Part 9 (1/2)

The halls rose in a pyramid, becoming even more beautiful as one mounted toward the apex, and representing more beautiful worlds. Finally they reached the highest one which completed the pyramid, and which was the most beautiful of all:...for the pyramid had an apex, but no base; it went on increasing to infinity. That is...because amongst an endless number of possible worlds there is the best of all, else G.o.d would not have determined to create any.

The world at the apex, the best of all possible worlds, it turns out, is the actual world, the one in which we live.

The vision is unmistakably baroque. It is possibly an apt representation of what it feels like to get lost at Versailles, and perhaps it is best read with music of the period in the back of one's mind. (Handel, incidentally, was Leibniz's fellow courtier at Hanover in the year that the Theodicy Theodicy was published.) The pa.s.sage also oozes the optimism that would later induce Voltaire to satirize Leibniz in the figure of Dr. Pangloss. After all, many would have guessed that our world is one or two levels down from the top of the pyramid, at the very least. was published.) The pa.s.sage also oozes the optimism that would later induce Voltaire to satirize Leibniz in the figure of Dr. Pangloss. After all, many would have guessed that our world is one or two levels down from the top of the pyramid, at the very least.

In any case, the crucial and novel feature in Leibniz's account is his characterization of G.o.d's choice in terms of possible worlds worlds-as opposed to possible things things. According to Leibniz, G.o.d chooses not between, say, allowing Adam to eat the apple or not, but between possible worlds that do or do not include an Adam eating an apple. This marks what Leibniz believed was one of his decisive breakthroughs in the ten years after his journey to The Hague. In his earlier writings, Leibniz's unswerving commitment to the principle of sufficient reason made it difficult for him to conceive of possible things things. For, inasmuch as everything happens for a reason, there are no isolated accidents or random events in Leibniz's world-everything is part of a single, causal tapestry. ”Because of the interconnection of things,” he acknowledges at the time of his Discourse Discourse, ”the universe with all its parts would be wholly different from the commencement if the least thing in it happened otherwise than it had.” By raising G.o.d's choice to the level of possible worlds worlds, however, Leibniz can have his principle of sufficient reason and eat it, too, in a sense: that is, he can grant that all things within our world are linked together in a necessary way while still maintaining that the world as a whole does not necessarily have to be the way that it is. ”The reasons for the world,” he says, ”lie in something extramundane.”

The concept of possible worlds, according to Leibniz's way of thinking, also neatly solves the problem of G.o.d's goodness. Inasmuch as G.o.d does not choose particular things, he does not choose things that are evil; rather, he chooses a world that, for some reason, must have evil in it. The reason for this world is the principle of the best, which G.o.d applies with perfect precision; and if this world seems to us to have things that deserve the name of evil, we may nonetheless rest a.s.sured that G.o.d could not have made a better choice.

In order to solidify the conclusion that G.o.d must make a choice, Leibniz labors hard to establish a distinction between ”moral” necessity and ”metaphysical” necessity. G.o.d's decision to create the best of all possible worlds, he grants, exhibits a kind of moral necessity. That is, if G.o.d wishes to be good, he must apply the principle of the best in his choice of possible worlds. But G.o.d's choice does not involve any metaphysical necessity. That is, G.o.d is theoretically capable of ordering up a less than ideal world, or no world at all, should he be so inclined.

At this point, the contrast with Spinoza's concept of G.o.d could hardly be starker-and that is precisely the point behind the vision. The difference goes back to that simple-sounding question: Does G.o.d have a choice? Spinoza says no; Leibniz says yes. Spinoza says that G.o.d has only one world to choose from, namely, the one that follows ineluctably from its own Nature. Leibniz counters that G.o.d always has the option not to create the world; and, when G.o.d decides to go ahead with the project, he faces a choice among an infinite number of possible worlds. Spinoza's G.o.d has no need for anthropomorphic enc.u.mbrances such as a will or intellect, for it has no choices to contemplate and no resolutions to affirm. Leibniz's G.o.d, on the other hand, looks much more like you or me: he must have a capacity for thought and action in order to make his choices. Finally, whereas Spinoza's Substance is well beyond the merely human categories of good and evil, Leibniz's G.o.d is the ultimate do-gooder, as he shuffles through all possible worlds hoping to locate ”the best.”

