Montaigne, Descartes, & Pascal, LH 11-12; FL 23-24.
Also recommended: (How to Live, ch1); LISTEN Sarah Bakewell on Michel de Montaigne (PB); A.C. Grayling on Descartes' Cogito (PB); WATCH Montaigne(SoL); Descartes (HI)
1. What state of mind, belief, or knowledge was Descartes' Method of Doubt supposed to establish? OR, What did Descartes seek that Pyrrho spurned?
2. Did Descartes claim to know (at the outset of his "meditations") that he was not dreaming?
3. What strange and mythic specter did Gilbert Ryle compare to Descartes' dualism of mind and body? ("The ____ in the ______.")
4. Pascal's best-known book is _____.
1. What state of mind, belief, or knowledge was Descartes' Method of Doubt supposed to establish? OR, What did Descartes seek that Pyrrho spurned?
2. Did Descartes claim to know (at the outset of his "meditations") that he was not dreaming?
3. What strange and mythic specter did Gilbert Ryle compare to Descartes' dualism of mind and body? ("The ____ in the ______.")
4. Pascal's best-known book is _____.
5. Pascal's argument for believing in God is called ________.
6. Pascal thought if you gamble on God and lose, "you lose ______."
7. (T/F) By limiting his "wager" to a choice between either Christian theism or atheism, says Nigel Warburton, Pascal excludes too many other possible bets.
7. (T/F) By limiting his "wager" to a choice between either Christian theism or atheism, says Nigel Warburton, Pascal excludes too many other possible bets.
8. What was the "takeaway" for '60s academics who turned away from reason and rationalism?
9. How did UCLA psychologist Charles Tart get tenure?
10. Tom Wolfe said the Jesus People of the '60s were what?
11. What bestselling "nonfiction" book by Hal Lindsey predicted the looming apocalypse?
12. Even though his basic religious beliefs were not much different from Pat Robertson's and Jerry Falwell's, _____ seemed moderate by comparison.
BONUS QUESTIONS (See "recommended" above)
BONUS QUESTIONS (See "recommended" above)
- Sarah Bakewell says Montaigne's first answer to the question "How to live?" is: "Don't worry about _____."
- What was Montaigne's "near death experience," and what did it teach him?
- Montaigne said "my mind will not budge unless _____."
- What pragmatic American philosopher was Descartes' "most practical critic"?
- (T/F) A.C. Grayling thinks that, because Descartes was so wrong about consciousness and the mind-body problem, he cannot be considered a historically-important philosopher.
- What skeptical slogan did Montaigne inscribe on the ceiling of his study?
Discussion Questions
- Add your DQs
- What does Cogito, ergo sum mean to you? Does it overrate thinking, and underrate (say) toothaches?
- What do you think of Montaigne's variety of skepticism, compared to Descartes' methodological doubt-and-certainty?
- Do you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
- How do you define "knowledge"?
- Do you engage in "magical thinking" and indulge superstitious beliefs in the absence of evidence?
- Do you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?
- What do you think of the academic tenure system? What's its rationale?
- Are "Jesus people" nowadays more or less likely than the general populace to ingest hallucinogens?
- Who are the comparatively moderate and mainstream public evangelicals these days?
- How do you know you're awake and not dreaming? Is it meaningful to say "life is but a dream"? (And again: "Inception" - ?!)
- Are you essentially identical with or distinct from your body (which includes your brain)? If distinct, who/what/where are you? How do you know? Can you prove it? OR, Do you believe in immaterial spirits? Can you explain how it is possible for your (or anyone's) material senses to perceive them?
- At what age do you hope to retire? What will you do with yourself then? Will you plan to spend more time thinking?
- Have you had a near-death experience, or known someone who did? What did it teach you/them? How often does the thought occur to you that you're always one misstep (or fall, or driving mistake) away from death?
- What have you learned, so far, about "how to live"? Have you formulated any life-lessons based on personal experience, inscribed any slogans, written down any "rules"?
- Do you agree that, contrary to Pascal, most nonreligious people would consider it a huge sacrifice to devote their lives to religion? Why?
- Is the choice between God and no-god 50/50, like a coin toss? How would you calculate the odds? At what point in the calculation do you think it becomes prudent to bet on God? Or do you reject this entire approach? Why?
- Is there anything you know or believe that you could not possibly be mistaken about, or cannot reasonably doubt? If so, what? How do you know it? If not, is that a problem for you?
Montaigne, peripatetic skeptic
From the windows on the top floor he had a commanding view of the estate and could give orders and instructions to the estate workers. As he walked around the Tower he could see above him painted on the beams favorite quotes (mainly in Latin, but some in Greek) from his favorite Classical writers;
Also as he walked, thought and dictated he would stop and consult his books to check a quote or story... Reading the world – visiting Montaigne’s Tower
The quotable essayist:
- “On the highest throne in the world, we still sit only on our own bottom.”
- “I quote others only in order the better to express myself.”
- “When I am attacked by gloomy thoughts, nothing helps me so much as running to my books. They quickly absorb me and banish the clouds from my mind.”
- “Nothing is so firmly believed as that which we least know.”
- “To begin depriving death of its greatest advantage over us, let us adopt a way clean contrary to that common one; let us deprive death of its strangeness, let us frequent it, let us get used to it; let us have nothing more often in mind than death... We do not know where death awaits us: so let us wait for it everywhere."
- "To practice death is to practice freedom. A man who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave.”
- “There were many terrible things in my life and most of them never happened.”
