Philosophy of the Modern Era

Spinoza

Spinoza (1632—1677) stands as the noblest and most appealing among the great philosophers. While some surpassed him intellectually, he remains morally superior to all. The natural consequence of this was that throughout his life and for a century after his death, he was regarded as a figure of appalling immorality. Born into a Jewish family, he was excommunicated from the synagogue, and both Christians and Jews alike held him in contempt. Although the idea of God dominates his philosophy, ecclesiastical authorities accused him of atheism. Leibniz, who owed much to him, concealed this debt and, for prudential reasons, refrained from uttering a word of praise; he even went so far as to misrepresent the extent of his personal acquaintance with the heretical Jew.

Spinoza led a very simple life. His family fled to Holland from Spain or perhaps Portugal to escape the Inquisition. He was well-versed in Jewish scholarship but found it impossible to remain its adherent. When offered a stipend of 1,000 florins a year to conceal his doubts, he refused, and an assassination attempt was made against him. When that failed, he was excommunicated from the synagogue with all the curses of Deuteronomy and the maledictions that Elisha sent upon the children who were subsequently torn to pieces by a she-bear. Yet no she-bear ever attacked Spinoza. He lived peacefully first in Amsterdam and later in The Hague, earning his livelihood by polishing lenses. His needs were few and simple, and throughout his life, he displayed a rare indifference to money. Those few who knew Spinoza loved him, even if they did not approve of his principles. The Dutch government, with its characteristic liberalism, tolerated his theological opinions, although he once fell into political disfavor for siding with de Witt against the House of Orange. He passed away at the age of forty-five from tuberculosis.

His principal work, Ethics, was published posthumously. Before delving into its examination, a few words must be said about two other of his books—Theological-Political Treatise and Political Treatise. The former is an intriguing combination of biblical criticism and political theory, while the latter deals solely with political theory. In his critique of the Bible, Spinoza partially anticipates modern views, particularly by dating various books of the Old Testament later than the dates suggested by legend. He consistently attempts to demonstrate that the Scriptures can be interpreted in a way that aligns with liberal theology.

Spinoza's political theory largely derives from Hobbes, despite the vast differences in their characters. He asserts that in the state of nature, there is no right or wrong, as wrongness consists in disobedience to the law. He contends that a sovereign cannot act unjustly and agrees with Hobbes that the church should be entirely subordinate to the state. He opposes any rebellion, even against a bad government, citing the calamities in England as evidence of the harm caused by violent resistance to authority. However, he disagrees with Hobbes’s notion that monarchy is the most natural form of government. He also contests the idea that subjects should surrender all their rights to their ruler. In particular, he values the freedom of opinion. I struggle to understand how he reconciled this with his belief that questions of religion should be determined by the state. It seems that when he stated this, he meant they should be resolved by the state rather than the church; in Holland, the state was far more tolerant than the church.

In Ethics, Spinoza addresses three distinct issues. It begins with metaphysics, then transitions to the psychology of affects and will, and finally presents an ethics grounded in the previously established metaphysics and psychology. Spinoza's metaphysics is a transformation of Descartes' metaphysics, his psychology resembles Hobbes' psychology, but his ethics is original and constitutes the most valuable aspect of his work. Spinoza’s relationship with Descartes somewhat mirrors Plotinus’ relationship with Plato. Descartes was a polymath with broad intellectual interests, yet not overly burdened by the weight of virtue. Although he devised "proofs" aimed at supporting orthodox beliefs, skeptics could wield them as easily as Carneades employed Plato. Spinoza, while not devoid of scientific interests and even writing a treatise on rainbows, was chiefly concerned with religion and virtue. From Descartes and his contemporaries, he adopted materialistic and deterministic physics and sought within these confines a place for reverence and a life dedicated to God. His endeavor was majestic and inspiring, even for those who do not believe in its success.

Spinoza’s metaphysical system belongs to a type initiated by Parmenides. There exists only one substance: “God or Nature,” and nothing that is limited is self-sufficient. Descartes posited three substances: God, mind, and matter; even for him, God, in a certain sense, was more substantial than either mind or matter, as He created them and could, if He wished, destroy them. However, apart from God's omnipotence, mind and matter were two independent substances defined respectively by the attributes of thought and extension. For Spinoza, none of this holds. For him, both thought and extension are attributes of God. God possesses an infinite number of other attributes as He must be infinite in every respect; however, we do not know these other attributes. Individual souls and particular parts of matter, according to Spinoza, possess the character of adjectives; they are not things but merely aspects of the divine Being. Such personal immortality as Christians believe in cannot exist, but there can be a non-personal form of it, which consists in achieving ever greater unity with God. Finite things are defined by their physical or logical boundaries—in other words, by what they are not: “Every definition is a negation.” There can be only one Being that is absolutely positive, and it must be entirely limitless. From this, Spinoza arrived at a complete and unqualified pantheism.

