1
As a result of yesterday’s meditations, my spirit has
been so cast down by doubts that I can neither put them out
of my mind nor see my way to resolving them. I feel as though
I have been pitched unexpectedly into deep water, in which
I can neither touch bottom nor swim to the surface. Nevertheless,
I shall make the effort, and shall once again make my way
along the path I set forth on yesterday. Anything that admits
of the least doubt I will set aside just as if I had found
it to be entirely false. And I will proceed in this way until
I come upon something certain; or, at the very least, until
I determine for certain that there is no certainty. Archimedes
once demanded just one firm and immovable point, that he might
move the whole earth. Great things are no less to be hoped
for if I should find even one thing, however slight, that
is certain and unshakeable.
2
I will therefore suppose that all I see is illusion. I believe
none of the things reported to me by lying memory ever happened.
I have no senses at all. Body, shape, extension, movement
and place are chimeras. What true thing is left? Perhaps just
the one fact that nothing is certain.
3
But where do I get this knowledge that there is nothing else
– nothing besides all these other things I have gone
over – concerning which there cannot be the slightest
grounds for doubt? Is there not a God – or whatever I
may call him – who implants in me the thoughts I am now
having? But why should I think so, since perhaps I myself
may be the author of these thoughts? In that case am I not,
at least, something? But I have just said that I have no senses
and no body.
4
This is the sticking point: for what follows? Am I not so
bound up with a body and with senses that I cannot exist without
them? But I have convinced myself there is absolutely nothing
in the world, no sky, no earth, no minds, no bodies. Does
it follow now that I don’t exist either?
5
No. If I persuaded myself of anything, then certainly I existed.
But there is a deceiver of supreme power and cunning who deliberately
and constantly deludes me. In that case, too, I undoubtedly
exist, if he is deceiving me. And let him deceive me to his
heart’s content, he will never bring it about that I
am nothing so long as I think that I am something. So, after
considering everything very thoroughly, I must finally conclude
that this proposition, ‘I am, I exist’, is necessarily
true whenever uttered by me or conceived by my mind.
6
But I do not yet sufficiently understand what this 'I' is
that now necessarily exists. So I must be careful not to mistake
something else for this 'I', and so make a mistake concerning
that very item of knowledge I maintain is most certain and
evident of all. Which is why I will now meditate anew on what
I originally believed myself to be before I embarked on this
present train of thought. I will then subtract anything capable
of being weakened in the least by the arguments I have brought
forth, so that what is left at the end may be no more nor
less than that which is certain and unshakeable.
7
What then did I believe I was before? A man. But what is
a man? Shall I say 'a rational animal'? No, for then I should
have to investigate what an animal is, what rationality is,
and so one from one question I would slide down the slope
to harder ones; and I do not have time to waste now on subtleties
of this sort. Instead I propose to focus on what came into
my mind spontaneously and quite naturally whenever I used
to consider what I was. Well, the first thing that occurred
to me was that I had a face, hands, arms and the whole mechanical
apparatus of limbs which can be seen in a corpse, and which
I called the body. Next, I thought that I took in nourishment,
that I moved about, that I actively perceived and thought
things; and these actions I attributed to the soul. But as
to the nature of this soul, either I gave it no thought at
all, or else I imagined it to be an attenuated thing, like
a wind or fire or ether, which permeated my more solid parts.
As to the body, however, I had no doubts about it, but thought
I knew its nature distinctly. If I had tried to describe my
mental conception of it, I would have expressed it as follows:
by ‘a body’ I understand whatever has a determinable
shape and a definable location and can occupy a space in such
a way as to exclude any other body. It can be sensed by touch,
sight, hearing, taste or smell, and can be moved in various
ways – not by itself but by whatever else comes into
contact with it. For, according to my judgement, the power
of self-movement, like the power of perception and thought,
was quite foreign to the nature of a body. Indeed, has been
a source of wonder to me that certain bodies are found to
contain faculties of this kind.
8
But what shall I say now about this supposition that some
supremely powerful and – if I may be permitted to say
so – malicious deceiver is deliberately trying to trick
me any way he can? Can I affirm that I possess the least of
all those attributes which I have just now declared to belong
to the nature of a body? I examine them, reflect on them,
turn them over again, but nothing comes to mind. It is tedious
and pointless to run through the list again. But what about
the attributes I assigned to the soul? Nutrition or locomotion?
Since now I do not have a body, these are mere delusions.
Sense-perception? There can be nothing of the sort without
a body, surely; and besides, when asleep I have appeared to
perceive through the senses many things which later I realized
I did not perceive through the senses at all. Thinking? At
last I have found it – thought. This alone is inseparable
from me. I am, I exist – that is certain. But for how
long? For as long as I am thinking. For it could be that,
were I to completely cease thinking, I should completely cease
to exist. At present I am not admitting anything except what
is necessarily true. I am, then, in the strict sense, only
a thing that thinks. That is, I am a mind, or intelligence,
or intellect, or reason – words whose meaning I have
failed to apprehend before now. But for all that I am a thing
which is real and which truly exists. But what kind of a thing?