- “When I dance, I dance; when I sleep, I sleep; yes, and when I walk alone in a beautiful orchard, if my thoughts drift to far-off matters for some part of the time for some other part I lead them back again to the walk, the orchard, to the sweetness of this solitude, to myself.”
- “He who establishes his argument by noise and command, shows that his reason is weak.”
- “Not being able to govern events, I govern myself”
- “The thing I fear most is fear.”
- “Saying is one thing and doing is another”
- “There is no knowledge so hard to acquire as the knowledge of how to live this life well and naturally.”
- “Que sçais-je?" (What do I know?)”
"Pascal had almost nothing in common with Descartes except for an obsession with skepticism... his aversion from rationality should have led him towards Montaigne..." Sarah Bakewell, How to Live: Or A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer
Me, Myself, And I
What made Michel de Montaigne the first modern man?
Montaigne’s pursuit of the character he called Myself—“bashful, insolent; chaste, lustful; prating, silent; laborious, delicate; ingenious, heavy; melancholic, pleasant; lying, true; knowing, ignorant; liberal, covetous, and prodigal”—lasted for twenty years and produced more than a thousand pages of observation and revision that he called “essais,” taking that ordinary word and turning it into a literary occupation. When he died, at fifty-nine, he was still revising and, apparently, not at all surprised, since Myself was a protean creature, impossible to anticipate but also, being always at hand, impossible to ignore. I like to think of the essays as a kind of thriller, with Myself, the elusive prey, and Montaigne, the sleuth, locked in a battle of equals who were too close for dissimulation and too smart for satisfaction. And it may be that Montaigne did, too, because he often warned his readers that nothing he wrote about himself was likely to apply for much longer than it took the ink he used, writing it, to dry. “I am myself the matter of my book,” he said, when the first two books of essays appeared, in 1580. “You would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject.”
He was wrong. By the time he finished a third book, eight years later, everyone in France with a philosophic bent and a decent classical education had read the first two—lured, perhaps, by the writer’s promise that “my defects will here be read to the life, and also my natural form, as far as respect for the public has allowed”—and, given that some ninety per cent of the French were illiterate, that probably means that everyone who could read the essays did. By sixteenth-century standards, Montaigne had produced a best-seller, although he maintained the pretense that he wrote only for himself or, at most, “for a few men and a few years.” (“The public favor has given me a little more confidence than I expected” is how he described the effect on him.) News of the essays travelled fast. The first known English translation, by an exuberantly prolific language tutor named John Florio, went on sale in London at the turn of the seventeenth century, in time for Shakespeare to buy a copy. It was followed, in 1685, by the poet Charles Cotton’s lovely version—the one that most Englishmen and Americans read until 1957, when Donald Frame, a Columbia professor who went on to become Montaigne’s preëminent American biographer, produced his own translation. Thirty years later, the Oxford professor M. A. Screech did the same for Britain. I have used all three, along with, in French, my old, dog-eared Flammarion copy of the essays and the seriously intimidating new Pléiade edition, which came out in Paris in 2007, doubled in size by nearly a thousand pages of endnotes and annotations incorporating four hundred years of Montaigne research. (I admit to tweaking a few of the English quotes, in the spirit of competition and interpretation.)
However you read them, Montaigne’s books were utterly, if inexplicably, original. They were not confessional, like Augustine’s, nor were they autobiographical. You could call them the autobiography of a mind, but they made no claim to composing the narrative of a life, only of the shifting preoccupations of their protagonist in an ongoing conversation with the Greek and Roman writers on his library shelves—and, of course, with himself. His belief that the self, far from settling the question “Who am I?,” kept leaping ahead of its last convictions was in fact so radical that for centuries people looking for precedents had to resort to a few fragments of Heraclitus on the nature of time and change—or, eventually, to give up and simply describe Montaigne as “the first modern man.” It didn’t matter if he was quoting Seneca in an essay called “To Philosophize Is to Learn How to Die” or, a few pages later, in an essay about imagination, musing on the vagaries of penises: “We are right to note the licence and disobedience of this member which thrusts itself forward so inopportunely when we do not want it to, and which so inopportunely lets us down when we most need it; it imperiously contests for authority with our will: it stubbornly and proudly refuses all our incitements, both of the mind and hand.” He followed himself wherever his attention settled, and his regard was always the same—intent, amused, compassionate, contrarian, and irresistibly eclectic. (He could jump from Plato’s discourse on the divinatory power of dreams to dinner at the castle—“a confusion of meats and a clutter of dishes displease me as much as any other confusion”—and do justice to them both.) One of his favorite philosophers, starting out, was the skeptic Sextus Empiricus, who had famously cautioned his followers to “suspend judgment” on everything but the experience of their own senses. Voltaire called Montaigne one of history’s wise men, but when it came to the big philosophical questions that absorbed him—the nature of justice, say, or morality—he seemed to be saying, like Sextus, that there may be no truths, only moments of clarity, passing for answers.
The best way to read Montaigne is to keep watching him, the way he watched himself, because the retired, reclusive, and pointedly cranky Michel de Montaigne is in many ways a fiction—a mind so absorbingly stated that by now it can easily pass for the totality of Montaigne’s “second” life. In fact, he went to the best parties in the neighborhood. He attended all the important weddings—and never mind that, by his admission, he’d practically been dragged to his own; the bride was a suitable Bordeaux girl named Françoise de la Chassaigne and the alliance more or less arranged. (His view of marriage, he wrote in the essay “On Some Verses of Virgil,” was that he was “not so fit for it” but had acquiesced for “posterity,” and he held to the common wisdom that the secret of a peaceful, companionable marriage was to keep one’s wife permanently unaroused, the better to fix her thoughts on the details of hospitality and “sound housekeeping.”) He had everybody’s ear. He corresponded with beautiful, educated women who read his drafts. He dined at the castle with wellborn men who had learned to value his advice and, more to the point, his tact during his years of “public duties,” both as a local emissary to the court of Charles IX, in Paris, and as a magistrate at the law court known at the time as the Parlement de Bordeaux.