According to Spinoza, everything in the world is governed by absolute logical necessity. There is no such thing as free will in the spiritual realm or chance in the physical world. Everything that happens is a manifestation of God's incomprehensible nature, and it is logically impossible for events to be otherwise than they are. This leads to difficulties regarding sin, which critics have not hesitated to point out. One critic, noting that, according to Spinoza, everything derives from God and thus is good, indignantly asks whether it was good that Nero killed his mother. Was it good that Adam ate the apple? Spinoza responded that what was positive in these actions was good, and only what was negative was evil; yet the negative exists solely from the perspective of finite beings. In God, who alone is fully real, there is no negative, and thus the evil that sins seem to us does not exist when viewed as part of the whole. This doctrine, while supported in one form or another by most mystics, evidently cannot align with the official church teaching regarding sin and damnation. It is closely linked to Spinoza’s complete denial of free will. Although Spinoza was by no means a lover of controversy, he was too honest to conceal his views, however dreadful they may have seemed to his contemporaries; thus, the hostility towards his teachings is hardly surprising.

Ethics is presented in the style of Euclidean geometry, with definitions, axioms, and theorems; it is assumed that everything following the axioms must be strictly proven deductively, which renders this work challenging to read. A modern individual studying philosophy, who cannot presume that there are strict “proofs” for matters he regards as established, grows impatient with the details of proofs that are, in fact, hardly worth constructing: it suffices to read the formulations of the theorems and study the scholia, which contain much of what is finest in Ethics. However, to criticize Spinoza for his geometric method would indicate a lack of understanding. Both ethically and metaphysically, the essence of his system was the assertion that everything can be proven, and thus it is vital to provide evidence. We cannot accept his method, but this is because we cannot accept his metaphysics. We cannot believe that the interrelations of parts of the Universe are logical, as we maintain that scientific laws should be unveiled through observation rather than mere reflection. Yet for Spinoza, the geometric method was necessary and tied to the most essential components of his doctrine.

I now approach the theory of affects as articulated by Spinoza. This theory follows the metaphysical discourse on the nature and origin of the mind, leading to the remarkable theorem that "the human mind possesses adequate knowledge of the eternal and infinite essence of God." However, the passions discussed in the third part of the Ethics distract us and obstruct our intellectual vision of the whole. We are informed that "everything, insofar as it exists by itself, strives to persist in its existence." From this arise love, hatred, and struggle. The psychology of this section is entirely egoistic: "He who sees that that which he hates is destroyed will feel pleasure." — "If we see that someone derives pleasure from something that can be possessed only by him, we will strive to ensure that he does not possess it." Yet, even in this section, there are moments when Spinoza casts aside the appearance of mathematically proven cynicism, as when he states: "Hatred increases through mutual hatred and, conversely, can be extinguished by love." According to Spinoza, self-preservation is the fundamental motive of the passions, but self-preservation alters its character when we understand that the real and positive within us is what unites us with the whole, not what maintains the semblance of division.

The last two parts of the Ethics, titled "On Human Slavery, or the Powers of Affects" and "On the Power of Reason, or Human Freedom," are of particular interest. We are enslaved to the extent that what happens to us is conditioned by external causes, and we are free in proportion to how we act according to our discretion. Spinoza, like Socrates and Plato, contends that all wrongful actions are rooted in intellectual errors: a person who understands their circumstances correctly acts wisely and will find happiness in the face of what brings misfortune to others. He does not call for selflessness; he believes that the attraction to one’s own benefit, in a certain sense, particularly in the context of self-preservation, governs all human behavior. "No virtue can take precedence over this striving to preserve one's own being." Yet his concept of the wise person choosing their own benefit as their aim differs from that of ordinary egoists. "The highest good of the mind is the knowledge of God, and the highest virtue is to know God." Affects are termed "passions" when they arise from inadequate ideas; passions can conflict among different individuals, but those who live under the guidance of reason will find a path to harmony. Pleasure, in itself, is good, but hope and fear are evils, as are submission and remorse: "He who repents of any action is doubly miserable or powerless." Spinoza posits that time does not exist in reality, and thus all affects that should essentially be linked to events, whether past or future, are contrary to reason. "As the soul represents things by the prompting of reason, it is subject to the same affect, whether the idea is of a future thing, a past thing, or a present one."