As I have just said: a thinking thing.
9
What else am I? Let me imagine this: I am not that structure
of limbs known as a human body. I am not even some thin vapor
permeating such limbs – a wind, fire, air, breath, or
whatever else I may care to pretend; for these are things
I am supposing do not exist. Let this supposition stand: nevertheless,
I am still something. On the other hand, might it not be the
case that these very things which I am supposing to be non-existent,
because they are unknown to me, are in reality identical with
the 'I' of which I am aware? I do not know, and for the time
being I shall not argue the point, since I can make judgements
only about that which is known to me. I know that I am, and
seek to know what I am – this ‘I’ that I know
exists. Yet it is quite certain that this notion and knowledge
of myself – in this precise sense – cannot depend
on things of whose existence I am ignorant as yet. Nor, for
even stronger reasons, can it depend on any of those fabricated
figments of my imagination. And even these terms ‘fabricate’
and ‘imaginary’ show me my mistake. For I would
really and truly be fabricating if I were to imagine I am
some thing, for to imagine is just to contemplate the outline
or image of something corporeal. But now I certainly know
that I am and that, at the same time, it is possible that
all these images and everything else found under the heading
‘body’ are nothing but deception and delusion. Once
one sees this clearly, to say, ‘I will use my imagination
in order to get to know my own nature more distinctly,’
would seems just as ridiculous as saying, ‘I am now awake,
and apprehend some truth – but since my vision is not
yet perfectly clear, I will send myself straight to sleep
in order to dream a yet truer, clearer representation.’
In this way I come to realize that none of the things imaginations
enables me to grasp is at all relevant to this knowledge of
myself I possess. And the mind must therefore be carefully
steered away from this manner of conceiving things, in order
for it to perceive its own nature as distinctly as possible.
10
But what am I, then? A thing that thinks. What is that? A
thing that doubts, understands, affirms, denies, is willing,
is unwilling, and also imagines and has sensory perceptions.
11
This is no inconsiderable catalogue, if everything on it
belongs to me. But does it? Is it not one and the same 'I'
who now doubts almost everything, who nevertheless understands
some things, who affirms this one thing to be true, who denies
everything else, wants to know more, is unwilling to be deceived,
imagines many things – if only involuntarily – and
is aware of many things which apparently come by way of the
senses? Are not all these things just as true as the fact
that I exist, even if I am asleep all the while, and even
if he who created me is doing all he can to deceive me? What
one of all these activities is distinct from my thinking?
Which of them can be said to be separate from myself? The
fact that it is I who am doubting and understanding and willing
is so self-evident that I see no way of making it any clearer.
But it is also the case that the 'I' who imagines is the same
'I'. For even if, as I have supposed, none of the objects
of imagination are real, the power of imagination really exists
and takes its place among my thoughts. Lastly, it is also
the same 'I' who has sensory perceptions – that is, who
is aware of corporeal things, as it were, through the senses.
For example, I am now seeing light, hearing a noise, feeling
heat. But I am asleep, so all this is false. All the same,
I certainly seem to see, to hear, and to be warmed. This cannot
be false; what is called 'having a sensory perception' is
strictly just this, and in this restricted sense of the term
it is simply thinking.
12
As a result of all this I am arriving at a rather better
understanding of what I am. But it still appears – and
I cannot stop thinking so – that the corporeal things
of which images are formed in my thought, and which the senses
investigate, are known with much more distinctness than this
puzzling 'I' which cannot be pictured in the imagination.
And yet it is surely surprising that I should have a more
distinct grasp of things I realize are doubtful, unknown and
foreign to me, than of that which is true and known –
my own self. But I see how it is: my mind likes to wander
and will not yet submit to confinement within the bounds of
truth. Very well, then; just this once let us allow it a free
rein, so that after a while – when the time is right
to curb it – it may prove easier to handle.
13
Let us consider those things people commonly think they understand
most distinctly of all: namely, those bodies that we touch
and see. I do not mean bodies in general – for general
perceptions are apt to be somewhat more confused – but
one particular body. Let us take, for example, this piece
of wax, just come from the comb. It has not yet lost the sweetness
of the honey it contained; it retains some of the scent of
the flowers from which it was gathered; its color, shape and
size are apparent; it is hard, cool and can be readily handled;
if you tap it with your knuckle it makes a sound. In short,
it has everything which seems necessary to enable a body to
be known as distinctly as possible. But see how, even as I
speak, I place the wax by the fire: what remained of its taste
evaporates, its scent dissipates, its color changes, its shape
is lost, its size increases; it becomes liquid and hot; you
can hardly touch it, and if you do it no longer makes a sound,
But does the same wax remain? It must be granted that it does;
no one denies it, no one thinks otherwise. So what was it
about the wax that I understood with such distinctness? Evidently
none of the features that I gleaned by means of the senses;
for whatever had to do with taste, smell, sight, touch or
hearing has now changed – yet the wax remains.
