Descartes

DESCARTES AND THE
PASSIONATE MIND
Descartes is often accused of having fragmented the human being

into two independent substances, mind and body, with no clear
strategy for explaining the apparent unity of human experience.
Deborah Brown argues that, contrary to this view, Descartes did in
fact have a conception of a single, integrated human being, and that
in his view this conception is crucial to the success of human beings
as rational and moral agents and as practitioners of science. The
passions are pivotal in this, and in a rich and wide-ranging discussion
she examines Descartes’ place in the tradition of thought about the
passions, the metaphysics of actions and passions and sensory repre-
sentation, and Descartes’ account of self-mastery and virtue. Her
study is an important and original reading not only of Descartes’
account of mind–body unity but also of his theory of mind.
DEBORAH J. BROWN is Senior Lecturer in Philosophy at the School

of History, Philosophy, Religion and Classics, The University of
Queensland.
DESCARTES AND THE
PASSIONATE MIND
DEBORAH J. BROWN
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
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Cambridge University Press
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© Deborah J. Brown 2006
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173973
This book is dedicated to my parents,

Margaret and George, and
to my sister, Catherine,
for their love, laughter and generosity.
Contents
395392
Acknowledgements page viii

Note on references xi
Introduction 1
1 Volo ergo sum: the unity and significance of Les
Passions de l’âme 11
2 Perturbations or sweet pleasures? Descartes’ place in two
traditions regarding the passions 28
3 The natural integration of reason and passion 55
4 Representing and referring 84
5 Action and passion: metaphysical integrationism 116
6 Wonder and love: extending the boundaries of the Cartesian
knower and the Cartesian self 141
7 Several strange passages on desire and fortune 165
8 Generosity breeds content: self-mastery through self-esteem 188
Bibliography 210
Index 224
vii
Acknowledgements
353217
The surprisingly lush vegetation around where I live grows out of the
notorious ‘Brisbane shale’, a flaky mixture of mud, silt and brittle sedi-
mentary rock. Clinging precariously to a cliff of this rubbish is a loquat
tree, whose roots are few and frantically gripping whatever stable soil it
can find, and whose trunk is spindly and clawed by possums, but whose
fruit, for those willing to work around the many obnoxious stones, is
delicious. Descartes locates his account of the passions among the fruits of
his ‘tree of knowledge’, but most, finding the roots insecure and the trunk
inevitably thin, do not venture that they will find anything at the end of
the branches. Sometimes though you just have to follow the possums.
My own possums are Lilli Alanen and Calvin Normore. Lilli provided
the initial impetus to write on the passions for a conference in Helsinki in
1996, and has kept the pressure steadily up since then. She has been an
inspiration, a mentor and a friend, and I am so very grateful to her for her
comments on earlier drafts and discussing these topics with me over the
intervening years.
There are many obnoxious stones in Descartes’ philosophy, and he
would have seemed much less interesting to me had it not been for Calvin
Normore, who directed me towards the metaphysical fun stuff in
Descartes’ philosophy of mind: the union of mind and body, action
and passion, sensory representation, the will and virtue – and towards
the medieval traditions against which Descartes must(!) be understood.
I thank him for his encouragement and attention (without devotion), his
sound advice on matters of text, translation and argument, and for the
two suns of our cosmos.
Many thanks also to friends of the inter-Nordic community of scholars
who graciously accepted a Queenslander as an honorary Viking. Thanks
especially to Mikko Yrjönsuuri and Henrik Lagerlund, and to the regulars
of the inter-Nordic mind fests: Christopher Martin (for advice on floating
men), Peter King (for a good time, always), Simo Knuuttila, Sten Ebbesen,
viii
Acknowledgements ix
Eyolfur Emilsson, Fred Stoutland, Dennis Des Chene, Rega Wood, Jon
Miller, Pauliina Remes, Sara Heinämaa, Martina Reuter, Lorenzo
Casini, Thomas Ekenborg and Minna Koivuniemi.
For interesting conversations in other contexts, I would like to thank
Michaela Boenka, Peter Harrison, Jeremy Hyman, Jack MacIntosh, Amy
Schmitter, Lisa Shapiro, John Sutton, Martin Tweedale and Catherine
Wilson. I am especially grateful to Stephen Gaukroger for his superb
advice about texts and ideas, and for his general encouragement. Ronald
de Sousa and Mohan Matthen inspired a number of lines of thought in
chapter 3. A version of chapter 3 was presented at RSSS at the Australian
National University and at the Centre for Cognitive Science at Rutgers
University, which gave me the opportunity to rethink its content in useful
ways. Many thanks especially to Jerry Fodor, Ernie Lepore and Philip
Petit for stimulating discussions.
This book was written and taught in two cities: Brisbane and Los
Angeles. At the University of Queensland, I would like to thank my
colleagues for their support and helpful conversations, in particular,
Aurelia Armstrong, Michelle Boulous Walker, Mark Colyvan, Dominic
Hyde and Roger Lamb, and my students, Maria Caltabiano, Paul Murray
and Peter Van Geuns. For being there in more ways than I can count,
I thank especially my colleague, Julian Lamont.
The UCLA philosophy department provided a particularly hospitable
environment in which to write this book and present the material con-
tained within it. I extend a special thanks to John Carriero for sharing his
depth of knowledge about the Meditations and conversations about the
passions. Joseph Almog, Tyler Burge, Brian Copenhaver, Gavin Laurence
and Terry Parsons asked the right questions at the right times. I am
grateful also to Ahmed al-Wisha for our discussions about Avicenna.
The referees for Cambridge University Press provided exceptionally
generous and astute comments, which helped me avoid a number of gaps
and gaffs. The remaining ones are all mine. I am very, very grateful to
them and to Cambridge University Press’s editor, Hilary Gaskin, as well
as JackienWarren and Gillian Dadd, for bringing this project to fruition. I
thank also the copy editor, Audrey Cotterell, for her excellent advice on
editorial matters. Institutional support has come from three Australian
Research Council Grants, an Early Career Research Grant and generous
leave from the University of Queensland. Various travel expenses between
1999 and 2004 were covered by the Nordic Research Council in the
Humanities (NOS-H) project. Research for chapter 2 was conducted
at the Bodleian, Taylorian and Christchurch libraries at Oxford. I am
x Acknowledgements
grateful to these institutions for their support during the research for and
preparation of this book.
For maintaining a good complexio of humours (and spirits) at various
times during the writing of this book, I would like to thank Susan Croteau,
Christi Favor, Darryl Heiner (and the boys, Scott and Dominic), Annette
Johnson, Joanne Johnston (beach retreats and a fine friendship), the
Lavery-McColls, Damien Ledwich (more beaches), Mark Lovewell, Vic-
toria McGeer, Peta Orbach, Katya Rice, Joseph Vaughan and Marina
Vitkin. Damien Ledwich offered good-humoured technical support (and
technical good humour), and designed the magnificent cover. For keeping
my son, George, distracted and happy, I thank the Cooney–Carillo family,
the staff of the Cornerstone Preschool of Santa Monica and its wonderful
director, the late Nancy Brooks. I am also grateful for the happy and
independent disposition of the George in question, and for that of his
little brother, Joseph, who joined us for the final revisions of this book, and
to his Paty (Patricia Palomino), who loved her new ‘boyfriend’ for a few
hours each day while I scribbled.
Note on references
353217
I have utilised the standard edition of the works of Descartes by Charles

Adam and Paul Tannery, Oeuvres de Descartes, 12 volumes (1897–1913),
hereafter cited as AT. References to Les Passions de I’âme from the AT
edition are hereafter cited as PS. Unless otherwise indicated, all transla-
tions are my own. I have benefitted from consulting the following English
translations: John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch and
Anthony Kenny, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. I–III, (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985–91); John J. Blom’s translation
of the Elisabeth corespondence, Descartes: His Moral Philosophy and
Psychology (New York: New York University Press, 1978) and René Des-
cartes: The Passions of the Soul, trans. Stephen Voss (Indianapolis, IN:
Hackett, 1989). Quotations from Descartes’ correspondence with Princess
Elisabeth, other than those with an AT citation, are taken from
the ‘Past Masters’ CDRom: Oeuvres Complètes de René Descartes, ed. André
Gombay, Connaught Descartes Project; all translations are my own.
xi
Introduction
384847
As Descartes saw it, the real you is not your material body, but rather
a nonspatial thinking substance, an individual unit of mind-stuff
quite distinct from your material body.
(Churchland, 1984: 8)
What Dualist philosophers have grasped in a confused way is that
our direct acquaintance with the mind, which occurs in introspective
awareness, is an acquaintance with something that we are aware of
only as something that is causally linked, directly or indirectly, with
behaviour.
(Armstrong, 1980: 25)
Descartes is often accused of having invented the modern mind by
having invented the modern notion of consciousness, the unmediated
awareness that the mind has of itself and of its thought contents.1
Although not denied an important part in the constitution of the human
being, the human body and its worldly acts appear to have no obviously
indispensable role in the functioning of the Cartesian mind, and it is this
very autonomy of the mental that many find so unpalatable. This senti-
ment hasn’t prevented us from continuing to feed Descartes to our
children. The Meditations is still core reading for every philosophy major,
but the pedagogy behind this is often like that of the conscientious parent
whose idea of moral instruction is a family outing at a public flogging. We
can’t accept the Cartesian mind but we can’t seem to avert our gaze either,
and we despair of finding a better way of introducing the mind–body
problem to our kids.
1
Richard Rorty (1979: ch. 1), for example, accuses Descartes of begging the question against
materialism by assuming that diverse mental phenomena can all be classified as thoughts of a single
entity, the mind, considered in isolation from the body, and then as inconsistently arguing that
some of those thoughts depend on the functions of the body. John Carriero (1990: 230–1)
argues that Rorty underestimates Descartes’ non-sceptical arguments for the autonomy of pure
understanding from sense and imagination.
1
2 Descartes and the Passionate Mind
There have been various attempts to diagnose why we remain in the
grip of the Cartesian mind-set. With the ascension of physicalism as
the one true theory of everything, few are inclined to subscribe to the
dogma of ‘the ghost in the machine’, as Gilbert Ryle famously put it
(Ryle, 1949: 15–16), or to the ‘forlorn’ and deeply unscientific view that the
immaterial and material can interact [Dennett, 1991: 33], but we have
retained a ‘Cartesian’ orientation in the study of the mind. The term
‘mind’, as it has come down to us from Descartes, seems to describe a self-
contained entity, completely transparent to itself and only accidentally
connected to things outside it. It has spawned an entire industry of
thought directed at undoing the scepticism that led Descartes to it, and
another aimed at reconciling what follows from it – the primacy and
irreducibility of subjectivity – with the objective perspectives of the
natural sciences. Daniel Dennett diagnoses the problem as a tendency to
view the mind as a theatre, a place where intellectual thoughts and
sensations, the ghosts of neural activity, dance before the spectral observer
we call the conscious mind.2 The theatre metaphor is supposedly the root
of all Descartes’ epistemological woes. Because the Cartesian mind has
immediate access only to its ideas, it is thus Descartes himself who made
possible the very sceptical worries he had to overcome, as well as the
various forms of idealism and phenomenalism that threaten our direct
cognitive access to the world.3
Despite the awful consequences of the Cartesian mind, we retain the
insidious identification of the self with the Cartesian ego, the ‘I’ that
Hume and Kant failed in their different ways to stumble across on their
introspective forays. What is left of our essence – the thinking thing – is
something that we can neither understand nor yet conceive differently.
Thomas Nagel laments this horrible predicament – ‘the view from
nowhere’ – to which Cartesian thinking has led us thus:
The apparent impossibility of identifying or essentially connecting the self with
anything comes from the Cartesian conviction that its nature is fully revealed to
2
Dennett argues that the anti-scientific attitude rests on the false ‘Cartesian’ intuition that con-
sciousness has some kind of unity, some point at which information comes together and awareness
happens, the physical substrata of which is the pineal gland. It leads theorists to postulate an obscure
‘centre’ of the mind/brain, a Cartesian Theatre, where ‘it all comes together’ and consciousness
happens. This idea does not accord with the hierarchical structure of the brain (Dennett, 1991: 39).
3
Miles Burnyeat has argued that Descartes’ sceptical arguments represent the first moment in the
history of philosophy where knowledge of the subjective realm was thought to be immune from
doubt (Burnyeat, 1982). Fine [2000] and Groarke [1984] reject the idea of a great distance between
Cartesian and earlier forms of scepticism.
Introduction 3
introspection, and that our immediate subjective conception of the thing in our
own case contains everything essential to it, if only we could extract it. But it
turns out we can extract nothing, not even a Cartesian soul . . . Identification of
myself with an objectively persisting thing of whatever kind seems to be excluded
in advance. (Nagel, 1986: 34–5)4
Justifiably lamentable to be sure, but attempts to ground the mind or
self in the objective, publicly observable properties of the body or beha-
viour have not proved terribly successful either. The very perspectival
quality of conscious experience seems hard to ignore, as Nagel himself has
noticed, and makes it difficult to see how the mind could be defined from
the third-person perspectives belonging to the natural sciences. We may
not like the Cartesian concept of mind, but we seem to be stuck with it.5
I want in this book to establish some distance from these ‘Cartesian’
conceptions of mind and self. I do not intend to offer a panegyric to
substance dualism, or to rewrite Descartes as some kind of closet materi-
alist. There is no getting around the dualism, or the autonomy he
perceives the mind as having. But it is our failure to set the Cartesian
mind in the wider context of Descartes’ thought that exacerbates the
problems associated with this notion. What it is like to be a Cartesian
mind is not the same as what it is like to be a spectator watching a private
performance, someone who is left wondering about what is going on
outside the theatre or backstage. When we look at those texts in which the
union of mind and body is under discussion, what we find is not an
inward-looking mind reflecting its metaphysical distinction from the
body, but a kind of phenomenological monism – an experience of being
one unified and embodied substance.6 This book is an attempt to explore
why it is important to Descartes that our experience is like this.
It is generally assumed, for example, that if there were a genuinely
Cartesian science of the mind, it would have to resemble nineteenth-
century introspectionism, a study of the conscious mind based on direct
inner awareness, and a dismal prospect to many if ever there was one.7
4
See also John McDowell’s rejection of the identification between self-consciousness and the
Cartesian ego (McDowell, 1994: 99–104).
5
Nagel (1974) is arguably Cartesian on the irreducibility of the first-person perspective.
6
For recent discussions emphasising mind–body unity rather than distinction, see Alanen (2003),
Almog (2002), Baker and Morris (1996), Broughton and Mattern (1978), Cottingham (1998),
Gaukroger (1995) and (2002), Hatfield (2003), Radner (1971) and Rorty (1986a).
7
Introspectionism in psychology is generally associated with the German psychologist, Wilhelm
Wundt (1862) and his student, E.B. Titchener (1898). Introspectionists catalogued mental events,
particularly sensory experiences, from the point of view of the conscious subject. Their techniques
were more scientifically respectable than is usually supposed, involving, for example, objectively
The reasoning behind this is as follows. The real distinction of mind and
body entails a disintegration of the human being into two completely
separate realms of activity, mental and bodily, the functions of which are
specifiable independently of each other. Since nothing is defined by
anything outside itself, the mind cannot be defined in relation to the
body, and so cannot be known in relation to the body. This reasoning
seems to leave only the mind’s awareness of itself as a possible point of
entry to the study of the mind. But although it is true that the Cartesian
mind is not defined by its relation to matter, it is created conjoined to
matter with which it forms a system of coordinated functions, and with
which it causally interacts. Many of the functions of the mind concern its
relationship to the body and the world it inhabits, and when Descartes
turns to the study of these, he turns not inward to his own consciousness
but to the natural science of his day, mechanics, and to his own practical
experience. It is highly doubtful, therefore, that Descartes would ever have
favoured the introspectionist psychologies that have taken his name over
the neuropsychological perspectives that purport nowadays to be reactions
against all things Cartesian.
Descartes’ account of the embodied mind is present in the Sixth
Meditation, but its presence tends to be eclipsed by the emaciated notion
of the mind that dominates the early parts of the Meditations. By the end
of the Second Meditation, Descartes takes himself to have established that
he cannot know with certainty whether anything other than his mind
exists, that his mind is essentially thinking, and that body in general,
including his own human body, should it exist, is essentially extended,
non-thinking stuff. It seems natural to assume that at this point he has
committed himself to the conclusion that self and mind are the same thing
and metaphysically independent of his or any other body. But this, as
Hobbes pointed out, would be too quick. It is fallacious to move from ‘I
know only that p’ (where p in this case is the proposition: I am a thinking
thing) to ‘I know that only p.’8 By the end of the Second Meditation,
Descartes cannot claim to have established anything about the relation-
ship between mind and body. But, as he replies to Hobbes, the proof
comes not there but in the Sixth Meditation, where the veracity of clear
measurable and repeatable response time and attention tests, and tests designed to measure a
subject’s sensitivity to changes in sensory stimuli. It was not so much the methodology as the
assumption that conscious experience can be analysed into primitive ‘elements’ that accounted for
its demise. Descartes’ enumeration of the passions bears some similarity to this analytic project.
8
See Brown and de Sousa (2003).
Introduction 5
and distinct ideas and the separability of that which can be clearly and
distinctly conceived apart can (he thinks) be assumed. Whether his reply
to Hobbes suffices or not is irrelevant to our concerns here. The point is
that the placement of the real distinction argument is significant because
the conception of the mind we are left with at the end of the Second
Meditation is not the conception of mind developed in the Sixth Medita-
tion, where both the mind’s real distinction from and substantial unity
with the body are argued for in the same train of thought. Having been
reduced in the Second Meditation to a thinking thing who knows only that
it thinks and exists, the mind in the Sixth Meditation is reunited through
sensation with its body and redeposited in a world teeming with more
bodies than it began with (or one big continuous one, depending on your
view). The mind of the Sixth Meditation may still be incorporeal, but its
experiences of itself are not the out-of-body ones of a spectral observer.
Fail to understand Descartes’ conception of the human being, the
mind in corpore rather than incorporeal, and one fails to understand
Descartes’ mind.
Why have we tended to miss or de-emphasise the discussion of the
union in the Sixth Meditation? Part of the answer to this question,
Descartes tells us, is that we cannot easily digest at the same time both
the argument for the real distinction of mind and body and the concep-
tion of their union (AT III, 693). Yet, it is instructive to reflect on why it is
Descartes, and not the countless other dualists in the history of philoso-
phy, whom we regard as having severed the connection between the self or
person and the whole human being. Among Descartes’ chief opponents,
the ‘Scholastics’ (by and large, commentators on Aristotle), the immateri-
ality and immortality of the soul were largely uncontested doctrines.
Descartes’ way of arriving at the conclusion of the soul’s immateriality –
through the application of hyperbolic doubt – certainly differed from
preceding approaches, but the conclusion was much the same. Yet no one
would have accused an Aristotelian, for example, Aquinas, of identifying
the self with the immaterial and intellectual part of the soul, or with
anything less than the whole human being. And the reason why no one
would level such an accusation is that, on the standard Aristotelian view,
the soul’s relationship to the body was conceived of not as that of one
substance united with another substance, but as a form inhering in matter,
and form and matter are not distinct substances, capable of existing
completely apart from one another, but principles of one and the same
unified nature. The notion of form explains why a material object is
the kind of thing (quid ) it is and why, consequently, it behaves as it does.
The separability of the human intellectual soul from matter was not,
for the Scholastics, in conflict with the idea of their union, for regardless
of the intellect’s separability, the doctrine of the soul as informing matter,
and on those accounts faithful to Aristotle’s De anima, as relying on
matter (particularly, the matter of the sense organs) for its proper func-
tioning, entailed that the mind could not be conceived of in any intelligible
way apart from matter.9 It was this dependence of the rational soul on the
body for its proper functioning that made Scholastic forms of dualism
more palatable than Descartes’, though not in the end more coherent.
What is particularly hard to grasp about Descartes’ dualism is how,
therefore, in the face of the metaphysical independence of mind and
body, it is possible to conceive of them as constituting a system of
integrated functions. To conflate the ‘I’ of the Sixth Meditation and the
whole human being seems disingenuous. Descartes’ assertion to Regius
that the soul is the ‘true substantial form of a human being’, and indeed
the only substantial form (separable from matter), did little to ease his
contemporaries’ suspicion that having separated mind and body so suc-
cessfully, he would be hard-pressed to get them back together again (AT
III, 505). But his preparedness to use the terminology of substantial forms
in this one special context is illuminating. The sense in which the mind
‘in-forms’ the body is the sense in which, at any given time, a parcel of
matter through its relation to a mind becomes a human body, matter
being otherwise undifferentiated (AT IV, 166–7). The Cartesian mind does
not in-form the body in the way the soul does on Scholastic accounts, that
is, in the sense of determining all the functions of the body. But by its
relationship to a mind, matter is promoted to a special status and subject
to new modes of explanation. Human beings stand in need of teleological
explanations, which make reference to the integrated functions of their
components, and to the ‘artistry’ of God who creates them, in much
the same way that clocks are understood as integrated systems, the parts of
which function in accordance with the specifications of their designers.
The human body cannot properly be understood apart from the mind
to which it stands in a non-accidental relationship and with which it
comprises a functional unity.
9
The separated soul proved especially difficult for Christian thinkers committed to Aristotle’s
account of understanding as relying on sensory images. According to Aquinas, the separated soul
has a less perfect knowledge of its proper objects, the natures of material things, although it can
know things which are directly intelligible through divine illumination. Summa Theologiae, I, q.89.
Introduction 7
The study of the integrated functions of mind and body is centred, for
Descartes, around the study of passions. The passions are the lynchpins of
mind–body unity, and to play this role passions must have a dual status,
consisting in bodily processes and thoughts. That passions have this
integrating function is reflected in the definition offered at article 27 of
the Passions. The term ‘passion’ refers in the broadest sense to anything
that happens in the soul independently of the will (PS, arts. 17–19), but
passions in the strict sense are modes of the soul that are ‘absolutely
dependent’ upon certain motions in the body (PS, arts. 27, 41). The
definition of the passions states that they are ‘perceptions, sensations or
emotions of the soul, which we refer particularly to it, and which are
caused, maintained and strengthened by some movement of the spirits’
(AT XI, 349). The primary function of the passions is to protect the union
of mind and body, specifically, ‘to incite and dispose their soul to want
the things for which they prepare their body’ (AT XI, 359; see also PS, art.
52). How the passions achieve their biological ends is by a vigorous
presentation to the will of objects for its consent and action upon.
Biological success depends on being able to make quick evaluations of
and responses to situations, a job for which the passions are particularly
apt. Because the passions depend upon the body, the will, however, has
only indirect control over the passions (PS, art. 45).
With this brief sketch of what a passion is and how it functions, the
following eight chapters explore some of the more prominent themes of
Descartes’ account of the passions. The aim is to show that it is the
passions more than any other modes of mind that are fundamental to our
experience of unity, and to show why that experience is necessary in
both our practical and theoretical enterprises, insofar as these depend on
the co-operation of the body.10
In the following chapter, I examine the philosophical background to
the passions, as presented in the exchange between Descartes and Princess
Elisabeth. The problem of reconciling dualism with the experience of
embodiment is the problem occupying Princess Elisabeth at the start of
her correspondence with Descartes in 1643, and this and many other
problems she raises set the agenda for his subsequent account. The fruit
10
The Passions of the Soul is the culmination of work on sensation that begins with several earlier
treatises (published and unpublished) concerned in part or whole with the functions of the human
body – La Dioptrique, Le Monde and Traité de l’homme, all written between 1629 and 1633, and
parts of the Principia Philosophiae, written between 1640 and 1642 – and represents Descartes’ most
mature formulation of the integration of rational and sensitive functions of the human being.
of their exchange is a treatise which complements and extends the project
of the Meditations into the practical domain, and over which the Medita-
tions also had a demonstrable influence. A comparison of the two texts is
undertaken in the final section of this first chapter
Despite his claims to the contrary, Descartes’ reflections on the passions
do not emerge ex nihilo from the well-springs of his understanding, but
are grounded in a number of traditions influential in debates about the
passions during the Renaissance. Chapter 2 explores Descartes’ place in
these traditions, and argues that despite the continuity with a past he
disparages, his treatise on the passions is revolutionary in the particular
scientific perspective it adopts and in its treatment of passions as ideas of a
unified soul.
Chapter 3 addresses the question why phenomenological monism is
important to Descartes. I argue that passions and sensations are necessary
for embodied rationality. Rational decision-making and action requires
that one experience oneself as if one were a single embodied substance.
We are not to our bodies as pilots are to their ships, and importantly,
we could not be. Our navigating the world depends on our direct aware-
ness of our bodies and the spatial orientation with respect to other objects
that that provides. The passion of wonder plays a central role in explain-
ing our spatial awareness and abilities. In his broader theory of the
integrated functions of sensation and emotion, Descartes thus demon-
strates a sensitivity to some strikingly modern problems in philosophy and
the cognitive sciences, in particular, the relationship between attention
and sensation, and the question of the indispensability of phenomenal
content.
Passions inform our moral judgements and rational decision-making
by virtue of their representational properties. Chapter 4 examines the
intentionality of Cartesian passions, in terms of how they are referred to
the soul. Descartes’ treatment of how sensations and passions represent is
puzzling and constrained, on the one hand, by his official account of
representation, understood in terms of the objective reality of ideas, and,
on the other, by his need to allow that sensations and passions often
contribute to false judgements. A study of the referring function is useful
for understanding Descartes’ account of sensory representation generally,
but also helps to solve certain perennial problems in Cartesian scholarship
concerning the notion of material falsity. A study of these issues provides
evidence that Descartes’ realism is direct not representationalist.
In chapter 5, I return to the metaphysical issues surrounding the union
of mind and body, and, specifically, to the relationship between passions
Introduction 9
in the soul and actions in the body. The union is more than an accidental
conglomerate of substances but less than a single substance itself, although
some have argued that if we understand ‘substance’ broadly enough, we
can count the union as a substance.11 In the Passions, at least, Descartes is
seeking a conception of mind–body unity or oneness compatible with his
dualism. Although he does not postulate any kind of metaphysical iden-
tity between the substances of mind and body to account for this unity,
there are passages that suggest a metaphysical oneness of modes across the
two substances. Descartes expresses this view by referring to actions in the
body and passions in the soul as being une mesme chose. Understanding
what this means for Descartes brings us closer to understanding what the
union entails for him and helps to resolve the question of Descartes’
alleged occasionalism.
It is hoped that the present study will foster new ways of looking at the
Meditations and many of its core ideas. Chapter 6 revisits the passion of
wonder and argues that far from presenting the disembodied knower as an
ideal, the Meditations should be read as providing certain principles by
means of which the embodied knower may investigate natural phenom-
ena. Knowledge of the natural world presupposes some affective engage-
ment with it, an engagement that can be only imperfectly mimicked by a
pure act of will. The passions of wonder and love are crucial to the
practice of science and to our self-understanding, as particular individuals
and as human beings. The ‘self ’ that emerges from this study is both
embodied and socially embedded. The social aspect of the self entails that
its boundaries are to some extent flexible. We are capable of extending our
selves to incorporate other persons, at least as parts of our moral if not
metaphysical selves.
The last two chapters concern the Ethica Cartesiana, as Descartes’
skeleton of a moral theory was oddly portrayed in some quarters during
the seventeenth century. Moral advancement depends upon mastering
and utilising passions. The final presentation to the will before action is
the work of desire and controlling desire, as we shall see in chapter 7, is
no trivial matter. We cannot avoid having some ‘vain’ desires, desires
for things that do not come to pass, but a novelty of Descartes’ account
of desire is the introduction of something akin to the regret strategies of
modern decision-theories, strategies for acting under conditions of total
ignorance so as to minimise and, with practice, eliminate regrets.
11
See Hoffman (1986) and Cottingham (1985).
Unlike the Stoics and Kant, Descartes does not believe that the path to
virtue lies in extirpating one’s passions. At the very end of the Passions we
learn that all the good and pleasure of this life depend upon the passions
(PS, art. 212). Whatever knowledge we attain of the good and evil for us in
this life depends on our affective engagement with the social and natural
world. Ethics is not an a priori study, but one that depends upon
experience and acceptance of the providential order. This is a fitting
end to a treatise that argues that happiness can only be achieved by
recruiting a ‘master’ passion, générosité, to serve one’s moral self-develop-
ment. As will be argued in the last chapter, the treatise provides an elegant
and simple solution to one central problem of ethical motivation: how can
we be rationally motivated to act when action depends on desire and
desires are not themselves the product of rational processes? Descartes’
solution utilises the forces of reason and the body: to control what you
desire and how you act, control what you esteem. It also marks Descartes’
ethics as a virtue ethics grounded in the essential goodness of the free will,
an ethics with some sinister precursors. The generally underplayed con-
nection between Descartes and Machiavelli, and the problems with ele-
vating the will above knowledge of the good, are explored in this final
chapter.
The recommendation of this book is that Descartes’ concept of mind,
and the attendant concept of self, should be reconceived in light of those
texts in which his attention is turned towards our experience of ourselves
as whole human beings. If this picture is correct, the Passions should be
as much core reading for our students as the Meditations is, for as
Genevieve Rodis-Lewis eloquently describes it, the value of the ‘little
treatise’ extends beyond the narrow topic of the passions and bears upon
a proper understanding of Descartes’ whole thought.
‘From metaphysical roots, through physiology and its action in union with the
soul, and through the soul’s reaction to it, the treatise offers the most complete
branch of the Cartesian philosophy and its ripest fruit’ (Voss, 1989: xxv).
This ripened concept of mind, understood in terms of its complex
relations to the body, the world, and others, this is Descartes’ passionate
mind.
CHAPTER 1
Volo ergo sum: the unity and significance of

Les Passions de l’âme
451624
Until fairly recently, Les Passions de l’âme was a work relatively ignored in
Cartesian scholarship. This may seem unsurprising given that it can
appear as a hodgepodge of antiquated micromechanical explanations of
the causes and symptoms of the passions, psychotherapeutic techniques
and underdeveloped ethical claims. It is divided into three parts, the first
part of which is concerned primarily with defining the passions, the
second with expounding, somewhat tediously, the classification, physio-
logical nature, functions and symptoms of the six principal passions
(wonder, love, hatred, desire, joy and sadness) and the third with laying
down an account of virtue while making further taxonomical divisions
among the secondary passions. In the space of one short book, Descartes
grafts together the three principal ‘branches’ of knowledge described in
the preface to the French edition of the Principles – medicine, mechanics
and morals – without, it seems, any clear strategy for integrating them.
The treatise on the passions seems remote in this regard from the work
of the Meditations, the root system of Descartes’ tree of knowledge, which
has an obvious unity and works towards the clearly defined goal of
establishing the metaphysical and epistemological foundations for science
(AT VII, 17). In a prefatory letter to the Passions, Descartes asserts that he
intends not to approach the passions as either an orator or moral philo-
sopher but ‘en physicien’, as a natural philosopher or physicist (AT XI, 325).
Given the ethical turn the treatise takes in the last two parts of the book,
this is either a disingenuous claim, or, more charitably, implies that
Descartes saw no incongruity between dealing with moral and mechanical
matters in an interrelated fashion. Whether such integration is possible is
not, however, always obvious to the reader. The passions are defined in
Part One (PS, art. 1; 2; 27) by their relationship to the mechanical
processes of the body that cause them, and by their being ‘referred’ to
the soul itself. Yet, they are taxonomised throughout the treatise by
neither of these relations, but by what Thomists referred to as their formal
11
objects, a normative notion describing the kind of object or situation in
which an emotion of a given type is appropriate or even possible.1 The
formal object of regret is the loss of some good; of fear, something
threatening; of anger, an injustice, and so on. The enumeration of the
passions by reference to their (formal) objects is crucial inter alia to
Descartes’ ethical concerns. Virtue depends on mastery of the passions,
and in deciding which passions dispose us to vice and which to virtue, it is
imperative to sort out which have as their formal objects things that
‘depend only on us’, and which do not. By analysing the formal objects
of the passions, we can thus see what relationship there is, if any, between
our passions and the will, a task that assists the will in trying to master the
passions. Although the physiological approach is warranted on its own
terms, Descartes’ emphasis on it seems strange, therefore, and dissociated
prima facie from the overall point of the book, which is to facilitate the
pursuit of happiness (la béatitude) or the good life.2
To appreciate the unity of the Passions and the reasons why Descartes
claims he must approach the passions en physicien, we will, however,
have to know a little more about its background, in particular, his
correspondence with Princess Elisabeth.
THE CORRESPONDENCE WITH ELISABETH
Elisabeth was a victim of fortune as only someone from a large dispos-

sessed ruling family of Europe in the seventeenth century could be. The
1
According to Anthony Kenny, ‘the formal object of ing is the object under that description which
must apply to it if it is to be possible to it. If only what is P can be ’d, then ‘thing which is P’ gives
the formal object of ing’ (Kenny, 1962: 189). Within the genus of (voluntary) killing, for example,
homicide differs from other species of killing in being the killing of a human being, and murder as
the killing of an innocent human being (Kenny, 1962: 190–1). If the victim is not human, the act
cannot be one of homicide. In the case of emotions, formal objects are still used today to
differentiate among emotions and to define their ‘appropriateness’ conditions. An emotion directed
towards an object not perceived as threatening or dangerous to oneself cannot be fear. Anger is
reasonable if directed against an injustice and not otherwise. For a recent use of the notion see
Ronald de Sousa, 1987: 121–3.
2
Gueroult argues that by his assertion that he will approach the passions en physicien, Descartes did
not intend to explicate the passions from a purely physiological point of view but only to claim that
he would use the rational method of the sciences appropriate to such a confused and obscure subject
matter (Gueroult, 1968/1985: 202). Descartes’ approach was that of a savant – i.e., someone applying
the rational method of examining evidence appropriate to the subject matter of the union of body
and soul and the obscure and confused modes the union generates (Gueroult, 1968/1985: 202).
Aiming for rigour and an approximation of the scientific method (Gueroult labels it a ‘substitute for
science’ (p.195)) would be sufficient to distinguish Descartes’ approach from the popular moralist
tradition. Gaukroger (1998) clarifies the point by arguing that Descartes’ account of the passions is
grounded in his natural philosophy, which frees him to use traditional methods for classifying the
passions. For further discussion on what’s new in Descartes’ Passions, see chapter 2 and my 1999.
Volo ergo sum 13
eldest daughter of Elisabeth Stuart, daughter of King James I of England,
and the Elector Palatine, Frederick V, the short-reigning ‘Winter King’ of
Bohemia, Elisabeth speaks as one immersed in public life.3 Her moral and
practical dilemmas were not merely hypothetical, and she experienced at
first hand both the debilitating and fortifying effects of strong passions.
When she asks Descartes in 1645 (13 September) to define the passions, it
is with a view to setting passion and reason in accord with one another,
and to developing strategies for coping with contingencies that threaten,
as she sees it, the very power of reason itself. The search for congruence
between reason and passion is the overarching theme of the Passions, and
the one that unifies it.4
Descartes’ exchange with Elisabeth begins not with these issues in prac-
tical philosophy, however, but with an argument about the metaphysical
coherence of his interactionist dualism. From the beginning, Elisabeth
urges Descartes to explain how the interaction between an incorporeal
soul and a body is compatible with his account of motion, based on the
laws of impact and contact between surfaces of bodies (16 May 1643). On
21 May 1643, Descartes responds that to understand the causal interaction
between mind and body, one must first understand the union of mind
and body, which cannot, however, be further analysed. The notions of
mind, body and the union ‘are certain primitive notions that are as it were
models on the basis of which we form all our other knowledge’ (21 May
1643; AT III, 665) More precisely:
For the soul and body together we have only that [notion] of their union on
which depends that of the force of the soul for moving the body, and of the body
for acting upon the soul by causing its sensations and passions. (AT III, 665)
To say that a notion is primitive is to say that it cannot be analysed in
terms of other notions, but also that it is somehow explanatorily basic –
that in virtue of which other things are understood and which is not itself
understood in terms of other things. Our conception of the union is
primitive in the first sense because it is not entailed by the two basic
3
The family was exiled to the Netherlands in 1620. Descartes first mentions Elisabeth in a letter to
their mutual friend, Pollot, in October 1642. His correspondence with her dates from May 1643,
although it is possible that he may have met her before this.
4
Lilli Alanen (2003: ch. 6) emphasises the role of Elisabeth’s questions to Descartes in the structuring
of his thought about the passions. She notes that it is Elisabeth who leads Descartes to consider, on
the one hand, the relationship between reason and passion, and on the other hand, the relationship
between passion and virtue and happiness.
concepts of Descartes’ metaphysics, mind and body, taken separately or
conjointly. The conceptions of mind as thinking substance and of body as
extended substance entail nothing about how these substances interact or
affect one another. Our notion of the union, which is a notion of mind
and body interacting, must therefore derive from some source other than
our metaphysical concepts of mind and body. It derives instead, Descartes
claims, from our ‘experience’ of moving and being affected by our bodies
(AT V, 163). The union is known obscurely through the intellect, but
clearly through the senses, which is why those who are immersed in their
senses have no doubts about the existence of interaction between mind
and body (AT III, 691–2).
Without a clear and distinct idea of the union, Descartes cannot offer
Elisabeth a metaphysical account of how interaction between mind and
body works, and so what he offers instead is bound to disappoint. He tells
Elisabeth that the way in which the mind moves the body (without
contact) is no more difficult to understand than the way bodies, on some
Scholastic accounts, were thought to move towards the centre of the earth
because of their gravitas (heaviness) (AT III, 667–8). Descartes does not
think that there can be any such quality as gravitas, but this is not his
point in appealing to the analogy. The point is rather to get Elisabeth to
see that her very understanding of this false theory involves an illicit
projection of her own experience of moving her body by her thought,
an experience of causing motion which does not require contact between
the surfaces of two bodies. This experiential understanding of the union is
used correctly when it forms part of our understanding of human beha-
viour, and incorrectly when it is used as a model for understanding how
bodies move themselves.
I believe that we use this notion [of force] incorrectly in applying it to weight,
which is nothing really distinct from body, as I hope to show in the Physics, and
which has been given to us for conceiving the manner in which the soul moves
the body. (AT III, 667–8)
As Descartes explains in the Sixth Replies, the reason it is incorrect to
project the idea we have of our own capacity to move bodies on to bodies
themselves through the notion of gravitas is that gravitas could only cause
a body to move in a certain direction if it possessed some kind of cognitive
representation (cognitio) of the centre of the earth, and where there is no
mind, there is no cognition (AT VII, 442). Daniel Garber has emphasised
the importance of the analogy in showing Elisabeth that she already has an
Volo ergo sum 15
understanding of mind–body interaction.5 Her intuitively clear grasp of
the union will only become confused and obscure through attempting to
explain it further. Moreover, Elisabeth cannot reject the theory of gravitas
on Descartes’ grounds and claim not to know how the mind and body
interact.
This last point is, however, precisely what Elisabeth claims that she
does not know. She agrees that she knows from experience that the soul
moves the body; what she wants to know is how, if it is immaterial, it does
so. She cannot see the point in arguing from analogy with a false theory,
but in a way her rejection of the argument cuts deeper than that. What she
is rejecting is the possibility of an idea in Descartes’ system, and a central
idea at that, based on an empirical foundation. We encounter the notion
of the union in our everyday doings and sayings, Descartes writes to her,
when we exercise our senses, creative imagination and will, not by using
our intellect, which can know the union only obscurely (AT III, 691). It is
‘only in the use of life and ordinary conversation, in abstaining from
meditating and by studying things that exercise the imagination, that one
learns to conceive the union of the soul and of the body’ (28 June 1643,
AT III, 692). It is as if he is saying that Elisabeth knows how the soul
moves the body insofar as she knows how to do things with her body,
converse with others, conjure up images and memories at will and so on,
and that this is genuine knowledge of the union. But for Elisabeth these
practical skills themselves stand in need of reconciliation with Descartes’
dualism, and thus do little more than shift the original problem. Thus she
concludes: ‘it would be easier for me to concede matter and extension to
the soul, than the capacity of moving a body and of being moved, to an
immaterial being’ (10–20 June 1643, AT III, 685).
Elisabeth’s reasons for resisting Descartes’ explanation are not the usual
suspects: Leibnizian concerns about the coherence of the conservation
laws given the existence of an incorporeal source of motion, or doubts
about alternative forms of causation based on something other than
5
Garber, 2001: 176. Garber also argues that what Descartes should have told Elisabeth is that her
understanding of impact, which she takes to be so clear and distinct, presupposes the very under-
standing of mind–body interaction she claims eludes her (Garber, 2001: 188). The details of Garber’s
argument cannot be wholly reproduced here but the basic structure of this interesting argument is
that there cannot be an understanding of how impact works without an understanding of the laws
of motion, in particular the conservation law, which cannot be understood except in relation to
God’s immutability and his activity in creating and conserving bodies in motion. But our under-
standing of God’s role as an efficient cause of motion is derived from our experience of the way in
which we move bodies through acts of the will (Garber, 2001: 180–6).
contact between surfaces. Nor is her worry the bald one that exercises
most philosophers today of how the immaterial and material per se could
interact – hardly a pressing concern for Christians of the seventeenth
century. She takes Descartes’ point about the union being known through
experience and points out the difficulties with it. Her objections raise the
spectre that the degree of integration required to explain the experience or
phenomenology of the union, of oneness with the body, is incompatible
with the real distinction between the mind and the body. She points out
something that Descartes would not want to hear – that the roots of the
tree are preventing a branch of natural philosophy, the study of human
nature, from blooming.
More precisely, Elisabeth presents Descartes with two arguments: let us
call the first the argument from information and the second, the argument
from the interference of corporeality on rationality. Both are encapsulated in
the following passage:
For if (the soul’s moving the body) occurred through information, it would have
to be that the spirits, which perform the movement, were intelligent, which you
accord to nothing corporeal. And although in your metaphysical meditations
you show the possibility of (the soul’s being moved by the body), it is, however,
very difficult to comprehend that a soul, as you have described it, after having
had the faculty and habit of reasoning well, can lose all of it through some
vapours, and that, although it is able to subsist without the body and has nothing
in common with it, is so much ruled by it. (AT III, 685; my emphasis)6
The first argument turns the analogy with gravitas back against
Descartes. To Elisabeth’s mind, bodies are no more capable of moving
in accordance with a cognitio of their end that originates in an immaterial
rational soul than they are of being moved by gravitas. If the body moves
towards a certain end because of instructions given to it by the soul, it
must be capable of representing those ends to itself or be sensitive to the
informational content of the ideas that move it. But this looks danger-
ously like thinking, an attribute Descartes denies can belong to bodies.
The second argument points out the conflict in arguing, on the one
hand, for the autonomy of the mental, and recognising, on the other
hand, the debilitating effects that a body afflicted by strong passions or
an imbalance among the humours and spirits can have upon reason. It
6
On the interference of bodily conditions upon thought see also Arnauld’s objections to the real
distinction argument in the Fourth Objections (AT VII, 204).
Volo ergo sum 17
strikes Elisabeth that a more reasonable explanation of why the mind
can move the body and be debilitated by the body is because it is a body
itself.
In light of this exchange between Descartes and Elisabeth about mind–
body interaction, it is not unreasonable to read the Passions as an attempt
to articulate the functional integration of mind and body not in such a
way as to explain the experience of oneness with the body each of us has,
but at least so as to deal with these specific problems, the problem of
information and the problem of interference on reason from bodily
causes, and thereby to make dualism more palatable to Elisabeth. Given
this agenda, approaching the passions en physicien, that is, from a micro-
mechanical perspective, is not surprising. As will be discussed further in
chapter 3, information from the rational soul is not represented or inter-
preted by the body-machine, but is encoded in the configurations of
animal spirits and processed according to mechanically specifiable proce-
dures that in no way presuppose intelligence or cognition. These results,
many of which follow through on ideas developed in the Optics, are
incorporated in the first part of the Passions (PS, art. 36).
The second problem, how to reconcile the autonomy of the rational
soul with interference from the body, is taken up as one of the central
themes of the Passions. Descartes must explain the impression of the soul’s
‘being ruled by the body’ and argue against it. The body can in no way rid
the soul of its rational powers, but it can limit the materials it has to work
with, and distract it from the proper exercise of those powers. It is,
therefore, imperative that the rational soul regain its autonomy through
mastery of the passions, mastery which consists not in extirpating the
passions, for they turn out to be required for the realisation of its
autonomy and perfection ‘in this life’, but in the proper regulation of
the passions in accordance with virtue. Self-mastery, as shall be discussed
in chapter 8, depends on the cultivation of a master passion, generosity,
which when habitual is virtue. Generosity depends upon the recognition
and value of the absolute freedom of the will, a will that would be
compromised, according to Descartes, if Elisabeth’s pessimism about
the debilitating effects of the body on reason or the materialism to which
she inclines were true. It is the fact that the will transcends the determi-
nistic realm of matter that enables it to rise above it and gain some degree
of control over it.
The early exchange between Elisabeth and Descartes on the interaction
problem ends on a disappointing note. When Elisabeth confesses that
materialism seems to her the only way to make sense of the interaction
between mind and body, Descartes recommends to her that she should
feel free to attribute extension and matter to the soul ‘for that is nothing
but to conceive it as united to the body’. Attributing matter and extension
to the soul will cause no confusion so long as she realises that this is not
philosophising about the essence of the soul or mind. We are incapable of
conceiving distinctly the union of mind and body and their distinction at
the same time.7 Elisabeth responds, however, in a defiantly philosophical
mode: extension may not be essential to thought, but since it is not
contradictory to it either, she will continue to doubt, using the method
Descartes advances that what she cannot sufficiently perceive she will
not judge to be so, that the soul is immaterial.8 Elisabeth has the last
word on the subject, following which there is a gap in their correspon-
dence on the question of mind–body union. Stephen Gaukroger
surmises that the gap might be indicative of Descartes’ engrossment in
the dispute with Voetius, but it may also indicate the stalemate Descartes
and Elisabeth had reached on the topic of mind–body interaction
(Gaukroger, 1995: 387). Descartes and Elisabeth do not return to the
problem of interaction once their correspondence resumes.
When their correspondence does resume in May 1645, Descartes is
responding to news of Elisabeth’s prolonged illness, an illness he attributes
to the sadness caused by the state of her household. Their attention
turns to the relationship between happiness (contentment of mind) and
fortune. Descartes’ position on this question, as we shall see, is indebted
to certain Stoic ideas. The good that we can attain in this life and the
happiness that accompanies it depends entirely upon how we use our
wills. But against the Stoics, Descartes asserts that he ‘is not one of those
cruel philosophers who wish their sage to be insensible’ (AT IV, 201–2).
Although reason is their ‘mistress’, passions have a place in the life
led wisely.
Until the point at which Elisabeth asks Descartes to define the passions,
their exchange follows this practical and moral turn. But there is also a
dramatic edge to the exchange, as each correspondent falls into a classical
‘humouric’ dramatic type. He is sanguine; she is melancholic, and the fact
that they are playing out Elisabeth’s real world dramas forces Descartes to
think about the problems passions pose to human reason and happiness in
a concrete way. Elisabeth observes how her misfortune has affected her
7
Letter to Elisabeth, 28 June 1643 (AT III, 691–5).
8
Letter to Descartes, 1 July 1643 (AT IV, 2).
Volo ergo sum 19
reason and happiness (despite the fact that she does not equate happiness
and fortune). Descartes responds with various psychotherapeutic techni-
ques for calming the heart and facilitating the circulation of the blood.
These techniques include distracting the mind with objects which ‘bring
contentment and joy’ as well as recommendations for available medical
remedies such as the waters of the Spa.9 Elisabeth is sceptical of the long-
term benefits of psychotherapeutic remedies. She cannot extract herself,
she objects, from her senses and imagination; she cannot avoid her
obligations, which cause unruly passions; and she cannot put into practice
the kind of advice Descartes offers except after the passion has played itself
out.10 Elisabeth’s melancholy begins to look characteriological, and while
from 1645 onwards their correspondence consists largely of Descartes
ministering to her emotional needs, the gloom does not lift.
Nonetheless, it is Elisabeth who, through her questions as much as
her outpourings, defines the issues that become central to the Passions.
Descartes suggests that they read Seneca’s De Beata Vita, with a view to
giving content to his letters, but also with the intention, one suspects, of
bringing her round to his views on the independence of la béatitude and
fortune. He refers to the ‘sovereign contentment’, which prefigures his
discussion of the ‘sovereign good’ in the letter to Queen Christina of 20
November 1647, which he defines as pursuing only those things, such as
wisdom and virtue, which depend upon us. On 4 August 1645, he offers
Elisabeth the three rules of his morale par provision from the Discourse on
Method: (1) to try always to make the best possible use of one’s mind; (2)
to have a ‘firm and constant resolution’ to do what reason advises and not
be led astray by passions (this is virtue); and (3) to limit one’s desires as
much as possible to things within one’s power. In his next letter to her of
18 August 1645, he is careful to distinguish contentment from the sover-
eign good (using the will well) while noting, however, that the former
depends upon the latter. These ideas form the core of the conception of
self-mastery developed in the final part of the treatise.
Whether Elisabeth found these reminiscently Stoic exercises helpful is
hard to judge. A persisting theme in her criticisms of Descartes’ practical
philosophy is that contentment in this earthly state cannot be guaranteed
without some compliance by external circumstances. Descartes’ identifi-
cation of virtue with a function of the soul – the free exercise of the will –
defines the good at a distance from things involving the body. Against
9
Letter to Elisabeth, May or June 1645 (AT IV, 218–22); cf. PS, art. 48.
10
Letter to Descartes, 22 June 1645 (AT IV, 233–4).
this, Elisabeth raises the characteristically gloomy objection that if the
good relies on the autonomy of the will from the body, terminating
the union should always be preferable to sustaining it for those seeking
virtue.11
There is some justice to these criticisms of Descartes’ account of the
good life, but the view is subtler than Elisabeth supposes. In these early
conversations about the passions, Descartes advances the importance of a
comprehensive theory of contentment – namely, of the need to under-
stand (1) the bodily causes of discontent, (2) the powers of reason with
respect to what comes to it from the body, (3) how the goods of the mind
and body are to be ranked against one another, and (4) how the passions
distort the value of pleasures and pains stemming from the body.12 The
idea that a proper classification of goods pertaining to the soul and to
the body is necessary for defining the good is a recurring theme of the
Passions. It suggests, furthermore, that Descartes thinks of the happiness
of the soul as dependent in some fashion on its relation to the body. As for
Elisabeth’s suggestion that it is more consistent with his theory of mind
that we should desire to end rather than preserve the union, Descartes
replies that it is only ‘false philosophy’ that suggests that this life is worse
than the next. Descartes himself can offer no guarantees based on reason
that one would enjoy all the felicities of the life after this one.13 But more
to the point, even what we suffer in this life can be a source of inner joy
and contentment, and it is not clear that we would be better off in a life
that did not provide us with occasions for the joy we experience simply
from the fact that, for better or worse, we are being moved. The good for
us in this life depends on our capacity for passions, which are the source of
our ‘sweetest pleasures’.
Elisabeth does not herself endorse the dichotomy between reason and
passion she suspects Descartes’ metaphysics of entailing, and shows no
inclination herself to hurry into the next life. In asking Descartes to define
the passions, she notes rather that while many claim that the ‘perturba-
tions’ of the soul are opposed to reason, she herself has been shown by
experience that ‘there are passions that carry us to reasonable actions’ (AT
IV, 290). Descartes’ letter of 6 October 1645 contains his first and general
definition of the passions. Passions are all the thoughts that are ‘excited in
the soul without the concurrence of her will, and consequently, without
11
See Elisabeth’s letters of 30 September 1645 (AT IV, 302) and 28 October 1645 (AT IV, 323).
12
Letter to Elisabeth, 1 September 1645 (AT IV, 283–5).
13
Letter to Elisabeth, 6 October 1645 (AT IV, 315).
Volo ergo sum 21
any action that comes from her, solely through the impressions in the
brain, because that which is not an action is a passion’ (AT IV, 310). He
goes on to distinguish passions from imaginations that arise from actions
of the will, habits or inclinations that dispose one to passions of certain
sorts, and from judgements (which also involve the will) about good and
evil (AT IV, 160–1). By contrast with judgements, passions in the strict
sense have as their proximate causes impressions in the brain. Even if the
processes terminating in a passion begin with a judgement or the mind
conceiving an object in a certain way, a passion is produced only because
of the ‘imprinting (of ) the image on the brain’ (AT IV, 312). At this point,
Descartes confesses to having been slowed down by the difficulty of trying
to enumerate the particular passions (AT IV, 313). The complexity of the
taxonomic project is evident from the exhausting classification of passions
undertaken through the Passions.14
Descartes agrees with Elisabeth that the passions are compatible with
reason but stresses that without the involvement of the will the passions
will always turn out to have a precarious relationship with reason.
Descartes’ pragmatism is nowhere more evident than in his account of
the passions: if the passions are reasons, then it is important to recognise
that they do not always behave as such. If a passion is left unchecked, it
can bypass reason and become a direct stimulus to the will to act. More-
over, in being representational modes and exceptionally vivid, passions
often appear to be good reasons for acting when they are not.
[The passions] nearly always make the goods as much as the evils they represent
to appear considerably larger and more important than they are with the result
that they incite us to seek the one and avoid the other with more ardour and care
than is appropriate, just as we see also that beasts are overcome by lures and to
avoid the little evils they throw themselves into the larger ones. That is why we
ought to help ourselves to experience and reason to distinguish good from evil
and to know their just value, so that we don’t take the one for the other and carry
ourselves to nothing with excess. (AT XI, 431)
If Elisabeth’s pessimism taught Descartes anything, therefore, it was
that the dominance of reason and will over the forces of the body is hard
to achieve in practice and unlikely to be achieved through direct con-
frontation by the will. This idea is encapsulated in article 41 where
Descartes asserts that the will has only indirect control over the passions.
14
Enumerating the passions remains a difficulty for modern commentators as well. Ronald de Sousa
has argued that unlike beliefs, which uniformly have the True as their ‘formal object’, each type of
emotion is sui generis. There is no single formal object for all the passions (de Sousa, 1987: 123).
But if the soul is going to have any influence over the body, it must first
have knowledge of the body-machine and a clear demarcation of the
functions of the soul and of the body. In light of the concerns that form
the focus of Descartes’ correspondence with Elisabeth, the natural philo-
sophy which permeates the discussion of the passions is, as Lisa Shapiro
has argued, not at all out of place with the normative questions the
Passions purports to address.15
Between May 1645 and the time at which Descartes sends Elisabeth the
first draft of the Passions (which she acknowledges in a letter of 25 April
1646, AT IV, 404), their correspondence covers a range of additional topics
which were incorporated into the ‘little treatise’. Elisabeth raises questions
concerning how to console oneself about the evils that humans do from
free will, and how to measure incommensurable goods, for example, the
goods for one’s individual soul, like philosophy, and public goods.16 She
also asks whether there are conditions under which excessive passions can
be good.17 Once she had received the first draft of the Passions in 1646, she
asks how it is possible to distinguish passions by their physiological causes;
how we can practice remedies for the passions when we cannot foresee all
the contingencies of life; and how we can avoid desiring things which do
not depend upon us but are necessary for self-preservation.18
The technical question concerning the possibility of physiologically
distinguishing the passions makes the taxonomic project all the more
pressing. It is only because we can distinguish the passions as thoughts,
and because they occur in different combinations, Descartes replies, that it
is possible to enumerate them (May 1646, AT IV, 408). Elisabeth’s question
concerning the possibility of regulating one’s passions and desires when
circumstances are not in our control leads, finally, to one of the defining
aspects of Descartes’ theory of virtue: practical wisdom consists in willing
what we judge to be best, wisdom which he believes is practically possible,
despite the inevitable uncertainty that is part of our embodied existence.
As for the remedies against the excess of the passions, I admit they are difficult to
practise, and even that they cannot suffice to prevent the disorders that arrive in
the body, but only to make the soul untroubled and to enable her to retain her
15
Shapiro (2003) argues that the physiological story is necessary to show us how we may influence our
passions by habituating ourselves to connect different thoughts to the effects of brain motions from
those instituted by nature or habit. The principle of habituation is, she claims, the unifying
principle of the book.
16
Letter to Descartes, 30 September 1645 (AT IV, 301–4).
17
Letter to Descartes, 28 October 1645 (AT IV, 322).
18
Letter to Descartes, 25 April 1646 (AT IV, 403–6).
Volo ergo sum 23
free judgement. Nor do I judge that this requires an exact knowledge about the
truth of each thing, nor even that one has foreseen in particular all the accidents
that can befall one, for undoubtedly that would be impossible; but it is enough to
have imagined in general the most annoying accidents, and to be prepared to
suffer them. (May 1646, AT IV, 411)
We shall see in chapter 8 how making the will the locus of virtue is
problematic, but for the moment it is enough to note that the virtuous use
of the will is not conceived of as cut off from the sensitive faculties that
depend upon the body. It is necessary to use imagination to prepare oneself
for inevitable contingencies, and imagination is a faculty that has its ‘seat’ in
the brain. How these imaginative exercises strengthen the soul is by
diminishing opportunities for the soul’s being unpleasantly surprised or
gripped with a stupefying wonder that prevents appropriate deliberation
and action. The artful use of imagination and the directing of wonder in
useful ways are important psychotherapeutic techniques for gaining control
over the passions. The use of the imagination is crucial for changing the
very dispositions of the brain itself, for by imagining difficult situations in
which we might find ourselves, we reduce the element of surprise and de-
sensitise the brain to incoming images likely to excite the animal spirits.19
That the correspondence with Elisabeth defines the central problems
Descartes is working through in the Passions and illuminates the need to
combine mechanistic, medical and moral considerations can be of no
doubt. When in November 1647 Descartes sends a revised version of the
treatise together with the ‘Letter on the Sovereign Good’ to Queen
Christina through his friend and French Ambassador to the Swedish
court, Hector-Pierre Chanut, he notes how he wishes he could include
his correspondence with Elisabeth so as to make the treatise ‘more accom-
plished’ (AT V, 187–8). In hindsight, we can well appreciate why he would
have desired doing so. Their rich philosophical and personal correspon-
dence not only complements the treatise on the passions but also contains
our best clues as to why it was written the way it was.
THE INFLUENCE OF THE MEDITATIONS
Like the Meditations, The Passions of the Soul is a kind of training manual,
only this time it is the aspiring sage rather than the aspiring philosopher
19
I thank one of the referees for suggesting that Descartes’ principle of habituation involves changing
the structure of the brain by changing the connections between sensory inputs and how the spirits
are subsequently channelled. On the mechanism of this restructuring procedure, see chapter 8 and
Sutton (1998a; 1998b: I.3).
who is being put through her paces. Both texts begin with an endorsement
of something akin to the Pythian dictum – Nosce teipsum (‘know thyself ’).
Be it practical or theoretical, good philosophy begins with a proper
understanding of the functions of mind and body, the two essential
components of a human being (AT XI, 328; AT VII, 12). The general
confusion both texts aim to correct is the tendency to attribute properties
and functions to the soul appropriate only to the body (PS, arts. 4–5; AT
VII, 26). The Passions also carries on the project, begun in the Sixth
Meditation, of reconceiving the function of sensation from a biological
rather than epistemological perspective. The similarities between the two
texts are striking and the dissimilarities revealing.
Like sensations generally, passions mislead the soul into false judge-
ments but judgements of a primarily practical and moral kind. Indeed, it
is the same weakness in the soul that explains both kinds of error –
sensations and passions make their objects salient or vivid to the will,
which is thereby disposed to assent to the ideas they propose before reason
has considered them adequately. In the theoretical case, as the wax
example of the Second Meditation demonstrates, the mind is apt to be
misled by the vivacity of sensations into thinking that it knows bodies and
their qualities more distinctly than any other thing, including the elusive
‘I’ which does not admit of a corporeal image (AT VII, 29–30). Passions
lead a weak soul into ‘false opinion’ about good and evil – namely, to
think that goods that depend on things beyond the control of the will are
more desirable or important than those the soul can obtain through its
own power (PS, art. 49). It is because passions depend upon events in the
brain, tend to exaggerate the value of their objects, vary from person to
person, and because conflicting passions (e.g., fear and ambition) can be
evoked in the same person by the same situation and pull the will in
opposite directions at the same time, that passions are unreliable guides to
good and evil (PS, arts. 138, 39, 48). But in the well-ordered soul, passions
are more useful than not. The primary function of both sensations and
passions is the preservation and perfection of the union of mind and body
(PS, art. 40; AT VII, 89).
Having grasped the point that the function of the passions is biological
rather than epistemological, the sage-in-training like the meditator turns
to the mind itself to ground moral truths. In the practical sphere, this
reflective act is not one that can be performed while the existence of one’s
body is in doubt but is motivated by a passion, générosité, which is the
noblest kind of self-esteem.
Volo ergo sum 25
And I notice in us only one thing that is able to give us a just reason for esteeming
ourselves: to know the usage of our free will and the command that we have over
our volitions. (AT XI, 445)
In both texts, therefore, the exercise of withdrawing ourselves from our
senses brings us first and foremost to knowledge of some essential aspect
of the soul. The meditator comes face to face with herself as a res cogitans,
an essentially thinking thing, the sage, the res volans. The Passions carries
the reader to the conclusion that what is known indubitably in the moral
domain is the essential freedom of one’s own will, and the resolution to
use it well becomes the mark of virtue (PS, arts. 153, 156, 148). This is the
crowning achievement of the treatise, just as the discovery of the intellec-
tual nature of the soul is a pivotal moment in the Meditations. From the
discovery that the freedom of the will is the ultimate source of value, true
knowledge of the value of other goods, ranked according to the extent to
which they depend upon the will or not, is possible.
The identification of what is good for human beings with the good use of
the will might seem to preclude the passions from having an indispensable
role in the good life. But this is not the case. The passions have a place in the
providential order and in the natural life of the sage (PS, art. 145). Descartes’
remark, at the very end of the treatise, that ‘on the passions alone all the
good and evil of this life depends’ (PS, art. 212), may seem surprising given
that the good is elsewhere defined as the good use of the will (PS, art. 153),
and the passions are contrasted with volitions (PS, art. 17). But it is not so
strange if we bear in mind that for Descartes our first introduction to good
and evil is through the passions, and that the good use of the will in this life
is the good use of the will of an embodied agent. The will needs an object,
and to meet the needs and ends of the whole human being must be guided
by passions. Descartes’ account of the place of passions in the good life
reinforces the Sixth Meditation discussion of the function of sensations in
the ‘best system that could be devised’ (AT VII, 87). When controlled by
reason, passions and sensations are our best source of information about
circumstances external to the soul, a view which he uses to make the further
claim that the tendency of passions to dispose us to certain kinds of error
conflicts in no way with the goodness of God (AT VII, 88; AT XI, 438).
The need to classify the passions in relation to their ‘formal’ objects
rather than by their proximal causes in the body can now be better
understood. The will of the sage acts autonomously but is bolstered by
the passions and, to some extent, guided by them. Many passions direct
the will to actions required to preserve the union of body and soul. The
representational role of sensations and the passions is discussed in articles
22–4 of the Passions, and follows a path laid down by the discussion of
sensory representation in the Meditations and Replies. The passions func-
tion by indicating how objects are related to the union, as good or evil,
advantageous or disadvantageous, and in what way (past, present or
future, surmountable or insurmountable, attainable or unattainable,
etc.). An understanding of the passions must therefore take into account
the objects upon which action must be taken, as much as their proximal
causes. In this function, passions and sensations report the ‘truth’ much
more frequently than falsity (AT VII, 89).
In these respects, the Passions complements the project of the Medita-
tions in providing an account of the passions compatible with the general
rejection of sensations as epistemically foundational. There are, however,
significant differences between the two texts. The central metaphysical
arguments of the Meditations for God’s existence and goodness do not
appear in the Passions but, as we shall see, are presupposed in the weight
attached to Providence for controlling desire. The Passions is not an
exercise in metaphysics, and seems rather to have been deliberately written
to keep its subject matter within the purview of natural philosophy, a
move that can be read as protecting the metaphysical distinction between
mind and body drawn in the Meditations.20 But by far the most signifi-
cant difference between the two texts is that whereas the Meditations
recommends withholding assent in all theoretical matters which are not
clear and distinct, Descartes can make no such demand in the practical
sphere. Passions are ‘confused and obscure’ perceptions, and we should be
cautious in submitting to actions they recommend, but we have to act
(irresolution is a vice), and we do not always have the luxury of lengthy
deliberation when matters are pressing (PS, art. 170).
The epistemic outcomes of the Meditations and the Passions are thus
radically different. Descartes goes so far as to recommend to Elisabeth that
when in doubt about how to act, it is best to follow local customs and
embrace opinions that are ‘most probable’, advice reminiscent of that of
ancient sceptics and academics.21 The probabilistic judgements we make
20
This accords with Descartes’ comment to Elisabeth that he did not wish to discuss the union of
body and soul in the Meditations since its existence, unlike that of the real distinction of mind and
body, is not something most people are in doubt about, and that any protracted treatment of the
union may have been detrimental to the real distinction argument. See the letters of 21 May 1643
and 28 June 1643.
21
Letter to Elisabeth, 15 September 1645. Compare Sextus Empiricus’ advice to follow the laws of the
land and local customs in Outlines of Pyrrhonism, I. 23–4.
Volo ergo sum 27
in practical and moral affairs compare less favourably than the certain
outcomes of Descartes’ theoretical meditations, but accord with a distinc-
tion he makes elsewhere between moral and metaphysical certainty. Moral
certainty is ‘sufficient for ordinary life’ but lacks the guarantee of necessity
that metaphysical certainty carries (AT VIIIA, 327). Whereas the meditator
is required to eschew all probabilistic claims, the sage cannot, and is wise
precisely because she learns to live well despite uncertainty.
This difference in epistemological outcomes between the projects of the
Passions and the Meditations generates further differences between the two
texts and new problems for Descartes’ practical philosophy. The combi-
nation of finite intellect and infinite will, the limitations of embodiment
and the unreliability of the passions, the necessity to act and the ‘inevi-
table evils’ of things outside our control, is a volatile mixture (PS, art.
146). Under these conditions, moral and practical errors are inevitable,
and the theodicy offered in the Meditations begins to look unstable. In
light of this outcome that moral error and ignorance are inevitable,
Elisabeth is led to question how the sage is supposed to achieve the
supreme contentment Descartes insists accompanies virtue. Descartes’
metaphysical arguments against the reality of evil and for fate and Provi-
dence may impress the meditator, but seem lame against Elisabeth’s
suspicion that virtue and contentment do not go hand-in-hand.22
We should not, therefore, overstate the similarities between the Med-
itations and the Passions, but nor should we ignore them. There are
enough commonalities to see the Passions as a unified work, and one that
complements the Meditations and extends its project into the practical
realm. The overriding aim of the Passions is to instruct the reader on how
to master the passions so that they will be an indispensable resource for
the will in determining right action. To this end, it is necessary for the
sage to understand the psychophysical processes undergirding the passions
and their effects on the will and on the body. But in the pursuit of virtue,
we must be motivated as much by passions arising from the body as by
prescriptions from the rational soul. The body is not an impediment to
virtue but properly directed, a necessary condition for it.
22
See Elisabeth’s letters of June 1645, 16 August 1645, 13 September 1645, and 25 April 1646. Elisabeth
asks how the inevitability of error and moral evil can ever be reconciled with God’s existence and
beneficence (30 September 1645). Descartes’ response to the problem of evil is the traditional
Augustinian one – ‘evil is nothing real but only a privation’ – and so not anything caused by God.
(To Elisabeth of 6 October 1645, AT IV, 308; See also the Fourth Meditation, AT VII, 55.)
CHAPTER 2
Perturbations or sweet pleasures? Descartes’ place in

