The Courtier And The Heretic Part 2

He practiced what he preached. In his choice of accommodations, for example, the philosopher showed complete indifference to the value of good real estate. In Rijnsburg from 1661 to 1663, in Voorburg from 1663 to 1670, and in The Hague from 1670 to 1677, he always boarded in small rented rooms in other people's houses on the less expensive side of the ca.n.a.ls.

When it came to feeding the body, too, the philosopher kept to a rather austere economy. Colerus, who had the opportunity to peruse some of his receipts, reports that on one day he ate only "gruel made with raisins and b.u.t.ter." On another day he survived entirely on "milk soup with b.u.t.ter" washed down with "a pot of beer."(Beer was like water in those days-that is to say, it was watery, and it was much safer to drink than the stuff they pumped out of the brackish wells. Georg Hermann Schuller, Leibniz's friend and liaison in Holland, incidentally, is on record as having sent Spinoza a keg of beer as a gift.) The philosopher's wine consumption peaked at "only" two and a half pints of wine in the course of one month. "It is scarce credible how sober and frugal he was all the time," Colerus concludes. His one indulgence was tobacco, which he consumed avidly from a pipe.

His enthusiasm for sartorial fashions seems to have been no less restrained than that for the pleasures of the palate. Colerus says that his wardrobe was "plain and common" and that "he paid no heed to his dress." Lucas is perhaps more credible when he insists that Spinoza was modest but not careless in his appearance: there was something about his clothes "which usually distinguishes a gentleman from a pedant," he says, adding that the philosopher maintained that "the affectation of negligence is the mark of an inferior mind." The inventory taken after the philosopher's death seems to confirm Lucas's account: Spinoza's wardrobe was small and efficient (the two pairs of trousers and seven shirts suggest a rigorous schedule for laundry); but some of it, at least, was of fine quality (e.g., his shoe buckles were silver).

Nor was the philosopher much of a saver. "My relatives shall inherit nothing from me, just as they have left me nothing," he once claimed. Upon his death, his sister Rebecca-who very likely had not seen her brother for twenty years-swooped down to The Hague just to be sure. True to his word, he left behind an estate of so little value that, after the funeral expenses were paid and other debts settled, there was nothing left over for greedy relatives. Rebecca hastily withdrew her claim for fear that she might actually lose money in the bargain.

Of course, according to the rules of the early treatise, a philosopher must acquire at least enough money to survive in good health. During his dark period, therefore, Spinoza learned a trade: lens making. In the late seventeenth century, the fabrication of lenses for telescopes and microscopes was an art more than a craft. The lens maker began by placing a slab of gla.s.s on a foot-powered lathe. Then, feet pumping, he applied an abrasive cloth to the spinning slab, sending gla.s.s dust billowing into the room, coating the machine, the floor, his clothes, and his lungs. After shaving the lens down to within fractions of a millimeter of a precisely specified curve, he vigorously buffed the rough surface in order to achieve a transparent finish. The process required patience, meticulous attention to detail, and a taste for solitary work. It was perhaps ideally suited to Spinoza's skills, temperament, and economic needs. Sadly, the constant exposure to gla.s.s dust very likely aggravated the chronic lung disease that would eventually claim his life.

By all accounts, Spinoza was a superb lens maker. Leibniz himself referred several times to the Dutchman's "fame" in the field of optics. Christiaan Huygens, an expert in the field himself, wrote to his brother that "the Israelite achieves an admirable polish." The lenses found among Spinoza's possessions after his death sold at high values in the auction of his estate.

As he grew older, Spinoza possibly came to rely more on another source of income: the charity of philosophical friends and admirers. The most generous benefactor was Simon de Vries, the scion of a merchant family and the philosopher's friend from his days as a trader in Amsterdam. De Vries died young in 1667, and in his will he provided for an annuity to the philosopher in the amount of 500 guilders. Spinoza refused to accept so large an amount, for, according to Lucas and Colerus, he did not wish to be seen as dependent on the largesse of another man. Instead, he insisted on reducing the grant to 300 guilders per year (or 250, depending on the source). Whether he collected the amount every year thereafter is not altogether certain; Leibniz in 1676 formed the impression that Spinoza's patron was the merchant Jarig Jelles, a friend of the philosopher from his Amsterdam years.

In a curious letter to Jelles, Spinoza uses a story about Thales of Miletus to ill.u.s.trate his own att.i.tude toward money. Fed up with being reproached for poverty by his friends, it seems, the ancient philosopher one day used his superior meteorological knowledge to make a killing in the market for olive presses. Then, his point proved, he donated all of the profits to good causes. The moral of the story is that "it is not out of necessity but out of choice that the wise possess no riches." There can be no doubt that Spinoza, like Thales, had little concern for money. But it should not be overlooked that, as the very fact that he wrote this letter suggests, he was quite concerned to make sure that others were well aware of his lack of concern.

HAVING LEARNED TO live with little money, Spinoza may have managed to get by with no love at all. According to the story handed down by Colerus, the young philosopher conceived of an amorous pa.s.sion for his tutor in Latin, Clara Maria, the eldest daughter of Frans van den Enden. Smitten by the sprightly yet malformed la.s.s, says the biographer, Spinoza declared many times that he intended to marry her. live with little money, Spinoza may have managed to get by with no love at all. According to the story handed down by Colerus, the young philosopher conceived of an amorous pa.s.sion for his tutor in Latin, Clara Maria, the eldest daughter of Frans van den Enden. Smitten by the sprightly yet malformed la.s.s, says the biographer, Spinoza declared many times that he intended to marry her.

Alas, a rival soon darkened the philosopher's star of love. Thomas Kerkering, a native of Hamburg and Spinoza's fellow student at the van den Enden school, also succ.u.mbed to Clara Maria's peculiar charms. The young German apparently knew better than the philosopher how to play the game of love. He courted the nubile Latinist a.s.siduously, amply proving his ardor with the gift of a pearl necklace of great value. Clara Maria gave her heart and her hand-and, one presumes, her neck-to Kerkering, while Spinoza was left to taste the bitter fruit of rejection.

The story is perfectly plausible, but far from confirmed. Clara Maria was in fact Spinoza's Latin tutor, and she did marry a man named Thomas Kerkering, who was a pupil in the van den Enden school. The marriage took place in 1671, however, and the bride was listed as twenty-seven years old at the time-which would make her twelve to fourteen in the years when Spinoza, then in his early twenties, lived under the family roof. It is possible, of course, that Clara Maria lied about her age on the event of her wedding; but it would be unwise to discount the possibility that Spinoza's first chroniclers, having raised their eyebrows over the unseemly fact that his tutor in Latin was a girl, relied on their imaginations to supply the rest of the story of his unrequited love.

