wills whatever is best. Is it therefore better for me to be deceived or not to be deceived. These things, when I consider more heedfully, it comes into my mind, first, that tis no cause of admiration, that God should do things

whereof I can give no account, nor must I therefore doubt his being, because there are many things done by him, and I not comprehend why or how they are done, for seeing I now know that my nature is very weak and finite, and that the nature of God is immense, incomprehensible, infinite. From hence, I must fully understand that he can do numberless things, that causes whereof lie hidden to me. Upon which account, I only esteem all those causes which are drawn from the end, this final causes, as of no use in natural philosophy. for I cannot without rashness think myself able to discover God's designs. I perceive this also, that whenever we endeavor to know whether the works of God are perfect,

we must not respect any other kind of creature singly, but the whole universe of beings. For perhaps what if I considered alone, may deservedly seem imperfect, yet as it is a part of the world, is most perfect. And though, since I have doubted of all things, I have discovered nothing certainly to exist but myself and God, yet since I have considered the omnipotency of God, I cannot deny, but that many other things are made, or at least may be made by him, so that I myself may be a part of this universe. Furthermore, coming nigher to myself and inquiring what these errors of mine are, which are the only arguments of my imperfection, I find them to depend on two concurring causes, on my faculty of knowing, and on my faculty of choosing or freedom of my will. That is to say, from my understanding and my will together, for by my understanding alone, I can only perceive ideas, whereon I make judgments, wherein, precisely so taken, there can be no error, properly so called, for though perhaps there may be

numberless things whose ideas I have not in me, yet I am not properly to be said deprived of them, but only negatively wanting them. And I cannot prove that God ought to have given me a greater faculty of knowing, and though I understand him to be a skillful workman, yet I cannot think that he ought to have put all those perfections in each work of his singly, with which he might have endowed some of them. Neither can I complain that God has not given me a will or freedom of choice, large and perfect enough, for I have experienced that tis circumscribed by no bounds, and tis worth are taking notice that I have no other thing in me so perfect and so great, but I understand that there may be perfecter and greater, for if, for example, I consider the faculty of understanding,

I presently perceive that in me tis very small and finite, and also, at the same time, I formed to myself an idea of another understanding, not only much greater, but the greatest and infinite, which I perceive to belong to God. In the same manner, if I inquire into memory or imagination for any other faculties, I find them in myself weak and circumscribed. But in God I understand them to be infinite. There is therefore only my will or freedom of choice, which I find to be so great, that I cannot frame to myself an idea of one greater, so that tis by this chiefly, by which I understand myself to bear the likeness and image of God. for though the will of God be without comparison greater than mine, both in the knowledge and power which are joined therewithin,

which make it more strong and effective, and also as to the object thereof, for God can apply himself to more things than I can. Yet being taken formally and precisely, God's will seems no greater than mine. For the freedom of will consists only in this, that we can do or not do, such a thing, that is, affirm or deny, prosecute, or avoid. Or rather, in this only, that we are so

carried to a thing, which is proposed by our intellect to affirm or deny, prosecute or shun, that we are sensible, that we are not determined to the choice or aversion thereof by any outward force. Neither is it requisite to make one free that he should have an inclination to both sides. For on the contrary, by how much the more strongly I am inclined to one side, whether it be that I evidently perceive therein good or evil, or whether it be that God has so disposed my inward thoughts, by so much the more free I am in my choice. Neither truly do God's grace or natural knowledge take away from my liberty, but rather increase and strengthen it. For the indifference which I find

in myself, when no reason inclines me more to one side than the other, is the meanest sort of liberty, and is so far from the sign of perfection that it only argues a defect or negation of knowledge. For if I should always clearly see what were true and good, I should never deliberate in my judgment or choice, and consequently, though I were perfectly free, yet I should never be indifferent. from all which I perceive that neither the power of willing precisely so taken, which I have from God, is the cause of my errors, it being most full and perfect in its kind, neither also the power of understanding, for whatever I understand, since tis from God that I understand it, I understand a right, nor can I be therein deceive. From once, therefore, proceed all my errors, to which I answer, that they proceed from hence only, that seeing the will expiates itself farther than the understanding. I keep it not within the same bounds of my understanding, but often extend it to those things which I understand not, to which things it being indifferent, it easily declines from what is true and good, and consequently,

I am deceived and commit sin. Thus, for example, when lately I felt myself to inquire whether anything doth exist, and found that from setting myself to examine such a thing, it evidently follows that I myself exist. I could not but judge what I so clearly understood to be true, not that I was forced thereto by an outward impulse, but because a strong propension in my will did follow this great light in my understanding, so that I believed it so much the more freely and willingly by how much the less indifferent I was there too. But now I understand, not only that I exist as I am a thing that thinks, but I also meet with a certain idea of corporeal nature, and it so happens that I doubt whether that thinking nature that is in me

be different from that corporeal nature, or whether they are both the same, but in this I suppose that I have found no argument to incline me either ways, and therefore I am indifferent to affirm or deny either, or to judge nothing of either. But this indifferencey extends itself not only to those things of which I am clearly ignorant, but generally to all those things which are not so very evidently known to me at this time when my will deliberates of them. For though never so probable guesses incline me to one side, yet the knowing that they are only conjectures and not indubitable reasons is enough to draw my ascent to the contrary part, which lately I have sufficiently experienced, when I am supposed all those things which formerly I assented to as most true, as very false.