In sum, Spinoza believes in an ”immanent” G.o.d; Leibniz argues for a ”transcendent” one. Spinoza's G.o.d is the immanent cause of things: it creates the world in the same way that an essence creates its properties-that is, in the same way that the nature of a circle makes it round. It is in in the world (just as the world is in it) and therefore cannot conceivably be a.s.sociated with any other world or with no world at all. A transcendent G.o.d, on the other hand, is the ”transitive” cause of things. He creates the world in the same way that a watchmaker makes a watch. He stands outside the world, and he would still be G.o.d whether he opted to create this world, another world, or no world at all. He has a certain degree of personhood (which is why we tend to call him ”he,” in deference to the tradition). Leibniz sometimes uses the phrase ”supra-mundane intelligence” to describe his transcendent G.o.d. Dropping the polysyllables, we could also say simply that Spinoza's divinity is one that inhabits the ”here and now,” while Leibniz's resides in the ”before and beyond.” the world (just as the world is in it) and therefore cannot conceivably be a.s.sociated with any other world or with no world at all. A transcendent G.o.d, on the other hand, is the ”transitive” cause of things. He creates the world in the same way that a watchmaker makes a watch. He stands outside the world, and he would still be G.o.d whether he opted to create this world, another world, or no world at all. He has a certain degree of personhood (which is why we tend to call him ”he,” in deference to the tradition). Leibniz sometimes uses the phrase ”supra-mundane intelligence” to describe his transcendent G.o.d. Dropping the polysyllables, we could also say simply that Spinoza's divinity is one that inhabits the ”here and now,” while Leibniz's resides in the ”before and beyond.”

The confrontation between Leibnizian and Spinozistic conceptions of divinity, incidentally, continues to characterize discussions to the present, notably in the field of cosmology (never mind the relatively changeless field of theology). Among contemporary physicists, for example, there are those who maintain that the laws of nature are inherently arbitrary. According to their rather Leibnizian view, G.o.d (or perhaps a Great Designer) selects from among an infinite range of parameters for the laws of nature, and everything else in the world then unfolds within the chosen regime. Others physicists, however, maintain that the parameters that define the laws of physics may ultimately be determined by the laws themselves, such that nature may account for itself in an utterly self-sufficient way. Such theorists may be said to lean to the side of Spinoza.

In the seventeenth century, of course, the difference between Leibnizian and Spinozan concepts of divinity was hugely-and perhaps essentially-political. Spinoza argues that the deity of popular superst.i.tion is a prop for theocratic tyranny. But what Spinoza calls theocratic oppression Leibniz identifies as the best of all possible systems of government. Thus, Leibniz turns the tables and calls Spinoza's concept of G.o.d ”bad” and ”dangerous,” on the grounds that it will lead only to ”out-and-out anarchy.” His own concept of G.o.d, Leibniz a.s.sures us, will protect civilization-indeed, it will serve as the basis for a Christian republic united under a single church.

Leibniz's insistence on political implications of the metaphysics of divinity is so forceful that it raises the question as to whether his entire philosophy, like Spinoza's perhaps, was essentially a political project. For, inasmuch as it is the universal belief belief in the goodness of G.o.d that brings about the desired political ends of unity, stability, and charity, then the facts of the matter-whether G.o.d does indeed make choices and is good-don't matter at all. Philosophy, on this a.s.sumption, is not the disinterested search for the truth about G.o.d, but a highly sophisticated form of political rhetoric. in the goodness of G.o.d that brings about the desired political ends of unity, stability, and charity, then the facts of the matter-whether G.o.d does indeed make choices and is good-don't matter at all. Philosophy, on this a.s.sumption, is not the disinterested search for the truth about G.o.d, but a highly sophisticated form of political rhetoric.

Mind Modernity dethrones humankind. It reduces all our thoughts, purposes, and hopes to the object of scientific inquiry. It makes laboratory rats of us all. Spinoza actively embraces this collapse of the human into mere nature. Leibniz abhors it. Even more than he wants to convince us that G.o.d is good, Leibniz intends to demonstrate that we are the most special of all beings in nature. In the entire universe, he says, there is nothing more real or more permanent or more worthy of love than the individual human soul. We belong to the innermost reality of things. The human being is the new G.o.d, he announces: Each of us is ”a small divinity and eminently a universe: G.o.d in ectype and the universe in prototype.” This is the idea that defines Leibniz's philosophy, and that explains the enormous, if often unacknowledged, influence that his thought has wielded in the past three centuries of human history.