In any case, whether or not Spinoza's interest in Clara Maria went beyond her formidable Latin skills, the fact remains that his life story offers nothing but a thwarted and possibly fictional student affair in the way of romance or carnal love. Some modern interpreters take Spinoza's abject refusal to provide entertaining material for future filmmakers as proof that he was a misogynist, h.o.m.os.e.xual, or both, and that his philosophy therefore represents a hyperrationalistic refuge from the demands of s.e.xuality. However, there is no meaningful evidence in support of any such claims.

More to the point, Spinoza's failure to marry or at least tell us more about his s.e.x life seems to have no very deep connection with his philosophical program. In the Ethics Ethics he declares that marriage is "in harmony with reason." Lucas confirms that "our philosopher was not one of those austere people who look upon marriage as a hindrance to the activities of the mind." If he decided to forgo the charms of Clara Maria or any other possible love object, it was presumably because he did not view such relations as the best way to advance his own life of the mind. It should also be pointed out that his choice of a low-income lifestyle, his chronic illness, and his unenviable social status as an apostate Jew would hardly have made him an appealing prospect for the girls of Holland. he declares that marriage is "in harmony with reason." Lucas confirms that "our philosopher was not one of those austere people who look upon marriage as a hindrance to the activities of the mind." If he decided to forgo the charms of Clara Maria or any other possible love object, it was presumably because he did not view such relations as the best way to advance his own life of the mind. It should also be pointed out that his choice of a low-income lifestyle, his chronic illness, and his unenviable social status as an apostate Jew would hardly have made him an appealing prospect for the girls of Holland.

More generally, the position Spinoza takes in his philosophical works toward sensual pleasure is not at all that of a traditional ascetic. Far from denying the value of pleasure, s.e.xual or otherwise, he comes closer to advocating its maximization. In the Ethics Ethics, for example, he writes: ...it is part of the wise man to recreate and refresh himself with pleasant food and drink, and also with perfumes, with the soft beauty of growing plants, with dress, with music, with many sports, with theatres, and the like, such as every man may make use of without injury to his neighbor. For the human body is composed of numerous parts of diverse nature, which continually stand in need of fresh and varied nourishment, so that the whole body may be equally capable of performing all the actions which follow of necessity from its own nature; and consequently, so that the mind may also be equally capable of understanding many things simultaneously.

Here Spinoza seems positively hedonistic in his celebratory list of sensual goodies-until, that is, one gets to the end of the pa.s.sage. For the central point, as in the earlier Treatise Treatise, is that sensual pleasure is all well and good-but its only real purpose is to contribute to the all-important project of sustaining the mind for a life of contemplation. A few pages later, Spinoza makes the point explicitly: "Things are good only insofar as they a.s.sist a man to enjoy the life of the mind."

There is in Spinoza's thought on this point an illuminating paradox-one that ultimately sheds light more on questions of philosophy than biography. On the one hand, there can be no doubt that Spinoza lived a "life of the mind." Dress, music, sports, and carnal love always took a backseat to his "studies" (specifically, his "late-night studies," as he puts it in a letter to de Vries, for his lens-grinding activities occupied the daylight hours). Like so many philosophers before and after, he seemed to exhibit a certain alienation from the hurly-burly of ordinary life, a detachment from the body, a degree of otherworldliness. Following Plato, one might be tempted to say that he lived in the world of ideas-a world that exists outside the cave within which ordinary experience takes place. If his domestic arrangements were ever to be reviewed in a contemporary lifestyle journal, we can be sure that they would be described as "spiritual."

On the other hand, in the philosophical system that emerged from those candlelit nights, there is no s.p.a.ce for an "other" world. There are no spirits, and there is no "mind" there is nothing outside the cave. Everything that we take to be a mental operation, in Spinoza's considered view, has its basis in a material process, and all of our decisions are rooted in our desires. Indeed, with his claim that "desire is the essence of man," he articulates the foundations of the very conceptual framework that latter-day therapists, among others, might use to a.n.a.lyze his lifestyle as "repressed." The paradox with which modern interpreters must grapple, as it turns out, is the same one that would bedevil Leibniz. How can one who denies the very existence of the mind lead a life of the mind? Or, as the contemporary magazine reader might ask, can a materialist be spiritual?

PERHAPS THE MOST complex and fraught aspect of the "rules for living" that Spinoza adopted as a young excommunicant was that which concerned his dealings with other people-with society in general and, above all, with those friends he took to be his fellow philosophers. complex and fraught aspect of the "rules for living" that Spinoza adopted as a young excommunicant was that which concerned his dealings with other people-with society in general and, above all, with those friends he took to be his fellow philosophers.

At first glance, Spinoza appears to be a philosopher in the mold of Herac.l.i.tus, the ancient sage who retreated to a mountaintop so that he could escape the contaminating presence of his fellow human beings. Lucas says Spinoza moved to Rijnsburg for "love of solitude," and that when two years later he decamped to Voorburg, he "buried himself still deeper in solitude." Jarig Jelles, in the preface to the philosopher's posthumous works, recounts that "once he did not go outside his lodgings during three whole months." Even when stepping out, adds Lucas, the philosopher "never quitted his solitude except to return to it soon afterwards." A visiting counselor to the Duke of Holstein named Greiffencrantz (who, no surprise, was also a correspondent of Leibniz) reported that Spinoza "seemed to live all to himself, always lonely, as if buried in his study."

But a closer look at Spinoza's life reveals a different side of his social character, something much more akin to the gregarious and humane disposition of Epicurus, the ancient guru who cultivated a tranquil garden for the specific purpose of entertaining his fellow philosophers. Spinoza retreated to Rijnsburg not because he had no friends, but, as Lucas points out, because he had too many. And, even in the safety of his cottage, writes the biographer, "his most intimate friends went to see him from time to time and only left him again with great reluctance." Likewise, although Spinoza reportedly moved to Voorburg to escape his friends again, those friends "did not take long to find him again and to overwhelm him with their visits." Colerus, too, says that Spinoza had "a great many friends...some in the military, others of high position and eminence." In The Hague, it was said that the philosopher received attentions even from "filles de qualite, who prided themselves on having a superior mind for their s.e.x." It is also not the case that Spinoza's friends were always the ones making the effort; in several of the extant letters, the philosopher mentions trips planned or made to Amsterdam, where presumably he sought the company of his friends.