For this reason only, I have found myself able to doubt of them in some manner. If I abstain from passing my judgment when I do not clearly and distinctly enough perceive what is truth, tis evident that I do well, and that I am not deceived. But if I affirm or deny, then tis that I abuse the freedom of my will. And if I turn myself to that part which is false, I am deceived. But if I embrace the contrary part, tis but by chance that I light on the truth, yet I shall not therefore be blameless, for tis manifest by the light of nature, that the perception of the understanding ought to precede the determination of the will. And tis in this abuse of free will that the privation consists, which constitutes error. I say there is a privation in the action as it

proceeds from me, but not in the faculty which I have received from God, nor in the action as it depends on him. Neither have I any reason to complain that God has not given me a larger intellective faculty or more natural light, for tis a necessary incident to a finite understanding that it should not understand all things, and tis incident to a created understanding to be finite. And I have more reason to thank him for what he has bestowed upon me, though he owed me nothing, than to think myself robbed by him of those things which he never gave me. Nor have a reason to complain that he has given me a will larger than my understanding, for seeing the will consists in one thing only, and as it were, an indivisible viz to will,

or not to will, it seems contrary to its nature that it should be less than tis, and certainly by how much more the greater it is. So much the more thankful I ought to be to him that gave it to me. me. Neither can I complain that God concurs with me in the production of those voluntary actions or judgments in which I am deceived. For those acts as they depend on God are altogether true and good, and I am in some measure more perfect in that I can so act than if I could not. For that privation, in which the ratio for Nellus of falsehood and sin consists, wants not the concourse of God. for it is not a thing and having respect to him as its cause ought not to be called privation,

but negation. For certainly, tis no imperfection in God that he has given me a freedom of assenting, or not assenting to some things, the clear and distinct knowledge whereof he has not imparted to my understanding, but certainly tis an imperfection in me that I abuse this liberty, and pass my judgment on those things which I do not rightly understand. Yet I see that tis possible with God to affect that, though I should remain free and of a finite knowledge I should never hear, that is, if he had endowed my understanding with the clear and distinct knowledge of all things whereof I should ever have an occasion of deliberating, or if he had only so firmly fixed in my mind that I should never forget this, that I must never judge of a thing which I do not clearly and distinctly understand.

Either of which things had God done, I easily perceive that I, as considered in myself, should be more perfect than now I am. Yet, nevertheless, I cannot deny, but that there may be a greater perfection in the whole universe of things, for that some of its parts are obnoxious to errors, and some not, than if they were all alike. And I have no reason to complain that it has pleased God that I should act on the stage of this world apart, not the chief and most perfect of all, or that I should not be able to abstain from error in the first way above specified, which all depends upon the evident knowledge of those things whereof I deliberate, yet that I may abstain from error by the other means above mentioned, which depends only on this,

that I judge not of anything, the truth whereof is not evident. Boy, though, I have experienced in myself this infirmity, that I cannot always be intent upon one in the same knowledge, yet I may, by a continued and often repeated meditation, bring this to pass, that as often as I have use of this rule, I may remember. it, by which means I may get, as it were, an habit of not erring, in which thing seeing, the greatest and chief perfection of man consists. I repute myself to have gained much by this day's meditation, for that therein I have discovered the cause of error in falsehood, which certainly can be no other than what I have now declared. For, whenever in passing my judgment,

I bridle my will so that it extend itself only to those things which I clearly and distinctly perceive. It is impossible that I can err. For doubtless, all clear and distinct perception is something, and therefore cannot proceed from nothing, but must necessarily have God for its author. God, I say, who is infinitely perfect and who cannot deceive, and therefore it must be true. Nor have I this day learned only what I must be worth. wear off that I be not deceived, but also what I must do to discover truth. For that, I shall certainly find, if I fully apply myself to those things only, which I perfectly understand,

and if I distinguish between those and what I apprehend, but confusedly and obscuredly, both which hereafter I shall endeavor. End of Meditation 4. Meditation 5 of six metaphysical meditations. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Brent Patrick, Six Metaphysical Meditations by René Descartes,

translated by William Mullenu. Of the essence of things material and here and again, of God, and that He does exist. There are yet many things concerning God's attributes, and many things concerning the nature of myself or of my mind, which ought to be searched into, but these perhaps I shall set upon at some other opportunity, and at present nothing seems to me more requisite, feeling I have discovered what I must avoid, and what I must do for the attaining of truth, then that I employ my endeavors to free myself from those doubts into which I have lately fallen, and that I try whether I can have any certainty of material things.

But before I inquire whether there be any such things really existent without me, I ought to consider the ideas of those things, as they are in my thoughts and try which of them are distinct, which confused, In which search I find that I distinctly imagine quantity, that which philosophers commonly call continued, that is to say the extension of that quantity, or thing continued into length, breadth, and thickness. I can count in it diverse parts, to which parts I can assign bigness, figure, position, and local motion, to which local motion I can assign duration.

