Part 9 (2/2)

G.o.d's intervention on the mind-body problem is so wondrous, Leibniz adds, that it amounts to another proof of his existence and of his goodness. The proof belongs to an ancient theological tradition, one that flared in the seventeenth century but that has always smoldered somewhere in the hearth of the human imagination. Leibniz's question-How is it that all the monads manage to get along so well?-is a generalization over some much simpler questions that have been asked many times before: How is it that apples are just the right size for our mouths? How is it that the water we need to live falls so abundantly from the sky? With minor changes in vocabulary, the same type of question may be heard in places even today: How is it that the apparently arbitrary parameters of the physical laws of the universe, some would ask, are set at precisely those values that make life in the universe possible? How can such complex phenomena as intelligent life be the result of an evolutionary process that has no purpose or designer? The argument that only G.o.d could account for such improbable developments as bite-sized apples, congenial cosmological constants, intelligent life, and the pre-established harmony is generally called ”the argument from design.” Spinoza, Hume, Kant, and many other philosophers have long since pointed out that the logic of the argument is hardly compelling: it establishes a probability, not a certainty; and the probability of an event that is absolutely unique is in any case indefinable. But, as Leibniz understood, mere quibbles about logic do little to diminish the enduring appeal of the argument.

The story about monads and the pre-established harmony clearly reinforces-and is intended to reinforce-Leibniz's political vision. To the respublica Christiana respublica Christiana and the Empire of Reason, Leibniz now adds a third name for his political ideal: the City of G.o.d. The citizens of this heavenly metropolis, he says, are the thinking monads of the world-i.e., all people-and the harmony they exhibit among themselves is a reflection of G.o.d's glory. A pillar of the theocratic order represented in the City of G.o.d is the doctrine of personal immortality encoded in the monadology. Indeed, Leibniz maintains that without universal belief in rewards and punishments in the afterlife, people will behave very badly and anarchy will consume society. Thus, at stake in his refutation of Spinoza's theory of mind is the preservation of Christian civilization. and the Empire of Reason, Leibniz now adds a third name for his political ideal: the City of G.o.d. The citizens of this heavenly metropolis, he says, are the thinking monads of the world-i.e., all people-and the harmony they exhibit among themselves is a reflection of G.o.d's glory. A pillar of the theocratic order represented in the City of G.o.d is the doctrine of personal immortality encoded in the monadology. Indeed, Leibniz maintains that without universal belief in rewards and punishments in the afterlife, people will behave very badly and anarchy will consume society. Thus, at stake in his refutation of Spinoza's theory of mind is the preservation of Christian civilization.

Yet, notwithstanding their creator's medieval-sounding politics, Leibniz's monads have a curiously modern edge, too. The City of G.o.d is a monarchy, to be sure, with G.o.d as its king. But, among its earthly denizens, a certain kind of egalitarianism reigns. All monads are created equal; each embodies the All, and each reflects the full glory of G.o.d; and so each has certain basic rights of citizens.h.i.+p. Indeed, Leibniz specifically opposes slavery, for example, on the basis of the equality of monads. The universal equality of monads also finds expression in Leibniz's thoroughgoing cosmopolitanism: ”Justice is that which is useful to the community, and the public good is the supreme law-a community, however, let it be recalled, not of a few, not of a particular nation, but of all those who are part of the City of G.o.d and, so to speak, of the state of the universe.” Although Leibniz's legacy was later commandeered by Germans in the name of nation building, the philosopher himself never wavered from the universality of his ideal. In the context of a tiff among the various European academies, for example, he writes: ”Provided something of consequence is achieved, I am indifferent whether this is done in Germany or France, for I seek the good of mankind. I am neither a phil-h.e.l.lene nor a phil-Roman, but a phil-anthropos.”