Nor was Spinoza lacking in social skills. Colerus says that many persons of distinction "took a great delight in hearing him discourse." The most endearing portrait, not surprisingly, comes from his admirer Lucas: His conversations had such an air of geniality and his comparisons were so just that he made everybody fall in unconsciously with his views. He was persuasive although he did not affect polished or elegant diction. He made himself so intelligible, and his discourse was so full of good sense, that none listened to him without deriving satisfaction.... He had a great penetrating mind and a complacent disposition. He knew so well how to season his wit that the most gentle and the most severe found very peculiar charms in it.

The apparent tension between the Herac.l.i.tean and Epicurean sides of Spinoza's character is one that has trailed philosophers since ancient times. On the one hand, philosophy by its nature seems to be an essentially solitary activity. It is the individual's lonely voyage of discovery through the eternal truths of the cosmos-a journey that would seem to place the seeker at ever greater removes of knowledge and abstraction from the rest of humankind. On the other hand, in practice, philosophy is a very social activity. It involves dialogues, debates, compet.i.tion for recognition, and the dissemination of wisdom to the ever needy human race.

Spinoza's own writings embody something of this ancient paradox about philosophy. On the one hand, his works read like the monologue of a solitary traveler into the heart of things. He disdains references as pointless; philosophy, he implies, does not concern itself with the error of others. On the other hand, his works are soaked in higher learning. Provided one knows where to look, one can find in them a raucous conversation with a whole society of earlier thinkers, from the ancient Stoics to Maimonides and Descartes.

In his dealings with living people, too, Spinoza practiced a similarly ambivalent sociability. He distinguished firmly between ordinary humankind and the "fellowship of reason." With the mult.i.tudes, he proposed, one should be Herac.l.i.tean. One must keep them at a respectful distance, as one might an unruly herd of buffalo. Specifically, one should not to seek to share with them philosophical views that they will not understand and may only cause them harm. "The free man who lives among the ignorant strives as far as he can to avoid receiving favors from them," he counsels. When he disdains the pursuit of honor as a form of slavery to "the opinions of other men," as he does in his earliest Treatise Treatise, the "other men" Spinoza has in mind are ordinary, ignorant members of the species at large.

In the presence of fellow philosophers, on the other hand, one may allow oneself to be positively Epicurean. One should join with such individuals in order to form a common front in the search for truth and virtue, for "there is nothing in nature more useful to man than a man who lives by the guidance of reason." He adds: "Man is a G.o.d to Man"-on the a.s.sumption, of course, that the other Man in question is a philosopher, too. One should embrace one's fellow thinkers, then, as one might a fellow G.o.d. Among men of reason, "honor" is as n.o.ble as its name. In the Ethics Ethics, in curious juxtaposition with the att.i.tude expressed in the earlier Treatise Treatise, he defines "honor" as "the desire to establish friendship with others, a desire that characterizes the man who lives by the guidance of reason" and he defines "honorable" as that which "is praised by men who live by the guidance of reason."

Spinoza's policy with respect to the ma.s.ses, at least, seemed to work. Even the relentlessly hostile Pierre Bayle, famous for his encyclopedic Dictionnaire historique et critique Dictionnaire historique et critique, reports that the villagers where Spinoza lived invariably considered him "a man good to a.s.sociate with, affable, honest, polite, and very proper in his morals." The philosopher's relations with his landlord in The Hague, Hendrik van der Spyck, and the man's family, provide the most touching example of his success in mixing with the great unwashed. When he needed to take a break from his philosophical labors, it seems, the apostate Jew would descend to the parlor and chat with his house companions about current affairs and other trivia. The conversations often revolved around the local minister's most recent sermon. On occasion the notorious iconoclast even attended church service in order to better partic.i.p.ate in the discussions.

Once, Ida Margarete, Hendrik's wife, asked Spinoza whether he thought that her religion served no purpose. "Your religion is all right," he replied. "You needn't look for another one in order to be saved, if you give yourself to a quiet and pious life."

Spinoza's quest for honor among his fellow men of reason, not surprisingly, proved far harder to manage within the confines of his stated policy. In fact, his life affords a rich field of study in the complex topic of philosophical communion, and perhaps serves best to demonstrate how difficult it is to extricate even the most rarefied philosophical partnerships from the instinctive, imaginative, and often debilitating bonds of ordinary friendship.

Perhaps the closest Spinoza came to his ideal of philosophical community was with his early merchant friends, who formed a loose band of radical seekers united in their disdain for orthodox religion as well as in their esteem for their master's works. A taste of life as an early Spinozist comes from this letter from Simon de Vries, the philosopher's great benefactor: As for our group, our procedure is as follows. One member (each has his turn) does the reading, explains how he understands it, and goes on to a complete demonstration, following the sequence and order of your propositions. Then, if it should happen that we cannot satisfy one another, we have deemed it worthwhile to make a note of it and to write to you so that, if possible, it should be made clearer to us and we may, under your guidance, uphold the truth against those who are religious and Christian in a superst.i.tious way, and may stand firm against the onslaught of the whole world.

Evidently, there was an underground sensibility to the movement. One pictures de Vries and company drawing the curtains, lighting the candles, and then poring over the ma.n.u.scripts from their hermit rebel leader, reveling all the while in their vaguely illicit freedoms. Even so, in de Vries's reference to "those who are...Christian in a superst.i.tious way" one may espy an awkward glimmer of daylight between the master and his followers. Most of Spinoza's sympathizers were members of liberal Protestant sects-of which there was no shortage in number and variety in the Dutch Republic at the time. They often interpreted his views in highly religious terms, making little distinction between "the guidance of reason" and the "inner light" of radical Protestantism. Spinoza showed considerable sympathy for some aspects of Christianity, and even suggested that Jesus was perhaps the greatest philosopher who ever lived; but he never called himself a Christian.

The case of Willem van Blijenburgh offers a quite different and highly cautionary example of the consequences of mistaken ident.i.ty among alleged men of reason. Blijenburgh, a grain merchant at Dordrecht, first wrote to Spinoza in December 1664 as a stranger, having chanced upon a copy of his book on the philosophy of Descartes. In his first letter, the grain merchant politely asks the philosopher to comment on the matter of whether G.o.d is the cause of evil in the world. From what he had gathered of Spinoza's philosophy, he says, he had stumbled upon an obscurity in his thought: "Either Adam's forbidden act, insofar as G.o.d not only moved his will but also insofar as he moved it in a particular way, is not evil in itself, or else G.o.d himself seems to bring about what we call evil."

Spinoza's reply is courteous and informative, clearly inviting future correspondence: "I gather...that you are deeply devoted to truth, which you make the sole aim of all your endeavors. Since I have exactly the same objective, this has determined me not only to grant without stint your request...but also to do everything in power conducive to further acquaintance and sincere friendship." It seems that Spinoza a.s.sumed that one who claimed to have read his book on Descartes and who then approached him with a philosophical question was, by definition, a fellow man of reason.