Neither are only these generals plainly discovered and known by me, but also by attentive consideration. I perceive innumerable particulars concerning the shapes, number, and motion of these bodies. The truth whereof is so evident and agreeable to my nature, that when I first discovered them I seemed not so much to have learnt anything that is new as to have only remembered what I have known before, or only to have thought on those things which were in me before, though this be the first time that I have examined them so diligently. One thing there is worthy my consideration, which is that I find in myself innumerable ideas of certain things, which though perhaps they exist nowhere without me,

yet they cannot be said to be nothing, and though they are thought upon me at my will and pleasure, yet they are not made by me, but have their own true and immutable natures, as when, for example, I imagine a triangle, though perhaps such a figure exists nowhere out of my thoughts, nor ever will exist, yet the nature thereof is determinate, and its essence or form is immutable and eternal, which is neither made by me nor depends on my mind, as appears for that many properties may be demonstrated of this triangle, viz, that its three angles are equal to two right ones, that to its greatest angle the greatest side is subtended, and such like, which I now clearly know whether I will or not, though before I never thought on them, when I imagine a triangle,

and consequently they could not be invented by me. And tis nothing to the purpose for me to say that perhaps this idea of a triangle came to me by the organs of sense, because I have sometimes seen bodies of a triangular shape, for I can think of innumerable other figures, which I cannot suspect to have come in through my senses, and yet I can demonstrate various properties of them, as well as of a triangle, which certainly are all true, seeing I know them clearly, and therefore they are something, and not a mere nothing, for tis evident that what is true is something. And now I have sufficiently demonstrated that what I clearly perceive is true, and though I had not demonstrated it, yet such is the nature of my mind,

that I could not be give my assent to what I so perceive, at least as long as I so perceive it. And I remember, heretofore when I most of all relied on sensible objects, that I held those truths for the most certain which I evidently perceive, such as our concerning figures, numbers, with other parts of arithmetic and geometry, as also whatever relates to pure and abstracted mathematics. Now, therefore, if from this alone, that I can frame the idea of a thing in my mind, it follows that whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive belonging to a thing does really belong to it. Can I not from hence draw an argument to prove the existence of a God?

Certainly I find the idea of a God, or infinitely perfect being, as naturally in me, as the idea of any figure or number, and I as clearly and distinctly understand that it appertains to his nature always to be, as I know that what I can demonstrate of a mathematical figure or number belongs to the nature of that figure or number. So that, though all things which I have meditated upon these three or four days were not true, yet I may well be as certain of the existence of a God as I have hitherto been of mathematical truths. Doubt. Yet this argument at first sight appears not so evident,

but looks rather like a sophism. For seeing I am used in all other things to distinguish existence from essence, I can easily persuade myself that the existence of God may be distinguished from his essence, so that I may imagine God not to exist. Solution. But considering it more strictly, tis manifest, that the existence of God can no more be separated from his essence then the equality of the three angles to two right ones

can be separated from the essence of a triangle, or then the idea of a mountain can be without the idea of a valley. So that is no less a repugnancy to think of a God, that is a being infinitely perfect, who wants existence, that is, who wants a perfection, than to think of a mountain to which there is no valley adjoining. Doubt. But what if I cannot imagine God,

but as existing, or a mountain without a valley, yet supposing me to think of a mountain with a valley, it does not from thence follow that there is a mountain in the world. So supposing me to think of a god as existing, yet does it not follow that God really exists? For my thought imposes no necessity on things, and as I may imagine a winged horse, though no horse has wings, so I may imagine an existing God, though no God exists. Solution. Tis true the sophism seems to lie in this. Yet though I cannot conceive a mountain but with a valley,

it does not from hence follow that a mountain or valley do exist. But this will follow, that whether a mountain or a valley do or do not exist, yet they cannot be separated. So from hence that I cannot think of God but as existed. It follows that existence is inseparable from God, and therefore that he really exists. Not because my thought does all this, or imposes any necessity on anything, but contrarily because the necessity of the thing itself, viz of God's existence, determines me to think thus, for tis not in my power to think of a God without existence,

that is a being absolutely perfect without the chief perfection, as it is in my power to imagine a horse, either with or without wings. Doubt. And here it cannot be said that I am forced to suppose God existing, that I have supposed him endowed with all perfections, seeing existence as one of them, but that my first position, viz, his absolute perfection, is not necessary. Thus, for example, tis not necessary for me to think all quadrilateral figures inscribed in a circle,

But supposing that I think so, I am then necessitated to confess a romb inscribed therein, and yet this is evidently false. Solution. For though I am not forced at any time to think of a God, yet as often as I cast my thoughts on a first and chief being, and as it were, bring forth out of the treasury of my mind an idea thereof, I must of necessity attribute there to all manner of perfections, though I do not at that time count them over, or remark each single one, which necessity is sufficient to make me hereafter, when I come to consider existence to be

a perfection, conclude rightly that the first and chief being does exist. Thus, for example, I am not obliged at any time to imagine a triangle, yet whenever I please to consider of a right-lined figure having only three angles, I am then necessitated to allow it all those requisites from which I may argue rightly that the three angles thereof are not greater than two right ones, though upon the first consideration this came not into my thought. But when I inquire what figures may be inscribed within a circle, I am not at all necessitated to think that all quadrilateral figures are of that sort.

Neither can I possibly imagine this, whilst I admit of nothing but what I clearly and distinctly understand. And therefore there is a great difference between these false suppositions and true natural ideas, the first and chief whereof is that of a God, for by many ways I understand that not to be a fiction depending on my thought, but an image of a true and immutable nature, as first, because I can think of no other thing but God to whose essence existence belongs. Next, because I cannot imagine two or more gods. And supposing that he is now only one, I may plainly perceive it necessary for him to have been from eternity, and will be to eternity.