Leibniz was indeed a phil-anthropos, and this was perhaps both the central message embedded in his monadology and the chief point of contrast with the reviled Spinoza. For, according to the latter, the human being is nothing exceptional, and it is merely ignorance and vanity that lead humankind to imagine that we ”are the largest part of nature.” But, according to Leibniz, the human being is everything-the point and the substance of the world. The modern secular state, when viewed from a global perspective, looks much more like Spinoza's free republic than Leibniz's City of G.o.d; and yet, paradoxically, many of the beliefs that guide individuals within the modern world-the faith in the sanct.i.ty of the individual, the ideal of charity, and the unique purpose of humankind-would seem to follow directly from Leibniz's essentially antimodern theocratic project.

One the most intriguing features of Leibniz's monadological vision is the most obvious one: that it seems to describe an ideal ideal. The City of G.o.d serves Leibniz as a vision whose realization is the goal of all of his efforts (and those of like-minded individuals). In some pa.s.sages, Leibniz even makes this rather modern notion of progress explicit: ”We must also recognize that the entire universe is involved in a perpetual and most free progress, so that it is always advancing toward greater culture.” And yet, logically speaking, the City of G.o.d is a representation of the actual world, not of an ideal one. We are are monads, after all; we are already immortal and we necessarily live according to the laws of the pre-established harmony. This conflation of-or perhaps confusion between-representations of the real and depictions of the ideal is a fundamental feature of Leibnizian metaphysics, and perhaps even raises the question as to whether the entire system of monads and harmonies was less a representation of life as we know it than some sort of visionary utopia. monads, after all; we are already immortal and we necessarily live according to the laws of the pre-established harmony. This conflation of-or perhaps confusion between-representations of the real and depictions of the ideal is a fundamental feature of Leibnizian metaphysics, and perhaps even raises the question as to whether the entire system of monads and harmonies was less a representation of life as we know it than some sort of visionary utopia.

”ALL THIS, I acknowledge, I understand not at all,” wrote the English philosopher Samuel Clarke in response to Leibniz's attempt to explain his ideas about substances and the pre-established harmony, and there is no shame in admitting as much even today when presented with the monadological philosophy in bare outline. Bertrand Russell frankly confesses that, on first reading, Leibniz's metaphysics struck him as ”a fascinating fairy tale, coherent, perhaps, but wholly arbitrary.” Possibly Hegel provides the most useful guidance on the matter: ”Leibniz's philosophy appears like a string of arbitrary a.s.sertions, which follow one another like a metaphysical romance,” he acknowledges. ”It is only when we see what he wished thereby to avoid that we learn to appreciate its value.” acknowledge, I understand not at all,” wrote the English philosopher Samuel Clarke in response to Leibniz's attempt to explain his ideas about substances and the pre-established harmony, and there is no shame in admitting as much even today when presented with the monadological philosophy in bare outline. Bertrand Russell frankly confesses that, on first reading, Leibniz's metaphysics struck him as ”a fascinating fairy tale, coherent, perhaps, but wholly arbitrary.” Possibly Hegel provides the most useful guidance on the matter: ”Leibniz's philosophy appears like a string of arbitrary a.s.sertions, which follow one another like a metaphysical romance,” he acknowledges. ”It is only when we see what he wished thereby to avoid that we learn to appreciate its value.”

There is in fact a single thread that may lead one safely through the labyrinth of the monadology. The astonis.h.i.+ng and bizarre features of the monads-the windowlessness, the pregnancies, the splotchy mirrors, the infinite replications of the infinite universe, and the pre-established harmony-all follow with admirable logical rigor from the premise that substantiality (i.e., absolute unity, self-ident.i.ty, freedom, and permanence) is a quality of individual minds, and not of nature as a whole. What Leibniz is for for is often difficult to grasp; but what he is is often difficult to grasp; but what he is against against fits neatly into one word: Spinoza. fits neatly into one word: Spinoza.

Salvation Leibniz, like Spinoza, finds happiness in the love of G.o.d. But, as the two philosophers have very different ideas about the nature of both G.o.d and love, they inevitably arrive at very different destinations on their respective journeys to salvation.