The philosopher should perhaps not be faulted for being unaware that Blijenburgh had already published a short book whose long t.i.tle begins: The Knowledge of G.o.d and His Worship Affirmed Against the Outrages of the Atheists The Knowledge of G.o.d and His Worship Affirmed Against the Outrages of the Atheists. But one is ent.i.tled to wonder how he could not have perceived that Blijenburgh's question about evil-phrased with copious references to Adam and his apple-was motivated by some highly orthodox theological concerns.

In his next letter, in any case, the man from Dordrecht puts forward what in Spinoza's mind could only count as a whopper. In the midst of an otherwise interesting discussion of the problem of evil, Blijenburgh a.s.serts that Spinoza's views cannot be entirely correct because they contradict the Bible.

Spinoza now understands that his grain merchant is not in fact a man of reason. In his reply he bluntly suggests that they part ways: "I hardly believe that our correspondence can be for our mutual instruction. For I see that no proof, however, firmly established according to the rules of logic, has any validity with you unless it agrees with the...Holy Scripture." The black-and-white character of Spinoza's first two letters to Blijenburgh-in the first, his correspondent is "deeply devoted to truth," while in the second he is essentially a waste of time-ill.u.s.trates how firm in Spinoza's mind was the dichotomy between "men of reason" and the rest of humanity. In this case, though, Spinoza evidently could not resist getting in the last word with his putatively unreasonable interlocutor. After indicating that there is no point to further correspondence, he goes on for several pages clarifying his views and defending them from Blijenburgh's criticisms.

But Blijenburgh was like a wart, more easily acquired than removed. In his next letter, he complains that Spinoza's missive is "besprinkled with sharp reproofs" and proposes that the two meet when business takes him next in the vicinity of Voorburg. Spinoza responds politely to the proposal, although he perhaps hints at some impatience when he insists that any meeting would have to take place soon, before he travels to Amsterdam.

From Blijenburgh's subsequent letter, it is evident that the dreaded meeting took place, for the grain merchant regrets that "when I had the honor of visiting you, time did not allow me to stay longer with you." He then poses a series of questions whose answers, as Spinoza could see, would have required him to divulge the entire contents of his unpublished Ethics Ethics.

At this point, Spinoza decided that enough was enough. Presumably, the meeting only confirmed what the philosopher had suspected, that the grain merchant was emphatically not a member of the fellowship of reason. Spinoza let the matter languish for two months, then grudgingly penned the philosophical equivalent of a Dear John letter: "I hope that when you have thought the matter over you will willingly desist from your request," he signs off. There the correspondence ends.

But Blijenburgh just would not go away. Nine years later, following the publication of Spinoza's Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, the man from Dordrecht published a five-hundred-page wrath-filled tract, the short version of whose t.i.tle reads: The Truth of the Christian Religion and the Authority of the Holy Scripture Affirmed Against the Arguments of the Impious, or a Refutation of the Blasphemous Book t.i.tled "Tractatus Theologico-Politicus The Truth of the Christian Religion and the Authority of the Holy Scripture Affirmed Against the Arguments of the Impious, or a Refutation of the Blasphemous Book t.i.tled "Tractatus Theologico-Politicus." In that screed, Blijenburgh finds several hundred ways to express his singular conviction that his former host's work is "a book full of studious abominations and an acc.u.mulation of opinions which have been forged in h.e.l.l."

Nine years and five hundred pages are big numbers in the context of a philosophical grudge. Yet such was the nature of the response Spinoza evoked among his contemporaries in more than just this instance. There was something about the way he interacted with those he deemed his philosophical inferiors-a look of contemptuous indifference? a sneer?-that they could not erase from memory; something that affected Rabbi Morteira and the philosopher's young friends from the synagogue; and something that might prove relevant in considering the effect that Spinoza would have on Leibniz.

The most poignant of Spinoza's unexpectedly troublesome encounters with men of reason involved the man who supplied the first link in the chain of events that ultimately led to his encounter with Leibniz. Henry Oldenburg, twelve years Spinoza's senior, was a native of Bremen, Germany. After he became the secretary of the Royal Society of London in 1661, he corresponded with almost every major scientist and thinker in Europe at the time. When he eventually began publishing his far-flung correspondence under the t.i.tle of Philosophical Transactions Philosophical Transactions, he effectively invented the modern scientific journal. He was a great communicator and liberal spirit, at least in his younger years, and thirsty for scientific knowledge. No one regarded him as an original thinker in his own right, however, and he was quite conventional in his religious views.

In 1661, on his way to take up his new post in London, Oldenburg pa.s.sed through the university town of Leiden. Sources there told him of the philosophical prodigy living in nearby Rijnsburg. The twenty-eight-year-old Spinoza, incidentally, had published nothing at the time; Oldenburg's decision to travel the extra six miles to visit him testifies to the youthful philosopher's powerful charisma-and perhaps serves to remind us how different the world was then.

On a summer day, the two men met in the dappled sunlight of the tranquil garden outside Spinoza's cottage. For several hours they conversed "about G.o.d, about infinite Extension and Thought, and about the union of soul and body." The humble sage of Rijnsburg mesmerized the expatriate German scholar. In the first of his many letters to Spinoza, Oldenburg writes: With such reluctance did I recently tear myself away from your side when visiting you at your retreat in Rijnsburg, that no sooner am I back in England than I am endeavoring to join you again. Substantial learning, combined with humanity and courtesy-all of which nature and diligence have so amply bestowed upon you-hold such an allurement as to gain the affection of any men of quality and of liberal education.

In a sign of misunderstandings to come, however, he adds, "We then spoke about such important topics as through a lattice window and only in a cursory way." In this and subsequent letters, he asks Spinoza to clarify his views on G.o.d and the like. He also repeatedly encourages the philosopher to publish his work: "I would by all means urge you not to begrudge scholars the learned fruits of your acute understanding both in philosophy and theology" "I urge you by our bond of friendship, by all the duties we have to promote and disseminate truth."

In his replies to Oldenburg, Spinoza dutifully elaborates on his doctrines about G.o.d and Nature, a.s.suming all the while that his correspondent is taking it all in. Oldenburg, Spinoza decided, was a man of reason. In this it seems that the lattice may have blocked Spinoza's view as well. To a fellow member of the Royal Society, Oldenburg writes on one occasion that Spinoza "entertains me with a discourse of his on the whole and parts etc...which is not un-philosophical in my opinion." But he does not deem it worth his colleague's time to read. Elsewhere, he refers to Spinoza as "a certain odd philosopher."