And lastly, because I perceive many other things in God, which I cannot change, and from which I cannot attract. But whatever way of argumentation I use, it comes all at last to this one thing, that I am fully persuaded of the truth of those things only, which appear to me clearly and distinctly, and though some of those things which I so perceive are obvious to every man, and some are only discovered by those that search more nighly and inquire more carefully,

yet when such truths are discovered they are esteemed no less search, than the others. For example, though it do not so easily appear, that in a right-angle triangle the square of the base is equal to the squares of the sides, as it appears that the base is suspended under its largest angle. Yet the first proposition is no less certainly believed when once tis perceived than this last. Thus, in reference to God, certainly unless I am overrun with prejudice, or have my thoughts begirt on all sides with sensible objects, I should acknowledge nothing before or easier than him, for what is more self-evident than that there is a chief being, or than that a god to whose essence alone existence appertains does

exist, and though serious consideration is required to perceive thus much, yet now I am not only equally certain of it as of what seems most certain. But I perceive also that the truth of other things so depends on it, that without it nothing can ever be perfectly known. For though my nature be such that during the time of my clear and distinct perception I cannot but believe it true, yet my nature is such also that I cannot fix the intention of my mind upon one and the same thing always, so as to perceive it clearly, and the remembrance of what judgment I have formerly made is often stirred up, when I cease attending to those reasons for which I passed such a judgment. Other reasons may then be produced, which, if I did not know God, may easily

move me in my opinion, and by this means I shall never attain to the true and certain knowledge of anything, but wandering and unstable opinions. So, for example, when I consider the nature of a triangle, it plainly appears to me as understanding the principles of geometry, that its three angles are equal to two right ones, and this I must of necessity think true, as long as I attend to the demonstration thereof, but as soon as ever I withdraw my mind from the consideration of its proof, although I remember that I have once clearly perceived it, yet perhaps I may doubt of its truth, being as yet ignorant of a God, for I may persuade myself that I am so framed by nature

as to be deceived in those things which I imagine myself to perceive most evidently, especially when I recollect that heretofore I have often accounted many things true and certain, which afterward upon other reasons I have judged as far, false. But when I perceive that there is a God, because at the same time I also understand that all things depend on him, and that he is not a deceiver, and when from hence I collect that all those things which I clearly and distinctly perceive are necessarily true, though I have no further respects to those reasons which induced me to believe it true, yet if I do but remember that I have once clearly and distinctly perceived it, no argument can be brought to the contrary. That shall make

me doubt, but that I have true and certain knowledge thereof. And not only of that, but of all other truths also which I remember that I have once demonstrated, such as our geometrical propositions and the like. What now can be objected against me? Shall I say that I am so made by nature as to be often deceived? No, for I now know that I cannot be deceived in those things which I clearly understand. Shall I say that at other times I have esteemed many things true and certain, which afterwards I found to be falsities? No, for I perceived none of those things clearly and distinctly, but being ignorant of this rule of truth I took them up for reasons, which reasons I afterward found to be weak. can be said, shall I say, as lately I objected, that perhaps I am asleep, and that what I now

think of is no more true than the dreams of people asleep? But this itself moves not my opinion, for certainly though I were asleep, if anything appeared evident to my understanding, to would be true. And thus I plainly see that the certainty and truth of all science depends on the knowledge of the true God, so that before I had known him, I had known him, I had to be true, did know nothing. But now many things both of God himself and of other intellectual things, as also of corporeal nature, which is the object of mathematics may be plainly known and certain to me. End of Meditation 5. Meditation 6 of 6 metaphysical Meditations. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer,

Please visit Librevox.org, read by Brian Applegate. Six metaphysical Meditations by René Descartes, translated by William Malinu. Meditation 6. Of corporeal beings and their existence, as also of the real difference between mind and body. It now remains that I examine whether any corporeal beings do exist, and already I know that, as they are the object of pure, Mathematics, they may at least exist, for I clearly and distinctly perceive them, and doubtless God is able to make whatever I am able to perceive, and I never judged anything to be beyond his power

but what was repugnant to a distinct perception. Moreover, such material beings seem to exist from the faculty of imagination, which I find myself make use of when I am conversant about them. for if I attentively consider what imagination is, it will appear to be only a certain application of our cognositive or knowing faculty to a body or object that is before it, and if it be before it, it must exist. But that this may be made more plain, I must first examine the difference between imagination and pure intellection, or understanding. So, for example, when I imagine a triangle. I do not only understand that it is a figure comprehended by three lines, but I also behold, with the eye of my mind, those three lines, as it were before me. And this

is that which I call imagination. But if I convert my thoughts to a chileogon, or figure consisting of a thousand angles, I know as well that this is a figure comprehended by a thousand sides, as I know that a triangle is a figure consisting of three sides, but I do not in the same manner imagine, or behold, as present, those thousand sides, as I do the three sides of a triangle. And though, at the time when I so think of a chileogon, I may confusedly represent to myself some figure, because whenever I think of a corporeal object I am used to imagine some shape or other, yet tis evident that this representation is not a chileogon, because tis in nothing. different from what I should represent to myself if I thought of a million-angled figure or any

other figure of more sides. Neither does such a confused representation help me in the least to know those properties, by which a chileagon differs from other polygons or many-angled figures. But if a question be put concerning a pentagon, I know I may understand its shape, as I understand the shape of a chileogon without the help of imagination, but I can also imagine it. by applying the eye of my mind to its five sides, and to the area or space contained by them. And herein I manifestly perceive that there is required a peculiar sort of operation in the mind to imagine a thing, which I require not to understand a thing. Which new operation of the mind plainly shows the difference between imagination and pure