He claimed to have forsworn his youth, which was apparently so unruly that eight years of it are missing from the public record; “I burned myself at [lust] in my youth, and suffered all the furies that the poets say come upon all those who let themselves go after women without restraint and without judgment” was how he described those years, when he was in his fifties. But he never forswore women or, for that matter, the thrill of watching a good battle, or any of the other indulgences of his class. (“For the intimate companionship of my table I choose the agreeable not the wise; in my bed, beauty comes before virtue,” he once said.) He left his tower in 1580 for a year of travelling. He left it again in 1581 to become the mayor of Bordeaux—at the time the country’s third-largest city and its richest port. Two years later, he agreed to a second term. And, while an avowed Catholic royalist (whether by conviction or, as a few of the essays suggest, because of a suspicion that taking a leap of faith on the big loyalties of his time was the best way to clear his mind for more enticing subjects), he was also a close friend and confidant of the Protestant Henri de Navarre, and was Navarre’s emissary to the Catholic court of Charles’s brother and successor, Henri III. His lifetime encompassed the spread of Calvinism through France, and the eight Catholic-Protestant wars provoked by conversions like Navarre’s within the royal family. And if Montaigne did not take sides in those wars, it may be that he thought of them as a family matter, which in a way they were. The Henris were both directly descended from Louis IX—the paterfamilias of three hundred years of French kings—and by 1584, with the death of Henri III’s brother, Navarre was himself first in line to the French throne. “My house, being always open, easily approached and ever ready to welcome all men (since I have never let myself be persuaded to turn it into a tool for a war in which I play my part most willingly when it is farthest from my neighborhood), has earned quite a lot of popular affection,” Montaigne wrote, about a year later, in the essay he called “On Vanity.”
Authors are, of course, sneaky. (Montaigne put it nicely: “All is a-swarm with commentaries: of authors there is a dearth.”) They lead you exactly where they want to go, and no farther. By the end of the essays, you know a great deal about Montaigne’s mind and temperament, but, as for his promise that “my defects will here be read to the life,” you are still waiting for the details of that life and most of the people init. His evasions are legendary. He writes a great deal about the tyranny of laws but nothing about his fourteen years as a magistrate or his four years as a mayor, or even about his response, as mayor, to the plague that struck Bordeaux toward the end of his second term, leaving a third of the population dead. (He fled.) He writes a great deal about wives but rarely refers to his own and never by name, though he claims to have made himself “fall in love” to marry, a task perhaps made briefly pleasant by the fact that Françoise is said to have been an exceptionally beautiful and lively girl. Montaigne, at the time, was thirty-two and, he says, ready to be a dutiful and respectful husband. But he was not much interested in Françoise—nor, it may be, she in him, since some scholars have thrown her into the arms of his younger brother Arnaud, a good-natured and sportif Army captain who died young, from a tennis ball to the ear. Montaigne himself rarely slept in his wife’s bed, except for purposes of procreation; she gave him six daughters in thirteen years, and only one of them, Léonor, lived past infancy—a fact he dismissed with the unnerving remark (Montaigne experts are still arguing about why he made it and what it meant) that he had “lost two or three.”
As for his mother, he alludes to her twice, but only in passing. Her name was Antoinette Louppes de Villeneuve. She came from a far-flung merchant clan, similar to the Montaignes in wealth and influence, but with the notable exception that, while the Montaignes were then solidly and safely Catholic, some of the Louppes were Protestant, and the family themselves were Sephardic conversos from Saragossa, where their name was Lopez de Villanueva. (Several had left Spain before the expulsions of 1492, and were thriving in Europe as properly minted Christians, or, as the new Pléiade edition chooses to put it, a Christian family “anciennement convertie.”) Antoinette grew up in Toulouse. She arrived at the castle a reluctant bride of sixteen, to marry Pierre Eyquem, an eccentric but apparently exemplary chatelain (and a future mayor of Bordeaux himself), and, once having settled her duty to her children by bearing them, she was attached mainly to herself. She claimed that Michel had exhausted her getting born—eleven months of pregnancy, by her calculations—and was furious to learn that, by her husband’s last will, he was not only heir to but steward of the estate she had expected to manage in her lifetime. Their relations were, by anyone’s standards, sour. The year after Pierre died, she threatened to sue Michel over the ownership of a family necklace; he discovered it in his wife’s jewel box and gave it back, hoping to avoid the scandal of a court case—after which she spent a long, bitter, and contentious widowhood in the company of a granddaughter who seems to have been the only relative she liked.
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But Montaigne was not much interested in family histories of any sort, and his own was apparently untouched by not only the anti-Semitism that attached to the children of “new Christian” immigrants like the Louppes but also the Catholic-Protestant wars at home. Some of Montaigne’s siblings became Protestant, with no evident disruption to the family—even during the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacres of 1572, when thirty thousand French Calvinists died. He doesn’t mention those massacres in the essays, either. For him, the subject of Protestants and Jews (who had been barred from practicing their religion in France since the end of the fourteenth century) seems to have been, at most, food for his meditations on the absurdities of persecution and the fatal distractions of disharmony. He efficiently wrote off Martin Luther for leaving behind in Germany “as many—indeed more—discords and disagreements because of doubts about his opinions than he himself ever raised about Holy Scripture.” He quoted Josephus and admired the Maccabees. But, when it came to seeing an old Jew herded naked through the streets of Rome, he remained a reporter—curious, compassionate, but not particularly disturbed. He did not expect much better from the world. Relatives, to his mind, were accidents of birth, consideration, and proximity. The genealogy that interested him was the genealogy of thought. He was far more interested in thinking about religion with the Sophists and Skeptics in his library than he was in the part that religion, even his own Catholicism, played in him.