In 1665, four years and eighteen letters after it began, the correspondence between Oldenburg and Spinoza came to an abrupt end. The initial cause may have been a domestic crisis for Oldenburg-his wife of two years died, leaving him an inheritance, and he married his sixteen-year-old ward, all of which caused some twittering in London society. The following year London burned, and then, in the political turmoil of 1667, Oldenburg was imprisoned for two months in the Tower of London. He emerged a chastened man, perhaps more alert to deviations from religious orthodoxy than before. But the last straw, for Oldenburg, was the publication of Spinoza's Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus in 1670. Oldenburg suddenly grasped something of meaning of Spinoza's beautiful words about G.o.d, Thought, and Extension. The lattice was ripped asunder, and Oldenburg was evidently horrified by what he saw. He fired off an angry letter, since lost, in which he accused Spinoza of intending to "harm religion." in 1670. Oldenburg suddenly grasped something of meaning of Spinoza's beautiful words about G.o.d, Thought, and Extension. The lattice was ripped asunder, and Oldenburg was evidently horrified by what he saw. He fired off an angry letter, since lost, in which he accused Spinoza of intending to "harm religion."

Yet the Oldenburg story does not end there. The correspondence resumed at a moment of great peril for the philosopher. For it seems that the personal bond forged in the garden of the Rijnsburg cottage somehow survived-against all reason, perhaps.

Spinoza's imperfect relationships with fellow philosophers seem to confirm the plain truth that, notwithstanding the ideals of the Ethics Ethics, even the purest friendships always harbor some level of conflict. The Oldenburg affair perhaps shows that the best are those that can survive it. Both of these lessons, too, will prove valuable in understanding the link between Spinoza and Leibniz, the last known and by far the most important of his philosophical callers.

SPINOZA'S LIFE, in sum, was of the sort where all the drama takes place in the mind, where the lifting of an eyebrow counts as a major twist in the plot and the days tumble down like so many leaves of paper in the wind. Yet, as Spinoza's name began to reverberate around the world, the simple and modest lifestyle he inaugurated in Rijnsburg and pursued to the end of his days became the subject of far-flung controversies. The interpretation of its meaning became the center of one of the most pa.s.sionate dramas in the European republic of letters. in sum, was of the sort where all the drama takes place in the mind, where the lifting of an eyebrow counts as a major twist in the plot and the days tumble down like so many leaves of paper in the wind. Yet, as Spinoza's name began to reverberate around the world, the simple and modest lifestyle he inaugurated in Rijnsburg and pursued to the end of his days became the subject of far-flung controversies. The interpretation of its meaning became the center of one of the most pa.s.sionate dramas in the European republic of letters.

According to the seventeenth-century way of thinking, an atheist was by definition a decadent. If there is no G.o.d (or, at least, no providential, rewarding-and-punishing G.o.d of the sort worshipped in all the traditional religions), the reasoning went, then everything is permitted. So a non-believer would be expected to indulge in all manner of sensual stimulation, to fornicate regularly with the most inappropriate partners, to lie, cheat, and steal with abandon, and then to suffer an agonizing death once the Almighty caught up with him, but not before mawkishly recanting his heresies in the presence of a clucking man of the cloth.

Spinoza, according to all the seventeenth-century interpreters, rejected all the traditional ideas about G.o.d; he was indisputably a heretic. Yet his manner of living was humble and apparently free of vice. Then, as now, the philosopher seemed like a living oxymoron: he was an ascetic sensualist, a spiritual materialist, a sociable hermit, a secular saint. How could his life have been so good, the critics asked, when his philosophy was so bad?

To complicate matters further, it seems that Spinoza was keenly aware of the philosophical significance of his reputation as a clean-living man of the spirit. In response to a Dutch critic who charged him with atheism, for example, he writes: "Atheists are usually inordinately fond of honors and riches, which I have always despised, as is known to all who are acquainted with me." Even the biography by Lucas, who undoubtedly received many of his anecdotes from the master himself, seems like part of an effort to mold his image beyond the grave. Did Spinoza disdain honor and riches because he genuinely despised them-or was he in search of some higher kind of renown and a different species of capital?

Spinoza's contemporaries, by and large, had at their disposal a convenient means to resolve the th.o.r.n.y difficulties raised by his egregiously virtuous lifestyle. For the most part, they could simply overlook the facts. Some went so far as to invent new twists in the story, more suitable for a wholesome narrative. The atheist Jew, they insisted, was indeed a craven, worm-eaten syphilitic who paid for his heresy in hideous coin. For, to allow that Spinoza led a good life was to suggest that the belief in G.o.d is not a necessary element of virtue.

Among Spinoza's contemporaries, however, Leibniz for once stood at a disadvantage. He was, in the first place, too clearheaded to accept the simple fictions of his peers. More to the point, as of November 1676, he would see it all with his own eyes. He took in the tiny, attic room, with the lens-grinding lathe at one end and the old, inherited, four-poster bed on the other. He smelled the cheap tobacco. He must have noticed that his host wore the same pair of silver shoe buckles every day. Perhaps he was offered a treat of gruel made from raisins and b.u.t.ter, or a cup of watery beer from a donated keg. In the end, Leibniz would know too much.

5.

G.o.d's Attorney In his early twenties, even while bounding up the ladder of courtly success in Frankfurt and Mainz, Leibniz somehow found the time to produce an impressive suite of philosophical writings: a lengthy letter on metaphysics to his mentor, Jacob Thomasius; the Catholic Demonstrations Catholic Demonstrations issued at Baron von Boineburg's request; a pair of essays on the physics of motion forwarded to Henry Oldenburg of the Royal Society; and sundry other missives to notables and papers delivered in the course of academic studies. These early exercises antic.i.p.ate almost all of the central themes of Leibniz's mature philosophy, though often in partial or confused form and adulterated with notions that eventually went out with the wash. More interesting than the mixed bag of doctrines in these early works, however, is the overall att.i.tude to philosophy that they embody. In his first philosophical efforts, Leibniz establishes the "philosophy of philosophy" that would explain, justify, and guide his work throughout his life. It is an approach that could not have been more different from that of the author of the issued at Baron von Boineburg's request; a pair of essays on the physics of motion forwarded to Henry Oldenburg of the Royal Society; and sundry other missives to notables and papers delivered in the course of academic studies. These early exercises antic.i.p.ate almost all of the central themes of Leibniz's mature philosophy, though often in partial or confused form and adulterated with notions that eventually went out with the wash. More interesting than the mixed bag of doctrines in these early works, however, is the overall att.i.tude to philosophy that they embody. In his first philosophical efforts, Leibniz establishes the "philosophy of philosophy" that would explain, justify, and guide his work throughout his life. It is an approach that could not have been more different from that of the author of the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect.