The greatest obstacle Leibniz confronts in his quest to deify the human being is Spinoza's theory of mind. In Spinoza's view, the mind is nothing real; it is merely an abstraction over the material processes of the body. But, counters Leibniz, in the material world, nothing lasts forever; everything is at the mercy of impersonal forces; what pa.s.ses for ”unity” is merely temporary aggregation; and ”ident.i.ty” is a chimera in the never-ending flux of becoming and pa.s.sing away. If Spinoza is correct, Leibniz concludes, then the human being, too, is merely chaff blowing in the silent winds of nature.

Leibniz's metaphysics is thus best understood as the effort to demonstrate, against Spinoza, that there is another world that is prior to and const.i.tutes the material world; that this more real real reality consists of indestructible, self-identical unities; and that we ourselves-in virtue of our having minds- reality consists of indestructible, self-identical unities; and that we ourselves-in virtue of our having minds-are the immaterial const.i.tuents of this more-than-real world. Of course, as a defender of the immaterial mind, Leibniz now faces the Cartesian mind-body problem in its full glory: He must explain how it happens that the immaterial mind at least appears to interact with the less-than-real material world. So, more precisely, his metaphysics may be understood as an attempt to solve the Cartesian mind-body problem in such a manner as to avoid falling into Spinozistic heresy. the immaterial const.i.tuents of this more-than-real world. Of course, as a defender of the immaterial mind, Leibniz now faces the Cartesian mind-body problem in its full glory: He must explain how it happens that the immaterial mind at least appears to interact with the less-than-real material world. So, more precisely, his metaphysics may be understood as an attempt to solve the Cartesian mind-body problem in such a manner as to avoid falling into Spinozistic heresy.

IN ORDER TO rid the world of Spinoza's theory of mind, Leibniz must first annihilate Spinoza's idea of Substance. For, in declaring that G.o.d alone is Substance, Spinoza reduces human beings to mere modes of Substance, and thereby renders our minds material and mortal. Leibniz's strategy is therefore to replace the doctrine that G.o.d alone is Substance with the claim that there is a plurality of substances in the world. By identifying the mind with these new substances, Leibniz intends to secure for humankind a degree of indestructibility, power, and freedom that his rival philosopher a.s.sociates only with G.o.d. In one of his rare later comments on Spinoza, Leibniz neatly summarizes the difference between the two philosophers on this fundamental point. The author of the rid the world of Spinoza's theory of mind, Leibniz must first annihilate Spinoza's idea of Substance. For, in declaring that G.o.d alone is Substance, Spinoza reduces human beings to mere modes of Substance, and thereby renders our minds material and mortal. Leibniz's strategy is therefore to replace the doctrine that G.o.d alone is Substance with the claim that there is a plurality of substances in the world. By identifying the mind with these new substances, Leibniz intends to secure for humankind a degree of indestructibility, power, and freedom that his rival philosopher a.s.sociates only with G.o.d. In one of his rare later comments on Spinoza, Leibniz neatly summarizes the difference between the two philosophers on this fundamental point. The author of the Ethics Ethics, as we know, scoffs at those who regard the human mind as ”a kingdom within a kingdom,” for, in his view, there is only one kingdom of Nature, one Substance. To which Leibniz responds: ”My view is that every substance whatsoever is a kingdom within a kingdom.”

The hunch that the world is made up of a plurality of substances appears in some of Leibniz's earliest writings. In the context of his reading of Spinoza's writings upon his return from The Hague, however, he formulates his view in a transparent way. In his notes on Spinoza's letters to Oldenburg as well as on his copy of the Opera Posthuma Opera Posthuma, Leibniz explicitly rejects Spinoza's definition of ”substance” as that which is ”in itself” and and ”conceived through itself.” The second part of the definition, he now a.s.serts, is incorrect: A substance must be ”in itself,” but it need not be ”conceived through itself.” Rather, it may be ”conceived through G.o.d.” ”conceived through itself.” The second part of the definition, he now a.s.serts, is incorrect: A substance must be ”in itself,” but it need not be ”conceived through itself.” Rather, it may be ”conceived through G.o.d.”