intellection. Besides this, I consider that this power of imagination, which is in me, as it differs from the power of understanding, does not appertain to the essence of me, that is, of my mind, for though I wanted it, yet certainly I should be the same he that now I am, from whence it seems to follow that it depends on something different from myself, and I easily perceive that if any body whatever did exist, to which my mind were so conjoined, that it may, apply itself when it pleased to consider, or, as it were, look into this body. From hence, I say, I perceive, it may be so that by this very body I may imagine corporeal beings. So that this manner of thinking differs from pure intellection only in this, that the mind,

when it understands, does, as it were, turn itself to itself, or reflect on itself, and beholds some or other of those ideas which are in itself. But when it imagines, it converts itself upon body, and therein beholds something conformable to that idea which it hath understood or perceived by sense. But tis to be remembered that I said, I easily conceive imagination, maybe so perform supposing body to exist,

and because no so convenient manner of explaining it offers itself, from thence I probably guess that body does exist, but this I only say probably, for though I should accurately search into all the arguments drawn from the distinct idea of body, which I find in my imagination, yet I find none of them from whence I may necessarily conclude that body does exist. But I have been accustomed to imagine many other things besides that corporeal nature which is the object of pure mathematics, such as are colors, sounds, tastes, pain, etc., but none of these so distinctly.

And because I perceive these better by sense from which, by the help of the memory, they come to the imagination, that I may, with the greater advantage treat of them, I ought at the same time to consider sense, and to try whether, from what I perceive, by that way of thought, which I call sense,

I can deduce any certain argument for the existence of corporeal beings. And first, I will here reflect with myself what those things were, which being perceived by sense I have heretofore thought true, and the reasons why I so thought. I will then inquire into the reasons for which I afterwards doubted those things, and last of all, I will consider what I ought to think of those things at present. First, therefore, I have always thought that I have had a head, hands, feet, and other members of which this body, which I have looked upon as a part of me or perhaps as my whole self, consists. And I have also thought that this body of mind is conversant or engaged among many other bodies,

by which it is liable to be affected with what is advantageous or hurtful. What was advantageous, I judged by a certain sense of pleasure, what was hurtful by a sense of pain. Furthermore, besides pleasure and pain, I perceived in myself hunger, thirst and other such-like appetites, as also certain corporeal propensions to mirth, sadness, anger, and other-like passions. As to what happened to me from bodies without, besides the extension, figure, and motion of those bodies, I also perceived in them hardness, heat, and other tactile qualities, as also light, colors, smells, tastes, sounds, etc., and by the variation of these, I distinguished the heaven earth and seas, and all other bodies from each other.

Neither was it wholly without reason upon the account of these ideas of qualities which offered themselves to my thoughts, and which alone I properly and immediately perceived, that I thought myself to perceive some things different from my thought, viz, the bodies or objects from whence these ideas might proceed. For I often found these ideas come upon me without my consent or will, so that I can neither perceive an object, though I had a mind to it, unless it were before the organs of my sense, neither can I hinder myself from perceiving it when it is present. And seeing that those ideas which I take in by sense are much more lively, apparent, and in their kind more distinct than any of those which I knowingly and willingly

frame by meditation or stir up in my memory, it seems to me that they cannot proceed from myself. There remains, therefore, no other way for them to come upon me, but from some other things without me, of which things, seeing I have no other knowledge, but from these ideas, I cannot think, but that these ideas are like the things. Moreover, because I remember that I first made use of my senses before my reason, and because I did perceive that those ideas which I myself did frame were not so manifest as those which I received by my senses, but very often made up of their parts, I was easily persuaded to think that I had no idea in my understanding which I had not first

in my sense. Neither was it without reason that I judged that body, which by a peculiar right I call my own, to be more nighly appertaining to me than any other body. For from it, as from other bodies, I can never be separated. I was sensible of all appetites and affections in it and for it, and lastly, I perceived pleasure and pain in its parts, and not in any other without it. But why from the sense of pain a certain grief, and from the sense of pleasure a certain joy of the mind should arise, and why that gnawing of the stomach, which I call hunger, should put me in mind of eating, or the dryness of my throat of drinking? I can give no other reason, but that I am taught so by nature, for to my thinking there is no affinity or likeness between that gnawing of the stomach and the desire of eating,

or between the sense of pain and the sorrowful thought from thence arising. But in this, as in all other judgments that I made of sensible objects, I seemed to be taught by nature, for I first persuaded myself that things were so, or so, before ever I inquired into a reason that may prove it. But afterwards I discovered many experiments, wherein my senses so grossly deceived me that I would never trust them again, for towers which seemed round, afar off, nigh at hand,

and appeared square, and large statues on their tops seemed small to those that stood on the ground, and in numberless other things I perceived the judgments of my outward senses were deceived, and not of my outward only, but of my inward senses also, for what is more intimate or inward than pain. And yet I have heard from those whose arm or leg was cut off that they have felt pain in that part which they wanted, and therefore I am not absolutely certain that any part of me is affected with pain, though I feel pain therein. To these I have lately added two very general reasons of doubt. The first was that while I was awake, I could not believe myself to perceive anything which I could not think myself sometimes to perceive, though I were asleep.