For all that, he was a passionate traveller. His search for the spa that would cure his kidney stones—the disease had killed his father and would eventually help kill him—took him to Switzerland, Austria, and Germany. His love of the classics took him to Italy. In Rome, where his own copy of the essays had been seized by the Inquisition, he walked the streets of his dead mentors: “I like thinking about their faces, their bearing and their clothing,” he said. “I mutter their great names between my teeth and make them resound in my ears.” (Latin, by his father’s decree, was not only his first language but the only one he was allowed to speak for his first six years.) He prowled the ghetto, visiting a synagogue, watching a circumcision, and happily cross-examining the rabbi. (By the end of his visit he had met the Pope and was made an honorary Romancitizen.) Today, we would call him a gentleman ethnographer, more enchanted than alarmed by the bewildering variety of human practices. “Yes. I admit it,” he wrote in “On Vanity.” “Even in my wishes and dreams I can find nothing to which I can hold fast. The only things I find rewarding (if anything is) are variety and the enjoyment of diversity.” He was interested in all things unfamiliar and exotic, from immolations in India to cannibalism in the New World. In the essay he called “On the Cannibals,” he described “a very long talk” he had once had with a Tupi chief, brought to France from Brazil and, at the time, on display in Rouen for a royal visit. He admired the Indian’s gentleness and his evident perplexity at the pomp and the poverty and the cruelty displayed so indifferently and indiscriminately to him. “I think there is more barbarity in eating a man alive than in eating him dead,” he wrote, “more barbarity in tearing apart by rack and torture a body still sentient, in roasting him little by little and having him bruised and bitten by pigs and dogs (as we have not only read about but seen in recent memory, not among enemies in antiquity but among our fellow-citizens and neighbors—and what is worse, in the name of duty and religion) than in roasting him and eating him after his death.” No one has said it better.
“Anyone can see that I have set out on a road along which I shall travel without toil and without ceasing as long as the world has ink and paper,” Montaigne wrote at the beginning of “On Vanity,” his late and perhaps greatest essay. “I cannot give an account of my life by my actions: fortune has placed them too low for that; so I do so by my thoughts.” He compares himself to a nobleman he once knew who would keep his chamber pots for a week to display, seriatim, to his friends—“He thought about them, talked about them: for him any other topic stank”—saying, “Here (a little more decorously) you have the droppings of an old mind, sometimes hard, sometimes squittery, but always ill-digested.” He starts to extrapolate—“Scribbling seems to be one of the symptoms of an age of excess. When did we ever write so much as since the beginning of our Civil Wars? And whenever did the Romans do so as just before their collapse?”—and catches himself in time to add that “each individual one of us contributes to the corrupting of our time: some contribute treachery, others (since they are powerful) injustice, irreligion, tyranny, cupidity, cruelty: the weaker ones bring stupidity, vanity, and idleness, and I am one of them.” He accuses himself, a little pridefully, of pride—in writing at all, with his country at war, and in the small, stubborn habits with which he flaunts his disregard, saying that “if one of my shoes is askew then I let my shirt and my cloak lie askew as well: I am too proud to amend my ways by halves. . . . The words I utter when wretched are words of defiance.”
Montaigne called “On Vanity” one of those essays which, being quite long and not at all confined by the titles he gave them, “require a decision to read them and time set aside.” It is a meditation on dying and, at the same time, on writing—or, you could say, on writing oneself to life in the face of death, on getting “lost” in words and in “the gait of poetry, all jumps and tumblings” and in the kind of space where “my pen and my mind both go a-roaming.” (“My mind does not always move straight ahead but backwards too,” he says. “I distrust my present thoughts hardly less than my past ones and my second or third thoughts hardly less than my first.”) And it draws pretty much the whole cast of characters from his library into the conversation—the kings and philosophers and poets and historians and statesmen and assorted saints and scoundrels whom he introduced on the first pages of Book I, with the words “Man is indeed an object miraculously vain, various and wavering. It is difficult to found a judgment on him which is steady and uniform.” Since then, they have appeared and reappeared through the essays like characters in a novel, demolishing one another’s arguments. Now, in a way, he both honors and discards them, along with their cluttering truths, their most congenial wisdom, and the deceptive comfort they sometimes bring.
Thus his ruminations on vanity move quickly from disreputable shoes (and the way that the “forlorn state of France” mirrors his “forlorn age”) to Petronius, Horace, and Lucretius, each discoursing, in Latin, on the metaphysics of droughts, storms, crop failures—the deaths of nature. But he isn’t interested. He interrupts them to complain about the burden of managing his own land, and the difficulty of economizing, in lean years, for someone “used as I am to travel not merely with an adequate retinue but an honorable one.” He says that, unlike Crates, who “jumped into the freedom of poverty . . . I loathe poverty on a par with pain.” He prefers the freedom that money gives him to go away. “I feel death all the time, jabbing at my throat and loins. But I am made otherwise: death is the same for me anywhere. If I were allowed to choose I would, I think, prefer to die in the saddle rather than in my bed, away from home and far from my own folk. There is more heartbreak than comfort in taking leave of those we love. . . . I would willingly therefore neglect to bid that great and everlasting farewell.” He considers the case of Socrates, who, preferring death to banishment, took the hemlock—and then nails him with praise as one of those “heaven-blessed” men whose qualities are “so soaring and inordinate that . . . I am quite unable to conceive them.”