In his twenty-fifth year, Leibniz drafted an essay in support of one of his most enduring ambitions: to establish an academy to promote the arts and sciences in Germany. In the course of his arguments on behalf of the project, he provides a name for just the kind of person he wishes to become: a rector rerum publicarum rector rerum publicarum-a director or guide of public affairs. He goes on to describe in lyrical terms just what such directors do: They are those who honor G.o.d not only with praise and remembrance, or with words and thoughts, but rather also with good works.... They are those who apply as best they can the discovered wonders of nature and art to medicine, to mechanics, to the comforts of life; to finding work and food for the poor; to saving people from the vices and sloth; to the dispensation of justice; to reward and punishment; to the maintenance of the common peace; to the prosperity and advancement of the fatherland; to the extermination of famines, plagues, and wars insofar as it is in our power... to the propagation of the true religion and the fear of G.o.d-in brief, to the greater happiness of the human race.

Leibniz wanted very badly to do good. He turned to philosophy not in order to solve an essentially personal problem-as Spinoza, for example, did-but rather in order to solve other other people's problems. He measured his results not in terms of his own salvation but rather by the general happiness of the human race. Philosophy for him was not a way of being but one of many instruments to be used in service of the general good. The maxim that guided him throughout his long and colorful life-and that he later made the explicit foundation of his entire system of philosophy-was "Justice is the charity of the wise." His vaulting ambition was to unite in his own practice the virtues of wisdom, justice, and charity. And if, as was inevitable in the course of such a long and productive life, he seemed to fall short of his ideal at times, it should always be remembered just how high he had set the bar for himself. people's problems. He measured his results not in terms of his own salvation but rather by the general happiness of the human race. Philosophy for him was not a way of being but one of many instruments to be used in service of the general good. The maxim that guided him throughout his long and colorful life-and that he later made the explicit foundation of his entire system of philosophy-was "Justice is the charity of the wise." His vaulting ambition was to unite in his own practice the virtues of wisdom, justice, and charity. And if, as was inevitable in the course of such a long and productive life, he seemed to fall short of his ideal at times, it should always be remembered just how high he had set the bar for himself.

Leibniz's to-do list of "good deeds" was extraordinarily long and detailed, but it is worth pausing first to consider the general shape his philosophical work took, for the principle of charity dictated not just the content of his philosophy but also its form. Philosophers such as Leibniz do not address their works to G.o.d, the soul, or the fellowship of reason in general-as Spinoza perhaps did. Rather, they aim their works at very particular individuals-the kind with first and last names (and, in the case of Leibniz, often with imposing t.i.tles, too). Leibniz's early philosophical exercises, just like almost all of his later work, consist princ.i.p.ally of letters written to some person of importance, supplemented by the occasional essay or treatise commissioned by some such person. His goal, as ever, was not necessarily to reveal the truth, but to get something done-not to change his own mind, but to change someone else's mind.

The other people in question, for Leibniz, included not just the recipients of his letters, but the fellow philosophers and writers he discussed within them. The lengthy missive he posted to Professor Thomasius in the spring of 1669 is a case in point. In that work, the young Leibniz floats some of his own ideas on a torrent of names of fellow thinkers. Among those still familiar to us, he mentions Aristotle, Averroes, Bacon, Robert Boyle, Descartes, Epicurus, Ga.s.sendi, Hobbes, Hooke, and Spinoza. From among those who have since dropped from the canon, he cites an even greater number: Andrae, Bodin, Campanella, Clauberg, Clerke, Clerselier, Conring, Denores, Digby, Durr, Felden, Gilbert, Guericke, du Hamel, Heerbord, van Hoghelande, Marci, Piccart, Raey, Regius, Trew, Viotti, Weigel, White, Zarbella.

In Leibniz's view, it seems, philosophy is something like a giant playing field-an intellectual "scene," perhaps-in which all the partic.i.p.ants compete and collaborate on a vast, collective project. The practice of philosophy, he implies, consists largely in mastering the writings of a vast range of other authors; and its goal is the synthesis of the general pattern of thought of the time. The idea is in some ways very much like that which underlies modern academic practice (and Leibniz's habit of dropping names of authors he could not possibly have mastered would perhaps allow his work to pa.s.s unremarked in contemporary departments of literary theory); but it stands in striking contrast to the approach taken by Spinoza, to name one example.

Within the densely populated field of philosophy he beheld, Leibniz aspired to occupy a very special position. He did not wish to become the dictator of dictators, as Aristotle did, nor scoffer in chief, like Democritus. Instead, he sought to become the Great Peacemaker of All Thought. Always the child of the Thirty Years War, he was convinced that only peace could bring about a lasting intellectual prosperity. Just out of his teenage years, he adopted the pseudonym Guilielmus Pacidius. "Pacidius" is a Latin play on "Gottfried," and it means something like "peace-G.o.d," or perhaps "peacemaker." William the Peacemaker wanted everybody to stop fighting; he wanted to sew all the names and labels of philosophy into a "seamless mantle," as he puts it in his 1669 letter to Thomasius. A modern scholar calls him, aptly, a "conciliatory eclectic." An eighteenth-century observer, somewhat less generously, remarked that his ec.u.menical approach to fellow philosophers involved taking "their dogmas as his presuppositions." Eckhart attributed his accommodating approach to his personal style: "He always looked for the best in others."

In his later writings, Leibniz became only more universal in his irenic syncretism. In the New Essays on Human Understanding New Essays on Human Understanding, for example, where he allows himself the luxury of commenting on his own philosophical system through a fictional spokesman, he writes: I have been astounded by a new system, of which I have read something in the learned journals of Paris, Leipzig, and Holland...and since then I believe I have seen a new face on the inside of things. This system appears to unite Plato with Democritus, Aristotle with Descartes, the scholastics with the moderns, theology and morality with reason. It seems to take the best from all systems and then advance further than anyone has yet done.

In his last years, Leibniz extended his conciliatory reach beyond the confines of the European continent, and sought to include Chinese thought as well. At one point he even pondered forming a common front with extraterrestrials, should they ever be discovered.

In his quest for intellectual peace, Leibniz always insisted on the virtue of clarity. If philosophers would only write clearly, he declared-no doubt speaking for generations of exasperated students-they would stop fighting with one another. Thus Leibniz inaugurated one of the leitmotifs of his mature "philosophy of philosophy." In The Art of Combinations The Art of Combinations, an academic paper he produced before he turned twenty, the brilliant young scholar first mooted the idea of a universal characteristic-a language of logical symbols so transparent that it would reduce all philosophical disputes to the mechanical manipulation of tokens. With possibly eerie prescience about the future of information technology, he envisioned encoding this logical language in an "arithmetical machine" that could end philosophical debates with the push of a b.u.t.ton. In the future, he rhapsodized, philosophers reaching a point of disagreement will shout joyously, "Let's calculate!" Such a device, he a.s.sured his patron, the Duke of Hanover, would be the "mother of all my inventions."