two traditions regarding the passions
451624
Had this excellent Man, Monseiur des Cartes, been half as conver-
sant in Anatomy, as he seems to have been in Geometry, doubtless
he would never have lodged so noble a guest as the Rational Soul in
so incommodious a closet of the brain, as the Glandula Pinealis is;
the use whereof hath been demonstrated to be no other but to
receive into its spongy cavities, from two little nerves, a certain
serous Excrement, and to exonerate the same again into its vein,
which nature hath therefore made much larger than the artery that
accompanieth it; and which having no communication with the
external organs of the senses, cannot with any colour of reason be
thought the part of the brain wherein the Soul exerciseth her
principal faculties of judging and commanding.
(Charleton, 1674: preface)
Of the many accusations thrown at Descartes by contemporary philoso-
phers, the strangest is surely the cognitivist’s one which holds him
accountable for having reduced emotions to ‘mere feelings’ or ‘the rush
of animal spirits to the brain’.1 Were it so, Les passions de l’âme should
have fallen stillborn from the press, for its principal neuroanatomical
claim – that the pineal gland is the ‘seat’ of mind–body interaction –
was met with a substantial amount of derision.2 This is not to say that the
text was not significant as a piece of natural philosophy in its time, but its
influence has more to do with the way questions about the passions were
formed, rather than the particular answers that were given. Descartes was
not the first to conceive of passions as intermediaries of mind–body
union, but his particular conception of the mind as a unified substance
1
See, for example, Solomon (1988) and Greenspan (1988). For further variations on cognitivism, see
Lyons (1977) and Marks (1982), and for arguments against cognitivism see Griffiths (1989; 1997).
2
The influential Nicholas Papin, Docteur en medecin, argued that the pineal gland was too anato-
mically limited to, as he put it, ‘receive all the movements attributed to it’ (Papin, 1653: 15). Walter
Charleton added that the gland was too fixed and inflexible to bend in the ways Descartes imagined
it would when the will and the spirits struggled for command over it (Charleton, 1674: preface).
28
Perturbations or sweet pleasures? 29
in conjunction with the mechanistic theory of matter forced him to
rethink the topic of the passions in radically different ways.
The tendency to view Descartes as a reductionist about emotions is
symptomatic of a widespread inability or unwillingness to conceptualise
anything in his system as involving mind and body functioning together.
It is assumed that the real distinction of mind and body entails a total
separation of functions, and thus, if Cartesian passions are bodily pro-
cesses, they are not ‘mental’ or ‘intentional’ phenomena in any sense of
those terms, and conversely, if passions are ideas, there is no sense in
which they could depend upon operations of the body. For those who
accept this reasoning, and reject the dualism that gives such conditionals
their force, Descartes’ account of the passions will seem fundamentally
reductionist.
This reasoning is not only false (see chapter 5) but deeply ironic, for if
we now think of emotions as ideas, as bearers of intentional content, it is
most likely because of Descartes, who, by conceiving of passions as ideas,
established the very conceptual foundations modern cognitivists now take
for granted. Alternatively, if we think that passions are essentially biolo-
gical phenomena, we again owe a debt to Descartes, for although he was
not the first to synthesise the two pre-existing approaches to the passions,
medical and moral-psychological, he was the first to do so in a way
compatible with modern scientific perspectives.3 But we shall not see this
except with the hindsight of a little history, a history to which Descartes
himself was none too kind.
A POPULAR SUBJECT
That which the ancients have taught [about the passions] is so little to the point
and for the most part so little believable that I am unable to have any hope of
approaching the truth by following the paths they have followed. (AT XI, 327–8)
3
Treating the passions from both a moral and natural philosophical perspective at the same time was
the norm since Galen, and whether one’s approach was en physicien or as a moral philosopher or
rhetorician was typically more a matter of what one took to be fundamental, rather than a way of
excluding other perspectives. Gaukroger cites Petrarch’s De remediis, a compedium of Stoic
remedies for the passions, as an example combining medical and moral approaches (Gaukroger,
2002: 224–6). The combination of these two approaches was also evident in those accounts that
placed more weight on moral analysis. Aquinas, for example, treats the ‘material’ component of the
passions in accordance with the standard medical view of the humouric system of the body (Summa
Theologiae, I–II, q. 28, art. 5 and q. 44, art. 1). In his commentary on Aquinas’ theory of the passions,
Tractatus quinque ad Primum Secundae D. Thomae Aquinatis, IV, disp.1, Suarez also advocates
natural philosophy as the proper home for discussions on the passions.
Descartes’ insinuation that very little of substance had been written
about the passions belies the fact that there was an abundance of ancient,
medieval and Renaissance texts available on the subject and the extent to
which his own account is continuous with those traditions. Interest in
perturbations of the soul and abnormal psychological conditions, such as
melancholia, was particularly high during the Renaissance. Elisabeth, who
we know prompted Descartes to write on the subject, also requested at
least one other manuscript on the subject: Edward Reynolds’ (1640)
A Treatise of the Passions and Faculties of the Soule of Man was dedicated
to and recommended by her for publication.
Many popular texts which discussed the passions served as general
guides for healthy living, the most celebrated being the Salerno doctors’
Regimen Sanitatis Salernitanum – (initially) 362 rules for daily health –
published in over 300 editions 1852. Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ De proprie-
tatibus rerum included a discussion of the passions and was published in
over twenty editions between 1372 and 1601 and in at least five languages.
Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy, in three volumes (1621),
presented an encyclopaedic study of the causes, symptoms, cures and
therapies for that most celebrated disease of the soul, discussed in great
and often hilarious detail. (Nothing cures love-melancholy like marriage,
but this ‘cure’ comes last in a long list of remedies of the diet-and-drugs
variety, suggesting that it should be undertaken only as a last resort
(Burton, 1949: III, 252–5). Timothy Bright’s A Treatise of Melancholy
(1586) was published in three editions by 1613, and Juan de Huarte
Navarro’s Examen de Ingenios (1594) was published in four editions by
1616. Cureau de la Chambre’s Les caractéres des passions, the first volume of
which Descartes read (though claimed to have derived nothing from
doing so), was published in five volumes between 1640 and 1662.4
In the moral tradition of writing on the passions in the seventeenth
century there were two main centres of influence: Aristotelianism and
Stoicism. Nicholas Coeffeteau’s Tableau des Passions (1630) and Thomas
Wright’s The Passions of the Mind in General (1596/1601), align themselves
with the faculty psychology and idea of passions as motions of the
sensitive soul of the Aristotelian tradition. The basic orientation of
4
See the letter to Mersenne, 18 January 1641 (AT III, 296). Gaukroger argues that by mixing
mechanism and ‘a kind of vitalistic naturalism’ de la Chambre represented precisely the kind of
confusion that arises from attributing functions of the body to the soul which Descartes sought to
avoid. The notion of a ‘substantial union’ can be seen as an alternative to this kind of naturalism on
the one hand and occasionalism on the other (Gaukroger, 1995: 390).
Aristotelians was to think that the passions were all by nature good, but in
Christian thought the passions were connected with the Fall of humanity,
and strict control by reason and the will was required for them to be
compatible with virtue. As Wright pontificates: ‘the inordinate motions of
the passions’ are ‘thorny briars sprung from the infected root of original
sin’ (Wright, 1596/1601: 89).
Through a revival of Stoicism in late sixteenth-century France, a
number of moral treatises appeared stressing the independence of happi-
ness and fortune. Among Stoic approaches, Anthony Levi has argued that
Guillaume du Vair’s De la sainte philosophie and La Philosophie morale des
Stoı̈ques, Pierre Charron’s De la sagesse, Justus Lipsius’ Manuductio as
stoicam philosophiam and Physiologia stoicorum and Michel de Mon-
taigne’s Essais, stand out as bearing obvious similarities to the orientation
of Les passions de l’âme, and were likely available to Descartes (Levi, 1964).
The general influence of Neostoic ideas is evident, according to Levi, from
the gradual breakdown of the faculty psychology of Aristotle and his
followers, and from a subsequent ‘rationalising’ of passions as ideas of a
unified sensitive and intellectual soul.5 Juan Luis Vives’ De anima et vita
(1538), with which Descartes was also familiar, also diverged explicitly
from the faculty psychology of the Scholastics (Levi, 1964: 26). 6
Many philosophers prior to Descartes were of the view that the passions
were connected with our embodiment and thus contained an involuntary
element that would pose an inevitable challenge to the rational soul
seeking to perfect itself.7 For both Plato and Aristotle, passions supply a
direct impetus to action, and although passions are typically mediated by
some cognition, they are not thereby mediated by reason or deliberation.
What a passion is on the divergent theories of Plato and Aristotle is
difficult to say and well beyond the scope of this book, but it is generally
understood that for both passions involve (1) a movement of a sensitive
5
Levi traces this idea to the Florentine Neoplatonist, Marsiglio Ficino (Levi, 1964: 24–5).
6
The experiments Vives performed to condition certain kinds of behaviour in animals were also
known to Descartes, and formed a basis for his ideas about how to ‘train’ oneself out of vicious
emotional habits (e.g., AT XI, 422). See Vives, De anima et vita, I.17, and for discussion, Casini,
2002.
7
Aristotle’s discussion occasionally suggests more than a completely involuntarist notion of passion.
In the Nichomachean Ethics, 1105b21 Aristotle defines the passions in connection with appetites
accompanied by pleasure or pain, but in the Rhetoric 2.5 (e.g., 1382a21–2), they are defined in
relation to their formal objects, suggesting a connection to belief or judgement. See James,
1997:40–1. Knuuttila (2004, ch. 1. section 4) thinks it fair, therefore, to attribute to Aristotle a
‘compositional’ theory of emotions, in which an evaluative judgement is a defining constituent of
an emotional response.
part of the soul towards or away from some object – i.e., physiological
changes and an impulse to certain kinds of behaviour – on the basis of (2)
some cognition or evaluation of an object (typically) as it stands in
relation to oneself and (3) the feeling or phenomenological awareness of
these changes in the soul. For Plato, the emotions belong to the ‘spirited’
part of the soul (thumoeides), and are essentially connected with our self-
assessment. (Republic, 4.435a-441c). In the disordered soul, emotions are
impediments to reason, and the philosopher must strive to rise above
them through the independent use of reason. Mastery of the passions on
the Platonic view requires the subjugation of emotions to reason, but
passions can, nonetheless, be an ally to the rational soul. In his compre-
hensive study of ancient and medieval theories of the passions, Simo
Knuttila argues that the emotions have an even more central place in
the Aristotelian conception of the good life (Knuttila, 2004: ch.1). When
moderated according to the golden mean, Aristotelian emotions are an
essential component of the good life, which requires a significant degree
of emotional awareness (through, for example, anger and pity) of the
needs of others (Nichomachean Ethics 2.6, 1106b18–23; 4.5, 1126a3–8).
In antiquity, the Stoics are distinctive in holding it both desirable and
possible to attain a state of complete freedom from (bodily) passions
(apatheia). The self-centred quality of emotional evaluations meant that
there could be neither an objective standard of truth for the emotions,
nor a degree of emotionality compatible with virtue. Stoic emotions just
are species of evaluative judgements, which, because of their inherent
tendency to exaggerate the importance of the self in the cosmos and to
affirm the appropriateness of giving in to certain forms of distress, are
false and vicious. Knuttila argues that it is for this reason that the Stoics
opposed any attempt to render the passions virtuous through moderation
(Knuttila, 2004: 76–8). There can be no degree of disease or vice com-
patible with moral health and virtue.8 Although the Stoics allow as
morally acceptable some ‘good feelings’ (eupatheiai) – well–reasoned
joy, caution and wishing – these are not emotions or passions in the
strict sense. They involve neither a disturbance in the soul nor an attach-
ment to contingent objects or events (Inwood, 1985: 173–5; Knuttila,
2004: 68–9).
If passions are simply false judgements, it is natural to suppose that
they would be eradicated by an appropriate change in belief. But this was
8
See, for example, Seneca, De ira 2.9, and Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, III.
not thought to be the case. To explain this phenomenon, the Stoics
distinguish two components of an emotion: the ‘first motion’, an invo-
luntary movement of the soul towards or away from some object, and an
act of (voluntary) assent to the evaluations suggested by these first
motions, such as the evaluation that a situation is good or bad and that
one is justified in responding emotionally. What distinguishes the Stoic
sage from those who are led by their passions is not freedom from first
motions, which are natural, but the act of dissent from the evaluations
associated with those motions.9 Whether we would have the first motions
of a passion unless we were already evaluating a situation in a certain way
is, however, obscure and points to a tension within the Stoic account of
the passions.
The intellectualist character of Stoic passions is clear in Cicero’s Tus-
culan Disputations III and IV, in which all ‘perturbations’ of the soul are
defined as the result of judgement and opinion ‘so that it may be realised
not only how wrong they are but to what extent they are under our
control’ (343; also, 403). The egocentric quality of these judgements is
striking in Cicero’s vilification of erotic love in the Tusculan Disputations,
IV, 35:
Such inconsistency and capriciousness of mind – whom would it not scare away
by its very vileness? This characteristic, too, of all disorder must be made clear,
namely, that there is no instance where it is not due to belief, due to an act of
judgement, due to voluntary choice. For were love a matter of nature all men
would love the same object, nor should we find one discouraged by shame,
another by reflection, another by satiety. (Trans. King, 1971: 415)
The very idiosyncratic and inconstant character of erotic love – the fact
that we do not all love the same objects, the fact that we love something at
one time and not at another for reasons unrelated to the virtues of the
object – shows how depraved and false this passion is and why we ought
to strive for its extirpation.
The illusion of passivity, the experience of feeling victim to one’s
passions, is explained on the Stoic view by the effects of the involuntary
component. The purpose of moral philosophy is to bring us to the
recognition that we are agents of our passions. By exercising direct control
9
A classic example is the explanation given by Epictetus of an example from Aulus Gellius’ Attic
Nights 19.1.17–18 of the Stoic during a storm at sea feeling the first motions of fear but not assenting
to the proposition that it poses an evil to him. See also Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, 3.76; 4.59–63
and Seneca, De Ira, 2.2.2–5; 2.3.4–5, and for a useful overview of Stoic detachment, Knuuttila, 2004:
66, 75–8, and Nussbaum, 1994: ch. 10.
over one side of a passion, we may gain control over the whole, and by
extension, over our actions. Although most philosophers after the Stoics
were keen to distance themselves from this extreme view, believing that
the passions were all by nature good, the intellectualist strand in Stoic
thought resurfaced in Renaissance accounts. Descartes’ own thinking
about the passions has distinctively Stoic elements. Although he expresses
dissatisfaction with Seneca’s De beata vita, finding the Stoic idea of the
supreme good as ‘living in accordance with nature’ obscure, and rejecting
the conflation of contentment and the supreme good in favour of treating
the former as the motivating consequence of the supreme good, Descartes
agrees with the Stoics on a number of key points (AT IV, 273–7). The
principal task of Cartesian moral philosophy is to use our reason to
discriminate what is and what is not within our control, and to regulate
desires accordingly, so that our contentment of mind does not depend on
what is beyond our power to control (AT IV, 252–3; 263–8). Cartesian
passions also have both an intellectual component as ideas and an invo-
luntary bodily component in the motions of the brain that give rise to and
sustain them, and even though passions are distinct from judgements, or
at least do not entail an act of assent, they are intellectual modes of the
soul.10
In medical circles, the Stoic influence can be detected in the flourishing
of psychotherapeutic (rather than purely medicinal) techniques for con-
trolling the ‘diseases of the soul’ (Galen, 1963: 53). Galen compared the
intemperate with ‘wild beasts’ that have let themselves be governed by
the irrational power of the soul, but it was generally acknowledged that
the dependence of passions on bodily processes and uncontrollable exter-
nal circumstances meant that rational control of the passions would be
inevitably indirect.11 Psychotherapeutic exercises, such as engaging in
activities to promote more useful ‘contrary’ passions on the occasion of
an unruly one, or in imaginative exercises designed to limit the effects of
unpleasant surprises, were indirect means by which the soul could exercise
rational control over its involuntary elements.12
10
On the question of whether Cartesian passions are judgements, see chapter 4.
11
Galen, 1963: pp. 45–6. Since we are not always in the best position to appreciate the irrational side
of our nature, Galen recommends asking someone else to check one’s irrational passions (p.44.).
12
Although Descartes disagrees at article 48 with the usefulness of trying to calm the soul by
generating conflicting passions, some of his cognitive therapies are similar to those of the Stoics.
Through imaginative exercises, Epictetus claimed to show students how to understand situations
without distress, and how to use premeditation to prepare them to bear the worst. See Knuuttila,
2004: 78. Descartes’ advice to Elisabeth is similar (AT IV, 411).
Aside from his remarks of June 1645 to Elisabeth about the medicinal
properties of the spa, Descartes offers little by way of purely medicinal re-
medies for the passions, proposing instead various psychotherapeutic
remedies (PS, arts.50; 211). These include (1) the acquisition of knowledge
and forethought (to prevent excessive awe directed at the wrong sorts of
things and to prepare us for every eventuality) (PS, art.76; 176); (2) the
correct use of reason (PS, arts. 138; 148; 170); (3) reflection upon Divine
Providence (PS, art. 145) and (4) the correct understanding and exercise of
the will, (PS, art. 156; 161). An important method for obtaining rational
control of the body is the correct use of attention, about which more will
be said in chapters 3 and 8. Unethical or irrational behaviour is typically a
matter of not knowing how to make ourselves do what we know theore-
tically we ought to, and this lack of practical knowledge is a lack of a
‘firm habit of belief ’, which can only be obtained through a focused
attention of the mind (AT IV, 295–6). Cartesian passions are neither
voluntary nor subject to direct rational control, but some degree of
indirect control is permitted through cognitive exercises aimed at direct-
ing attention to connect new thoughts with stimuli received through the
senses (AT XI, 369–70).
There is little distinction then for Descartes between the ‘cures’ for
unruly passions and the practice of moral philosophy itself, and this in
general explained why it was not uncommon to find during the Renais-
sance no distinction between treatises on morals and medical treatises on
the passions. Pierre de la Primaudaye’s The French Academie, for example,
went so far as to recommend the study of philosophy itself as ‘a certain
remedy and sound medicine for every vice and passion’ (Primaudaye,
1577/1972: 38). Descartes’ statement in the Preface to the Passions that he
will approach the passions en physicien does not, therefore, indicate that
he intends to reduce the passions to physiological processes or ignore their
moral status, but nor does it tell us what exactly he thinks he is doing that
is so new.
GALENIC PHYSIOLOGY
There will not be mind [animus] except through the health of the rational soul
[anima] nor the health of this [the rational soul] except through the health of the
vital and the natural souls, and the health of these two will not be present
[consistit] except through the health of the body. Nor is there this [the health
of the body] except through a balance of the humours. The balance of the
humours comes only from a balanced composition [complexio], which there will
in no way be except through the regimen of the art of medicine, through which
there is the maintenance of health in the healthy and its restoration when lost.13
It was standard during the Middle Ages to conceive of the passions in
accordance with the theory of temperaments, whose great master in
antiquity, following Hippocrates, was Galen.14 According to Galen, the
temperament of an individual, and thus her disposition to certain kinds of
passions, was the product of the composition of four bodily fluids or
‘humours’ – blood (hot, moist), phlegm (cold, moist), yellow bile (hot,
dry) and black bile (cold, dry) – which themselves were mixtures of the
four basic elements: earth, air, fire and water. As the above quote from the
tenth-century Persian physician, Abbas, indicates, the dependence of
diseases of the mind on humouric imbalances suggested to some that
the perfection of reason could only be obtained in the first place through
application of the medical arts. Ancient Greek doctors equated health
with equilibrium (eucrasia) and disease (including emotional distur-
bances) with imbalances (dycrasia) in this humouric system (Galen,
1928: II, 8). The four classical temperaments – the sanguine, the phleg-
matic, the choleric and the melancholic – represented the major forms of
dycrasia, depending on which humour was predominant (Galen, 1928: II.
9) The theory of temperaments became the cornerstone of medicine
during the Middle Ages in both the West and the East. Avicenna attri-
butes the strong disposition to joy in a drunken person to a very moist
spirit, ‘excessively altered by the mixture of the vapours rising there and
inundating it and moistening it immoderately’.15
The pervasiveness of the theory of temperaments cannot be under-
estimated. It infiltrated not just medicine but literary and popular culture
generally, as evident from the emergence of the ‘humourist’ – sixteenth-
century literary figures like Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare, who
constructed character types from the four classical temperaments (the
choleric, the sanguine, the melancholic (famously, Hamlet) and the
phlegmatic). At the beginning of the Renaissance, pharmacology was
13
This passage from Haly Abbas, Regalis dispositio I theor.iii is quoted in Harvey, 1975: 14. See her
discussion of the rivalry between medieval doctors and philosophers.
14
Galen’s neuroanatomy was surprisingly sophisticated, especially regarding the functions of the
sensory and motor nerves of the spinal cord. He developed a complex theory of localised cerebral
lesions and this localisation of functions extended to the discussion of passions. Passions were no
longer merely explained by general functions of the brain but by events occurring within the central
ventricle of the brain. The idea of cerebral localisation differed from the holism of Hippocratic
medicine and persisted beyond the decline of Galenism during the Renaissance.
15
Avicenna, De viribus cordis, I.v.
dominated by the basic principles of Galen’s theory of temperaments.
The melancholic, for example, suffered an over-abundance of cold and
dry (black bile), and required treatment by ‘contraries’, in this case,
medications that moisten and heat the body (Galen, 1928: II, 9).
In antiquity, the four elements were thought to be present in inani-
mate and animate things alike, and, therefore, some special element was
thought necessary to explain sensation and self-motion. The Stoics intro-
duced a new notion – pneuma (spiritus in the Latin tradition) – that stood
for a very fine grade of matter, like a hot breath or fine wind, which
permeated the body and accounted for sensation, consciousness and self-
motion. Being material, pneuma was able to travel through very tiny
vessels of the body, such as the arteries and nerves. Galen attributes the
origins of this idea and the division between vital pneuma (that which
travels through the arteries) and psychic pneuma (that which travels
through the nerves) to Erasistratus, one of the founders of the university
at Alexandria in the fourth century BC, and who was renowned for being
the first to have performed a public dissection of a human body (Galen,
1928: II, 9; Robinson, 1943: 73, 67). Despite his general disapproval of
Erasistratus’ account of the human body, Galen retained the concept
of pneuma and the division between vital and psychic pneuma. Accord-
ing to Galen, nourishment digested in the stomach is processed into
humours in the liver and then the heart. Vital pneuma originates in the
heart and psychic pneuma in the rete mirabile – the ‘marvellous network’
of arteries Galen supposed exists at the base of the brain (Galen, Opera
Omnia, 1821–33: XIV, 697, 726; Harvey, 1975: 7). The psychic pneuma was
the finest grade of matter in the body and accounted for the cognitive,
sensory and motor functions of animals. The Latin translation of
‘pneuma’ – spiritus – is the origin of the concept of bodily spirits in
Renaissance medical texts, and Descartes’ terminology of ‘animal spirits’
(from animus) derives from the notion of psychic pneuma.
Aristotle held that the rational and sensitive soul had its ‘seat’ or
principal organ in the heart. Noting that damage to the brain could
affect sensation, intelligence and motion without affecting the functions
of the circulatory system or nutritive functions, physicians of the Hip-
pocratic School, notably Galen, shifted the seat of sensation, intelligence
and motion to the brain, and placed more weight in explaining
these capacities on the functions of psychic pneuma. Influenced by
Plato’s tripartite division of the soul, Galen also proposed a further
division of the animal into three separate but integrated systems or souls
centred around the functions of the liver, heart and brain: the vegetative
(nutritional and reproductive) system, the animal (cardiovascular) sys-
tem and the rational (nervous) system. In the Middle Ages, a corre-
sponding division of pneuma or bodily spirits into three (natural, vital
and animal) occurred, the natural spirits being connected to the func-
tions of the liver, the vital spirits to the heart and animal spirits to
the brain.16 Later philosophers, seeking to preserve the authority of
Aristotle, would attempt to reconcile Aristotle’s idea that the seat of
sensation was the heart with Galen’s account of psychic pneuma, with
odd results. Avicenna, for example, held that the brain was the principal
seat of sensation and self-motion, but ultimately dependent upon the
well-functioning heart.17 The debate over the seat of the soul was
mirrored by a debate over the primacy of psychic or vital pneuma in
explaining cognitive functions (Temkin, 1973: 143–4).
‘Vitalists’ held that the blood contained special properties that ‘ani-
mated’ the flesh of animals and accounted for sensation and locomotion,
but since it is the animal spirits that directly affect the brain, it was
difficult to see why the blood should be counted among the proximate
causes of cognitive functions. For those who followed Galen more closely,
the functions of the intellect were no longer bound so intimately with all
life-sustaining functions of the body, but were linked to the body only
through the operations of the most rarefied bits of bodily matter, the
animal spirits.
The dominance of the Galenic theory of temperaments in the history of
medicine is staggering. Despite being challenged at various times, Galen
remained an authority in medicine in both the East and West until the
Renaissance.18 In 1525, the first editions of Galen’s work in Greek were
available, and had an immediate impact upon the humanists, including
16
Harvey argues that the tripartite division of the spirits is not evident until the writings of Abbas
(Harvey, 1975: fn. 22, p. 64). Temkin claims that Galen was cautious of both vital and natural
pneuma, but later texts presenting the Galenic account attribute three spirits to him (Temkin, 1973:
107).
17
Avicenna, Canon, I: 30a62–30b1. See also Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I-I.q.83.a.I.
18
Temkin denies that there was any ‘slavish servility’ to Galen in either the West or East during the
Middle Ages (Temkin, 1973: 118; 123–5). Galenic anatomy was not seriously challenged until the
sixteenth century, when Vesalius and Paracelsus criticised it for anatomical inaccuracies. See
Neuburger, 1910. The ideas of Galen were available through translations of Arabic medical
anthologies, in particular, the Articella, which included the Ars medica or introduction to medicine
by Galen, the Pantegni, a selection from the medical encyclopaedia of Abbas which drew heavily on
Galen and presented a vitalist conception of emotions, the Isagoge, an introduction to the Ars
medica by Iohannicius, and that exhausting tome of medieval medicine, Avicenna’s Canon. For
discussion of Galen’s influence in the latin West, see Temkin, 1973: 100–7, and Knuuttila, 2004:
177–215.
Vives, but advances in anatomy, pathology, and methodology led to a
gradual decline in Galen’s influence in the medical faculties of European
universities.19 Even after the demise of Galen’s authority in anatomy in
the sixteenth century, clinical practice remained primarily Galenic until
the eighteenth century. Favouring treatment of the diseases of the soul
based on a regimen of diet and drugs, Galenic medicine aimed at restor-
ing the ‘equilibrium’ of the body, and this idea persisted (Temkin, 1973:
165–6).
Descartes’ relationship to these historical shifts is complex. He follows
Galen on the brain being the ‘seat’ of sensation and motion, and regards
the alternative position, which endows the heart and blood in the arteries
with these functions (vitalism), as an opinion ‘not worth any considera-
tion’ (AT XI, 353; AT XI, 334–5). He retains the terminology of spirits but
acknowledges only one kind, the animal spirits, which being the most
proximate triggers of sensory and motor functions explain all the move-
ments of animals (e.g., PS, art. 36). Descartes’ terminology of ‘animal
spirits’ is, however, divorced from the broader theory of temperaments
that defines medieval Galenism. His explanations of differences in tem-
perament no longer invoke the characteristic properties of the four
humours (hot, dry, cold and moist), but appeal instead to the ‘inequality
(in quantity) of spirits’, which can be the result of what is ingested or
imbibed, as when by drinking too much wine an excessive amount of
spirit enters the brain, or which can result from abnormal conditions of
the major organs of the body, in particular, the brain and heart (PS, arts.
15, 36, 39). Where the term ‘humour’ is used, Descartes is quick to
establish that there is ‘no difference’ between the bodily fluids (including
what we call ‘humours’) and those parts of the animal we call solid,
beyond the size and rate of motion of the particles of matter of which
these parts are constituted (AT XI, 247). In L’homme, Descartes compares
the way in which the animal spirits produce all the variety of movements
in the muscles, depending on the amount of spirits in the nerves and
cavities and pores of the brain, to the way in which hydraulically operated
machines in the royal gardens are caused to move, play instruments or
utter sounds, solely by water flowing into their pipes in varying quantities
(AT XI, 130–1). Animal spirits are ‘merely bodies’, endowed with no other
19
Galen’s anatomy was largely based on animal dissections. As postmortem autopsies became
available in the later Middle Ages, Galen’s account of the rete mirabile, the functions of the heart
and blood, and division of soul and spirit, were no longer considered viable. See Temkin, 1973:
136–59.
qualities besides the regular modes of extension: size, shape and motion.
They are ‘extremely small bodies which move very quickly’ (PS, art. 10),
and as such can pass from the nerves through the tiny pores of the brain
and to the nerves again, by means of which they affect all the muscles of
the body (PS, art. 16).
If Descartes is indicative of a general trend in medical circles, then it
is clear that among the reasons for the decline in Galen’s influence
during the Renaissance was the fact that the core ideas of Galenic
medicine – notably, the idea of three different systems or ‘souls’, and
the three types of bodily fluids or spirits, each possessing its own
distinctive properties or ‘powers’ – clashed with the emerging mechan-
istic conception of matter. As Oswei Temkin observes, Galen’s concep-
tion of bodily health is based on an ideal mixture of what would become
known, in light of Descartes’ devastating critique, as ‘secondary quali-
ties’ (hot, cold, dry and moist), which were essentially sensible qualities,
and thus as Galen claimed, best detected by the skin of the palm of a
well-balanced person (De temperamentis I, chs. 8 and 9, Opera Omnia;
Temkin, 1973: 19). As in physics generally, secondary qualities in med-
icine were replaced by degrees of the same thing – in Descartes’ neu-
roanatomy, by the rate of motion and size of tiny corpuscles of matter
(the animal spirits) – which were objectively measurable by emerging
mechanical diagnostic devices like the thermometer.20 It was no longer
assumed that the human sensory system was a reliable tool for diagnosing
medical problems.
What Descartes likely derives from the paradigm shift in medicine
occurring around him is a unitary conception of bodily spirit, with which
he must explain all the mental phenomena that depend upon the body,
and all the conflicts such dependence produces.21 But he must also, in the
process, reconceive the passions and their relationship to the senses, on the
one hand, and reason, on the other, a shift that sets his account apart from
two other major authorities on the passions during the Middle Ages,
Avicenna and Aquinas.
20
Temkin attributes the invention of the thermometer to Sanctorius Sanctorius (1561–1636), ironi-
cally as an attempt to objectively measure imbalances in the humouric system in accordance with
Galen’s principles (Tempkin, 1973: 160).
21
The unified conception of soul or spirit was a feature of some naturalist views, such as those of
Telesius (1509–88) and Campanella (1568–1639), whose views were likely known to Descartes.
I thank Michaela Boenka for discussion on this medical background to Descartes.
THE EMERGENCE OF THE VIS ESTIMATIVA
So far we have examined the extent to which Descartes’ approach to the

passions marks a radical break with traditional methods for examining the
passions from the perspective of natural philosophy. But as the concep-
tion of a passion had to be adjusted to be congruent with the new
conception of matter, so too it had to be developed in ways to fit a
changing, non-Aristotelian conception of the soul. As mental phenomena,
Cartesian passions and sensations stand in complex relations to other
mental phenomena and to the soul itself, which is a simple indivisible
substance, at once sensitive, rational and appetitive, and which therefore
is unable to be divided against itself. One of the reasons why faculty
psychology was attractive was that it offered a simple explanation of psy-
chological conflict. The faculty psychology model explained intrapsychic
conflict in terms of conflicts between the sensitive and intellectual parts of
the soul. Before we turn to Descartes’ solution to the problem of psychic
conflict, let us examine the basic elements of the dominant Scholastic
conception of the sensitive soul, its functions and its relationship to the
rational soul.
If Galen was the master of the theory of temperaments, the eleventh-
century Islamic philosopher-physician, Avicenna, was the great medieval
master of the theory of internal senses, which defined the functions of the
sensitive soul and its relationship to the intellect, on the one hand, and to
bodily motion, on the other.22 The internal senses stored and processed
images once they were received into the soul through the external senses,
and were crucial to understanding the passions. Avicenna explained
internal sensory processing in terms of five powers located in specific
cerebral ventricles: phantasia, the function of which was to produce
images of things not present, located in the front ventricle; imaginativa,
a power for temporarily storing images (working memory) and combining
them into new (e.g., chimerical) formations, located in the middle ven-
tricle; the Sensus communis, a faculty for combining distinct images into
a more complete image of the object sensed, located in the front ven-
tricles; memoria or long-term memory, located in the rear ventricle; and
finally, the vis estimativa, a power for receiving non-sensible forms of
objects which have some utility or disutility for the animal, located in the
22
Knuuttila argues that the sixth book of Avicenna’s Shifa, available in Latin translation as De anima
from around 1150, dominated philosophical psychology well into the middle of the thirteenth
century, even following the translation of Aristotle’s De anima (Knuuttila, 2004: 177–8).
central ventricle. It is the estimative power that is essential to the produc-
tion of a passion. Capable of directing the animal spirits on its own, the
estimative faculty could be either the instrument of reason or her chief
impediment, as evident in animals lacking the faculty of reason or in
humans gripped by unruly passions or dreaming.23
The faculty of estimation accounts for the cognitive aspect of an
emotion on those theories following Avicenna. It enables an animal to
receive non-sensible forms (intentiones in the Latin translations) that carry
some value for its embodied existence. Since the forms received by an
animal when agitated by a passion – for example, the malicitas of the wolf
for the sheep – are not forms that can be detected by any external sense,
a special internal sense was postulated to explain its reception and this
was estimation. 24 Some forms are detected by instinct; others are the
product of conditioning, for example, when a dog apprehends a stick or
brick as dangerous because it has been beaten with such things in the
past (De anima, IV, 3). Aquinas’ influential account of the passions is
heavily indebted to Avicenna’s theory of the internal senses. Aquinas
adopts Avicenna’s division among internal senses (collapsing, however,
phantasia and imaginativa into one power) and the role of the vis estima-
tiva in explaining passions. 25 Although the theory of the internal senses
was developed to apply to both animals and humans, there was a shared
concern among its advocates to preserve the pre-eminence of reason in
humans. To demarcate the faculty of estimation when it was subordinate
to the power of the rational soul, the estimative faculty in humans was
referred to as the vis cogitativa. The difference between the cogitative
faculty in humans and the estimative faculty in animals concerned not
their primary function – the detection of intentiones – but their different
roles in the wider cognitive economy. Estimations in humans are subordi-
nate to universal reason, and passions are second to the will in the order of
motive powers, whereas animals are determined to act by the combination
of their estimations and passions. Aquinas describes the difference thus:
23
Avicenna held that dreams were the result of the state of the animal spirits in the virtuus
imaginativa, which, in turn, depended on the state of the bodily humours. Hunger, for example,
causes dreams of feasts. The vis imaginativa combines images it has either stored itself or from
memory and submits them to the sensus communis, which perceives them as if they were coming
from the sense organs. False dreams arise either from an imbalance in humours or in a body where
the senses have not been sufficiently trained to serve reason.
24
Avicenna, Liber de anima, vol. II, p. 39. See also the discussion of estimation in Black, 1993: 219–58.
25
Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I. q. and Avicenna, De anima I.1 (26.27–27.36). See also Knuuttila,
2004: 219.
For the sheep, seeing the wolf, judges it a thing to be shunned, from a natural,
and not a free judgement, because it judges not from reason, but from natural
instinct. And the same thing is to be said of any judgement of brute animals. But
a human acts from judgement, because by his apprehensive power he judges that
something should be avoided or sought. But because this judgement, in the case
of some particular act, is not from a natural instinct, but from some act of
combination in reason, therefore he acts from free judgement and retains the
power of being inclined to various things.26
When fear drives us away from some obstacle, the rational soul can
bring to bear general considerations, such as the virtue or utility of
courage, and command the body to resist the present evil. Having the
power always to act from reason and the will does not mean that one will
always exercise it, and those who allow themselves to be guided by their
passions have intemperate souls.
Although the functions of the vis estimativa are central to the account of
how a passion is produced, the passions are not acts of this faculty.
Passions are changes in the vis motiva of the sensitive appetite caused by
changes in the vis estimativa. As appetites, they are distinct from and can
conflict with the appetites of the will. Aquinas explains the division
between these various faculties of the soul, the hierarchical division
between intellectual (higher) and sensitive (lower) parts of the soul, and
the placement of passions in the sensitive appetite as follows. The soul has
two motive powers, will and sensitive appetite, and two apprehensive
powers, reason and sensation. The primary principle of division within
the soul is the dependence on the body or, more specifically, on a bodily
organ for the exercise of the power in question. Sensitive apprehension
makes use of the organs of external and internal senses, and an act of the
sensitive appetite involves a ‘corporeal transmutation’, whereas there is no
specific organ that the exercise of intellect and will requires.27 Since a
passion in the strictest sense of the term involves a bodily change, either
from better to worse or vice versa, a passion belongs in the sensitive part of
the soul.28 Passions in the broader sense indicating the reception of
something (like the reception of sensible or intelligible species) into the
soul do not involve a change where something is taken away from the
body, and hence, exist only in the apprehensive parts of the soul.
Aquinas’ second principle of division is what we might refer to in
modern semantic parlance as the direction of fit of acts of the soul. Citing
26
Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I–I.q.83.a.I.
27 28
Ibid., I–II, q.22, a.3. Ibid., q.22, a.1.
Aristotle (Metaphysics.vi.4), Aquinas describes the appetitive power of the
soul as having ‘an order to things as they are in themselves’.29 Hence the
soul is drawn to some thing because the objects of the appetitive power
(good and evil) are in things themselves. The apprehensive power, by
contrast, does not draw the soul towards or away from its objects because
its act consists in receiving the forms of sensible objects (intentiones), and
the reception of these forms is sufficient for the act of this power to be
complete. This is why truth-values belong to acts of apprehension but
not to things, and moral values, like goodness and evil, to things rather
than thoughts or perceptions.30 Passions have the analogue of a world-to-
words fit – they seek satisfaction through changing the world (by first
moving the soul towards or away from an object) – whereas sensations
and estimations have the analogue of a words-to-world fit – their satisfac-
tion depends on changing the soul to fit the world. Desire, for example,
is a movement towards an object and is complete only when the object
is obtained. Desire cannot merely be the apprehension of a desirable
object, for that act is complete once one becomes aware of the object’s
desirability. The mere apprehension of desirability cannot, in other
words, explain on its own why the soul is moved to obtain the object in
question. Aquinas concludes that the passions properly speaking belong in
the sensitive appetite, and cites approvingly the definition of Damascene:
Passion is a movement of the sensitive appetite when we imagine good or evil: in
other words, passion is a movement of the irrational soul when we think of good
or evil.31
Not only was there thought to be a real distinction between the
apprehensive and appetitive parts of the sensitive soul, on views like that
of Aquinas, but also a real distinction within each part, a division which
was thought necessary to explain some forms of intrapsychic conflict. The
sensitive appetite is divided between powers that have good or the
avoidance of evil absolutely as their objects (concupiscible appetites) and
powers that have objects conceived of as obstacles to good or the avoid-
ance of evil (irascible appetites). Aquinas proposed that there must be a
real distinction between concupsicible and irascible powers of the sensitive
appetite for the simple reason that the passions interfere with one another.
Desire, for example, can be diminished by anger or despair. As Peter King
has argued, however, this rationale for divisions within the sensitive
appetite was a matter of some dispute, especially among followers of
29 30 31
Ibid., q.22, a.2. Ibid., q.22, a.3. Ibid.
Aquinas in the sixteenth century. Francisco Suárez argued that the con-
cupsicible and irascible powers are not distinct and opposing powers but
co-ordinate powers, and all apparent conflict is simply a matter of one
power, through its act, ‘turning aside’ or ‘lessening’ its other acts. No real
distinction between powers of the sensitive soul was required, on this
picture, to explain psychic conflict.32
The conception of the passions as appetites of a lower part of a divided
soul endured throughout medieval and Renaissance accounts of the pas-
sions. It is endorsed by Marin Cureau de la Chambre, for example, who
also distinguished passions according to whether they were concupiscible
or irascible.33 Descartes’ rejection of these divisions within the soul and
their rationale shapes his own conception of the passions as ideas of an
indivisible mind.
PASSIONS IN AN UNDIVIDED SOUL
The theory of the internal senses, and, in particular, the account of the
estimative faculty, was no more compatible with Descartes’ physics than
was the theory of temperaments or vitalism. The idea of external objects
possessing intentiones (non-sensible, evaluative forms) propagating them-
selves through the medium and passing to the mind is as implausible to
Descartes as the idea of sensible or intentional forms generally is. Des-
cartes states his general opposition to intentional forms in the Notae as
follows.
Whoever rightly judges [about] that to which our senses extend themselves and
[about] what it is precisely that is able to come to our faculty of thinking from
them, ought to agree that no things are exhibited to us by the ideas which we
form of them by thought [cogitatione]. Therefore, as nothing is in our ideas
which was not innate in the mind or the faculty of thinking, excepting only those
circumstances which regard experience, we may assuredly judge that these or
those ideas which we now have present to our thought may be referred to things
posited outside us. And [we may judge this] not because those things send those
[ideas] into our mind through the organs of sense, but because they send in
something which gives it the occasion, through an innate faculty, to form them at
this time more so than at another. Indeed, nothing comes from external objects
to our mind from our senses except some corporeal motions. . . (AT VIIIB, 358–9)
32
King, 2002: 240–1; Suárez, Tractatus, V.iv.4, 762b.
33
See, for example, de la Chambre, 1658: V.II.225.
In this passage, we get a clear indication that intentional forms are both
incompatible with the new theory of matter Descartes is working with and
redundant to the explanation of our ideas of sensible objects. But if the
idea of forms transmitting themselves from objects to the soul generally
was mysterious, the notion of intentiones was even more so. Intentiones
are, by definition, non-sensible features of things and yet a special sense
was postulated to receive them. Since, for Descartes, the danger of the
wolf is no more transmitted to the soul (be it animal or human) than its
colour or shape, there is no need to posit a special faculty of apprehension
to receive it.34 A fear response is explained mechanistically – in terms of an
image (understood as nothing but a configuration of animal spirits)
becoming associated in memory with an experience of pain and causing
both a behavioural response and (in humans) a passion of fear and the
idea of danger. The movements of the animal spirits caused by a percep-
tion of a wolf are very rapid and cut deep grooves in the surface of the
brain, establishing a propensity for the spirits to rush in there and cause
in the soul a passion of fear whenever the same or a similar image is
formed on the brain (PS, arts. 35–6). No special faculty of the brain is
required whose job it is to interpret images. The only judgements the soul
makes about danger are posterior to the production of the passion and
formed by the intellect.35 These are not judgements animals devoid of
reason can make, and provided there is an alternative explanation for
the fear-like responses of animals, couched in terms of the mechanistic
processes of their bodies, there is no need to postulate an estimative
faculty for them either.
Descartes’ rejection of intentional forms goes hand-in-hand with a
rejection of the idea that good or evil are ‘in things themselves’. He
distances himself from this idea when he remarks at article 52 that ‘the
objects which move the senses do not excite in us diverse passions by
reason of all the diversities which are in them, but only by reason of the
diverse ways in which they can harm or profit us, or in general be
important’ (AT XI, 372). Insofar as passions perform this function, they
are more often than not ‘true’. The sense of ‘truth’ at work here is
mysterious, but whatever it is, it is the same as that described in the Sixth
34
The internal senses Descartes acknowledges – imagination, common sense and memory – do not
operate by receiving, storing or processing the forms or likenesses (similitudines) of external things,
but according to the configuration of spirits in the brain. For more details on Descartes’ mechan-
istic theory of sensation, see chapter 3.
35
On the representational role of passions, see chapter 4.
Meditation passage where Descartes writes that ‘all the senses, regarding
what is suitable for the body, more frequently indicate truth than falsity’
(AT VII, 89). The use of ‘truth’ and ‘falsity’ in relation to sensations and
passions is not a matter of correspondence to the intrinsic good or evil of
external things, but seems rather to be correspondence to the relative value
of things for the union. The matter is, however, complicated and we can
defer discussion of the truth and falsity of passions until later.36
Descartes’ attachment to mechanism was not, however, the only source
of impetus away from the models which dominated Scholastic philosophy
and teaching. As Stephen Gaukroger has argued, treatises according to
which the soul was divided against itself offered a fragmented picture of
the cognitive functions of the soul and no easy way to reintegrate them
(Gaukroger, 1995: 398). This problem was only exacerbated by a wide-
spread, though not universal, commitment among Scholastics to the
generality of thought hypothesis.37 Although both Avicenna and Aquinas
reserved the rational soul for intellectual functions, they permitted, as we
have seen, a kind of thought or ‘judgement’ animals make through their
estimative faculty. These judgements are restricted to thoughts about
individual things – e.g., this (particular) wolf has (a particular) malice –
and do not make use of universal concepts.38 How these judgements were
to be used by the intellectual soul of humans in their practical delibera-
tions is puzzling. How is it that the singular propositions formed by the
sensitive soul are represented together with universal propositions in the
form of practical syllogisms, when there is no common part of the soul
that is capable of both general and singular thought? If the intellect is to
rationally weigh the singular propositions arrived at by the estimative
power against universal maxims, it must be capable of combining them in
a single argument. But given the insistence on the generality of thought
within the Aristotelian tradition, there is a question how the intellect can
ever consider singular propositions. Aquinas attributes to the intellect the
power to know singulars only ‘indirectly’, by turning to the phantasms
36
The complexity is that passions and sensations are often true in the sense of representing external
bodies as being suitable or unsuitable for the body while being false in the way in which they
represent those bodies. For example, a sensation of cold may be false insofar as bodies do not have
such a property but true in representing cold things as potentially harmful to exposed skin. This
suggests that Descartes might be working with two standards of truth: correspondence to some real
or objective property and utility for the mind–body union. See chapters 4, 7 and 8 for further
discussion.
37
Notable exceptions include William of Ockham and his followers.
38
See, for example, Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I. 78.4; I. 80–1.
present in the sensitive soul. It is only the senses that are capable of
formulating singular thoughts, but the senses are in a part of the soul
distinct from the intellect (De Veritate I, q.2,6; Summa Theologiae I, q.86,
1).39 Simo Knuuttila surmises that this problem of reintegrating the various
faculties of the soul put pressure on theories to establish an over-arching
centre of consciousness, a self-conscious ‘I’ or ‘ego’, not easily accommo-
dated within the faculty structure.40 Unity, self-consciousness and ‘I’-ness
are, of course, the distinguishing marks of the Cartesian mind.
Within the hierarchically structured soul Aristotelian models present,
furthermore, it is not obvious that the passions are indispensable. The
passions are subordinate to the will, and the estimative faculty is capable
on its own of informing the soul of the utility/disutility of external things.
These two factors suggest that the ideally rational human being should be
able to act virtuously without passions. Indeed, on Christian views like
Aquinas’, Christ is the model of human rationality, and Christ has only
propassiones (first motions) and intellectual emotions neither of which are
passions in the strict sense.41 The propensity of Scholastics to view the
passions as all by nature good because they are part of God’s design sits
uncomfortably with the idealisation of dispassionate humanity repre-
sented through Christ.
Descartes’ conception of the soul as an indivisible, single and integrated
cognitive system, the crucial presupposition of the supplementary argu-
ment for dualism in the Sixth Meditation (AT VII, 86), is in direct
opposition to this model of a divided soul. By conceiving of passions as
ideas, as representational modes of the intellect, Descartes faces no insu-
perable obstacle to explaining their accessibility to reason.42 Since pas-
sions, sensations and appetites are the only means by which the soul is
informed of the value of external things, and of its union with a particular
body, passions are furthermore indispensable to the good in this life. The
cost of this unified conception of the soul is, however, that intrapsychic
conflict can no longer be explained in terms of interpsychic conflict,
conflict between parts of the soul. In response Descartes replaces all
39
I discuss the question of singular knowledge in Aquinas in Brown 2000.
40
Knuuttila, 2004: 225 and Knuuttila, (unpublished). Knuuttila identifies Avicenna as one of the
earliest to handle the co-ordination problems of a divided self, especially the problem of explaining
how the appetitive faculties direct themselves to the same objects of the apprehensive powers, by
positing a self-conscious subject. See Avicenna, Kital al-najat, Bk. II. c. VI; trans. Rahman, 1952:
65–6.
41
Summa Theologiae, III.q.15.a.4.
42
Descartes’ examples often include ideas of particulars, like the sun (AT VII, 102).
psychic conflict with psychosomatic conflict – namely, all apparent oppo-
sitions within the soul are to be explained as conflicts between the will
pushing the pineal gland one way and the spirits pulling it another (PS,
art. 47). When the spirits pull it one way, this is felt in the soul as a
passion, which makes it seem as if it is the soul itself through its passions
and not the spirits that are opposing the will. The passions ‘dispose the
soul to want the things for which they prepare the body’ and thus can
make it seem sometimes as if the will has two voluntates and is thus
divided against itself (PS, art. 40). Although this may seem a somewhat
superficial solution to the problem in that no attempt is made to establish
that all cases of putative intrapsychic conflict can be reduced to cases of
psychosomatic conflict, there is no doubting its ingenuity.43 The need to
explain psychic conflict was one of the key motivating factors behind the
faculty psychology model, and Descartes offered one way to think about
the problem without imposing divisions within the soul.
FORMAL OBJECTS AND FIRST CAUSES: DESCARTES’

