C — Corps

Just as we do not know what a spirit is, we do not know what a body is. We see certain properties; but what is the subject in which those properties reside? There are only bodies, said Democritus and Epicurus; there are no bodies, said the disciples of Zeno of Elea.

Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, is the latest to have claimed, through a hundred specious sophisms, to prove that bodies do not exist. They have, he says, neither colors, nor smells, nor heat; these qualities are in your sensations, not in the objects. He could have spared himself the trouble of proving that truth; it was well enough known. But from there he passes to extension and solidity, which are essential properties of body, and thinks he proves that a piece of green cloth has no extension because the cloth is not actually green: this sensation of green exists only in you, therefore this sensation of extension also exists only in you. And after thus destroying extension, he concludes that the solidity attached to it falls away of itself, and consequently nothing in the world exists except our ideas. So that, according to this doctor, ten thousand men killed by ten thousand cannon shots are fundamentally nothing but ten thousand apprehensions of our soul.

The Bishop of Cloyne had only himself to blame for falling into such an excess of absurdity. He thinks he shows that extension does not exist because a body appeared four times larger through his telescope than to his naked eye, and four times smaller through another lens. From this he concludes that, since a body cannot have an extension of four feet, sixteen feet, and one foot at the same time, this extension does not exist; therefore nothing exists. He had only to take a measuring rule and say: “Whatever size a body may appear to me, its extension is so many of these measures.”

It was easy enough for him to see that extension and solidity are not like sounds, colors, tastes, smells, etc. Clearly these last are feelings aroused in us by the arrangement of parts; but extension is not a feeling. Let this burning wood go out: I no longer feel hot. Let this air cease to be struck: I no longer hear. Let this rose fade: I no longer smell it. But this wood, this air, this rose have extension without me. Berkeley’s paradox is not worth the trouble of refuting.

It is worth knowing what led him into this paradox. Long ago I had several conversations with him. He told me that his opinion originated in our inability to conceive what this subject is that receives extension. And indeed he triumphs in his book when he asks Hylas what this subject, this substratum, this substance is. “It is extended body,” Hylas answers. Then the bishop, under the name of Philonous, mocks him; and poor Hylas, seeing that he has said extension is the subject of extension, and has said something foolish, is utterly confounded and admits that he understands nothing about it, that there are no bodies, that the material world does not exist, that there is only an intellectual world.

Philonous ought merely to have told Hylas: “We know nothing of the underlying nature of this subject, this extended, solid, divisible, movable, shaped substance, etc. I know it no better than I know the thinking, feeling, willing subject; but this subject exists nonetheless, since it has essential properties of which it cannot be stripped.”

We are all like most of the ladies of Paris: they dine splendidly without knowing what goes into their stews. In the same way we enjoy bodies without knowing what composes them. What is body made of? Parts; and these parts resolve into other parts. What are these last parts? Still bodies. You divide without ceasing, and never advance.

At last a subtle philosopher, observing that a painting is made of ingredients none of which is a painting, and a house of materials none of which is a house, imagined, in a somewhat different fashion, that bodies are built of an infinity of little beings that are not bodies; and these are called monads. This system has its merits, and if it were revealed, I should think it quite possible. All these little beings would be mathematical points, kinds of souls waiting only for a coat to slip into. It would be a continual transmigration: a monad would go now into a whale, now into a tree, now into a conjurer. This system is as good as another; I like it quite as much as the swerve of atoms, substantial forms, resistible grace, and Dom Calmet’s vampires.

We don’t know what a spirit is, or what a body is. We see some properties, but what is the thing that has them? “Only bodies exist,” said Democritus and Epicurus. “No bodies exist,” said the followers of Zeno of Elea.

Berkeley, bishop of Cloyne, is the latest to claim he can prove bodies don’t exist. He uses a hundred tricky, misleading arguments. “Bodies,” he says, “have no colors, smells, or heat. These qualities are in your sensations, not in the objects.” He could have saved himself the trouble of proving that truth. People knew it well enough. But then he turns to extension and solidity, essential features of a body. A piece of green cloth isn’t really green. He thinks that proves it doesn’t take up space. Your sensation of green is only in you. So your sensation of extension is only in you too. That’s how he does away with extension. Solidity goes with it, so he concludes that solidity falls away by itself. That leaves nothing in the world but our ideas. According to this learned man, ten thousand men killed by ten thousand cannon shots are really just ten thousand perceptions in our soul.

The bishop of Cloyne could easily have avoided such a ridiculous extreme. Through his telescope, a body looked four times bigger than to his naked eye. Through another lens, it looked four times smaller. He thinks that shows there’s no extension. A body can’t measure four feet, sixteen feet, and one foot all at once. So, he concludes, that extension doesn’t exist. Nothing exists, then. He only had to take a unit of measurement and say, “Whatever size a body seems to be, it measures this many of these units.”

He could easily have seen that extension and solidity aren’t like sounds, colors, tastes, smells, and the rest. Those are clearly sensations the arrangement of parts produces in us. But extension isn’t a sensation. If this burning wood goes out, I stop feeling heat. If this air stops being struck, I stop hearing anything. If this rose withers, I stop smelling it. But the wood, air, and rose take up space without me. Berkeley’s paradox isn’t worth disproving.

It’s worth knowing what led him into this paradox. I had several conversations with him a long time ago. He said his opinion started with this problem: we can’t understand the underlying thing that has extension. Indeed, in his book he triumphs when he questions Hylas. “What is this underlying thing, this substratum, this substance?” “It’s the extended body,” Hylas answers. The bishop, calling himself Philonous, laughs at him. Poor Hylas sees he’s made extension the underlying thing that has extension. He’s said something foolish. He’s thoroughly confused and admits he understands nothing about it. There are no bodies, the material world doesn’t exist, and only a world of the mind exists.

Philonous should simply have told Hylas, “We don’t know the true nature of this underlying thing. It takes up space, is solid, can be divided and moved, has a shape, and more. I know it no better than the underlying thing that thinks, feels, and wills. But it exists all the same. It has essential properties that can’t be taken from it.”

We’re all like most of the ladies of Paris. They eat fine dinners without knowing what goes into the stews. Likewise, we enjoy bodies without knowing what they’re made of. What’s a body made of? Parts. Those parts break down into other parts. What are those final parts? Still bodies. You keep dividing and never get any further.

Finally, a subtle philosopher noticed how a painting is made. Not one of its ingredients is a painting. And not one of a house’s building materials is a house. He imagined a slightly different kind of construction. Bodies are built from infinitely many little beings that aren’t themselves bodies. These are called monads. This system does have its good side. If it were revealed, I’d believe it was quite possible. All these little beings would be mathematical points. They’d be kinds of souls, just waiting for clothes to get into. Souls would be constantly moving from one body to another. A monad would go sometimes into a whale, sometimes into a tree, sometimes into a conjurer. This system’s as good as any other. I like it just as much as the swerving of atoms, substantial forms, grace that can be accepted or resisted, and Don Calmet’s vampires.