And seeing I cannot believe that what I seem to perceive in my sleep proceeds from outward objects, what greater reason have I to think so of what I perceive whilst I am awake? The other cause of was that seeing I know not the author of my being, or at least I then supposed myself not to know him, what reason is there but that I may be so ordered by nature as to be deceived even in those things which appeared to me most true? And as to the reasons, which induced me to give credit to sensible things, t'was easier to return an answer thereto for finding by experience that I was impelled by nature to many things which reason dissuaded me from, I thought I should not far trust what I was taught by nature. And though the perceptions of my senses depended not on my will, I thought I should not therefore

conclude that they proceeded from objects different from myself, for perhaps there may be some other faculty in me, though as yet unknown to me, which might frame those perceptions. But now that I begin better to know myself and the author of my original, I do not think that all things, which I seem to have for my senses, are rashly to be admitted. Neither are all things so had to be doubted. And first, because I know that whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive may be so made by God as I perceive them. The power of understanding clearly and distinctly one thing without the other is sufficient to make me certain that one thing is different from the other, because it may at least be placed apart by God, and that it may be esteemed different,

it matters not by what power it may be so severed. And therefore, from the knowledge I have, that I myself exist, and because at the same time I understand that nothing else appertains to my nature or essence, but that I am a thinking being, I rightly conclude that my essence consists in this alone, that I am a thinking thing. And though perhaps, or, or, you know, as I shall show presently tis certain, I have a body, which is very nighly conjoined to me, yet because on this side I have a clear and distinct idea of myself, as I am only a thinking thing, not extended, and on the other side, because I have a distinct idea of my body, as it is only an extended thing not thinking, tis from hence certain, that I am really distinct

from my body, and that I can exist without it. Moreover, I find in myself some faculties, endowed with certain peculiar ways of thinking, such as the faculty of imagination, the faculty of perception, or sense, without which I can conceive my whole self clearly and distinctly, but, changing the phrase, I cannot conceive those faculties without conceiving myself, that is, an understanding substance in which they are. For none of them in their formal conception includes understanding. From whence I perceive they are as different from me as the modus, or manner of a thing is different from the thing itself. I acknowledge also that I have several other faculties, such as changing of place, putting on various shapes, etc., which can no more be understood

without a substance in which they are than the aforementioned faculties, and consequently they can no more be understood to exist without that substance. But yet, it is manifest that this sort of faculties, to the end they may exist, ought to be in a corporeal extended and not in an understanding substance, because extension and not intellection or understanding is included in the clear and distinct conception of them. But there is also in me a certain passive faculty of sense, or of receiving and knowing the ideas of sensible things, of which faculty I can make no use unless there were in myself or in something else a certain active faculty of producing and affecting those ideas. But this cannot be in myself, for it presupposes no understanding, and those ideas are produced

in me, though I help not, and often against my will. There remains, therefore, no place for this active faculty, but that it should be in some substance different from me, in which, because all the reality which is contained objectively and the ideas produced by that faculty ought to be contained formally or eminently, as I have formally taken notice. This substance must be either a body, in which what is in the ideas objectively is contained formally, or it must be God, or some creature more excellent than a body, in which what is in the ideas objectively is contained eminently. But seeing that God is not a deceiver, it is altogether manifest that he does not place these ideas in me either immediately from himself or immediately from any other creature

wherein their objective reality is not contained formally, but only eminently. And seeing God has given me no faculty to discern whether these ideas proceed from corporeal or incorporeal beings, but rather a strong inclination to believe that they are sent from corporeal beings, there is no reason why God should not be counted a deceiver. If these ideas came from anywhere, but from corporeal things. Therefore, we must conclude that there are corporeal beings, which perhaps are not all the same as I comprehend them by my sense, for perception by sense is in many things very obscure and confused, but those things at least, which I clearly and distinctly understand, that is to say, all those things which are comprehended under the object of pure

mathematics, those things, I say at least, are true. As to what remains, they are either some particulars, as that the sun is of such a bigness or shape, etc., or they are things less clearly understood as light, sound, pain, etc., and though these and such-like things may be very doubtful and uncertain, yet because God is not a deceiver, and because that, therefore, none of my opinions can be false, unless God has given me some faculty or other to correct my error, hence tis that I am encouraged with the hopes of attaining truth, even in these very things. And certainly it cannot be doubted, but whatever I am taught by nature has something therein of truth. By nature in general, I understand either God himself or the coordination of creatures

made by God. By my own nature in particular, I understand the complexion or association of all those things which are given me by God. Now there is nothing that this my nature teaches me more expressly than that I have a body, which is not well when I feel pain, that this body wants meat or drink when I am hungry or dry, etc. And therefore I ought not to doubt, but that these things are true. And by this sense of pain, hunger, thirst, etc., my nature tells me that I am not in my body as a mariner is in his ship, but that I am most nighly conjoined ther to, and as it were blended therewith, so that I, with it, make up one thing. For otherwise, when the body were hurt, I, who am only a thinking thing, should not therefore feel pain, but should only perceive the hurt

with the eye of my understanding, as a mariner perceives by his sight whatever is broken in his ship. And when the body wants either meat or drink, I should only understand this want, but should not have the confused sense of hunger or thirst. I call them confused, for certain. Certainly the sense of thirst, hunger, pain, etc. are only confused modes or manners of thought arising from the union and, as it were, mixture of the mind and a body. I am taught also by nature that there are many other bodies without, and about my body. Some whereof are to be desired, others are to be avoided. And because that I perceive very different colors, sounds, smells, tastes, heat, hardness,

and like, from thence I rightly conclude that there are correspondent differences in bodies from which these different perceptions of sense proceed, though perhaps not alike. And because that some of these perceptions are pleasant, others unpleasant, it is evidently certain that my body, or rather my whole self, as I am compounded of a mind and body, am liable to be affected by these bodies which encompass me about. There are many other things also which nature seems to teach me, but really I am not taught by it, but have gotten them by an ill use of passing my judgment inconsiderately, and from hence it is that these things happen often to be false, as that all space is empty in which I find nothing