TAXONOMIC PRINCIPLES
A standard way to begin theorizing about the passions was to distinguish

between ‘primitive’ passions, their subspecies and composites of primitive
passions. It was standard to define the formal objects of primitive passions
in terms of whether they are good or evil and their relationship to other
factors such as time and proximity to the agent. The formal objects of the
passions are the kinds of situations in which it is appropriate (or possible)
to have certain kinds of emotional response. Let us also use the term
‘target’ to specify the circumstances a passion moves us to create. For
example, the formal object of a fear response is some present danger to the
agent, whereas the target of the fear response is the removal of the threat.
Subspecies of the primitive passions are responses to more refined or
qualified formal objects whereas complex passions involve more than
one primitive passion. Taxonomies of the passions handed down from
antiquity and the Middle Ages diverged from one another on the number
of primitive passions to the point where it is difficult to see what exactly
was to be gained from these lengthy enumerative exercises.44 The Stoics
43
On the topic of Descartes’ idea of psychological unity, see Brown and de Sousa (2003).
44
Peter King notes that Suarez seems to have been uniquely sensible in this regard. He rejected
attempts to classify the passions on the grounds that any classification was bound to be arbitrary.
Since the passions can be sorted in a variety of ways, depending upon which criteria one chooses,
favoured a fourfold classification of the passions: pleasure (hêdonê) and
pain (lupê), relating to the present, and desire (epithumia) and fear
(phobos), relating to the future.45 Aquinas accepts the Stoic classification
as the basic one, but proposes eleven primitive passions defined in terms
of more specific relationships to objects. Of these eleven, six are concu-
piscible passions (love, desire, pleasure and their opposites, hatred, aver-
sion and sadness), and five irascible (hope and courage and their
opposites, despair and fear, and a passion with no opposite, anger.)46
Anger is an irascible appetite of approach to a present evil that lacks an
opposite because there is no contrary movement of withdrawal from a
present or past evil, only sadness, a concupiscible appetite.47 Descartes’
tally is, by comparison, a modest six: wonder, love, hatred, desire, joy and
sadness. All other passions are either combinations or species of these six,
(PS, art.69).
Descartes shares with his predecessors a commitment to the basic
taxonomic principle of the goodness or evil (utility or disutility) of
things to which the passions are responses, but rejects, along with Suarez
and Vives, the division of passions into concupiscible and irascible. The
idea that passions are differentiated according to whether they are
responses to good or evil absolutely (concupiscible), or as responses to
obstacles which stand in the way of good or evil, and thus are in some
sense ‘arduous’ (irascible), was Platonic in origin (Republic, IV), and
seems to have been a constant in the tradition, figuring in the works
of Galen, Avicenna, Albertus Magnus and Aquinas, although not neces-
sarily in the same form.48 Descartes rejects the division between con-
cupiscible and irascible powers on two grounds: (1) that it invokes yet a
further division within the soul, and (2) that it reduces, falsely, the
powers of the soul to two: concupiscence and anger (PS, art. 68). In
regard to the first objection, although it seems right to attribute a real
there is at most a conceptual distinction among passions, and all taxonomic exercises are of purely
instrumental value (Tractatus, IV.disp.1, 12.5; 475b). For a discussion of Suarez’ view, see King,
2002: 242–3.
45
See, for example, Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, III, 24–5; Knuuttila, 2002: 51.
46
Summa Theologiae, I–II, q.26; q.40.
47
Ibid., q.46.
48
It is a good question when exactly concupiscible and irascible passions began to admit of contraries.
Knuuttila argues that for Avicenna the distinction was one between passions whose object was the
good (concupiscible passions) and passions whose object was evil (irascible passions) (Avicenna, De
anima, 1.5, 83.47–52, 4.4, 56.6–57.9; Knuuttila, 2002: 60). Descartes seems to have this kind of
division in mind, but it was not Avicenna’s but Aquinas’ distinction (which permits both good and
evil as objects of the irascible faculty and contraries in each category) that was dominant in late
Scholastic thought. See King, 2002.
distinction between the concupsicible and irascible powers to Aquinas,
later Thomists and Scholastics were, as noted above, more inclined to
regard this distinction as merely conceptual.
Concerning the second objection, Descartes writes:
Since she [the soul] has in the same way the faculties of wonder, love, hope and
fear, and in this way the [faculty] to receive in herself every other passion, or to
perform the actions to which the passions impel her, I do not see why they have
chosen to refer all to concupiscence or anger. (AT XI, 379)
In raising this objection, Descartes could be accused of missing the
point of the traditional division between concupiscible and irascible
passions. The aim of the distinction was not to reduce all passions to
two, concupiscence and anger, but to categorise passions according to
whether they move the animal towards a state of rest or are ‘terminating’
passions once the animal is at rest. The concupiscible appetites draw the
soul towards goods taken as absolute and away from evils taken as
absolute, and thus lead to states of repose, whether joyful or sad. By
seeking to overcome what is arduous, the irascible appetites keep the
animal moving towards the ends of the concupiscible passions.49 The
irascible passions thus concern the means to obtaining the ends of
the concupiscible passions. To illustrate the integrated functions of the
two kinds of passions, Aquinas uses the analogy of fire, which, in seeking
to rise higher, seeks also to destroy or resist that which stands in its way.50
Aquinas divides the passions according to whether they seek what is
useful and avoid what is harmful for the animal, or whether they seek to
overcome or avoid that which hinders their obtaining what is useful and
avoiding what is harmful. The first principle of division is whether the
movement has as its object good or evil. The second principle is whether
the movement is one of approach or withdrawal.51 Assuming that there are
no passions that seek evil absolutely or shun good absolutely, the second
principle applies only to the irascible appetites. A good considered as
arduous may cause the soul to draw away from it. This irascible passion
we call despair. An evil considered as an obstacle to good may, alterna-
tively, draw the soul towards it. This produces irascible passions of
courage and daring. Every affective series begins and terminates, therefore,
in a concupiscible passion.
49
Summa Theologiae, Ia–IIae, q.25. a.1.
50 51
Ibid., q.23. a.4. Ibid., q.23. a.1.
Descartes may reject the distinction between concupiscible and irasci-
ble passions, but his desire to explain transitions between affective states
and to identify terminus points is as great as that of his predecessors. The
natural starting point for a series of passions is wonder (l’admiration); PS,
art. 53). The objects of wonder are novel to our experience or rare and
extraordinary.52 Subsequent investigation of the object of wonder may
lead to either esteem (l’estime), if one experiences the value of the object
as great, or scorn (le mespris), if the object turns out to be unworthy
(PS, art. 54). From wonder any number of other passions may arise
depending upon which impression is created by the object. Esteem, for
example, can lead to desire and love. Desire (le desir) is the passion that
acts directly upon the will, and is thus the last passion prior to action (PS,
art. 101). Joy (la joye) and sadness (la tristesse) are terminating passions
(PS. art. 61).
Descartes’ taxonomic principles are similar to those used in the tradi-
tion. For Aquinas, a passion is categorised according to whether (1) its
formal object is good or evil taken absolutely; (2) its object is good or evil
taken as arduous; (3) it is a movement towards or away from the object;
(4) the good or evil is possessed (present or past) or unpossessed (e.g.,
future) and (5) whether the good is attainable or unattainable; the evil
avoidable or unavoidable.53 What makes a motion of the sensitive appetite
a case of fear is its causal connection with an estimation of the object as
dangerous, or more precisely as a not-yet-present evil that stands as an
obstacle to good. When an estimation is incorrect – for example, when
what we fear is actually harmless to us – there is a mismatch between what
we might call the ‘evoking situation’ and the ‘formal object’ of the
passion. Under these circumstances, the passion does not fulfil its natural
function of contributing to the preservation of the animal.
Descartes’ own taxonomic criteria are more fine-grained than the
Thomistic ones, but share a commitment to the basic principle that
passions are responses to the various ways in which objects may be of
interest to us. Descartes, however, utilises criteria unrelated to the formal
objects of passions, and thus what might not count as a passion in other
taxonomies, for example, boredom, counts as a passion in his. The
following is a selection of taxonomic criteria culled from Descartes’
treatise. Cartesian passions divide according to whether their object:
52
See chapter 6 for a more detailed discussion of this most important passion, l’admiration.
53
Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, Ia–IIae, q. 23. a.1.
(1) is good, evil, new or rare, (joy, sadness and wonder);
(2) is great (esteem is for a great good; scorn, for a great evil);
(3) depends on oneself (irresolution, courage and cowardice are directed
at goods or evils which depend on oneself);
(4) belongs to oneself or others (jealousy (towards goods one possesses),
envy (towards goods others possess), fear (towards evils one pos-
sesses); and pity (towards evils others possess);
(5) is deserved or undeserved (mockery, envy and pity);
(6) is caused by oneself or others (self-satisfaction, repentance, anger,
pride, vicious humility);
(7) is a response to an action done by others for or to oneself or others
(gratitude (a good done for oneself), approval (a good done for
others); indignation (an evil done to others) and anger (an evil done
to oneself ));
(8) is present, past or future (desire (a future good), regret (a past evil),
joy (present good) and sadness (present evil);
(9) is attainable or unattainable, surmountable or insurmountable (hope
entails seeing a good as attainable or an evil as surmountable;
despair, a good unattainable or evil insurmountable).
Other factors include:
(10) the timing or duration of a passion itself – i.e. past, present, future,
prolonged or short (prolonged non-intellectual joy might turn into
distaste or boredom; a past sadness remembered can produce light-
heartedness (relief) or regret);
(11) others’ opinion of a good or evil belonging to or caused by oneself
(cf. shame and vainglory); and
(12) the intensity or degree of the emotion (excessive and intense wonder
is astonishment).
Although Descartes does not use the terminology of formal objects,
the notion of ‘first causes’ of the passions plays a similar role (PS, arts. 51–
2). The first causes of the passions are types of distal causes, and it is
primarily by reference to these that he differentiates among the passions.
As Descartes notes to Elisabeth, since several passions usually occur
together, or can have similar physiological roots, the only way of ulti-
mately differentiating them is by understanding their first causes.54 Thus
Descartes distinguishes between different desires solely on the basis of
54
Letter to Elisabeth, 6 October 1645 (AT IV, 310–13).
their different objects (PS, art. 88), and between some complex passions
(e.g., virtuous generosity and vicious pride), on the basis of the different
judgements that give rise to them (PS, art. 160). Involving exactly the
same movement of the spirits, generosity and pride are otherwise iden-
tical.
An investigation of Descartes’ enumeration of the passions shows that
they are anything but defined solely in terms of their physiological causes.
Whether we think about Cartesian passions as bodily phenomena with
dramatic psychic effects, or as psychic phenomena caused by somatic
disturbances, any attempt to approach them from a single point of view
would fail to do justice to their dual status. This is as much true today as it
was in Descartes’ time, and however much he is inclined to locate the
study of the passions along a branch of his physics, by resisting reduction-
ism on both sides of the mental–bodily divide, he shows himself in this
respect to be a distinctively modern thinker.
CHAPTER 3
The natural integration of reason and passion

384847
As is evident from the forgoing discussion, the standard account of

sensation in antiquity and throughout much of the Middle Ages located
sensations and thoughts in different parts of the soul and supposed them
to have very different relations to the body. For much of the Greek
tradition, including Aristotle and the Stoics, there was something divine
about thought. Thought was first and foremost about the natures of
things. For Aristotle and his successors, it involved reception of the forms
of things without matter in the intellect, which, Aristotle suggested and
his followers argued, had to be immaterial, and about which the tradition
debated its immortality and its relation to God Himself. Sensation, on the
other hand, was something we shared with animals and was impossible
apart from a body, because it consisted in a modification of the body. Its
‘seat’ was the sensitive soul, but that should not be understood to suggest
anything spiritual or mental – the sensitive soul was nothing distinct from
the living organised body. Maintaining a neat separation between thought
and sensation proved difficult, and in the struggle to preserve the pre-
eminence of reason over the sensitive soul, the passions became an
increasingly important focus of historical attention.
In many respects, the separation of thought and sensation in the
Aristotelian tradition was superficial. Aristotle in De anima modelled
thought upon perception and perception in many ways upon sensation,
with the result that there were already in the tradition a host of difficult
issues about how thought and sensation could be so distinct. Thought and
sensation involved the reception in the thinker/sensor of a form, which
was in some sense (oft debated) the same as the form that constituted
what was perceived or sensed. Exactly how this form got to the intellect in
the case of thought was highly controverted, but it was usually agreed that
it was in some way related to the ‘simpler’ case of sensation, in which the
form was thought to be propagated through a medium, received in a sense
organ in some literal way, and processed by a series of bodily systems
55
which eventually stored it in some part of the body (in the more sophis-
ticated Galenist theories, the brain). At the core of this picture lay
the sameness of form at every stage of the process. This sameness could
be, and was, variously interpreted, but it did seem to commit any inter-
pretation at the very least to a literal resemblance among the various items
‘in-formed’ in the process. Such a view could not countenance a sharp
division between what was ‘inside’ the thinker/sensor and what was
without precisely because of this sameness, though it could allow, at least
in the case of thought, that the ways in which objects existed inside and
outside were radically different.
This picture of sensation and thought was challenged in various ways in
the later Middle Ages, but the conservative movements in both philoso-
phy and theology that loomed large in Scholastic circles in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries ensured that it was very much before the minds of
those working on the theory of sensation at the beginning of the seven-
teenth century. With the abolition of Aristotelian forms under the new
science, the Aristotelian theory of sensation and its relationship to thought
was no longer tenable, and Descartes, famously, stepped in to reshape
the field.
In freeing thought from its dependence on sensation, Descartes also, it
seems, freed thought from any dependence on affect in a way that has
become the focus of recent criticism. Antonio Damasio writes that:
This is Descartes’ error: the abyssal separation between body and mind, between
the sizable, dimensioned, mechanically operated, infinitely divisible body stuff,
on the one hand, and the unsizable, undimensioned, un-pushable, nondivisible
mind stuff; the suggestion that reasoning, and moral judgement, and the suffer-
ing that comes from physical pain or emotional upheaval might exist separately
from the body. Specifically: the separation of the most refined operations of
mind from the structure and operation of a biological organism. (Damasio,1994:
249–50)
In opposition to Descartes’ separation of reason and sensation, Dama-
sio’s studies of patients with prefrontal cortical lesions or injuries suggest
that ‘certain aspects of the process of emotion and feeling are indispen-
sable for rationality’1 (Damasio, 1994: xiii). When there is extensive
1
Although there is some debate about the viability of ‘localising’ emotional functions to specific parts
of either the left or right hemispheres (Gainotti, 1989; Kinsbourne, 1989), the prefrontal areas of the
brain are clearly an important site for the processes whereby signals from the amygdala and
somatosensory cortex are consciously registered as emotions or feelings, and where emotions make
a direct contribution to decision-making.
The natural integration of reason and passion 57
damage in the ventromedial sector of the frontal cortex, reasoning and
decision-making are impaired along with emotional capacities, and the
two sets of functions are interconnected (Damasio, 1994: 61). Marcel
Kinsbourne (1989: 25) describes this interdependence of decision-making
and bilateral emotional reactions in normal cases in terms of an ‘activity
cycle’, a co-ordinated effort to motivate and sustain the organism in an
appropriate action, and to modify actions when the plans of the organism
are, by whatever means, interfered with.2 Subjects with emotional deficits,
such as emotional ‘numbness’ or anhedonia, are unable to make decisions
in concrete situations, prioritise and follow through on tasks, maintain
relationships, judge characters and moderate their behaviour in socially
appropriate ways (Damasio, 1994: 46–50; Kinsbourne, 1989: 253; Finset,
1988).
What is striking is that these impairments in decision-making, ration-
ality and social behaviour may exist despite the absence of other neurop-
sychological deficits – for example, without any impairment of the
language module, long-term memory, IQ, logical capacities, knowledge
or the ability to conceive of a range of appropriate actions and infer
the consequences of each. Deficits in emotional response and decision-
making may also occur without a loss of moral and social awareness, or
the ability to predict social outcomes or reactions (Damasio, 1994: 46–50).
None of this makes sense, Damasio argues, on the Cartesian model of the
mind, which has permitted the disintegration of the whole organism,
the ‘integrated body proper and brain . . . fully interactive with a physical
and social environment’ (Damasio, 1994: 252). This fragmented view of
the human psyche pervades not only philosophy but artificial intelligence
and the cognitive sciences generally, which define the functions of the
mind in abstraction from an ‘organismic’ perspective (Damasio, 1994:
248), and neuroscience, which fails to recognise the effects of the physical
and social environment on rationality (Damasio, 1994: 250–1).3
The deficits that form the core of the evidence Damasio presents
against Descartes are principally deficits in practical reasoning, where it
makes sense to suppose a tight integration of reason and emotion. But
philosophers have also recently begun to question whether theoretical
reasoning is possible without the engagement of the whole human being,
situated in a world alongside others, without whom the practices of giving
2
See also Kolb and Milner, 1981; Tucker and Newman, 1981.
3
Joseph LeDoux makes the stronger claim that the whole field of cognitive science has been defined
around the exclusion of emotions from the domain of research (LeDoux, 1996: 34–5).
and taking reasons make little sense. Logic may tell us what a valid infer-
ence is, but it does not tell us what to believe, what to attend to, or what
we must do when we must do it (Harman, 1977, ch.11; Brandom, 1994;
Dennett, 1987; de Sousa, 1987: 194). The faculty of pure reason unsullied
by emotions or bodily interests, is beginning to look suspiciously like free
banking, something which from the surface grammar seems to make
sense, but turns out to be practically or theoretically impossible.
But is this erroneous notion of reason, detached from the functions of
sense and emotion, Descartes’ error or ours in reading him a certain way?4
Descartes’ argument for the real distinction of mind and body entails
nothing about the extent to which all the functions of the mind could be
replicated by a disembodied mind. And the conjecture that our experience
is compatible with the absence of a body turns out to be completely false.
The argument for the existence of bodies in the Sixth Meditation is in-
tended to demonstrate the absolute impossibility (lest God be a deceiver)
of having sensations and passions without having a body (AT VII, 79–80).
Nor does Descartes hold that the mind could make moral judgements or
suffer pains or emotional trauma without having a body. The Passions
concludes on the note that ‘it is on the passions that all good and evil of
this life depend’ and passions are absolutely dependent upon the motions
of the body (PS, aa. 212, 40). But what about the more general accusation
that reasoning is for Descartes, independent of emotion and sensation?
It is tempting from the Meditations to read Descartes as subscribing to
characteristically Platonic ideas about the relationship between thought
and the body. Until the mind is reunited with the body in the Sixth
Meditation, there is the promise that the mind, reasoning from the
supposition that it might not have a body, would be able to discern ideas
that are clear and distinct from those which are confused and obscure, and
withhold assent from all but the former. In this way, the mind performs
correctly and avoids error (AT VII, 59–60). The success of this project of
establishing the autonomy of the understanding from the body depends,
as John Carriero has shown, on the argument that sense and imagination
are neither necessary for the abstraction of universals nor faculties that
operate independently of the intellect (Carriero, 1990: 220–7). Other texts
support the stronger view that the body is a hindrance to thought, as
4
There is, of course, the highly spurious function-to-form argument, by means of which Descartes
argues that the pineal gland is the ‘seat’ of the soul, on the grounds that it is the part of the brain in
which bilateral information is united into a single image (AT XI, 352–3; PS, art. 32). But this is
hardly an interesting criticism (Damasio, 1994: 94–5; also Dennett, 1991).
‘swamping’ the mind from infancy with thoughts about the body (AT V,
150–1; AT III, 424). And although he is reluctant to conjecture about how
angels (AT V, 166–7; 356; 402; AT III, 430) and separated souls think,
Descartes shows no inclination to disallow the possibility of disembodied
thought, and, indeed, acknowledges the existence of intellectual memory,
the function of which is to store universals to serve thought that does not
involve the body (AT V, 150).
But while there is, undoubtedly, a Platonic strand in Descartes’ think-
ing, there is also the recognition that much of our thought is occupied
with matters that require the co-operation of the body, including the
practice of experimental science, which relies on our taking note of
particular events in the world around us. As we shall see below and in
chapter 6, far from being impediments to reason, passions and sensations
play an indispensable role in the investigation and navigation of the
natural world. The recognition of the dependence of rational action and
science on the functions of sense and imagination tempers Descartes’
Platonic tendencies.
It is notable, for example, that nowhere in Descartes’ corpus is there a
pure example of a human mind reasoning without sensation, though the
texts are rife with admonitions against reasoning from sensation.5 I do not
deny the role that an idealised conception of reason autonomous from the
faculty of sensation plays in Descartes’ philosophy. But this chapter is
about his conception of embodied reason naturally integrated with the
functions of sensation and passion, and about striking a balance between
the strongly Platonist reading, which sees the body as nothing but an
obstacle to reason, and a reading which denies the autonomy of reason
altogether. This balancing act depends on seeing that although the body
has the tendency to swamp the mind with its concerns, it is possible,
according to Descartes, to reason well ‘in this life’, and precisely so
because it is possible to use the sensory resources provided by the body
as supplements to reason. To get to this point, we will need to understand
the mechanistic theory of sensation, and how the rational and sensitive
faculties are naturally integrated and mutually supportive. The ‘with-
drawal from the senses’ Descartes advocates in the Meditations should, it
shall be argued, be taken in its intended epistemically normative sense,
5
There is nothing in Descartes’ texts like Avicenna’s ‘floating man’ – a fully formed adult human
who comes to exist in a state of complete sensory deprivation, but who, according to Avicenna, is
capable of thinking about its own thought and existence. Avicenna, Liber de anima, part 1a, ch.1,
lines 49–60.
and not as the claim that it is either possible or desirable for human beings
to reason well in this life without utilising their sensory and affective
faculties.
SENSATION AND MECHANISM
Descartes’ rejection of the theory of sensible forms leads him to reject the
associated idea that there is any relevant resemblance between sensory
images and their external causes, a move which is sufficient to free
sensation from any essentially epistemological function. It is important
to emphasise ‘relevant resemblance’ because Descartes does not deny that
sensory images ever resemble their causes. What he denies is rather that
the intellect relies upon such resemblances to perform its functions. This
is the overarching message of the mechanistic account of sensation he
offers as a rival to the Aristotelian approach: when sensation is understood
from the perspective of mechanics, it cannot play the epistemic role of
in-forming thought it was supposed to have on the Aristotelian view.
It is fair to say that the mechanistic account of sensation one finds in
the early texts, especially the Optics (La Dioptrique) and the Treatise on
Human Nature (L’Homme), written between 1629 and 1633, remained
more or less constant for Descartes. Readers of the Principles and the
Passions are referred back to the Optics as an authoritative text for under-
standing the mechanism of sensation (AT VIIIA, 15; AT XI, 337–8). The
purpose of those early texts is to tell a story about sensation that is
compatible with the idea that the physical world is governed by the laws
of motion and contact, and is composed only of extension (matter) and its
‘modes’, principally, size, shape and motion. Every change that occurs
within the natural world must be explicable, in principle, in terms of those
laws and elementary concepts. Theories with a tendency to animate
matter were prime targets for the mechanists. The idea that a form of
some material object, a colour or shape, for example, has ‘intentional’ or
‘spiritual’ existence in the mind or medium in contrast with its natural
mode as the form of a material object is, to Descartes’ mind, absurd. But
the problem intentional forms purported to solve, the problem of explain-
ing how something corporeal could be a messenger to and from a rational
soul, informing the soul of things outside it and carrying its instructions
to the body, did not evaporate with the abolition of the form/matter
distinction. Descartes must also avoid the dangers of intentionalism – of
characterising thought in such a way that presupposes homunculi or ‘little
souls’ capable of reading what happens in the body as signs of things
outside it, carrying out the instructions of the soul, setting goals and
making decisions. The role of brain images qua images must thus be
downplayed lest there be required ‘yet again other eyes in our brain with
which we could perceive [those images]’6 (AT VI 130). The messengers of
the soul can be nothing other than arrangements of matter to which the
machine of the body is constructed to respond according to the principles
of mechanics – i.e., in mathematically specifiable ways.
Recall that one of the objections Elisabeth raises against Descartes’
dualism is what I earlier referred to as ‘the problem of information’. She
argues that ‘if (the soul’s moving the body) occurred through informa-
tion, it would have to be that the spirits, which perform the movement,
were intelligent, which you accord to nothing corporeal’ (AT III, 685).
Descartes responds by claiming that if Elisabeth wants to attribute
matter and extension to the soul, she may do so, provided she bears in
mind that this does not make matter thought or thought extended in the
sense of having a determinate location or excluding all other bodily
extension (AT III, 694). The soul’s extension, which just is its union with
a body, does not conflict with the strict division between thought and
extension. But Elisabeth wants to know how the body is supposed to
perform its functions in executing the soul’s commands under these
conditions. What mechanism mediates the flow of information to and
from the soul? Descartes’ answer to this was, however, already available in
his natural philosophy: there is no flow of information between the soul
and the body, only primitive non-symbolic mechanisms of the body
geared to respond differentially to movements of the pineal gland pro-
duced by volitions. Because these responses depend on movements
within the gland that may be produced either by bodily or mental causes,
they are capable of creating the illusion of intelligence in, for example,
animals and the human body (considered on its own), where there is
none. Let us examine these functions of the sensory system a little more
closely.
The first stage of sensory processing is the stimulation of the nerves.
Different sensations depend on the stimulation of different nerves. There
are seven groups of nerves which produce movements of the pineal gland,
6
The significance of Descartes’ rejection of images as central to the account of sensation should not
be underestimated, or confined to its epistemological consequences. In particular, it enables
Descartes to develop a more coherent account of sensory processing. Aside from the absurdity of
supposing that there was something in the brain that could somehow interpret images, analysing
perception in terms of the perception of mental images would invoke an infinite regress problem.
five connected with the organs of the external senses and two with the
heart – the internal senses – which produce what we call passions, and,
somewhat misleadingly for Descartes since the term connotes volition,
appetites (Principles IV, 190; 191; AT VIIIA 316–21). Further differentiation
is explained according to differences among the various ways in which the
nerves are stimulated. The sensation of light derives from the force with
which the optic nerves are stimulated; the perception of colour from the
manner in which they are stimulated (AT VI, 130). Each sensation is thus
correlated with a dedicated kind and rate of movement of the spirits and
the nerves. The nerves themselves are variously described as ‘threads’
connecting the brain with every region of the body, ‘cords’ for pulling
the muscles and opening pores on the surface of the brain and, by
analogy, ‘pipes’ for conveying the animal spirits that are the ‘messengers
of the soul’ (e.g., AT XI, 130–1; AT XI, 337). As noted in chapter 2, animal
spirits are easily excitable and highly rarefied particles of matter in the
body, fine enough to move within the nerves and pass through the tiny
pores on the folds of the brain7 (AT XI, 334–5). Contact with the nerve
endings creates a movement through the spirits in the nerves in much the
same way that one can, by moving one end of a stick or a rope, produce
instantaneous movement at the other end (AT VI, 84). The functions
of the motor response system are also closely bound with those of the
sensory system. Specific movements of the gland produce either muscular
contraction, a swelling of the muscle due to an abundance of spirits,
or muscular release, a lengthening of the muscle due to the rapid flow of
spirits out of the nerves connected to the muscle.
The functions of the spirits in the nervous system are thus intended to
be completely consistent with mechanics. External objects create move-
ments among the spirits through pressure on the nerves, which ultimately
produce movements in the gland that cause modifications of the soul, on
the one hand, and effects on the muscles, on the other hand. Since there is
no mechanism straddling both mind and body that could have as its input
corporeal motions and as its output ideas, no transducer between the
mind and body, there is nothing that converts sensory motions in the
7
Descartes’ conception of how the brain is linked to the body is confined to the mechanical push and
pull of animal spirits through the nerves. Although the constitution of the bodily humours was
thought to affect what happens in the brain, such explanations by the seventeenth century were
thought to be subsumable under the general mechanistic framework. The idea of neurochemical
connections between brain and body, through what is today principally attributed to the release of
hormones and peptides, was neither theoretically available to nor anticipated by Descartes.
8
body into ideas in the soul. Motions of the pineal gland ‘cause’ sensations
in the soul, but the way they do so is by being responses to incoming
motions of the spirits, responses that, on account of the union, are
sufficient for a sensory idea to form in the mind.
Because nothing passes between the body and the mind that accounts
for the idea the mind forms when stimulated by the senses, Descartes is
able to assure Regius of the non-resemblance between sensations and their
external causes. Sensory ‘images’ in the brain are nothing other than the
configuration of spirits, which produce certain kinds of responses in the
muscles, and in the mind, sensations in the soul.9 Any resemblance
between brain images and their external causes is irrelevant to the theory
of how they function. What image is formed depends not just on the kind
of external cause that produces it, but also on the structure of the nerves,
as well as other stimulations that are occurring at the same time that
invariably affect our experience. The number of filaments of the optic
nerve limits, for example, the range of colour perception.
If, for example, the object VXY is made up of ten thousand parts which are
arranged so as to send rays toward the base of the eye RST in ten thousand
different ways, and consequently to make [it] see at the same time ten thousand
colours, nonetheless they can only make at most a thousand of them distinct to
the soul, if we suppose that there are only a thousand filaments of the optic nerve
in the space RST. (AT VI, 133–4)
What an individual perceives will thus be a function of species-specific
hardware constraints as much as environmental factors. The quantity of
light seen in an object varies in proportion to the size of the pupil and area
at the back of the eye occupied with rays coming from each point of the
object, as well as by the distance of the object. The objects that stimulate
the nerves are small bodies in motion, but because the nerve is composed of
fibres, each of which is like a point in a field, the overall effect will depend
upon the varying strengths of stimulation to the fibres. Thus a field
composed of many colours from a distance appears to have a uniform
colour (AT VI, 134). Similarly, strong rays affecting fibres in the centre of the
optic nerve can have a spill-over effect on surrounding nerves, giving
the impression of an object larger than is actually there (AT VI, 146).
8
On the history of transduction and its demise with Descartes, see King, 1994.
9
For an account of why the latter counts as genuine causation as opposed to ‘ occasioning’ sensory
ideas in the mind, see chapter 5.
The dependence of sensations on proximal causes – the motions of
spirits in the nerves and on the internal surface of the pineal gland –
means that there is no one-to-one correspondence between a sensation
and an external cause. A real-world (as opposed to Demon-world) exam-
ple adduced in support of this proposal is phantom-limb pain. Since the
motions of the spirits in the nerves leading from the site of amputation to
the brain are of the same type that normally cause a pain-in-the-hand
sensation, the victim of phantom-limb pain experiences the same kind of
pain they would if they had an injured hand10 (AT VIIIA, 319–20). Other
examples include pressure on the eyes causing flashes of light and colour,
after-images, and passions and appetites caused by imbalances in the
bodily humours or spirits (AT VI 131; AT VIIIA, 317–8). But there is another
reason for the lack of resemblance between the motions in the nerves
and external causes. Since the very same arrangement of matter can cause
very different sensations (e.g., of colour or sound or pain, etc.) depend-
ing upon which nerves are activated, there is no reason to think that
sensations resemble real qualities of the external world.
This same force [which sets the optic nerve fibres in motion causing us to sense a
‘violent light’] touching the ears is able to make us hear some sound and touching
the body in some other part, is able to make us feel pain. (AT VI, 131)
All this is grist for Descartes’ mill on the issue of resemblance and his
rejection of intentional forms. No resemblance obtains between a percep-
tion of colour or light and the motions of either their proximal or distal
causes. Just as words signify things without resembling them, so too the
motions of spirits that give rise to sensations produce signals that do not
resemble the things of which they are signs (AT VI, 112). Linguistic sig-
nification is mediated by convention, sensory signification by the institu-
tion of nature, which does not require resemblance in order for the
signification to be effective. But we may also draw another moral from this
story: the mechanism of the brain is sensitive only to the intrinsic, physical
properties of neural signals. It will perform the same functions whether
these stimulations have causes external to the body or not.
10
Medical practitioners of Descartes’ time worked on the assumption that the stimulation respon-
sible for phantom-limb pain originated at the end of the stump, which was unfortunate since it
often led to what were probably unnecessary further amputations. Current theories suggest instead
that the stimulation comes from regions in the brain adjacent to those which used to be stimulated
by the limb, and which are being stimulated by other parts of the body, like the face. See
Ramachandran, et al., (1995; 1998).
The nerves thus conduct ‘information’ in the form of motions of
particles to and from the pineal gland, and the pineal gland responds solely
on the basis of the arrangement of matter that acts as a stimulus. What then
are the specific functions of the gland itself ? Two important sensory
faculties have their ‘seat’ in the gland: the imagination (phantasia) and
the common sense (sensus communis). The common sense solves the bind-
ing problem, explaining why sensory experience has a certain unity to it –
why we do not, for example, experience the colour and shape of an object
separately. The common sense combines the inputs from different nerves
in an integrated arrangement, which corresponds in the soul to a unified
experience. Descartes not unreasonably supposes that the problem of
unified conscious sensory experience is solved spatially, by all the various
inputs coming together in one central location in the brain, a view Dennett
parodies as the error of ‘ Cartesian materialism’ (Dennett and Kinsbourne,
1972). The prevailing wisdom today is that the binding problem is
solved temporally, through the synchronisation of neural activity in both
hemispheres (Damasio, 1994: 95 and fn. 4, 277; Dennett, 1991).
If the common sense is crucial to explaining the unified character of
our perceptual experiences, the imagination is crucial to our being able to
navigate our environment by means of our perceptual systems. It is by
means of the imagination that we are able to perceive the relative position
and distance of objects, and, by means of that, their size and shape. Even
in this domain, however, the role of sensory images is minimal. Spatial
imagining does not depend on sensory imaging.
And its (the soul’s) knowledge [of position] depends neither upon any image, nor
upon any action that comes from the object, but only on the situation of the little
parts of the brain where the nerves originate. (AT VI, 134)
Perceiving the position of objects relative to oneself does not require
anything like an internal picture resembling these relations. The blind
succeed in sensing the position of objects by using a stick, rather than
their eyes, and in this case there is no need to suppose that they use an
image that preserves the form of the object perceived. The motions in the
nerves leading from the hands to the brain caused by the stick touching an
object do not resemble the object sensed. Nor is a visual image required to
account for visual perception of position (AT VI, 134).11
11
Interestingly, Descartes’ clinical evidence for rejecting imagistic models of perception is similar to
that adduced by contemporary neuropsychologists who argue that spatial imagining does not
depend on visual imaging, namely, the representational capacities of congenitally blind patients
(see Kerr, 1983; Jeannerod, 1994).
The analysis of distance and position perception is complex, and highly
sophisticated for its time. To account for distance perception, Descartes
advances a theory based on vergence angles, an idea generally attributed in
the vision sciences to Bishop Berkeley (Berkeley, 1709; Logvinenko et al.,
2001; Kohly and On, 2002; Logvinenko et al., 2002). As the eyes focus on
an object, they turn inwards, altering the angle of the line from the pupil
to the object. The perception of distance is then a function of the distance
between the pupils, which forms the base of a triangle, and the vergence
angles of the eyes. In the Optics, Descartes claims that it is the imagination
that calculates distance ‘as if by a natural geometry’, by calculating the
distance to the point where the two sides of the triangle converge (AT VI,
137). The brain of the blind man carries out a similar procedure using
proprioceptive representations of the distance between his hands and the
vergence angles of his sticks. He does not need to know the length of his
sticks in order to know how far away the objects are, but he needs some
way of representing the distance between his hands and the angles formed
as the hands turn inwards when his sticks touch an object. The loss of
either a hand or eye (a common experience it seems in the seventeenth
century) is no impediment to distance perception. By changing the
position of one’s body, one is able to supply the imagination with an
angle complementary to that of the functioning eye or hand in the
original orientation, the magnitude of which is preserved while this
operation is performed (AT VI, 137–8).
Whether Descartes was right about distance perception depending on
vergence cues or not is irrelevant for our purposes.12 What is particularly
noticeable is the way in which the imagination is described as if it were
applying the rules of geometry to calculate the distance of objects.
Descartes writes:
And this [calculation of distance is done] by an action of thought [une action de la
pensée] which being only a wholly simple [act of ] imagination does not cease to
contain within it a reasoning [raisonnement] not unlike that which surveyors use
when, by means of two different stations, they measure inaccessible places. (AT
VI, 138)
12
This hypothesis was not experimentally tested until 1862 (Wundt, 1862), but the hypothesis
that distance perception is a function of vergence eye movements is still a matter of some debate
in the vision sciences. Much of the discussion is focused on the question of whether or not
the perceived distance of illusory objects (the ‘wallpaper illusion’) varies with changes in eye
vergence (Logvinenko, et al., 2001; 2002; Kohly and On, 2002)
What is it that is doing the ‘ reasoning’ here? It cannot be the brain, lest
there be an obvious conflict with the argument for the real distinction of
mind and body. That argument rests on the claim that whereas thought is
the principle attribute or essence of the mind, extension alone is the
principle attribute of body, and hence, the nature of mind and body
can be completely understood without attributing either thought (or
reasoning) to the body or extension to the mind. There can be no sense
in which the body reasons compatible with this argument. It is not the
brain per se that calculates distance but the imagination, which is a faculty
of the mind that depends for its functions on the functions of the brain.
As Descartes writes further along in the Optics, it is the soul that sees, but
only indirectly by means of the brain (AT VI, 141). But surely the
conscious mind is not explicitly aware of the distance between the
pupils of the eyes or vergence angles, or the geometrical rules according
to which spatial magnitudes are calculated. Further clarification of the
position is offered in the Sixth Replies, which refers us back to the Optics
text, and which explicitly attributes the reasoning involved in spatial
perception to the intellect (AT VII, 437–8). The fact that we do not notice
making these calculations is attributed to the fact that they are often made
at great speed and from habits formed in childhood, and thus we mis-
takenly suppose them to be performed by the senses rather than the
intellect (AT VII, 438).
Descartes treats sensations in a way we would now refer to as informa-
tionally encapsulated, that is as impervious to influence from other
cognitive states such as beliefs or judgements (AT VII, 438–9; AT VIIIA,
317). We see objects through lenses and mirrors as being other than where
we judge them to be (AT VI, 142), and suffer emotions contrary to our
rational judgements of what is to be desired or shunned (AT VIIIA, 317). In
the Sixth Replies, the intellect features more prominently in sensory
processing than it does in the earlier Optics. The stick partially submerged
in water looks bent even when we know it is not. How things appear is
impervious to judgement, but this does not mean that judgement is
neither involved in every sensation nor irrelevant to correcting for sensory
misrepresentation (AT VII, 438–9). Between the Optics and the Sixth
Replies Descartes is either inconsistent on whether this reasoning is attri-
butable to the imagination or the intellect, or means in both texts to
include the intellect in every act of the imagination. The latter is the more
charitable interpretation, but we have still to explain how the conscious
mind calculates spatial magnitudes without an explicit grasp of geometry.
Were we once conscious of applying these rules, which through habit have
become submerged in the mind? Can Descartes allow anything to become
submerged in the mind or subconsciously processed? That Descartes is
sensitive to the difficulty of answering these questions affirmatively is
evident from his assertion that these calculations are performed ‘unreflec-
tively’.
Ordinarily we reach this [conclusion about distance] without reflecting upon it
just as when we press some body to our hand we conform [our hand] to the size
and the shape of that body and we sense it by this means without any need to
think about its movements. (AT VI, 137)
But what is it for the Cartesian intellect to reason unreflectively as
opposed to reflectively? One possibility is that unreflective calculating is
rule-following that does not depend on the rules of thought being explicitly
represented.13 This may be a contentious answer but it is at least a familiar
one in the philosophy of mind and the cognitive sciences generally.
The idea that rules of reasoning and language are part of an innate mental
structure, rather than a set of learned or acquired propositions which
the mind explicitly represents, was, for example, the cornerstone of Noam
Chomsky’s revolutionary transformational theory of grammar (Chomsky,
1966, 1967). The idea that linguistic competence is essentially rule-governed
behaviour, despite the fact that most ordinary speakers are consciously
unaware of which rules they are following, has proved explanatorily very
powerful in linguistics, and something like this model could be behind
Descartes’ vague remarks about the processing of spatial information.
The data for these calculations by the imagination-cum-intellect are,
however, the outputs of the sensory mechanisms of the body. The same is
true for the perception of position, the functions of which are closely
interconnected with those of distance perception, and which depends,
interestingly, on proprioceptive information that is available to the ima-
gination. The relative position of objects is sensed through an extension of
proprioceptive awareness.
For this situation is instituted by Nature to allow not only that the soul may
know in which place is each part of the body it animates with respect to all the
others, but also that it be able to transfer its attention to all of the places
13
This is consistent with Descartes’ argument in the Rules for the Direction of the Mind that the rules
of reason cannot be taught, for example, by the method of dialectic popular in the Schools, unless
the mind already has innate principles by which to judge, and which such methods can only make
explicit (AT X, 372–4).
contained along the straight lines that one is able to imagine drawn from the
extremity of each of its parts and prolonged to infinity. (AT VI, 134–5)
In perceiving the position of objects relative to myself, I must first be
aware of the position of various parts of my body, particularly my limbs,
and be able to imagine lines drawn from my extremities along which
objects are positioned with respect to me and each other. Descartes does
not specify the form (e.g., visual or kinaesthetic) in which the imagination
receives information about the position of parts of its body. But the
discussion of the blind man, which immediately follows the discussion
in the Optics, suggests a lack of visual bias. Although it is not necessary in
order to perceive the position of external objects to think of the places
one’s hands occupy, it seems clear that Descartes thinks of these as one
and the same process (AT VI, 135).
Once there is a mechanism for sensing position and distance, the
perception of shape and size follow as night, the day. Size is calculated
according to the distance of the object and information drawn from the
size of the retinal image. For example, we may perceive two ships as of
unequal size, even though they cause same-sized retinal images, provided
the imagination calculates their distances as being different (AT VI, 140).
Sensations of shape are a function of the relative positions of the various
parts of an object and not simply of the shape of an image. One may see a
circle by means of an elliptical retinal image, because the brain computes
that the various parts of the object occupy different positions relative to
oneself (AT VI, 140–1).
What follows so far from this discussion of the mechanisms of sensa-
tion? It is quite clear that sensations in the soul are a direct function of
what happens in the body, and in particular, the central nervous system.
The ‘mental acts’ by which the imagination calculates the distance and
position of objects are inconceivable without sensory awareness of the
spatial relations between parts of one’s own body. The perception of
distance and position is, moreover, a central component of other percep-
tual acts, including, as we have seen, the perception of size and shape. The
role of ‘body imagining’ in perception, if we may so call the propriocep-
tive awareness we have of our own bodies, may seem anathema to
Descartes’ account of sensation as that is generally understood to be
ontologically independent of the body, but is, as I have tried to argue
here, integral to the story. It is difficult to imagine how we would account
for the perception of position in a being not capable of proprioceptive
representation. It is even more difficult to imagine what it would be like
to reason about things outside the soul without an awareness of one’s own
body, as I propose to argue next.
THE DANGERS OF EPIPHENOMENALISM
As we learn from the Sixth Meditation, the way in which the errors to
which the senses lead us can be reconciled with God’s goodness is by
accepting that their primary function is not to inform us of the natures of
material objects but to inform us in ways conducive to our survival as
composite beings.14 The biological advantage of the noxious smell’s
seeming to be in the food rather than in the nose or the brain or the
mind is obvious. It’s the food we need to avoid and around which we have
to navigate. Similar stories can be told for our perceptions of colour, shape
and size, and all the other sensations which enable us to discriminate
objects by their surfaces and boundaries. The way sensations in the soul
represent objects in this biologically suitable way is, however, a compli-
cated story and one I propose to defer until the next chapter. For the
moment, let us consider another problem with Descartes’ biological
approach to sensation.
To serve as a good answer to the question why an omnibenevolent God
would give us sensory systems that incline us to false judgements about
the world, the biological account of sensations had better establish an
indispensable role for sensations as modes of the mind. The claim that
sensory systems have the biological role of preserving the union is fair, and
one most modern ‘teleological’ approaches to sensation would concur
with. What is less obvious is why it is biologically essential that the output
of these systems include a perception by the soul. The movements of the
particles of matter in the sensory system are causally sufficient, on
Descartes’ view, for appropriate movements of the motor response system,
as witnessed in animals. In both our automatic or hard-wired responses
and our conditioned or learned responses, the story is much the same.
Brain motions are capable of initiating two causal sequences: one to the
muscles producing the appropriate behavioural response, and the other to
the soul, where conscious sensory perception occurs. Why is this second
causal sequence important? It is perhaps useful to have one’s bodily
disposition to basic survival reinforced by the rational soul, but that seems
like overdetermination at best, and, at worse, downright inefficient.
14
See also AT XI, 372.
Although there are a few cases where it is useful to override the behavioural
dispositions triggered by sensation, for example, when suffering dropsy, it
is unclear that the rational mind would, overall, do a better job of preser-
ving the human body than the body would on its own. Are sensations and
passions in the soul mere epiphenomena, by-products of underlying
mechanisms of the body that are causally sufficient for preserving the body?
Human beings, on Descartes’ view, do not merely react to their
environments; they act, and it is in acting that we need to make use of
information provided by the senses. It is because I want to do things in my
world and by means of my body that I need sensations in the same
domain in which I judge things and make decisions. The rational soul
needs sensations not only to reinforce the survival-enhancing dispositions
already at work in the body but so that it may alter the dispositions of
the body to pursue its own ends. Having described the movements of the
body-machine by analogy to the movements of a clock or water-driven
mill, Descartes, in L’Homme, adds the following:
And finally, so that the rational soul will be in this machine, it will have there its
principal seat in the brain, and it will be there like a fountain keeper, who ought to
be at the sites where all the pipes of his machine go to meet when he wants to get
them going or close them off or change in some way their movements. (AT XI, 131)
The metaphor of the fountain keeper may seem an odd choice to portray
the relationship between the rational soul and the body. Unlike the
fountain keeper, the mind is neither consciously aware of what is going
on in its pipes nor capable of producing, preventing or changing, in any
direct manner, the movements of the brain (AT V, 221–2; AT XI, 342). The
reference to the soul as a fountain- keeper suggests, however, that the
function of having sensory information available or accessible to conscious-
ness is somehow connected with rationality. Accessibility to consciousness
of sensory information is a precondition for adaptability and creativity in
changing circumstances. It is such adaptability and creativity of mind that
Descartes claims in the Discourse distinguishes ‘the dullest of men’ from the
most superior specimens of other species, and from automata, which might
otherwise be able to mimic our behaviour almost perfectly (AT VI, 56–7).
But in what way precisely does sensation provide the rational soul with the
capacity to direct its body? And what does sensation do for the rational soul
that couldn’t be done by other means?
Let us grant, for the sake of argument, that sensation is necessary for
reasoning as embodied beings, as many critics of Descartes now believe.
Establishing that conclusion does not show why sensations have to be
experienced by the mind in that form. Why isn’t it rationally sufficient in
order to pull one’s foot out of the fire, for example, to be conscious that
there is injury in the foot – why must one also feel pain? Why is it important
to be attracted to bright colours, to experience them as blue, green, red and
so on, rather than simply register the boundaries and surfaces of different
objects?
Using terminology that Ned Block has recently popularised, we may
characterise this as the problem of ‘phenomenal content’. According to
Block and many other contemporary philosophers, sensory states have two
kinds of content: representational content, which is conceptual or sym-
bolic, and phenomenal content, which is the what-it-is-likeness or felt aspect
of sensations. A pain state may represent something injurious to the foot,
but it also feels a certain way, a way that is (perhaps indefinably) different
from the state of seeing red or hearing a trumpet. One problem phenom-
enal content poses is that there seems to be no function that it performs
which could not be (and perhaps is) performed by the representational
content of a perceptual state, and, inter alia, this has led some to believe that
phenomenal content is either indistinct from representational content or
has no function. In terms of Descartes’ theory of sensation, the problem of
phenomenal content may seem particularly acute. The claim that rational
action depends on available sensory information answers a question about
the need for (in Blockspeak) ‘ access consciousness’ of sensory information –
the availability of sensory information for use in reasoning, reporting and
rationally guiding action – but leaves unanswered any question about the
function of ‘ phenomenal-consciousness’ – consciousness of the what-it-is-
likeness or felt aspect of sensations (Block, 1997). What do the bitter pains
and sweet pleasures that accompany the sensory information used by
the rational soul add to the story about the functions of sensation?
What indispensable function does the form in which this information is
presented play in the life of a rational agent?
THE RATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE OF PHENOMENAL INFORMATION
When we look to the texts for an answer to this last question, a more
sophisticated picture of the integration of rational and sensitive functions
begins to emerge and the passions take on an increasingly important role.
It is a picture that does not distinguish so neatly the functions of phenom-
enal and access consciousness as contemporary theorists such as Block do.
The passions have two important biological functions: they must contri-
bute to the body’s giving a quick response to a situation, and they must
‘incline’ the soul to consent to the movements to which the body is already
disposed. In the short term, a person cannot always wait for lengthy
deliberation before acting, but her long-term flourishing will often depend
upon the outcomes of rational deliberation and decision-making. When
circumstances are pressing, being access-conscious of sensory information
may only slow down the reaction time, as would any deliberation and
decision-making. Phenomenal consciousness is ideally suited for triggering
quick responses. The quick adrenalin rush associated with fear can serve as a
crude sign of something potentially harmful without being representatively
specific and trigger an advantageous ‘freezing reaction’ (LeDoux, 1996:
163–5). There are advantages in having a fast response system that does
not involve much higher-cortical, representational processing, but there are
also advantages in being able subsequently to engage in that kind of
processing. Bolting off in the opposite direction every time we find our-
selves faced with potentially dangerous objects we are not yet in a position
to classify limits our choices, to say the least.
What accounts for the ability of Cartesian passions to contribute to fast
and effective behavioural responses? If one thinks, for example, about the
amount of information one could take in from any particular visual field,
the problem is not so much that there seems no obvious reason to
represent this information phenomenally rather than in some other way,
but simply the sheer bulk of information with which one is confronted.
The problem is not so much how to represent this information but what
to represent, although answering the how-question may very well be the
key to answering the what-question. This problem is reminiscent of the
frame problem in artificial intelligence: the problem of designing a system
capable, in finite time, of attending to the relevant pieces of information
available to it and drawing the relevant inferences while, crucially, ignor-
ing all the irrelevant information and inferences (Haugeland, 1985: 202;
Dennett, 1987: 42). Ronald de Sousa has speculated that by controlling
patterns of salience and attention, the emotions solve the frame problem
for biological organisms (de Sousa, 1987: 195–6). And before de Sousa,
Descartes, in the Passions, expressed a similar thought:
For it is easy to know, from that which we have said above, that the utility of all
the passions consists only in this: that they fortify and make stronger in the soul
thoughts which it is good for it to conserve and which would be able easily
without them to be effaced. . . (PS, art. 74; AT XI, 383)15
15
The downside of this is that all the evil the passions are able to cause is from their sometimes
conserving and strengthening thoughts more than is necessary or thoughts that it is not good for
the soul to dwell upon at all (PS, art. 74).
One of the principal functions of Cartesian passions is their ability to
keep a perception of an object active in working memory. Many passions
are the result of perceptions of objects that trigger memories of those or
similar objects having produced pleasure or pain in the soul (PS, art. 36).
Because of their connections with perception and memory, the passions
bring some sensations rather than others to the foreground of the mind’s
attention, and hold them in working memory long enough for the soul to
make a rational decision about how to respond. The passions give to the
sensations with which they are connected a special significance, without
which the soul would not attend to them or classify them, or alter the
dispositions of the body where appropriate. Without the passion of fear or
apprehension, the shape of a snake might be no more noticeable or
relevant to one’s present action than the green of the trees or the chirp
of the birds. But how the passions make salient some sensations has to do
not so much with their representational content as with the way they
present their objects.
Let us return to the much-debated questions of whether there is a real
distinction between representational and phenomenal content, and over
whether the latter has any irreducible function.16 Is it because fear has a
certain feel associated with it that it captures attention, or because it
represents the object as a danger-to-me-here-and-now? For Descartes at
least, it looks as if we can say that the phenomenal content of a sensory
experience has a functional role irreducible to that of its representational
content. Consider the role of wonder (l’admiration) in Descartes’ account
of perception. Wonder is the passion that structures attention, and it does
so in the first instance precisely when a perception of an object fails to
trigger corporeal memories that would enable the soul to classify the
object under perceptual sortals. Wonder is generated by sensations of
objects with which we are not familiar, and which we do not, therefore,
know how to categorise or evaluate. Wonder is the first of all the passions,
and since every other passion presupposes knowledge of the object,
the prior effects of wonder are presupposed by every other passion and
16
Block has argued voraciously for a distinction between phenomenal and representational content,
and for the claim that phenomenal content is not a functional concept. His worry about
phenomenal content having a functional role is that it should then be subject to functional
reduction, which would allow it to be duplicated in an artificial system and one that is incapable
of feeling or experiencing what it is like to see colours, feel pains, and so on (Block, 1997). The issue
hangs on whether there is a difference between something’s having a function and its being
functionally definable or reducible to its functional role. It is not clear that the former entails
the latter, and it is only the former that is required to establish a functional role for the phenomenal
content of a state and avoiding a collapse of the two kinds of content.
mode of attention. For this reason, Descartes writes, wonder accompanies
all the other passions and augments them (PS, art. 72).
Wonder captures attention through the element of surprise. It is
defined as ‘a sudden surprise of the soul which makes that it [the soul]
carries itself to consider with attention the objects that seem to it rare or
extraordinary’ (AT XI, 380). This definition suggests that in wondering at
something the soul first classifies the object as rare or extraordinary, but
we should avoid this construal. It is not because the soul represents some-
thing as rare or extraordinary that it notices it; rather it comes to think of
it as rare or extraordinary because it has noticed it, because of the ‘sudden
surprise’ the object causes. The cause of this surprise is a brain impression
that ‘represents’ the object as unusual and therefore worthy of attention,
and the subsequent movement of the spirits, which strengthens the
impression and holds the sense organs fixed on the object (PS, art. 70).
But the sense in which the brain is capable of ‘representing’ an object is
unclear. Elsewhere, Descartes claims it is appropriate to call an image in
the corporeal imagination an ‘idea’, not on account of its being an
impression in the brain but only insofar as it ‘gives form to the mind
itself ’ (AT VII, 161). But it is dangerous to suppose that the brain functions
by being sensitive to any semantic properties we might be prepared to
attribute to its impressions. That would sound too much like attributing
thought to the body to be tenable on Descartes’ account. Luckily, there is
an alternative explanation available from article 72 of the Passions. The
representational properties of the brain impression that causes wonder can
be cashed out entirely in terms of the physical effects on the brain of
exposure to a novel object. What it means to have an impression of
novelty is just for the soft and spongy parts of the brain, not yet trampled
by spirits from previous encounters with the object, to be suddenly and
strongly affected by rapid movements of the spirits. And it is because of
these physical effects that the mind’s attention is drawn and it comes to
see the object as worthy of further investigation.
Getting the soul to notice something presented to its senses is one
function of wonder; keeping its attention is another. It achieves the latter
through its effects on specific parts of the brain and on the muscles. These
effects include ‘strengthening and preserving’ an impression in the imagi-
nation and memory by fixing the eyes and other muscles of the body on
the object in question (PS, art. 70; AT XI, 380–1). The following passage
suggests that without the passion of wonder, sensory information would
not be stored in memory long enough to become, in Block’s terminology,
‘access conscious’, that is, available for use by the rational faculty:
For when a thing which was unknown to us presents itself anew to our under-
standing or our senses, we do not retain it at all in our memory unless the idea we
have is fortified in our brain by some passion [wonder], or by the application of
our understanding that our will determines to one attention and reflection in
particular. (AT XI, 384)
Although this passage suggests that attention may have either an active or
passive source, the tenor of the discussion is such that the passive source,
wonder, is basic. As shall be explored further in chapter 6, the functions
of wonder are important not only in practical reasoning but also in applied
theoretical reasoning, indeed, to any mental act that requires control over
the mechanisms of attention in the body. Although too much wonder
(astonishment) is a bad thing, for it renders the body immobile and
impedes appropriate action and investigation (PS, arts. 73 and 78), a
deficiency of wonder is associated with stupidity (PS, art. 77). It is best to
move as quickly as possible beyond a state of wonder, through the acquisi-
tion of knowledge and exercise of the will. Nonetheless, the exercise of
rationality as embodied beings depends, at least in the interim, on the
functions of wonder (PS, art. 76).17
Before the soul is moved to judge an object even as novel to its
experience, its attention must first be captured. This suggests that the
surprise associated with wonder is a preconceptual element and something
which explains both the orienting of the soul’s attention and its impetus
to seek knowledge. Wonder could not perform its function of directing
attention and explaining knowledge acquisition if the mind were already
access-conscious of its objects. Indeed, it is not clear that one could have
information about an object which was access-conscious and wonder
about it, at least wonder in this sense which does not presuppose knowl-
edge of the object.18 To suppose that wonder achieved its effects through
representing objects under certain concepts, rather than by the element of
surprise would be to suppose that it captured attention by supplying more
17
Descartes’ account of wonder anticipates recent discussions of the role of arousal systems in the
brain, the function of which is to make cells in the cortex and the thalamic regions that supply
inputs to the cortex more sensitive to incoming signals. Arousal systems contribute to attention,
perception, working memory, emotional response and problem-solving (LeDoux, 1996: 289).
These systems can be triggered by a stimulus that is novel or by a stimulus with cognitive emotional
content. The amygdala, an important seat of emotions on modern theories, contributes to longer-
lasting states of arousal than those caused by the perception of a novel stimulus in other sensory
systems (LeDoux, 1996: 284–91). Despite the anatomical inaccuracies of his account, Descartes
seems to have anticipated some very central psychological points concerning the relationship
between affect and attention.
18
See chapters 6 and 8 for discussion about wonder directed at known but valuable things.
information to the soul. But since the problem was how the soul manages
to attend to what, among the vast store of sensory information potentially
available to it, is relevant for its needs or purposes, it is hard to see how
adding more information is going to help. It is reasonable to conclude
that it is primarily by virtue of its phenomenal aspect that wonder
captures the attention of the soul.
It is a good question how extensive the role of wonder is in shaping our
perceptual experience. Is it the case that what we perceive is a matter
of what we notice, or is the scope of perception broader than that of
attention? It is easy to slip into thinking that because our experience of
ordinary perceptual objects invokes no wonder in us, that it was always
the case that wonder is reserved for highly unusual objects. But this is not
obvious. To infants just about everything is wondrous (especially if it has
buttons). It is not wildly implausible to suppose, therefore, that Descartes’
genetic account of perception features wonder extensively and promi-
nently in the early stages, and less so later as perception becomes more
and more a matter of perceptual recognition, a function of the impres-
sions laid down in memory, and attention is shaped not just by our
natural attraction to novelty but a whole range of cognitive factors which
shape our interests, preferences and emotional dispositions.
What then are we to say about Descartes ‘abyssal separation of mind
and body’, of his assumption that reasoning, moral judgement, pains and
sensations, can exist apart from the body? The above discussion should
cause us to be more cautious in our accusations. Passions and sensations
are grounded in bodily processes, and inextricably bound to the processes
by which the soul becomes aware of things outside it that are important to
its union with the body. This sets the stage for a better understanding of
the way in which sensation and reason are naturally integrated, and for
appreciating what it is, on Descartes’ view, to be a union of mind and body.
THE STATE OF THE UNION
Above I discussed the importance of the body image, or more precisely,

body imagining, through proprioception, to the sensory mechanisms that
orient us to objects in space.19 I then argued that the functions of passions
and sensations are bound together, principally through wonder and, in
19
Some psychologists today see the body image as depending on our non-discursive abilities to
represent the self-movement of parts of our bodies (Van-den-Bos and Jeannerod, 2002). Descartes’
conception of the body image is also connected with our experience of agency. See chapter 6.
particular, its phenomenal character, surprise, which solves the problem of
attention for Descartes. It’s now time to put these ideas together, an
exercise that will bring us closer to understanding why it is important
for Descartes that even though we are composites of mind and body, we
do not experience ourselves as anything other than complete unities.
To see this, let us compare two combinations of mind and body that
Descartes thinks are not ‘substantial unions’. The first is the example of
the helmsman and his ship, which appears in both the Sixth Meditation
and the following passage from Part Six of the Discourse on Method.
I have written concerning the rational soul and [argued] that it cannot be
extracted from the power of matter, like the other things of which I have written,
but that it ought to be expressly created, and how it does not suffice that it be
lodged in a human body as a helmsman is in his ship, perhaps just to move its
members, but that it is necessary that it be joined and united with it more tightly
for it to have, on account of that, sensations [sentiments] and appetites like ours
and hence to compose a true human. (AT VI, 59)
When the example reappears in the Sixth Meditation, the close inter-
mingling of mind and body is again argued to be precondition for having
sensations, in particular, the sensation of pain (AT VII, 81). The mention
of pain in this context is not an arbitrary choice, for it is pain more than
any other sensation that makes us acutely aware of our bodies and the
relation of their parts to one another.
The second example of a non-substantial union of mind and body is
the hypothetical case of an angel united to a human body.
For if an angel were in a human body, it would not sense as we do but would
only perceive the motions which are caused by external objects, and by this it
would be distinguished from a true human. (AT III, 493)20
The case of the angel and human body union is under-described, but
presumably the angel is capable of having some information about the
state of its body, although not in a sensory form. Unlike the angel in this
scenario, we do not ‘perceive’ the motions in the body caused by external
objects, from which we would have to infer their significance, but are
immediately aware of the things that impinge on our bodies through
sensation. What form these ‘perceptions’ would have for the angel is
obscure, but without sensory content it is reasonable to suppose that they
are more like beliefs or intellectual ideas than sensations.
20
See also Descartes to More, August 1649 (AT V, 402).
How much like the helmsman is the angel? When the angel infers
damage to its body from perceiving the motions caused by external things,
can it initiate an appropriate reaction to the situation? Perhaps. Pre-
established harmony, not to mention angelic intelligence, is, after all, a
great asset. If the angel is hooked up to a body in such a way that it
receives information about the state of its ‘vessel’, it seems plausible to
suppose that it could will effects in its body that are useful for preserving
its union with the body. Similarly, when a (modern) ship needs fuel, the
helmsman is made aware of this fact by reading the fuel gauge, from
which he infers what it needs and acts accordingly. Descartes seems to
imply, however, that the lack of sensory awareness of the body/ship in
these two cases has consequences for how each acts in the world, which
differs in significant ways from that of a human being.
Although both these non-substantial unions are treated alike on the
question of what form of information they may have about the state of
their vessels, there are significant differences between the two cases that
are worth reflecting upon. If we think about how each is able to act, how
each is able to move the vessel to which each is joined to achieve certain
ends, we find ourselves faced with two radically different pictures. The
case of the helmsman and the ship is easier to understand. What enables
the helmsman to move his ship is that he is able to locate himself in space
with respect to his ship. He knows how to move his ship in part because it
is the ship on which he is standing and the parts of which are oriented to
him in certain ways, but that presupposes that he is already aware of the
boundaries of his own body. One could argue that the reason why
the helmsman and his ship could not constitute a substantial union is
that the helmsman’s ability to move his ship presupposes that he is already
a union of mind and body. Any other bodies that he is able to locate with
respect to himself are not parts of himself in any literal sense. It would not
do, therefore, to require of the helmsman that he locate himself in relation
to his body; he simply has no way of locating himself that is different from
the way he is aware through sensation of his body and the arrangement of
its parts.
The story of how the angel moves its body is more difficult to conceive.
How would an angel locate objects, including its body, in relation to
itself, so as to move its body in the way the helmsman moves his ship? The
angel does not have the kind of primitive awareness of its body we may
suppose of the helmsman, and it has no location in and of itself. Two
specific problems that militate against the angel’s ability to move its body
in the way humans do spring to mind. The first problem is that without
sensory information about the location of its body, which on Descartes’
account, I argued above, is presupposed by our processing of spatial
information, it is difficult to imagine how the angel would orient itself
in space so as to be able to move its body through space. What would it
be, for example, for the angel to move its body to the right or to the left?
To the right or left of what? Surely not to the right or left of it, for it has
no perspective from which objects can be right or left. Of its body? But
from which orientation? Front? Back? Which is the front or back of the
angel’s body, from the angel’s point of view? The second and related
problem is that what the angel lacks, as a result of lacking a sense of the
spatial orientation of its body with respect to other objects, is the kind of
demonstrative knowledge that makes action within the world possible for us.
Consider trying to steer a ship to a particular destination. Knowing the
co-ordinates of the ship and the absolute distance or position of the
destination would not suffice to steer the ship, even if it were possible,
(which, for Descartes, in the absence of absolute space, it isn’t), unless that
information can be translated into knowledge about the position and
distance of the ship relative to oneself. I need to know that this informa-
tion I have about fuel levels, speed, direction, etc., of a ship is information
about this ship, which is positioned with respect to me, my body, in a
certain way. I need to know that the relevant ship is this one here, and no
amount of general knowledge of the kind available to angels can substitute
for this kind of demonstrative knowledge. Nor will having a definite
description of the form ‘the ship on which I am presently standing’ help
to orient me in relation to the ship, unless I know where I am, and no
amount of general or propositional knowledge will suffice for my know-
ing that. What enables the helmsman’s knowledge to be genuinely work-
ing knowledge is that he is aware of his own body in some way other than
by general description and, by extension, aware of the relative position
and distance of the parts of the ship under his control.
I claim that for Descartes sensations ground this demonstrative knowl-
edge, and I strongly suspect that he thought that such knowledge was
impossible without them. There is reason to think that he was right.
Recent discussions of indexicals and demonstratives have suggested that
there is a way of knowing things provided by the use of indexicals and
demonstratives that, while it may not supply propositional knowledge
that could not be supplied in other ways, is nonetheless ineliminable.
Consider David Lewis’ example of the two Gods, Yahweh and Zeus, who
know what there is to know, including that there are two gods, Yahweh
and Zeus, one of whom throws thunderbolts and the other manna, but
neither of whom knows which one he is. Suppose a situation arises in
which it is appropriate to throw a little manna but churlish to throw a
thunderbolt. It is Yahweh’s turn to act but unless he becomes aware of
himself as Yahweh, how is he to act? (Lewis, 1983). In Lewis’ example, the
two gods are embodied (one sits on Zion, the other on Olympus, one
throws this and the other that), but little is made of their embodiment. If
we focus on that embodiment, the role of sensation becomes clearer.
What is it for Yahweh to become aware of himself as Yahweh, the thrower
of manna? Peter Strawson has one suggestion – it is for Yahweh to become
aware of himself as a particular material object (this body), to which other
things are related in various ways (Strawson, 1959). Strawson insists that
such identificatory awareness cannot consist in anything that could be
supplied in propositions containing only pure descriptions and general
terms. To see that this is so, he invites us to consider a universe in which
every object and general relation has an exact duplicate. If this is possible,
then Yahweh’s grasp that he is this god and not duplicate Yahweh cannot
consist in knowing any fact about Yahweh that can be expressed in general
terms. Lewis’ (and Perry’s (1979) and others’) suggestion is that it cannot
consist in any fact that can be expressed using proper names either since
Zeus and Yahweh can each know all of these and still wonder who he is.
But if sentences employing demonstratives and indexicals on each occa-
sion of use express a proposition that could be expressed without them –
as the standard semantics for such terms has it – then what happens when
Yahweh becomes aware of himself as Yahweh cannot be a matter of
acquiring a proposition at all. It seems that Descartes would agree. What
Yahweh acquires, Descartes would say, is sensation.21
Which sensations make salient to us the fact of our embodiment? As
Descartes writes to Chanut (1 February 1647), our pre-natal awareness of
our bodies occurs first through the passions.
I consider that from the first moment that our soul has been joined to the body, it is
likely that it has a sense of joy, and immediately after, of love, and then perhaps also
of hate and of sadness, and that the same dispositions of the body that these
passions have for their cause are naturally accompanied afterwards by these
thoughts. I judge that the first passion was joy because it is not believable that
21
All this accords well with various modern discussions of the phenomenal body as well. Merleau-
Ponty argued that the blind person who walks using a stick comes to feel the stick as part of his
body and to feel the world at the end of the stick (Merleau-Ponty, 1962). One might doubt whether
the stick ever comes to feel entirely part of oneself (though perhaps there could be cases in which it
is hard to distinguish the way it feels from the way a paralysed limb feels) but that just shows what
it is to feel something as part of oneself.
the soul would have been put into the body except where it has been well-disposed,
and where it is thus well-disposed that naturally gives us joy. (AT IV, 604)
Other texts, including the Sixth Meditation discussion of why a human
being is not like a helmsman and his ship, emphasise the importance of
pain in mediating our direct awareness of our bodies. This is compatible
with the primitive role assigned to the passions in constituting our prenatal
sense of embodiment, which Descartes describes in the letter to Chanut,
because of the association between passions and pleasure and pain. Pain is
singled out for special attention because, we can now say, of the way in
which pain makes us acutely aware of the boundaries of the body and the
relations among its parts. Pain is one of the forms in which proprioceptive
information is made available to the soul, but wonder is another, and there
is generally an element of surprise associated with a painful episode. We do
not ordinarily feel the soles of our feet, Descartes observes, because the
weight of our bodies accustoms them to hard contact, but, when tickled
there, we become immediately aware of them (PS, art. 72; AT XI, 381). New
sensations from a region of the body hitherto unnoticed can draw the soul’s
attention because the motions of spirits undergirding them form new traces
on soft parts of the brain.
From the above discussion we again see the importance of phenomen-
ology to Descartes’ understanding of the embodied mind. Any non-
demonstrative, general, propositional or purely symbolic content of pas-
sions and sensations – any content which does not depend essentially on
having a body, whatever that content turns out to be – should also be
available to the angel, whose ability to operate among bodies located in
space is difficult to conceive. We are ‘substantial’ unions of mind and body
because what the capacity for sensation and passion gives us is location,
location, location (which some say is everything), or rather, a point of view
from which we may have the kind of demonstrative awareness of things that
makes our action with respect to them possible.
CONCLUSION
It is not too far-fetched to think that when Descartes turns to the topic of
the passions in the last few years of his life, one of the things he is thinking
about is how to solve a specific design problem – the problem of specify-
ing the kind of relationship an immaterial mind must have to a body in
order to navigate other bodies it shares a space with. Of course, he does
not put the problem quite this way, but the problem he faces in the Sixth
Meditation of accounting for the tendency of sensations to mislead us cuts
deeper than the theodicy that is presented there. The question he is
addressing is not just why we have sensations that tend to mislead us
but why we have sensations at all. Why is it part of the most ‘efficient
system’ that human beings have sensations, passions and appetites? The
Passions is the culmination of Descartes’ thought on this design problem,
and brings home the point that the success of our design depends in large
measure upon our capacity to feel our embodiment. This way of thinking
about the role of Cartesian sensations takes us beyond the standard
epistemological obsession with the veracity of Cartesian sensations and
typical ‘dissociationist’ accusations, such as the one noted early on in
this chapter, but it also takes us beyond the simplistic answer that sensa-
tions are useful for the preservation of the union. What we find instead is
a highly integrated account of the rational and sensitive faculties of
human beings. Although there is room for disagreement about the nature
and extent of this integration, Descartes should at least be credited
with having identified the impossibility of reducing the rational action
of human beings to the determinations of a ‘pure reason’, and thus with
having been cautious to avoid committing the ‘errors’ for which he is so
often blamed.
CHAPTER 4
Representing and referring

