Part I, Chapter III

OF THE CONSEQUENCE OR TRAIN OF IMAGINATIONS

By a consequence, or train, of thoughts I mean the succession of one thought after another, called mental discourse to distinguish it from discourse in words.

When someone thinks about anything at all, the next thought is not quite so accidental as it seems. Not every thought follows any other indiscriminately. Just as we have no imagination of something we have not previously sensed, wholly or in parts, so we make no transition from one image to another unless we have experienced a like transition before in our senses. Here is why: all fancies are motions within us, remnants of motions produced in sense. Motions that followed one another immediately in sensation remain connected afterward; when the first recurs and becomes predominant, the second follows through the cohesion of the matter moved, much as water on a level table is drawn in the direction in which any one part is guided by a finger. But because in sensation one thing sometimes follows an object, sometimes another, it eventually becomes impossible to know with certainty what we shall imagine next when imagining any given thing. Only this is certain: it will be something that followed the same thing before, at one time or another.

This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is of two kinds. The first is unguided, without design, and inconstant: no thought driven by Passion governs and directs the thoughts that follow toward itself as the end and aim of some desire or other Passion. In this case our thoughts are said to wander, and seem irrelevant to one another, as in a dream. Such are commonly the thoughts of people who are not only alone but free from any concern. Even then their thoughts are as busy as ever, but without harmony, like the sound a lute out of tune would give to anyone, or a lute in tune to someone unable to play. Yet in this wild ranging of the mind one can often perceive its course and the dependence of one thought on another. During a discussion of our present civil war, what could seem less relevant than to ask, as someone did, the value of a Roman penny? Yet the connection was clear enough to me. The thought of the war introduced the thought of handing over the King to his enemies; that brought to mind the handing over of Christ; and that, in turn, the 30 pence paid for that treachery. From there the malicious question followed easily. All this took only a moment, for thought is swift.

The second kind is steadier, governed by some desire and design. The impression made by things we desire or fear is strong and lasting, or, if it fades for a time, quick to return. It is sometimes strong enough to interrupt our sleep. Desire gives rise to the thought of some means we have seen produce something like what we seek; that brings the thought of a means to that means; and so on, until we arrive at a starting point within our power. And because the end, through the strength of its impression, often comes to mind, if our thoughts begin to wander they are quickly brought back on course. Observing this, one of the seven wise men gave people this precept, now worn out: Respice Finem, that is, in every action look often toward what you want, for it directs all your thoughts along the way to attain it.

The train of ordered thoughts has two kinds: in the first, imagining an effect, we seek the causes or means that produce it; this is common to humans and animals. In the other, imagining anything whatever, we seek all the possible effects it might produce—that is, we imagine what we could do with it if we had it. I have never seen a sign of this in any creature but a human being, for such curiosity can scarcely belong to an animal whose only Passions are sensual, such as hunger, thirst, lust, and anger. In short, when governed by design, the mind's discourse is nothing but seeking, or the faculty of invention, which the Latins call Sagacitas and Solertia: hunting out the causes of an effect, present or past, or the effects of a present or past cause. Sometimes a person looks for something lost. Starting from the place and time at which he misses it, his mind retraces its steps from place to place and time to time to find where and when he had it—that is, to establish a definite and limited time and place from which to begin searching. From there his thoughts run again through the same places and times, to find the act or other occasion by which he might have lost it. This we call remembrance, or calling to mind; the Latins call it Reminiscentia, as if retracing our former actions.

Sometimes a person knows a definite place within which to seek something. His thoughts then range over every part of it, as one sweeps a room to find a jewel, or a spaniel ranges a field until it finds a scent, or someone runs through the alphabet to find a rhyme.

Sometimes a person wants to know how an action will turn out. He then thinks of some similar past action and its results, one after another, supposing that similar results will follow similar actions. Someone foreseeing what will become of a criminal, for instance, runs through what he has seen follow a like crime before. His thoughts proceed in this order: the crime, the officer, the prison, the judge, and the gallows. This kind of thought is called foresight and prudence, or providence, and sometimes wisdom, though such conjecture is highly fallible because it is difficult to observe every circumstance. Yet this much is certain: the more experience of past events one man has than another, the more prudent he is, and the less often his expectations fail him. Only the present exists in nature. Past things exist only in memory, while things to come have no existence at all: the future is merely a fiction of the mind, applying the consequences of past actions to present ones. The man with the most experience does this with the greatest assurance, though never with enough for certainty. And although we call it prudence when events answer our expectations, in its own nature it is only presumption. Foresight of things to come—providence—belongs only to him by whose will they will come to pass. From him alone, and by supernatural means, comes prophecy. By nature, the best prophet is the best guesser, and the best guesser is the person most practiced and knowledgeable in the subject of his guesses, for he has the most signs to guide him.