This is a challenging expression, yet it encapsulates the essence of Spinoza's system, and it would be prudent to linger on it, if only briefly. The commonly held view asserts that "all is well that ends well"; if the universe is gradually improving, we regard it more favorably than if it were steadily declining, even if the sum of good and evil remains constant in both scenarios. We are more troubled by the calamities of our time than by those of Genghis Khan's era. According to Spinoza, this is irrational. For everything that happens is part of the eternal, timeless world, as God perceives it; for Him, time is not essential. The wise person, to the extent that human limitations allow, endeavors to see the world as God sees it, sub specie aeternitatis (from the perspective of eternity). However, one might counter that we are probably justified in being more concerned with future misfortunes that could potentially be prevented than with past calamities regarding which we can do nothing. And to this argument, Spinoza’s determinism offers a response. Only ignorance leads us to believe that we can change the future; what will be, will be, and the future is established as immutably as the past. Hence, hope and fear are condemned: both depend on a perspective of the future as indeterminate — and therefore arise from a lack of wisdom.

When we achieve, as far as we can, a vision of the world akin to God’s vision, we see everything as part of the whole and as necessary for the good of the whole. Therefore, "knowledge of evil is inadequate knowledge." God possesses no knowledge of evil because there is no evil that must be known; the appearance of evil arises only from the consideration of parts of the universe as independently existing.

Spinoza's perspective is aimed at liberating individuals from the tyranny of fear. "The free man thinks of nothing so little as of death, and his wisdom consists in reflecting not on death, but on life." Spinoza lived fully in accordance with this principle. On the last day of his life, he remained entirely calm, not exalted, like Socrates in the Phaedo, but engaged in conversation with his companion about the questions that interested him as he would on any ordinary day. Unlike some other philosophers, he not only believed in his doctrines but also practiced them; I know of no instance where, despite great excitement, he succumbed to anything resembling the anger or irritation condemned by his ethics. In disputes, he was polite and rational, never accusatory, but did everything within his power to convince.

If what happens to us arises from within ourselves, it is a good; only that which occurs externally can be evil for us. "But since all that for which a man serves as a producing cause is necessarily good, it follows that evil for a man can arise only from external causes." Therefore, it is evident that nothing bad can happen to the universe as a whole, as it is not subject to external causes: "We constitute a part of the whole of nature, the order of which we follow. If we clearly and distinctly recognize this, then that part of us, which is defined as the capacity for reason, that is, our better part, will find complete satisfaction in this and will strive to abide therein." To the extent that a person is an involuntary part of the whole, they are bound; but to the extent that, through understanding, they comprehend the singular reality of the whole, they are free. The implications of this doctrine are elaborated in the final book of the Ethics.

Like the Stoics, Spinoza does not object to all affects; he only objects to those that are "passions," that is, those in which we seem to ourselves passive, under the dominion of external forces. "An affect that is a passion ceases to be such as soon as we form a clear and distinct idea of it." Understanding that all things are necessary aids our minds in attaining power over the affects. "He who knows himself and his affects clearly and distinctly loves God, and the more he knows himself and his affects, the more he loves." This assertion leads us to "intellectual love of God," which constitutes wisdom. The intellectual love of God is a union of thought and emotion: it consists, I think, as anyone might attest, of true thinking accompanied by the joy of grasping the truth. All joy in true thinking is part of the intellectual love of God, as it contains nothing negative and is therefore truly part of the whole, rather than merely seeming so, as is the case with individual things that are so severed in thought that they appear as evils.

Earlier, I mentioned that the intellectual love of God encompasses joy; perhaps this was an error, as Spinoza states that "God is not subject to any affects of pleasure or displeasure, and that the intellectual love of the soul for God is part of the infinite love with which God loves Himself." Nevertheless, I believe there is something in "intellectual love" that transcends mere intellect; perhaps the joy contained within it is regarded as something higher in relation to pleasure.

"Love for God," they tell us, "must fill the soul above all else." I have set aside Spinoza's proofs, but in doing so, I have not painted a complete picture of his reflections. Since the proof of the theorem mentioned above is brief, I will quote it in full, allowing the reader to mentally supplement the proofs of the other theorems. The proof of the aforementioned theorem is as follows:

"This love is connected with all states of the body, which all contribute to it. Therefore, it must increasingly fill the soul; which was to be demonstrated."

In the theorem to which the above proof refers, it states: "The soul can achieve that all states of the body or images of things will relate to the idea of God"; theorem 15, cited above, asserts: "He who knows himself and his affects clearly and distinctly loves God, and the more he knows himself and his affects, the more he loves"; theorem 11 states: "The more a particular image relates to a greater number of things, the more stable it is; in other words, it occurs more frequently and possesses the soul more."