At the same time, he worries, or pretends to, about his inattention at home. He agrees with Diogenes, who said that the wine he liked best was always the wine somebody else had made, but then, typically, berates himself. He describes the good husbandry of his father: “I wish that, in lieu of some other part of his inheritance, my father had bequeathed me that passionate love for the running of his estates. If only I can acquire the taste for it as he did, then political philosophy can, if it will, condemn me for the lowliness and barrenness of my occupation.” (Pierre, he said, was “the best father that ever was”; he had studied law to please him, and once spent more than a year translating Raymond Sebond’s enormous treatise “Theologia Naturalis” from Latin to French so that his father, who rued the lack of Latin in his own education, could read it.) A few lines later, he remembers that he is a father himself—and he turns to the problem of finding “a son-in-law who would fill my beak, comfort my final years and lull them to sleep, into whose hands I could resign the control and use of my goods . . . provided that he brought to it a truly grateful and loving affection.” But he doesn’t mention Léonor, or, for that matter, his dead children. When he thinks about loss now, at fifty-three, it is his father he mourns and, more than anyone, his “soul’s” friend Étienne de la Boétie, a Bordeaux poet who was arguably the love of his life and whose early death, he once said, drove him to marriage in the hope of solace and then into his tower for escape. They are the absent interlocutors of “On Vanity”: the people he talks to about death, talking to himself; the only ones he describes with what could be called a deep sense of relationship.
How to describe the dazzling ramble of “On Vanity”? For nearly all of its sixty pages, it has no arguments, personal or philosophical, to expound, no revelations on the nature of man to offer, no path to salvation to propose. What we get, instead, is the gift he has given himself: “scope and freedom” of interpretation; language that is “blunt” and “raw”; and, most of all, the experience of Montaigne thinking. (Ralph Waldo Emerson, in a classic essay on Montaigne, wrote that the “marrow of the man reaches to his sentences. . . . Cut these words, and they would bleed.”) He can move in a few paragraphs from the admonitions in I Corinthians 3:20—“Those exquisite subtleties are only good for sermons: they are themes which seek to drive us into the next world like donkeys. But life is material motion in the body, an activity, by its very essence, imperfect and unruly: I work to serve it on its own terms”—to a riff on the corruption of judges, the hypocrisy of moralists and diet doctors, and the secret sex lives of Greek philosophers, as described by an exceptionally expensive fourth-century-B.C. courtesan named Lais, who said, “I know nothing of their books . . . but those fellows come knocking at my door as often as anyone.”
You could call this intellectual free association, but it is far too sterile a term for the mind of Michel de Montaigne running after itself, arguing against argument, reading his thoughts and his aging body at least as carefully as he reads his books. (His copy of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, at the Cambridge University Library, is filled with enough Latin and French margin notes to make a book themselves.) But he thinks of himself as a browser, and in a way he is, because, by his account, a couple of interesting thoughts or stories in one book will always remind him of something smarter, or more interesting—or, better still, contradictory—in another book, and he opens that. By the time he begins “On Vanity,” most of his favorite quotes have been carved into the beams and woodwork of the tower—for inspiration, fast access, and, perhaps, distraction. (He would have loved Google.) Those words are the preferred company of his old age, however spurious their counsel. He wants to “die, grinding [his] teeth, among strangers,” and what more accommodating strangers than dead ones, speaking across millennia from his rafters—the kind of strangers who, like paid companions to the old and frail, “will leave you alone as much as you like, showing you an unconcerned face and letting you think and moan in your own way.” Death, he says, “is not one of our social engagements: it is a scene with one character.”
But the truth is that writing about death—surrounded by the books that he says “console me and counsel me to regulate my life and my death”—has put him off dying. The world intrudes on his gloom, battles for his attention, and almost always wins. He longs to revisit Rome. His wife must have been against this, because he says, “Truly, if any wife can lay down for her husband how many paces make ‘far’ and how many paces make ‘near,’ my counsel is to make him stop half-way…and let those wives dare to call Philosophy to their aid.” Like the clueless Professor Higgins, he wishes that women were more like men. “In a truly loving relationship—which I have experienced—rather than drawing the one I love to me I give myself to him,” he says, remembering La Boétie. “Not merely do I prefer to do him good than to have him do good to me, I would even prefer that he did good to himself rather than to me: it is when he does good to himself that he does most good to me. If his absence is either pleasant or useful to him, then it delights me far more than his presence.” The question, of course, is what the absence called death means.
The penultimate pages of “On Vanity” are an homage to Rome (and perhaps to himself, since he quotes in full the papal bull that made him a Roman citizen). But he ends the essay in the oracular heart of Greece, with the Delphic admonition to “know thyself,” and in a few pages turns the idea of vanity on its head, defending his pursuit of himself, however fractured, transitory, or imperfect, as the only knowledge he, or anyone, can hope to gain. It is the one argument for a “truth” he makes in a hundred and seven essays: “Nature has very conveniently cast the action of our sight outwards. We are swept on downstream, but to struggle back towards our self against the current is a painful movement; thus does the sea, when driven against itself, swirl back in confusion. Everyone says: ‘Look at the motions of the heavens, look at society, at this man’s quarrel, that man’s pulse, this other man’s will and testament’—in other words always look upwards or downwards or sideways, or before or behind you. Thus, the commandment given us in ancient times by the god at Delphi was contrary to all expectations: ‘Look back into your self; get to know your self; hold on to your self.’ . . . Can you not see that this world of ours keeps its gaze bent ever inwards and its eyes ever open to contemplate itself? It is always vanity in your case, within and without, but a vanity which is less, the less it extends. Except you alone, O Man, said that god, each creature first studies its own self, and, according to its needs, has limits to his labors and desires. Not one is as empty and needy as you, who embrace the universe: you are the seeker with no knowledge, the judge with no jurisdiction and, when all is done, the jester of the farce.”