that works upon my senses, that in a hot body there is something like the idea of heat, which is in me, that in a white or green body there is the same. whiteness or greenness which I perceive, and the same taste in a bitter or sweet thing, etc. That stars, castles, and other remote bodies are of the same bigness and shape as they are represented to my senses, and such like. But that I may not admit of anything in this very matter which I cannot distinctly perceive, it behooves me here to determine more accurately what I mean when I say that I am taught a thing by nature. Here I take nature more strictly. then, for the complication of all those things which are given me by God, for in this complication

there are many things contained which relate to the mind alone, as, that I perceive what is done, cannot be not done, and all other things which are known by the light of nature, but of these I speak not at present, there are also many other things which belong only to the body, as that it tends downwards and such like, of these also I treat not at present, but I speak of those things only which God hath bestowed upon me as I am compounded of a mind and body together, and not differently considered. Tis nature, therefore, thus taken, that teaches me to avoid troublesome objects and seek after pleasing ones. But it appears not that this nature teaches us to conclude anything of these perceptions of our senses, before that we make by our understanding a diligent

examination of outward objects. For to inquire into the truth of things belongs not, to the whole compositum of a man as he consists of mind and body, but to the mind alone. So that though a star affect my eye no more than a small spark of fire, yet there is in my eye no real or positive inclination to believe one no bigger than the other, but thus I have been used to judge from my childhood without any reason. And though coming nigh the fire I feel heat, and coming too nigh I feel pain, yet there is no reason to persuade me that in the fire there is anything like, either that heat or that pain, but only that there is something therein, whatever it be, that excites in us those sensations of heat or pain, and so, though, in some

space there may be nothing that works on my senses, it does not from thence follow, that there is no body there. For I see that in these and many other things, I am used to overturn the order of nature because I use these perceptions of sense, which properly are given me by nature, to make known to the mind what is advantageous or hurtful to the compositum, whereof the mind is part, and so far, only they are clear and distinct enough, as certain rules immediately to discover the essence of external bodies, of which they make known nothing but very obscurely and confusedly. I have formerly shown how my judgment happens to be false, notwithstanding God's goodness. But now there arises a new difficulty concerning those very

things which nature tells me I am to prosecute or avoid, concerning my internal senses, wherein I find many errors, as when a man, being deceived by the pleasant taste of some sort of meat, devours therein some hidden poison. But in this very instance it cannot be said that the man is impelled by nature to desire the poison, for of that he is holding. ignorant, but he is said to desire the meat only as being of a grateful taste, and from hence nothing can be concluded but that man's nature is not all-knowing, which is no wonder seeing man is a finite being, and therefore nothing but finite perfections belong to him. But we often err even in those things to which we are impelled by nature, as when sick men

desire that meat or drink, which will certainly prove hurtful to them, to this it may perhaps be replied that they err in this because their nature is corrupt, but this answer is not, the difficulty, for a sick man is no less God's creature than a man in health, and therefore it is as absurd to imagine a deceitful nature imposed by God on the one as on the other, and as a clock that is made up of wheels and weights does no less strictly observe the laws of its nature when it is ill-contrived and tells the hours falsely, as when it answers the desire of the artificer in all performances. So if I consider the body of a man as a mere machine or movement, made up and compounded of bones, nerves, muscles, veins, blood, and skin, so that though there were no mind in it,

yet it would perform all those motions which now are in it, those only accepted which proceed from the will and consequently from the mind, I do easily acknowledge that it would be as natural for him, if, for example, say he were sick of a dropsy, to suffer that dryness of his throat, which uses to bring into his mind the sense of thirst, and that thereby his nerves and other parts would be so disposed as to take drink, by which his disease would be increased, as supposing him to be troubled with no such distemper, by the like dryness of throat he would be disposed to drink when tis requisite. And though, if I respect the intended, use of a clock, I may say that it airs from its nature, when it tells the hours wrong.

And so considering the movement of a man's body as contrived for such motions as are used to be performed thereby, I may think that also to err from its nature, if its throat is dry, when it has no want of drink for its preservation. Yet I plainly discover that this last acceptation of nature differs much from that whereof we have been speaking all this while, for this is only a denomination extrinsic to the things whereof tis spoken, and depending on my thought, while it compares a sick man and a disorderly clock with the idea of an healthy man and a rectified clock. But by nature in its former acceptation, I understand something that is really into things themselves, which therefore has something of truth in it. But though respecting only

a body sick of a dropsy, it be an extrinsic denomination to say that its nature is corrupt, because it has a dry throat and stands in no need of drink, yet respecting the whole compound or mind joined to such a body, tis not a mere denomination, but a real error of nature for it to thirst when drink is hurtful to it. It remains, therefore, here to be inquired, how the goodness of God suffers nature so taken to be deceivable. First, therefore, I understand that a chief difference between my mind and body consists in this, that my body is of its nature divisible, but my mind indivisible. For while I consider my mind or myself, as I am only a thinking of thing, I can distinguish no parts in me, but I perceive myself to be but one entire thing,