A sign is an event that comes before another, taken as a sign of what follows, or an event that follows another, taken as a sign of what came before, when similar sequences have already been observed. The more often they have been observed, the less uncertain the sign. Thus whoever has most experience in any business has the most signs from which to guess its future, and is consequently the most prudent—more prudent than someone new to that business by a margin no advantage of natural, spontaneous wit can equal, though many young men perhaps think otherwise.

Nevertheless, prudence is not what distinguishes man from beast. Some animals, at a year old, observe and pursue what is good for them more prudently than a child of ten.

As prudence is a presumption about the future drawn from experience of the past, so there is a presumption about past things drawn from other things that are also past, not future. A man who has seen the stages by which a flourishing State first fell into civil war and then into ruin will, at the sight of another State's ruins, guess that a similar war and similar stages occurred there too. His conjecture is almost as uncertain as a conjecture about the future, since both rest on experience alone.

I can recall no other act of the human mind so naturally planted in it that nothing more is needed for its exercise than to be born human and live with the use of the five senses. The other faculties, of which I shall speak shortly, and which seem peculiar to human beings, are acquired and developed by study and effort, and learned by most through instruction and discipline. They all arise from the invention of words and speech. For apart from sense, thoughts, and trains of thought, the human mind has no other motion, though through the help of speech and method these same faculties can be raised high enough to distinguish humans from all other living creatures.

Whatever we imagine is finite. Therefore we have no idea or conception of anything we call infinite. No one can hold in his mind an image of infinite magnitude, or conceive the ends and boundaries of what is so named. We conceive not the thing, but our own inability. Thus the name of GOD is used not to make us conceive him—for he is beyond comprehension, and his greatness and power cannot be conceived—but so that we may honor him. And since, as I said before, whatever we conceive has first been perceived by sense, either wholly or in parts, we can have no thought that represents something not subject to sense. No one, therefore, can conceive anything without conceiving it in some place, having a definite magnitude and divisible into parts. Nor can one conceive a thing existing wholly in one place and wholly in another at the same time, or two or more things occupying one and the same place at once. None of these things ever has been or can be encountered in sense; they are absurd expressions, accepted on trust without any meaning at all from deceived philosophers and deceived or deceitful Schoolmen.

CHAPTER IV. OF SPEECH

OF THE CONSEQUENCE OR TRAIN OF IMAGINATIONS

By a consequence, or train, of thoughts, I mean one thought following another. To distinguish it from discourse in words, this is called mental discourse.

Whatever a person thinks about, the next thought is not as random as it seems. Not every thought can follow every other thought equally. We cannot imagine anything unless we have first sensed it, either as a whole or in parts. In the same way, we cannot pass from one image to another unless we have previously experienced a similar transition through our senses. Here is why. All mental images are movements within us, traces of movements made during sensing. Movements that followed one another closely in sense remain connected afterward. When the earlier movement returns and becomes dominant, the later one follows because the matter moved is connected. It is like water spread over a flat table: guide one part of it with a finger, and the rest is drawn in that direction. But when we sense any one thing, different things may follow it on different occasions. In time, therefore, we cannot be sure what we will imagine next when we imagine something. We can be sure only that the next thing will be something that followed it before at some time.

There are two kinds of train of thought, or mental discourse. The first is unguided, without a purpose, and changeable. No thought charged with a Passion directs the following thoughts toward itself as the aim of a desire or other Passion. In this case, thoughts wander and seem unrelated, as they do in a dream. People often think this way when they are not only alone but also free of any concern. Their thoughts are as busy as ever, but they lack harmony, like a lute that sounds out of tune to anyone, or a tuned lute played by someone who cannot play it. Even in this wandering of the mind, we can often see its course and how one thought depends on another. For example, while we were talking about our present civil war, someone asked what a Roman penny was worth. What could seem less relevant? Yet the connection was plain enough to me. Thinking of the war led to thinking of the surrender of the King to his enemies. That led to the betrayal of Christ, and that to the 30 pence paid for the betrayal. From there the spiteful question followed easily. All this happened in a moment, for thought moves fast.

The second kind of train is more steady because a desire and a purpose guide it. Things we desire or fear make a strong, lasting impression, or one that quickly returns after fading for a while. Sometimes it is strong enough to interrupt our sleep. Desire makes us think of a way we have seen something like our goal achieved. That leads us to think of a way to carry out that step, and so on, until we reach a starting point within our own power. Since the goal is so strongly impressed on us, it often comes back to mind. If our thoughts wander, they quickly return to the right course. One of the seven wise men noticed this and gave the now worn-out advice, Respice Finem, meaning “Keep your goal in view.” In all your actions, look often at what you want. It directs all your thoughts toward getting it.