According to Spinoza virtue is its own reward. Therefore, the question of personal immortality can have no bearing on our salvation, for the wise man has no need of additional rewards in a purported afterlife to justify virtue in this life. Leibniz, on the other hand, takes the more usual view that in this life, at least, virtue often goes unrewarded, and evil often goes unpunished. Belief in the immortality of the soul, he argues, is therefore essential if we are to have faith that the calculus of rewards and punishments in the universe will ever add up to justice. The doctrine of personal immortality is thus vital to our happiness. Indeed, says Leibniz, Spinoza's attack on the doctrine of personal immortality, if successful, can serve only to bring great misery to the human race. (It is curious to note once again that, according to the logic of Leibniz's arguments, it is the belief belief in and not the in and not the fact fact of immortality that matters for our happiness. Even if the soul were mortal, we could still find a Leibnizian kind of bliss, provided we were able to convince ourselves otherwise.) of immortality that matters for our happiness. Even if the soul were mortal, we could still find a Leibnizian kind of bliss, provided we were able to convince ourselves otherwise.) The difference between Leibniz and Spinoza on happiness, as on all subjects, comes down to their different att.i.tudes toward G.o.d. For Spinoza, the intellectual love of G.o.d is the highest form of reason. But, as we know, this brainy love is not of the kind that can be returned. Spinoza's Substance is utterly indifferent to humanity's concerns. For Leibniz, on the other hand, the only love worthy of the name is the kind that promises punctual and copious repayment. Spinoza's unrequited love of G.o.d, Leibniz maintains, is in fact unreasonable unreasonable: Spinoza thinks that the mind can be greatly strengthened if it understands that what happens, happens necessarily. But the animus of the sufferer is not rendered content through his compulsion, nor does it feel evils any the less on that account. The soul is happy if it understands that good follows from evil, and that what happens is for the best if we have wisdom.

In the Theodicy Theodicy he adds that Spinozistic dogmas concerning the ”brutish” necessity of things ”destroy the confidence in G.o.d that gives us tranquility, the love of G.o.d that makes our happiness.” His own doctrines, by contrast, guarantee that G.o.d does everything with our good in mind, and thus they give us the happiness and tranquility we need. The crucial difference between the two philosophers comes down to this: Spinoza finds happiness in loving G.o.d; Leibniz finds it in G.o.d loving us back. (Or, again, more precisely, Leibniz finds happiness in the he adds that Spinozistic dogmas concerning the ”brutish” necessity of things ”destroy the confidence in G.o.d that gives us tranquility, the love of G.o.d that makes our happiness.” His own doctrines, by contrast, guarantee that G.o.d does everything with our good in mind, and thus they give us the happiness and tranquility we need. The crucial difference between the two philosophers comes down to this: Spinoza finds happiness in loving G.o.d; Leibniz finds it in G.o.d loving us back. (Or, again, more precisely, Leibniz finds happiness in the belief belief that G.o.d loves us back.) that G.o.d loves us back.)

LEIBNIZ'S META PHYSICS, no less than Spinoza's, is a personal confession and involuntary memoir-a kind of ontological hologram of the character of its creator. With its agile synthesis of an extraordinary range of philosophical issues and ideas, it reflects the highest aspirations of Guilielmus Pacidius, the Great Peacemaker of All Thought. In its fantastical and poetic moments, it captures something of the richness of the imaginary life of the man who conceived of the Egypt Plan and sparred with windmills. With the impossibly intricate arrangement of its many moving parts, it embodies the incomparable cleverness of the inventor of the most advanced arithmetical calculating machine of his day. In its excess of ingenuity-for it can hardly be overlooked that the system is sometimes no less than Spinoza's, is a personal confession and involuntary memoir-a kind of ontological hologram of the character of its creator. With its agile synthesis of an extraordinary range of philosophical issues and ideas, it reflects the highest aspirations of Guilielmus Pacidius, the Great Peacemaker of All Thought. In its fantastical and poetic moments, it captures something of the richness of the imaginary life of the man who conceived of the Egypt Plan and sparred with windmills. With the impossibly intricate arrangement of its many moving parts, it embodies the incomparable cleverness of the inventor of the most advanced arithmetical calculating machine of his day. In its excess of ingenuity-for it can hardly be overlooked that the system is sometimes too too clever-it mirrors something of the philosopher's irrepressible vanity. Its very quirkiness reads like a signature-Leibniz's way of reminding the world that this was clever-it mirrors something of the philosopher's irrepressible vanity. Its very quirkiness reads like a signature-Leibniz's way of reminding the world that this was his his system. system.