384847
The medieval theory of perception was realistic; the senses are the
open gates thronged by the ‘species’ which emanate by effluence
from the actual object, and passing into the mind nevertheless
remain what they were outside it. But if perception is representative,
the external world, on its entrance to the mind, passes, as it were,
through a toll-gate of unreality, and its bewildered ghost wanders
about its new home, for ever doubtful of its own identity.
(Gibson, 1932: 79)
The last chapter argued that the phenomenology of passions is critical

for accounting for the awareness we have of ourselves as embodied beings.
But Descartes repeatedly refers to the passions as representations, often
incorrect or exaggerated, and it is now time to look at the intentionality of
the passions and how, in virtue of their representational content, they
influence thought and judgement. The epistemic and cognitive effects of
the passions depend on their semantic properties, but their status as
representations is problematic for a variety of reasons.
As we know from previous chapters, Cartesian passions and sensations
do not initiate reception by the intellect of the ‘bewildered ghosts’ of
Aristotelian theories: the sensible and non-sensible forms (intentiones) of
material things. Cartesian fear does not represent the malicitas of the wolf
by sharing some form, inhering in both the wolf and the sense organs,
albeit in different ways. Descartes wants to insist instead on the capacity of
sensations and passions to misrepresent objects in the normal course of
events, and it is precisely the problem of error that medieval accounts
faithful to Aristotle were so ill-suited to handle. Somehow the forms of
external things were supposed to have made it into the intellect in a
manner sufficient for understanding the natures of material things,
despite whatever degradation of sensory images occurred in the medium.1
1
Since it regarded the objects of sensations as real, the traditional Aristotelian picture made no
significant distinction between the ways in which sensible qualities and other qualities or natures
84
Representing and referring 85
Descartes’ account of innate ideas departs radically from this Scholastic
picture. But although he disparages ‘all those little images flitting through
the air, called “intentional forms”, which exercise so much the imagina-
tion of Philosophers’ (AT VI, 85), he retains enough of the Scholastic
framework that central figures in the development of the modern theory
of intentionality, such as Brentano, do not so much as notice a difference
(Brentano, 1889/1966: 15–16).2 In particular, the idea that perception and
thought are mediated by intramental entities persisted into Descartes’
time, on account of which the status of ideas without objects proved as
difficult for him as it was for Aristotelians, albeit for different reasons.
A study of how passions and sensations represent can teach us much about
Descartes’ theory of representation generally, and how he dealt with this
problem of ‘false’ ideas.
OBJECTIVE REALITY AND THE PROBLEM OF ERROR
In arguing for the existence of God, Descartes draws a preliminary

distinction between the formal reality that ideas have as modes of mind
and their objective reality. The formal reality of all ideas is the same, but
‘insofar as one (idea) represents one thing, another represents another
thing’, ideas vary in the degree of objective reality they have (AT VII, 40).3
The objective reality of an idea depends on the degree of formal reality of
the thing represented by the idea. Thus, the ideas of a stone, triangularity,
a chimaera and God differ in their degree of objective reality according to
the degree of (formal) reality these things possess or would possess were
they to exist. The idea of a substance has a greater degree of objective
reality than the idea of a mode, and the idea of God the greatest degree of
objective reality of all.4
What then is meant by the notion ‘objective reality’? This is an
extraordinarily difficult question to answer but for thinkers of Descartes’
were represented. Sensations occupied a place of primary importance in Aristotelian epistemology.

Every act of understanding is mediated by and dependent upon an act of sense or imagination (De
anima, III.7). For an informative discussion of Descartes’ notion of objective being in the context of
medieval debates in logic and semantics see Normore, 1986.
2
The idea of intentional forms has persisted into our own time, principally through Brentano’s
notion of immanent objectivity, a notion that has been appropriated in recent discussions under the
name of ‘intentional objects’ (Brentano, 1973: 88). See my 2000.
3
This is an inversion of our modern terminology for expressing the contrast between objective and
subjective facts. It is the objective reality of an idea which accounts for what we would call meaning.
4
For Descartes, an idea can have the degree of objective reality corresponding to the degree of reality
of the essence of a thing, even if no objects of that kind actually exist. See AT VII, 45.
time, there seemed to be at least two ways of interpreting the notion: one,
a deflationary reading, according to which the ‘objective reality’ of an idea
is simply a way of talking about an idea’s (extrinsic) relation to an object;
the other, a more ontologically loaded sense, in which ‘objective reality’
and ‘formal reality’ signify two modes of being things can have. When an
idea has objective reality in this second sense, there is some thing that
bears an internal relation to the idea, making it to be the very idea it is,
and this thing has some being even if it does not actually exist. Although
divorced from the theory of intelligible forms or species, the theory of
objective reality according to this second interpretation shares an impor-
tant feature with Aristotelian–Scholastic accounts. Thinking involves the
intellect becoming in some literal sense one with the object of thought.
Objective reality is, in this sense, reality objectified, the reality of some
thing, as it exists in the intellect.5
For Suarez and Descartes’ Jesuit contemporaries, as represented by
Caterus in the First Objections, the notion of objective reality implies
nothing more than the first, deflationary reading. Objective reality is
simply the ‘being known’ of an object ‘as a denomination’ (esse cognitum
quoad denominationem).6 An extrinsic denomination is a way of referring
to something by its relation to something else; in this case a way of
referring to an idea by reference to an object really distinct from it.
Objective being, on this reading, does not add anything real to the world
that would stand in need of explanation, or that would diminish the
amount of being in the world if the idea did not exist. Conceiving of the
sun produces no additional reality, nor would the sun be diminished in
being were it not thought about.
In objecting to this rendering of the notion, Descartes, infamously,
endorses something like the stronger reading. Objective reality is a mode
of being and not simply an extrinsic denomination. If one has an idea
of a triangle or an intricate machine, one is thinking about some thing,
and that one is thinking about that thing is not reducible to any extrin-
sic relation between the idea and the object. If the object of one’s
5
Descartes’ use of the term accords more with the ontologically robust usage of esse obiectivuum
among medievals such as Peter Aureol, the early Ockham and the Arab perspectivists. In this
tradition, the notion of objective being designates the reality objects have when they are ‘seen or
judged’, and which, for various reasons often having to do with perceptual illusions, cannot be
identified with the extramental object. On this history of this notion, see Tachau (1988). I thank
John Carriero for helpful discussion on Descartes’ use of the term.
6
See Suárez, Disputationes Metaphysicae, vol. XXV, 1, 32; vol. XXV, 908, and AT VII, 92–3.
thought fails to exist, one’s thought and its object are not thereby
nothing. To object that when the external object of thought does not
exist, an idea can still be characterised by an extrinsic relation to an
eternal and immutable nature or essence or form of the thing, does not,
Descartes argues, answer the question why there should be an idea of
it in the mind. If an idea has certain properties, such as the intricacy of
a complicated machine or the properties of a triangle which enable
one to deduce truths about triangles from it, it cannot be that an idea
is a mere label of some object extrinsic to it, regardless of whether the
object is an independently existing thing or an eternal essence (AT VII,
104–5).
Appealing to the widely accepted Scholastic principle that there must
be at least as much reality in the efficient and total cause as in the effect of
that cause, Descartes claims that the objective reality of an idea must also
be caused by something that contains, either formally or eminently, all the
reality present objectively in the idea (AT VII, 40–1). Something has to
account for the properties of the idea, a cause that either contains all those
properties itself (a ‘formal cause’) or something with more reality than
that contained objectively in the idea (an ‘eminent cause’) (AT VII, 41; 79;
104–5; 165). The intricacy in the idea of a complicated machine must thus
be produced either by such a machine itself, or our knowledge of
mechanics and design, or something greater than either of these (AT VII,
104–5). Although less perfect than the mode of being possessed by objects
outside the intellect, objective being is for these reasons ‘not on that
account plainly nothing’ (AT VII, 103).
The epistemological payoffs of this understanding of objective reality
are evident from the first argument for God’s existence in the Third
Meditation. The idea of God contains an infinite degree of objective
perfection, which, applying the causal principle, leads to the conclusion
that it could only come from a source with that much perfection formally
or eminently, and, thus, not from any finite substance. And so God
necessarily exists (AT VII, 45). But the principle applies to ideas besides
the idea of God and supports our judgements about the existence of
external things. Axiom V of the geometrical exposition asserts that we are
warranted in judging that the sky exists not because we see it, but because
our seeing it produces in the mind an idea of it that must have a cause
with as much or more reality as the idea contains objectively, and it is
reasonable to suppose on that account that the cause is the sky itself
(AT VII, 165).
Does all this mean that by merely having an idea we enhance the
amount of being in the world? Descartes seems committed to answering
this affirmatively. If the reality contained in an idea of an intricate
machine is not reducible to the reality of the idea as a mode of mind,
then there is being that would not be were the idea not to exist. But this
does not, Descartes assures Caterus, mean that the real thing of which it is
an idea, for example, the sun itself ‘as it exists in the heavens’, acquires
additional being from being conceived of or would be diminished if there
was no idea of it. The following attempt at clarification of the notion of
objective being leaves, however, much to be desired.
[T]o be objectively does not signify other than to be in the intellect in the way in
which objects are accustomed to be in it. Thus, for example, if someone asks
what happens to the sun from its being objectively in my intellect, it should best
be responded that nothing happens to it except an extrinsic denomination,
namely, that it terminates an operation of the intellect through the mode of an
object. If, however, concerning the idea of the sun, it is asked what it is, it should
be answered that it is the thing thought inasmuch as it is objectively in the
intellect, for no one understands that to be the sun itself inasmuch as that
denomination is in it extrinsically, nor will being objectively in the intellect
signify that it terminates an operation through the mode of an object, but to be
in the intellect in that way in which objects are accustomed to be. Thus, the idea
of the sun is the sun itself existing in the intellect not indeed formally as it does in
the heavens but objectively, that is, in the way in which objects are accustomed to
be in the intellect. (AT VII, 102)
What we learn from this passage is that the idea of the sun is, in some
literal but obscure sense, the same thing as the sun itself; it is the sun itself
as it exists in the intellect. It is also in some equally literal and obscure
sense, not the same thing as the sun itself; it is not the sun itself, as it exists
in the heavens. And thus it looks awfully likely that there is no difference
between something’s being the idea of the sun and the sun’s inhering
objectively in the intellect. Notice that it is the sun which is objectively in
the intellect, just as it was ‘the intricacy of design’ (AT VII, 105) which was
in the idea of the machine, and not merely some degree of being which
attaches itself to the idea because of the degree of formal reality these
things have or would have were they to exist. It is plausible to suppose,
therefore, that the inherence of things in the intellect accounts for what
ideas represent, what they are of or about. What distinguishes the idea of
the sun from the idea of a machine is that different things are objectively
present in each idea. All this creates a metaphysical minefield, but let us
try to pick our way a bit further through it.
AYERS’ PROBLEM
Michael Ayers has asked in what sense an idea, a mode of mind, could be
identical with the thing it represents, for example, a corporeal substance
such as the sun.
Which is the mere distinction of reason, and which the real distinction: (1) the
distinction between the idea as mode of thought and the idea as intentional
object of thought or (2) the distinction between the latter (i.e., the thing as it
exists in the mind) and the real object (the thing as it exists in reality)? It seems
clear that, at least on ordinary realist assumptions, there cannot be one thing, the
idea, which is really identical both to the mode of thought and to the real object.
(Ayers, 1998: 1067)
What is disturbing to Ayers is not Descartes’ postulation of intentional

objects as ways of characterising ideas by their objects, or the distinction
between intentional objects and real (extramental) objects, but the obscur-
ity over where to draw the lines between the idea, the intentional object
and the real object. If the intentional and the real object are the same
thing with two modes of being, then it will not do to identify an idea with
this thing, however one characterises its being, because doing so leads to
the absurd conclusion that a mode of mind can be strictly identical with a
corporeal substance. On the other hand, proposing a representationalist
solution, one which draws a real distinction between the thing as it exists
objectively and as it exists really or formally, conflicts with Descartes’
reply to Caterus, which states unequivocally that the idea of the sun is the
sun itself, and which seems to imply something weaker than a real
distinction between the two. Positing a real distinction between the sun
existing as it does in the intellect and outside the mind also conflicts with
our ‘anti-individualist’ intuitions that lead many philosophers to deny
that an idea, like the idea of the sun, could exist and be the very idea it is
whether or not the actual sun exists (Putnam, 1975; Burge, 1979, 1982,
1986a, 1986b). But if there is no real distinction between the idea and the
thing of which it is an idea, it looks equally impossible that the thing
could exist when the idea of it does not, a dangerously idealist conclusion.
‘The objective mode of being belongs to ideas by their very nature’,
Descartes writes, but if the idea and the external thing of which it is an
idea are not really distinct, the distinction between two modes of being
looks superfluous, or, at best, only useful for characterising ideas about
non-existent objects (AT VII, 42).
Unsurprisingly, confusion on this very issue has produced a division
within the scholarly community between those who think that Descartes
is a representational realist – i.e., someone who thinks the direct objects
of thought are immanent or intentional objects from which the mind
infers the existence of extramental things – and those who think that he is
a direct realist – someone who thinks that the objects of ideas and
judgements are the extramental things themselves, by means of their
special mode of being in the intellect.7 Since it has bearing on how we
interpret Descartes’ whole epistemology, therefore, a lot hangs on how
we understand the notion of objective being.
The representationalist reading of Descartes has one extra notch in its
belt, or at least so it has seemed. One advantage of thinking that there is a
real distinction between the intentional object and the real object of an
idea is that there is greater scope for error in the idea.8 On the represen-
tationalist reading, when there is a mismatch between the intentional and
real object, an idea may be mistaken and lead to mistaken judgement
when we infer from the properties of the intentional object what proper-
ties are possessed by the real object, or when we infer from the intentional
object that there is a real object when there isn’t. But this is too simple
an account of error and not what Descartes says anyway. Much of
Descartes’ discussion about the falsity of ideas can be read as an attempt
to account for the content of these ideas while preserving the idea that the
thing which has objective reality in the intellect just is the thing which
actually or possibly exists in reality.
FALSITY: FORMAL AND MATERIAL
It was standard in Descartes’ time to attribute truth and falsity to judge-

ments. Whether judgements are thought of as having a sentential or
propositional form, or, more loosely, as containing a form or idea which
is somehow ‘grasped’ by the intellect, insofar as judgements involve an act
7
See Kenny’s useful discussion (1968: ch.4, sec. 6). For a defence of the representationalist reading of
Descartes, see Reid, 1896 and Rorty, 1979: 50–1, and for criticism see Yolton, 1974; 1984, Lennon,
1974, Cook, 1987, Vinci, 1998 and recent discussions in Hoffman, 2002b and Alanen, 2003: ch.5.
8
Compare causal theories of representational content. If what an idea represents is the object that
causes it, then an idea represents whatever causes it, including those things we wouldn’t take to be
represented by the idea. In contemporary causal theories this is known as the ‘disjunction problem’,
for it leads to the conclusion that an idea represents the disjunction of all its actual and possible
causes. The problem with disjunctive content is that it rules out the possibility of error. See Fodor,
1987: ch. 4 and 1990: ch.2.
of assent, they can be described as having succeeded in getting on to the
truth, which is the end of judgement, or not, and so being false.9 When
we assent to an idea that isn’t clear and distinct, on Descartes’ account, we
either make a false judgement or arrive at the truth wholly by accident.
Judgement that doesn’t follow the perceptions of the intellect in accor-
dance with the natural light will always involve an incorrect use of the free
will (AT VII, 59–60). The kind of falsity that occurs in judgement is
referred to as formal falsity, which is falsity strictly speaking, but Descartes
reserves a different kind of falsity, material falsity, for ideas themselves
‘when they represent non-things as things’ (non rem tanquam rem repre-
sentant) (AT VII, 43). In his reply to Arnauld’s objections to the
Meditations, Descartes claims that although any idea that provides ‘mate-
rial for false judgement’ deserves to be called materially false, the term is
appropriate only when the scope for error is great. Confused ideas that are
consciously constructed at will provide little scope for error, whereas
ideas from the senses, particularly those related to appetite, provide
the greatest scope for error, and most deserve being called materially false
(AT VII, 233–4).
Certain sensory ideas, those that would later be known as ideas of
‘secondary qualities’, are singled out as prime candidates for material
falsity. The Third Meditation cites the idea of cold as an example of an
idea that could turn out to be materially false, if cold is nothing but a
privation of heat (AT VII, 44). The Fourth Replies adds to the idea of cold
ideas of colour, ‘if it is true, as I have said, that these ideas do not represent
anything real’ (AT VII, 234). These ideas are drawn from the list that
includes all our ideas of ‘light and colours, sounds, smells, tastes, heat and
cold and other tactile qualities’ (AT VII, 43). They are particularly perni-
cious because, insofar as all ideas are ‘as if of things’ (AT VII, 44) or ‘as if
images of things’ (French version), they represent non-things as if they
were real, and can thus easily mislead the mind into judging that they
are real.
Since there can be no ideas which are not as if of things [nisi tanquam rerum], if it
is true that cold is nothing other than a privation of heat, the idea which
represents it to me as something real and positive deserves to be called false;
and so on for others of this kind. (AT VII, 44)
9
In the Second Replies, Descartes describes the faculty for recognising truth and falsity and judging as
tending necessarily towards the truth, provided it is used correctly, that is, when we assent to only
that which we clearly and distinctly perceive (AT VII, 144).
Descartes goes on to add that if an idea is materially false, it is true by
the natural light that it ‘arises from nothing’, that it is in me only because
of a deficiency of my nature, and hence does not require me to posit a
source outside myself. Ideas coming from the senses offer no secure
indication of what there is in the world. Even if they are true and
represent some reality outside me, it is so slight that I will not be able
to distinguish it from a non-thing or have any reason to believe the idea
didn’t just originate within me (AT VII, 44).
So far it might seem very natural to read Descartes as offering a
representationalist account of error. On this reading, materially false ideas
are simply those ideas that have intentional objects but no corresponding
real object, and of which we are not aware as having been made up at will.
They provide subject matter for erroneous judgement because seeming
not to depend on the will, they incline us to judge that their objects are
real, and because they are so confused and obscure, we cannot tell from
them whether their objects are real or not. However, the trouble with
this account of material falsity, and the representationalist reading of
Descartes that goes along with it, as Arnauld was quick to observe, is that
it is completely inconsistent with Descartes’ account of objective reality.
Arnauld raises two main objections to Descartes’ account of material
falsity, each of which is designed to show that it is impossible to hold both
that every idea has objective reality and that some ideas are materially
false. The first objection deals specifically with the claim that if cold is a
privation, the idea of cold is materially false. Arnauld objects that if cold is
a privation, there cannot be an idea of it which represents it as a positive
being for the following reason.
For what is the idea of cold? Cold itself as it exists objectively in the intellect. But
if cold is a privation, it cannot exist objectively in the intellect through an idea of
which the objective existence is a positive entity. Therefore, if cold is only a
privation, there is never able to be a positive idea of it, and thus none which is
materially false. (AT VII, 206)
If, in other words, all ideas have objective reality and objective reality is
something, an idea that represents a non-thing must either entail that a
non-thing has objective being, which is a contradiction, or that there can
be ideas that do not have objective reality, contrary to the original
supposition that all ideas have objective reality.
The second objection is that the notion of material falsity is incompa-
tible with the causal principle used to establish the existence of God.
Arnauld asks:
Finally, that idea of cold, which you say to be materially false, what does it
exhibit to your mind? A privation? Then it is true. A positive being? Then it is
not an idea of cold. And besides what is the cause of that positive objective being
whence comes the force so that that idea may be materially false? ‘I’, you say,
inasmuch as I am from nothing. Then the positive objective being of some idea is
able to be from nothing, which particularly contradicts the fundamental princi-
ples of this celebrated man. (AT VII, 207)
Arnauld thus presents Descartes with the following dilemma: either the
objective reality of the idea of cold comes from something or it comes
from nothing. If it comes from something, it comes either from a priva-
tion, in which case it is true, or from something else, in which case it is not
the idea of cold. If the objective reality comes from nothing, a ‘defect’ in
my nature, the causal principles used to establish the existence of God are
violated.
Arnauld advises Descartes to instead think of all ideas as representing
something positive and to restrict falsity to judgement. It is best to do this
anyway for the sake of the argument for God’s existence, Arnauld recom-
mends, since the force of this argument rests on the intuition that even the
atheist cannot deny that the idea of God represents something real and
positive (AT VII, 206–7). Alternatively, Descartes could deny that the idea
of cold really is the idea of cold, but if he does this, then there is no falsity
in the idea, only in the judgement we make about which idea we are
having. Either way, Descartes must accept that there cannot be an idea
that is materially false (AT VII, 207).10
Arnauld’s characteristically sensible advice is not, however, taken by
Descartes, and it is interesting to speculate why. Why is the category of
material falsity so important to Descartes? My sense is that Descartes
wants something like a category of vacuous ideas, in which to place at least
some ideas coming from the senses, the point being to completely under-
mine the Scholastics’ trust in the senses. If some sensory ideas are
materially false, and if all sensory ideas are so confused and obscure that
we cannot tell from them which are true and which are false, there would
be no reason to trust any of them. But if all ideas regardless of their origins
represent something real and positive, then the senses can be trusted, even
if only up to a point. If all sensory ideas represent something real, we may
still make errors, but these errors would be restricted in ways that pose no
threat to empiricism. We might still make errors in judgement when we
10
Later, however, Arnauld endorsed the distinction between true and false ideas. See Arnauld, 1990
and Nelson, 1996.
misapply a sensory idea to objects that lack the sensible quality repre-
sented by the idea, but we wouldn’t be wrong in thinking that there is or
could be such a quality. We might even go wrong in how we define the
qualities represented by ideas coming from the senses. It is, after all,
compatible with thinking correctly that heat is something real, that
I have some false theory about its relationship to matter. By comparison,
the claim that some ideas of sensible qualities might represent nothing at
all, and do so in a way that makes it seem as if they do represent
something real and positive, poses a much deeper threat to Scholastic
theories committed to sensation as the basic mode of acquaintance with
the natural world.
ON REFERRING
When, however, he [Arnauld] says that the idea of cold is coldness itself as it is
objectively in the intellect I think that a distinction is necessary: for it often
happens in confused and obscure ideas, among which those of heat and cold are
numbered, that they are referred to a thing other than that of which they are
ideas. Thus, if cold is only a privation, the idea of cold is not cold itself, as it were
objectively in the intellect, but another thing which I take wrongly for that
privation; truly, it is the sensation itself which has no being outside the intellect.
(AT VII, 233)
Descartes’ reply to Arnauld’s first objection is an attempt to secure
what Arnauld denies is possible: a coherent notion of material falsity
consistent with the claim that all ideas have objective reality. The passage
just quoted suggests that materially false ideas like the idea of cold have
objective reality, but that this objective reality is not that of a non-being or
privation. Then there is this mysterious claim that the objective reality of
the idea of cold is something other than cold – the sensation itself – which
has no being outside the intellect. A sensation is a mode of mind, and so
has some being formally, and in the case of materially false ideas some
being objectively. That answers the question of how there could be an idea
without objective being. There can’t be. Materially false ideas are not
counterexamples to the claim that ideas essentially have objective reality.
But how is this consistent with the claim that materially false ideas
represent non-things as things? If the objective reality of the idea of cold
is a sensation, and a sensation, being a mode of mind, is something real
and positive, in what sense is the idea materially false?
Descartes’ response to Arnauld is perplexing, and many scholars as a
result have been inclined to think that Descartes would have been better
off to have ditched the notion of material falsity altogether. In her book,
Descartes, Margaret Dauler Wilson argued that the notion of material
falsity does little work in Descartes’ theory, and since it disappears from
view after the Replies, she speculates that he came to see that it wasn’t
necessary to hang on to it.11 Her suggestion, like Arnauld’s, is that he
could have constructed his error theory of sensation from the intuition
that sensory ideas are confused and obscure, and from the claim that they
produce in us a natural inclination to errors of judgement that are
formally false. For reasons I gave earlier having to do with the threat the
category of material falsity poses to Scholastic forms of empiricism, I am
more inclined to try to make sense of the notion of material falsity. It is
not obvious, for example, that the category of confused and obscure ideas
is sufficiently precise to capture all the kinds of error to which the senses
lead us. Materially false ideas lead us into quite specific kinds of error,
and it is important to be able to identify them as such. As Frans Burman
records from his conversation with Descartes as late as 1648, there is a kind
of error that can occur in connection with certain sensory ideas when we
think that they represent real qualities of bodies, which is not like the
kinds of error which merely confused and obscure ideas lead us into. In
this context, the example offered is an idea of colour.
There is nonetheless occasion for error even if I refer them [sensory ideas] to no
things outside me since I am able to err in the very nature of them, as when
I consider the idea of colour and say it to be a thing, quality or, more appro-
priately, colour itself which is represented through that idea, as would be such if
I were to say that whiteness is a quality, even if I refer that idea to no thing
outside me and I say or suppose no thing to be white. I would be able, however,
in the abstract and in the very nature or idea of whiteness itself to err. (AT V, 152)
These errors ‘in the abstract’ hint strongly at Descartes’ notion of
material falsity. The cause of our error in judgement in this case is quite
specific: it is not because the idea of white is merely confused and obscure,
as if I don’t know what whiteness really is, or because I think particular
bodies are white when they might be some other colour, but because
I think whiteness is some real quality insofar as it is represented in the
idea.
How then, in light of Descartes’ reply to Arnauld, might we make sense
of the notion of material falsity? Notice that the passage cited above
11
Margaret Wilson refers to Descartes’ discussion of material falsity as ‘confusion confounded’
(Wilson, 1978: 110). See also Wilson, 1990 and 1991; Alanen, 1994; Beyssade, 1992; Bolton, 1986;
Field, 1993; Hoffman, 1996; MacKenzie, 1990 and 1994; Menn, 1995; Nelson, 1996; and Wells, 1984.
from the Fourth Replies (AT VII, 233) does not only assert that the objective
reality of the idea of cold is a sensation, but also that the sensation is
referred to something other than that of which it is an idea. What work,
if any, does this notion of referring do? The Fourth Replies does not
elaborate, and this is an omission with some consequence. The above
passage recorded by Burman uses referring only in regard to judgements
that bodies outside me have colours. If referring takes place only in
judgements about external bodies; if, for example, in referring the idea
of cold to some thing we assent to the idea that certain bodies are cold,
an opponent of material falsity like Arnauld can simply object that
the only falsity Descartes needs is the formal falsity of judgement. Inter-
estingly, the notion of referring is used extensively in the Passions to
distinguish between sensations, appetites and passions. Might we glean
anything from this discussion to help us understand the notion of material
falsity?
At article 27 of the Passions, passions are defined as ‘perceptions,
sensations or emotions of the soul, which are referred particularly to it,
and which are caused, maintained and strengthened by some movement
of the spirits’ (PS, art. 27; my emphasis).12 Passions are distinguished from
other sensations and appetites that depend on different nerves through
being referred to the soul. At article 22, Descartes writes:
All the perceptions I have not yet explained, come to the soul through the
mediation of the nerves, and there exists this difference between them, that we
refer some to objects outside us which strike our senses, others to our body or to
some of its parts, and finally others to our soul. (AT XI, 345)
What then is it to refer a sensation or passion to some thing?
The following examples of seeing the light of a torch and hearing the
sound of a bell suggest that the notion of referring bears some relationship
to what we suppose are the causes of our ideas, as well as to what we
suppose our ideas to be about or represent.
Because [these external objects] excite two different movements in some of our
nerves, and by their means in the brain give to the soul two different sensations
which we refer in such a way to the subjects we suppose to be their causes, we
think that we see the torch itself and hear the bell and not sense only the
movements which came from them. (AT XI, 346)
12
The expression ‘se referrer’ was not by any means in the period tied exclusively to acts of judgement.
De la Chambre (1658–63: IV.1.439–40; III.2. 105–6) uses the term to express the direction of flow of
the animal spirits from the brain to the muscles.
To refer an auditory sensation to some external object, the bell, is the
same as thinking that we hear the sound of the bell because (we suppose)
the bell is the cause of the idea. Similarly, to refer a pain to a foot is to
suppose that the foot is the cause of our idea. The connection between
what an idea is referred to and what we suppose the causes of the idea are
seems built into the analysis of why passions are referred to the soul. At
article 25, Descartes writes that ‘the perceptions that are referred to the
soul alone are those whose effects are sensed as in the soul itself, and of
which we do not know commonly any proximate cause, to which we may
refer them’ (AT XI, 347).
This explanation has suggested to some interpreters that the soul is the
default cause of the passions, and that referring a passion is simply a
matter of the soul’s making a judgement about itself as the cause of the
passions. Paul Hoffman thinks that the causal factor must be worked into
the definition of referring.
We refer some sensations, such as the sound of a bell, to external objects that we
suppose are their causes in such a way that we think we perceive those external
objects. We refer sensations that we feel as in parts of our body, such as hunger,
thirst, pain, and heat, to those parts. We refer the passions of the soul to the
soul because, Descartes says, we feel their effects as being in the soul itself and
because we usually know of no proximate cause to which we can refer them.
(Hoffman, 1991: 160)
As Hoffman is aware, Descartes’ explanation at article 25 for why we
refer passions to the soul is unsatisfactory. First, Descartes states elsewhere
in the text that the effects of the passions are felt as in the heart, not the
soul. This is why the mistake about the heart being the ‘seat’ of the
passions is commonly made (PS, art. 33). Second, if Descartes means by
‘proximate cause’ a brain movement, then the fact that no proximate
cause of the passions is known is no more a reason to refer passions to the
soul than it is to refer any other sensation there. No proximate causes
of any sensation are commonly known (AT VII, 436; AT V, 221–2).13
Hoffman concludes that Descartes has failed to distinguish passions from
other perceptions.
13
In a footnote to ‘Three Dualist Theories of the Passions’, Hoffman toys with other interpretations.
His preferred reading is that to refer a perception to some thing is ‘to suppose that the perception is
in the thing’, presumably as a mode of the thing (Hoffman, 1991:196). This comes close to my
reading, but what we suppose to be in some thing on the occasion of a sensation is not always what
we refer to it, as the case of materially false ideas demonstrates.
In the context where Descartes asserts that the effects of the passions
are felt in the heart he presumably is considering only the effects of a
passion on the body, which is consistent with there being other effects on
the soul, in particular, on the will. This, in turn, is consistent with the idea
that we refer a passion to the soul because we experience it as a movement of
the will, and so, according to the interpretation under consideration, as
originating in the soul. Support for this interpretation is given by Descartes’
remark in article 47 that in an undivided soul ‘all its appetities are volitions’,
a confusing comment in light of the distinction drawn between passions
and volitions in article 17 (AT XI, 364). But leaving this problem and
Hoffman’s second observation that the espoused reason for referring pas-
sions to the soul - that we do not know their proximal causes – does not
distinguish them from any other sensation aside, can it really be the case
that, for Decartes, we experience our passions as originating in the soul and,
on account of such experiences, we refer them to the soul?
Stephen Voss also interprets the referring function in terms of a
judgement about the causes of the passions. As he writes in a footnote
to his translation of the Passions : ‘I propose this hypothesis about
Descartes’ conception of referring: we “refer” our perception to an object
just in case we spontaneously judge that the action causing our perception
is within that object’ (Voss 1989: 30, n. 23).
Voss’ insertion of the adverb ‘spontaneously’ is illuminating. Descartes
is prepared, on other occasions, to acknowledge the habitual and speedy
(but essentially intellectual) ‘judgements’ we make at the ‘third grade’ of
sensory response, and to admit that this is where falsity occurs (AT VII,
437–9). But if it is such judgements that account for the representational
content of sensory ideas, it is difficult to know whether Descartes is
assuming here that there is an act of assent involved, or whether he is
invoking a different sense of judgement. One reason for thinking that the
habitual judgements made at the third grade of sensory response are non-
volitional is that, given the encapsulation of perception, they do not seem
to be ones that we can withhold assent from. The stick partially sub-
merged in water will appear bent no matter how much the intellect resists
the conclusion that it is bent (AT VII, 438–9). Is this appearance con-
stituted by a judgement with assent, which the intellect tells us ‘not to
believe’ (AT VII, 439) and so contradicts itself, or by a non-volitional
judgement or by something else?14 The idea that appearances involve
14
Lilli Alanen (in conversation) thinks that in order to make sense of the discussion of the ‘three
grades of sensory response’ in the Sixth Replies (AT VII, 436–8), it is necessary to suppose that
non-volitional judgements is charitable and would not have been out of
place in Scholastic theories of perception. Scholars familiar with Aquinas’
account of perception would, for example, be used to attributing a
rudimentary form of non-volitional judgement to animals exercising their
estimative faculties. Either way though, the problem lies not here but with
interpreting the referring function as a mode of judgement about the
causes of a sensation.
Let us return, then, to consider the suggestion that we refer a passion to
the soul because we suppose that it is caused by the soul. To suppose that
a passion is caused by the soul would, on Descartes’ account of the soul,
be to suppose that it arises from some ‘action’ of the soul. There are only
two modes of thought, actions (volitions) and passions, and actions are
the analogue of motion in bodies. To suppose my passions are caused by
the soul would mean that I experience my passions as ideas that originate
within the soul, perhaps because I confuse my passions with moral or
practical judgements about my lot in life, or perhaps because what is most
salient to me through a passion is the fact that my will is inclined a certain
way. This does not necessarily conflict with Descartes’ definition of the
passions as caused by the body (PS, art. 27), or with his distinction
between passions and volitions (PS, art. 17), for I might just be mistaken
about what the real causes of my passions are. And it is true that the
passions incline the will in determinate ways (PS, arts. 40; 47). But this
interpretation suggests something about the phenomenology of the pas-
sions that Descartes seems to think is not so – that we experience our
passions as originating in our souls rather than feeling ourselves passive
subjects of external influences, and it strikes me that it is the latter that
gives the true phenomenology of the passions on Descartes’ view. This is
certainly Elisabeth’s experience when she feels that the passions rob her of
the very power of her reason, and much of Descartes’ correspondence
with her on the topic and the moral project of the Passions is an attempt to
empower Elisabeth and us, his readers, with the recognition that we can
be masters of our passions (e.g., PS, art. 41).15 This theme makes little
sensations and passions involve a kind of non-volitional judgement. Descartes tells us there that it is
only at the ‘third grade’ of sensory response, which involves judgement, that truth or falsity enters
(the first grade being the motions in the brain that give rise to a sensation and the second grade
being the immediate effects of those motions on the soul which dispose it to certain judgements). If
what he means by ‘truth’ and ‘falsity’ in sensory responses is material truth and falsity, Alanen is
surely right. An act of assent would suggest formal truth and falsity.
15
Elisabeth often expresses how the infirmities of her sex afflict her soul (24 May 1645) and maladies
deprive her of the power of reasoning (16 August 1645).
sense on the supposition that we falsely experience ourselves as agents of
our passions.
Nor is it clear how thinking of ourselves as agents of our passions fits
with their function in preserving the union. The biological utility of the
passions depends on the fact that they make us think of external objects as
affecting us for better or for worse. If the passions are to fulfil their natural
function, we must generally regard the causes of the passions as being
outside the soul. Perhaps all this is just to say that there is an inconsistency
or tension in Descartes’ view, but if there is a way to avoid this conclusion
while capturing the phenomenology of Cartesian passions as experiences
of passivity, then I’d like at least to try and find it.16
I propose then a different model for understanding the referring func-
tion, one that does not take Descartes’ comment at article 25 about our
referring passions to the soul because we commonly do not know their
proximate causes as definitional. Notice that in the cases of perceptions
referred to the body and perceptions referred to external objects, there is a
clear link between what the perception is referred to and what it repre-
sents. The tinkling sound is referred to the bell and is of the bell. Pain is
referred to the foot and represents the foot as afflicted. Is there a general
way to capture this representational function of the notion of referring
that does not collapse into the idea that a judgement (or more precisely a
volitional judgement) is involved?
It is useful at this point to compare the function of ‘referring’ in
Descartes’ epistemology to the notion of ‘seeing as’ in contemporary
analyses of perception. Could we say, for example, that to refer a sensation
of whiteness to the paper is analogous to seeing the paper as white? To
refer pain to the foot is to feel or experience the foot as afflicted. To refer
cold to the ice is to experience or feel the ice as cold. Such locutions
16
Alanen provides an interesting and detailed argument that referring a passion to the soul just is to
mistakenly think of it as arising from the evaluative judgements of the soul and, therefore, as having
some rational basis it in fact lacks (Alanen, 2003:185–90). Alanen argues that this best makes sense
of the suggestion in article 25 that we refer passions to the soul because we feel their effects there
and know of no proximate cause to which we may otherwise refer them. While interesting in
its own right, this does not seem to me to be Descartes’ view. It would follow that referring
passions to the soul is itself a source of error, because the soul is not the cause of its passions, but the
only error Descartes recognises in the passions consists in their tendency to misrepresent or
exaggerate the importance of things (PS, art. 138; AT VII, 37). Nor is there any suggestion that
the Cartesian sage, knowing the true causes of the passions, would cease to refer her passions to the
soul. On the view espoused below, this is because to refer a passion is simply to experience oneself
as moved in a certain way and this is true independently of whether one is justified in feeling so
moved or not.
represent an object, for example, the ice or the foot, as being modified in a
certain way. This suggests two general formulations of the referring
function:
(1) To refer a perception A to B is to experience B as modified by A.
(2) To refer a perception A to B is for B to appear as modified by A.
I offer these not as distinct formulations of the referring function but
simply two ways of looking at the same experience: one from the point of
view of the subject of a perception, and the other from the point of view
of the object being perceived. But the second formulation will be useful
when we return to the problem of material falsity.
One advantage of the seeing-as talk over talk of judgements is that it
enables one to ascribe structured representational content to a perception
without collapsing the distinction between perception and belief or jud-
gement. This is useful for accounting for the phenomenology of sensory
illusions, like the bent stick illusion of which Descartes speaks in the Sixth
Replies. We could say that at the third grade of sensory response we see the
stick as bent, and that this involves the intellect, perhaps even a judge-
ment, but unless we are small children or idiots we will not assent to this
idea or believe that the stick really is bent. When we say that the stick
‘appears bent in water because of refraction’ what we mean is ‘that it
appears to us in that mode through which a child would judge that it is
bent, and through which even we, following the prejudices which we have
become accustomed to accept from our youth, would judge in the same
way’ (AT VII, 438–9). The way things appear disposes the will to assent to
ideas representing those appearances, but falls short of determining the
will to assent. The seeing-as locution is preferable, in my view, to the
terminology of judgement, for the reason that judgement and acts of
assent are generally connected in Descartes’ framework, but little hangs of
whether we choose to use the language of non-volitional judgement
instead (AT VII, 60–1; PS, art. 17).
This interpretation of the notion of referring provides a more plausible
rendering of Descartes’ assertion that the passions are referred to the soul.
It does not, for example, imply that we experience ourselves as agents of
our passions. When a passion is referred to the soul, the soul, on this
reading, perceives or experiences itself as modified – moved – in a
particular way. Just as from a perception of light I see the torch as bright,
and from a perception of pain I feel my foot as afflicted, from a percep-
tion of fear I am aware of myself or my soul as afraid. As Amelie Rorty has
argued, I do not refer the fear outside the soul because it is not external
things or my body that appear modified by the passion but my soul
(Rorty, 1992: 378).
What then are we to make of the explanation at article 25, which states
that passions are referred to the soul because no proximate cause is
commonly known, and because their effects are felt there? Whereas
perceptions of external things dispose us to think that bodies are modified
in certain ways – have colours, sounds, temperatures, etc. – and percep-
tions of the body dispose us to think our body is affected in specific
ways – is in pain, hungry, thirsty, etc. – the passions dispose us to think
that our soul is affected – by love, by desire, by anger, etc. It is in this sense
of being primarily modes of self- (rather than other-) awareness that the
effects of the passions are felt as in the soul. Descartes’ second point ‘that
no proximate causes are commonly known’ neither asserts nor implies
that we refer our passions to the soul because we think that the soul is
the cause of our passions. After having offered his explanation for why
passions are referred to the soul, Descartes immediately adds:
Such are the sensations of joy, anger, and others like them, which are sometimes
excited in us by objects that move our nerves and sometimes also by other causes.
(AT XI, 347; my emphasis)
Here Descartes alludes to the fact that unlike other sensations and
appetites, passions are not caused by specific types of external events, and
are more open to mediation by associated thoughts. Since there is no one
type of physical event that provokes anger, it makes more sense to treat
anger as a modification of the soul than as a response to a specific type
of external cause. We might call the distal causes of anger all ‘injustices’,
but there is no natural kind that these form or supervene upon, nor any
definable class of perceptions that would constitute perceptions of injus-
tices and so serve as a natural kind for the proximal causes in the brain
of anger.17 Passions differ in this regard from perceptions of red, or pain,
because even though there may well be differences among all the percep-
tions of red or all experiences of pain, there is more of a chance that these
will be differences of degree (differences of shade and hue, or intensity)
rather than differences of kind. By comparison, the causes of any given
17
The causes of a passion typically include an individual’s past experiences, as preserved in memory,
and other cognitive states, as much as the temperament of the brain, and so it is less plausible to
suppose a passion could be defined through either its proximal or distal causes. For discussion
along these lines, see Amelie Rorty (1992: 379).
kind of passion, both distal and proximal, consist of many different kinds
of things, a fact which makes their enumeration especially difficult.
If this reading is correct, the passions of the soul are movements of the
will, but they are not ones which originate in the soul or which are
experienced as originating in the soul. Passions are not simply perceptions
of the good or evil of certain things but wantings or willings that things
be a certain way, and thus, if unimpeded, terminate in certain actions. It is
in being movements of the will, that it is appropriate to call all the
appetites of the soul, including its passions, volitions, even when those
volitions are not initiated by the soul itself or with its assent.
On this reading of the referring function, the passions are modes of
self-awareness. This idea is useful for explaining the motivational force of
the passions. It is because I am afraid that I am inclined to flee. I don’t
want just to represent to myself some property of external bodies, and
then have to figure out the significance of that property for myself.18 But
for the passions to have this biological function, it is not enough that in
having a passion I experience my soul as modified in a certain way. I need
to represent external events or things as having some bearing on my well-
being that requires me to take certain sorts of action. But how, if the
passions are all referred to the soul, do they represent external things as
important in these ways?
When we refer passions to the soul, we represent not just the soul alone,
but the soul as affected in a certain way by some external thing. The soul is
afraid but the fear is of the tiger. The soul is envious but the envy is of
others’ good fortune. One way of explicating this relationship is by saying
that it is because I am afraid when a tiger is present, that I experience the
tiger as dangerous or think of the tiger as dangerous. The ‘because’ here is
intended in a constitutive sense. What a passion represents is (usually) a
complex relation: an external object affecting the union in a certain (good
or bad) way. It is not implausible to suppose that a complex relation could
be captured by attributing some complex but monadic property (fear-of-
the-tiger) to one of the relata, the soul. In pre-nineteenth-century theories
of relations, defining binary relations as pairs of relatives was fairly
standard (see Brown and Normore, 2003). And given that Cartesian
passions typically involve other cognitive or sensory modes – e.g., a
perception of the tiger, a judgement about another’s good fortune – the
soul rarely is aware of itself as moved for no good reason. There are,
18
Voss (1989: 31, n.23) also notes the self-referential content of the passions.
however, some exceptions. When, for example, a passion is caused solely
by the consistency or rate of movement of the blood, the soul may not be
able to identify a ‘first cause’ of its passion (AT VIIIA, 317). But these are
atypical cases. In the normal course of events, a passion is experienced in
conjunction with and partly as a response to some impression of an
object, to which the passion adds a special significance or value. The
passions are, at the same time, modes of self-awareness and modes of
awareness of the significance external objects bear to us as unions of mind
and body.
MATERIAL FALSITY REDUX
The notions of objective being and material falsity are absent from the
text of the Passions, but there is no reason to suspect that Descartes had
abandoned either notion by 1649. The notion of objective perfection
appears in the Notae in Programma of 1648, the attack on Regius’ ‘broad-
sheet’, and the notion of material falsity seems to be lurking in the
background of Descartes’ conversation with Burman, also of 1648. It is
not surprising that the notion of material falsity should not arise in the
Passions for the simple reason that insofar as the passions represent the
soul as moved in specific ways, as modified by fear, love, pity, anger, etc.,
they are all true. If I feel fear, then I am moved by fear, whether or not the
external thing I think causes it poses a real threat to me, indeed, whether
there is any external cause at all. This accords with Descartes’ assertion in
the Third Meditation that the passions of the soul cannot be false.
No falsity, however, is to be feared in the will or the affections, for even though it
is possible to want things which are depraved or non-existent, it is not, therefore,
true that I do not want them. (AT VII, 37)
On the reading advanced here, it is because in referring passions to the
soul we experience the soul as moved, and cannot be wrong therefore in
thinking that the soul is moved in a specific way, that the passions cannot
be materially false in the way other sensory ideas can be. Despite their
immunity to material falsity, the passions still make their own contribu-
tions to false judgements. As shall be explored in chapter 8, the complex
relationship between our experience of our passions and our perceptions
and judgements of their external or ‘first’ causes makes us prone to infer
from our feelings that external objects and events have certain moral or
evaluative qualities which they very often lack.
This reading requires that the soul itself be something that is objectively
and subjectively present to itself at the same time. The soul is sub-
jectively present as the thinking substance and objectively present insofar
as it is aware of itself as modified in certain ways. This is not a difficult idea
to grasp and one with some currency in Descartes’ time. At least one of
Descartes’ sources, Eustachius, thought that this was how the soul’s self-
awareness was to be understood.19 And there is some suggestion at the end
of the Second Meditation that all ideas are modes of self-awareness, whatever
else they may represent (AT VII, 33). Perhaps all ideas, insofar as the mind is
aware of itself having them, are referred to the soul in a secondary or
indirect fashion, but insofar as some are referred primarily outside the
mind to bodies, they are not all passions of the soul. If I am aware of seeing
the wax because I see and feel it, I may experience my soul in the course of
having this idea as modified by a perception, but my perception is directly
an experience of the wax as modified in certain ways, as hard, yellow,
smelling of clover and so on, and only indirectly an experience of the soul as
affected in a certain way by this perception. Passions are, however, on this
reading, primarily or directly modes of self-awareness, although they could
be indirectly modes of awareness of external things as well. They are
explicitly of or about the ways in which the soul is moved or affected by
things (for the most part) outside itself. Might we use this analysis of the
referring function, drawn from the account given in the Passions, to better
understand Descartes’ solution to the problems surrounding material
falsity?
When Descartes replies to Arnauld that the objective reality of the idea
of cold is the sensation itself but that the idea is referred to something of
which it is not an idea, we may read him, in line with the above
formulation of the referring function (1) as saying that that which is a
mode of mind, a sensation, is experienced as a mode of body or extended
substance. To refer the idea of cold to a body, say, the ice, is to feel or
experience the ice as modified by cold. But if the object of the idea is just a
19
Eustachius A Sancto Paulo explicitly makes use of this point to explain how the soul is aware of
itself. See Summa philosophiae quadripartita (1609) 4.1. d.1.q.2, where he argues that the same thing
may be both subjectively in a thing (i.e. in it as in a subject, as dispositions and acts are in the
mind) and objectively in the same thing at the same time (i.e. present as an object to the knowing
intellect). This does not show that Descartes derived his idea about the objective status of
sensations from Eustachius, but it suggests that the idea had some currency in the seventeenth
century. Descartes had read Eustachius’ text and regarded it as the best abstract of Scholastic
philosophy available at the time of writing the Replies to the Meditations. See his letters to
Mersenne of 30 September and 11 November 1640, AT III, 185; AT III, 232.
mode of mind, a sensation, then to refer it to bodies at all is categorically
mistaken. Since no mode of mind could modify an extended substance, the
idea of cold is not just misapplied but necessarily false.20 There are no
circumstances under which the idea could be attributed to bodies and turn
out true. Material falsity, on this reading, involves something like a category
mistake rather than a simple error of misapplication in judgement. Material
falsity is neither a misapplication of an otherwise true idea (one that repre-
sents a real and positive quality), nor a matter of failing to get the nature of a
real quality of extended substance right. It is failing to recognise that there is
no real and positive quality of bodies corresponding to one’s idea.
This analysis does not yet tell us how a materially false idea represents
a non-thing as a thing. To say that the idea of cold is false because, in having
this idea, we are inclined to refer what is in fact a sensation to some
extended substance shows how one thing (a mode of mind) is represented
falsely as another (a mode of body), but material falsity was originally
defined for ideas that represent non-things as things. It is here that the
second formulation of the referring function, (2), comes in handy. To
represent a sensation as a mode of body is, at the same time, to represent a
body as having some quality that it does not and could not have. Insofar
as the idea of cold makes bodies appear to have a quality, coldness, which
they do not have, it represents a non-thing (an absence of heat) as a thing.
This last way of formulating the referring function shifts the weight of the
analysis from the way we experience our sensations, which suggests some-
thing about our minds, to the way bodies present themselves, which suggests
something about bodies. A common feature of sensory thought and talk is
the ambiguity over whether we are describing a quality of experience or a
quality of the object experienced. For example, I might refer to the gritty
feeling of sand, and there I seem to be talking about my perceptual awareness,
or I might talk about the gritty feel of sand, and now it is less clear that what
I am referring to is myself rather than some fact about the sand. Similarly,
I can just as easily talk about sensing red-ly (an adverbial construction
representing the way the sensation is modified) as of a sensation of red, of
a painful feeling or a pain in the foot, a cold sensation or a sensation of cold.
Such ambiguities are one potential source of confusion and obscurity in
sensory ideas. Where we have an idea representing bodies as having a kind of
property they couldn’t possibly have, we might well be confusing a quality of
20
Although there are differences between our views, I take my approach here to be in the spirit of
Richard Field’s excellent 1993 discussion. Field analyses material falsity in terms of second-order
ideas that have as their objects sensations, whereas my preference is for an analogue of the seeing-as
construction since it does not invoke two orders of ideas.
experience with a quality of the object of experience, and so have a materially
false idea.
Ambiguities created by our use of sensory terms are responsible for much
strife in modern theories of perception, and reflect our general uncertainty
about what exactly is represented by sensations. Statements like ‘ripe
tomatoes look red’, may suggest either that perceivers have a certain type
of visual experience when looking at ripe tomatoes, or that ripe tomatoes
have a certain kind of property (a red appearance), which some moderns
think that it is necessary to posit in order to account for perceptual
consciousness.21 Let us call the first kind of formulation ‘subjectivist’ – that
is, where perceptual experiences are analysed as modes of experience – and
the second ‘objectivist’ formulations – where perceptual experiences are
analysed as experiences of modes of bodies. I suspect that, according to
Descartes, our natural pre-theoretic inclinations are towards objectivist
formulations of our sensory experiences, and that this is what referring a
sensation outside the mind comes down to. (Herein lies their biological
utility!) But if the discussion of material falsity is any indication, our natural
inclination to experience our sensations as modes of awareness of the
qualities of bodies does not guarantee that they will in fact represent modes
of extension any more than a gritty feeling makes grittiness a real and
positive property of sand. This is not to say that referring our sensory ideas
to bodies wouldn’t on occasion yield a truth. If heat is a real mode of bodies,
then referring the sensation of heat to the fire would not produce a false
judgement the way that referring the idea of cold does, if cold is a privation.
Descartes’ point, however, is that such a process is unreliable. If we land on
the truth by referring the sensory idea of heat to the fire, it is by accident,
and we have no reason to trust our idea or to think that the idea couldn’t
have originated within us (AT VII, 44).
Why is this ambiguity in the content of our perceptual experience not
obvious to us? Descartes suggests in the reply to Arnauld that the reason
why materially false ideas lead us into errors of judgement is that sensory
ideas are confused and obscure.
For if, he [Arnauld] says, [the idea of cold] exhibits a privation, then it is true,
and if [it exhibits] a positive being, therefore, it is not the idea of cold. This is
right but on account of this alone I call that [idea] materially false, that since it
is obscure and confused, I am not able to judge whether what it exhibits to me is
21
Gilbert Harman explicitly makes use of the ambiguity of sensory content to explain how qualia
realists are misled by language into thinking that every act of perception must correspond to some
object. See Harman, 1997.
something positive outside my senses or not, and therefore I have an occasion to
judge it to be something positive although perhaps it may be only a privation.
(AT VII, 234–5)
Being confused and obscure, these ideas do not wear their truth or falsity
on their sleeves. It falls to science to inform us whether or not there is more
objective reality in a sensory idea than that belonging to the sensation itself.
We are now prepared to understand Descartes’ response to Arnauld’s
second objection, the objection that the account of material falsity violates
the causal principle used to establish the existence of God. The objection
assumes that if an idea has positive objective being, it cannot be materially
false on account of ‘arising from nothing’, lest there be objective reality
that does not have a cause. We do not need to suppose that there can be
privative causes to save Descartes from one horn of Arnauld’s dilemma
only to impale him on another: that if the idea of cold is caused by a
privation, it is true. Notice that nowhere in the Third Meditation is it
asserted that it is the objective reality of a materially false idea that arises
from nothing, from a defect in my nature. What arises from nothing is the
material falsity of an idea, although it has for its condition the obscurity of
the idea. On my reading, the obscurity of a materially false idea arises
from the fact that what is just a sensation presents itself as a mode of
bodies, and although the sensation is something real and positive with a
cause, its falsity is not. Hence, Descartes asserts in his reply to Arnauld:
I do not claim that [an idea] is made materially false from some positive being but
from that obscurity alone which however has some positive being for its subject
namely the very sensation itself. (AT VII, 234, my emphasis)
The claim that material falsity does not need a cause does not stand in
opposition to the principle that the objective reality of an idea always needs
a cause. My presenting myself as the Queen of France is fraudulent, one
might well say ‘false’, if there is no Queen of France. But there being no
Queen of France is not the cause of this false representation; indeed it is no
cause at all. Similarly, the fact that cold is a privation does not cause my
idea of cold to be false. If the question is why do I have false ideas at all, the
answer is that I am not perfect (like God) but not being God is, again, no
cause at all. And that’s the way it should be. Falsity generally needs no
cause, which is not to say that there isn’t a cause of the thing that is false.22
22
It will be objected that my reading conflicts with Descartes’ claim in the Sixth Meditation that ideas
which come from the activity of the senses must be produced by corporeal substances which
contain formally everything which is found objectively in the ideas (AT VII, 55). Since no body can
contain formally a sensation, the reality objectively present in a materially false sensory idea cannot
But what makes the idea of cold an idea of cold ? It is important to see
that if we are to preserve the category of materially false ideas, it will not
do to reinterpret the objects of sensory experience as something other than
the qualities or modes of extended substances. It will not do, for example,
to say that our sensory ideas really represent the relative value external
objects have for the union, for then they will all turn out true
(cf. Simmons, 1999). Nor will it do to treat them as representing ‘sec-
ondary qualities’, if we regard the secondary qualities as mind-relative
qualities but no less real for all that. Neither of these alternatives remains
faithful to Descartes’ account of material falsity. If the idea of cold is
materially false, it cannot turn out to be something other than the idea of
cold, which might then be a true idea. So what does account for a
materially false idea’s being the idea it is?
IDENTIFYING IDEAS
Let us come at this last question about the intentionality of materially