Guided trains of thought have two kinds. In one, we imagine an effect and seek the causes or means that produced it. Human beings and animals both do this. In the other, we imagine something and look for every possible effect it could produce: we think about what we could do with it if we had it. I have seen signs of this only in human beings. Such curiosity hardly belongs to a creature with no Passions except bodily ones, such as hunger, thirst, sexual desire, and anger. In short, purpose-driven mental discourse is nothing but searching, or the ability to discover, which the Latins call sagacitas and solertia. It is hunting for the causes of a present or past effect or for the effects of a present or past cause. Sometimes someone looks for something lost. Starting with the place and time where he notices it missing, his mind goes back through places and times to discover where and when he last had it. That gives him a definite, limited time and place from which to start a methodical search. Then his thoughts retrace the same places and times to find an action or other event that might have caused the loss. We call this remembering, or calling to mind. The Latins call it reminiscentia, as if it meant going over our former actions again.

Sometimes someone knows a particular area in which he must search. His thoughts then go through all its parts, as he might sweep a room looking for a jewel, or as a spaniel searches a field until it picks up a scent, or as someone runs through the alphabet to find a rhyme.

Sometimes someone wants to know the outcome of an action. He thinks of a similar action in the past, then of its results one after another, assuming similar actions will have similar results. Someone trying to predict what will happen to a criminal recalls what he has seen follow a similar crime. His thoughts run through the crime, the officer, the prison, the judge, and the gallows. This kind of thought is called foresight, prudence, providence, and sometimes wisdom. But such guesses are often wrong, because it is hard to observe every circumstance. One thing is certain: the more experience someone has of the past compared with another person, the more prudent he is, and the less often his expectations fail. Only the present exists in nature. The past exists only in memory; things to come do not exist at all. The future is a fiction made by the mind, which applies the results of past actions to present actions. The person with the most experience does this most reliably, though never with enough certainty. When the outcome matches what we expected, we call this prudence, but by its nature it is only presumption. Foresight of things to come—providence—belongs only to the one by whose will they will come to pass. Prophecy comes only from him and by supernatural means. The best natural prophet is the best guesser, and the best guesser is the person most familiar with and most practiced in the matters he guesses about. He has the most signs to guide his guess.

An earlier event is a sign of a later event, and a later event is a sign of an earlier one, when we have observed a similar sequence before. The more often we have observed it, the more reliable the sign. So whoever has the most experience in a line of business has the most signs to use in guessing about the future and is therefore the most prudent. He is more prudent than a newcomer by an amount that no gift of quick, natural intelligence can make up for, although many young people may think otherwise.

Still, prudence does not distinguish human beings from animals. At one year old, some animals observe and pursue what benefits them more prudently than a ten-year-old child does.

Prudence is an assumption about the future drawn from experience of the past. We also make assumptions about past things based on other past things, not on the future. For example, someone who has seen the stages by which a prosperous state first fell into civil war and then into ruin will see the ruins of another state and guess that a similar war and similar stages occurred there. But this guess is almost as uncertain as a guess about the future. Both rest only on experience.

I cannot recall another act of the human mind that is naturally present and needs nothing more for its exercise than being born human and living with the use of the five senses. The other abilities I will soon discuss, which seem unique to human beings, are acquired and developed through study and effort. Most people learn them through teaching and discipline. All arise from the invention of words and speech. Apart from sense, thoughts, and the train of thoughts, the human mind has no other movement. Yet speech and method can improve these same abilities so much that they distinguish human beings from all other living creatures.

Everything we imagine is finite. So we have no idea or conception of anything we call infinite. No one can picture an infinitely large thing or conceive the ends and boundaries of the thing so named. We conceive only our own inability, not the thing itself. We therefore use the name GOD not to form an idea of him—for he cannot be understood, and we cannot conceive his greatness and power—but to honor him. Also, as I said before, everything we conceive was first sensed, either whole or in parts. So no one can have a thought that represents something beyond the reach of the senses. We cannot conceive anything without conceiving it in some place, with a particular size, and divisible into parts. Nor can we conceive one thing as wholly in one place and wholly in another at the same time, or two or more things occupying exactly the same place at once. None of these things has ever been, or can be, experienced by the senses. They are meaningless and absurd expressions accepted on the authority of philosophers who have been deceived and schoolmen who have either been deceived or are deceiving others.

CHAPTER IV. OF SPEECH