There is in the monadology, too, something of that legalistic sensibility-the strange gap between the author and his own arguments so characteristic of Leibniz from his earliest works. As ever, the philosopher evinces surprise and delight in his own ratiocinations; words like ”advantageous,” ”useful,” and ”pleasing” trip lightly off his tongue. In all of his philosophical investigations, he never discovers the kind of thing that others might call a ”grim truth.” He is always the lawyer-a highly polished, politically appointed public defender, with tremendous courtroom presence and a knack for parsing culpability with infinitely refined distinctions. He leaves us in no doubt as to what it is that he would like us to believe. Yet he can never entirely avoid raising a nagging question as to whether he he believes what he says. believes what he says.

Was Leibniz in his heart of hearts truly convinced that reality consists of an infinity of pregnant, windowless, splotchy substances? Or was he just rustling up the theory of the case that would rescue G.o.d from the seemingly inevitable verdict of malpractice?

Whether he believed it or not may be impossible to determine; but the fact that he would have liked would have liked to believe in his monadological world seems quite certain. The philosophy of Leibniz expresses, above all, the neediness of its creator. His is essentially a metaphysics of rea.s.surance, intended to strengthen within us the comforting convictions that G.o.d cares for us, that we never die, and that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. At some level, it surely represents the mature philosopher's answer to the craving for security and the longing for paternal guidance that he first bared to the world as a schoolboy. And it is this all too human cry from the heart that made his work so universal in the later history of philosophy. to believe in his monadological world seems quite certain. The philosophy of Leibniz expresses, above all, the neediness of its creator. His is essentially a metaphysics of rea.s.surance, intended to strengthen within us the comforting convictions that G.o.d cares for us, that we never die, and that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. At some level, it surely represents the mature philosopher's answer to the craving for security and the longing for paternal guidance that he first bared to the world as a schoolboy. And it is this all too human cry from the heart that made his work so universal in the later history of philosophy.

Leibniz, perhaps alone with Spinoza, grasped the general direction of modern history. But, unlike his eerily self-sufficient rival, he had a far greater concern with the price that humanity would have to pay for its own progress. He understood that even as science tells us more and more about what what everything is, it seems to tell us less and less everything is, it seems to tell us less and less why why; that even as technology reveals utility in all things, it seems to find purpose in nothing; that as humanity extends its powers without limit, it loses its faith in the value of the same beings who exercise that power; and that, in making self-interest the foundation of society, modern humankind finds itself pining for the transcendent goals that give life any interest at all. Leibniz saw modernity in the first instance as a threat rather than an opportunity. In all of his philosophical labors, his aim was to protect our sense of purpose and self-esteem from this threat, to rescue an old set of values from the depredations of the new. And there was no more dangerous and powerful exponent of the new than Spinoza.

Leibniz's mature metaphysics, in brief, was a confrontation with the philosophy of the man he met in The Hague. Yet Leibniz did not consolidate his mature views until ten years after the encounter. The spectacular artifice of the monadology was the fruit of a debate that took place in his own mind with an interlocutor long since dead. It reflects what he might have wished had happened in the house on the Paviljoensgracht, perhaps, but not what actually occurred. In fact, it reads like the interior monologue of one who keeps reliving a certain moment, replaying the event from different angles, rehearsing his own responses, adding voice-over commentary, tweaking his memories and editing key pa.s.sages until at last, on final playback, he scores the victory that he longs to believe was rightfully his.

15.

The Haunting ”I can't tell you how distracted a life I am leading,” Leibniz confided to one of his friends in late middle age. ”I have so much that is new in mathematics, so many thoughts in philosophy, so numerous literary observations of other kinds, which I do not wish to lose, that I am often at a loss what to do first....” can't tell you how distracted a life I am leading,” Leibniz confided to one of his friends in late middle age. ”I have so much that is new in mathematics, so many thoughts in philosophy, so numerous literary observations of other kinds, which I do not wish to lose, that I am often at a loss what to do first....”