The proof cited above could be expressed as follows: every deepening understanding of what occurs to us consists in relating events to the idea of God, as in reality, everything is a part of God. This understanding of all as part of God is love for God. When all objects are related to God, the idea of God will completely seize the soul.

Thus, the assertion that "love for God must fill the soul above all else" is not primarily a moral sermon but a reflection on what inevitably occurs when we achieve understanding.

We are told that no one can hate God, but on the other hand: "He who loves God cannot desire that God in turn loves him." Goethe, who admired Spinoza without attempting to understand him, believed this statement to be an example of self-sacrifice. However, there is nothing of the sort; it is merely a logical consequence of Spinoza's metaphysics. He does not claim that one should not wish for God's love; rather, he states that one who loves God cannot wish for God's love. This is clear from the proof, which states: "If a person were to strive for this, then (according to corollary 17) he would desire that the God he loves not be God, and therefore (according to theorem 19, part III) he would wish to endure displeasure, which is (according to theorem 28, part III) absurd." Theorem 17, to which we have already referred, asserts that God is not subject to any affect of pleasure or displeasure; the corollary we previously mentioned states that God loves no one and harbors no hatred towards anyone. Here again, what is implied is not an ethical premise but a logical necessity: a person who would love God and wish for God to love him would thus desire to endure displeasure, "which is absurd."

The assertion that God cannot love anyone should not be viewed as a contradiction to the claim that God loves Himself with infinite intellectual love. He can love Himself, as this is possible without false belief; and in any case, intellectual love is a highly specific kind of love.

Here, Spinoza declares that he has now provided us with "all means against affects." The best of these are clear and distinct ideas regarding the nature of affects and their relation to external causes. In loving God, compared to loving human beings, there is another advantage: "Spiritual anxieties and failures primarily arise from excessive love for a thing subject to many changes." But clear and distinct knowledge "gives rise to love for the unchanging and eternal," and such love does not bear the tumultuous and restless character of love for a transient and changeable object.

Although personal immortality after death is an illusion, there exists something eternal within the human soul. The soul can imagine or remember only as long as the body continues to exist, but within God exists an idea that expresses the essence of each human body in the form of eternity, and this idea is the eternal part of the soul. The intellectual love of God, when experienced by the individual, is contained within this eternal part of the soul.

The blessedness inherent in the love of God is not a reward for virtue but virtue itself; and we enjoy it not because we suppress our passions, but rather, because we enjoy it, we are able to suppress our passions.

The "Ethics" concludes with the following words:

"The wise man, as such, is hardly subject to any emotional turmoil; knowing with a certain eternal necessity himself, God, and things, he never ceases to exist but always possesses true spiritual satisfaction. If the path that leads to this, as I have shown, seems very difficult, it can nonetheless be found. Indeed, it must be difficult, for it is so rarely found. In truth, if salvation were at everyone's fingertips and could be found without any special effort, how could almost everyone neglect it? But all that is beautiful is as difficult as it is rare."

In critically evaluating the significance of Spinoza as a philosopher, it is essential to separate his ethics from his metaphysics and to consider how much of the former can survive the rejection of the latter.

Spinoza's metaphysics serves as the best example of what may be termed "logical monism," namely, the doctrine that the world as a whole is a single substance, none of whose parts can logically exist independently. The foundational premise of this view is the belief that every proposition has one subject and one predicate, leading us to conclude that relations and multiplicity must be illusory. Spinoza believed that the nature of the world and human life could be logically delineated from self-evident axioms; we must submit to events as we submit to the fact that two plus two equals four, for both are equally the result of logical necessity. Overall, this metaphysics is impossible to accept: it is incompatible with modern logic and the scientific method. Facts must be uncovered through observation, not reasoning: when we successfully draw conclusions regarding the future, we do so using principles suggested by empirical facts, rather than by logical necessity. Moreover, the concept of substance on which Spinoza relied is one that neither science nor philosophy can accept in our time.

However, as we turn to Spinoza's ethics, we feel—or at least I feel—that some things, though not all, can be accepted even when its metaphysical foundation is rejected. Generally speaking, Spinoza sought to demonstrate how one can live nobly even while acknowledging the limits of human power. His doctrine of necessity makes these limits narrower than they are; but when they undeniably exist, Spinoza's principles are perhaps the best that can be hoped for. Consider, for instance, death: nothing that a person can do will make them immortal, and therefore it is futile to waste time in fear and lamentation over the fact that we must die. To suffer the fear of death is a form of slavery; Spinoza is right in saying that "a free man thinks of nothing so little as of death." Yet even here, we must regard death in general; death from any specific illness should be prevented as much as possible through medical means. What must be avoided in such cases is any form of anxiety or terror; necessary measures should be taken calmly, and our thoughts, as much as possible, should be directed toward other matters. The same considerations apply to all other purely personal misfortunes.