When Montaigne moved his books to the third floor of his tower, he moved a bed to the floor below. He would cross to the castle for dinner, after which he would say good night and leave. It is tempting to imagine him at his desk then, pen in hand, books scattered around him, and candle flickering, but in fact he never wrote or read after the sun set—a habit he recommended to his readers, saying that with books “the soul disports itself, but the body, whose care I have not forgotten, remains inactive, and grows weary and sad.” He was seven years into the essays when he suffered his first serious attack of kidney stones, writing that illness and sleep, like madness, “make things appear to us otherwise than they appear to healthy people, wise men, and waking people.” He lived in fear of the next attack, and, even more, of what he called “emptiness.” He was the man who (pace Roosevelt and Thoreau) first said, “The thing I fear most is fear . . . it exceeds all other disorders in intensity.”
Toward the end of his life, he claimed to have accepted emptiness. He had once called his essays “monstrous bodies, pieced together of diverse members, without definite shape, having no order, sequence, or proportion other than accidental,” and blamed the fact that “my ability does not go far enough for me to dare to undertake a rich, polished picture, formed according to art.” But there is every indication that, growing older, he missed the statesman’s life. When Navarre succeeded to the throne, in 1589, becoming Henri IV of France—and, after four more years of religious war, making a shrewd conversion to Catholicism with the words “Paris is well worth a Mass”—Montaigne wrote to volunteer his services again. Henri replied, delighted, and in January of 1590, when his letter arrived, Montaigne wrote back, saying that he had always wished for the succession, “even when I had to confess it to my curate,” and then offering the advice that “where conquests, because of their greatness and difficulty, could not be thoroughly completed by arms and by force, they have been completed by clemency and magnanimity, excellent lures to attract men, especially toward the just and legitimate side.” The passage is vintage Montaigne: a prescription for wise rule lurking in a few fine, flattering phrases about the fruits of victory; a strategic detour into the real world to say that “if rigor and punishment occur, they must be put off until after the possession of mastery”; and, finally, an appropriate classical example—in this case, Scipio the Elder. In July, Henri summoned Montaigne to Paris, but by September, when he had hoped to go, Montaigne was too sick to travel. ♦
"Do you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?"
ReplyDeleteYes. If we allow facts and opinions to merge, society begins to face serious risks. Everyone can believe what they want, but we must have some solid truths.
"Do you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?"
In life, I need a balance of certainty and uncertainty. A life with constant certainty is boring. If we have nothing to question or debate we lose a lot of the interesting parts of life. Too much uncertainty though allows for little peace. A balance of both keeps life interesting and somewhat peaceful.
I agree with having a balance of certainty and uncertainty. It definitely would be a very boring life because there would be nothing to discuss!
DeleteH03
ReplyDeleteDo you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
In some way I do need some form of certainty in my life because I want to be able to have peace of mind in regards to feeling valid about certain things that I’m doing.
How do you define "knowledge"?
Knowledge is having the capacity to comprehend certain ideas while also taking the time to stay open to learning new things.
Do you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?
Yes I do agree because sometimes people don’t know how to separate opinions from what actual facts are.
Have you had a near-death experience, or known someone who did? What did it teach you/them? How often does the thought occur to you that you're always one misstep (or fall, or driving mistake) away from death?
One of my parents has had a near death experience by getting hit by a car. And from the story it’s taught both my mom the importance of looking both ways when crossing the street and not to be in such a hurry to the point that you’re putting yourself in danger.
Is there anything you know or believe that you could not possibly be mistaken about, or cannot reasonably doubt? If so, what? How do you know it? If not, is that a problem for you?
Honestly I have moments that I do feel certain about the beliefs I do have especially living in a world that has some questionable beliefs that just seem too erratic.
Feeling certain is a psychological state, BEING certain a metaphysical one. Descartes wanted the latter. But it seems inherent to the human condition that absolute certainty of that sort eludes us, and psychologoical certainty often reflects dogmatism and a closed mind. So... I find Montaigne's repudiation of the quest for Cartesian metaphysical certainty, coupled with an admission that even our strongest psychological certainties might be in error, etremely appealing.
DeletePosted for Gracie:
ReplyDeleteAt what age do you hope to retire? What will you do with yourself then? Will you plan to spend more time thinking?
I hope to retire between the age of 50-65. I want to spend that time in nature with someone I love. Possible travel and see places I haven’t gotten the chance to see yet. I want to be an active member of the community where I live assuming I won’t have the time to before then. I’m not planning on devoting all my time to philosophical thinking but hopefully, as my time becomes more my own, I will have time to slow down and think more about my wonders.
Are "Jesus people" nowadays more or less likely than the general populace to ingest hallucinogens?
I think they are more likely to because they put a lot of trust and value in what they do not know to be true. For example, if a religious leader says that God will protect you from coronavirus and you don’t need a mask a lot of Christians will believe that and not follow scientific recommendations.