The first item on his list of distractions was a genealogy. Following the implosion of his mining venture, Leibniz needed a new peg on which to hang his hopes for career security. He proposed to Duke Ernst August that a thorough history of the Brunswick clan would enhance the prestige of the Duchy of Hanover, and the Duke happily appointed him as the family historian. In return for performing the labor, Leibniz suggested, the Duke should double his salary. In the event, he settled for having his existing salary converted to a pension for life.

It proved to be less of a bargain than Leibniz might have hoped. After forty years of rolling the genealogical stone up the hill only to have it fall back down on top of him, the philosopher managed to bring the history of the Brunswicks only up to the eleventh century. But the project did offer one overwhelming benefit: It gave Leibniz the excuse to leave Hanover. At the age of forty-one, he set off on what he promised his employers would be a two-and-a-half-month journey for the purpose of gathering genealogical data from royal houses in Germany and Italy. He stopped in dozens of cities and towns all the way down to Naples; took in renowned collections of coins, fossils, and caterpillars; attended private showings of operas; visited all the major libraries; met with leading experts on China, Kabbalism, mining technology, chemistry, mathematics, and anatomy; and returned home two and a half years later with a carefully tallied bill of 2,300 thalers in expenses and a fistful of somewhat defensive-sounding letters in which he insisted that he had performed no inconsiderable labor on behalf of the Duke of Hanover during his travels.

Leibniz's political activities, too, consumed much of his energy in his years of plenty. At the age of fifty, in recognition of his able a.s.sistance in, among other things, securing the elevation of the Duke of Hanover to Elector of the Holy Roman Empire, he was promoted to privy counselor of justice, the second-highest civil rank in the land. His incessant pet.i.tions for increases in pay began to meet with occasional success. Including the income from moonlighting with neighboring princ.i.p.alities, his receipts rose to a vertiginous 2,000 thalers per year-11 Spinoza Units. When he eventually got the Society of the Sciences going in Berlin and became its first president, he began to draw another 600 thalers annually from that source. By the standards of the time, he was becoming a very wealthy man.

In his later years, the great philosopher also devoted much time to cultivating his friends.h.i.+ps with the ladies of the court, notably d.u.c.h.ess (later Electress) Sophia and her daughter, Sophia Charlotte, the first queen of Prussia. Sophia had two things her husband, Duke Ernst August, conspicuously lacked: a sense of humor and an interest in philosophy. Upon reading Spinoza's Tractatus Tractatus in 1679, for example, she declared it ”admirable” and ”completely in accord with reason.” She enthused that her second son, Friedrich August, ”knows Descartes and Spinoza almost by heart” and regarded her eldest, Georg Ludwig-the future King George I of England-as the thick one on account of his lack of interest in metaphysics. When she learned of Spinoza's death, she quipped that a churchman must have poisoned him, because ”most of the human race lives by deceit.” in 1679, for example, she declared it ”admirable” and ”completely in accord with reason.” She enthused that her second son, Friedrich August, ”knows Descartes and Spinoza almost by heart” and regarded her eldest, Georg Ludwig-the future King George I of England-as the thick one on account of his lack of interest in metaphysics. When she learned of Spinoza's death, she quipped that a churchman must have poisoned him, because ”most of the human race lives by deceit.”