Leibniz's universal characteristic, however, never amounted to more than the idea of an idea. It fascinates not on account of any results achieved, but as an expression of a certain kind of aspiration. Leibniz, like a number of more recent philosophers, cherished the notion that there are no genuine philosophical conflicts; there is only bad grammar. He wanted above all to believe in "the elegance and harmony of the world," and his quest to reconcile all philosophical positions in the placid movements of an inimitably baroque calculating device was at bottom an effort to confirm this belief. Philosophy, he seemed to a.s.sume, is not an end in itself; it is not the joyous experience of the union of the mind with G.o.d, as Spinoza would have it. It is instead just one more means of bringing about a tranquil silence. In Leibniz's ideal world, in fact, philosophy could just as easily be turned over to a beautiful machine. It could perhaps even run in one's sleep, just like a computer.

Leibniz's plans to promote universal peace and harmony, of course, involved some very specific and concrete "good deeds." In a later letter to his master, Duke Johann Friedrich of Hanover, he identifies the goal toward which much of his philosophy, early and late, was consecrated: It seems to me, as I have told Your Excellency on other occasions, that nothing is more useful to the general good than the authority of the universal church that forms one body of all Christians united by the bonds of charity and that may hold in sacred respect the greatest powers of the earth.... This is why every good man should hope that the l.u.s.ter of the Church should be re-established everywhere.

Consistent with its altruistic orientation, Leibniz's philosophy began not with a personal program, as did Spinoza's, but with a political one. And his politics may be summed up in one word: theocracy. The specific agenda motivating much of his work was to reunite the Protestant and Catholic churches. His more general aim was, as one commentator aptly puts it, to establish "the religious organization of the earth." In his utopia, all peoples would be united under one church in a single respublica Christiana respublica Christiana-a Christian republic.

Yet, in the political theory Leibniz began to develop in his earliest writings, unlike that of many of his medieval-minded contemporaries, theocracy is grounded in reason. That is to say, the ideal state derives its legitimacy not from the interpretation of the Holy Scriptures, nor from the "divine right" of kings, but from the eternal truths established by philosophy. Justice and the entire system of laws, no less than religion, according to Leibniz, have their foundation in the guidance of reason. Thus, in Leibniz's ideal world, the respublica Christiana respublica Christiana is the same thing as "the Empire of Reason." is the same thing as "the Empire of Reason."

The Empire of Reason, conversely, embodies the principle of charity that Leibniz takes to be central to a Christian republic. Consequently, in his view, the ideal state has a duty not just to preserve the peace and security of its citizens, but also to improve their moral and physical well-being through charitable acts. The state is thus a form of inst.i.tutionalized benevolence. He argues specifically that government leaders should take upon themselves the alleviation of poverty and the promotion of economic activity. It would not be at all amiss to see in Leibniz's political theory a first attempt to articulate the foundations of the modern welfare state.

Leibniz's immense political vision left him with a monumental philosophical task. Even as a twenty-something courtier in the German hinterlands, he held himself responsible for providing a synthesis of reason, justice, and the essential tenets of the dominant Christian theology. More specifically, as a first step, he believed he had to supply the rational foundations for a united Christian church. In the Catholic Demonstrations Catholic Demonstrations-which he took up at Boineburg's urging in 1668, at the age of twenty-two-he began his lifelong project to do just that. In that early and incomplete collection of essays, he defends a variety of controversial, mainly Catholic doctrines in a manner intended to make them acceptable to both sides of the princ.i.p.al schism in the western church.

Zeroing in on one particularly troublesome doctrine, he says: "I do not see anything that is more important for reunion than to be able to answer the apparent absurdities of transubstantiation. For all the other dogmas conform much more with reason." In the same text, he acknowledges that "transubstantiation implies a contradiction, if the philosophy of the moderns is true." By "moderns" here he refers loosely to all of those philosophers inspired by Descartes's mechanistic theories of physics. Leibniz's defense of transubstantiation against the dastardly "moderns" is subtle and ingenious; more to the point, it sheds much light on his underlying philosophy of philosophy.

In a.s.sessing the difficulties presented by the dogma in question, Leibniz, with his customary acuity, hits the nail on the head: transubstantiation implies, first, that a thing that has all the attributes of one type of substance (bread) suddenly becomes another substance (namely, the body of Christ); and, second, that, what with all the church services going on across the continent, the same substance appears to be found in many places at once. Little wonder, then, that the doctrine ran into trouble with the "moderns."

The argument against the transubstantiation deniers, in highly condensed form, goes something like this: First, the mechanistic physical theories of the modern philosophers, says Leibniz, are incoherent. Specifically, they fail to account properly for motion, or the origin of activity. Therefore, he contends, in order to explain motion, we must a.s.sume that there is in all bodies some incorporeal or nonmechanical principle of activity. This principle of activity must be embodied in a nonmechanical ent.i.ty, specifically, a "concurrent mind." In the case of human bodies, the mind in question is the usual one-i.e., the one in the head. In all other bodies, however, the concurrent mind belongs to G.o.d. Since substance therefore necessarily has something non-physical or immaterial in it, he concludes, it is free from the "modern" constraints of appearing to be what it is and of having to be in one place at one time. (To put it crudely: G.o.d is free to change his mind, and when he does so, the substance of a thing changes with it, even if its physical attributes do not.) Ergo, transubstantiation (along with the immortality of the soul and a few other doctrines of note, as it turns out) is at least logically possible.

In his youthful defense of transubstantiation against mechanistically minded modern philosophers, Leibniz elevates an incorporeal, mindlike principle of activity to the status of primary reality, on a par with G.o.d. The implication is that the defining feature of human existence-the mind-is in some sense a (or perhaps the the) essential const.i.tuent of all things, that everything in the world is "be-souled." Here we glimpse the first hint of the central doctrine of Leibniz's mature metaphysics, the idea that the human being-and more specifically, the human mind-occupies a very special place in the universe, that it is the indivisible atom from which all things are created. It is an idea that would put him at odds with the resolutely anti-anthropocentric Spinoza and yet, at the same time, paradoxically, would serve as an entirely unexpected bridge between his own, theocratic philosophy and the theory behind the modern, liberal political order championed by Spinoza.