and though the whole mind seems to be united to the whole body, yet a foot, an arm, or any other part of the body being cut off, I do not therefore conceive any part of my mind taken away. Neither can its faculties of desiring, perceiving, understanding, etc., be called its parts, for tis one and the same mind that desires. that perceives, that understands. Contrarily, I cannot think of any corporeal or extended being, which I cannot easily divide into parts by my thought, and by this I understand it to be divisible. And this alone, if I had known it from no other argument, is sufficient to inform me that my mind is really distinct from my body. Nextly, I find that my mind is not immediately

affected by all parts of my body, but only by the brain, and perhaps only by one small part of it, that to wit wherein the common sense is said to reside, which part, as often as it is disposed in the same manner, will represent to the mind the same thing, though at the same time the other parts of the body may be differently ordered. And this is proved by numberless experiments, which need not here be related. Moreover, I discover that the nature of my body is such that no part of it can be moved by an other remote part thereof. But it may also be moved, in the same manner by some of the interjacent parts, though the more remote part lay still and acted not. As for example in the rope, A connects to B, connects to C, connects to D. If its end

D were drawn, the end A would be moved no otherwise than if one of the intermediate parts B or C were drawn and the end D rest quiet. So when I feel pain in my foot, The consideration of physics instructs me that this is performed by the help of nerves dispersed through the foot, which from thence being continued like ropes to the very brain, whilst they are drawn in the foot, they also draw the inward parts of the brain to which they reach, and therein excite certain motion, which is ordained by nature, to affect the mind with a sense of pain as being in the foot. But because these nerves must pass through the shin, the thighs, the loins, the back, the neck, before they reach the brain from the foot, it may so happen that though that

part of them, which is in the foot, were not touched, but only some of their intermediate parts, yet the same motion would be caused in the brain, as when the foot itself is ill-affected, from whence will necessarily follow that the mind should perceive the same pain. And thus may we think of any other sense. I understand, lastly, that seeing each single motion performed in that part of the brain, which immediately affects the mind, excites therein only one sort of sense. Nothing could be contrived more conveniently in this case than that. Of all those senses which it can cause, it should cause that,

which chiefly and most frequently, conduces to the conservation of a healthful man. And experience witnesses that to this very end, all our senses are given us by nature, and therefore nothing can be found therein, which does not abundantly testify the power, and goodness of God. Thus, for example, when the nerves of the feet are violently and more than ordinarily moved, that motion of them being propagated through the medulla spinalis of the back to

the inward parts of the brain, there it signifies to the mind that something or other is to be felt, and what is this but pain as if it were in the foot, by which the mind is excited to use its endeavors for removing the cause as being hurtful to the foot. But the nature of man might have been so ordered by God that that same motion in the brain should represent to the mind any other thing, viz, either itself as tis in the brain, or itself as it is in the foot, or in any of the other aforementioned intermediate parts, or lastly any other thing whatsoever, but none of these would have so much conduced to the conservation of the body. In the like manner when we want drink. From thence arises a certain dryness in the throat, which moves the nerves thereof,

and by their means the inward parts of the brain, and this motion affects the mind with the sense of thirst, because that in this case nothing is more requisite for us to know, than that we want drink for the preservation of our health. So of the rest. From all which tis manifest, that, notwithstanding the infinite goodness of God, tis impossible but the nature of man as he consists of a mind and body should be deceivable. For if any cause should excite, not in the foot, but in the brain itself, or in any other part through which the nerves are continued from the foot to the brain, that self-same motion which uses to arise from the foot being troubled,

the pain would be felt as in the foot, and the sense would be naturally deceived. For it is consonant to reason, seeing that that same motion of the brain always, represents to the mind that same sense, and it oftener proceeds from a cause hurtful to the foot than from any other, I say tis reasonable that it should make known to the mind the pain of the foot, rather than of any other part. And so, if a dryness of throat arises, not as tis used from the necessity of drink for the conservation of the body, but from an unusual cause as it happens in a dropsy. Tis far better that it should then deceive us

than that it should always deceive us when the body is in health, and so of the rest. And this consideration helps me very much, not only to understand the errors to which my nature is subject, but also to correct and avoid them. For seeing I know that all my senses

do often are inform me falsely and truly in those things which conduce to the body's advantage, and seeing I can use, almost always more of them than one to examine the same thing, as also I can use memory, which joins present and past things together, and my understanding also, which hath already discovered to me all the causes of my errors, I ought no longer to fear that what my senses daily represent to me should be false. But especially those extravagant doubts of my first

meditation are to be turned off as ridiculous, and particularly the chief of them, viz, that of not distinguishing sleep from waking. For now I plainly discover a great difference between them, for my dreams are never conjoined by my memory with the other actions of my life, as whatever happens to me awake is. And certainly if, while I were awake, any person should suddenly appear to me and presently disappear, as in dreams, so that I could not tell from whence he came or where he went, I should rather esteem it a spectre, or apparition feigned in my brain than a true man. But when such things occur, as I distinctly know from whence, where, and when they come, and I conjoin the perception of them by my memory with the other accidents of my life,

I am certain they are represented to me waking, and not asleep. Neither ought I, in the least, to doubt of their truth, if after I have called up all my senses, memory, and, and, and, and, and, and, I am after I have called up all my senses, memory, and understanding to their examination, I find nothing in any of them that clashes with other truths. For God, not being a deceiver, it follows that in such things I am not deceived. But because the urgency of action in the common occurrences of affairs will not always allow time for such an accurate examination, I must confess that man's life is subject to many errors about particulars,

so that the infirmity of our nature must be acknowledged by us. Fienis End of six metaphysical meditations by René Descartes, translated by William Malinou.