Leibniz later said that his Theodicy Theodicy was the record of conversations he had with Sophia's daughter, Sophia Charlotte, in the gardens of the family's summer palace. Sophia Charlotte, it seems, was even more of a handful than her mother. ”Here is a letter of Leibniz,” she pouts to a friend. ”I love this man; but I am angry that he treats everything so superficially with me.” On her deathbed, according to the legend pa.s.sed on by her grandson, Frederick the Great, the still vivacious queen is reported to have said to the hovering prelates: ”Do not torment me, for I go now to satisfy my curiosity on the principle of things that Leibniz has never been able to explain to me; on s.p.a.ce, infinity, being, and nothingness. And I prepare for my husband the King the spectacle of a funeral, where he will have a new opportunity to display his grandeur.” was the record of conversations he had with Sophia's daughter, Sophia Charlotte, in the gardens of the family's summer palace. Sophia Charlotte, it seems, was even more of a handful than her mother. ”Here is a letter of Leibniz,” she pouts to a friend. ”I love this man; but I am angry that he treats everything so superficially with me.” On her deathbed, according to the legend pa.s.sed on by her grandson, Frederick the Great, the still vivacious queen is reported to have said to the hovering prelates: ”Do not torment me, for I go now to satisfy my curiosity on the principle of things that Leibniz has never been able to explain to me; on s.p.a.ce, infinity, being, and nothingness. And I prepare for my husband the King the spectacle of a funeral, where he will have a new opportunity to display his grandeur.”

Leibniz became so comfortable in the company of aristocrats that at some point it seems he decided to make himself one. His began to sign his letters with a small and illegible squiggle between his first and last names-a squiggle that grew in confidence until it unmistakably represented a v v, as in Gottfried Wilhelm von von Leibniz. But the courtier was never enn.o.bled, and there is no evidence that he ever brought himself to part with the money that would have been required to purchase such a distinction. Eventually, the squiggled enn.o.blement vanished from his letters as mysteriously as it had arisen. Leibniz. But the courtier was never enn.o.bled, and there is no evidence that he ever brought himself to part with the money that would have been required to purchase such a distinction. Eventually, the squiggled enn.o.blement vanished from his letters as mysteriously as it had arisen.

Notwithstanding the travel, the hack work, the chatty princesses, and all the other demands on his time, Leibniz in his later years never relented in the heroic level of his intellectual activity. He churned out hundreds of letters to learned correspondents every year; prepared treatises on chemistry, optics, economics, and ”the true laws of matter” drafted up new problems and solutions in the ”science of infinities” (i.e., the calculus); conducted thought experiments on the universal characteristic; performed intricate a.n.a.lyses of the theological issues at stake in church reunion; revised the entire system of laws in Germany; composed thousands of lines of Latin in poetry in perfect meter and rhyme; and tinkered with his arithmetical calculating machine, which he was sure would one day soon be ready for practical use.

The reckless curiosity, the tireless dedication to learned pursuits, the delight in subtle argumentation, the multiple and constantly s.h.i.+fting layers of motives, the insatiable hankering for security, the yearning for Paris or something like it, the careerism and the politicking, the ceaseless dance along the line that separates order from chaos, and all the rest of the dazzling, omnimaniacal Leibniz show continued without interruption for the remaining thirty years of the philosopher's life. As he grew older, Leibniz became more Leibniz.

One day in his later life, a young n.o.bleman visited the world's last great polymath and left us with an intimate portrait of the philosopher at home in his maturity: Although he is more than sixty years of age, and makes a strange appearance clad in fur stockings, a dressing gown lined with the same material, large socks made of felt, instead of slippers, and a long, singular looking wig, nevertheless he is a very polite and social person, and entertained us with remarks on politics and various literary topics. I succeeded at length in breaking off the conversation for the purpose of asking him to show me his library.... But, as I had been led to expect would be the case, he declined.... Other persons a.s.sured me, however, that the books in his library were very numerous and valuable; but that it was a peculiarity of Leibniz's, that he liked to worm in it alone. Not even the Elector himself, therefore, could get a chance of seeing it, the Herr Privy Counselor always alleging that it had not been put in order.

Leibniz's own writings from later life paint much the same portrait of a chatty, eccentric, and sometimes rambling elder statesman in the republic of letters. They read like the syllabus for an entire university written with the zest of a society tabloid. They reveal a mind crowded with memories of people, places, and ideas; fired with undiminished desire to know; and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with higher learning, political trivia, hot b.u.t.tons, and white lies.

The peculiar costume of fur and felt, incidentally, was Leibniz's one concession to age. From around his fiftieth year, he suffered increasingly from a painful form of arthritis. Quite sensibly, however, he avoided the doctors of the time-who, with their leeches and lancets and noxious potions did far more damage than the illnesses they purported to treat-and preferred instead to pursue a sartorial therapy of his own design.