On the face of it, Leibniz's approach to the defense of transubstantiation manifests his declared commitment to the search for truth by philosophical modes of argument. Unlike the vast majority of seventeenth-century commentators on this and related subjects, he cites neither the Bible, the Vatican, nor any authority other than reason itself in making his case. One of his princ.i.p.al stated aims in the text, in fact, is "to prove that philosophy is a useful and necessary beginning for theology."

At second glance, however, one may be forgiven for entertaining some doubt about the sincerity of Leibniz's commitment to reason. When he says of transubstantiation that "all the other dogmas conform much more much more with reason," for example, it is hard to escape the inference that he thinks that none of them conforms very much with reason-and transubstantiation least of all. Did Leibniz believe in the dogma he defended-or did he simply believe that its defense was necessary for the general good? with reason," for example, it is hard to escape the inference that he thinks that none of them conforms very much with reason-and transubstantiation least of all. Did Leibniz believe in the dogma he defended-or did he simply believe that its defense was necessary for the general good?

In fact, as a member of the Lutheran confession, Leibniz was nominally barred from subscribing to the dogma of transubstantiation, at least in its Catholic form. It further seems that Leibniz was never much of a Lutheran, never mind a Catholic. Eckhart reports that the villagers and the aristocrats of Hanover all agreed on one thing: that Leibniz was a non-believer. They had a nickname for him: Loewenix, meaning "believer in nothing." In the nineteen years he worked alongside the philosopher in Hanover, Eckhart adds, he rarely saw him in church, and he never knew him to take communion. Apparently, the great philosopher did not deem it worth his while to consume the bread that, according to his fine arguments, could very well have been the body of Christ.

In his Catholic Demonstrations Catholic Demonstrations, as elsewhere, however, Leibniz seems to evade questions about the truth of doctrines such as transubstantiation by adopting a legalistic pose. The nominal aim of his argument, in fact, is not to prove that transubstantiation is true, but that certain arguments against it are fallacious. That is, he takes an innocent-until-proven-guilty approach to the doctrine in question. Here Leibniz seems to practice philosophy much as one would practice law. Philosophical arguments are the moral equivalent of legal briefs: their purpose is to protect a client's interests, and their worth is measured in terms of believability believability and not belief-that is, in terms of what the jury decides, and not necessarily the truth. and not belief-that is, in terms of what the jury decides, and not necessarily the truth.

The startling gap between the philosopher and his arguments in evidence here did not grow smaller in the course of Leibniz's long career. He would frequently exclaim, for example, that he had come into the possession of "some surprising arguments" in defense of various religiously or politically desirable doctrines, in much the same way that one might remark upon the chance discovery of some fine silverware in a neighborhood flea market. Even doctrines central to his own philosophy-such as the immortality of the soul and the goodness of G.o.d-he described more readily as "advantageous" and "useful" than as "true." In reducing philosophical arguments to the status of tools to be used in the pursuit of the general good, it seems, Leibniz could not avoid putting a disconcerting s.p.a.ce between himself and his own philosophical propositions.

Leibniz's distance from his own arguments seems especially noteworthy when one considers that the courtier-philosopher, like most workaholics, had no life outside his work. There was no other self for whom the game of philosophical argumentation might have been understood as a game; no father struggling to provide a decent home for his kids; no husband grumbling affectionately about the fellow philosophers at the office; no member of the local chess club; no hunting aficionado or woodworking enthusiast. The game was all there was for Leibniz. He was nothing outside of his job; and yet he wasn't his job either.

Perhaps the most interesting feature of Leibniz's early defense of transubstantiation is the form in which he first presents what will turn out to be the central claim of his mature philosophy. His argument remains an argument against against modern philosophy, and not modern philosophy, and not for for a particular metaphysical doctrine. That is, it is in the first instance a claim that modern philosophy is incoherent in some way (specifically, in this case, it fails to account for motion, which is why it fails to debunk transubstantiation). To put it in modern-sounding terms, Leibniz's argument follows the pattern of a "deconstruction," according to which modern philosophy is shown as failing to account for that which it promises to account for. Then, somehow-in a manner that will require much more investigation and that antic.i.p.ates the sins of many of his latter-day imitators-Leibniz locates in this failure of modern philosophy the grounds for his own, purportedly antimodern (or perhaps better postmodern) doctrines. Because modern philosophy fails to account for motion, he infers, there must exist an incorporeal principle of activity, which he in turn makes the foundation for his ideas concerning all that is special about the human mind. a particular metaphysical doctrine. That is, it is in the first instance a claim that modern philosophy is incoherent in some way (specifically, in this case, it fails to account for motion, which is why it fails to debunk transubstantiation). To put it in modern-sounding terms, Leibniz's argument follows the pattern of a "deconstruction," according to which modern philosophy is shown as failing to account for that which it promises to account for. Then, somehow-in a manner that will require much more investigation and that antic.i.p.ates the sins of many of his latter-day imitators-Leibniz locates in this failure of modern philosophy the grounds for his own, purportedly antimodern (or perhaps better postmodern) doctrines. Because modern philosophy fails to account for motion, he infers, there must exist an incorporeal principle of activity, which he in turn makes the foundation for his ideas concerning all that is special about the human mind.

This sudden shift from critique to dogma-or, more bluntly, this confusion between exposing the errors of modern philosophy on the one hand and demonstrating the truth of his own philosophy on the other-is in some sense the founding gesture of Leibniz's metaphysical thought. In practical terms, it will always prove much easier to explain what Leibniz was against (namely, modern philosophy) than what he was for. Leibniz's philosophy-just like that of countless imitators in later centuries-is an essentially reactive one. It is defined by-and cannot exist without-that to which it is opposed. That to which it is opposed may go under many names-modern philosophy, mechanism, atheism, western metaphysics, and the like-but, as we shall see, one will eventually suffice for all: Spinoza.

EVEN WHILE PURSUING the general good into the realms of highly abstract philosophy and theology, Leibniz did not neglect to advance its claims within the greasy world of international politics. By the autumn of 1671, as his ferry carried him past nymphs dancing for joy on the banks of the Rhine, he had settled on the plan that, in his mind, would bring the greatest benefit to the human race in the immediate future: the Egypt Plan. the general good into the realms of highly abstract philosophy and theology, Leibniz did not neglect to advance its claims within the greasy world of international politics. By the autumn of 1671, as his ferry carried him past nymphs dancing for joy on the banks of the Rhine, he had settled on the plan that, in his mind, would bring the greatest benefit to the human race in the immediate future: the Egypt Plan.

The idea was as unexpected as it was archaic. The German states could relieve themselves of the threat from France, Leib