false ideas by returning to Ayers’ question about where to draw the line
between the intentional and the real object. We began this chapter by
noticing the problems Descartes creates for himself by adopting a strong
version of the theory of objective reality. Ayers draws our attention to the
following dilemma: either we must identify the idea with the object
existing in the intellect, and run the risk of turning Descartes into a
representationalist, or we must identify the object existing as it does in
the intellect with its real or external object, and run the risk of turning
Descartes into an idealist. Is there a way for Descartes to be a direct realist
and still maintain his account of material falsity?
On Ayers’ own reading, Descartes places the real distinction between
the intentional object (the thing objectively existing in the intellect) and
be the same as that contained formally in a body. But whether this remark is also intended for ideas
that do not have some extramental thing or mode objectively existing is not clear. As Descartes
writes in the Third Meditation, materially false ideas ‘do not require me to posit a source distinct
from myself ’ (AT VII, 44). This leaves open the possibility that the objective reality of materially
false ideas is derived from the formal reality of those ideas existing as modes of mind, which are
produced by the mind depending on how the sense organs are being affected. In that case the error
resides in the mind’s passively taking the objects of materially false ideas to be real modifications of
bodies. Our knowledge of the existence of bodies would not, however, be undermined by the
existence of material falsity. There is no suggestion in Descartes’ texts that we might never be able
to distinguish the materially true and materially false ideas of sense. But, presumably, our ability to
identify the truth contained in our sensory ideas proceeds through the progress of science. Thanks
to John Carriero for discussion on these points.
the real extramental object, with the consequence that he turns out to be a
representational realist. This is an unfortunate consequence because it
means that Descartes’ argument for God is immediately destabilised. If
‘talk of the sun which is thought of is simply to talk of the thought itself,
giving its specific content, direction or “form,” ’ Ayers argues, ‘. . . it
follows that I cannot think (immediately) about the real sun (or real
God!)’ (Ayers, 1998: 1068). It is absurd to suppose, however, that an
internal relation can exist between a mode of mind and an external object
like the sun. Ayers takes Descartes’ reference to ideas as ‘forms’ of
thought, in the Second Replies (AT VII, 160), as implying an internal
relation between an idea and its object, and concludes, therefore, that
this object can only be an intentional object. This interpretation seems
supported by Descartes’ remark to Caterus that if he is asking about what
the idea of the sun is ‘no one understands this to be the sun itself insofar as
this extrinsic denomination belongs to it’ (AT VII, 102). Ayers might also
have cited Descartes’ comment to Arnauld, that if we take ideas as forms
of thought, whether cold exists or not does not affect the idea of cold (AT
VII, 232). Such passages might seem to imply that ideas are really distinct
from their external referents but not their intentional objects and, there-
fore, that Descartes is a representationalist. The ‘form’ of the idea of cold
makes it the idea it is.
Ayers interprets Descartes’ use of ‘form’ in this context in a distinctively
Scholastic way: the form of a thought specifies the object it represents.
Ayers is correct to note that for both Descartes and Aquinas being aware
of an object through thought was not to be construed as being directly
aware of the thought and only indirectly aware of the object (Ayers, 1998:
1066). As Aquinas puts it: ‘Species intelligibilis non est quod intelligitur, sed
id quo intelligit intellectus ’ (Summa Theologiae, I. q. 85. art. 2). Ayers
remarks on how difficult it is to get beyond the immediate object in the
intellect to the real thing we think directly about. But this Scholastic
reading of Descartes’ use of the term ‘form’ in relation to ideas does not
sit well with the claim to Arnauld that the form of the idea of cold does
not depend on whether cold exists or not. For what Descartes should have
said in response to Arnauld, if Ayers is right in attributing this represen-
tationalist picture to Descartes, is that the form of the idea does not
depend on cold’s existing in reality because cold can exist objectively (i.e.,
as an intentional object), a fact which makes the idea of cold be the idea it
is. But Descartes cannot do that because that would be to acknowledge
that cold has some being, albeit objective being. Instead, Descartes
explicitly denies that cold can exist objectively if it is a privation. In light
of this, it does not seem correct to conflate ‘form’ and ‘intentional object’
as Ayers understands the latter. Ayers’ assumption that Descartes’ theory
will need to account for the ‘status of intentional objects of thoughts
which have no real objects’ (Ayers, 1998: 1068), begs the question by
assuming that there could always be intentional correlates of things which
do not exist, and this seems to be precisely what the doctrine of material
falsity is intended to deny.
What else might Descartes be doing in referring to the form of an idea?
In the Second Replies, he defines the form of thought as that ‘through
the immediate perception of which, I am conscious of the thought’ (AT
VII, 160). In his reply to Arnauld, Descartes (confusingly) distinguishes
between ideas taken in the formal sense, as forms of mind, which are not
composed of matter, and ideas taken materially, as operations of the
intellect. Taking ideas materially in the latter sense does not make
reference to the truth and falsity of their objects, and so it is not this
way of taking ideas that leads us to consider them to be true or false, but
only in the sense in which they provide ‘matter for error’ (AT VII, 232).
The form of an idea seems clearly connected to what the idea represents,
and so to what makes the idea the idea it is, but not, I have argued, to
what we would take to be the intentional object of an idea like the idea of
cold. It is the form of the idea of cold which remains constant whether or
not cold exists, but if cold is a privation, cold is not objectively present in
the idea any more than it is formally present in the world. The only other
object which could account for the form of a given idea is its real object,
whether we are aware from the idea what that object is or not. In the case
of the idea of cold, supposing it to be materially false, its form is derived
from its object, ‘the sensation itself ’. It is because of the sensation that we
are conscious of our thinking of cold, conscious of having a certain kind
of thought, which is not the same as being conscious of some quality,
cold. Interpreting Descartes as a direct realist seems to be the only way to
make sense of the discussion of material falsity in a way compatible with
his account of objective reality.
Denying that Descartes’ use of ‘form’ in this context is a way of
referring to the intentional object of an idea is not inconsistent with his
use of ‘form’ in defining idea in the Second Replies. The form of a thought
contributes to my awareness of it, the thought, not to my awareness of the
object, which is accounted for by the notion defined in the following
definition (Definition III), the objective reality of an idea. Indeed, I may be
quite mistaken about which object I am aware of, a fact that undermines
the transparency thesis so often attributed to Descartes. This might seem
counterintuitive because it implies that, for Descartes, the awareness we
have of a thought is logically independent of what we take to be the
intentional object of the thought, but how foreign this suggestion is
depends on your point of view. If I am right about Descartes’ theory of
ideas, I can be aware of my thinking of cold, of a chimaera, of nothing,
without necessarily being aware of cold, a chimaera, or nothing. Ordina-
rily, perhaps, I differentiate among my thoughts in the same act of
differentiating among their objects, but Descartes’ discussion of material
falsity suggests that in some cases we may be quite wrong about which
object is the object of our thought while quite clear on which thought we
are having.
This interpretation of Descartes’ use of ‘form’ as the differentia of
thoughts, whatever that turns out to be, enables us to resist positing
merely intentional objects as the objects of ideas in cases where there
could not be corresponding external objects. This last point is important.
When one thinks of a triangle even though no triangles actually exist, it is
not the case, for Descartes, that one is thinking of intentional as opposed
to real triangles. One is thinking of something real, namely, a triangle, or
its eternal and immutable nature, only in an objective mode of being.
Existence has very little to do with what one is thinking about, but
whether something has a nature or does not. Ayers’ additional piece of
textual evidence in favour of his reading – Descartes’ remark to Caterus
that no one will take the idea of the sun to be the sun itself – should not,
therefore, be read as a commitment to representationalism. The context in
which this is asserted is one in which Descartes is keen to deny the absurd
view that the idea of the sun is the real sun, existing in the heavens, with
some extraneous label applied to it. It does not follow, however, that
Descartes is establishing a real distinction between the idea of the sun and
the sun itself, but rather a real distinction between the idea of the sun
and the sun in a non-objective mode of being. Descartes’ reply to Caterus
is compatible with the claim that the idea of the sun is the sun itself (not
some bewildered ghost or intentional sun), but the sun in an objective
mode of being (AT VII, 102).
Denying that Descartes posits a real distinction between the idea and
the thing of which it is an idea saves his account from representationalism,
but at what cost? Is the direct realism we have attributed to Descartes
simply mad, or indistinguishable from idealism? (cf. Ayers, 1998: 1068). If
there is no distinction between the idea of the sun and the sun itself, is it
impossible for one to exist without the other? From looking at Descartes’
account of material falsity, we can say that the form of direct realism is
strong in one direction, but tempered by the account of material falsity.
Every idea has an object, and so represents something real or positive
(whether actual or possible), but what that object is may be very obscure
to us. We may think that we are thinking directly about some mode of
bodies when all we are thinking about is a sensation, a mode of mind. Not
all forms of direct realism are ‘Fido’–Fido theories, and Descartes’ is
arguably one exception. Nor does it automatically follow that there is
no distinction between direct realism and idealism. Here is one way the
story could go, which is not to say that Descartes took it in this direction.
Let us suppose that the notion of ‘idea’ is to be understood as a whole
composed of two parts – a mode of mind and the thing it represents, in an
objective mode of being. For example, the idea of the sun is a whole
consisting of a mode of mind and the sun itself, existing as it does in the
intellect. When we think of these parts of the idea as parts of the whole,
then the mode of mind is a form of thought and the sun itself is the sun as it
exists in the intellect. The idea of the sun could not exist apart from either
the mode of mind or the sun itself, anymore than a whole could ever exist
apart from its parts. But it is compatible with the conclusion that the idea
of the sun (the whole) cannot exist apart from its parts, which includes not
existing apart from the sun, that the parts could exist apart from each other.
It follows, therefore, that the mode of mind, which is one component of
the idea of the sun, could exist apart from the sun itself, at least by an act of
God, and, hence, apart from the idea of the sun. Similarly, the sun itself
could exist apart from the mode of mind, and hence, the sun could exist
even if no idea of it had ever existed. This mereological approach to
the relationship between Cartesian ideas and their objects is one way,
therefore, to prevent the account collapsing into a form of idealism.
The attraction of this solution is that it enables us (1) to deny that there
is a real distinction between the idea and the real object of which it is an
idea, (2) to deny that there is a real distinction between the thing existing
objectively in the intellect and the thing existing formally outside the
intellect, (3) to avoid, therefore, representationalism and (4) to avoid
collapsing the distinction between direct realism and idealism. Although
this mereological interpretation of Cartesian ideas has these advantages, it
leaves unanswered, however, the question of what kind of distinction
there is between an idea and its object, between the idea of the sun and
the sun itself. It may seem from the above discussion that the distinction is
only a distinction of reason. The sun, conceived of objectively, just is the
idea of the sun and the idea of the sun is the sun itself existing in the
intellect. Descartes’ reply to Caterus suggests that he wants something like
an internal relationship between ideas and what they represent, but does
this reduce the distinction between the two to a mere conceptual distinc-
tion? Some readers may find themselves squirming at this suggestion that
an idea and its external object are merely conceptually distinct, for the
simple reason that conceptual distinctions nowadays do not usually imply
that there is more than one thing. No matter what ‘mode of being’ the sun
has in the intellect, isn’t it always going to be absurd to suppose that an
idea (e.g. the idea of the sun) and a corporeal thing (the sun itself ) are
numerically one thing?
In the next chapter, I argue against conflating the lack of real distinc-
tion with numerical identity. But we may note here that, in terms of
Descartes’ theory of distinctions, there can be metaphysical (i.e. numer-
ical) distinctions between things that are not really distinct. The modal
distinction between a substance and its modes preserves a metaphysical
and, hence, numerical distinctness between things that are not really
distinct. Similarly, a formal distinction is ‘less’ than a modal distinction,
but greater than a ‘ distinction of reason ratiocinantis ’ (which has no
foundation in reality).23 And there is even one kind of distinction of
reason – ratiocinatae – which would ground a metaphysical and, hence,
numerical distinction between an idea and its object (AT IV, 349–50).
When applied to an idea and what it represents, any one of these less
than real but greater than mere conceptual distinctions with no founda-
tion in reality would ensure some metaphysical and numerical distinction
between the idea and its object.
CONCLUSION
The issues raised by Descartes’ account of objective reality and material

falsity are difficult subjects to treat, and no one who slogs away at them
can pretend to come out of the process unscathed or sure of having gotten
to the bottom of things. I have argued here that an important key to
understanding Descartes’ account of representation, and of what it means
for an idea to be materially false, is to understand the different ways in
which, as laid down in the Passions, ideas are referred. With the exception
23
The formal distinction is intended to capture the distinction between special modes of a substance,
such as existence, size (in the case of bodies), duration and number, all of which follow from the
principal attribute of a substance. Although these modes are distinct from one another modally,
because the substance cannot exist without them, they can exist apart neither from the substance of
which they are modes nor each other. See the Letter to ***, 1645 or 1646 (AT IV, 349–50).
of the passions, our sensory experiences are not direct experiences of our
minds and their contents but experiences of external things as being
modified in certain ways. The significance of the referring notion extends,
therefore, to the very question of the kind of realism Descartes is advocat-
ing. I have argued here for a reading of Descartes as a direct realist that is
compatible with his analysis of material falsity, and which doesn’t collapse
into idealism. Since the Passions offers the most detailed explication of the
referring function, by ignoring this text, we may find that in treating the
parts of Descartes’ corpus as distinct from one another, we have missed
again something important about the whole.
CHAPTER 5
Action and passion: metaphysical integrationism

384847
For the soul and the body together, we have only that [primitive
notion] of their union, on which depends that of the force by which
the soul moves the body, and of the body for acting upon the soul
causing in it sensations [sentimens] and passions.
(AT III, 665)
When Elisabeth requests from Descartes a definition of the soul ‘more

particular than in your Metaphysic, that is to say, of its substance separate
from its action, thought’ in order to explain how ‘the soul of a human
being is able to determine the spirits of the body to produce voluntary
actions’ her suspicion is that nothing can move or be moved by a body
without being a body itself (6/16 May 1643, AT III, 66). Previously
persuaded by Descartes’ arguments for a real distinction of mind and
body, Elisabeth begins to doubt the coherence of the idea that these two
heterogeneous substances might nonetheless interact. As noted in chapter
1, Descartes does not address Elisabeth’s objection directly, but the Passions
represents something of an attempt to ground the interaction between
mind and body in a way that is, at least, perfectly consistent with his
dualism. In light of their exchange, it is not surprising that the Passions
begins on what would have seemed to be a distinctively metaphysical note.
In the first two articles, Descartes invokes the (Aristotelian) categories of
action and passion, which specify the conceptual relationship that obtains
between substances or within a single substance when a natural change
occurs. In the context of changes caused within the mind by the body, and
vice versa, the effect of applying these categories is an ingenious but
puzzling unity of modes across distinct substances to substitute for the
unity of substances Elisabeth suspects is necessary to avoid the fragmenta-
tion of the human being. It is not unreasonable to suppose, therefore, that
Descartes is here trying to plug a hole Elisabeth thinks prevents the union
from being intelligible.
116
Action and passion: metaphysical integrationism 117
A NEW INTERACTION PROBLEM
Introducing the general notion of a passion, Descartes writes in the first

article of the Passions:
I consider that all that which is done or which happens anew is generally called by
the Philosophers a passion with regard to the subject to which it happens and an
action with regard to that which makes it happen. And so, although the agent
and the patient are often very different, the action and the passion do not cease to be
always one and the same thing [une mesme chose], which has two names on account
of the two different subjects to which one can refer it. (AT XI, 328; my emphasis)
Describing actions and passions as une mesme chose might be dismissed
as simply two ways of describing a passion of the soul, as something
suffered by a soul (a being pushed) and as the result of some activity by an
external agent (a pushing), were it not that in the second article, Descartes
is careful to specify that the ‘action’ resides in the agent, the human body.
We never notice that there is any subject that acts more immediately upon our
soul than the body to which it is joined and that consequently we ought to think
that that which is in the former a passion is commonly in the latter an action.
(AT XI, 328)
Putting the first two articles together, we get the striking conclusion
that an action in the body, a motion of the pineal gland, just is one and
the same thing as a passion in the soul, an idea. But how could a passion
of an incorporeal soul be identical with a motion in the body?
Before we tackle this question, however, let us try to come to grips with
the basic terminology. What are actions and passions? The two funda-
mental categories of Descartes’ metaphysics are substances and modes.
Things that depend on no other (created) thing for their existence are
substances, which are known through their ‘attributes’ or general features.
Each substance has a ‘principal attribute’, which constitutes its nature and
essence, and to which all other attributes and modes may be referred
(AT VIIIA, 24–5). Extension is the principal attribute of body, and accounts
for the fact that bodies have shapes, sizes, are in motion or at rest. Thought
is the principal attribute of mind, which explains why minds can think
particular thoughts. We use the term ‘mode’, Descartes writes, when we
think of a substance as modified or affected in a certain way, (AT VIIIA, 26).
Modes are dependent upon a substance for their existence, and although it
is fair to say that a substance must have some modes or other, there is no
particular mode it is necessary for a substance to have (AT VIIIA, 29). Since
actions of the body (motions of the spirits) and passions of the soul
(thoughts) are not things which in themselves can exist independent from
substances, it seems reasonable to suppose that they are modes.1
The Passions is not the first context in which Descartes asserts that
actions and passions of distinct substances are ‘one and the same’, but it is
the first text in which actions and passions of distinct kinds of substances
are claimed to be one and the same thing, and in such a context special
problems are bound to arise. If, for example, we suppose that the expres-
sion ‘one and the same’ means ‘ is (numerically) identical with’, it is not
clear whether the claims made in the first two articles of the Passions are
consistent with central tenets of Descartes’ metaphysics. For example, do
the following propositions form a consistent set?
(1) Action and passion are (numerically) identical (PS, art.1).
(2) The action is in the agent (i.e. is a mode of the body); the passion is in
the patient (i.e. is a mode of the mind) (PS, art.2).
(3) Mind and body are really (i.e. numerically) distinct substances (Sixth
Meditation).
(4) Modes are not really distinct from their substances (Principles I, 61).
Consider the following two problems. The first is what appears to be a
general failure of transitivity. For any action/passion pair, A and B, which
are modes of distinct substances, C and D, it follows that A is identical
with B (by I) and with C (by 2 and 4); similarly, B is identical with A and
D; yet C and D are not identical (by 3). If two substances are really
distinct and can exist apart, it is natural to assume, given the transitivity of
identity, that no mode of one substance can be numerically identical with
a mode of a distinct substance. The second problem is specific to cases of
interaction within composite entities, such as the union of mind and
body. We might call this the problem of incompatible modes. It is one
thing to identify modes of distinct substances, like two motions belonging
to distinct bodies, as identical, but can a mode of mind, a thought, be
identical with a mode of extension, a corporeal motion? What would the
nature underlying such a mode be?
AN ARISTOTELIAN IDEA?
The terminology Descartes adopts in identifying actions and passions is,

as noted above, Aristotelian. Every natural change for Aristotle involves a
1
See Descartes’ Principles of Philosophy, I, 51–61, AT VIIIA, 24–30.
motion in the subject undergoing the change, a changing, and a being
changed or passion. When an agent causes some change in a patient,
between the action and the passion – the cutting and the being cut – there
is no real distinction but only a distinction of reason. Every change is an
action when referred to the terminus a quo, that which brings about the
change, and a passion when referred to the terminus ad quem, that which
undergoes the change or is moved towards a point of fulfilment. In the
case of transitive actions, where besides the exercise of a capacity there is a
product or result (a being changed), since the change is a transition from
potentiality to actuality, it resides in the subject of the change, the patient.
Where, then, the result is something apart from the exercise, the actuality is in
the thing that is being made, e.g., the act of building is in the thing that is being
built and that of weaving in the thing that is being woven, and similarly, in all
other cases, and in general the movement is in the thing that is being moved. . .2
Aristotle applies the same reasoning to cases involving a change in the
soul. In intransitive actions like perceiving, thinking or understanding, the
exercise of the capacity by the agent is the end itself. But in the case of
transitive actions like teaching, the end is a change in the patient, for it is
the student who undergoes the transition from ignorance to knowledge,
not the teacher. Hence the teaching is in the student, and is the same
thing as the learning. The activity is teaching only by its relation to the
agent (the teacher), who brings about the transition to knowledge.3
‘Action’ and ‘passion’ are relative terms, different ways of describing the
same event.
One interpretation of Descartes’ use of this terminology is that he
is simply adopting an Aristotelian idea, perhaps without fully under-
standing it.4 But there is one crucial difference. Unlike Aristotle,
Descartes does not, as we see from the second article of the Passions,
identify the action and passion as distinct ways of conceiving of some
change in the patient, but as modes of distinct substances. The action
2
Aristotle, Metaphysics, IX, 1050a, 30–4; Complete Works, ed. Barnes, 1984: 1659.
3
Aristotle, Metaphysics IX, 1048b, 18–25.
4
On the Aristotelian reading, see Des Chene (1996): ch.2 and pp. 257–72. Susan James (1997) also
construes the relationship between actions and passions in terms of Aristotle’s notions of actuality
and potentiality. Denis Kambouchner sees Descartes as departing from the traditional Aristotelian
framework but does not go so far as to admit any ontological interdependence between action and
passion. Kambouchner is more interested in what he sees as the emergence of a new genre in which
the subjects that comprise the union of mind and body are ‘empirically interdependent’ but
ontologically independent, by which I take it he means that an adequate explanation of the
functions of sensation and self-movement requires conceiving of the functions of the mind and
the body together, despite their real distinction (Kambouchner, 1995: 94–5).
resides not in the patient but in the agent. The same point is made to
Regius concerning causal interaction between bodies.
[I]n corporeal things, every action and passion consists in local motion alone and,
hence, is called an ‘action’ when that motion is considered in the mover and a
‘passion’ when it is considered in the moved. (AT III, 454)
Were Descartes to have adopted the Aristotelian idea that the action
and passion are in the moved, things might have been simpler. We could
dispense with proposition 2 and the remaining three propositions would
have been consistent. Supposing that Descartes did not simply misunder-
stand the Aristotelian doctrine, we may speculate as to why he does not
locate the action in the patient. Paul Hoffman (1990:316) surmises that
one motivation might stem from Descartes’ general rejection of migrating
modes. As Descartes explains to More, a force is nothing but a modal
entity, and thus he (More) is correct to deny that it can pass from one
body to another (AT V, 404–5). Since modes cannot exist apart from their
substances, they cannot be transferred to other substances. Had Descartes
thought that the Aristotelian conflation of action and passion presup-
posed the transfer of qualities from the agent to the patient, he could not
have consistently endorsed it in its original form.
Another possible motivation may derive from Descartes’ rejection of
motion in the soul. The only motion Descartes recognises is local motion,
which is a mode of extension. There is an analogue of motion in the soul,
namely volitions or the ‘actions’ of the soul (AT VIIIA, 7; AT II, 24; AT
VIIIA, 54). Passions of the soul are thus distinguished from volitions of
the soul, even though the latter are also passions in some more general
sense because the soul always perceives that it is willing something. At
article 17 Descartes distinguishes these two genera of thought, passions
and volitions, claiming that all thoughts belong to either of these two
categories.
It is easy to know that there remains nothing in us that we ought to attribute to
our soul unless it is our thoughts, which are principally of two kinds: namely, the
actions of the soul and its passions. Those which I call actions are all our volitions
because we experience that they come directly from our soul seeming to depend
only on it; as, on the contrary, one can generally call passions all the sorts of
perceptions or awarenesses which are found in us because often it is not our soul
which makes them such as they are, and because [the soul] always receives them
from things which are represented by them. (AT XI, 342)
This distinction between volitions and passions depends on the
motions that produce passions not being actions in the soul. What
distinguishes a passion of the soul in the strict sense, as defined at article
27, from passions in the more general sense is that the action with which it
is ‘one and the same’ is a mode of the body.
These may be good reasons for a Cartesian not to endorse the full
Aristotelian picture, but they do not make it any less mysterious why one
would use Aristotle’s terminology of actions and passions at all. Lilli
Alanen (in conversation) has suggested that what is ‘one and the same’
is something less specific than modes, a single ‘actuality’, which, in the
Physics, is described as the actualisation of some power in the agent and
some potentiality in the patient, but which is properly said to happen to
the patient. According to Alanen, the phenomenology of Cartesian pas-
sions makes this actuality ultimately unanalysable but clearly experienced
as a change in the soul and known (through argument) to depend upon
the body. Thus, we have two distinct ways of conceiving the passions: one,
through confused and obscure experience, and the other, through the
natural sciences (Alanen, 2003: 174–8). There is something to this idea,
but it does not bring Descartes and Aristotle closer on the analysis of
actions and passions. Aristotle’s analogies in the Physics for the ‘single
actuality’ an action and passion pair constitute – the steep descent being
one and the same thing as the steep ascent, the one to two interval
being one and the same as the two to one interval – are clear cases of
one thing being described in two ways, whereas the ‘passion in the mind’
and ‘action in the body’ in Descartes’ dualistic system are not.5 If the latter
pair constitute a single thing in Descartes’ metaphysics, it is a thing not
anticipated by what is generally taken to be the official ontology.6
Chances are, however, that the official ontology will need to be revised
anyway. Whether we think of Descartes as trying to describe some looser
‘actuality’ or as doing something metaphysically fancier, such as identify-
ing modes of distinct substances, we have still to tackle the question how
anything in the mind can be ‘absolutely dependent’ (PS, art.41) upon
motions in a body from which it is really distinct.
STRADDLING MODES
Paul Hoffman has done more than anyone else to bring the problems
associated with Descartes’ identification of action and passion to the
5
See, for example, Aristotle’s Physics, 202a12–20, in Complete Works, ed. Barnes, 1984.
6
It should be noted that Alanen agrees with this. Her reading is consistent with the project of
analysing the relationship between actions and passions.
attention of the scholarly community, and deserves, therefore, special
mention. Hoffman’s idea is that the passages concerning action and
passion show that Descartes was committed to the existence of modes
that ‘straddle’ two substances. A straddling mode is ‘a mode (token)
[which] can simultaneously be a mode of two substances’ (Hoffman,
1990: 313). Action and passion are numerically the same mode which,
when the soul exists in a union with the body, is a mode of two
substances. When we speak of the mode as inhering in the body we refer
to it as an action, and when we consider it as a mode of the soul, we call it
a passion. Between the action and the passion there is only a distinction of
reason. We give it one name when we refer it to the agent (a brain
motion), and another name when we refer it to the patient (a passion of
the soul) (Hoffman, 1990: 317).
Hoffman has adduced an impressive amount of textual support for his
radical thesis of straddling modes. Notable inclusions are Descartes’
remarks on the Eucharist and surfaces in the Replies to the Sixth Objections.
In the case of surfaces, Descartes is prepared to say that when two bodies,
A and B, are in contact with each other, the touching surfaces are ‘one and
the same’. He is also prepared to call surfaces ‘modes’, and in a move
which seems to contradict the conclusion of his argument to More against
the possibility of migrating modes, asserts that one and the same surface
can remain in existence even though the bodies of which it is a mode are
removed, provided they are replaced with bodies of the same dimensions.
When two bodies are mutually touching, the boundary [extremitas] of both
bodies, which is a part of neither but the same mode of both, is one and the
same thing and it can remain although those bodies are removed, provided only
that other bodies of exactly the same size and shape succeed them in the same
location. (AT VII, 434)
This concession is important for Descartes’ account of the Eucharist.
What is left when the body of Christ replaces that of the bread,
the whiteness and shape of the host, are not ‘real accidents’, as some
Scholastics thought, but simply the surface of the bread. (AT VII, 433–4).
The texts related to surfaces are difficult to interpret but not obviously
inconsistent with other aspects of Descartes’ metaphysical system.
Although in his discussion of surfaces, Descartes seems to commit himself
to migrating modes, he is not committed thereby to anything real or
subsistent migrating from one body to another. The boundary between
two contiguous bodies is, as Descartes points out, ‘a part of neither’ body,
although he is, as we have seen, prepared to call it a mode (AT VII, 433).
Surfaces do not have the same status for Descartes as other modes of
extension, like shape and motion. A surface is nothing other than the
boundary, ‘external place’ or limit beyond which there is no more of a
particular body, or the beginning of a distinct body, which is why ‘it can
appropriately be called the boundary of the contained body as much as
the containing one’ (AT VII, 433). Using contemporary semantic termi-
nology, we might say that expressions like ‘the surface of body A’ are non-
rigid designators, ways of defining a body by its relations to other bodies,
rather than names of monadic properties of bodies, about which one
might have to worry about their being transferable to other substances or
not.7 ‘The surface of body A’ might thus refer to something analogous to
an office, like ‘the Prime Minister of Australia’, which can be filled at
different times by distinct chunks of matter. Actions and passions, by
contrast, seem to have a more robust claim to reality. Whether the
discussion of surfaces constitutes evidence for the straddling modes view
is thus obscure.8
In terms of the above four propositions, Hoffman’s strategy is to accept
all four as correct interpretations. The chief virtue of his account is that it
preserves a natural and literal reading of Descartes’ assertion in article 1
that action and passion are ‘one and the same’. Each passion is, on
Hoffman’s reading, token-identical with an action of the body (Hoffman,
1990: 323). In response to the problem of transitivity, Hoffman notes that
the token-identity of modes of two substances does not entail the token-
identity of those substances, for it does not prevent our clearly and
distinctly conceiving thought and extension without each other, and it
is the latter which entails that the mind and body can be clearly and
distinctly conceived to exist apart (Hoffman, 1990: 317). This seems
correct for the following reason: passions and the actions which cause
them are non-essential modes of their substances, and thus, for Descartes,
the substances of which they are modes are capable of existing apart even
if their modes overlap at some time or another. Because substances can
7
See also Principles of Philosophy, II, 13 and 15 and my 2006.
8
Hoffman (1990: 321) claims his is a more convincing interpretation of Descartes’ claim in the Replies
to the Second Objections that ‘ images in the corporeal imagination are called “ideas” only in so far as
they “inform” the mind when turned towards [conversam] that part of the brain’ (AT VII, 160).
Hoffman interprets Descartes as saying that one and the same image is both a mode of mind,
relative to which it is an idea (a passion), and a motion of the brain, relative to which it is not an
idea. Descartes makes no claim in these passages, however, about the numerical identity between
images on the pineal gland and ideas in the soul and it is prudent not to read too much into his
being prepared to call corporeal images ideas. He is, after all, also prepared under some circum-
stances, as we have seen, to call the soul ‘extended’, but this does not mean that it is extended.
exist apart from their straddling modes, they can exist apart from any
other substance their modes straddle.
A harder problem for Hoffman is the problem of incompatible modes.
As Hoffman is aware, it is difficult to see how something could be both a
way of being extended (a motion) and a way of being non-extended
(a thought) (Hoffman, 1990: 318). This would be a problem, however,
Hoffman argues, only if the union of mind and body were a
simple substance. But given that the union is a composite substance, the
attributes of thought and extension are compatible with each other, as
attributes of the union (Hoffman, 1990: 318).9 Hoffman extends an idea
which Descartes defends in the Notae – namely, that thought and exten-
sion can belong in the same subject without contradiction provided
the subject is composite – to modes of thought and extension (AT VIIIB,
349–51). But it is not clear how the analogy is supposed to work. Are we to
say that a mode can be both a mode of extension and of thought provided
it is complex or provided it is a mode of a complex subject? The latter
seems to be where Hoffman initially is headed when he draws from the
texts in which the union is referred to as a composite substance.10 But this
strategy leads nowhere, for the fact that the union is a composite of mind
and body (and so is complex) does nothing to show how a single mode
can be both a mode of mind and a mode of body.11
Consider now the first option: straddling modes are themselves complex.
To keep the case parallel with that of the union, we must say that a straddling
mode is itself really a complex of something extended and something non-
extended. What could this complex thing be? And in what sense have we
preserved the idea that action and passion are ‘token-identical’, ‘one and the
same’ in a numerical sense? The union is a composite of parts that are token-
distinct. By analogy, if actions and passions form a composite, they too
should be composed of parts that are numerically distinct. Hoffman admits
to an ambiguity in the sense in which straddling modes are complex. A single
mode can be complex insofar as it is the subject of extensional and non-
extensional ‘features’ or ‘aspects’ (Hoffman, 1990: 320). Hoffman considers
9
See also Hoffman, 1986 and 1999.
10
See Cottingham’s argument for ‘trialism’, 1998: 82–4, and 1985, and Hoffman, 1986.
11
Because it lacks a principal attribute or essence of its own, the union is arguably not something of
which modes can be predicated (Alanen, 2003: 176). One might be tempted to think of an action
and a passion as a single mode of the union. But the status of the union as a substance or not is
irrelevant to the present problem. If we take an action and a passion to be a single mode of a single
substance or third thing, the union, it remains to be shown how one mode can be both a mode of
extension and of thought.
four interpretations of the term ‘aspects’ in this context: aspects are
either parts of modes, modes of modes, ‘sides’ of a mode existing in two
subjects at once (Hoffman’s preferred view), or nothing but two ways of
conceiving of a mode as in the following formulation: ‘Straddling modes,
even though they exist in two subjects, should not be thought of as complex.
Talk of aspects is merely talk of two ways of looking at one simple mode’
(Hoffman, 1990: 320).
Since a division into parts implies for Descartes a real distinction (AT
VIIIA, 28), the first interpretation is of no help in showing how action and
passion can be numerically identical. The second interpretation merely
shifts the problem – from explaining how one and the same mode can be
both a mode of thought and a mode of extension, to the question how one
and the same mode can itself have modes of thought and extension. What
‘sides’ are is somewhat obscure but, in any case, the third interpretation
falters on cases of immanent causation, for example, the spinning top that
maintains itself in motion once the whip is removed (or destroyed), for in
such cases there are not two substances to sustain different sides of the mode
(AT III, 428). By elimination, this leaves the fourth interpretation, which
treats action and passion much as Descartes treats motion and rest – as
conceptually distinct or relative ways of thinking about the same thing –
and as Aristotle treats actions and passions and steep ascents and descents. It
is unlikely, however, that for Descartes the difference between a way of
being extended and a way of being non-extended is just a difference in the
frame of reference. If it were, one would not expect him to be so confident
of the real distinction between mind and body. None of these versions of a
double-aspect theory adequately addresses the original problem, which was
to explain how something that is numerically one could be both a mode of
extension and a mode of thought.
The stumbling block in the straddling modes view so far has been the
assumption that action and passion are token-identical. This assumption
raises other problems besides the incompatibility of modes objection.
There is what we might call the inseparability of modes objection. Someone
might, for example, reason thus: not even God can separate a thing
from itself, hence, if action and passion are token-identical, not even God
can make one without the other. But this seems contrary to Descartes’ idea
of divine power. As Descartes states in the Replies to the Sixth Objections :
For to be done naturally is nothing other than to be done through the ordinary
power of God, which in no way differs from his extraordinary power; nor does
[the ordinary power of God] posit in the world anything other. (AT VII, 435)
In light of this passage, let us add a fifth proposition to our original
set: (5) God can do anything any natural cause can do. If we take (5)
seriously, we ought to allow that for any mode of the soul which is naturally
caused by a motion in the body, God could have caused the one without the
other.
Perhaps God’s power does extend to separating a thing from itself, at
least when that thing is a complex straddling mode. Hoffman points out
that in the First Meditation, Descartes claims that sensing is a form of
thinking, and that we can be certain sensations exist even if there are no
bodies producing them (AT VII, 29; Hoffman, 1990: 318–19). By the end of
the Meditations, however, we learn that God is no deceiver, and hence that
we can be certain that our sensations are really caused by external bodies
(AT VII, 78–80). While Descartes seems committed to saying that God
would not cause our sensations directly (since that would make him a
deceiver), Hoffman does not think it follows that God could not do this.
The power of God entails that whatever can be brought about naturally
could have been brought about directly by God.
On the first three interpretations of the dual-aspect theory, Hoffman
thinks an objection like this can easily be met (Hoffman, 1990:322). If
aspects are non-essential, a mode can exist without one of its aspects, its
extended part, mode or side, and thus be caused by a demon or God
(Hoffman, 1990: 325). The fourth reading might be compatible with the
possibility of God-caused sensations, provided we take Descartes to be
referring to the ‘judgements’ we make regarding our sensations at the ‘third
grade of sensory response’, which Descartes distinguishes in the Sixth Set of
Replies from their proximal causes in the body (the first grade) and the
immediate effects of those motions on the soul (the second grade) (AT VII,
436–8). The first two grades presuppose the existence of bodies, but the
third is described only in terms of the intellect’s involvement. If God were
to cause our sensations directly there would be third grade or intellectual
passions – passions arising only from God’s activity upon the soul.
Saying that a straddling mode could exist without one of its aspects
(e.g. without its being an action of a body) implies, however, that it could
exist without one of the substances of which it is supposedly a mode. This
alone violates proposition 4: that modes are not really distinct from the
substances of which they are modes. Hoffman’s solution at this point
depends on the robustness and independence of aspects – on the possibi-
lity of an aspect of a mode being non-essential, and thus on the possibility
of a mode of mind (just like a surface) existing apart from its substance
under unusual circumstances. Or perhaps a mode could come to have a
numerically distinct aspect from that which it actually has, were it
produced by another agent (Hoffman, 1990: 326).
So even though a straddling mode is necessarily self-identical, perhaps it is not
essential to it that it straddle mind and body. Suppose then that being a sensation
is essential to a particular mode, but being a bodily action is not. In that case it
would be possible for us to have the very sensations we do even if no bodies
existed. (Hoffman, 1990: 325)
What is it exactly that God causes directly in the soul in this counter-
factual scenario, and what is it that he is not creating? If being a bodily
motion is not essential to a mode’s being a sensation, then in what sense is
it numerically the same thing as that which God causes in the soul? The
distinction between aspects may not, in the end, prove to be a better
solution to this puzzle than positing a numerical distinction between
actions and passions themselves. At least this is one option we have yet
to explore.
ACTION AND PASSION AS TWO MODES
Hoffman’s efforts are directed at reconciling proposition (2), the claim

that action and passion are modes of two subjects, with proposition (1),
the claim that action and passion are numerically identical. Is proposition
(1), however, the right way to interpret Descartes’ claim that action and
passion are une mesme chose (or, in the Latin texts, unam et eandem rem)?
The fact that Descartes refers to the chose or res that action and passion
constitute in the singular does not settle much. For he refers to the union
of mind and body also in the singular even though it is a composite of two
substances. Calvin Normore and I have argued that the sense in which
actions and passions constitute a unity is akin to the way in which the
human being is a unity (Brown and Normore, 2003). Like the union of
mind and body, there is, on our view, no numerically single metaphysical
entity that action and passion constitute, and yet, in some sense, they
form a unity.12
We propose that the sense in which action and passion are ‘one and the
same’ is that they are not really distinct from each other, but being not
really distinct does not entail numerical or ‘token’ identity. It is not, for
12
Since Descartes does not recognise primitive relations, we should resist the temptation to say that
action and passion constitute a single relation. It wouldn’t help anyway. His way of analysing the
relation between action and passion – as modes (of distinct substances) that are une mesme chose – is
precisely what needs explaining.
example, a general principle of Descartes’ metaphysics that a lack of real
distinction implies numerical identity. Modes are not really distinct from
their substances, but there is some distinction between them, a modal
distinction, which enables us to count these as numerically distinct
(AT VIIIA, 29). The original inconsistency in propositions 1-5 can thus
be removed by abandoning (1) in favour of the weaker (1)*:
(1)*. Action and passion are not really distinct.
If an action in the body and passion of the soul are numerically distinct
but not really distinct, they can be said to be ‘one and the same’, just as a
substance and its modes are one and the same despite being numerically
distinct. Although this is not perhaps the most natural way to interpret the
claim that action and passion are une mesme chose, it has a number of
considerable advantages over rival theories. (1)* is compatible with the
possibility of some kind of metaphysical distinction (perhaps modal,
perhaps formal) between action and passion, and thus with the action
being a mode of body, and the passion, a mode of mind.13 If action and
passion are numerically distinct, there is no contradiction in the passion
residing in the patient and the action residing in the agent, where patient
and agent are distinct substances. With respect to the problem of transi-
tivity, it is important to bear in mind that the lack of a real distinction
does not have the features that identity has, such as being symmetrical or
being subject to Leibniz’ law. A mode is not really distinct from its
substance but not conversely, and, in general, what is true for modes is
not necessarily true for substances of which they are modes. Could we say
that the same is true when a mode is ‘absolutely dependent’ on another
substance and its modes? The fact that a mode of one substance is not
really distinct from the substance of which it is a mode and also not really
distinct from another substance on which it also depends, does not entail
that the two substances on which it depends are not really distinct. Again,
if a substance can be clearly and distinctly conceived apart from its modes,
including those that depend on other substances, it can be clearly and
distinctly conceived apart from any other substance and its modes. The
dependence of a mode on the modes of a distinct substance, and hence on
another substance, does not threaten to undermine the real distinction
between the two substances.
13
By a formal distinction, I do not mean to suggest that actions and passions would belong in the
category of attributes, only that they belong in the category of modes that cannot be conceived
apart from one another. See AT IV, 349.
The two modes view also preserves the distinction between volitions
and passions of the soul. Volitions are not really distinct from the passions
that constitute the soul’s awareness of its volitions, and the passions of the
soul are not really distinct from the actions of the body, but there is some
(less than real) distinction between the actions and the passions in each
case. Because some distinction is preserved between passions of the soul
and motions of the body, there is no need to suppose that there is any
other action in the soul besides its volitions.
Since the two modes view does not suppose that a mode of extension is
token-identical with a mode of thought, the problem of incompatible
modes is not as acute as it is on other interpretations. There is no one
thing that has both the nature of a thought and the nature of extension.
But if a passion depends absolutely upon the body, such that it is not
possible to conceive of a passion without an action of the body, is the
passion not, according to the modal distinction, a mode of body? By the
same reasoning is not an action in the pineal gland, also a mode of mind?
Have we simply substituted one incompatibility problem for another?
One way to approach this last question is to rethink exactly what work
the modal distinction is supposed to do. It might be assumed that the
relationship of (one-way) dependence characterised by the modal distinc-
tion is what defines something as a mode. I am not convinced that this is
correct as a general principle, but were it true, it would follow that
wherever there is a mode that is not really distinct from a substance, the
mode is a mode of that substance. So any sensation or passion that is
dependent upon the body for its existence should automatically be con-
sidered a mode of body. We have seen the problems that this conclusion
generates in discussing Hoffman’s view. But there are other problematic
cases as well.14 Our innate ideas are modes of mind that are (eminently)
caused by God and so bear a relationship of one-way dependence on God
for their being. But innate ideas are not modes of God if, for no other
reason than the one Hoffman gives, that God has no modes (Principles, I
56; AT VIIIA, 26).15 My suspicion is that the modal distinction was never
intended to define the conditions for something’s being a mode, or the
conditions under which a mode belongs to a certain kind of substance,
14
If one-way dependence were sufficient for something’s being a mode of a substance, and if we take
Descartes’ comments to Mesland (AT IV, 166–7) about the human body being one and the same
through time because of its relationship to the mind, we should conclude that the human body is a
mode of mind. Clearly, something is amiss. See my 2006.
15
Hoffman, 1990: 324.
but to define simply the ontological relationship between those things
that are modes and their substances. If this is correct, we should not infer
from the dependence of sensations and passions on the body that they are
modes of the body as well as of the mind.
Something besides the relationship of one-way dependence is required
to explain why something is a mode, but what might that be? I’m not sure
that there is a clear answer in the corpus, but here are two speculative
answers. The first is that for something to be a mode of a substance it
must be of the same ontological category as, or compatible with the
principal attribute of, that substance. If God cannot support modes
because of His simplicity, then we might just as well say that a body
cannot support a passion of the mind because of its extension, and a
mind cannot support a motion because of its unextended nature. Pro-
vided one has independent reasons for making such claims about the
natures of mind and body (which Descartes can at least claim to have
from the Meditations), this response will not involve any circularity.
Determining the compatibility of modes with a given substance is listed
as one of the functions of the principal attribute at Principles I, 53:
From any attribute whatever the substance is known, but one, however, of each
substance is the leading property which constitutes the nature and essence of it
and to which all the others are referred. Thus extension in length, breadth and
depth constitutes the nature of a corporeal substance, and thinking (cogitatio)
constitutes the nature of the thinking substance. Everything else which is able to be
attributed to a body presupposes extension and is indeed only a mode of res extensa, as
all those things which we find in the mind are only diverse modes of thinking. (AT
VIIIA, 25, my emphasis)
Compatibility with the principal attribute of a substance is a necessary

but not sufficient condition for something’s being a mode of a given
substance. And while this restriction rules out straddling modes between
distinct kinds of substances, it does not exclude straddling modes between
substances of the same ontological type. To be a mode of a substance
requires some additional factor besides compatibility with the principal
attribute and one-way dependence, something that grounds its inherence.
Some notion of inherence certainly seems to be presupposed (although
not defined) in Descartes’ discussion of the first two kinds of modal
distinction.
The first (kind of modal distinction) is known from the fact that we are able to
perceive clearly the substance without the mode which we say differs from it, but
we are not able, vice versa, to understand that mode without the substance. As
figure and motion are distinguished modally from the corporeal substance in
which they inhere, so also are affirmation and memory from the mind. The
second kind of modal distinction is known from the fact that we are able to
grasp one mode without the other mode and vice versa but neither, however,
without the substance in which they inhere. (AT VIIIA, 29; my emphasis)
The description of the modal distinction in this passage from the
Principles is intended to define the ontological relationship between
modes and substances (and between modes themselves), not to specify
the necessary and sufficient conditions under which a mode is a mode of a
given substance. If this is correct, then one-way dependence alone will not
guarantee the kind of unity that exists between a substance and its modes.
Is there any evidence, however, that the two modes view is what
Descartes had in mind when he asserted that every action is one and the
same thing as a passion? On the two modes view, what Descartes is trying
to define is a relationship of ontological dependence that obtains between
modes of distinct substances in such a way that it is impossible to conceive
of one completely without the other, and, in general, ontological depen-
dency does not entail numerical identity. The important sources of textual
support for this view are those passages in which Descartes conflates a
causal relationship with metaphysical dependence, for example, at article
41, where the power of the will is defined with respect to the passions, and
it is noted that because passions are ‘absolutely dependent’ upon the
actions in the body which cause them, the will can only indirectly change
its passions (AT XI, 359). Another important passage is where in contrast-
ing God and human beings, Descartes observes that even if perception is a
perfection of sorts, the fact that it involves being acted upon implies
dependency, and hence relative to God’s perfections, perception is an
imperfection.
And although there may be in us a certain perfection, namely that we sense,
because the kind of perfection in every sense is a passion, and to suffer is to
depend upon another, in no way is God thought to sense but only to understand
and will. (AT VIIIA, 13–4)
Descartes’ technical term for the dependency of modes upon substances
is the lack of real distinction, not numerical identity. At Principles I, 61,
where the modal distinction is being defined, Descartes never states that
modes and their substances are numerically identical, emphasising instead
the metaphysical dependency of modes upon their substances. Why not
use this terminology in explaining the dependency that obtains between
modes related as actions and passions of distinct substances?
So far, so so. But it might be objected that there is explicit textual
evidence against the ‘two modes’ reading. At Principles I, 61, for example,
Descartes asserts that the relationship between modes of distinct
substances is more properly called a real distinction.
The distinction, however, by which the mode of one substance differs from
another substance or from the mode of another substance, as the motion of one
body differs from another body or from the mind, and also as motion differs
from doubt, seems to be more properly called a real distinction rather than a
modal distinction since those modes are not clearly understood apart from the
really distinct substances of which they are modes. (AT VIIIA, 29–30)
Notice, however, that the cases under consideration in this passage are
precisely cases of independent modes of distinct substances, modes we can
clearly and distinctly understand apart from one another but not apart
from the really distinct substances of which they are modes. Indeed, the
passage suggests a general test for deciding when a real distinction between
modes of distinct substances obtains, and thus can be read as allowing, in
a roundabout way, real unities between modes of distinct substances.
When a mode can be ‘clearly understood apart’ from either another mode
or another substance, then it is really distinct from that mode or
substance, and when it cannot be so understood, it follows that it is not
really distinct. Descartes is not, at Principles I, 61, considering modes of
distinct substances related as actions and passions, but compare those of
Principles I, 48:
we also experience within ourselves certain other things which ought to be
referred neither to the mind alone nor to the body alone. These arise . . . from
the intimate union of our mind with the body: for example, appetites of hunger,
thirst etc.; emotions [commotiones] or passions of the mind [animi pathemata],
which do not consist of thought alone [quae non in sola cogitatione consistunt], such
as the emotion of anger, joy, sadness and love, etc.; and finally, all the sensations,
such as of pain, pleasure, light, colour, sound, smell, taste, heat, hardness and of
other tactile qualities. (AT VIIIA, 23; my emphasis)
In this passage, Descartes uses the same test we find in Principles I, 61 to
distinguish modes that we have through the union of mind and body
from those that we have from some other source. Because these modes of
mind cannot be clearly and distinctly conceived apart from the body, they
‘do not consist of thought alone’. For passions and sensations to ‘not
consist in thought alone’ they do not have to straddle mind and body.
The single actuality created through the production of a passion isn’t a
single mode. It is, as we shall see, a much more complex phenomenon.
THE INSEPARABILITY PROBLEM REVISITED
We have now to look at how well the ‘two modes’ view handles the issues
related to God’s power to cause a passion directly in the soul. To say that
two things are not really distinct would seem to imply that they are
inseparable. ‘Those things which either are able to be separated by God
or are able to be conserved separately are really distinct’ (AT VIIIA, 29).
Yet, if God is omnipotent and actions and passions are numerically
distinct modes, surely God could create a particular passion (for example,
this dread of missed deadlines) without any action in the body causing it.
In answering this difficulty, let us draw on the mereological picture of
Cartesian ideas advanced in chapter 4 and regard a passion as an idea
which is constituted by two parts: a mode of mind and certain motions of
the animal spirits. As a whole cannot exist without all its parts, so too a
passion, in the strict sense, cannot exist apart from its parts, but just as the
parts of a whole can exist separately from each other, so too the mode of
mind and motions of the spirits which together constitute a passion could
exist apart, if God chooses to separate them. God could make the very
mode of mind that, if caused by certain motions in the body, would be a
passion, without making those motions in the body, and vice versa. In
either case, this would not, however, be making a passion of the soul.16
It is crucial to note that it does not follow from this account that
the passion of the soul is really distinct from the action of the body. The
passion is the whole, which is not really distinct from its parts, the
motions of the animal spirits and their effects on the soul, and were we
to try to conceive of a passion just in terms of one of its parts, our idea of
it would be essentially incomplete. Saying that this whole consists of
separable parts is not the same as saying that actions and passions can
exist apart. The chief virtue of the mereological picture of the relationship
between passions and actions is that it is consistent, therefore, with the
claim that actions and passions are une mesme chose, while acknowledging
God’s power to produce any effect in the mind a natural cause can
produce.
We can, therefore, agree with Hoffman that what God or the Malin
Genie of the First Meditation could do is cause directly a sensation in the
restricted sense of ‘seeming to see, to hear, and to be warmed’ (AT VII, 29),
16
This is not to say that God, in making the mode of mind without making a passion of the soul,
would not be making an idea. The point is rather that God would not under those circumstances
be making that idea, which is a passion when naturally caused.
for that is simply to produce a mode of thinking. But the conceivability of
this does not entail conceiving of a passion as existing apart from the
body that actually gives rise to it. Nothing in the demon hypothesis
should be taken as implying a real distinction between or the conceivable
separability of passions of the soul and actions of the body.
Thinking of actions and passions as constituting a whole which is made
up of events in the body and thoughts in the mind, is as close as we are
going to get to the Aristotelian idea that an action and passion constitute a
‘single actuality’. Why there should be such strange wholes, composed of
distinct kinds of modes, is beyond our understanding because their
existence is ultimately tied to that of the union, another piece of forbidden
fruit for human understanding. But supposing that these wholes exist is
less mysterious than supposing either that actions and passions are token-
identical straddling modes or that they are single modes of some third
kind of substance besides mind and body, namely, the union.
Does any of this constitute progress against Elisabeth’s original objec-
tion? Elisabeth is looking for a mechanism to explain interaction, but no
mechanism other than the mechanism of the body is required for the soul
to move the body if its body-directed volitions are not really distinct from
movements of the spirits and, mutatis mutandis, nothing else is required
for the body to affect the soul if the movements of its spirits are not really
distinct from passions of the soul. Has not Descartes here captured the
metaphysical relationship required for mind–body interaction in a fashion
perfectly consistent with his dualism? In the final analysis, however, the
victory may seem hollow, for what exactly is there to distinguish the claim
that actions and passions are not really distinct from the claim that
there are necessary correlations between modes of mind and body but
no real interaction? Little wonder then that interpreters of Descartes in his
own time and ours have read his account of mind–body interaction as
supporting the doctrine of occasional causes.17 This is, however, a
mistake.
17
Daniel Garber lists many members of the Cartesian school, including Clauberg, Clerselier,
Cordemoy, de la Forge, Geulincx and Malebranche, who defended occasionalism (Garber, 2001:
203). Desmond Clarke has recently argued that Descartes is an occasionalist about all types of
causal interaction (Clarke, 1999; de la Forge, 1664). See also Nadler, 1995:129–44. Gordon Baker
and Katherine Morris see no ‘collision’ between interactionist and occasionalist readings of mind–
body interaction in Descartes, and claim that the occasionalist reading is required to save Descartes
from contradiction (Baker and Morris, 1996: 138–42). I confess I don’t understand how the
‘correlations’ they see existing between events in the body and thoughts in the mind, instituted
by God, add up to anything richer than parallelism or occasionalism in the traditional sense.
MIND–BODY UNION AND DESCARTES’ ANTI-OCCASIONALISM
The above discussion brings to the fore the ways in which the inability to
conceive of certain things without making reference to their causes is, for
Descartes, evidence of a metaphysical relationship between them. But it
may seem objectionable to treat what Descartes is left with as causality in
any acceptable sense of the word. Do these relationships between modes
of body and mind related as actions and passions constitute genuine
efficient causality or something weaker, such as parallelism or occasion-
alism? I shall here try to dispel this idea by arguing that Descartes’ use of
the terminology of action and passion is sufficient evidence that he did
not subscribe to the doctrine of occasional causes.
Occasionalism is the view that God is the only real cause in the
universe; all apparent natural (or ‘secondary’) causes are simply ‘occasions’
for God’s direct activity.18 During the Middle Ages, the doctrine of
occasionalism was applied by its advocates in all putative causal contexts
and was motivated primarily by issues related to divine power. A common
belief was that God plays both a productive and sustaining role with
respect to substances. Indeed, these two roles are really only two sides of
the same power. God’s role in sustaining bodies in existence was to some
no different from his recreating them in different places at different times,
a fact which for occasionalists creates the illusion of their being moved by
each other.19 Descartes too subscribes to the doctrine of divine sustenance
and to the conflation of God’s sustaining and recreating role, but despite
all the attention it still receives in the debate over his alleged occasional-
ism, the doctrine of divine sustenance is something of a red herring.20
The focus of medieval concerns about the status of ‘secondary causes’
was on the question of how consistent Aristotle’s account of causality –
per se causality – was with divine will, knowledge and power, and only
18
It is possible to restrict one’s occasionalism to a particular domain. Daniel Garber holds
Descartes to be an occasionalist about body-to-body and body-to-mind causation but not about
mind-to-body causation. Garber hesitantly suggests Descartes may have changed his mind, moving
towards a more occasionalist picture of body-to-mind causation by the time of the Notae of 1648.
See Garber, 1993: 9–26; 1992: 299–305; 2001: 205–19. Garber does not, however, rely on the Passions
in formulating his view.
19
This is explicitly the case in Louis de la Forge’s Traité de l’esprit de l’homme (1664: 240). See Garber,
2001: 189–91.
20
In the context of medieval debates about God’s existence and causal role, Descartes’ adherence
to this doctrine – for example, in the argument for God’s existence of the Third Meditation
(AT VII, 49–50), in his comment to Elisabeth (6 October 1645; AT IV, 314) that God is the ‘total
cause of everything, and thus nothing can happen without His will’, and in his reply to Gassendi
that God is the cause of the being (causa secundum esse) of created things not merely of their
derivatively with its compatibility with divine sustenance. The conceptual
relationship between actions and passions is, for Aristotle, tied up with the
account of per se causality, and so, one should expect that to the extent
that Descartes follows Aristotle in adhering to the conceptual relationship
between actions and passions, he too would be onside with the doctrine of
secondary causes. This, at least, is a hypothesis worth exploring.
The debate over occasionalism in the seventeenth century had its roots,
therefore, in an earlier debate, and as the debate progressed, the question
of conceptual connections between natural causes and effects became
pivotal. For the Islamic philosopher, Al-Ghazali, the conceptual connec-
tion postulated by Aristotelians between per se or proper causes and their
effects, the sculptor and the sculpture, entailed a limitation on divine will,
knowledge and power, and the impossibility (without logical contradic-
tion) of miracles.21 The sculptor is, for Aristotle, a per se cause of the
sculpture because that the artefact is produced by a sculptor in a certain
way is constitutive of its being a sculpture.22 The notion of a per se cause
contrasts with that of an accidental cause, which bears no internal rela-
tionship to the effect. If the sculptor is a musician, we may say that a
musician was the cause of the sculpture, but being a musician is only
accidentally a cause of a sculpture.23 Aristotle’s account puts an obvious
constraint on the adequacy of causal explanations. Causal explanations
must be in terms of per se causes. Accidental causation is inexplicable.24
The Aristotelian notions of action and passion are ways of expressing
this conceptual relationship between per se causes and their effects. The
becoming (causa secundum fieri; AT VII, 369) – is unremarkable and does not imply a rejection of
secondary causes. In particular, it does not distinguish him from a Thomist or Scotist or any other
defender of God as a higher-order cause. On the higher-order causality model, God is necessary to
explain why a given cause’s causing its effect is a causing. God’s activity is not however productive
of the effect. Nor, for someone like Scotus, is God even a partial cause of the effect. God’s causality
is of a different order and ratio from natural causes. Contrast the occasionalist, who argues that
God directly produces the effect on the occasion of the (finite) cause. It is the finite efficient cause
that produces the effect, but it would not be a causing without God’s willing it to be so. All this is
compatible, so the story goes, with the claim that the finite cause has a genuinely productive role.
See John Duns Scotus, De primo principio 3.11 (Wolter, 1996: 47) and Calvin Normore’s 2003
discussion. Daniel Garber argues against understanding God’s conserving role, for Descartes, in
terms of His re-creating bodies in different places. He also claims that although Descartes’ God is
required to sustain substances in existence, this does not mean that those substances cannot affect
one another modally (Garber, 2001: 192; 199–202). Of course, insofar as God is the total cause of
everything which happens, God is required on Descartes’ view as a cause of modal changes as much
as anything else, particularly if these changes produce new modes of being, but this is consistent
with God’s being a higher-order cause and a non-occasionalist reading.
21
Al-Ghazali, Tahafut-al-falasifa, The Incoherence of the Philosophers (Marmura’s translation, 1997).
22 23 24
Aristotle, Physics, II.3; 195a5. Ibid., II.3; 195a38. Ibid., II.3; 197a19.
sculptor is a per se cause of the sculpture through her activity, the
sculpting, which is at the same time the same thing as the being sculpted,
the actualisation of the sculpture. On this picture, the (efficient) cause is
the sculptor, the action, the sculpting, and the passion, the being sculpted.
Action and passion are two ways of describing the effect, one in relation to
the agent and the other in relation to the patient. It was precisely the
supposition of a conceptual relationship obtaining between cause and
effect that was deemed problematic by occasionalists. Al-Ghazali argues,
for example:
On the contrary, it is within divine power to create satiety without eating, to
create death without decapitation, to continue life after decapitation, and so on
to all connected things. . .we allow the possibility of the occurrence of the contact
[with fire] without the burning, and we allow as possible the occurrence of the
cotton’s transformation into burnt ashes without contact with the fire.25
If there can be a sculptor without a sculpture, and vice versa, there is no
chance of any conceptual connection, contra Aristotle, between two finite
things. Denying that finite causes are necessary to produce certain effects
does not, however, exclude their being sufficient causes, but the latter,
Al-Ghazali assumes, would make God’s causal role redundant. He con-
cludes, therefore, that God’s omnipotence entails that He is the direct
cause of every natural change, and explains the appearance of secondary
causes, in Humean style, in terms of our psychological habits. ‘The
appearance of conceptual connections between causes and effects is in
the meantime explained in terms of the habitual associations we make
between successive events.’ 26
The sceptical consequences of Al-Ghazali’s position for the possibility
of natural science and freely willed actions were not lost on his critics, in
particular, Averroes, and the doctrine of higher-order causality, which
emerged to account for causality within a divinely ordered universe, was
an attempt to relativise the operation of per se causes to what was
concurrent with God’s will.27 Even though all natural causes are depen-
dent for their being causes on an external agent, God, whose act is the
condition of their activity, it is the natural causes which are productive of
their effects, and which are the condition for understanding their effects.
25
Tahafut al-falasifa, 17 (1–2), in Marmura, trans. 1997: 170–1.
26
Ibid., 17 (1), in Marmura, trans. 1997: 170.
27
See, for example, Averroes’ Tahafut al-Tahafut (The Incoherence of the Incoherence of the
Philosophers), I.4.1, a reply to Al-Ghazali. van den Bergh, 1978.
It is against this background that Descartes’ alleged occasionalism must
be set. His occasional use of occasionalist language tells us little in the face
of his more frequent use of causal terminology.28 Instead, we must ask
whether, for Descartes, there are conceptual connections between finite
causes and effects. Consider, for example, how the perceived lack
of conceptual connections between finite events motivates Descartes’
successor, Nicholas Malebranche, to embrace occasionalism.
As I understand it, a true cause is one in which the mind perceives a necessary
connection [liaison nécessaire] between the cause and its effect. Now it is only in
an infinitely perfect being that one perceives a necessary connection between its
will and its effects. Thus God is the only true cause, and only He truly has the
power to move bodies.29
Since natural causes are not, for Malebranche, perceived by the mind as
bearing a necessary connection with their effects, they do not qualify as
true causes. The necessity at issue here is conceptual necessity, and it
must, therefore, for Malebranche, be knowable a priori or perceived by
the mind alone. As noted above, the Cartesian notions of mind and body
entail nothing about how they might be sources of motion or affect each
other. Where the idea of motion comes from is, for this reason, somewhat
mysterious on Descartes’ metaphysics and leads Malebranche to conclude
that the power and force to move finite substances belongs exclusively to
the idea of God.30
Malebranche’s rejection of per se causality may seem to be part and
parcel of the mechanist’s rejection of substantial forms, which, for Aris-
totelians, explain the behaviour and interaction of natural substances. But
I take it that by retaining the Aristotelian terminology of action and
passion as a means of characterising substances as they are modified by
other substances, Descartes is less keen than Malebranche to reject the
idea of natural causation. The passions of the soul are essentially caused by
motions of the animal spirits, which is why they can be called actions of
the body even though they are modes of an incorporeal mind, and
28
Descartes’ use of occasionalist language does not indicate a commitment to occasionalism. In
response to Regius’ assertion that the senses are an adequate source of all our ideas, Descartes
replies that we only judge that our sensory ideas refer to real properties because the corresponding
motions in the body ‘give the mind occasion’ to form ideas (AT VIIIB, 359). As Dan Garber points
out, however, Descartes’ concern here is not with the question of whether or not the body is a real
cause of the mind’s ideas but with Regius’ assumption that ideas resemble their causes (Garber,
1992: 366).
29
Malebranche, 1980, VI. 2.3; Lennon and Olscamp, 1997.
30
Malebranche, 1980, VI. 2.3.
voluntarily produced motions of the body are essentially caused by modes
of the soul, which is why they can be thought of as actions of the mind
and passions of the body. Descartes’ account of causality is not, as it is for
Aristotle, grounded in the ontology of substantial forms, but this does not
make it any less an account of genuine (non-occasionalist) causality. What
Malebranche does not seem to realise is the fact that the idea of causality is
not a consequence of Descartes’ basic ontological categories (mind and
body) is epistemologically rather than metaphysically significant. Our
knowledge of causality is not based on a priori intuition or deduction.
To understand causality on Descartes’ view, we must look not to the
metaphysical notions of mind and body but to his third ‘primitive’
notion, the union of mind and body. Significantly, as we saw earlier, this
notion is the product of experience rather than metaphysical reflection. As
Descartes writes to Arnauld (29 July 1648):
That the mind, which is incorporeal, would be able to move the body is shown to
us not by any reasoning [ratiocinatio] or comparison [comparatio] with another
thing but from a most certain and most evident daily experience. For this one
thing is from things per se known, which when we wish to explain them [the per se
notae] by others, we obscure. (AT V, 222)31
The kind of certainty we have from the ‘primitive’ notion of the union
and our experience of mind–body interaction is not the kind, therefore,
that Malebranche is seeking. It is definitively a posteriori and yet basic to
our understanding of causality generally. In a complete inversion of
Malebranche’s argument, Descartes argues that the idea of God’s power
is not the primitive idea upon which our understanding of causality is
based, but an idea that derives from an understanding of our own power
to move bodies. As Descartes explains to More (15 April 1649):
And as it does not disgrace a philosopher to think that God is able to move a
body, even though he does not think that God is a body, so also it does not
disgrace him to judge something similar concerning other incorporeal substances;
and although I think that nothing belongs to God and creatures univocally,
I admit, however, that I find in my mind no idea which represents the mode by
which God or an angel is able to move matter diverse from that which exhibits to
me the mode by which I am, through my thought, conscious that I am able to
move my body. (AT V, 347)
Our first exposure to causality is through our consciousness of our own
agency – of our ability to move our body and other bodies through our
31
See also the letter to Elisabeth, 28 June 1643 (AT III, 693–4).
volitions. To the extent that we understand the productive role of angels
and God, it is dependent upon this basic grasp of our own power to move
bodies. Daniel Garber has argued that because we understand God’s
agency through understanding our own, and through God, the laws of
nature, it is ultimately through the experience of our own agency that we
understand physics (Garber, 2001: 185–6).32 If these arguments are correct,
our understanding of the union is anything but a peripheral concern in
Descartes’ corpus.
Descartes’ assertion that there are conceptual connections between
actions and passions, not just in the mind–body case, suggests a commit-
ment to natural causality in all domains.33 Even if this kind of conceptual
connection is one that we discover through lived experience rather than
metaphysical analysis, its status as a certain truth is no less shaky for all
that. This is a startling result, for, contrary to what Elisabeth supposes, we
have in Descartes’ system a kind of certainty that rests on an empirical
foundation. It is perhaps for this reason that Descartes warns Elisabeth
that we cannot understand the union and the distinction of mind and
body at the same time, as if it is impossible to think of something as two
and one in a single thought, and why the study of the union is best done
outside metaphysical reflection (AT III, 693). Thinking of the mind and
body through their a priori concepts sheds no light on how they interact,
whereas thinking of the union as one single operating entity is to think of
it through an a posteriori concept that inevitably obscures its metaphysical
constitution. The two enquiries, the metaphysical one by which we come
to know the distinction of mind and body, and the empirical one by
which we come to know their union, require different conceptual strate-
gies that cannot be simultaneously employed. Far from being of concern
only to the moralist, the concept of the union and our everyday
experience of it shows itself, therefore, to be as essential to our under-
standing of the bumps and grinds of the natural world as it is to our
understanding of ourselves.
32
It is surprising then that Garber still thinks of Descartes as committed to a partial form
occasionalism. See Garber, 1992: 302–4.
33
See also Descartes’ letter to Hyperaspistes (August 1641) where he asserts that it is absurd to suppose
that there can be an action without a passion in the case of a spinning top which sustains itself in
motion once its whip has been removed or destroyed (AT III, 428–9).
CHAPTER 6
Wonder and love: extending the boundaries of the