With Leibniz, inevitably, as with almost all aging philosophers, a certain amount of intellectual sclerosis set in, too. In his later years, the elements of the metaphysical system he first outlined in the Discourse Discourse became so self-evident to him that he often saw no need to argue for them. They became a fixed part of his reality, and his deepest philosophical pleasure came less from formulating his propositions than from seeing their truth reflected back to him in the statements and activities of others. became so self-evident to him that he often saw no need to argue for them. They became a fixed part of his reality, and his deepest philosophical pleasure came less from formulating his propositions than from seeing their truth reflected back to him in the statements and activities of others.

Those who viewed the spectacle of the philosopher's performance from afar might well have supposed that the encounter in The Hague now belonged to the dead part of personal history; it was just another long forgotten scene in the endless variety show of his life. By the time of the Theodicy Theodicy in 1710, in fact, Leibniz virtually edited out of existence what little remained of the encounter in his letter to Count Ernst of 1683. The rendezvous with Spinoza now counted as the equivalent of a chance encounter at sea: ”I saw M. de la Court as well as Spinoza on my return from France through England and Holland, and I learned from them some good anecdotes concerning affairs of those times.” On the matter of his prior correspondence with Spinoza, Leibniz seemed content to put the subject to rest with a casual lie: ”I wrote to him one time a letter concerning optics, which was inserted in his [posthumous] works.” The claim that he wrote to the humble lens grinder ”one time,” of course, is directly contradicted by evidence contained in the very same volume of Spinoza's posthumous works. in 1710, in fact, Leibniz virtually edited out of existence what little remained of the encounter in his letter to Count Ernst of 1683. The rendezvous with Spinoza now counted as the equivalent of a chance encounter at sea: ”I saw M. de la Court as well as Spinoza on my return from France through England and Holland, and I learned from them some good anecdotes concerning affairs of those times.” On the matter of his prior correspondence with Spinoza, Leibniz seemed content to put the subject to rest with a casual lie: ”I wrote to him one time a letter concerning optics, which was inserted in his [posthumous] works.” The claim that he wrote to the humble lens grinder ”one time,” of course, is directly contradicted by evidence contained in the very same volume of Spinoza's posthumous works.

In his later philosophical writings, as a rule, Leibniz mentions the name of Spinoza only in the spirit of caricature. The ”famous Jew” is almost always twinned with Hobbes, that other malefactor of modern materialistic atheism, and is reliably presented as the spokesperson for a patently absurd metaphysics of ”brute necessity.” ”One need not refute an opinion so bad,” he says in a typical comment on Spinoza's doctrine that G.o.d alone is Substance. He describes Spinoza's philosophy in general as ”pitiful and unintelligible” and shows no interest in engaging his rival's arguments in any direct or detailed way. Year by year, his official posture on Spinoza calcified like the joints in his stiffening body.

But, behind Leibniz's ever s.h.i.+fting public facades, the ghost of Spinoza was far from leaving the courtier-philosopher in peace. At the core of Leibniz's restless endeavors lay a permanent anxiety. It was an anxiety that expressed itself in an astonis.h.i.+ng variety of ways: in the frantic search for financial security and social status, in the dread of Hanoverian provincialism, in the desperate schemes for repairing a fractured church, in fears of political revolution, and in frenetic attacks on a range of fellow philosophers, from Descartes to Locke to Newton. But it was, at bottom, always the same anxiety. And, in the fullness of time, it came to acquire a name, a name that stood for everything that Leibniz could neither abide nor evade. In the forty years after he departed from The Hague, Leibniz was always running; but he was running in circles, never quite able to extricate himself from the orbit of the man he met in November 1676.

Church Reunion When Leibniz submitted a condensed version of his Discourse on Metaphysics Discourse on Metaphysics to Antoine Arnauld in 1686, his hopes were high that Protestants and Catholics would soon be taking communion together in a universal church. But Arnauld handed Leibniz a humiliating setback. To Count Ernst von Hessen-Rheinfels, who served as mediator in the discussion, the

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