An obscure point, it would seem; and yet, if true, it destroys the proof of the Proposition 5 in Part I of the Ethics Ethics that there cannot be two or more substances in the world. For, that proof turns on the claim that two substances which are ”conceived through themselves” can have nothing in common and so cannot be part of the same universe. It is no coincidence, then, that the proposition of the that there cannot be two or more substances in the world. For, that proof turns on the claim that two substances which are ”conceived through themselves” can have nothing in common and so cannot be part of the same universe. It is no coincidence, then, that the proposition of the Ethics Ethics whose proof Leibniz seeks in his first letter to Schuller upon getting to Hanover is Proposition 5 of Part I of the whose proof Leibniz seeks in his first letter to Schuller upon getting to Hanover is Proposition 5 of Part I of the Ethics Ethics. If he can find the weak point in Spinoza's proof, Leibniz thinks, he will open up the tantalizing possibility that there is not one but a plurality of substances in the world. He further infers-on the basis of quasi-mathematical arguments that would require several more books to elucidate-that the number of such substances must be infinite for roughly the same reason that the number of points on a line is infinite. No matter how small a slice of the universe you take, he says, it will contain an infinite number of substances. In writings dating from the 1690s, he dubs these substances with a name derived from the Greek for ”unity,” first used by his predecessor Giordano Bruno, and which has since become famous: monads.

The claim that reality consists of an infinite number of monads entails some astonis.h.i.+ng consequences, and Leibniz is not shy to draw these out. As substances, for example, monads must be entirely self-contained. That is, they depend on nothing else to be what they are. The most important implication of this is that they cannot interact with one another in any way at all-for, if they did so, one monad could conceivably alter the nature of another monad, and this would imply that its nature depends on the activity of some other substance, which, by the definition of substance, is not permissible. Thus, monads are-in Leibniz's notably poetic language-”windowless.” They can't see out, and you can't see in.

It also follows that monads are immortal-they are always what they were and will be, namely, themselves. They have no beginning and no end. In order to make room for G.o.d, perhaps, Leibniz somewhat mysteriously allows that at the moment of creation, all monads came into being together, in a single ”flash” and if they should disappear, they must all vanish together in a comparable ”flash” of annihilation.

Notwithstanding their evident durability and self-ident.i.ty, monads do experience change of a sort, for they possess a capability to develop or ”realize” themselves according to purely internal principles. In Leibniz's lyrical terms, they are ”big [in the sense of ”pregnant”] with the future.” They may exist in the form of ”seeds,” he suggests, such as those observed in human s.e.m.e.n by scientists such as Jan Swammerdam and Antoni von Leeuwenhoek (both of whom Leibniz met on his journey through Holland).

Here Leibniz appeals to contemporary scientific findings in a manner that cannot but recall the practice of those modern philosophers who likewise attempt to substantiate their metaphysical claims with reference to recent scientific discoveries (in our time, usually quantum mechanics). The rocket science of Leibniz's time was microscopy. The work of the Dutch pioneers in the field, says Leibniz, demonstrates that there are tiny animals everywhere-animals within animals-on no matter how small a scale one looks. Therefore, he concludes, it is quite plausible-nay, practically certain-that if these tiny animals had microscopes, they, too, would find even tinier animals, and so on all the way down without end.

Although all monads exist forever, they nonetheless seem to perdure in the context of very different fellow-monad structures over time. The Leibniz monad, for instance, existed in seed form from the beginning of time. Contrary to popular prejudice, what it acquired on July 1, 1646, was only the agglomeration of fellow monads that make up its outward body. (The fact that Leibniz had two parents vexed the philosopher's followers-who had the monad, mom or dad?-but they did their best to overcome the ”problem of s.e.x.”) Furthermore, as scientists have shown that even in fires small particles of ash survive in the smoke, it is evident that the Leibniz monad, like its brother monads, will continue to exist indefinitely in microscopic form-perhaps wafting on a piece of dust around its favorite city of Paris, where it will enjoy memories of happier days and receive from G.o.d the rewards and punishments appropriate to its deeds.