Now, what of misfortunes involving those whom you love? Let us consider what may likely happen in our time to the inhabitants of Europe or China. Suppose you are a Jew and your family has been slaughtered. Suppose you are an underground fighter against Nazism and your wife is shot because they could not capture you. Suppose your husband is sent to forced labor in the Arctic for some purely imagined crime and dies there from cruelty and hunger. Suppose your daughter is raped and then killed by enemy soldiers. Should you maintain philosophical calm in such circumstances?

If you follow the teachings of Christ, you would say, “Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I have known Quakers who could express this sentiment sincerely and from the depths of their souls, and I admired them precisely because they could do so. However, before one can admire such a stance, one must be deeply convinced that the sorrows are felt with appropriate depth. One cannot adopt the perspective of those Stoics who claimed, “What does it matter if my family suffers? I can still be virtuous.” The Christian commandment to “love your enemies” is commendable, while the Stoic exhortation to “be indifferent to your friends” is not. Moreover, the Christian commandment inspires not a calm, but a fervent love, even towards the worst of humanity. This is unassailable, save for the fact that for most of us, it is exceedingly difficult to sincerely live by this principle.

A primitive reaction to such calamities is revenge. When Macduff learned that his wife and children had been slain by Macbeth, he resolved to kill the tyrant. This reaction still captivates most people when the grievance is profound enough to evoke moral horror in impartial observers. However, one cannot entirely condemn this impulse, for it is one of the forces that incite punishment, which can sometimes be necessary. Moreover, from a psychological standpoint, the impulse for vengeance is likely so strong that if it is not given an outlet, an individual's entire worldview may become distorted and more or less abnormal. While this is not an absolute truth, it holds true in most instances. On the other hand, it must be noted that revenge is a perilous motivation. To the extent that it is sanctioned by society, it allows individuals to act as judges in their own case, precisely what the law seeks to prevent. Additionally, it is typically an excessive impulse: it leads to a punishment that is greater than what is desirable. For instance, torture should not be met with torture, yet a person driven mad by a thirst for revenge may think that a painless death is too kind for the object of their hatred. Furthermore, and here Spinoza is right, a life ruled by a single passion is a wretched existence, incompatible with any form of wisdom. Therefore, revenge, in and of itself, is not the best response to grievances.

Spinoza might articulate what Christians say, perhaps even more profoundly. For him, all sin is rooted in ignorance; he asserts, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Yet, he urges you to avoid the narrow-mindedness from which, in his view, sin arises, and he counsels you, even in the face of great misfortunes, not to retreat into your sorrow; he wants you to comprehend your grief by considering its causes and as part of the greater order of nature. As we have seen, he believes that hatred can be overcome by love: “Hatred increases through mutual hatred and, conversely, can be eradicated by love. Hatred, entirely vanquished by love, transforms into love, and this love will consequently be stronger than if it had not been preceded by hatred at all.” I wish I could believe this, but I cannot, except in exceptional cases where the hating individual is entirely under the influence of the person who refuses to hate. In such instances, the astonishment at the absence of punishment may have a corresponding effect. However, since evildoers hold power, it is of little use to assure them that you harbor no hatred towards them, for they will interpret your words as stemming from misguided motives, and you will not be able to strip them of their power through non-resistance to evil.

For Spinoza, this entire issue is simpler than for one who does not believe in the inherent goodness of the universe. He posits that if you consider your misfortunes as they truly are—as moments in an interconnected web of causes extending from the beginning of time to the present—you will see that they are misfortunes only for you, not for the universe, for which they are merely a transient dissonance in the unfolding of ultimate harmony. I cannot accept this; I believe that individual events are what they are and do not become something else when dissolved into the whole. Each act of cruelty remains an indelible part of the universe; nothing that occurs afterward can transform this act from bad to good or can bestow perfection upon the whole of which it is a part.

Nonetheless, when your fate entails enduring something that is (or seems to you) worse than the usual plight of humanity, Spinoza's principles of thought regarding the whole, or at least regarding matters larger than your own sorrow, can be beneficial. There are even times when the notion that human life, with all its evils and suffering, is an infinitely small part of the life of the universe brings solace. Such reflections may not be sufficient to constitute a religion, but in a world of sorrows, they aid rationality and serve as an antidote to the paralysis of absolute despair.