Cartesian knower and the Cartesian self
451624
Epistemon: All that is best that one is able to teach you on this subject
is that the desire to know, which is common to all men, is a sick-
ness which is scarcely able to be cured, for curiosity increases with
learning. . .
Eudoxus: Is it possible, Epistemon, that being learned as you are, that you
would be able to persuade yourself, that there is a sickness so universal in
nature without there being any remedy to cure it? For my part, it seems
to me that just as there are in each land enough fruits and rivers to satisfy the
hunger and thirst of everyone, there are enough truths that are able to be
known on each matter to satisfy fully the curiosity of orderly souls. The
body of the person suffering dropsy is not more removed from its proper
temperament than is the mind of someone who is perpetually tormented by
an insatiable curiosity. (AT X, 499–500)
The previous chapter was concerned with the role of passions in

helping us to understand Descartes’ account of causality, in particular,
causality between the mind and the body. The relationship between
actions and passions is an expression of the experience of unity each
of us has with our bodies. That we cannot conceive of passions
independently of their causes in the body, and so must attribute
them to both the mind and the body, demonstrates the closeness that
exists between these metaphysically distinct substances when they form
a single system. The union may be accessible only through our
experience of these modes and of their inseparability in thought, but
the a posteriori quality of this knowledge does not make it less
certain. It is now time to look at how the notion of the union might
reshape our preconceived opinions about what it is to be an epistemic
agent on Descartes’ understanding, and about what our being
embedded in complex social relations adds to his picture of the mind.
This brings us to reconsider the important passion of wonder, and its
new ally, love, for these, more than any other passions, are responsible
141
for our ability to acquire knowledge, including knowledge of our
selves.
CURIOSITY AS A VICE OF THE IGNORANT
In the unfinished (and difficult to date) dialogue, The Search for Truth,
the sagacious Eudoxus denounces the ‘insatiable curiosity’ of his inter-
locutors as a sign of their ignorance and uncertainty. The thirst
for knowledge is like the thirst of the person with dropsy, a disorder of
the mind rather than a natural state for human beings. To quench the
curiosity of the untutored Polyander (‘Everyman’), Eudoxus sets out to
examine, in order, the nature of the soul, God’s existence, the way the
senses receive their objects, what truth and falsity consists in, and then to
reveal the ‘secrets’ behind the works of men which fill us with wonder –
‘the most powerful machines, the most rare automatons, the most
impressive visions and the most subtle deceptions that artifice is able to
invent’ – so that we shall ‘have the ground no longer to admire at all the
works of our hands’ (AT X, 505). From there, Eudoxus proposes to pass to
the secrets of nature, and then to the elements of science and ethics,
dampening Polyander’s ‘passion for knowledge’ as each subject is illumi-
nated by the natural light and nothing remains inaccessible to human
understanding.
This denigration of curiosity obscures the essential role wonder (of
which curiosity is an extreme) is assigned in the Passions of motivating us
to knowledge and fixing our attention on what we either don’t understand
or is in some way important or valuable to us.
One is able to say [of wonder, l’admiration] in part that it is useful in that it
makes us learn and retain in our memory things we have hitherto ignored, for we
wonder only at that which appears to us rare and extraordinary, and something is
able to appear thus to us only because we have been ignorant of it or it is different
from the things we have known. For it is this difference that makes it that which
one calls extraordinary. (AT XI, 384)
If curiosity is a vice, it is because it is a perversion of a natural
and useful inclination to wonder about things unfamiliar to us. The
idea that wonder has a crucial role in motivating us to acquire know-
ledge had a long history prior to Descartes, echoing Aristotle’s remarks in
the Metaphysics that wonder is the beginning of philosophy. Aristotle
writes:
Wonder and love 143
That it [wisdom: the science of first causes and principles] is not a science of
production is clear even from the history of the earliest philosophers. For it is
owing to their wonder that men both now begin and at first began to philoso-
phize; they wondered originally at the obvious difficulties, then advanced little by
little and stated difficulties about the greater matters, e.g. about the phenomena
of the moon and those of the sun and the stars, and about the genesis of the
universe. And a man who is puzzled and wonders thinks himself ignorant
(whence even the lover of myth is in a sense a lover of wisdom, for myth is
composed of wonders); therefore since they philosophized in order to escape
from ignorance, evidently they were pursuing science in order to know, and not
for any utilitarian end. And this is confirmed by the facts; for it was when almost
all the necessities of life and the things that make for comfort and recreation were
present, that such knowledge began to be sought. Evidently then we do not seek
it for the sake of any other advantage; but as the man is free, we say, who exists
for himself and not for another, so we pursue this as the only free science, for it
alone exists for itself.1
Wonder, for Aristotle, is elevated above the merely utilitarian. The
pursuit of knowledge for its own sake is the only legitimate luxury, and
being connected with our freedom, is good in itself. Wonder makes us
attend first to the obvious difficulties, then to greater things, and is what
keeps us on the path to the deepest kind of philosophical understanding.
In the Cartesian system, wonder has the role of motivating us primarily
to scientific knowledge, for the objects that cause wonder are extraordin-
ary things the causes of which we do not understand. But the fact that
Descartes is inclined to think of curiosity as akin to sickness shows a deep
ambivalence on his part towards this passion. There are historical reasons
behind this ambivalence. Although many philosophers followed Aristotle
in holding wonder to be useful to philosophy, since it is connected with
ignorance of the causes of a thing, wonder could not be endorsed without
qualification. Augustine, for example, distinguishes between vicious won-
der (curiosity) and virtuous wonder. Curiosity is a vice because it is akin
to lust (wonderlust?), connected with pride, and evident of a lack of
knowledge and self-mastery.2 It is a vice of the learned, who seek to know
1
Aristotle, Metaphysics, I. 2 982b11–28, in Complete Works, ed. Barnes, 1984: 1554–5.
2
Daston and Park (1998: chs. 3 and 8) note that the medieval period is marked by a prevailing
suspicion of curiosity, wonder tainted by its connection to ignorance and an insatiable lust for
inappropriate knowledge. They argue that among philosophers of the late seventeenth and early
eighteenth centuries, wonder and curiosity are realigned with respect to each other through their
associations with other passions. Wonder becomes connected with dull stupor, a passion of the
vulgar mob rather than the scientific elite, whereas curiosity becomes associated (particularly in
Hobbes) with acquisitiveness, an insatiable but laudable desire for knowledge (Daston and Park,
1998: pp. 303–10).
what doesn’t concern them, or which it is useless to know, simply for the
sake of knowing.3 Virtuous wonder, by contrast, is a kind of reverential
awe – wonder at the marvels of creation that cause us to direct our
attention to and humble ourselves before God.4 There are elements of
this view in Descartes’ ambivalence towards wonder. Curiosity is an
admission of ignorance, but the wonder we experience from contempla-
tion of God is the ‘greatest joy which we are able to have in this life’ (AT
VII, 36), and our awe for the divine within us, the free will, is, as we shall
see in chapter 8, central to the moral project of the Passions.
In the Middle Ages, wonder was considered a natural response to the
‘secrets’ of nature, and imperceptible forms or occult qualities were
often postulated to fill gaps in explanation. Lorraine Daston and Kathryn
Park have argued that the standard Aristotelian apparatus, with its em-
phasis on universality and orderliness, and its presumption that the
behaviour of things can always be explained by reference to their ‘specific
forms’, was ill-equipped to handle a range of phenomena that captured
scholarly attention: chance occurrences, unforeseeable effects and diver-
gences from form. Knowledge of specific forms does not enable one to
deduce why sapphires are good for eyesight, why the loadstone attracts,
why coincidences and chance events occur or why a baby is born with six
fingers.5 As The Search for Truth indicates, the kind of wonder we have for
the secrets of nature is more a sign of a bad theory than a sign of
something truly inexplicable. Such wonder ought to be dissipated by a
thorough understanding of mechanics, a scientific method freed from the
baggage of specific forms and the doctrinal, non-experimental approach
to science.
3
Augustine, 1996–7: 10.35; see Daston and Park, 1998: 120–4.
4
Augustine, 1957–72, 21.6.
5
In the Summa contra gentiles III.9.9, Aquinas struggles to account for chance or unforeseeable events,
like the occurrence of six fingers on a human, as the effects of defects in the agent cause, or of the
unsuitable condition of matter, or of an agent with greater strength that changes the natural order.
On the Cartesian view, it is the arrangement of matter alone that explains every natural occurrence,
and in this framework, the notion of ‘ defects’ has little purchase. Daston and Park (1998: 128–30)
argue that although most philosophers in the Scholastic period had a commitment to explain
marvels by reference to natural causes, and with minimal recourse to demonic or divine interven-
tion, they were hampered by the fact that the objects of wonder were typically beyond the scope of
doctrinal philosophy, which concerned itself exclusively with universal knowledge. They quote the
author of the pseudo-Albertine De mirabilius: ‘One should not deny any marvelous thing because
he lacks a reason for it, but should try it out [experiri]; for the causes of marvelous things are hidden,
and follow from such diverse causes preceding them that human understanding, as Plato says,
cannot apprehend them’ (Daston and Park, 1998: 129).
Wonder and love 145
The distinction between wonder directed at the seemingly inexplicable
and wonder as reverence or awe is reflected in the following ambiguity in
the use of ‘wonder’ in English, (and admirer in pre-modern French):
1. I wonder whether (something is the case).
2. It is a wonder that (something is the case).
The first formulation (1), implies ignorance, and when excessive, pro-
duces the ‘blind curiosity’ Descartes disparages. Blind curiosity drives us
to seek out rarities, not in order to know their underlying principles, but
rather to goggle at them, and this kind of wonder should be extinguished
by knowledge (PS, art. 78). Wonder in the second sense (2), however,
implies some recognition of the object as worthy of attention, and is
compatible with knowledge. Wonder in this sense may persist in the form
of either esteem or scorn, depending on whether the value attached to the
object of wonder is positive or negative. This second kind of wonder has
its uses in promoting self-understanding and self-mastery, as shall be
explored later.
Let us proceed, however, by examining more thoroughly the first kind
of wonder and its role in motivating our flight from ignorance. In light of
the effort expended in the Meditations to encourage intellectual habits that
are neither dependent on nor impeded by the mind’s relationship to a
body, it is somewhat perplexing that Descartes should suddenly in the
Passions announce that it is by a passion that we are (and ought to be!)
motivated to investigate the natural world. Why are the intellectual habits
the meditator is trained to have without supposing he or she has a body,
habits of withholding assent from things not clearly and distinctly under-
stood until they are sufficiently examined, not alone sufficient to motivate
the acquisition of scientific knowledge? And why is attention to the
extraordinary or exceptional given such a prominent role? What do the
marvels of nature teach us that attention to the ordinary truths of
Cartesian metaphysics and physics cannot?
DESCARTES’ CABINET OF WONDER
God made three marvels: something out of nothing, free will, and God in man.
(Early Writings, AT X, 218)
The explosion of interest in ‘ Cabinets of Wonder’ or Wunderkammern,
and the vast collections of natural and anthropological rarities that sprang
up in Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, coinciding with
the exploration of the New World, has an air of insatiability about it likely
to be distasteful to someone like Descartes.6 There is a fine line between
collecting things for the purpose of scientific investigation and collecting
things for the sake of having a collection of rare or exotic things and the
pleasures of viewing and displaying them. Wonder, the passion, and
wonders, the extraordinary things, are useful but not ends in themselves.
Excessive wonder or astonishment is harmful, because it produces stupor
and impedes appropriate investigation and action (PS, art. 73). But if
wonder tends to excess, wouldn’t it be better to approach nature with the
dispassionate attitude Eudoxus professes to have?
Wonder is introduced in article 53 as ‘the first of all passions’. It is the
first passion because it occurs before we know whether an object is
beneficial or harmful to us and is therefore presupposed by every other
passion that attaches some value to an object.
When the first encounter with some object surprises us, and we judge it to be
novel, or very different from that which we knew before, or from what we
supposed that it ought to be, this makes us wonder at and be astonished by it.
And since this may happen before we know whether the object is beneficial to us
or not, it seems to me that wonder is the first of all the passions. And it has no
contrary, because, if the object that presents itself has nothing that surprises us,
we are not moved by it at all, and we consider it without passion. (AT XI, 373)
The primary causes of wonder are things that are novel, unexpected or
incongruous – ‘not as we supposed them to be’. The element of surprise
is critical, which is why wonder is so often connected with laughter
(PS, art. 126). Wonder is ‘a sudden surprise of the soul which makes it
carry itself to consider with attention the objects that seem to it rare or
extraordinary’ (AT XI, 380). As noted in chapter 3, wonder is caused first
by an impression on the brain, which represents the cause as extraordin-
ary, and second by a movement of the spirits which keeps the sense organs
fixed on the object and the image preserved in the brain long enough to be
examined. Why we are drawn to objects we do not know, and which may,
for all we know, turn out to be harmful to us, may seem a bit mysterious,
but an explanation for this is given at article 71. The object of wonder is
not, strictly speaking, the extraordinary object, the wonder of nature or of
human ingenuity, but knowledge, and thus wonder is caused by a dis-
turbance only in the brain, which is the seat of scientific understanding,
6
Collections competed for size, rarity and variety, and were lavishly displayed. See Daston and Park,
1998: pp. 152–5, and chapter 7.
Wonder and love 147
and not the blood or heart. What pulls us towards an object of wonder is
not the value of an object, for this we do not yet know, but the knowledge
we might obtain of it. We have a natural and passionate inclination to
knowledge, and the specific function of wonder is to enable us to learn
about new things, to retain what we learn in memory and to keep the
mind focused in a state of attention and reflection (PS, art. 75).
Wonder is not unique in performing this attention-and-retention
function. Other passions serve to fix and strengthen thoughts about
objects, but all these other passions presuppose some knowledge of the
object, and hence, presuppose the prior effects of wonder. On account of
this order among the passions, wonder is ‘customarily found in nearly all
the passions and augments them’ (PS, art. 72; AT XI, 382). The will is also
able to perform the function of fixing attention (PS, art. 76), but not, as
Descartes explains to Chanut, without the involvement of an internal
emotion – rational love for the knowledge of nature.7 Insofar as it is not
dependent upon any movement of the spirits, however, rational love is
not a passion and could exist in a disembodied mind.
All the movements of the will that constitute love, joy, sadness and desire,
inasmuch as these are reasonable thoughts and not at all from the passions, could
exist in our soul even if she had no body. For example, if she were to perceive that
there are many things to be acquainted with in nature that are quite beautiful, her
will would carry her infallibly to love the knowledge of these things, that is to say,
to consider it as belonging to her. (AT IV, 602)8
While our soul is joined to the body, however, this rational love is
commonly accompanied by another kind of love, ‘which can be called
sensual or sensuous’ (AT IV, 602). The two kinds of love, rational and
sensuous, can exist apart within the human psyche when, for example, the
feeling of love is not accompanied by the will to join oneself to some thing
because one judges it unworthy or when one judges something most
worthwhile and wills to join with it even though one feels no passionate
inclination to do so. But normally the two kinds of love go together, the
confused thought that is the passion of love disposing the soul to have
the clearer thought that is rational love (AT IV, 603). Why is it important
7
Luce Irigaray asks why, if wonder is an attraction to difference, the passions of wonder and love
would be separated (Irigaray, 1993:79–80). But wonder initially involves no conception of the first
cause of wonder as good or evil. When wonder transforms into esteem, then love is a natural
consequence, but not all apprehensions of difference are going to result in esteem, or esteem in love.
I think Irigaray is on to something, but in order to see the close connection between these two
passions, we need first to articulate the connection between wonder and knowledge.
8
Letter to Chanut (1 February 1647.)
that the will to know some thing be accompanied usually by rational love
bolstered by sensuous love?
Phenomenologically, it seems correct to assign love the function of
motivating us, body and soul, to undertake the hard work required to
acquire knowledge of difficult subjects, but there are more straightforward
reasons for Descartes’ choosing this passion to supplement the will in
order to know something. As a passion, love is caused by a movement of
the spirits that impels the soul to join itself willingly to some object that
appears agreeable to it. In the first instance, love impels us to form a kind
of cognitive union with an object, to think ourselves part of a whole of
which the loved object is the other part, and while we are in such a state,
the opportunities for knowledge are greatly enhanced (PS, arts. 79–80).
Since love also mimics some of the effects of wonder on the body, it is no
surprise that it is able to supplement an act of will to attend to something.
In our embodied state, a volition to consider an object must be accom-
panied by some passion capable of sending the spirits into the muscles to
keep the body immobile long enough to attend to it. This passion could
be either wonder, which, because of the element of surprise, causes quick
reactions in the nerves which, in turn, dilate the orifices of the heart in
such a way that fixes attention, or love, which, through its effects on the
heart, is capable of keeping the mind engrossed in a subject, preserving an
image of the agreeable object, and holding the body in a state of fixed
attention (AT IV, 209; AT XI, 417). Since love presupposes some acquain-
tance with its object, it presupposes the prior effects of wonder (transmuted
to esteem), but love can motivate attention once wonder has ceased.
Through its effects on the heart, love is connected with joy, and once
knowledge is obtained, we are to move beyond it to a calmer joy. The
volition to pursue knowledge when knowledge is still being sought and
considered good is desire, when complete, is joy, and when incomplete,
is sadness (AT IV, 602).
The discussion of the epistemic functions of wonder and love raise a
host of interesting questions. The general question we have been con-
sidering is why Descartes does not countenance the idea of a purely
dispassionate relationship to knowledge, especially in the hypothetical
case of a disembodied mind. One simple answer is that since the objects
of nature are particular objects of perception, something that is directly
capable of holding the body and sense organs fixed and attentive is
required, and whether a brute act of will could achieve this when it is
continually distracted by external stimuli is obscure. But beyond these
practical concerns, there are tantalising suggestions in these passages about
Wonder and love 149
the limitations of the human will, and the need, therefore, for something
other than the will to initiate knowledge acquisition. Let us begin an
examination of these questions by looking at Descartes’ official account of
the will.
In the Fourth Meditation, Descartes defines the will as the ability to do
or not do something, to affirm or deny, pursue or avoid something, which
the intellect puts forward (AT VII, 57). The will aims at the true and the
good, as presented by the understanding, and because, as he writes to
Regius, we cannot will without understanding what we will, willing and
understanding are simply the activity and passivity of one and the same
unified substance (AT III, 372). Descartes’ general discussion of the will is
set in the context where some knowledge or awareness of the object is
taken for granted, where there is an object under consideration and the
will’s job is to incline us to assent or dissent to some judgement about it,
or to pursue or avoid it. But this description does not countenance the
context in which we are coming to notice an external object for the first
time, and there is something paradoxical in suggesting that the will could
determine the mind to notice something it hasn’t noticed before, that is,
without a prior attending or understanding, so that it might come to know
it. The will is blind without an object and cannot, therefore, account for
cognising objects for the first time, in light of which Descartes’ assigning a
passion (wonder) this function is perfectly understandable.
Although the motivation to pursue scientific knowledge may have,
therefore, either an active or a passive source, in our embodied state a
passion is always involved, at least in the initial stages. The principal
utility of wonder is to motivate us to obtain scientific knowledge (PS, art.
76), but one utility of science is that it makes wonder for novelty cease. In
The Search for Truth, Descartes reserves the name ‘science’ for a ‘doctrine
that is so solid and assured enough’ (AT X, 513), and he writes to
Hogelande that science is ‘the skill to solve every problem’ in a domain
by means of one’s own effort and native intelligence (AT III, 722). The
sciences, which are ‘not anything other than the certain judgements that
we base on some preceding understanding [conoissance]’, enable us to
explain ‘common things that the whole world understands how to talk
about’ as well as ‘rare and recondite experiments [experiences]’ (AT X, 503).
It is the latter, stock items from nature’s Wunderkammern, rather than the
ordinary facts that he also doesn’t understand, that capture Polyander’s
attention and stimulate his desire for knowledge. Rather than examining
each in detail, Eudoxus sets out to equip Polyander with principles to
unlock the secrets of any marvellous object he encounters.
I confess, also, that it would be impossible to discuss in detail all of those [rare
and recondite things]. For it would be necessary, in the first place, to have
researched all the herbs and stones that come from the Indies, it would
be necessary to have seen the Phoenix, and in short not to be ignorant of any
of the more strange things in nature. But I shall believe that I have sufficiently
fulfilled my promise if in explaining to you the truths which can be deduced
from ordinary things and things known to each one, I make you capable of
discovering for yourself all the others, when it will please you to take the trouble
to look for them. (AT X, 503)
A similar point is made in the Passions at article 76, where Descartes

asserts that there is no other remedy for excessive wonder than ‘to acquire
the knowledge of many things and to exercise yourself in the considera-
tion of all those things which may seem to you most rare and most
strange’ (AT XI, 385). Wonder motivates us to acquire knowledge, but
wonder can also motivate us to overthrow existing theories, which might
do better with ordinary facts than with extraordinary ones. Exotic and rare
things are singled out, both for their ability to attract and stimulate
attention, but also for the challenge they present to received views. The
most unusual things are limiting cases for received theories of nature, and
when they are explained they no longer grab our attention in quite the
same way (PS, art. 76). What remains at the end of science are only the
secrets of providence, about which it is impertinent to seek knowledge, or
demonstrate that we lack due respect (PS, art.198; AT IV, 415). The works
of God leave us in awe but not wonderstruck.
Wonder is thus particularly useful in freeing us from bad theories, like
the theory of specific forms, and the test of a good theory is how well it
unlocks the secrets and marvels of nature and frees us from wonder. But
until we are certain we have the right theory, it is appropriate to keep
wondering. Hence, a general deficiency of wonder is not associated with
the most able minds but with those too dull and stupid to wonder about
things (PS, art. 77). Those naturally inclined to wonder, like Polyander,
are not necessarily possessed with the best minds, but with ‘excellent
common sense’ and ‘no high opinion of their abilities’ (AT XI, 386). This
is not a priori science. It is our experience of the world that motivates us to
pursue knowledge and question accepted models of explanation in the
sciences. Grabbing our attention is, however, only a first step, and as the
wax example from the Second Meditation illustrates, knowledge depends
on the intellect stepping in to unlock the essence of matter and the laws of
nature, so that we may we see that all ‘ marvels of nature’ are simply the
consequence of the arrangement of tiny particles of matter.
Wonder and love 151
SELF-WONDER AND SELF-KNOWLEDGE
We are ourselves marvels of nature and wonder has a role to play in

unlocking the secrets of human nature, as well as revealing to each
individual that he or she is a particular person. When we consider self-
knowledge from the perspective of an embodied investigator, a
very different picture emerges than the one commonly supposed to be
‘Cartesian’. In particular, understanding one’s self is not a matter of
performing the cogito, of turning one’s own mind back on itself, but is
based on the experience each of us has of being an agent in the world.
Contemporary puzzles associated with self-knowledge are often said to
have Cartesian roots insofar as Descartes is said to have subscribed to two
related ideas: (1) the transparency of the mind to itself, and (2) the method
of knowing oneself by direct introspection. One problem that follows
from these two ideas is the problem of the elusive self. When we intro-
spect we are not directly acquainted with any persisting substance but
only our thoughts. That our minds are essentially thinking substances has
struck many of Descartes’ critics as neither a transparent nor directly
introspectible fact. Another problem concerns the supposed first-person
authority of the Cartesian mind. This is the problem of how to reconcile
the transparency principle, that each of us knows what we are thinking,
with ‘ externalist’ intuitions about the contents of our thoughts. On the
externalist picture, what makes our ideas the ideas they are – what we are
thinking of or about – is, at some fundamental level, fixed by factors
about which we may have only partial knowledge, the causal history of
our ideas and the social context in which those ideas are expressed and
shaped through language (Putnam, 1975; Burge, 1979; 1982; 1986a-b; 1988;
Davidson, 1987). It seems intuitively very plausible to us that our access to
our minds is privileged, at least to the extent that it doesn’t depend upon
inferences from perceptions of our bodies or behaviour, and is thus very
different from our knowledge of other minds. And yet it seems equally
implausible to suppose that our bodily existence is simply irrelevant to the
understanding we have of ourselves.
Both these ideas, the transparency principle and the principle of direct
access, are overstated in contemporary debates. A study of the Passions
tells us that there is much about the mind that is neither introspectible nor
transparent to the mind. We are often confused about what type of thought
(a passion or a volition?) we are experiencing, and whether the soul or
something ‘external’ produced it. And it is our individual histories as much
as our individual temperaments that shape our emotional dispositions and
the effects of our history may be quite opaque to us. But there is also
Descartes’ emphasis that a correct understanding of the human body is a
necessary precondition for understanding the soul and nature generally.
Let us consider the question of self-knowledge from the point of view
of an embodied mind. Performing this exercise will not supplant the
cogito as an account of the mind’s knowledge of its essence or the
epistemologically foundational role it plays in Descartes’ system, but it
will provide a richer account of what self-knowledge is for Descartes.9 Let
us consider first the role that knowledge of the human body plays in
Descartes’ analysis of the human being and its self-knowledge, and then
the role that knowledge of our own agency plays in constituting our
knowledge of ourselves as individual persons. The passion of wonder is
involved in both these forms of self-discovery.
Applying mechanical principles to understand the human body plays a
number of important epistemic roles for Descartes. On a scientific level, it
enables him to explain phenomena that were perplexing to Scholastic
physicists but manageable on newer approaches in medicine. In Descartes’
time the human body was full of secrets and, occasionally, subject to
monstrous defects that fascinated physicians and natural philosophers.10
Descartes himself is not above being intrigued by the monstrous and
bizarre. Although the claim that being bitten by a mad dog will cause the
dog’s image to appear in one’s urine is dismissed as a fable, more serious
attention is given to the possible causes of birth defects and birthmarks
(AT I, 153). Descartes’ initial scepticism that the cravings, injuries, dietary
or other practices of pregnant women can cause anomalies in infants, gives
way to a robust explanation consistent with mechanics (AT I, 153). When
the mother ‘transforms the effects of her imagination to the correspond-
ing part of the baby’ through the close correspondence of those parts,
birth defects and birthmarks may appear ‘as may be proved by reasoning
based on mechanics’ (AT III, 120–1; see also AT III, 20–1). Again, the test of
a good theory is how well it handles the strange, the inexplicable and the
extraordinary, as well as the ordinary facts. In general, applying mechan-
ical principles to explain the normal functioning of the human body
without recourse to ‘vital spirits’ or the secondary qualities of Galenic
9
The cogito argument yields the principle that our soul exists, which is the ‘first’ principle of
Descartes’ system, because it is easily known and from it we may move to the existence of God and
created substances (AT IV, 444–5).
10
On the fascination with monsters during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, see Daston and Park,
1998: ch.5.
Wonder and love 153
medicine, enables Descartes to endorse new developments in medicine in
a way consistent with his physics and metaphysics.11
At the metaphysical level, knowledge of the human body plays a critical
(and hitherto largely ignored) role in the real distinction argument. The
embodied self is a self aware of the union of its mind with its body. But
the idea the mind has of the union is confused and obscure, and disposes
it to think of the soul as something corporeal. In the Second Meditation,
the tendency to attribute matter to the soul is attributed to a profound
ignorance of what the soul is.
It occurs to me that I am nourished, that I walk, that I sense and that I think,
which actions indeed I used to refer to the soul. But what this soul was I either
did not notice or do not know scarcely what image I was imagining, of a wind or
fire or ether, which was infused into the coarser parts of me. (AT VII, 26)
To correct this tendency, we must not only examine what the soul is
essentially, but also, and at the same time, what the human body is and
how it is able to move itself. In the Description of the Human Body,
Descartes attributes our ignorance in thinking that the soul is the princi-
ple responsible for all bodily movements to our experience of moving our
bodies by our wills, and to our ignorance of anatomy and mechanics (AT
XI, 223–4). In this context, acquiring a better ‘acquaintance with oneself ’
is not a matter of performing the cogito, but a matter of acquiring a better
understanding of the human body, knowledge that is useful for both
morals and medicine.
There is nothing to which one is able to attend more fruitfully than to touch on
one’s own acquaintance with oneself and the utility which one ought to hope
from this acquaintance does not regard only morals, so that it seems just the first
of several, but particularly also medicine in which I believe that one would be
able to find many very certain precepts, as much for curing sicknesses as for
preventing them, and even also to slow down the course of ageing, if one were
sufficiently learned to be acquainted with the nature of our body and one had not
at all attributed to the soul the functions that depend only on it (the body) and
the disposition of its organs. (AT XI, 221–2)
How does our experience of moving our bodies by our wills contribute
to our mistaken view of the soul? The answer given is that we infer
11
A concise example of mechanics applied to the human body can be found in the letter to Vorstius,
19 June 1643. Natural and vital spirits are nothing other than the blood, and the differences
between all the so-called ‘spirits’ and their functions are simply the result of refinement of the
matter and the degree of agitation in the spirits and the vessels (e.g. arteries or nerves) in which they
travel (AT III, 687–9).
(incorrectly) from our experience of willing our bodies to move that the
self-motion of human and animal bodies can be explained only through
the concept of the soul and not through the concept of body, which is
simply the concept of whatever is determinable in shape and location and
occupies space in such a way as to exclude other bodies (AT VII, 26). The
sceptical arguments of the Meditations force the reader out of this way of
thinking about the soul, but there is another source of motivation behind
Descartes’ conversion to the view of the soul as simply res cogitans, and
that is his astonishment (a species of wonder) that the self-motion of the
body could be explained without reference to thought.
As for having the power to move itself, as of the power of sensing or of thinking,
I judged that this in no way pertains to the nature of body. Indeed, I am
astonished [mirabar] that such faculties [of self-movement] are to be found in
bodies. (AT VII, 26; my emphasis)
Through an understanding of mechanics, the ordinary motions of the
body become, temporarily at least, extraordinary. These are motions that
depend neither upon external forces nor upon the soul. This wonder is useful
insofar as it frees us to re-examine both the nature of the soul and of the body,
and, thus, human nature generally. Indeed, one could argue that without
Descartes’ investigations in natural philosophy, which enable him to explain
the functions of the living human body without reference to thought, the real
distinction argument for dualism and the cogito argument would not be as
compelling as they are. For although the sceptical arguments (putatively)
show that the intellect can exist without the body – (as any Thomist might
have agreed) – they do not thereby show that the human body could function
as it does without a soul (as no Thomist would have agreed).
Insofar as this knowledge of the human body is scientific, it must be
motivated by wonder or the will conjoined with love. Wonder directed at
the capacity of matter, in certain formations, for self-motion, without
the ‘animating’ effects of an Aristotelian soul or vital spirits, motivates
Descartes to re-examine the nature of the soul, and its relationship to
matter, and is thus in good measure responsible for the paradigm shift in
thinking about the self the Meditations seeks to bring about.
What should we say then about the self in Cartesian philosophy? It is
generally identified with the mind, the res cogitans, but the Sixth Medita-
tion brings us back to ourselves as unions of mind and body, at least for
the duration of this life. What happens to the self is not that it comes to
see that it ‘has’ a body, as Ryle famously supposed, but that it is a body as
well as a mind (Ryle, 1949: ch.1).
Wonder and love 155
. . . and so from the fact that some of these perceptions are agreeable to me while
others are not, it is plain that my body, or more properly me wholly in as much as
I am composed from a body and a mind, is able to be affected by various beneficial
and harmful things from surrounding bodies. (AT VII, 81; my emphasis)
Descartes’ whole self cannot be grasped by means of direct introspec-
tion, nor is it transparent to the mind. His coming to understand what
kind of being he is is as much dependent on his scientific understanding
of the human body, and the wonder that presupposes, as on his direct
awareness of his thought and the existence of his mind.
INDIVIDUAL SELF-KNOWLEDGE
The account of self-knowledge offered so far has focused on general or

scientific knowledge of the embodied self and its relationship to the
process by which we can come to accept the ‘first principle’ of knowledge,
that the soul is a thinking thing. But what can we say about individual
self-knowledge, the knowledge I have of my particular ‘whole’ self? Does
it consist simply in my grasping the cogito?
The soul’s first thoughts of its particular union with matter are its
passions: joy, at the pre-natal moment of union, love for its acquisition of
new matter, hatred and sadness for its lack of new matter or suffering
from a bad condition (AT IV, 604–5). These passions all presuppose an
element of wonder: something new or a change in the disposition of
the body has occurred that makes the soul aware of its union with the
body. When a change occurs in the brain, the soul’s attention is drawn to
some thing. Because of the element of surprise, any movement accom-
panied by wonder will have a greater effect both on the mind and on the
body. This is so, as Descartes explains to Elisabeth (May 1646), even
though wonder originates in the brain and would seem, therefore, to have
a lesser effect than those passions that arise from the composition of the
blood (AT IV, 409–10). The cognitive link we have to the union is
mediated, however, both by the actions we perform through the body
and sensation.
Each person finds always in himself without Philosophy the knowledge that he is
one sole person, who has together a body and thought that are of such a nature
that this thought is able to move the body and sense the accidents which occur to
it. (AT III, 694)
We need to examine this claim carefully, for it is unclear that Descartes
is entitled to make it. On Margaret Wilson’s reading, for example, what
my mind is aware of directly when I will to move my body is only the
volition, which is just a thought. Similarly, what I am aware of are not ‘the
accidents which occur’ to my body but the sensations those accidents
produce, which are also thoughts. On Wilson’s reading, all Descartes is
entitled to claim is that each of us is aware of ‘one side of the equation’
(Wilson, 1978a: 216). The argument for the existence of bodies in the Sixth
Meditation is an argument that the only possible source of those ideas is
the body, but arguably that is an inference to the best explanation and not
the experience Descartes claims we each find within us of our embodi-
ment (AT VII, 79–80). Wilson’s concern is reasonable, and the following
passage from Descartes’ letter to Arnauld (29 July 1648) seems only to
reinforce the idea that it is only the mind and its contents that are directly
known.
It is true, however, that we are not conscious of that mode by which our mind
sends the animal spirits into these or those nerves; for that mode does not depend
on the mind alone but on the union of mind and body. We are conscious,
however, of every action through which the mind moves the nerves, in as much as
such an action is in the mind, indeed, in which it is nothing other than an
inclination of the will towards this or that motion. (AT V, 221–2)
Notice, however, that Descartes immediately follows this remark by
asserting that the fact that the mind can set the body in motion is shown
to us not by reasoning or comparison with other matters, but ‘by the most
certain and plainest everyday experience’ (AT V, 222). What is this experience
we have of moving the body that is not to be confused with an argument to
the conclusion that our minds stand in some relation to bodies?
My own inclination is to think that for Descartes our awareness of our
own free will as unions of mind and body, and the goodness of it, are not
simply matters of knowing one side of the (mind–body) equation. I can
will to enlarge my pupils and be aware of my volition, but I cannot
thereby make my pupils enlarge, although I can by an act of will look at a
distant object that has the effect of enlarging my pupils (PS, art. 44). If
there is any difference between the experience of trying to move one’s
body but failing and the experience of succeeding, it is not a difference in
awareness of anything belonging just to the mind.
The experience I have of moving my body depends on my receiving
some feedback from my body that is phenomenologically marked as not
originating in my mind – as not a matter of what I will although
connected in some way with my will. It is, I suspect, the combination
of a volition to move the body together with a passion, which is the effect
Wonder and love 157
of the movement produced in the body, which constitutes my awareness
of successfully moving my body. These are both thoughts, but only one,
the volition, is a mode of mind we can attribute to the soul alone, as
Descartes says at Principles I, 48, and the effect of these together consti-
tutes my sense of myself as an embodied agent. An example of the kind of
feedback system I have in mind, one in which the effects of a volition on
the body are felt through a passion as part of a single process, can be found
in the following passage, where Descartes is attempting to describe the
difference between a habit or disposition towards a certain passion and a
passion itself. Habits are formed when, through their effects on the body,
judgements and passions reinforce each other. A judgement that a town is
about to be besieged affects the spirits in such a way as to produce the
passion of fear, which, in turn, keeps the soul focused on this thought.
The loops are so tight and so fast that the soul experiences the connection
between its judgements and passions as a ‘single operation’.
By the same means [the soul] determines the spirits which go from the brain by
the nerves into the muscles to enter into those which serve to close the openings
of the heart and retard the circulation of the blood, following which the whole
body becomes pale and cold and trembling, and the new spirits which come from
the heart towards the brain are agitated in such a way that they are not able to
help form there any images other than those which excite in the soul the passion
of fear, all of which follows so closely one upon the other that it seems as if they
are a single operation. (AT IV, 313)
When I attempt to move my body but fail, it is precisely the feedback
provided through a passion that is missing. The phenomenological differ-
ences between experiencing one side of the mind–body equation and
experiencing a unity of mind and body through one’s conscious awareness
of one’s own agency account for the experience each of us has of being a
particular unity of mind and body.
What then are the passions that are central to this experience of unity? We
might find an answer to this question by looking at those passions that are
closely connected with our use of the will in our embodied state. These are
passions involving some form of self-assessment, principally, self-esteem and
self-contempt, which are, in turn, species of wonder. Esteem is the soul’s
inclination to represent to itself the value of some object (PS, art. 149). When
these passions relate to ourselves, when we consider our own merit or
demerit, we are told that it is only ‘the knowledge of how to use our free
will and the empire we have over our volitions’ for which we may be
reasonably praised and thus esteem ourselves (PS, art. 152; AT XI, 445). Insofar
as they involve an appraisal of one’s own actions as successful or unsuccessful,
these passions either sustain the soul in the action it deems good for it
(and dispose it to such actions again) or deter it from ones it deems bad
(PS, arts. 177, 190, 191). Self-esteem and self-contempt are the basic forms of
our self-assessment as embodied beings; more complex forms of feedback
include self-satisfaction, self-pity, repentance and remorse (PS, arts. 177, 190,
191, 200).
Wonder at the things I do by my own volitions is the kind of self-
wonder that is always available to me so long as I act. It is contrasted with
the kind of wonder those have who wonder at themselves whenever
something new happens to them, and thus vacillate between esteem or
contempt for themselves, depending on whether they view what happens
as advantageous or not (AT XI, 452). Depending on a movement of the
spirits, self-esteem connected with the use of one’s will is not the kind that
can be derived from within the mind alone. It involves some kind of
appraisal, but there is no need to think of these appraisals as intellectually
or morally loaded. There is no reason to deny that infants experience
moving their bodies in the way they want, and the wonder and joy that
accompanies it. The ‘I moved that!’ look of delight on an infant’s face
expresses as much self-wonder as the self-satisfaction of adults. My sense
of me-ness comes first from experiencing the effects of my will on my
body and it is only philosophy which much later enables me to focus on
my mind alone and raise doubts about my embodiment.
Because they constitute modes of awareness of our wills in action in the
world, these various species of self-directed wonder open the way for
forms of self-assessment (of successful versus unsuccessful action) to
become part of the process by which each of us identifies herself or
himself as a particular person. This makes embodied self-knowledge a
distinctively normative exercise for Descartes, and one that opens the way
for others and their assessments to become part of the same process by
which each of us develops a sense of individuality. The experience of
embodiment thus brings to mind most immediately the fact that each of
us inhabits a world in which we act and that we share with others.
OTHER MINDS
Within the practical sphere, our free will is revealed through our actions,
and our knowledge of the latter, Descartes seems to suggest, is dependent
upon passions like self-esteem. Not only does this account for the experi-
ence of ourselves as individual unions of mind and body, but it enables
Wonder and love 159
others to mediate the process through their judgements about or reactions
to our actions. There are complex interplays between our own passions and
those of others, which affect our conception of our own agency, and make
us attuned to other minds. When I look out the window and see bodies in
hats and coats, I may wonder whether all I see are automata. But when
others cause me to feel pride or shame, grateful or indignant, I cannot be
disposed to think of them as anything less than persons, other moral
and rational agents whose actions and reactions matter to me and to them.
The passions that are caused by others’ negative or positive reactions to
one’s actions include virtuous humility (PS, art. 155), shame (PS, art. 205),
vicious humility or abjectness (PS, art. 159), vanity (PS, art. 157) and pride
(PS, art. 204). Others are based on one’s own assessments of others’ actions:
scorn (PS, art. 163), derision (PS, art. 178), gratitude and vicious ingratitude
(PS, arts. 193–4), indignation (PS, art. 195) and anger (PS, art. 199). It is
passions such as these that inform me most immediately of the existence of
other minds, even if it takes the intellect to prove it.
Why it is the case, however, that we care what others think? As we are
told at article 40 of the Passions, the principal utility of the passions is to
dispose the soul to thoughts useful for the preservation of the union. This
has suggested to some that Descartes might be some kind of egoist with
regard to the passions; that their primary purpose is, as Patrick Frierson
describes this view, ‘the furthering of one’s own good, especially the good
of the body’ (Frierson, 2002: 316; also Wee, 2002). One passion in
particular plays an important role in countering this impression – love.
Love explains why it is we form various kinds of non-substantial (but no
less real for all that) unities – families, groups, communities – and why it
is, therefore, that what others think about us matters and contributes to
our forming particular conceptions of our selves as whole persons.12
LOVE
In the letter to Elisabeth of 15 September 1645, written just prior to the

preparation of the first draft of the Passions, Descartes argues that in order
to judge well it is necessary to bear in mind that, among other truths, one
is always part of a whole that is greater than any of its parts.
After one has then recognised the goodness of God, the immortality of our souls
and the grandeur of the universe, there is still one truth the knowledge of which
seems to me especially useful and that is that although each of us is a person
12
Compare Frierson, 2002: 325–6.
separated from others, and whose interests consequently are in some fashion
distinct from those of the rest of the world, one ought always to think that one
could not subsist alone and that one is, in effect, one of the parts of the universe,
and more particularly still, one of the parts of this earth, and of this state, of this
society and of this family, to which one is joined by one’s domicile, one’s solemn
oath, and by birth. And it is necessary to prefer always the interests of a whole of
which one is a part to those of his person in particular, though always with
measure and discretion, for one would do wrong to expose oneself to a great evil
to procure only a little good for his parents or his country. (AT IV 293)
Our link to these greater unions is forged through love. The noblest
form of love, where duty and virtue combine with love, involves a pre-
ference for the interests of others in the union, as the good father demon-
strates when he puts his children’s interests before his own (PS, art. 82).
Love is defined at article 79 as an ‘excitation of the soul. . .which incites
it to join itself in volition to the objects that appear to be suitable to it’
(AT XI, 387).13 Like other passions, the function of love is to preserve the
union or render it in some way more perfect (PS, art. 137; AT XI, 430).
Among the passions, love is ‘extremely good’, because, by joining us to
real goods, ‘it makes us to that extent more perfect’ (PS, art. 139; AT
XI, 432). Excessive love for real goods is never bad because it makes us
apply ourselves to them as well as to ourselves (PS, art. 139), nor does love
corrupt us as much as hatred, the object of which is evil (AT IV, 613–14).
Excessive love for the wrong object is, however, always bad, and when
conjoined with desire, it uses all the spirits of the brain to keep the image
representing the object present before the mind, preventing all other
motions of the pineal gland that would be more useful for it to have
(PS, art. 120).
The conceptualisation of others through love as part of one’s self is
reminiscent of Aristotle’s account of friendship in books VIII and IX of the
Nichomachean Ethics, and the ethical implications are somewhat similar.
By identifying with others as part of one’s extended self, one is rationally
motivated to act for their sake. The account also inherits some of the
philosophical problems associated with Aristotle’s view. Descartes needs
an argument to show that the demands of friendship or community are
not in conflict with the pursuit of other goods, such as knowledge,
happiness or justice. Elisabeth is sceptical of Descartes’ confidence that
the demands of public life do not conflict with private interests and
concerns. She questions the feasibility of reconciling individual and public
13
See also the letter to Chanut, 1 February 1647, AT IV, 602–5.
Wonder and love 161
interests simply by conceiving of oneself as part of a whole (30 September
1645, AT IV, 303–4). Nor is she prepared to grant Descartes the assump-
tion that, by working for oneself, one cannot fail also to work for others
(30 November 1645, AT IV, 336–7). What lies behind Elisabeth’s scepti-
cism is a general worry that goods are incommensurable. How is it
possible to weigh the public good my actions may bring about against
the pains I would have to endure, or to measure the relative worth of my
interests against others’? Would not the very distinctness of the idea of
private pain from the idea of a public good make the former seem much
greater in my mind and deter me from right action?14 Thus she writes to
Descartes on 13 September 1645:
It is true that the custom of estimating goods according as they are able to
contribute to contentment, of measuring this contentment according to the
perfections that they make, to give birth to pleasure, and to judge without
passions of these perfections and of these pleasures, would safeguard them from
a quantity of faults. But to estimate goods thus it is necessary to know them
perfectly, and to know all those things among which one is constrained to choose
in an active life, it would be necessary to possess an infinite science. (AT IV, 288–9)
Some bond is needed to get one to act for the sake of others, particu-
larly when doing so incurs some cost to oneself, and, if Elisabeth is right,
it is not a bond that can be forged by the intellect in the absence of an
infinite science. Descartes would seem to agree: it is not the intellect but
passions like love that make altruism possible.
Descartes distinguishes love and its opposite, hatred, which are passions
and depend upon some movement of the spirits, from judgements, which
can have the same effect as these passions in bringing the soul to join itself
‘in volition’ to, or separate itself from, other things, and from the ‘internal
emotions’ which accompany such judgements. The phrase ‘in volition’ is
glossed at article 80 as implying not desire but the assent by which we
consider ourselves as joined to another thing in such a way that we
imagine a whole of which we are a part. Hate makes us consider ourselves
alone as a whole separated entirely from other things. This suggests that
love is a complex psychological attitude involving the will’s assent to its
unification with another thing in conjunction with an idea of oneself as
part of some larger whole fostered by the imagination. It is the role of the
imagination that distinguishes the passion of love, or ‘sensuous love’, as
Descartes describes it in the letter to Chanut (1 February 1647; AT IV,
602–7), from judgements, or rational love, which also involves an act of
14
See Elisabeth’s letter to Descartes of 30 September 1645 (AT IV, 301–4).
assent to union with other things. The imagination is brought in not
simply to imagine the lovable qualities of the beloved. Indeed, concep-
tualisation of lovable qualities may proceed from love rather than precede
it, when, for example, love causes the soul ‘to imagine lovable qualities in
objects where she would see only faults on another occasion’ (AT IV, 603).
What seems crucial is rather the capacity of the imagination to present to
the will for its consent an idea of the self in union with another. In the
case of sexual unions, the imagination causes us to think of ourselves as
deficient in that we are one half of a whole, and to imagine the acquisition
of this other half as the greatest of all goods (PS, art. 90; AT XI, 396).
Although the name ‘love’ is given (by romanticists and poets) to this
inclination, Descartes prefers to think of the principal passion involved in
sexual unions as desire arising from attraction (PS, art. 90). Love differs
from desire, according to Descartes, in not having possession of the object
as part of its telos, and whereas erotic desire remains unfulfilled unless
there is reciprocity, love is not so constrained. In both cases, however, the
principal cause of the passion uniting us to others is an imaginative
representation of union with the object as good or agreeable, from which
it follows that sensuous love for God is impossible (AT IV, 607).
There is nothing in God that is imaginable which makes it that although one has
for Him some intellectual love, it does not seem that one would be able to have
any sensitive love because it ought to pass by the imagination in order to come
from the understanding to the senses. (AT IV, 607)
One may mistake one’s passion for an idol for love of the true God,
but, strictly speaking, this is not sensuous love of God (AT IV, 607). It is
God’s lack of embodiment that in part precludes us from having sensuous
love for Him. Moreover, the attributes of God are so high above us that
we cannot think of them as appropriate for ourselves, and so do not join
ourselves to them (AT IV 607). With regard to the passion of love, what
we cannot imagine as being part of ourselves, we cannot form a union
with.
The extended conception of the self that the soul obtains through the
passion of love, and which is one source of altruistic motivation, thus
presupposes both our own embodiment and that of others. To be an
object of love, one must be the kind of thing to which the senses have
access, and of which the imagination can construct an image. Love also
bears an internal relationship to esteem directed at the self and others.
Descartes distinguishes three kinds of love according to differences in the
esteem in which an object is held: simple affection, which we may have for
Wonder and love 163
a flower or horse, involves having less esteem for the object than for
ourselves; friendship, which entails esteeming the other as equal to one-
self; and devotion (principally for the Deity), in which the object is
esteemed more highly than oneself (PS, art. 83; AT XI, 390). The esteem
that the soul has for other persons cannot be based merely upon the
natural movements that express passions, for these can be imitated by
machines or animals, and so cannot be based on our perceptions of their
physical appearance. It is others’ use of language or speech, which, in the
Discourse on Method, Descartes identifies as the only sure sign of ration-
ality, that principally reveals to us what kind of person another is,
feeds into our image of the other and structures our esteem accordingly
(AT VI, 58–9).
These distinctions between different kinds of love based on esteem
suggest that the process of esteeming oneself and one’s own actions is
intimately connected through imaginative comparisons with the process
of esteeming others. In esteeming our own actions and our own selves we
naturally compare ourselves to others, and thereby develop certain pas-
sions towards them. When others arouse esteem and love in us, their
reactions to us become important and contribute to our own self-esteem,
which defines the boundaries of our selves. My shame at what I have done
to another puts in sharp relief that it was both I who performed a certain
action and my other self who has been harmed by it. Without both lines
of identification, I would not be ashamed. Out of these interconnected
processes of self and other-esteem, each person forms a variety of unions
which are as much a part of the Cartesian ‘self’ from the soul’s point of
view as the ‘I’ of the Second Meditation, the mind aware only of itself and
its thinking.
CONCLUSION
Love makes us feel a close connection with others and drives us to act for
their sake, even at some cost to ourselves, but because the senses are more
susceptible to beautiful things than good things, and because we are prone
to confuse our attraction to beauty with love of something good, love is
also highly fallible (PS, art. 85). Love is particularly bad when combined
with other passions such as ‘rash desires and badly founded hopes’ (AT IV,
614). Nor will love motivate us to act for others we do not ‘in volition’
join ourselves to. For all these reasons, love cannot be relied upon to lead
one to virtue as other more rationally influenced methods can. But we
have begun to see a pattern in Descartes’ thinking about the place of the
passions in the good life. Our knowledge and mastery of ourselves as
embodied beings depends crucially on the functions of the imagination
and those species of wonder connected with our assessments of ourselves
and other persons. This is not the thinking of a hyper-rationalist but of
someone sensitive to the fact that our embodiment is important to our
identities as individual and socially related persons. Any successful pro-
gramme for mastering the self must recognise these facts and enlist the
sensitive faculties to bring the passions and intellectual faculties into
alignment. In the next chapter, we shall see how this programme of self-
mastery begins by restraining that most ornery of passions, desire.
CHAPTER 7
Several strange passages on desire and fortune

