This Place of Prose and Poetry. Lucian Krukowski

more true) experiences—than their rivals of form and measurement.

      This distinction—between “primary” and “secondary qualities,” or as Locke sometimes put it, between “simple and complex ideas”—purports to tell us which of our perceptions are indubitably generated by things in the world, and which are “given” to things by the changing character of our perceptions. The distinction results in a dualistic theory in which knowledge is attained by different, although (for Locke) complementary ways—through the physical experiencing and measuring of sensory imput and the mental structuring, or embellishing, of such imput. Locke shares with Descartes the virtue of not finding difficulties in presenting this duality as a coherent theoretical analogue of the real world. Yet the distinction between these types is a basis of his theory, and it founders in the difficulty (which Hume later attacked) that both sets of ideas are based on a single perception—and to so separate them would lead to separate but equally absurd conclusions—that the world exists without perceivers, or that the world is formed entirely through our perceptions.

      As with Descartes then, another—independent—judgment seems called for which determines, for any such idea, whether its origins are in world or mind, and how it can be brought together with its antagonist. This, in effect, would also constitutes a tri-partite theory—of which a non-derivable member (unmoved mover, perhaps) provides a prior justification that underlies the contrasting pair—and enables a theory through which we can envision the actuality of a single world—even as our perceptions of it are dualistic. But Locke—as with Desccartes—does not give us this.

      Unlike Descartes, however, Locke does not base his religious beliefs upon his philosophy. He accepts the new testament as a reasonable way to approach the questions that empirical analysis cannot encompass: creation, immortality, sin, obligation, and the like. Locke’s main concern with religion is that each belief remain tolerant of other forms of belief so that all, without interference or coercion, may ponder the limits of (holistic) reason—and enjoy the possibilities and uses of (partial) understanding. This is another of his virtues.

      The next philosophers I compare are Benedictus Spinoza and G. W. Leibniz. Both these philosophers are typically identified as Rationalists, but the differences between their theories, notwithstanding, are as fundamental as the differences between them and Empiricist philosophy.

      The Rationalist Spinoza, in contrast to both Descartes and Leibniz, admits of only one substance, of which mind and body are attributes, and individual beings are particular modes. Substance is everything that there is. It is infinite and encompasses both God and nature. God is not separate from nature anymore than is the human mind (or soul) from God. There are no distinct realms of Heaven or Hell—and correspondingly, no after-life. Human virtue rests in a conformity with God’s nature—not through obedience to his will (as revealed, e.g., in theological dogma) but by thinking through the conundrum of rationality as existing in-the-world. This is the basis of Spinoza’s Pantheistic effort to place both meaning and its justification within a single context of existence.

      The attainment of truth (and virtue), in this context, entails a self-examination. Non-conformity (with God’s nature) is not disobedience (sin)—but a privation (isolation, degradation) of potential. As humans share the aspects of thought and extension with the universe, virtue lies in a grasp (and joining with) nature’s complexity through an increasingly adequate understanding of both self and the universe as constituting the infinite idea of God. This is a theology of “immersion.” The human is an aspect of God—neither a creation nor a servant. Nature is not evidenced as primordial chaos but as timeless and totalizing geometry—and is therefore (progressively) knowable. As mind, universe, and God have (are) the same nature, there is no dualism lurking in the cognition of reality—only the task of (cognitive and affective) communion.

      Leibniz, who knew and engaged with Spinoza, conceives of reality as an aggregate of distinct entities —which he calls “monads,” and characterizes them as depending, for their interaction, on a separate and transcendent God. Monads are given actuality through the union with their physical bodies, and they gain their reality through their place in the divine schema—the “pre-established harmony” through which God structures the correspondences—the physical interchange —between monads. Humans are a complex type of monad which are distinguished from the simpler types by having the capacity for thought and self-consciousness. They also have the idea of free-will.

      But this conjoining of human will with divine perfection seems to contradict Leibniz’ thesis of God’s master-plan—the strict determinism that it apparently entails. For how could a universal pre-established harmony exist if humans were free to do as they would (often perversely) wish? Is “freedom,” then, defined by the (restrictive—but hidden) logical (God —given) nature of its possibility?

      Leibniz here resorts to a somewhat counter-intuitive solution: God gives humans the illusion of being free, but through His infinite knowledge, all human actions are (pre- and post-facto) designed to be in acccordance with His dictate. This provokes the infamous thesis (Voltaire made such fun of it) that our world is the “best of all possible worlds.” In this (best) world, despite its deistic regimentation, humans experience themselves as having free will, and so take the indignities of life as being a necessary part of living free—however unjust the experiences of that life.

      In this sense, Leibniz’ philosophy, in contrast to Spinoza’s, is dualistic—a world composed of monads of varying complexity, whose nature and future depend entirely on the will of a separate, yet all-powerful God—but whose sense of life is that of self-determination.

      Spinoza rejects the traditional trappings of an afterlife—of heaven and hell, sin, reward and punishment—in favor of a single Universe (the soul as a rivulet slipping back into the ocean) that includes God as an ideal of completeness, but whose location is within—not outside—the realm of nature. In Spinoza’s words: “Deus Sive Natura.” Where God is positioned, in this context, depends (as a friend once said to me) on what one wants from God.

      Curiously, Leibniz’ response to Spinoza’s single-realm inclusiveness, is that the universe so construed, would give humans no choice at all, neither in thought nor action—for they would be subject—as are animals and stones—to the single-mindless (soul-less) determinism of nature. The (separate) Divine Will “just is” the source of human freedom—for that is where it originates. More: If God did not exist in His three perfections—omniscience, omnipotence, omni-benevolence—nothing imperfect (read: human) could exist.

      For Leibniz, the divine plan issues from God’s omni-benevolence, and so rationally “encloses” the amorality of natural freedom. Spinoza’s God, in contrast, as He is “within” nature, becomes the impetus for the (developmental) unification of morality and natural freedom—without the imposition of a transcendent “Will.” This impetus marks Spinoza’s essential philosophic value of a transcendental (immanent, rational, and all-inclusive) benevolence. It has no place for Leibniz’s transcendent (imposed and other-worldly) benevolence—given by a separate God.

      There are always good reasons for devising a system that identifies what we need to know—with what, and how, we can know. Such systems are rare, but when successful, they are like ecumenical cathedrals in which—sorted out and variously assigned—are contained the needs, doubts, and resolutions that press on the lateness of their time—and so, present a new understanding.

      Immanuel Kant’s “critical philosophy” is one such—the philosophical masterwork of his (and, as I believe, our own) time.

      When Kant began rebuilding the house he had inherited, it was clear that its outworn and overargued elements must be separated, refurbished, and added to. Only then could they be made to cogently address the bases of reality, experience, and the needs—possibilities and limitations—of thought.

      But Kant, interested less in housekeeping than in categories, offers a new schema which critically addresses the inherited array of intractables and incorrigibles, and so offers a system of both analysis and synthesis that would replace them.

      This system is expansive —not reductive. It does not delete one member of an apparently