One of the most striking and controversial inferences that Leibniz draws from the substantial nature of the monad is that a monad's future is written into its essence from the very beginning of things. He expresses this daring doctrine in terms of logic as well as metaphysics. The ”complete” concept of a substance, he says, must contain all the predicates that ever have been and ever will be true of it. For example-and here he invites much aggravation from his critics-the complete concept of ”Caesar” ever and always includes the predicate ”crossed the Rubicon” just as the complete concept of ”Leibniz,” presumably, ever and always includes the predicate ”visited Spinoza in The Hague.” A monad, one could say, is the ideal subject for a biography: its entire life story unfolds with absolute logical necessity from its singular essence; and so the biographer need only locate this essence in order to settle on an appropriate plot and chapter outline.

The life of a monad does not seem as solitary as it in fact is. Each monad, according to Leibniz, has within itself a ”mirror” of the entire universe-a picture of what is happening everywhere at all times and how its own activities ”fit in.” Thus, monads are essentially mindlike. That is, they have a faculty of perception perception that constructs for them a picture of the ”external” world, and a faculty of that constructs for them a picture of the ”external” world, and a faculty of apperception apperception that registers an awareness of this process of perception itself. that registers an awareness of this process of perception itself.

By means of these ”mirrors” of consciousness, each monad replicates the entire universe of monads within itself; and so each monad is a ”universe in prototype.” Leibniz refers to this strange vision of worlds within worlds as ”the principle of macrocosm and microcosm”-meaning that the microcosm contains or replicates the macrocosm all the way down to the infinitely small. He expresses the same notion in his claim that the ancient doctrine that ”All is One” must now be supplemented with the equally important corollary that ”One is All.”

If Leibniz had been writing in the information age, incidentally, he very likely would have replaced the monad mirrors with laptops running interactive virtual-reality software. Such a metaphor perhaps better conveys the sense in which monads interact with a wider universe only in an internal, ”virtual” way, since they cannot really have contact with the rest of the universe at all.

The monad mirrors, in any case, are somewhat scratched and imperfect-no doubt like the silver-backed mirrors that would have caught the philosopher's gaze in Paris. (Or, one could say, the virtual-reality screens have low resolution; or, the software still has lots of bugs.) So, all monads have a confused perception of the world around them. (Save G.o.d, of course, whose version of Windows is perfect).

It is the logic of his system-and not arbitrary fancy nor a theory of the subconscious mind, as some have suggested-that compels Leibniz to scratch the mirrors of his monads. The imperfections in individual monads' perceptions play a key role in distinguis.h.i.+ng one monad from another, for it is the partial perspective of each monad on the totality that makes it a unique individual with a unique ”point of view” as it were. This is what Leibniz means when he says that a monad subsists ”in itself” but is not necessarily ”conceived through itself.” To put it another way: two monads with absolutely perspicuous knowledge of the entire universe would be indistinguishable-in fact, they would both be G.o.d, or that through which all substances are conceived.

Equally important, the splotchiness in the mirrors creates the possibility of ”free will” in monads, or so Leibniz contends. Although the entire past and future of a monad are embedded in its complete concept, nonetheless, on account of the inferior optics, a monad cannot understand its own essence in a fully perspicuous way. Because it does not know its own future (as G.o.d does), the monad is forced to make decisions and behave as though it were free. So, for example, G.o.d knew through all eternity that Leibniz was going to visit Spinoza in The Hague; but when Leibniz got off the boat, he faced a choice between walking over to the Paviljoensgracht and stopping in a local coffeehouse for the afternoon.

The obscurity in the monad mirrors, finally, allows us to explain the crucial differences among types of monads. Although in the final a.n.a.lysis monads differ in degree and not kind, they nonetheless fall roughly into three groups, corresponding to what we may think of as rocks, animals, and people. All monads are mindlike to some degree, but only the peoplelike monads have minds, properly speaking. That is, their mirrors-their faculties of perception and apperception-are developed to the point where they have memory and self-awareness. Animal monads have souls, but not minds, strictly speaking, for their apperception or self-awareness tends to be lacking (Leibniz is a little vague on the point; but, in any case, it is worth noting that, compared with the dog-beating Cartesians, he was practically an animal-rights activist, insisting that it is repugnant to view animals as mere machines.) Rocklike monads are extremely pa.s.sive, and so Leibniz has little to say about them. Note, however, that what we think of as an individual human being consists of one mind-monad dominating an infinite, swirling agglomeration of rocklike body-monads.