Do you agree that, contrary to Pascal, most non-religious people would consider it a huge sacrifice to devote their lives to religion? Why?
I agree that nonreligious people consider it a huge sacrifice to devote their lives to religion because in many religions the laws are very restrictive. Many religious laws and expectations require you to live in a very conservative and traditional way instead of progressive and modern.
I would like to disagree. I believe “Jesus people” would be less likely to ingest hallucinogens because of an overall "holier than thou" attitude. Though they are likely to follow the directions provided in the church without thought or question, they would not recieve directions to consume hallucinogens because it goes against the ideal image that religious people have been taught to respect and aspire to. Though I see the point you are trying to put across, I believe that the general population would be more likely to partake in hallucinogens.
DeleteH03
ReplyDeleteDo you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
I would say that my desire for certainty has recently increased. Nowadays, there's so much uncertainty that I find comfort in the certain. Whether it's in regards to politics or religious beliefs, I feel like I'm always trying to find certainty in everything. But more recently, I've started to realize that it's okay to not know things for certain. One topic/discussion I've had with my father is about the possibility of a flat earth. There's so much evidence to back up both sides of the spectrum. The idea of conspiracy theories is what hinges me between certainty and uncertainty, but know I've realized that it doesn't matter what the outcome truly is. Yes, it would totally have an effect on my life, but it won't change who I am.
Are "Jesus people" nowadays more or less likely than the general populace to ingest hallucinogens?
I feel like it's split down the middle. Since Christianity is the most popular religion in the world, I find that some people ingest them while others want nothing to do with them. There have been studies showing that people who take hallucinogens claim to have tended to report stronger mystical experiences. While temptation is a big factor with the Christianity faith, people still get drawn to do wicked things. While drugs isn't the best answer to everything, I can see from both perspectives why "Jesus people" are the main subject.
Is there anything you know or believe that you could not possibly be mistaken about, or cannot reasonably doubt? If so, what? How do you know it? If not, is that a problem for you?
One thing I know for certain is that there is a God. I've experienced and seen what He can do in lives of others. From the spirit and liveliness of grandmother to the mission trip I went on to Minnesota to my personal relationship with Jesus, there's just no way there isn't a God. If there wasn't a God, it wouldn't sit right within me. It brings up the idea of what's true and what's not. it definitely would be a problem.
What have you learned, so far, about "how to live"? Have you formulated any life-lessons based on personal experience, inscribed any slogans, written down any "rules"?
One thing that I've started to say or a slogan about life is instead of "you only live once," "you only die once." My younger sister said that and now I started saying it too. I think it just adds a better perspective on life for anyone with religious belief in the afterlife.
[H2] HANNAH LITVJAK :
ReplyDelete"Do you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?"
Unfortunately, I am a person who needs certainty. Too often I get wrapped up within my own thoughts and become enslaved to my overthinking habits. I need validation in order to avoid it. While I have tried to avoid it, my brain simply computes things differently when it comes to social interaction.
"How do you define "knowledge"?"
My definition of knowledge would not just be a general understanding of a variety of subjects, but a thorough and passionate study of a variety of topics. I don't believe a person has to know something about everything to be necessarily knowledgable, but I do believe that someone who is knowledgable must be scholarly in the manner that they can go on and on about one topic to another and not only answer questions about it, but open questions about it.
"Do you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?"
I do. The entrapment of philosophy is that you can argue any fact, but that argument is an opinion no matter how you put it. However, I do believe that there are some things that are just what they are, and by arguing it is thus overcomplicating certain aspects that do not need to be and making life feel less open.
For me, certain topics I am okay with not knowing things for certain, but a lot of other things (especially topics I am interested in) I would really like to have certainty in because otherwise I would feel as though I know nothing.
Delete(H03)
ReplyDeleteHow do you define "knowledge"?
I define knowledge as proven or believe facts with evidence gathered about our physical world and being, separate from wisdom which would more often equate to the world around us in a more spiritual or theoretical sense. Knowledge is what most people (likely not philosophers) would consider fact.
How do you know you're awake and not dreaming? Is it meaningful to say "life is but a dream"? (And again: "Inception" - ?!)
I think that it is ultimately impossible to determine that you are or are not in a dream, but in my opinion it would be largely pointless to argue senselessly with oneself over something you couldn't prove. In a dream, everything makes sense, so you wouldn't be able to rely on past memories or logic. A dream being our current reality makes it as real as anything we know, and to neglect this reality, even if it could be temporary, would be negligent.
At what age do you hope to retire? What will you do with yourself then? Will you plan to spend more time thinking?
I hope to retire as soon as possible, but most likely around the age of 60 or 70 if I get a stable job and the economy does not implode on itself. I would hope to spend more time with friends and with nature, and I'd most likely spend more time thinking about larger issues such as reality or the afterlife as my mortality becomes a more pressing issue and I lose some of my distractions.
h2
ReplyDeleteDo you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?
I agree that everyone is entitled to their personal opinions but not their own facts because opinions are beliefs and judgments not necessarily based on proven knowledge. However, if a particular view or topic is a proven fact and supported by evidence, then people should be inclined to believe it. If each individual contained their own facts, people would be able to believe whatever appears in their mind. The idea of personal facts could form major problems for society.
Have you had a near-death experience, or known someone who did? What did it teach you/them? How often does the thought occur to you that you're always one misstep (or fall, or driving mistake) away from death?