384847
‘Now I know,’ she said, ‘that other, more serious cause of your
sickness: you have forgotten what you are. So I really understand
why you are ill and how to cure you. For because you are wandering,
forgetful of your real self, you grieve that you are an exile and
stripped of your goods; since indeed you do not know the goal
and end of all things, you think that evil and wicked men are
fortunate and powerful; since indeed you have forgotten what sort
of governance the world is guided by, you think these fluctuations of
fortune uncontrolled. All these are quite enough to cause not merely
sickness but even death. But I thank the author of all health that you
have not yet wholly lost your true nature. The best kindler of your
health we have is your true opinion of the governance of the world,
that you believe it to be subject not to the randomness of chance
events but to divine reason: do not be afraid, then, for presently out
of this tiny spark your vital warmth will glow again.
(Boethius, Consolatio, I. Prose 6)
Recent debates about the nature of rational action have tended to take
for their starting point a certain model, referred to as the belief-desire
model. On Donald Davidson’s account, rational action is behaviour that
has conjointly a desire or ‘pro-attitude’ towards a certain end and a belief
about the means to obtaining the end as its significant cause (Davidson,
1963). The model is one self-avowedly indebted to Aristotle’s account of
the practical syllogism, at least to the extent that it shares the idea that
once one has the right conception of the end as good and deliberation
about how to obtain the end, nothing more is required for action. The
model is fitting for Aristotelians who traditionally struggled to reconcile
two intuitions: (1) that human beings belong in the class of self-movers,
beings moved by a special kind of internal principle of motion, and (2)
that no action is possible in the absence of a previously given external
stimulus to motion. The second intuition reflects a constraint on Aris-
totle’s theory of motion, as developed in Physics VIII, that everything that is
165
moved is moved by something else. Since movement is just the actualisa-
tion of a potentiality to move, what is moved must be moved by some-
thing already in motion, from which it seems to follow that nothing
moves itself. Together these intuitions generate a dilemma for the account
of self-motion, for if every action is dependent upon a stimulus in the
sense of following automatically upon it, nothing can properly be
described as a self-mover, but if action is independent of an external
stimulus, the stimulus cannot be said to be a necessary condition for
action. According to some interpreters of Aristotle, this dilemma is
resolved through the concept of desire, which is the concept of a natural
impulse harnessed by a self-mover in pursuit of its ends (Furley, 1980;
Nussbaum, 1978). The object of desire is the unmoved mover, and what
makes desire a reason for acting (as opposed to a mere stimulus) is that it
is a stimulus towards an object conceived under the aspect of good.
Desire transforms the natural into the normative, and makes it a reason
for acting.1
It is not too much of a stretch to suppose that the concept of desire
plays a similar role in modern belief–desire models of action. Desire (or
some pro-attitude) is the impulse that moves the agent to undertake the
means to obtaining some end. But the rationality of a given desire is not
itself usually in question, even when whether one should act upon it or
not is, and for good reason. If desire is part of the explanation of rational
action, it cannot itself be the product of rational action, on pain of regress,
and so in some sense must be given to the agent. But the very passivity of
desire generates a paradox for the view in which desire has the role of
explaining what makes someone a self-mover, and accounting thereby for
the difference between mere behaviour and action. Being determined to
act by something belonging to one’s self is not the same as being self-
determining, although exactly what the difference amounts to is obscure.
Descartes’ own account of desire belongs within this nexus of concerns
about self-determination. Desire is a morally significant passion because it
is the passion that terminates in action. To be a rationally self-determining
being requires, therefore, the rational control of desire. Desires ‘for things
1
Aristotle attempts to explain self-motion by distinguishing within an animal moving and moved
parts. The motion-causing part, the soul, is moving, for there is a straightforward sense in which it
moves as part of the whole which it moves; Physics VIII.5, 257b12–22; De anima.I.3, 406a30–b8. But it
is better to think of this as necessarily involving an environmental stimulus also, which sets in
motion the intellect or appetite; Physics VIII.2. 253a15–18. For a critique of the ‘intentionality escape’
from this dilemma, see Freeland, 1994. Freeland prefers a broader teleological approach. On her
reading, animals are self-movers insofar as their motions have final causes.
Several strange passages on desire and fortune 167
which do not depend upon us’ are, however, natural impulses, and the
principal effect of such desires (and other passions) is ‘to move and dispose
the soul to want the things for which they prepare the body’ (PS, art. 40).
The will can initiate action but it does so by virtue of the fact that ‘each
volition is naturally joined to some movement of the (pineal) gland’, and so
produces its effects through harnessing motions of the animal spirits
already in place (PS, art. 44). Moreover, the pleasures common to the soul
and the body ‘depend entirely upon the passions’ (PS, art. 212), suggesting
that whatever actions the soul initiates through the body as good for it and
the body as a whole, must ultimately be connected with what it perceives as
good for this union, and so, with what it desires. In this respect, desires for
things that do not depend on us are necessary motivators of action in our
embodied state, and in themselves are neither rational nor irrational. It is
what one does with such desires, or how they factor into one’s rational
decision-making, that can be rational or irrational.
The control of desires for things that do not depend upon us is ‘the
principal utility of morality’ (PS, art. 144). But since such desires arise
through sense, imagination, the temperament of the body and ‘the multi-
tude of accidents’, which Princess Elisabeth complains carry a person,
however virtuous, to perform actions of which they later repent, such
control by the will is inevitably limited and indirect (PS, arts. 45–7).
Elisabeth herself is characteristically pessimistic about the control of
desire. The very contingency of the future, and our inability to know all
the goods about which we are constrained to make choices in this life, in
the absence of an ‘infinite science’, convince Elisabeth of the inevitability
of discontent (AT IV, 289). Not surprisingly then, the Passions takes
seriously the problem of desire. At article 145, Descartes informs us that
there are two general remedies for ‘vain’ desires, desires for outcomes
beyond our control that may not, therefore, come to be. The first is
generosity, a topic he postpones until the third part, and the second is
frequent reflection on divine providence. So that we do not ‘desire with
passion’ things that do not depend upon us, he writes:
[W]e ought often to reflect upon divine providence and consider [répresenter]
that it is impossible that any thing happens in any fashion other than that which
has been determined from all eternity by this providence; so that it is like a fate or
an immutable necessity that it is necessary to oppose to fortune to destroy it as a
chimera which comes only from an error of our understanding. For we can only
desire that which we think in some way possible, and we think possible only the
things which do not depend on us inasmuch as we think that they depend upon
fortune, that is to say, we judge that they can happen and that similar things have
happened in the past. This opinion is founded only on the fact that we do not
know all the causes which contribute to each effect; because when a thing we have
thought depends upon fortune does not occur, this testifies that some one of the
causes which was necessary to produce the thing was absent, and consequently,
the thing was absolutely impossible, and no similar thing ever happens, that is to
say, for the production of which such a cause was also missing; so that if we had
not ignored this previously, we would never have thought the thing possible, nor,
consequently, have desired it. (AT XI, 438)
Appealing to providence in a therapeutic mode had a long history prior
to Descartes. Reflection on providence was generally thought to have the
power of restoring the tranquillity of the soul in the face of its thwarted
desires, and indeed, on Stoic accounts, to have the power of freeing us
from those very desires themselves. Since, on Descartes’ view, to desire
some outcome, x, presupposes that x is metaphysically possible, knowing
that x is metaphysically impossible because God has not willed it should
be enough to kill the passion. Desires are, however, oriented towards the
future, a future that is in large measure unpredictable. We typically do not
know, therefore, whether a desired outcome is metaphysically possible or
not, and thus the most we can say is that a precondition for desiring some
outcome, x, is that x is epistemically possible – that is, for all we know, x
may come to be if we strive to bring x about. Nor is it the case, given the
essential role desire plays in preserving the union, that we can avoid
having such desires. Insofar as he recommends against desiring things
that do not depend upon us ‘with passion’, Descartes seems sensitive to
these problems while at the same time remaining optimistic of reducing
the disturbing effects of vain desires on the soul. But how exactly is
embracing the Providential order supposed to enable us to avoid ‘desiring
with passion’ things that do not depend on us? And what would it be to
desire such things without passion?
Descartes’ answer to these questions is even more puzzling:
But because the greatest part of our desires extend to things which do not depend
wholly on us nor wholly on others, we ought precisely to distinguish those of
them which depend only on us, so as to extend our desire only to those alone. As
for the remainder, we ought yet to estimate the success of them entirely fated and
immutable, and so that our desire does not occupy itself with them at all, we
ought not to fail to consider the reasons that make them to be hoped for more or
less so that these serve to rule our actions. For example, if we have business in
some place where we are able to go by two different roads, the one of which is
accustomed to be much safer than the other, although the decree of providence
could be such that if we go by the road that we think the safer, we shall not avoid
being mugged, and, on the contrary, we can pass by the other without any
danger, we ought not for that [reason] to be indifferent to choose the one or the
other nor to rest on the immutable fatedness of that decree. Reason wishes that
we would choose the road which is accustomed to be the safer, and our desire
ought to be accomplished concerning that even if, when we have followed it,
some evil has occurred to us, because this evil having been from our perspective
inevitable, we do not have any ground for expecting to be exempt from it, but
only to do the best that our understanding had been able to know how, as
I suppose we have done. And it is certain that when one exercises oneself to
distinguish fate from fortune, one accustoms oneself easily to rule these desires in
such a way that to the extent that their fulfilment depends only on us, they are
always able to give us complete satisfaction. (AT XI, 440)
The consolation that this passage offers in the face of thwarted desires is
the satisfaction of having acted in accordance with reason. It is the kind
of self-satisfaction that comes from exercising our noblest faculties. The
acceptance of providence does not, for Descartes, mean abandoning
oneself to fate in the sense of not deliberating or making rational choices,
for that, the passage implies, is not likely to yield satisfaction. ‘Complete
satisfaction’ depends on ruling desires so that ‘their fulfilment depends
only on us’. But what could this mean? If all my desires could be restricted
to the choice of the best strategy for deciding how to act, which in the
above case consists in calculating the probabilities of encountering trouble
along the various routes available to me and choosing the one with the
lowest probability, then, if I am maximally rational, all my desires would
be satisfied. But this is reasoning about means not ends, and it is difficult
to see how my desire to be rational could prevent me from also rationally
desiring the end (e.g. that I arrive home safely), or prevent me from being
disappointed when I instead meet the muggers. Indeed, the desire for the
means not only fails to supplant the desire for the end but presupposes it.
I will, for example, only have the desire to follow the path reason decrees
safest because I desire to get home safely and believe that my best (long-
term) strategy is to use my wits to determine the safest route. My desire
for this outcome requires for its satisfaction the co-operation of the world
and is thus not something that depends just upon my wits.
We cannot do without desires for outcomes that do not depend upon
us, not merely for practical reasons but also, therefore, for conceptual
reasons. Our desires for certain outcomes are presupposed by our desires
for and exercise of our rational decision-making faculties, even if it is only
the exercise of these faculties that is the ultimate source of self-satisfaction
in the practical sphere. Nor is it possible for us to be indifferent to the
outcomes that do not depend upon us, for it is not obvious that one could
choose rationally or desire to be rational unless one cared about the
outcome. What would be the point, after all, of rationally preferring
one strategy over another if not that the one chosen increases the prob-
ability of bringing about a certain outcome? All this suggests that it is
impossible in this life to avoid desiring outcomes that do not depend on
us and the inevitability that some of our desires will end up being in vain.
Without the ‘infinite science’ of which Elisabeth speaks or knowledge of
God’s ends (AT VII, 55), it is hard to see how complete satisfaction of all
our desires is possible.
Embracing providence is a matter of accepting whatever happens as
being for the best, but that is distinct from claiming that complete
satisfaction of all our desires is possible.2 I may have a general desire that
things turn out for the best, believe that whatever happens is the best
insofar as it is willed by God, and still have quite specific desires, like the
desire to get home safely, which remain unsatisfied because the outcome
was not willed by God. It is also one thing to claim that we shouldn’t get
so upset about the fact that things don’t turn out as we had hoped,
because what we had hoped for was, as it turns out, neither possible nor
for the best, and another to claim that things always turn out as we hope
because God is at the helm. The latter stretches credulity in a way the
former doesn’t.
I shall argue for a more plausible reading of these passages regarding
desire, one in which the ‘complete satisfaction’ of which Descartes speaks
and which he thinks is tied to abandoning certain metaphysical presup-
positions about the contingency of the future, has less to do directly with
the satisfaction of all our desires than with the control of the various
species of sadness (regret, repentance and remorse) that are consequent
upon our disappointed desires. The discussion of providence and its
connection with desire from articles 144–6 is complicated, and to under-
stand it more fully, we need to know what, for Descartes, God’s govern-
ance of the world entails. We also need to know how embracing
providence is supposed to affect us psychologically for the better. These
are not easy questions to answer on Descartes’ behalf, perhaps even
2
What helps us control our desires is not merely the belief in providence but also the natural
tendency towards community with and love of God.
One is naturally led to have this [thought] when one knows and loves God as is necessary: for then
abandoning oneself wholly to His will, one strips oneself of one’s own interests, and has no other
passion than to do what one believes to be agreeable to [God]. (To Elizabeth, 15 September 1645,
AT IV, 294; see also AT VII, 432 and AT XI, 477.)
impossible questions to answer, and I am likely here only to make a start.
But the exercise is worth undertaking for the discussion of desire brings us
to the heart of what it is, on Descartes’ understanding, to be a self-
determining embodied being, and what human happiness consists in.
The place to begin this examination is thus with the traditional notion
of providence and Descartes’ place in that tradition.
FATE AND FORTUNE IN THE TRADITION
Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood and birth,

Are but the fading blossomes of the earth.
(Farewel, ye gilded follies. Attributed to John Donne; Grierson, 1933/77: 396)
Fortuna, the ghostly Lady Philosophy advises Boethius, is nothing but

a ‘fleeting goddess’ and a sure sign of misery to come (Consolatio, II.
Prose 1). The rejection of fortune or luck as a necessary condition for
virtue and the good life had a long history prior to Descartes and
represented something of a trend against the powerful figure of Aris-
totle. Those who rejected the existence of fortune could not wholly
embrace Aristotle’s eudaemonistic ethics, in which happiness, the
exercise of virtue in a complete life, depended upon some degree of
good fortune. During the Renaissance, the debate over the connection
between virtue and fortune resurfaced, principally through the work of
Roman historians, Tacitus and Livy, who granted fortune a role in the
good life and fed some of these ideas into Renaissance intellectual life.
A more sinister champion of fortune during the Renaissance was
Machiavelli, whose conception of virtù was premised upon the inescap-
ability of fortune, and whom Descartes regarded as having derived bad
laws from hard cases.3 By contrast, Christian philosophers tended, albeit
controversially, to reinforce the Platonic view that goodness does not
depend upon external circumstances. The controversial aspect of this
stance stemmed from the fact that the ultimate good for Christians –
union with God – was something that depended upon grace, which is a
free gift and not something we can guarantee for ourselves. One way
around this difficulty was to distinguish between the ‘good for us’ and
the ‘good for us in this life,’ and to claim that the attainment of the latter
depends only upon us. Showing that fortune is nothing but a ‘chimaera’
3
See Descartes’ letter to Elizabeth, September 1646 (AT IV, 486–93) and her reply of 10 October 1646
(AT IV, 519–24). This topic is more fully discussed in the next chapter.
was one strategy for securing a rational foundation for the good in this
life and the strategy chosen by Descartes and many of his predecessors.
There were essentially two strands of thought leading to the rejection of
fortune, those involving arguments from fate and those relying on argu-
ments from providence. Susanne Bobzien argues that from the second
century AD onwards, these two originally independent lines of thought
tended to converge (Bobzien, 1998: 5). For Chrysippus, the Stoic, fate –
‘the Reason in accordance with which past events have happened, present
events happen, and future events will happen’ – and the notion of
universal determinism were co-ordinate notions.4 The antecedent causes
of an action necessitate one and only one subsequent outcome for the
world at any point in time. The notion of providence, meanwhile,
subsumes two ideas: the idea that everything that happens does so of
necessity, and the idea that everything happens for the best because it is
part of a divine plan. The conflation of fate and providence enjoyed a
natural fit in Stoic theories, which often identified fate with Zeus, and in
Christian thought, where fate was simply one side of the equation
according to which the natural world is necessarily structured according
to God’s will, the other side being that whatever God wills is good.
Calcidius notes, however, in his commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, that
the conflation of fate and providence was not universally agreed upon:
‘others, like Cleanthes, while holding the dictates of providence to come
about also by fate, allow things which come about by fate not to be the
product of providence’ (quoted in Bobzien, 1998: 46).
Calcidius also notes that some, like Plato, retain a sphere of activity not
governed by fate or providence in which we can speak of events as
occurring by chance or fortune: ‘things belonging to our own free choice
[liberum arbitrium] and [under] our authority [ius] happen at our initia-
tive [sponte nostra]; things outside our influence happening without a
purpose [sine ratione] and unexpectedly [inopinate] are said to happen
fortuitously when they began in our arrangement of matters and by
chance when without our arranging’ (Calcidius, 1963: 204–5). The dis-
tinction between chance and fortuitous events is the distinction between
the confluence of events that occur as the result of events not involving
deliberation and the confluence of events involving deliberation. ‘Fortui-
tous,’ as Suárez observes, ‘is said especially in human affairs’ or with
respect to actions done from reason and intention.5 Whereas it seems
4
Bobzien, 1998: 57; see also pp. 31ff.
5
Suárez, 1965: XIX. section XII.2. 744b.
appropriate to say that it was purely a matter of chance that lightning
struck when the clock chimed, it seems more appropriate to say that two
acquaintances encountering one another at the market was fortuitous
rather than a matter of chance, since each had a reason for being where
they were at the time in question. For Calcidius (or Calcidius’ Plato),
some realm of activity that is exempt from determination by efficient
causes was also thought necessary in order to account for the actions of
free agents.6
In line with this movement rejecting the existence of fortune, Boethius
notes that there is an ambiguity in the notion of necessity – necessity
relative to one’s knowledge and necessity relative to the natures of things.
Although it follows neither from the nature of human beings nor from
our knowledge of human affairs that two individuals should meet in a
certain place at a certain time, from God’s point of view, their meeting is
as necessary as if it had been a consequence of their nature (Consolatio, V.
Prose 6, 27–33). In the classical example, the master knows that the two
servants will meet, but what makes their meeting fated is neither this
knowledge nor their natures, but the master’s willing it. Although the
event is contingent upon the master’s act of will, his willing it makes it as
unavoidable as if it were of natural necessity. On this picture, chance or
accidental events are nothing but the way things appear to us because we
do not know all the causes God has put in place.
The notions of fate and providence posed obvious obstacles to preser-
ving a realm for human freedom, and the most common response among
philosophers opposed to Fortune was compatibilism, according to which
free acts are events with special kinds of efficient causes within the soul,
voluntates, or a process of deliberation and choice. The concept of ‘that
which depends on us’, which looms large in Descartes’ account of desire,
can be traced back to debates among the Stoics concerning the extent to
which determinism is compatible with voluntary action and moral apprai-
sal. Bobzien notes that some Stoics (e.g. Chrysippus) did not treat actions
that depend on us as relying on a principle of alternative possibilities –
that we could have chosen or acted otherwise – but simply as events which
have among their causes an act of assent, which depends upon us not in
6
Sorabji (1980: ch.1, especially, p. 18) notes that while Aristotle (e.g. Metaphysics, vi 3: 1027a29–
1027b14) recognises the need for a category of chance or coincidental events, events which are not
strictly speaking caused, he is not concerned in these discussions with preserving freedom of action
and moral responsibility.
the sense of being undetermined, but in the sense of being caused by the
rational soul (Bobzien, 1998: 281–3). (As in Diogenes’ report of the view,
the dog can be pulled along by the chariot or run ahead, but either way it’s
going to go.) According to Calvin Normore, a free act for Boethius is one
that results from a process of deliberation about means, which is an
internal causal process and unless interfered with (typically by a passion)
concludes in an action. The more an action issues from a process of
rational deliberation, the more free it is (Consolatio, V. Prose 2, 390;
Normore, 2002: 32). But the fact that a free act is the outcome of an
internal causal process (deliberation) or known in advance by God, does
not make it necessitated in the sense of necessity according to our nature.7
A common form of compatibilism in the debates about free will and
fate in the Stoic and medieval periods was thus to argue that a free action
is one which has a certain kind of cause, a voluntas or judgement or
process of deliberation, and whether this involved being able to do or
choose otherwise or amounted to nothing more than freedom from
external constraints or interference were separate and open questions.
Whether freedom is restricted to deliberation and choice among means
to one’s happiness or extends to ends was also a matter of some debate.
Whereas Aquinas argues that the will is not free to not will the good,
happiness, but can only choose among means (just or unjust) to obtaining
the good, Scotus, in line with what Normore refers to as the ‘two wills’
tradition originating in Anselm of Canterbury, argues that the will must
also choose among the potentially incommensurate ends of justice and
happiness.8 Others argue that what is definitive of the will is its power to
choose in the absence of a ‘sufficient reason’. Al-Ghazali, for example,
held that the will has the power to simply pick, and it is precisely in
willing one thing over an equally compelling alternative that the will
demonstrates its absolute freedom (Normore, 1998).
Descartes’ own position with regard to determinism and free will is
nothing short of obscure. On the one hand, human beings enjoy a liberty
of indifference (albeit ‘the lowest degree of freedom’), through which the
will may always withhold assent, even in the perverse case in which it
withholds assent to a clear and distinct idea (though probably only by
7
Boethius, Consolatio. V. Prose 6. With respect to God’s foreknowledge, we may thus say that from
God’s knowing that x will occur, it is necessary that x will occur, but not that x is necessary.
Compare: from seeing that Tom is walking, it follows necessarily that Tom is walking, but Tom’s
walking is not necessary.
8
Aquinas, 1968: I-II. x. 2; Scotus, Ordinatio III. For discussion, see Normore 2002; Boler, 2002; Kent,
1995 and Alanen, 2002.
distracting the soul before it assents) (AT IV, 173–4). On the other hand,
Descartes seems, in the following passage, to subscribe to the necessitation
of everything, including thoughts, by God’s will. When Elisabeth suggests
that the evil caused by the free will of others is beyond the reach of
providence, Descartes responds:
All the reasons which prove the existence of God, and that he is the first and
immutable cause of all the effects which do not depend upon the free will of
human beings, likewise prove in the same manner that he is also the cause of all
those that depend upon it. For we can demonstrate that he exists only by
considering him as a sovereignly perfect being; and he would not be sovereignly
perfect if something could occur in the world that did not come entirely from
him. It is true that it is only faith which teaches us about the grace by which God
elevates us to a supernatural blessedness; but Philosophy alone suffices for the
knowledge that the least thought cannot enter the mind of man if God has not
wished and willed from all eternity that it enter therein. (AT IV, 314)9
Reconciling the absolute freedom of the human will with the determi-
nation by the divine will is no small matter. One possible interpretation of
Descartes’ reply to Elisabeth is that he is not accepting God’s antecedent
willing of all human actions and choices, but only His consequent
willing – that is, God’s concurrence in what we (antecedently) will. It is
undeniable, however, that the last line of the above passage suggests a
stronger reading: that whatever happens (including all our volitions and
all other thoughts) is determined ‘from all eternity’ by God. Yet, the very
existence of the category of things that depend on us alone, which comes
up in the discussion of desire, suggests a realm of human freedom free
from external determination. A more likely possibility is that Descartes is
toying with a Stoic position: although he does not endorse the principle of
alternative possibilities for either actions or volitions, what makes an act
free is that it is caused by an act of assent, which, by the very fact that it
originates in the soul, depends at least that much upon it. Since God’s
causal role extends to acts of assent as well, this is not a very satisfactory
solution, but it has the comfort of familiarity. The important distinction
9
Here Descartes is responding to Elisabeth’s letter of 30 September 1645, in which she objects to his
advice that the ‘first and principal’ truth to bear in mind in order to judge well is the existence of
God. She argues that while she is consoled by the knowledge of God in regard to ‘evils that come to
us in the ordinary course of nature and from the order which is established’, she is not so easily
consoled in regard to ‘those imposed on us by human beings, whose wills appear to us entirely free,
for it is only faith that can persuade us that God takes care to regulate wills, and that he has
determined the fortune of each person before the creation of the world’ (AT IV, 302). Descartes
rejects the libertarian streak in Elisabeth’s objection.
for Descartes’ account of human happiness is the distinction between
those acts that depend on the soul in the sense of originating within the
soul and those acts or behaviours produced by a stimulus originating
outside the soul. We shall have to see whether this distinction is adequate
to the task he assigns the idea of providence in preventing us from desiring
things in vain, and securing the kind of self-satisfaction he deems central
not only to human contentment but to virtue itself.
WHEREIN PASSIONS ARE DEFECTIVE
In the second part of the Passions, from article 137 to article 148, Descartes
gives an overview of the uses of the passions insofar as they pertain to the
body and to the soul and to the union. Their natural use in the union is to
incite the soul to consent and contribute to actions that preserve and
perfect the body (PS, art. 137). Sadness and joy are the first two passions
because the soul is first informed of things useful to the body through
pleasure, and of things harming it through pain. At article 138, the defects
of the passions with respect to the body are connected with misleading
effects of associated pains and pleasures: some things are harmful to the
body but cause no sadness, and some things are useful which distress it.
The discussion from 137 to 148, which relates principally to the passion of
desire, constitutes the first of Descartes’ reason-dominant remedies for
controlling the passions.
Until article 143, Descartes is working with two standards of correctness
for the passions: utility and truth. Questions concerning the utility of the
passions are divided according to whether a passion is useful for the soul
or useful for the body. The truth or falsity of a passion is connected with
what it signifies. Because the passions ‘almost always make as much the
goods as the evils they represent seem much greater and more important
than they are’ it is necessary ‘to use experience and reason in order to
distinguish good from evil and know their true value’ (PS, art. 138; AT XI,
431). The two criteria generally produce divergent results: a false passion
may, in some circumstances, be more useful than a true passion. Because
we cannot avoid the risk of being mistaken, inclining towards passions
that have good as their object (e.g. love and joy) even when false is better
for the soul than inclining towards those which have evil as their object
(hatred and sadness). Hatred separates the soul from the good in each
thing as much as from its evil (PS, arts. 140; 142). With respect to the
body, love and joy are more conducive to health but sadness and hatred
more conducive to survival. Unless accompanied by sadness or strong
desire, joy and love promote circulation of the blood and digestion,
whereas hatred and sadness constrict the flow of alimentary juices, which
affects the digestive organs and diminishes the fuel needed to maintain the
heat of the heart (PS, arts. 97, 98, 102, 103, 108). In terms of the preserva-
tion of the body, however, hatred and sadness are more important because
it is better to avoid harmful things than to obtain goods one can live
without (PS, art. 137).
At article 143 Descartes applies these considerations to the passion of
desire and it is here where the two standards of correctness, truth and
utility, converge. All ‘false’ passions that terminate in desire are harmful.
And it is necessary precisely to note that what I say now about these four passions
[joy, sadness, love and hate] holds only when they are considered precisely in
themselves and do not carry us to any action. For in as much as they excite desire
in us by the intermediary of which they rule our mores, it is certain that all those
of which the cause is false can harm and that, on the contrary, all those of which
the cause is appropriate ( juste) can help, and even that apart from being equally
badly founded, joy is ordinarily more harmful that sadness because by producing
restraint and fear, [sadness] disposes us in a certain way to prudence in the same
measure as the other [joy] renders those who abandon themselves to it rash and
temerarious. (PS, art. 143; AT XI, 435–6)
Desire is singled out for special treatment partly because of its volatility
(PS, art. 101), especially when arising from attraction (agréement) or
repulsion (horreur) (PS, art. 90), and partly because desire acts directly
upon the will to act (PS, arts. 47; 143). Desire is ‘an agitation of the soul
caused by the spirits, which disposes the soul to want for the future
the things it represents to itself as agreeable’ (PS, art. 86; AT XI, 392).
Although all desires are future-oriented, some are directed towards the
preservation of goods already possessed or the absence of present evils (PS,
art. 86). Descartes rejects the traditional idea that the opposite of desire is
aversion, on the grounds that the pursuit of good and avoidance of evil are
two aspects of every action. Pursuing wealth is tantamount to avoiding
poverty, and can be explained through one and the same desire (PS, arts.
87; 89). This is important to the role he assigns regret and repentance in
decision-making, for the desire for happiness is one and the same thing as
the desire to avoid that which principally militates against happiness,
regret and repentance. The utility of desire consists in its making the
body more mobile and agile, preparing it to perform the action required
to obtain some good or avoid some evil, keeping the sense organs attentive
to the task, and bolstering the will (PS, arts. 106; 111). But because desires
are so often false and then always harmful, control of desire is paramount
to rational self-mastery.
Controlling our desires is part of seeking virtue, because without
knowledge of the goodness of what depends on us, our virtuous desires
cannot exist, and without the latter, we cannot be virtuous. The first task
of moral philosophy is thus to ‘free the spirit’ from vain desires, a
sentiment which echoes the third maxim of the morale par provision of
the Discourse: I must aim to ‘conquer myself rather than fortune, and to
change my desires rather than the order of the world’ (AT VI, 25).
DESIRE, REGRET AND PROVIDENCE
What makes us think that our desires for things that do not depend on
us are legitimate is the false metaphysical presupposition that the desired
outcomes are always at least possible, even if they fail to come to be. But
is the relevant sense of possibility required for desire metaphysical, as
Descartes believes, or merely epistemic? If, for all we know, a certain
outcome is possible, and if the outcome would be good for the union,
doesn’t it makes sense to strive to bring it about? True, what we desire
may not come about, but so what? It seems just plain silly to think that
we can or should eradicate all desires for outcomes that do not depend
entirely on us.
The principal obstacle to happiness on Descartes’ view is not the
existence of vain desires per se, however, but the regret, repentance or
remorse that so often accompanies their being thwarted. ‘For it is nothing
but desire, and regret or repentance, that is able to prevent us from being
content’ (letter to Elisabeth, 4 August 1645; AT IV, 266; see also 284; 288).
This is a theme not only of the Passions but also of the Discourse on
Method, where the point of following merely probable opinions is pro-
posed as the only way to free oneself ‘from all the regrets and remorse that
customarily agitate consciences’ (AT VI, 25). In contrast with desire, regret
and its ilk are mediated more directly by intellectual thoughts, particularly
thoughts about what would have happened had one acted or chosen
otherwise, and thus are more directly targets for moral therapy utilising
the idea of providence.
On the reading advanced here, reflection on providence is a remedy for
vain desires not because it enables us to extirpate such desires, but because
it undermines the conceptual foundations for regret, repentance and
remorse – passions that are direct responses to unfulfilled desires and
the source of our greatest discontent. Regret is for goods lost (PS art. 209),
repentance is for one’s own mistaken past actions (PS art. 191) and
remorse is for past actions performed while irresolute about the goodness
of one’s actions (PS arts. 60; 177). These are passions opposed to the kind
of self-satisfaction Descartes regards as crucial to our happiness. The
satisfaction we receive when we are robbed despite having chosen our
routes carefully is not the satisfaction of all our desires principally but the
satisfaction of having nothing to regret because we have acted from reason
and a firm disposition of the will. If we regret our actions and choices or
the goods we have lost, we presuppose that we could have acted or chosen
otherwise to produce a better outcome, whereas, metaphysically speaking,
neither an alternative action nor a better outcome was possible (this is the
best of all possible worlds). Morally speaking, one has nothing to regret,
for if one has applied one’s rational faculties in the best way possible and
acted resolutely, there is nothing more or else one could or ought to have
done. Not getting exactly what you want is compatible with not wanting
that things had turned out as you had wanted, and is compatible, there-
fore, with having no occasion for regret.
As Descartes writes to Elisabeth, ‘there is no person who does not desire
to become happy; but many do not know the means’ (to Elisabeth,
1 September 1645; AT IV, 282). The end, happiness, is a given for human
beings and the question then is: what can we do to maximise our
happiness in the face of uncertainty about the future? To maximise
our happiness requires choosing actions that hold the greatest promise
not of maximising our good fortune (for that we cannot control), but
rather of minimising regret, repentance and remorse. In this regard,
Descartes shares with modern decision theorists who advocate principles
for reducing or avoiding regret, the intuition that regret is a serious
opportunity cost, and one that can be diminished by the knowledge that
even though one did not obtain exactly what one wanted, a worse outcome
(one in which one’s regrets are higher) is imaginable (Savage, 1954; Loomes
and Sugden, 1982; Acker, 1997). This may be as far as the similarities go –
the cases Descartes considers are often too simple or under-described to
yield interesting differences between regret rules and classical decision
rules – but it is interesting, nonetheless, that he should target the
minimisation of regret as a central goal of rational decision-making.
(A comparison of these decision-making strategies and analysis of one of
Descartes’ cases as an application of a regret strategy is provided in the
postscript to this chapter, which can be safely ignored if not of interest.)
There are two kinds of decision-making situations implicit in Descartes’
examples, ones where the agent has information about the objective
probabilities of various outcomes, and ones where the agent is in total
ignorance of the probabilities. Of the first kind of situation, our inabil-
ity to know God’s ends does not rule out the possibility of making
predictions about the likelihood of certain outcomes and letting such
predictions influence our decisions. Because there is a rational plan to
the universe, it is possible to exploit the immutable necessity of events to
estimate the probability of future outcomes. This is evident in the
passage at AT XI, 440 where we are advised to choose the route that
reason decrees to be usually the safest, and in Descartes’ remark to
Elizabeth (of May 1646) that one should ‘trust to divine providence
and allow oneself to be driven by it ’ (AT IV, 415; my emphasis).10
Abandoning oneself to God’s plan is not abandoning oneself to fate
by choosing randomly or not choosing at all, but involves using all one’s
faculties to try to determine from past patterns of events what the
chances of various outcomes are. When, despite our best efforts, we
get it wrong, we have the consolation of having reasoned well. A worse
outcome is one in which things go badly and we haven’t reasoned well,
for in such a situation there is nothing from which to derive any self-
satisfaction.
When we desire what God decrees in this fashion we find the highest
form of satisfaction. But given our limited knowledge and the inevitability
of error, this strategy is not guaranteed to ensure that we won’t end up
vainly desiring things that have not been willed by God. In cases where we
are deciding under conditions of total ignorance, Descartes advises that
acting resolutely is required to avoid regret, repentance and remorse.
Irresolution is a vice (PS, arts. 170; 177). Acting resolutely is itself a source
of self-satisfaction even in situations where we are unlikely to obtain what
we desire.
The importance of resolution is demonstrated in the notorious example
of the Prince, who has to choose between persevering with a course of
action that could cause great harm, and not persevering and thereby
risking the evil of being perceived as irresolute (AT IV, 490). Irresolution
is, Descartes suggests, a greater cause for concern, ‘for such harms (caused
by persevering) can hardly be as great as the reputation of being irresolute
and inconstant’ (AT IV, 490). Descartes is not arguing that it would never
make sense to change one’s mind in light of new information, but in the
absence of adequate information that would alter one’s decision, the best
10
More formalised methods for utilising probabilities in decision-making would not emerge until
shortly after Descartes’ death in the correspondence between Pascal and Fermat in 1654, and in the
infamous ‘wager’ (Pascal, 1958).
course of action having made a decision is to stick with it. The explana-
tion depends on certain empirical assumptions that Descartes’ readers
then might have been more inclined to share than they would now, for
example, that stability of office depends on being resolute (rather than
merely appearing so) and that it is more important to preserve stability
than avoid the harms caused by irresolution.11 Only by making firm
decisions and acting resolutely, Descartes writes, may we avoid the regrets
and remorse of ‘those weak and faltering spirits who allow themselves to
go about inconstantly engaging in things they judge afterwards to be bad’
(AT VI, 25).
Whether Descartes is right about the connection between irresolution
and regret or remorse is, however, beside the point. It is interesting that he
was looking for some form of compensation – a measure of self-satisfac-
tion and a way of reducing regret – for when things go badly. This reading
has the advantage that we do not need to attribute to Descartes the
implausible idea that reflection on providence enables us to derive com-
plete satisfaction from all our desires or to render them all as desires that
depend solely upon us. The only idea we need attribute to him is the idea
that it is possible to derive complete satisfaction from all our actions,
provided we reason as best we can and act resolutely, for then we have no
reason for regret, repentance or remorse. Because we always have available
a form of compensation in the satisfaction we derive from our practical
reasoning, mastering desire turns out to be a matter of mastering those
passions that obstruct our happiness when our desires are thwarted. But
now it looks as if we have another problem. Can one fully embrace
providence and take seriously this prescription to use reason well
and act resolutely? If it is never the case that I could have chosen or acted
otherwise, is there ever a situation in which regret, repentance and
remorse are appropriate?12
11
On the moral and political disorder of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century which made
stability at the cost of justice appealing to some authors, see Copenhaver and Schmitt, 1992: ch.4.
The issue was, however, controversial. Erasmus argued strongly against forgoing justice, even
when this requires changing one’s position in such a way that might lead to the loss of power or
the collapse of one’s realm (Copenhaver and Schmitt, 1992: 272–3). Whether one would regret
one’s irresolution if one got away with it, so to speak, is not obvious and suggests that it is not
irresolution per se that is the cause of regret. More often than not, political leaders demonstrate
more attachment to the appearance of resolution than to the substance of it, and too few regrets
about mistaken decisions and actions.
12
Whether one thinks of them as rational or not, regret, repentance and remorse have a useful
educative function. Spinoza treats repentance as a vice for ‘he who repents of an action is twice as
unhappy or as weak as before’, but this is compatible with their having instrumental value in one’s
moral development (1982: IV. Prop.56.).
In the Discourse, Descartes makes the enigmatic remark that to render
one’s desires for things which depend upon oneself in this fashion is to
make ‘a virtue of necessity’ (AT VI, 26). What room is there for virtue, we
might ask, when everything, right down to our acts of assent, is governed
by an immutable necessity? Is the self-satisfaction which comes from
having nothing to regret, the key to my preserving my happiness in the
face of my thwarted desires, based only on an illusion that I am in control
of what I assent to, how I reason and whether I act resolutely or not?
Without a clear solution to the problem of how to reconcile human
freedom with Descartes’ strong conception of providence, there is no
obvious way to answer these questions. What is clear, however, is that
were this problem to somehow go away, what would be left would be an
interesting analysis of how human satisfaction and self-determination is
possible, despite the fact that we are, in this embodied state, compelled to
desire things that it is beyond our control always to bring about.
POSTSCRIPT: A RUDIMENTARY DECISION THEORY
Contemporary decision theories seek to define principles by which

agents may rationally choose from a range of ‘live options’ an action
that is optimal. To represent different theories theorists usually begin
with a payoff matrix. A payoff matrix is a way of representing the utility
of each action under consideration across a range of different possible
states of the world. Once a matrix has been constructed, which action is
optimal depends on the specific decision rule being applied. When the
chances of particular outcomes cannot be estimated, the two most
studied classical rules are ‘maximax’ and ‘maximin’. ‘Maximax’, a rule
which advocates maximising one’s gains or the gambler’s strategy,
instructs the agent to choose the action from the matrix that promises
the highest payoff (a1 in fig. 7.1). Maximin instructs the agent to choose
the action with the highest minimum payoff (a3 in fig. 7.1). Regret
principles differ from rules such as Maximax and Maximin in ways
which can perhaps best be seen by considering not a standard payoff
matrix but a regret matrix that measures the regret associated with each
action in each state (fig.7.2). The regret associated with an action x in
state S is calculated as the difference between the highest payoff of any
other action represented in a given S column in the standard payoff
matrix and the payoff for x in S (Acker, 1997: 208). So if x has the
highest payoff, for example, 20 utiles in a state, S, the amount of regret
Figure 7.1. A payoff matrix (Acker 1997, 209)
Figure 7.2. A regret matrix
for x in S is zero, whereas if x has a payoff of 3 in S, and some other

action, y, has a payoff of 20, the regret associated with x in S is 17.
A range of regret principles mirroring non-regret-based decision rules
may then be formulated. L. J. Savage’s original regret principle was a
kind of maximin regret rule, which instructs the agent to choose the
action with the lowest maximum regret (a1 in fig. 7.2.) But other prin-
ciples, which are variations on the regret principle, would recommend
different choices. For example, a lowest average regret rule instructs an
agent to choose the action with the least amount of associated regret on
average (a3). Such a rule may help deflect one serious objection to the
maximin regret rule, namely that it considers only the outcomes and
only the extremal values of the outcomes (Cohen and Jaffray, 1980;
Acker, 1997: 210). Choosing the action that promises the lowest max-
imum regret is not optimal if it also promises a greater amount of regret
on average than some other action.
There are also different ways of constructing the regret matrix that
may avoid the problem of considering only the extremal values of the
outcomes. Mary Acker has argued for a ‘tempered regret’ rule that con-
siders the fact that some actions can be the cause for both regret and relief,
and may therefore have the edge over those that promise the lowest
maximum regret or lowest average regret. Under this proposal, an indi-
vidual compares each outcome to both extremes ‘and considers the sum of
the gains and losses under all possible states of the world’ (Acker, 1997:
210). The tempered regret (Tr) associated with each action is the differ-
ence between the best conditional outcome (Xmax) in a given state minus
the payoff (X) of an action, and the payoff (X) minus the worst condi-
tional outcome (Xmin) or:
Tr ¼ (Xmax – X) – (X – Xmin)
The amount of tempered regret associated with an action represents a
difference between differences and thus reflects the intuition that one’s
regret can be minimised by reflection on the fact that although one didn’t
achieve the best outcome, one didn’t achieve the worst either. Applying
the tempered regret rule is then simply a matter of choosing the action
with the lowest maximum tempered regret. On this matrix (fig. 7.3), the
tempered regret rule recommends the agent choose action a2, which no
other rule under consideration recommends (Acker 1997, 210).13
It is not easy to map Descartes’ cases into this contemporary discussion
about regrets. The belief that non-actual outcomes are not metaphysically
possible (even if they are epistemically possible) is not a feature of modern
decision theories, and it is difficult to imagine that one’s reasoning
wouldn’t be affected by such a belief. But that aside, if Descartes’ reason-
ing is based on the intuition that regret is a significant cost, there should
be cases where applying a regret rule recommends different actions from
applying a classical rule.
13
Scepticism about the role regret plays in decision-making is a feature of a debate spanning both
philosophy and the social sciences. For recent philosophical criticism and discussion of the
rationality of regret see Bittner, 1992 and Hurka, 1996. The idea that negative emotions like regret
and repentance only make a bad situation worse is reflected in the criticism that in being attached
to past actions regret and its ilk are sunk costs, whereas only incremental costs and benefits should
affect decisions. Foes often cite, for example, irrational decisions made on the basis of anticipated
regret such as consumer preferences for more expensive brand names over less expensive, generic
brands (Landman, 1993; Arkes and Blumer, 1985; Simonson, 1992). Allies, more often found in the
social sciences than in philosophy, respond with the argument that from an empirical point of view,
the influence of anticipated regret on individual decisions, particularly in the economic sphere,
does not produce irrational decisions on the whole. Some psychologists and economists argue, for
example, that it can be both rational and functional to factor past and anticipated regrets into one’s
choices, particularly where doing so affords learning from past mistakes – e.g. making investment
decisions which are neither too risky nor too conservative, and engaging in various kinds of self-
protective behaviours (Zeelenberg, 1999; Zeelenberg et al., 1998; Richard, et al. 1996).
Figure 7.3. A tempered regret matrix (Acker 1997, 211)
Consider the following (modified) case from part three of the Discourse,
where Descartes argues for the virtue of acting resolutely despite having
only doubtful opinions, and uses the analogy of the voyageurs lost in the
forest (AT VI, 24–5).
My second maxim is to be as firm and as resolute in my actions as I am able, and
to not hold any less constantly the most doubtful opinions, when I am once fixed
on them, than if they had been the most certain. Imitating in this the voyageurs
who, in finding themselves lost in some forest, ought not to wander around and
around as much this way or that, nor yet even less to stay in one place, but rather
to walk always as straight as they are able in the same direction, and not to alter
course for weak reasons even though it has perhaps been only chance which has
determined their choice at the beginning: for by this means, if they do not go
exactly where they desire, they will arrive at least somewhere at the end where
probably they would likely be better off than in the middle of the forest . . . And
this would be capable of delivering me from all the repentances and remorse
which customarily agitate the consciences of those weak and faltering spirits who
allow themselves to go inconstantly to carry out as good the things that they
judge afterwards to be bad. (AT VI, 24–5)
Let us suppose that we have to choose between the following three
courses of action: (a1) staying put, (a2) picking a direction and walking
resolutely in a straight line and (a3) walking off but reconsidering one’s
direction every few hundred yards or so. The last of these three is intended
to reflect the option of ‘wandering this way or that’, the irresolute action.
Suppose also that you know that the forest is long in one direction, (not
an unreasonable assumption generally), but not which direction that is.
Descartes prescribes action, (a2), but that action carries the risk that if you
happen to choose the direction in which the forest extends the most, you
could end up lost for a long period of time. Suppose that having picked a2
you are still lost at the end of the day. Descartes seems to suggest that even
Figure 7.4. A payoff matrix for the lost voyageur
this is better than having stayed put in the middle of the forest. In what
way, exactly, would you be better off?
Acting resolutely seems to have for Descartes both a practical value (one
is more likely to achieve one’s goals this way) and a personal payoff (even if
one doesn’t achieve one’s goals, one still has the satisfaction of having acted
resolutely.) Let us build these assumptions into our analysis of the case of
the lost voyageurs. Suppose that walking in a straight line is difficult – it
requires hacking through thick undergrowth – and the third option,
letting fortune guide your steps without making firm decisions about
which direction to take, amounts to following the easiest route, but is
more taxing than staying put. Suppose that you have no information about
whether a rescue party will be looking for you but believe it is possible. You
might then start by considering the two options that either the rescuers
know your location or they don’t. And then there is the third option that
there are no rescuers.
Consider now the following outcomes: S1, a rescue party goes to your
starting point, A; S2, a rescue party looks somewhere other than in the
vicinity of A; and S3, there is no rescue party looking for you. In S3, the
only chance of getting out of the forest is by walking out. A payoff matrix
for such a case may look like the one above (fig. 7.4).
In S1, a1 has the highest utility, because no work is done and one gets
rescued. a1 has a minimal payoff in S2, let us suppose, because you might
reason that the rescuers could eventually find you, and no payoff in S3,
because in this scenario only leaving A offers any hope of getting out of
the forest. a2 has a fairly high payoff in S1, because even though the
rescuers go to A, and you have to do the hard work, you have the chance
of intersecting the rescuers, and if that fails, you can always leave signs,
carved arrows or marks in the dirt indicating the direction you are
travelling. a2 has not as high a payoff in S2, because there is a much
reduced chance that the rescuers will be in any place that you have been,
but you can still leave signs, your direction is clear and there is always the
possibility that you make it out on your own. a2 has a minimal payoff in
S3, where nothing you do enhances the possibility of rescue and where you
have to work hard, but you still might get out on your own and you have
the satisfaction of acting resolutely. The payoff is tempered by the fact
that if you choose the direction in which the forest is longest, you will be
worse off perhaps than if you had changed your direction along the way.
a3 has a payoff of 8 utiles in S1, let us suppose, because even though
you leave A, you might intersect the rescuers and perhaps you increase
your chances of intersecting the rescuers by meandering about in several
directions, but there is no point in leaving signs marking your direction
since it constantly changes. a3 has the same payoff in S2, for similar
reasons. You might encounter the rescuers, and in both S1 and S2, you
might stumble out on your own. a3 has a slightly reduced payoff in S3,
where the only hope is that you get out on your own, where you do not
have to work too hard and where, by changing your direction every so
often you do not lock yourself into a direction that may prove to be the
longest part of the forest, but where doing so may also lead to a lot of
unnecessary meandering.
When we do the calculations from this matrix, we get the following
results. Maximax instructs the agent to choose a1, the action with the
highest payoff overall, and maximin, a3, because it has the highest mini-
mum payoff. Savage’s original regret strategy and Acker’s tempered regret
strategy instruct the agent to choose a2, Descartes’ preferred option.
Intuitively, regret strategies give us the action Descartes wants us to
choose because they build into the decision-making process the recogni-
tion that even if one doesn’t get exactly what one wants, the occasion can
still be one for a fair amount of self-satisfaction, provided one is able to
compare the outcome with others in which one is worse off or unable to
draw as much self-satisfaction from one’s action. In the event that the
voyageur is neither rescued nor finds his own way out, he will have fewer
regrets if he has chosen the straight route and acted resolutely, than if he
chooses an option where this form of compensation is unavailable.
CHAPTER 8
Generosity breeds content: self-mastery

through self-esteem
451624
Have we, in this, lost more than a mere word? Is there also some
quality so far faded from our world and our literature that we find it
hard to recognize in the writings of men long dead, so that when
they would speak to us over the abysm of time we cannot clearly hear
what they are saying?
(Margaret Greaves on the passing of ‘magnanimity’
(Greaves, 1964: 14)
Managing our desires and regrets through reflection on providence and

the illusory fortuna takes us only so far towards the rational self-mastery
Descartes deems necessary for attaining the good in this life. It assists us in
maintaining our equilibrium when things don’t turn out as we had hoped,
but it cannot prevent our being affected by things that induce in us the
wrong kinds of desires or other kinds of unruly passions. Nor do we
through this process move beyond the realm of self-regarding desires to
become definitively moral beings. A stronger medicine is required to
overcome these defects – générosité – which is first a passion of the soul
and then, through habituation, a virtue as well. Since générosité is both the
key to all the other virtues and a general remedy for all defects of the
passions, it is an essential component of emotional health and moral
development (PS, art. 161). It is the final fruit to be picked from the
Cartesian tree of knowledge, an ethical notion combining the supreme
power of the will with a passionate disposition to use it well.
The discussion of générosité signals a retreat from earlier ideals and
promises made, when it seemed as if the new science really would yield
the kind of technological control sufficient for mastery of our bodies and
nature.1 The généreux are not masters of nature, nor do they have the
1
In the Discourse on Method, the principles of mechanistic physics are presented as laying the
foundation for a practical knowledge of the world, one which would render us ‘maı̂tres et
possesseurs de la nature’ (AT VI, 61–2). As Cottingham (1998, 72) notes, the idea of mastering the
machine of nature through knowledge of mechanics represents a new form of alienation from
188
Generosity breeds content 189
degree of self-control envisaged by the Stoics. They guide themselves in
the full recognition of their practical limitations and the uncertainty of the
world which impacts upon them. What remains immune to external
forces are only the values of the généreux, in particular, the value of the
free will, and their innate mental faculties. The restricted ‘moral certainty’
of the sage presages an emerging cult of the will, with surprising and
puzzling consequences.
MAGNANIMITY AND GENEROSITY
The moral tone of the Passions until Part Three is one relatively congruent
with Aristotelian virtue ethics, with the qualification that virtue is, as it
was for the Stoics, independent of fortune. Magnanimitas is introduced at
article 54 as a species of esteem. The notion of magnanimitas in the Latin
tradition or megalopsychia in the Greek was long connected with the
concept of legitimate self-esteem to the extent that the terminology has
often appeared in modern English editions of Greek texts translated as
‘pride’.2 Aristotle defines the virtues or moral excellences as habits of
acting in accordance with right reason, and it is only for such habits that
one can justly esteem oneself.3 The great-souled person esteems her own
greatness, which consists of a unity of virtues (the four cardinal virtues:
prudence, temperance, justice and fortitude), and the rightness of them
according to the mean – neither too much (for this is stupid and ignorant
vanity) nor too little (unjustified humility).4 Being for the most part self-
sufficient, the megalopsyche is not excessively self-interested but rather
assists others and never displays her superiority over those less fortunate.5
Because of this virtue, the megalopsyche warrants the greatest of desserts
among external goods – honour – and for this reason Aristotle refers to
megalopsychia as the ‘crown’ of the virtues. Megalopsychia makes one’s
virtues greater and cannot exist without them.6
nature. The Passions stands as our reconciliation with nature, and respect for its complexity and
power. Submission to providence and self-mastery alone can make us content. Little wonder then
that Descartes should write to Chanut in 1646 that it is more certain and easier to learn how not to
fear death than to seek to preserve life (AT IV, 442).
2
The conflation of magnanimity and pride would not have impressed Descartes, for whom pride is a
vice (PS, art. 157; cf. Aristotle, 1984: 1773).
3
Aristotle, 1980: II. 1. 1103a14–25.
4
Ibid., II. 7. 1107b23; IV.3. 1123b1–25.
5 6
Ibid., IV.3. 1124b7–20. Ibid., IV.3. 1124a1–3.
By introducing magnanimity as a species of self-esteem, Descartes
prepares the reader to expect an endorsement of the ancient notion of
virtue (arete) and its connection with self-esteem. But at article 153 there is
a sudden terminological shift, and it is the notion of générosité that is
suddenly equated with virtue. The true generosity (as opposed to pride) of
a person consists:
partly in that he knows there is nothing that truly appertains to him other than
this free disposition of his volitions, nor ought he to be praised or blamed for
anything except that he uses it well or badly, and partly in that he senses in
himself a firm and constant resolution to use it well, that is to say, to never fail to
use the will to undertake and execute all the things he judges to be the best. And
this is to follow virtue perfectly. (AT XI, 446)
Generosity has a cognitive component, the knowledge of the freedom
and value of the will, and a conative element, the feeling within oneself of
the firm and constant resolution to use the will well. Prima facie, there is
little in this definition of générosité to justify the terminological shift. The
idea that only actions that are in some sense voluntary are the subject of
moral approbation and disapprobation and thus the only legitimate cause
of self-esteem, was subsumed under the traditional concept of magnani-
mitas. The rise to prominence of the notion of the will in the medieval
period, particularly among followers of Augustine, seems only to have
reinforced the conception of magnanimity as connected with one’s free
acts.7 In the following passage from Augustine’s De libero arbitrio volun-
tatis, I. 95, we can see themes very similar to those Descartes uses in
connection with générosité.
We agree that the happy man is the lover of his own good will, a man who
spurns, by comparison, every other good, which can still be lost even when the
will to keep it remains . . . to love one’s good will and to esteem it as highly as we
have said – is this not the good will itself ? . . . What, therefore, is the cause of our
doubting (even if we have never been wise before) that it is by will that we deserve
and live a praiseworthy and happy life, and by will that we deserve and live a
disgraceful and unhappy life. (St. Augustine, 1964: 27)
Augustine defines the good will in terms of the esteem and love we have
for the will, the happiness it produces and its independence from fortune.
Similarly, Descartes explains the link between virtue and happiness as
arising from the composition of passions that make up generosity: love
7
Levi has traced the Augustinian influences on Descartes to the neo-Stoic French moralists of the
period, particularly du Vair, Charron and Justus Lipsius (Levi, 1964: chs. 11 and 12).
(self-love), wonder (self-esteem) and joy (PS, art. 160). But if these were
common themes associated with the traditional use of magnanimity, why
then does Descartes feel the need to abandon the traditional notion in
favour of a local term, générosité, and what work is the latter supposed to
do that magnanimity cannot?
THE FOX AND THE LION
Descartes’ explanation for the shift in terminology is as curious as the shift