14
Perhaps it was the very thing that I am thinking now; namely,
the wax was not after all this honey sweetness, or this fragrance
of flowers, or this whiteness, or this shape, or this sound,
but rather a body which presented itself to me in these various
forms a little while ago, but which has now taken on different
ones. But what exactly is it that I am now imagining? Let
us concentrate, take away everything which does not belong
to the wax, and see what is left: certainly just something
extended, malleable and changeable. But what is meant here
by ‘malleable’ and 'changeable'? Is it that which
I picture in my imagination: that this piece of wax is capable
of changing from a round shape to a square shape, or from
a square shape to a triangular shape? Not at all; for I can
grasp that the wax is capable of infinite changes of this
kind, yet I am unable to run through this infinity of changes
in my imagination, from which it follows that it is not the
faculty of imagination that gives me my grasp of the wax as
flexible and changeable. And what does this mean: ‘extended'?
Is the extension of the wax also unknown? For it increases
as the wax melts, increases again if it is liquefied, and
is greater still if the heat is further increased. I will
not have arrived at a clear conception of the nature of the
wax until I believe it capable of being extended in a far
greater variety of ways than I will ever entertain in my imagination.
I must therefore admit that the nature of this piece of wax
is in no way revealed by my imagination, but is perceived
by the mind alone. I am speaking of this particular piece
of wax; the point is even clearer with regard to wax in general.
But what is this wax which is perceived by the mind alone?
It is of course the very wax that I see, that I touch, that
I picture in my imagination – in short the very wax I
thought it to be from the start. And yet – this is the
point – the perception I have of it is a case not of
vision or touch or imagination, nor has it ever been, despite
previous appearances, but of purely mental scrutiny; and this
can be imperfect and confused, as it was before, or clear
and distinct as it is now, depending on how carefully I concentrate
on what the wax consists in.
15
But as I reach this conclusion I am amazed at how feeble
and error-prone my mind is. For although I am thinking all
this just to myself, silently and without speaking, nonetheless
the actual words bring me up short, and I am almost tricked
by ordinary ways of talking. We say we see the wax itself,
if it is there before us, not that we judge it to be there
from its color or shape. And this might lead me to conclude
without further ado that knowledge of the wax comes from what
the eye sees, and not from the scrutiny of the mind alone.
But if I then look out the window and see men crossing the
square, as I just happen to have done, I normally say that
I see the men themselves, just as I say that I see the wax.
Yet do I see any more than hats and coats which could conceal
ghosts or mechanical men? But I judge that they are men. And
so something which I thought I was seeing with my eyes is
in fact grasped solely by the faculty of judgement which is
in my mind.
16
A man who wants to attain a level of knowledge above that
of the common run must feel ashamed at concocting doubts on
the basis of ordinary ways of talking. So let us proceed,
and consider on which occasion my perception of the nature
of the wax was more perfect and evident. Was it when I first
looked at it, and believed I knew it by my external senses,
or at least by what they call the 'common' sense – that
is, the power of imagination? Or is my knowledge more perfect
now, after a more exact investigation of the nature of the
wax and of the means by which it is known? Any doubt on this
issue would clearly be foolish; for what distinctness was
there in my earlier perception? Was there anything in it which
an animal could not possess? But when I distinguish the wax
from its outward forms – very much as if I had its clothes
off, in order to consider its bare form – then although
my judgement may still contain errors, at least my perception
now requires a human mind.
17
But what am I to say about this mind, or about myself? For
so far I do not admit there is anything else to me except
for a mind. What do I say – do I declare – concerning
this 'I' which seems to perceive the wax so distinctly? Surely
my awareness of my own self is not just much more true and
certain than my awareness of the wax, but also much more distinct
and evident. For if I judge that the wax exists from the fact
that I see it, clearly this same fact entails much more evidently
that I myself also exist. It is possible that what I see is
not really the wax; it is possible that I do not even have
eyes with which to see anything. But when I see, or think
I see (I am not here distinguishing the two), it is simply
not possible that I who am now thinking am not something.
By the same token, if I judge that the wax exists, since I
can touch it, the same result follows, namely that I exist.
If I judge that it exists, since I can imagine it, or for
any other reason, exactly the same thing follows. And the
result that I have grasped in the case of the wax may be applied
to everything else located outside me. Moreover, if my perception
of the wax seemed more distinct after it was established not
just by sight or touch but by many other considerations, it
must be admitted that I now know myself even more distinctly.
This is because every consideration whatsoever which contributes
to my perception of the wax, or of any other body, cannot
but establish even more effectively the nature of my own mind.
But besides this, there is so much else in the mind itself
that can serve to make my knowledge of it more distinct, that
it scarcely seems worth going through the contributions made
by considering bodily things.
18
And in the end I have quietly arrived back just where I wanted
to be. For since I now know bodies themselves are perceived
not by the senses or the faculty of imagination but by the
intellect alone, and this perception is due not to touch or
sight but understanding, I arrive at the evident knowledge
that nothing is more easily known than my own mind. But since
the habit of holding on to old opinions cannot be set aside
so quickly, I should like to stop here and meditate for some
time on this new knowledge I have gained, the more deeply
to fix it in my memory.
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2006 - Wisefool Press - All Rights Reserved.