Around the ages of seven or eight, I almost drowned in my neighbor’s swimming pool because I did not realize that pools contain different levels of water heights. I began my time in the pool on the four feet side, but gradually ventured into the five feet section. This particular experience taught me to be more aware of my surroundings and pay close attention to specific details. Although I previously encountered a near-death experience, the thought of me being one misstep away from death rarely crosses my mind. I try not to place much thought into death because the idea of the unknown concerns me.
I think, in some cases, a person's opinions can be dangerous when they affect those around them. This is very clear now that many people are refusing vaccinations. In their opinion, it is not worth the risk, but this can be deadly for society. They may not say that the vaccine is dangerous as a fact, but it is their opinion.
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ReplyDeleteH01 At what age do you hope to retire? What will you do with yourself then? Will you plan to spend more time thinking?
ReplyDeleteI don’t know yet, probably as early as possible depending what my life situation is, or if I love what I’m doing. I’d love to travel around the world, I think it would also give me time to think.
How do you know you're awake and not dreaming? Is it meaningful to say "life is but a dream"? (And again: "Inception" - ?!)
I Really don't know, but if I am dreaming, it is a very realistic dream so I’m going to live it to the fullest.
How do you define "knowledge"?
I would say knowledge its information that will be beneficial in living your life.
Do you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
I’m fine not knowing some things, I think it reduces stress just not knowing/having to think or worry about.
1. What state of mind, belief, or knowledge was Descartes' Method of Doubt supposed to establish? OR, What did Descartes seek that Pyrrho spurned?
ReplyDelete-Descartes established the Method of Cartesian Doubt.
2. Did Descartes claim to know (at the outset of his "meditations") that he was not dreaming?
-No, he believed there was no way to prove he was not dreaming.
3. What strange and mythic specter did Gilbert Ryle compare to Descartes' dualism of mind and body? -"The ghost in the machine."
4. Pascal's best-known book is _____.
-Pensees (Thoughts)
5. Pascal's argument for believing in God is called ________.
-Pascal’s Wager
6. Pascal thought if you gamble on God and lose, "you lose ______."
-a pleasant afterlife
7. (T/F) By limiting his "wager" to a choice between either Christian theism or atheism, says Nigel Warburton, Pascal excludes too many other possible bets.
-True
Do you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
- I think it is necessary to have some uncertainty because some things are too heavy to know for certain.
How do you define "knowledge"?
- knowledge in the information that one can acquire and build on. Using that knowledge is wisdom.
At what age do you hope to retire? What will you do with yourself then? Will you plan to spend more time thinking?
- I hope to retire in my 60s or 70s after a long career of teaching and traveling. When I retire I will have to find a new project or activity, so I may do volunteer work or start a club. I do not know what I am planning to do, but I will figure it out eventually.
What have you learned, so far, about "how to live"? Have you formulated any life-lessons based on personal experience, inscribed any slogans, written down any "rules"?
-So far, I have learned that life is better when you take risks and go out of your way to start new activities. One of my personal rules is to have at least one activity everyday even if that activity is just walking around the building.
Do you agree that, contrary to Pascal, most nonreligious people would consider it a huge sacrifice to devote their lives to religion? Why?
-Yes because religion is more than a few hours in church every Sunday. You have to socialize and pretend to be a happy, perfect person. It is draining and aggravating. To do that constantly sounds awful.
H01
Delete1. What state of mind, belief, or knowledge was Descartes' Method of Doubt supposed to establish? OR, What did Descartes seek that Pyrrho spurned?
ReplyDeleteThis Method of Doubt is trying to establish the mindset of not accepting anything as if it is true if there is even the slightest chance that it isn't. Pyrrho wanted to say that everything was skeptical and to not trust anything, but Descartes wanted to live life trying to find something that he could know for certain.
2. Did Descartes claim to know (at the outset of his "meditations") that he was not dreaming?
Yes, if he had any thought at ALL he must exist. This is where he came up with his famous saying "cogito ergo sum" which means "I think, therefore I am."
3. What strange and mythic specter did Gilbert Ryle compare to Descartes' dualism of mind and body? ("The ____ in the ______.")
The ghost in the Machine: the body was the machine and the soul was the ghost inhabiting it.
4. Pascal's best-known book is _____.
Pensees which means "thoughts"
5. Pascal's argument for believing in God is called ________.
Pascals Wager
6. Pascal thought if you gamble on God and lose, "you lose ______."
you lose nothing
H01
H1
ReplyDeleteDescartes seeked to find something he could be certain of.He knew he could not trust his senses all the time, and tried to find what was absolutely certain. Pyrrho, on the other hand, was convinced that nothing was for certain.
I would like to be certain about a few things in life, but I am fine with not knowing 100% what is certain and what is not.
H1
ReplyDeleteDo you strongly desire or need certainty in your life, or are you okay with not knowing things for certain?
For the most part I'm ok with not knowing certain things in life. There are so many things in this world that I will never be able to know or learn about. Instead of worrying about these things and stressing over them, I tell myself that it's ok that I don't know them and that I don't need to be certain about everything. Also, there are some things that you shouldn't be certain about. A good example is religion. You need to have faith in religion because you can't be certain and having faith in your God is important.
Do you agree that everyone's entitled to their own opinions but not to their own facts?
Yes, I agree with this. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. After all, that's what an opinion is. Something you think. However, you can't be entitled to your own facts. There can't be different facts that people believe in that contradict the same thing. A fact is something that is proven to be true. So someone can't be entitled to their own facts because if it contradicts the already proven fact then it doesn't matter what they think.
I need a high level of certainty in my life. To me certainty aligns with direction, knowing my eventual goal and working towards it. Not knowing what can or will possibly happen leaves me lost.
ReplyDelete