itself. As Lisa Shapiro has argued, the term générosité in seventeenth-
century French literary culture carried connotations of noble birth but
also of self-mastery and good will towards others (Shapiro, 1999a: 250–1).
Descartes accepts that good birth can contribute to one’s esteeming one’s
true worth and that God does not create all souls equally noble and
strong, and for this reason, he tells us, he has chosen to follow the
vernacular instead of ‘magnanimity’, which is used in the Schools ‘where
it is not well understood’ (PS, art. 161). Like Aristotle, Descartes believes
in the power of ‘a good upbringing’ to correct defects of birth, and despite
the elitist terminology, therefore, the account of virtue is intended to have
an equalising effect. The passion of generosity becomes a virtue through a
habitual resolve to use the will well. Since virtue does not depend upon
fortune but upon the free will that each of us possess, virtue is something
everyone can strive to attain.8 The break between virtue and fortune is one
significant departure from Aristotle’s account of virtue, but since this is
not offered as a reason, it does little to explain the shift in terminology.9
Against the background of what seems to be an overwhelming isomorph-
ism between the notion of générosité and the traditional conception of
magnanimity, the explanation offered at article 161 is unsatisfactory.
One possibility is that the term générosité signals not a radical departure
from the traditional conception of magnanimity, but a shift in emphasis
within the traditional conception of virtue. In particular, the notion of
prudence or practical wisdom (phronesis) moves into prominence in a way
that differs from its place in the ancient conception of virtue. It is the
second component of the definition of générosité – acting with a firm and
constant resolution to use the will well – which represents a distinctively
Renaissance theme in the history of magnanimity. Two aspects of the
8
Cottingham argues that regardless of the state of their fortune, anyone can, on Descartes’ ethics,
attain a state of virtue (Cottingham, 1998: 99–100).
9
See Rodis-Lewis, 1987.
intellectual climate of the seventeenth century are resonant with
Descartes’ conception of virtue. One is the increasing valorisation of
heroic virtues, lauded by Roman historians and celebrated in romantic
literature. The other is a growing suspicion among moralists of the period
that the classical conception of virtue, with its reliance on a strict
conception of right reason, is practically useless for us in this life.
Descartes’ repeated insistence on the necessity to follow ‘firm and
decisive judgements’, and on the viciousness of acting from fear or
irresolution (which the tone suggests is morally worse than doing the
wrong thing but doing it decisively (PS, arts. 48, 170)) is reminiscent more
of the heroic virtues than the cardinal virtues of the Greeks and Scholas-
tics (Greaves, 1964: 19–27). The heroic virtues include charisma, liberality,
love, courage (including courageous sacrifice), generosity, noble ambition
and forbearance. Margaret Greaves identifies the point at which mega-
lopsychia enters the Latin tradition as magnanimitas as containing the
seeds of its heroic connotations insofar as animus stands ambiguously
for either ‘soul’ or ‘courage’. This extension in the meaning of megalop-
sychia is, for example, explicit in Cicero, for whom great courage in the
service of the common good is virtus (cf: Cicero, De Officiis I, 19; Greaves,
1964: 17). The heroic virtues are also important for Machiavelli, whose
conception of virtù derives much of its content from his peculiar reading
of Roman historians, especially Livy.10
Machiavelli makes necessity a virtue in quite a different manner from
Descartes. Descartes argues that to conjecture about God’s ends and the
providential order is appropriate only in ethics, and then only barely so
(AT VII, 375; AT VIIIA, 81). But whatever happens is, as we discovered in
the last chapter, both necessitated by God and the best possible out-
come, and so virtue consists in part in submitting oneself to this
immutable fate. Machiavelli, by contrast, regards fortune as real and
tameable. The future is open to manipulation by strong hands. Virtue
and political necessity are indistinguishable. Machiavelli’s heroes are
successful tyrants – Agathocles the Sicilian (1950:8), Scipio [1996:I. 29),
Hannibal (1950:17), Severus (1950:19), Caesar (1996:I. 29) and, in his
own time, the brutal and conniving Cesare Borgia (1950:7) and Pope
Julius II (1950:25). Pope Julius’ impetuousness and boldness in battle
demonstrated for Machiavelli one key component of virtù. The three
main components of virtù are (1) the recognition of the inescapability of
fortune, (2) the importance of boldness and decisiveness and (3) the
10
See Machiavelli, 1950.
necessity of adapting one’s behaviour to prevailing circumstances (1950:25).
Boldness and adaptability are necessary because of the unpredictability and
capriciousness of Fortuna. ‘I certainly think that it is better to be impet-
uous than cautious, for fortune is a woman, and it is necessary, if you wish
to master her, to conquer her by force; and it can be seen that she lets
herself be overcome by the bold rather than by those who proceed coldly.’11
Machiavelli recognises as ‘good qualities’ other traits, such as liberality
or generosity, mercy, humanity, chastity and piety, and advises princes
not to depart from these goods where possible. When the state is corrupt,
however, it is not virtuous for the Prince to possess such qualities. The
crowning virtue for Machiavelli is prudence, which stands alone from
other cardinal virtues, including justice. Virtù consists in choosing the
best means, whatever they are, to preserving power. To think anything
else is a virtue is to be deceived by appearances.
[As the above-named qualities] cannot all be possessed or observed, human
conditions not permitting of it, it is necessary that he [the Prince] should be
prudent enough to avoid the scandal of those vices which would lose him the
state, and guard himself if possible against those which will not lose it him, but if
not able to, he can indulge them with less scruple. And yet he must not mind
incurring the scandal of those vices, without which it would be difficult to save
the state, for if one considers well, it will be found that some things which seem
virtues would, if followed, lead to one’s ruin, and some others which appear vices
result in one’s greater security and wellbeing.12
The prudent ruler combines elements of both man and beast, the use of
law and of force, and, on the beast side, must be both ‘a fox and a lion’ –
‘a fox to recognise traps and a lion to frighten wolves’ (1950:18). The beast
side of the Prince knows how to use deception and, above all, to avoid
detection.
This ‘politicised virtue’ of Machiavelli, as Harvey Mansfield has
described it, is not one Descartes agrees with in principle.13 He writes to
Elisabeth that it should not be necessary for the Prince to ruin himself in
order to maintain the health of the earthly state.14 But in the same letter,
Descartes shows his own willingness to condone joining the fox with the
lion, using ‘artifice as well as force’, in certain political contexts (AT IV,
488). The Prince must exercise a firm will, regardless of the rightness or
wrongness of a particular action.
11 12 13
Machiavelli, 1950: 94. Ibid., p. 57. Mansfield, 1996: 20.
14
Letter to Elisabeth, September 1646.
Finally [the Prince] should remain immutable and inflexible, not to the first
designs which he would have formed within himself, for since he is not able to
have a view of anything, it is necessary that he ask counsel and understand the
reasons of several others before resolving himself, but that he be inflexible
concerning those things which he has announced to have resolved even though
they cause problems for him, for could they be harming him so much as to be
worth the reputation of being lightweight and fickle? (AT IV, 490)
Machiavelli and Descartes are examples of a general trend in moral
thinking away from the unity of virtue and knowledge found in the
Greeks and Stoics, and towards a notion of virtue in which resolution is
central, a trend which comes dangerously close to granting prudence the
status of an end in itself.15 This slide from thinking of prudence as
concerned only with means to thinking of it as an end in itself is quite
explicit in Machiavelli – ‘in actions . . . from which there is no appeal, the
end justifies the means’(1950:18)16 – as are the diabolic consequences of
this way of thinking. The opposite is true for Aristotle, for whom
prudence is concerned with means not ends, and is only a virtue, indeed
only prudence, when guided by the right conception of the good. There is
something that looks superficially like prudence when action is not guided
by right reason, cleverness (deinotes), which is accidentally praiseworthy if
the end happens to be right, and villainous if it is not. But cleverness is not
prudence. On the Aristotelian picture, it is thus impossible to have
practical wisdom without a true conception of the good. Machiavelli’s
departure from what he takes to be the ancient (Greek) conception of
virtue consists, as Mansfield argues, in collapsing the Aristotelian distinc-
tion between prudence and clevernesss (Mansfield, 1996: 39). Well might
we ask then whether Cartesian virtue is subject to the same pitfalls as
Machiavellian virtù?
Descartes’ own position on the place of prudence in the conception of
virtue is not entirely clear. There are several texts that together produce a
somewhat confused picture of the connection between virtue and knowl-
edge. Anthony Levi has drawn our attention to the Preface of the French
edition of the Principia, written concurrently with the first draft of the
Passions, in which Descartes distinguishes sagesse from ‘mere prudence’ in
practical matters (Levi, 1964: 261; AT IXB, 2). Sagesse presupposes an
adequate knowledge of Cartesian metaphysics and physics. Wisdom and
15
Levi identifies the virtue of resolution as definitive of moral treatises of the period influenced by the
Neostoic debate, especially Montaigne, du Vair and Charron (Levi, 1964: 246).
16
Machiavelli, 1950: 66.
virtue and the sovereign good are interdependent notions, and presuppose
an understanding of first causes and principles. Other texts stress that the
wise person is one who does all that true reason tells him (e.g. AT IV, 490),
and there is, from Descartes’ earliest writings, a commitment to right
action depending on right reason. The fourth maxim of the moral code
outlined in the Discourse on Method, IV , states that since the will tends to
pursue or avoid what the intellect represents as good or evil, we need only
judge well in order to act well, do our best and acquire all the virtues (AT
VI, 28). Yet, in the same text there is the analogy of the lost voyageur, who
does not know which is the right way to go, but who acts well if he acts
with a firm and resolute will (AT VI, 24–5). By defining virtue as the good
use of the will, Descartes too could be accused of elevating prudence
above the intellectual virtues, whose job it is to produce the right con-
ception of the end, and of being caught between conflicting intuitions:
that a true conception of the good must bear some internal connection to
the goodness of an action, and that it suffices for the goodness of an action
that it be performed by a firm will.
Descartes’ reasons for identifying virtue with the good use of the will
are explicit in other texts. Insofar as circumstances rarely permit more
than a probabilistic judgement about what is good, the moral worth of
our actions cannot always depend on true moral judgements. As Descartes
writes to Queen Christina, although the goods of the soul include both to
know and to will, ‘knowledge is often beyond our powers’, and there
remains ‘only our will, which is absolutely within our disposal’ (AT V, 83;
see also PS, art. 170). And as he writes to Elisabeth, even if our reason errs,
there is nothing for which we may be blamed provided we act in good
conscience. Acting in good conscience consists in a resolute use of the will
in following the direction of reason (AT IV, 266; 530).
All sorts of desires are not incompatible with beatitude, only those accompanied
by impatience and sadness. It is not necessary also that our reason does not make
any mistakes. It suffices that our conscience testifies to us that we have never
lacked resolution and virtue to execute all the things that we have judged to be
the best, and thus virtue alone is sufficient to render us content in this life.
(AT IV, 266)
But how, given these limitations of reason, can one engage in anything
but prudential conduct? What more could there be to Cartesian virtue
than willing resolutely the best means to whatever one takes to be the
good end? And why is it sufficient for both virtue and happiness that one
wills an end that appears good, regardless of whether it is in fact good?
HUMAN REASON AND MORAL CONDUCT
Like other moralists of the period, Descartes is caught in a trap of ancient

construction. The problem is how to conceive of sagesse in the absence of
omniscient knowledge. Faced with this difficulty, the Stoic sage withholds
assent to all propositions that are not clear and distinct and minimises the
chances of being presented with false goods by extirpating her passions.17
Descartes dismisses the Stoic solution as neither realistic nor desirable.
One has to act and it is only the ‘cruel philosopher’ who wants the sage to
be insensible (AT IV, 201–2). In accepting the classical formulation of the
problem, however, Descartes cannot easily maintain both the hegemony
of reason in ethical matters and a more than prudential conception of
virtue.
Levi argues that it is this ‘dissociation’ of reason from the will in
early seventeenth-century ethical theories that constitutes a ‘rationalist
dilemma’ for moralists of the period. But Levi sees no contradiction in
subscribing to a formally valid principle of moral activity based on
judgements of reason, while allowing it to be materially true that the
content of the good cannot always be ascertained (Levi, 1964: 287–306).
Levi is correct that there is no contradiction in holding a normative
principle of acting in accordance with right reason together with the
recognition that, in particular moral contexts, the right action may elude
us, but reconciling these ideas is not the main problem. The problem is
that there is no conception of the good beyond the good (i.e. resolute)
use of the will. 18 The notion of goodness that attaches to how one wills
the means to one’s ends is independent from any conception one might
have of the goodness of one’s ends. Without an independent conception
of the goodness of one’s ends, Descartes’ notion of the good is, as Calvin
Normore has argued, circular.19 To act well or perform the good action is
to have used one’s will well. But how are we to identify an act of the will
as good or bad? Notice that we cannot answer this question by appealing
to the independent goodness or badness of the action that is willed. We
cannot say, for example, that we will well when the action we perform is
good, and badly when the action is bad, where the goodness or badness of
the action is independent of the fact that it was willed in a certain way. So
17
Levi argues that the solution adopted by Lipsius is similar in that it requires the sage to suspend
judgement in all practical matters that are not clear and distinct (Levi, 1964: 287).
18
Descartes lists a range of goods for humans in this life, including virtue, health and knowledge, but
virtue or the supreme good consists just in the good use of the will (AT V, 55–6).
19
Calvin Normore, ‘Generosity’ (unpublished).
all we can say is that the will is good when it wills the good action, and the
action is good when it is willed by the good will, which is no answer at all.
Appealing to the idea of the good will as the resolute will does not help
either, because saying that the will is good because it is resolute only raises
the question what it is to will resolutely, and the answer to that can only
be that it is to resolve to will well. But if willing well just is willing
resolutely, we again fail to escape the circle.
There is, of course, an independent conception of the good in
Descartes’ system and that is the goodness of God. But since this is not
a good we can will, it is unclear how this concept of goodness is going to
connect with our actions.20 There may be no way to resolve this problem
of circularity in Descartes’ account of virtue but we can, perhaps, save it
from some of the excesses of Machiavellian virtù. Since the passions are
the most likely source of error in practical reasoning, bringing them under
rational control will significantly reduce the likelihood of cases that
involve gross moral errors. Since Machiavelli places no constraints on
the moral psychology of those exercising virtù, his notion is open to much
greater abuses that Descartes’. But if mastery of the passions is crucial to
any success Cartesian ethics may aspire to, how exactly is mastery over the
passions to be achieved, and how, moreover, are we to recognise it?
THE WONDER CURE
Generosity is a species of esteem and love and joy directed at oneself. The
components of love and joy follow upon the esteem that one bears for
oneself. In contrast with pride, generosity is legitimate self-esteem. It
consists in understanding that nothing belongs to oneself but the free
20
Perhaps I am underestimating the fact that God is the measure of all goodness. In the Fourth
Meditation, Descartes describes how we err by misusing the gifts that God gives us by extending
our will to assent to those things that we do not clearly and distinctly perceive. Stephen Menn has
argued that Descartes’ treatment of error and sin follows closely the Augustinian line: error is a
privation because it is a deviation from the standard to which God intends us to conform (Menn,
1998: 306). It is only against the background of an understanding of God as Nous, as an objective
standard of truth and right action, that this explanation of error makes sense. But it is difficult to
see how Descartes’ concept of God is going to inform our ordinary moral judgements. God’s ends
are incomprehensible to us, the matter of particular moral judgements is inherently obscure and
identifying errors is much more hit-and-miss than it is in the theoretical domain, even if one aims
above all else to love God. Our moral deficiencies are forced on us partly because of the urgency to
act, often without even a probable grasp on things (AT VII, 149), and partly because our ideas of
morality, even if they come by revelation, do not have the mark of metaphysical certainty. The
moral truths that come to us from religion, perhaps even directly from God Himself through
divine illumination, are no less obscure for having the sanction of grace. See Menn’s (1998: 322–36)
excellent discussion of why the truths of faith do not belong in Cartesian science.
control over one’s volitions and feeling within oneself a firm and constant
resolution to use the will well (PS, art. 153). It is first a passion and then,
through habit, a virtue. By defining generosity in this way, a question
arises as to the sincerity of Descartes’ claim that generosity is first a
passion. For generosity to be a passion in the strict sense, it must be
caused directly by motions of the animal spirits, whereas the definition
suggests that it arises from a judgement about the freedom of the will,
a source more appropriate for an internal emotion. Is embodiment a
precondition for virtue?
Consider the meditator, who has progressed through the first five
Meditations without supposing that she has a body, reflected on the divine
nature of the will and who has developed a range of intellectual virtues.
Are these not sufficient for virtue, and if not, why not? If an intellectual
awareness of the power of the will and determination to use it well is the
key to self-control and virtue, why is it necessary to think of virtue as
depending on a passion at all? Why a passion, and why that passion?
The emotions and passions divide primarily according to their origins:
passions, strictly speaking, have origins wholly external to the mind (they
arise solely from movements of the spirits), internal emotions are wholly
internal (they arise solely from the soul’s acts), but some passions arise
from both sources – i.e. from the body, and so are passions, but through
the mediation of thought. In this third category we may include gener-
osity. Thinking about things one takes to be good about oneself is some-
thing that originates within the soul, but such thoughts can affect the
spirits in the body in such a way that they, in turn, produce species of
(self-) esteem. The same movements of the spirits can produce either
legitimate self-esteem (generosity) or illegitimate self-esteem (pride),
which are distinct thoughts (PS, art. 160). The fact that generosity and
pride are distinct suggests either that they contain the same passion but
are distinct ideas because of their distinct thoughts, or that they are
distinct passions, and the thoughts from which they originate are compo-
nents of the passion. Descartes is inclined to the former interpretation,
and thus to the idea that one and the same passion may be virtuous or
vicious depending on its relationship to other thoughts (PS, art. 160).
Similar considerations apply to the pair of passions, (virtuous) humility
and (vicious) servility: both involve the same movement of the spirits but
differ in the content and truth-value of the opinion upon which each is
based (PS, art. 160). It might seem somewhat risky to make our moral
development depend on a passion that we could thus so easily confuse
with its unvirtuous counterpart. Hence the need to stress that generosity,
as opposed to pride, is dependent upon the recognition of the free will
and the resolve to use it well.
What this comparison between pride and generosity demonstrates is
that the moral therapy of the passions does not require obliterating
passions, but establishing the right connections between passions and
other thoughts. If the proud could be trained to associate habitually this
movement of the spirits that sustains their pride with the thought of their
free will instead of their perceptions or thoughts of things they possess or
which happen to them, they could, in effect, train themselves to become
generous. Such realignment could have the consequence of reshaping
their entire moral psychology. With the free will as the locus of self-
esteem, other causes of esteem that produce unruly desires, hatred, servi-
lity, anger, jealousy, fear, etc. should seem less important, and with these
readjustments would come greater control over action (PS, art. 156). But
how are new associations to be forged, especially when passions are solely
and proximally dependent upon movements in the brain over which one
has no direct control?
Associations between passions and thoughts are governed by a principle
of habituation. They are formed throughout a person’s history and can,
through various cognitive exercises, be undone at least to some degree. Just
as, when we acquire a language, certain sounds become associated with
certain meanings, so too the scenarios in which our passions are initially
induced establish connections between movements of the spirits (and their
immediate effects on the soul) and particular thoughts about objects and
their relationship to the self (PS, 50). We can train ourselves to associate
new thoughts with these feelings, much as we can learn to associate new
meanings with particular sounds. The dependence of passions on indivi-
dual histories and the temperament of the body explains why different
individuals will have different reactions to the same events. Forming new
associations depends on first understanding something about the causal
genesis of a passion and second on techniques for reconditioning one’s
responses. As John Cottingham has argued, Descartes’ account of what is
involved in controlling the passions thus anticipates psychoanalysis, tech-
niques for uncovering the history of a disposition to respond in a certain
way, while providing the agent with enough distance from the response so
that it may be modified (Cottingham, 1998: 91–3). By recalling his affection
for a cross-eyed girl in his childhood, Descartes claimed, for example, to
cure himself of his attraction to women with squints (AT V, 57). Someone
will not seem worthy of love just because of a superficial similarity to a
childhood friend. A new association between a movement of the spirits and
the thought of a defect, one’s own included, may be just enough to kill the
passion, just as the taste of something foul while eating something one
previously relished may be enough to turn one off a dish for a long time
(PS, art. 50). Other passions demonstrate more inertia, but just as hunting
dogs can be trained against their natural inclinations, so too we can train
ourselves to respond differently to perceptions which produce certain
passions in us (PS, art. 50). As Lilli Alanen argues, the fact that we can
train ourselves to join more useful thoughts to the feelings produced by
movements of the spirits is sufficient for bringing the passions under
rational control (Alanen, 2003: 199).
But how exactly is the process of reconditioning ourselves to connect
more useful thoughts to certain movements of the spirits possible, and
what role does reflection on the free will play in this process? The process
of rehabituating ourselves to make new associations between brain
motions and thoughts requires a mechanism for separating out corporeal
‘images’ which result in passions of the soul from their usual cognitive and
behavioural associations so that new connections may be formed. John
Sutton has argued that wonder plays a crucial role in this process, and
I think we may extend his insights on this matter to better understand
the functions of generosity as a passion. On Sutton’s reading, Cartesian
memory works through the superposition of corporeal images (under-
stood here as just arrangements of matter) that are similar to one another
in the same region of the brain. The reception of similar images results in
many overlapping memory traces without successive temporal ordering or
the laying down of discrete representations in individual storage cells.
This dynamic process by which memories are formed makes them highly
susceptible to interference from adjacent folds of the brain, to confusion
with superficially similar images and obscures their role in shaping our
emotional dispositions (Sutton 1998a: 123–7). Because of the way they are
embedded in the memory structures of the brain, these connections
between images and passions and thoughts are lasting and difficult to
undo. Wonder is unique among the passions for Descartes (and Male-
branche), according to Sutton, because of its independence from these
embedded memory structures. In being a representation of novelty, and
thus free from interference from a past embodied as it is in these dynamic
processes of memory, wonder isolates an image and renders it temporarily
independent from other images (Sutton 1998a: 127).
The problem with this account is that modifying our emotional dis-
positions is hard precisely because the images that trigger emotional
responses automatically tend not to be new. This is not to say that seeking
out new wonders wouldn’t help us weather emotional storms. Wonder at
novelty may be useful in rehabituating our emotional dispositions – it
may distract us from things long enough for us to pull ourselves together –
but since we cannot control what will strike us as new, it is an unstable
strategy to rely upon. As noted in chapter 6, however, there is another
kind of wonder, or esteem for something valuable or extraordinary, which
can perform the same functions of holding the sense organs and body in a
state of attention while the soul considers some object. What the soul
needs in order to get control over its passions is to attend to the freedom
of its will, or to put it more concretely, to those things which depend on it
alone, and to esteem them more highly than things which do not depend
upon it. What needs to be ‘separated out’ are the impressions or experi-
ences of doing things by our own volitions, in contrast to those things that
happen to us. Thus Descartes writes that wonder for novelty will not do
for moral progress, depending as it does on surprise, for then it is easily
abused by those who wonder at themselves every time something new
happens to them, as if it were their own doing, and thus vacillate between
esteem or contempt for themselves depending on whether they view what
happens as advantageous or not (AT XI, 452). It is perhaps for this reason
that Descartes’ wonder cure isn’t available to the disembodied soul or the
meditator of the first five Meditations. To free ourselves from those images
that present themselves as good, we need to compare them with
images caused by our acting through our bodies, where we feel the power
and goodness of the will. Disembodied souls aren’t subject to images of
apparent goods, and so don’t need the wonder cure, but the meditator
will have to get in touch with her body again if she is going to master the
sensations and passions that come to her against her will. To control
the body, one needs an agent in the body, and this is what wonder, or
more precisely, generosity, is supposed to be.
In light of this argument about the function of wonder in rehabituating
our emotional responses, let us reconsider the case of Descartes’ attraction
to women with squints. When he begins to wonder about this attrac-
tion of his, his ability to uncover its source does not depend on any new
figure being traced on the brain. It is when his attention is turned rather
to himself, to his role in the affective process, when he looks for a reason
for his attraction and finds nothing in the story that depends on his will,
but only things which have happened to him, that he is in a position to
recover past influences and the old associations begin to come unstuck
(AT V, 57). The image of cross-eyed women is not isolated because it is
new but because it is seen in a new light, connected with new thoughts,
which can have the same effect as if it were new. The isolating function of
wonder in this case depends on the fact that we are the kind of being who
is able to act for reasons, the observation of which causes esteem and the
absence of which can reduce our esteem for ourselves and an object. But
there is no difference for Descartes between that kind of wonder and
generosity.
To master the passions, therefore, we must master esteem and we
master esteem by mastering our self-esteem. The first step towards virtue
is to apply the ‘rule of reason’: to measure each pleasure according to the
quantity of perfection that produces it (letter to Elisabeth, 1 September
1645, AT IV, 283–4). This involves considering not just the pleasure but
also its source and, hence, the importance of examining the causes of the
passions. The pleasures of the body are fleeting, most often dependent
upon the acquisition of things outside us, whereas the pleasures of the
mind – goods whose acquisition depends just on us – are immortal (AT
IV, 286). If reason can master esteem, it can control indirectly desire and
all the other passions that proceed from esteem.
It is important to see that in developing a calculus of esteem, Descartes
directs moral development from within the sensuous realm from which
Elisabeth complains she cannot extract herself (22 June 1645, AT IV, 233–4).
Recall her question of how it is possible to know the true worth of goods
and evils that customarily arouse us without possessing an infinite science
(13 September 1645, AT IV, 288–9). As we can now see, Descartes’ response
concedes that complete knowledge of the value of all things is not
possible, but we can identify a locus of esteem around the free will that
should enable us to measure the value of a thing according to the extent to
which it depends on us or not. This is the kind of self-esteem that is
practically advantageous because it enables one to change and direct one’s
bodily dispositions. Hence, the need for the sage to enlist the aid of the
senses, in particular, imagination, ‘to have imagined in general things
more vexing than those which have happened and be prepared to suffer
them’ (AT IV, 411). Descartes’ point here is not that the function of the
imagination is to facilitate worst-case scenario reasoning, but to prepare
the very folds of the brain, so that when things happen one hasn’t
experienced before, one isn’t unduly surprised, and, if subsequently
harmed or benefited by the thing, ‘disposed to think those goods and
evils greater than they are’. We may not be able to affect whether or not
things over which we have no control happen to us, but we can minimise
the extent to which they influence our actions by limiting the effects of
wonder.
It is because virtue is a notion tied to right action and right action
depends on mastering the processes of the body that affect one’s reason and
capacity to will well, that it is crucial that generosity be a passion. In its role
as master passion, generosity is not to be confused with the traditional idea
of using one passion to counteract another, an idea Descartes denounces at
article 48. When counteracting passions pull the will in opposite directions,
the soul is left in a hopelessly deplorable state (Alanen, 2003: 213). The
‘proper weapons’ of the soul are its ‘ firm and determinate judgements’
about good and evil, but imagination is also required to buffer us against
the shocks of unpredictable events (AT XI, 367). To use the imagination in
the right way requires experience and engagement with the world. The
imagination cannot represent to the soul scenarios ex nihilo, but must
draw upon memory and past experience to construct ideas of situations
worse than those it has encountered. Although the meditator can
recognise that the will is the most divine part of the soul, the resolve
to use it well requires conditioning the whole person, body and soul, to
prefer and remain focused on those things that depend upon us.
The general prognosis that generosity works to control other passions
precisely because it is dependent upon certain motions in the body, fits
with the account offered in article 156 of the ways in which generosity
serves as the remedy against all disorders of the passions. By mastering
esteem, we master all the other passions that depend upon esteem or its
opposite, contempt. Through generosity, we master jealousy, envy, fear
and anger – all those passions which involve valuing things which do not
depend upon oneself – hatred because one never scorns others and desire
because without great esteem for things which do not depend upon
oneself, one never desires these things with passion.
Not only does generosity as a passion serve as a remedy for all disorders
of the passions that are based on false esteem but it also takes us into a less
egoistic realm of moral motivation. The good will is the same thing as
good will towards others, but exactly why this should be so is puzzling.
Why should my legitimate self-esteem be sufficient for my esteeming
others and acting for their sakes, particularly when doing so incurs some
cost to myself?
THE GOOD WILL AND GOOD WILL TOWARDS OTHERS
At article 154, Descartes observes that the généreux neither think them-
selves inferior nor superior to others because all such differences are ‘much
less considerable in comparison with the good will for which alone they
esteem themselves, and which they suppose also to be, or at least to be able
to be, in every other man’ (AT XI, 447). The qualification that everyone is
at least capable of a good will is surprising given the discussion of why the
généreux never scorn anyone that precedes this explanation.
Those who have this understanding and this feeling concerning themselves
persuade themselves easily that each other man is also able to have it concerning
himself because there is nothing in it that depends on another. This is why they
never scorn anyone, and granted that they see often that others commit errors
which show their weakness, they are always more inclined to excuse them than to
blame them and to believe that it is more particularly through lack of knowledge
than through lack of good will that they commit them. (AT XI, 446)
Every action, no matter how morally blameworthy, results not from a
bad will but from ignorance of the good, and the généreux, who under-
stand the nature and value of the will, are thus more inclined to excuse
wickedness. Regarding the phenomenology of generosity, this seems
correct. The generous are always inclined to give others the benefit of
the doubt and it seems true that one’s capacity for esteeming others is
influenced by the esteem one has for oneself. ‘J’ai mauvais caractère,’
Eugene Ionesco once remarked, explaining why he hesitated meeting the
sculptor, Brancusi, ‘C’est, sans doute, la raison pour laquelle je déteste le
mauvais caractère des autres.’21 But although Descartes’ Socratic response
is unremarkable – it was common to think that since the will cannot will
objects except under the aspect of good, akratic and immoral acts must be
the result of ignorance about the true worth of the object rather than a bad
will – the qualification that some are merely capable of a good will needs
explaining. What, after all, could the difference be between being capable
of a good will and having a good will, if all wills tend towards the good?
We might find some clues to these puzzles by turning to article 48,
where the comparative strengths of wills are discussed. Descartes describes
those who fail to act from firm and decisive judgements as allowing
themselves to be carried away by present passions (AT XI, 367). His
discussion there suggests that the person who is merely capable of a good
will is not one who acts from a bad will, but one whose actions follow
their passions. This does not mean that the will is not active when one is
carried away by one’s passions; in acting, one assents. If it were possible to
act from passion without assenting, as if, without judging, one’s desire
could have its head, so to speak, one would be more culpable than
someone who wills evil out of ignorance, simply because in such a case
21
Ionesco, 1966: 348.
one would not have willed what one judges to be best. By following the
Stoic idea that all action occurs in the context of assent, Descartes sub-
scribes to the oddly more generous interpretation of moral weakness as
consisting in moral ignorance. And a principal source of moral errors is the
false or exaggerated appearance of good as presented through the passions.
Judging others’ actions reasonable or unreasonable requires one to
have, as Descartes puts it, ‘good will’ towards them, and good will is part
of generosity (PS, art. 187). Having good will towards others involves
seeing others as the kind of beings for whom being reasonable is an end.
Hence, the kind of self-understanding possessed by the généreux is intern-
ally connected with their understanding of moral nature generally, and
befits them to be generous in the sense more familiar to us today.
CONCLUSION: THE RATIONALITY OF CARTESIAN PASSIONS
It was argued in chapter 1 that the unifying theme of the Passions is the
reconciliation of reason and passion in the union of mind and body. It is
now time to ask how far Descartes has come towards the realisation of
that project. The discussion of generosity brings together in a poignant
fashion the disparate themes of the book – the necessity of examining the
physiological bases of one’s passions; the classification of passions accord-
ing to their relations to external objects, the self and other thoughts and
dispositions of the agent; and the importance of having due wonder for
one’s position in the providential order and the freedom of the will. Self-
mastery begins with understanding the source of one’s motivations and in
making use of a natural tendency to wonder about the self and its agency.
In the end, however, we remain constrained to employ the will in
circumstances we do not adequately know and cannot control, and in
negotiating our world, we must rely on the very passions that generosity
allegedly helps us master. But how do we identify the passions that are
morally or practically appropriate in any given set of circumstances?
The conception of a passion we are left with after the first two parts of
the Passions is of a mode of the soul that the soul passively receives from
motions in the nervous system, that tends to exaggerate or misrepresent
the value of external things, but which can be useful in strengthening the
will when the action is one that accords with right reason. The very
passivity of these modes does not rule them out as reasons for action
any more than the passivity of ideas generally would rule them out as
reasons, but they need special intellectual scrutiny. Descartes tends to
justify passions in terms of their utility to the union as a whole, or to its
components, the soul and the body, and we have seen that one and the
same passion (particularly, love or hate) may have different use-values
depending on whether it is considered in relation to the mind or to the
body. This makes the nature of the ‘truth’ of passions a complicated
business. There is no telling whether a particular passion on its own is
‘true’ in a given set of circumstances. To begin to answer such questions
we would need to take into consideration not just the external causes of a
passion, but other modes and dispositions of the agent as well. As we saw
in chapter 4, the passions do not track mind-independent, objective
values, and yet Descartes often describes them in terms of their represen-
tational adequacy, the degree to which they represent the values of
external objects as they are. But without objective values, the intrinsic
malice of the bad guys, for example, by what measure can we ascertain
when our passions correspond appropriately to the circumstances?
Throughout this study of the passions, we have seen the importance to
the moral project of a systematic study of the self as a union of mind and
body, and I want now to suggest that this self-understanding provides us
with an objective standard for judging the appropriateness of our emo-
tional responses. What it means to understand ourselves as embodied
beings is to have a firm grip on the distinction between goods that depend
on us and those that don’t, and to value the former above the latter to
such an extent that we have some control over the effects that the
contingencies of this life can produce in us. When this kind of self-
understanding and self-control is lacking, the moral danger the passions
present to us is that we will be inclined to project value on to objects that
are unworthy. As Ronald de Sousa has argued, there is an important
distinction between projected and relative values, and only the former
threatens the objectivity of an emotional response (de Sousa, 1987: 150–1).
Is there evidence of such a distinction at work in Descartes’ account of the
passions?
We could say that an object comes to have projected value in Descartes’
schema when a passion ‘makes us believe certain things to be much better
and more desirable than they are’ (letter to Elisabeth, 1 September 1645).
When the only grounds for thinking that an object has a certain value is
that one is having a certain kind of emotional response, we may say that
the value is projected. Sensuous love is false when it causes the soul to see
another as desirable when ‘she would see only faults on another occasion’
(AT IV, 603). Grief based not upon the suffering of a loved one but upon
one’s own felt loss is supported by ‘neither religion nor reason’ (AT III,
279). Envy that derives solely from one’s own desire for a thing is unjust,
but envy concerning an undeserved good belonging to another can be just
(AT XI, 467). The appropriateness or ‘truth’ of envy depends on its
association with a correct judgement about just desserts. When we look
for a reason independent of the passion for ascribing a certain value to an
object and find none, we have strong evidence that the value ascribed to
the object is merely projected.
Discovering the source of a passion through an understanding of the
psychophysiology of the union and our own personal histories can do
much to reveal to us when the things we judge to be valuable on account
of a passion are indeed valuable or not.22 But we must exercise our
judgement, where feasible, to consider the merits and demerits of the
object on its own terms, independently of our particular emotional
reaction to it, and generosity serves as a standard of correctness for making
such judgements. Like the Stoic sage, the generous person stands as an
ideal measure of appropriate passions.23 Since their passions are con-
strained by the importance attached to their wills, it is the passions of
the généreux that are reasonable or ‘true’ in Descartes’ sense. Descartes
argues that the sage will often have greater passions than others precisely
because of her good will and greater understanding. She will be disposed
especially towards compassion, indignation, gratitude and love, as well as
the passions that are essential for preserving the union (PS, arts. 187; 202–3).
One might think, therefore, that the concept of générosité works in a
fashion similar to that of the reasonable person standard in law. The law
does not suppose that the reasonable person is either omniscient or
unaffected by passions, but will take into consideration the fact that
certain emotional reactions in certain situations are reasonable for anyone
of moderate intelligence to have. Define the reasonable person – for
Descartes, the person who understands the value of the will and is resolved
to exercise it according to right reason – and just as the actions of such a
person are reasonable, so too will be their passions.
22
A first step in this process requires being able to distinguish one’s passions from other similar
thoughts. But Descartes does not directly address the question how we are able to distinguish
phenomenologically or otherwise between passions and internal emotions. Typically, a passion of
the soul will depend on some perception or imagination, and so the mind may be able through this
association to distinguish its passions in the strict sense, but since some passions are mediated by
judgements and the internal emotions may also coincide with other images and passions, this is not
a reliable criterion. Taking into account these difficulties gives us further reason not to ascribe a
transparency thesis to Descartes’ account of the mind, as Alanen and Cottingham have both argued
citing passages where Descartes denies that we are always directly aware of our mental acts. In the
Discourse, for example, Descartes writes that many people do not know what they believe, because
to believe and to know are distinct acts (AT VI, 23). See Cottingham, 1998: 92–3; Alanen, 2003: 206.
23
See my 2002b: 259–78.
But how do we recognise the généreux among us? Although Descartes
recommends taking those we find in our community who have proved
themselves of good judgement as role models, our ability to recognise
appropriate passions should not depend on that alone.24 We need not go
outside ourselves to find a standard of correctness for judging our pas-
sions, even if we have not yet joined the ranks of the généreux. The
Passions is intended for an audience of aspiring sages, those who are
seeking the kind of self-mastery Descartes recommends but who are far
from having achieved it. The strategies it offers and which have been
emphasised here – strategies for controlling attention, reflecting on one’s
place in nature and discriminating between what depends on the will and
what is the result of external forces – are means of internalising the
standard of generosity whether one recognises it as such or not. To
embrace Descartes’ conception of the will is to esteem it above all else,
an esteem that cannot but serve as a measure of the worth of all one’s
other passions.
We are a long way now from those bogeymen of analytic philosophy of
mind and critical theory, the ‘Cartesian mind’ and the ‘Cartesian self ’.
Far from our embodiment being an impediment to the mind, were it not
for the fact that we are bodies as well as minds, we would be deprived
not only of the capacity for rational action, but also of the capacity to do
science, to understand causality (both our own and God’s) and to derive
all the benefits we derive from social relations. If the mind of the
Meditations is alienated from its body, nature and others, the mind of
the Passions is one thoroughly embedded and better off because of it. But
while the richness of Descartes’ conception of the ‘whole self ’ may be
more palatable to us than the fragmented conception he is generally
accused of having invented, there is still much work to be done to fit this
picture with other tenets of the Cartesian system.25 It is sobering that one
of his most astute critics, Elisabeth, never quite bought the story about the
passions. In shock still from Descartes’ radical dualism and corpuscularian
dissection of the natural world, Elisabeth never ceased to express reserva-
tions about his prospects for reuniting the human being. Did Descartes in
24
Queen Christina serves as such an ideal – a model of merit and virtue, generosity and majesty,
sweetness and goodness, as one who, through strength of mind, lacks jealousy and values honesty
(9 October 1649, AT V, 429). Amelie Rorty argues that bodily health is an important indicator of a
balance among the passions. See Rorty, 1986a.
25
See Cottingham’s interesting discussion of the way in which the combination of Descartes’ dualism
and the mechanistic science produced various new kinds of alienation from nature and within the
self (Cottingham, 1998: 67–74).
his later years succeed in illuminating a truly integrated self or simply
replace it with some monstrous concoction of divine will, fallible reason
and machine body, acting out its inadequately informed plans in a way
oblivious to the capricious bad fortune Elisabeth insists robs her of her
very ability to reason? It is a sign of her integrity that Elisabeth would not
settle for anything less than an account of human nature and flourishing
completely compatible with Descartes’ metaphysics and natural philoso-
phy.26 But it is disappointing that she could not see the adjustments being
made to so much of his thought through her influence as progress rather
than compromise. I would like to think that there is cause for optimism –
that we might start with Descartes’ conception of the whole human and
work back to the concept of mind we find in the early Meditations. This
we can do even if we think the roots and trunk of his system are a bit too
spindly to sustain all that’s hanging from the branches. After all, a tree
planted in shaly soil may yield some surprisingly sweet fruit.
26
John Cottingham has referred to ethical systems of the period in which Descartes was writing as
‘synoptic’, insofar as they integrate a conception of human flourishing into a unified metaphysical
and physical account of nature (Cottingham, 1998: 12–13).
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Yrjonsuuri, Mikko (2002) ‘Free Will and Self-Control in Peter Olivi’, in Lager-
Zeelenberg, Marcel. (1999a) ‘The Use of Crying Over Spilled Milk: A Note on
Rationality and the Functionality of Regret’, Philosophical Psychology 12.3:
325–40.
(1999b) ‘Anticipated Regret, Expected Feedback and Behavioral Decision-
making’, Journal of Behavioral Decision Making 72: 93–106.
Zeelenberg, M., van Dijk, W. W., van der Pligt, J., Manstead, A. S. R., van
Empelen, P. and Reinderman, D. (1998). ‘Emotional Reactions to the Out-
comes of Decisions: The Role of Counterfactual Thought in the Experi-
ence of Regret and Disappointment’, Organizational Behavior and Human
Decision Processes 75: 117–41.
Index
Abbas, Haly 36, 38 Aristotle (see also Scholasticism)

Acker, Mary 182, 184 on the soul 6, 55
Action and passion (see also Hoffman, Paul; on the seat of the soul 37, 38
straddling modes) on passions 31–2
Aristotelian categories 116, 118–19, on voluntarism in regard to passions 31
136–7 on relationship between thought and
Cartesian categories 117, 141 sensation 6, 55–6, 84
‘two modes’ theory 127–32 on causality 135, 136
actualities 121, 134 on eudaimonia 171
affection 162 on friendship 160
Agathocles the Sicilian 192 on motion 165–6
agency 152 on the practical syllogism 165
akrasia 204–5 on virtue 189, 191, 194
Alanen, Lilli 3, 13, 90, on cleverness v. prudence 194
98, 100, 121, 197, 200, 203, 207 on wonder 142–3
Al-Ghazali 135, 136, 137, 174, on chance and coincidence 173
Almog, Joseph 3 Armstrong, David 1
alternative possibilities (principle of ) 173, 175 Arnauld, Antoine 16, 92–3, 94, 139, 156
altruism (see also love) 161, 162 Descartes’ replies to 94, 105–6, 107–8
angel united to human body 78, 79–80 arousal systems 76
anger 159, 199, 203 astonishment (see wonder)
Anglicus, Bartholomaeus 30 attention 74–5
anhedonia 57 attraction 163, 177
animals 42, 71, 163 for women with squints
animal spirits 23, 37, 42 (See also cross-eyed girl) 201–2
in relation to functions of the intellect 38 Augustine, St 27, 135, 143, 144, 190, 197, 207
theory of 39–40 on will, esteem and happiness 190
functions 62 Aureol, Peter 86
Anselm of Canterbury 174 automata 71
anti-individualism 89 Averroes 136, 137
Aquinas, St Thomas 6, 38, 40, 42, 52, 99, 136, 137 aversion 177
theory of internal senses 42, 43, 47 Avicenna 36, 38, 40, 41, 42, 50
passions as motions 43 on dreams 42
classification of the passions, 29, 50, 51 theory of internal senses, 41–2, 47
faculty psychology 43–4 on passions 50
on knowledge of singulars 47 on the divided self 48
psychic conflict 44–5 floating man 59
on forms in the mind 110 Ayers, Michael 89, 109–ENF, 110
on free will and determinism 174
on separated soul 6 Baker, Gordon and Morris, Katherine 3, 134
on secrets of nature 144 belief–desire model of rational action 165, 166
224
Index 225
bent stick illusion 101 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 32, 33, 50, 192
Berkeley, Bishop George 66 Clarke, Desmond 134
besieged town 157 Coeffeteau, Nicholas 30
binding problem 65 cogito argument 151, 152, 153, 154, 155
birthmarks and birth defects 152 cognitivism 28
Black, Deborah 42 cold
blind man 69 idea of 91, 92–3, 110, 112
Block, Ned 72, 74 as a privation 91
Bobzien, Susanne 172, 173 Colour
body ideas of 91
human body 6, 129, 152 common sense (sensus communis) 42, 65
argument for the existence of 58 community 160, 170
body image 77 compassion 207
Boenka, Michaela 40 compatibilism 173, 174–6
Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus 165, 171, concupiscible passions 44
173, 174 conscience 195
boredom 52 consciousness 1
Brancusi, Constantin 204 access consciousness 72, 73
Brandom, Robert 58 phenomenal consciousness 72, 73
Brentano, Franz 85 self-consciousness (see also passions) 3
Bright, Timothy 30 conservation laws 12–23
Burge, Tyler 151 contempt
Burman, Frans 95, 104 self-contempt 157
Burnyeat, Miles 2 Cook, Monte 90
Burton, Robert 30 Copenhaver, Brian 181
Cottingham, John 3, 9, 124, 188,
Cabinets of Wonder (Wunderkammern) 145, 149 191, 199, 207, 209
Caesar 192 cross-eyed girl 199
Calcidius 172, 173 curiosity 141, 142–4, 145
Campanella, Tommaso 40
Carriero, John 1, 58, 86, 109 Damasio, Antonio 56, 57
Cartesian theatre 2 Daston, Lorraine 143, 144, 152
Caterus, Johan 86 Davidson, Donald 151, 165
causal principle 87, 108 de la Chambre, Cureau 30, 45, 96
causal theories of representation 90 de la Forge, Louis 27, 135
causality (see also occasionalism) 135, 139–40, 141 de la Primaudaye, Pierre 35
per se causality 135, 136 decision theories 179–80, 182–7
knowledge of a posteriori 139 defects (of nature) 144
causa secundum esse 135, 136 Dennett, Daniel 2, 58
causa secundum fieri 136 on Cartesian materialism 65
certainty on consciousness 2
moral 27, 189 derision 159
uncertainty 27 Des Chene, Dennis 119
a posteriori certainty 140 desire 52, 166
Cesare Borgia 192 definition 177
chance 172 desire for knowledge (see also Curiosity) 141
Chanut, Hector-Pierre 23, 81, 147, 161 rationality of 166
Charleton, Walter 28 role in rational action 166
Charron, Pierre 31 mastery of 166, 169, 178–82
chastity 193 function 167, 177
Chomsky, Noam 68 relationship to virtue 178
Christ’s passions 48 de Sousa, Ronald 4, 12, 21, 58, 73, 206
Christina, Queen of Sweden 195, 208 devotion 163
Chrysippus 172, 173 Diogenes 174
Churchland, Paul 1 direct realism 109
226 Index
discontent 167 experience
disjunction problem 90 epistemological role 139, 156–7
distinctions externalism (see also anti-individualism) 151
modal 114, 128, 129–30, 131
formal 114, 128 faculty psychology (see also Aquinas) 30, 31,
real distinction test 132, 154 41–5
distinction of reason fall (original sin) 31
ratiocinantis 114 falsity
distinction of reason ratiocinatae 114 formal falsity 91
dog bites 152 material falsity 91, 92, 106, 108–9
Donne, John 171 family 160
dreaming 42 fate 169, 172, 180
du Vair, Guillaume 31 fear 199, 203
Fermat, Pierre 180
earth 160 Ficino, Marsiglio 31
egoism 159 Field, Richard 106
Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia Fine, Gail 2
influence of correspondence on first causes (see passions)
Descartes 12–23 first motions 33
materialism 14, 15, 18 first-person authority 151
on the interaction problem 7–8, 12, 14, 15, Fodor, Jerry 90
116, 134, 140 forms of thought 110–12
on reason and passion 99, 167, 170, formal object 11–12, 21, 25, 31, 49, 52
202 fortuitous events 172–3
regarding happiness 179, 180 fortune (v. fate) 169, 171, 192
regarding particular passions 155, 160 traditional rejection of 171–6
on evil 175 Descartes’ rejection of 191
scepticism towards project of the fountain keeper 71
Passions 208–9 fox and lion 193–4
emotions (internal) 161, 197, 198, 207 frame problem (epistemological) 73, 76–7
envy 203, 206 freedom (see also will; compatibilism; fate;
Epictetus 33, 34 providence)
epiphenomenalism 70, 71 realm not governed by fate 172–3
epistemology (see representational and determinism 173–4
realism; direct realism; idealism) Freeland, Cynthia 166
epistemic agent 141 friendship 160, 163
Erasistratus 37 Frierson, Patrick 159
Erasmus, Desiderius 181 Furley, David 166
error future 167, 168, 170
moral and practical 27
problem of misrepresentation 84 Galen 29, 34, 36, 38, 39, 50
esteem 52, 162–3 on pneuma 37
self-esteem 157–8 on the seat of the soul 37
based on fortune 158 as medical authority 35–40, 38–9
based on free will 158 theory of temperaments 36–7
calculus of esteem 202 tripartite division of the soul 37–8
estimation (vis estimativa) on localisation 36
Avicenna’s innovation 42–3 Garber, Daniel 14, 15, 134, 136, 138, 140
Aquinas’ account of 42–3 Gaukroger, Stephen 3, 12, 18 29, 30, 47
judgements of 47–8 generality of thought hypothesis 47
Eucharist 122 generosity (see also magnanimity) 54, 167, 193
eudaimonistic ethics 171, 189 definition 190, 191
Eustachius, A Sancto Paulo 105 composition 190, 197
evil demon (malin génie) 133 causes 198–9
evoking situation 52 legitimate self-esteem 197
Index 227
as a passion 188 idealism 89
as virtue 188, 191, 198–203, ideas
205, 208 vacuous 93
as good will towards others 203–5 as wholes composed of modes of mind and
phenomenology of 204 objects 112, 113
Gibson, Boyce 84 referred (see referring)
God 25, 70, 85, 87, 170 images (corporeal) 61, 63, 65, 75, 123
divine power 125–6 imagination
divine sustenance 135–6, 138 use of in controlling passions 23, 164
divine plan 170 functions 65
antecedent v. consequent willing 175 spatial imagining 65
goodness 197 reasoning by imagination 67–8
foreknowledge 174 role in identifying with others or
golden mean 189 goods 161–2
good (see incommensurability) and self-mastery 202, 203
problem of circular definition 196–7 incommensurability 161
‘in this life’ 196 indignation 159, 207
grace 171 infinite science (lack of) 161, 167, 170, 202
gratitude and ingratitude 159, 207 information
gravitas (heaviness) 14–15 Elisabeth’s argument 16, 61
Greaves, Margaret 188, 192 informational encapsulation 67
Greenspan, Patricia 28 intentional forms (intentiones) 42, 45–6,
grief 206 60–1, 84, 85
Griffiths, Paul 28 interaction (between mind and body) 13, 14, 28
Groarke, Leo 2 internal senses 46
Gueroult, Martial 12 introspectionism 3
Inwood, Brad 32
habituation (principle of) 23, Iohannicius 38
199–200 Ionesco, Eugene 204
Hannibal 192 irascible passions 44
happiness (see also sovereign Irigaray, Luce 147
contentment) 12, 160, 171, irresolution 26, 180–1
176, 178–9
Harman, Gilbert 58, 107 James, Susan 31, 119
Harvey, Ruth 36, 37, 38 jealousy 199, 203
Hatfield, Gary 3 Jonson, Ben 36
hatred 176–7, 199, 203 joy 52
health prenatal experience 176
eucrasia 36 utility 176
dycrasia 36 judgements
helmsman and the ship 78, 79–80 truth-values 90
Hippocrates 36 of animals 99
Hobbes, Thomas 4–5, 143 justice 160, 181
Hoffman, Paul 90, 97, 120, 121, 123–7,
129, 133 Kambouchner, Denis 119
double aspect theory 124–5 Kant, Immanuel 2
Hogelande, Cornelius van 149 Kenny, Anthony 12, 90
honour 189 King, Peter 44, 49, 63
humanity 193 Kinsbourne, Marcel 57
human nature (see union of mind knowledge (see also science) 160
and body) demonstrative 80–1
Hume, David 2 Knuutilla, Simo 31, 32, 33, 34, 41, 42, 48, 50
humility 159, 198
humours 36 Lady Philosophy 165, 171
hyperaspistes 140 laws of impact 13
228 Index
LeDoux, Joseph 57, 73, 76 distinction from body 6
Lennon, Tom 90 disembodied 148
Levi, Anthony 31, 190, 194, 196 res cogitans 25, 154
Lewis, David 80 res volans 25
liberty of indifference 174 substantial form of the body 6
Lipsius, Justus 31, 196 simple and indivisible 41, 48–9
Livy, Titus 171, 192 appearance of psychic conflict 41, 49
localisation 56 autonomy from matter 1, 58–60
lost voyageurs 185–7 transparency of 151, 155
love 159–63 introspection of 151, 155
definition 160 miracles 136
distinctions according to object 162 modes 117, 130–1
fallibility 163 problem of incompatible modes 118, 124
functions 160 migrating modes 120, 122
utility 160, 163, 176 straddling mind and body 121–7
distinction from value judgements 161–2 inseparability of modes
erotic 33 objection 125–7, 133–4
epistemological function of 141, 148, 154 monstrous defects 152
role in orienting attention 148 Montaigne, Michel de 31
relation to altruism 159, 160 morale par provision 19, 178
role in forming non-substantial unions morality 167, 178
(families, communities) 159–63 More, Henry 120, 122, 139
rational 147–8, 161 motion (local) 120
sensuous 147, 161, 206 self-motion 153–4, 165
relationship to esteem and
generosity 147, 207 Nadler, Steven 134
Lyons, W 28 Nagel, Thomas 2–3
natural history collections 146
McDowell, John 3 Navarro, Juan de Huarte 30
Machiavelli, Niccolo 171, 192–3, 194 necessity
machines 163 relative to nature v. relative to
Machine analogy 87, 88 knowledge 173, 174
magnanimity 189, 18–91, 191 as a virtue 182
Magnus, Albertus 50 Nelson, Alan 93
Malebranche, Nicholas 136, 138, 200 nerves 62
Mansfield, Harvey 193, 194 Neuburger, M 38
Marks, Joel 28 Normore, Calvin 85, 127, 136, 138, 174, 196
marvels (see secrets of nature; occult qualities; Nussbaum, Martha 8, 9, 33
cabinets of wonder; monstrous defects)
material falsity (see falsity) objective reality, objective being, objective
maximax 182 perfection (see reality)
maximin 182 objectivism 107
melancholy 30, 37 occasionalism 63, 134–5, 135–40, 136, 138–9
love melancholy 30 occult qualities 144
memory Ockham, William 47, 86
working memory and passions 74 opportunity costs 179, 184
traces 200 optics 17–18, 60
dynamic processes 200 other minds problem 158, 159
Menn, Stephen 197, 207
mercy 193 pain 78, 79–80, 82, 176
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 81 Papin, Nicholas 28
Mesland, Denis 129 Paracelsus 38
mind parallelism 135
‘Cartesian’ mind 2–3 Park, Kathryn 144
adaptability and creativity 71 persons 159
Index 229
Petrarch, Francesco 29 Pollot, Alphonse 13
Pascal, Blaise 180 Pope Julius II 192
passions (Cartesian) practical wisdom 22–3
approach en physicien 11–12, 17, 29 pride 159, 189, 190, 197, 198–9
causes 21, 102–3, 198 Prince 180, 193
defects 176 principal attributes 117
first causes 53–4, 100, 103–4 propassiones (see first motions)
comparison with sensation 24, 25 proprioception (see sensation)
classification 52–3 providence 150, 167–8, 170, 171, 172,
general definition 117 175, 176, 178, 180, 181, 182, 189, 192
specific definition 7, 20–1 prudence (practical wisdom) 191,
division according to origins, 198 193–5
functions 72–3, 176 Pseudo-Albertine 144
phenomenology 99, 121 psychoanalysis 199
prenatal passions 81, 155 Putnam, Hilary 151
primitive passions 50 Pythian dictum 24
psychotherapeutic remedies 19, 34, 35
as distinct from volitions 120–1, 129 qualia 107
as modes of self-awareness 102, 103, 105
as modes of awareness of external Rationalist dilemma 196
things 103–4 real distinction argument 26
as reasons 21, 205–8 realism (see representational realism;
as thoughts, ideas or representations direct realism)
(see also Referring) 22, 25–6, 29, 84 reality
rejection of division between concupiscible formal 85
and irascible passions, 50–1 objective reality/perfection/being
relationship to the union of mind and 85–7, 104
body, 7 Scholastic theory of objective reality 86
relationship to good and evil 46–7 reason
role in epistemology 26–7 signs of rationality 163
role in the good life 25 and passion 13, 205
source of error, negative effects 23, 73 interference from corporeality 16
standards of correctness for 12, 176–8, in harmony with functions of the
205, 206 body 58, 59
targets 49 unreflective reasoning 68
truth 206–7 and sensation 71
perception (see also sensation) dissociation from will 196
rejection of imagistic theories of 65 rule of reason 202
position 65, 68–9 rules of logic 68
distance 66 reasonable person standard 207
proprioception, 68–9, 77 reductionism 29
size 69 referring 94, 96–102
shape 69 Regius, (Henry le Roy)
perspectivists 86 regret (and remorse)
phantom-limb pain 64 utility in decision-making 177,
phenomenal content 72, 74, 82 178, 184
phenomenological monism 3 definition 178
piety 193 mastery of 179, 181–2
pilot and ship (see helmsman and ship) relationship to irresolution 181
pineal gland 2, 28, 58 regret rules 182
Plato maximin regret rule 183
on passions 31–2 lowest average regret rule 183
influence on Descartes 59 tempered regret rule 184
on fate 172 Reid, Thomas 90
pneuma (spirits) 37–8 relations 127
230 Index
remorse 178 self-knowledge 151–4
definition 179 individual self-knowledge 155–9
repentance 178, 181 self-mastery 188, 189, 202–3, 205
definition 178 self-satisfaction 169–70, 179, 180, 181, 182
representation (see passions) Seneca 19, 32, 33, 34
representational realism 89, 90, 109, 110, sensation (see also images; perception) 61–2
112, 113 colour sensations 62, 63
account of error 90, 92 sensations of light 62
repulsion 177 servility 198, 199
resemblance 60, 63, 64, 136, 138 Severus 192
resoluteness 180, 203 Sextus Empiricus 26
Reynolds, Edward 30 Shakespeare, William 36
Rhamachandran V. S. 64 shame 159
Robinson, Victor 37 Shapiro, Lisa 22, 191
Rorty, Amelie 101, 102, 208 society 160
Rorty, Richard 1, 3, 90 Solomon, Robert 28
Ryle, Gilbert 2, 154 Sorabji, Richard 173
soul (see also mind)
sadness 52 extension of 17, 18
species of 170 ignorance of 153
prenatal experience 176 sovereign contentment 19, 20, 27
utility 176–7 dependence on functioning body 20
sage sovereign good 19
Stoic sage 196 spinning top 140
Cartesian sage 27, 100, 202, 207 Spinoza, Benedict de 181
sagesse 194–5, 196 spirits (pneuma) 37, 153
Salerno doctors 30 state 160
Sanctorius, Sanctorius 40 Stoicism
Savage, L. J. 183 apatheia 32
Scholasticism eupatheiai 32
influence on Renaissance theories of the influence of Neo-Stoicism on Renaissance
passions 30–1 theories of the passions 31, 190, 194
on human nature 5–6 influence on Descartes 34
on passions as motions of the sensitive influence on medical tradition 34
appetite 30, 43–4 on the good life 18, 19
on magnanimity 191 on virtue 188, 189, 194, 204
science on passions 29, 32–4, 49, 168
definition 149–50 on thought 55
science of the mind (Cartesian) 3–4 on fate 172, 173, 175
experimental science 59 Strawson, Peter 81
psychological motivations to scientific Suarez, Francisco 45, 50, 86, 172
examination of nature (see wonder; on fortuitous and chance events 172
love) 149 on passions 29, 49
scientific knowledge of the human subjectivism 107
body 154 substances 117
Scipio 192 sun (idea of) 88, 112, 113–14
scorn 52, 159, 204 sunk costs 184
Scotus, John Duns 136, 138, 174 superposition of corporeal images 200
secrets supreme good 196
of handicraft 142 surfaces 16, 122–3
of nature 142, 144, 145, 150 Sutton, John 23, 200
human nature 151, 152 synoptic ethics 209
self 2, 154–5
elusive self 151 Tachau, Katherine 86
self-determination 166, 171 Tacitus, Cornelius 171
Index 231
Telesius, Bernardus 40 Voetius, Gisbert Voët 18
Temkin, Owsei 38, 39, 40 Vorstius, Conradus 153
temperaments (see also Galen) Voss, Stephen 98, 103
Descartes on temperaments 39–40
theodicy 27 will
Titchener, E. B. 3 control over passions 7, 12, 21–2
transduction 62, 63 good use of (virtue) 25, 157
transitivity 118, 123, 128 locus of self-esteem 199
transparency thesis (see mind) withholding assent 26
tree of knowledge 11 limitations of 149
trialism 124 Wilson, Margaret Dauler 95, 155
withdrawal from the senses 25
union of mind and body 3, 5–6, 8–9, 124 Wonder (see also esteem; scorn; curiosity;
a posteriori knowledge of 15 generosity)
primitive notion 13, 116 definition 146
teleological explanation 6 causes of 146
treatise on human nature 60 object of 146–7
unions (non-substantial) (see angel and human as impediment to right action 23
body; helmsman and ship; love) role in orienting attention 74–5, 76, 77, 147,
universe 160 149, 150, 155, 201
role in holding attention 75–6, 147
values first passion 52, 147
projected 206–7 as attraction to difference 147
relative 207 excess of (astonishment) 76, 146
vanity 159 deficiency of (stupidity, ignorance) 150
vergence 66 source of proprioceptive
Vesalius, Andreas 38 information 82
Vinci, Tom 90 epistemological function of 141, 142–4, 149,
virtù 171, 192–3, 197 154, 155, 158, 164
virtue divisions according to object 143, 145
cardinal 189 and self-mastery 197, 200, 201
heroic 192 at novelty 201
intellectual 198 Wright, Thomas 30
unity with knowledge 194 Wundt, Wilhelm 3, 66
Vis estimativa (see estimation)
vitalism 30, 38 Yahweh and Zeus 80
Vives, Juan Luis 31, 38, 50 Yolton, John 90

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DESCARTES AND THE

Descartes is often accused of having fragmented the human being

DEBORAH J. BROWN is Senior Lecturer in Philosophy at the School

© Deborah J. Brown 2006

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

First published 2006

Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge

ISBN-13 978-0-521-85728-4 hardback

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Acknowledgements page viii

I have utilised the standard edition of the works of Descartes by Charles

Volo ergo sum: the unity and significance of

THE CORRESPONDENCE WITH ELISABETH

Elisabeth was a victim of fortune as only someone from a large dispos-

THE INFLUENCE OF THE MEDITATIONS

Perturbations or sweet pleasures? Descartes’ place in

THE EMERGENCE OF THE VIS ESTIMATIVA

So far we have examined the extent to which Descartes’ approach to the

PASSIONS IN AN UNDIVIDED SOUL

FORMAL OBJECTS AND FIRST CAUSES: DESCARTES’

A standard way to begin theorizing about the passions was to distinguish

The natural integration of reason and passion

As is evident from the forgoing discussion, the standard account of

SENSATION AND MECHANISM

THE DANGERS OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

THE RATIONAL SIGNIFICANCE OF PHENOMENAL INFORMATION

THE STATE OF THE UNION

Above I discussed the importance of the body image, or more precisely,

Representing and referring

The last chapter argued that the phenomenology of passions is critical

OBJECTIVE REALITY AND THE PROBLEM OF ERROR

In arguing for the existence of God, Descartes draws a preliminary

were represented. Sensations occupied a place of primary importance in Aristotelian epistemology.

What is disturbing to Ayers is not Descartes’ postulation of intentional

FALSITY: FORMAL AND MATERIAL

It was standard in Descartes’ time to attribute truth and falsity to judge-

MATERIAL FALSITY REDUX

Let us come at this last question about the intentionality of materially

The issues raised by Descartes’ account of objective reality and material

Action and passion: metaphysical integrationism

When Elisabeth requests from Descartes a definition of the soul ‘more

A NEW INTERACTION PROBLEM

Introducing the general notion of a passion, Descartes writes in the first

The terminology Descartes adopts in identifying actions and passions is,

ACTION AND PASSION AS TWO MODES

Hoffman’s efforts are directed at reconciling proposition (2), the claim

Compatibility with the principal attribute of a substance is a necessary

THE INSEPARABILITY PROBLEM REVISITED

MIND–BODY UNION AND DESCARTES’ ANTI-OCCASIONALISM

Wonder and love: extending the boundaries of the

The previous chapter was concerned with the role of passions in

CURIOSITY AS A VICE OF THE IGNORANT

DESCARTES’ CABINET OF WONDER

A similar point is made in the Passions at article 76, where Descartes

SELF-WONDER AND SELF-KNOWLEDGE

We are ourselves marvels of nature and wonder has a role to play in

The account of self-knowledge offered so far has focused on general or

In the letter to Elisabeth of 15 September 1645, written just prior to the

Several strange passages on desire and fortune

FATE AND FORTUNE IN THE TRADITION