With this last observation, the main point of the strange fable of the monads begins to come into focus. Leibniz's purpose is to lay out the context within which the Cartesian mind-body problem may be resolved and the immateriality of the mind preserved against Spinoza's soul-destroying Substance. In the new vocabulary of monads, the mind-body problem may be restated thus: How do mind-monads coordinate their activities with body-monads so that all work together to create a coherent universe in which minds and bodies appear to interact? For example: How is it that, when the Leibniz mind-monad decides to meet Spinoza in The Hague, his body-monads get him aboard the yacht, walk him down along the ca.n.a.ls, and knock on his fellow philosopher's door? And how is it that the equally self-contained Spinoza monad happens to organize its body-monads in such a way as to open the door for his visitor?

Phrased in these terms, now, it is evident that, within the Leibnizian system, the mind-body problem no longer refers to something that is logically impossible, but only to something that seems ludicrously improbable. That is, Leibniz does not have to explain how two radically different cla.s.ses of ent.i.ty-minds and bodies-may interact with each other; he simply takes it as given that all substances are of the same mindlike nature and that they do not interact with one another at all. The remaining problem is only that it seems very unlikely, to say the least, that all these monads would coordinate their internally driven activities in such a way as to produce a coherent world-that the Leibniz mind-monad should not decide to visit Spinoza, for example, while the rest of him goes for a cup of coffee.

This understanding of the problem sets the stage for what Leibniz claims is his single most magnificent bequest to humanity: the doctrine of ”the pre-established harmony.” Although each monad acts according to its own, purely internal laws of development, Leibniz maintains, each is so designed that the world within which it perceives itself to be acting coheres exactly with the world within which all the other monads perceive themselves to be acting. Thus, for example, when the Leibniz mind-monad decides to call on Spinoza, the Leibniz body-monads just happen to be planning a walk up the Paviljoensgracht, too.

Leibniz's choice of a musical metaphor to describe the coordination of monad activities seems very much in the spirit of his age. In the late seventeenth century, the delights of contrapuntal music became widely celebrated, great architecture was praised as ”frozen music,” and even the orbits of the planets around the sun were said to have agreeably musical properties. Sometimes, though, Leibniz uses a different metaphor, one drawn from another of the wonders of his age: the watch. Mind and body, he says, are like a pair of perfectly constructed and perfectly synchronized watches. They tell the same time throughout eternity, not because they are causally linked to each other, nor because anyone intervenes to adjust one to the other, but because each on its own progresses through the same series of seconds on its own devices. (It is interesting to note that in Leibniz's day watches were notoriously imprecise, and could be counted on to diverge appreciably from one another by the end of each working day; but the race was on to build one of sufficient reliability to be used in measuring the longitude of s.h.i.+ps at sea.) In the information age, we would probably favor a different metaphor: although each monad runs its own virtual-reality software on a stand-alone basis, we could say, the virtual reality of each monad is perfectly consistent with the virtual realities of all the other monads.

Needless to say, the extraordinary degree of mutual compatibility among monads is far greater than could ever be attributed to any merely human watchmaker or even any immortal software corporation. In fact, says Leibniz, the pre-established harmony is manifestly the handiwork of G.o.d. When the Almighty creates the infinite infinity of monads in the big flash, he designs each in such a way that its internal principle of activity harmonizes perfectly with those of all the others. The doctrine of the pre-established harmony may also be understood as a generalized and perhaps more elegant version of Malebranche's occasionalism. According to the latter, G.o.d intervenes on every occasion where there is an interaction of mind and body, in an endless series of real-time miracles. In Leibniz's world, G.o.d intervenes only once, at the moment of creation, in an original miracle whereby he programs the infinite infinity of monads with such astonis.h.i.+ng skill that they sing in harmony for all eternity.

The pre-established harmony also lines up neatly as the apparent replacement for Spinoza's doctrine of parallelism. Spinoza, we should recall, claims that mind and body operate in parallel because they are really the same thing seen from two angles, like two sides of the same coin. Leibniz implicitly agrees that mind and body appear to operate in parallel, like two clocks ticking away side by side; but, on his account, they do so only by the grace of G.o.d's impeccable craftsmans.h.i.+p, for they are in themselves radically independent of each other.