F — Folie
Original French
Il n’est pas question de renouveller le livre d’Erasme, qui ne serait aujourd’hui qu’un lieu commun assez insipide.
Nous appellons folie cette maladie des organes du cerveau qui empêche un homme nécessairement de penser & d’agir comme les autres; ne pouvant gérer son bien, on l’interdit; ne pouvant avoir des idées convenables à la société, on l’en exclut; s’il est dangereux, on l’enferme; s’il est furieux, on le lie.
Ce qu’il est important d’observer, c’est que cet homme n’est point privé d’idées; il en a comme tous les autres hommes pendant la veille, & souvent quand il dort. On peut demander comment son ame spirituelle, immortelle, logée dans son cerveau, recevant toutes les idées par les sens très-nettes & très distinctes, n’en porte cependant jamais un jugement sain? Elle voit les objets comme l’ame d’Aristote & de Platon, de Loke & de Newton les voyaient; elle entend les mêmes sons, elle a le même sens du toucher; comment donc recevant les perceptions que les plus sages éprouvent, en fait-elle un assemblage extravagant sans pouvoir s’en dispenser? Si cette substance simple & éternelle a pour ses actions les mêmes instruments qu’ont les ames des cerveaux les plus sages, elle doit raisonner comme eux. Qui peut l’en empêcher? Je conçois bien à toute force que si mon fou voit du rouge, & les sages du bleu; si quand les sages entendent de la musique, mon fou entend le braïement d’un ane; si quand ils sont au sermon, mon fou croit être à la comédie; si quand ils entendent oui, il entend non; alors son ame doit penser au rebours des autres. Mais mon fou a les mêmes perceptions qu’eux; il n’y a nulle raison apparente pour laquelle son ame ayant reçu par ses sens tous ses outils, ne peut en faire d’usage. Elle est pure, dit-on, elle n’est sujette par elle-même à aucune infirmité; la voilà pourvue de tous les secours nécessaires: quelque chose qui se passe dans son corps, rien ne peut changer son essence: cependant on la méne dans son étui aux petites maisons.
Cette réflexion peut faire soupçonner que la faculté de penser donnée de Dieu à l’homme, est sujette au dérangement comme les autres sens. Un fou est un malade dont le cerveau patit, comme le gouteux est un malade qui soufre aux piés & aux mains; il pensait par le cerveau, comme il marchait avec les piés, sans rien connaître ni de son pouvoir incompréhensible de marcher, ni de son pouvoir non moins incompréhensible de penser. On a la goute au cerveau comme aux piés. Enfin après mille raisonnemens, il n’y a peut-être que la foi seule qui puisse nous convaincre qu’une substance simple & immatérielle puisse être malade.
Les doctes ou les docteurs diront au fou; Mon ami, quoique tu ayes perdu le sens commun, ton ame est aussi spirituelle, aussi pure, aussi immortelle que la nôtre; mais notre ame est bien logée, & la tienne l’est mal; les fenêtres de la maison sont bouchées pour elle; l’air lui manque, elle étouffe. Le fou dans ses bons moments leur répondrait, Mes amis, vous supposez à votre ordinaire ce qui est en question; mes fenêtres sont aussi bien ouvertes que les vôtres, puisque je vois les mêmes objets, & que j’entends les mêmes paroles: il faut donc nécessairement que mon ame fasse un mauvais usage de ses sens, ou que mon ame ne soit elle-même qu’un sens vitié, une qualité dépravée. En un mot, ou mon ame est folle par elle-même, ou je n’ai point d’ame.
Un des docteurs poura répondre; Mon confrère, Dieu a créé peut-être des ames folles, comme il a créé des ames sages. Le fou répliquera; Si je croyais ce que vous me dites, je serais encor plus fou que je ne le suis. De grace, vous qui en savez tant, dites-moi pourquoi je suis fou?
Si les docteurs ont encor un peu de sens, ils lui répondront, Je n’en sais rien. Ils ne comprendront pas pourquoi une cervelle a des idées incohérentes; ils ne comprendront pas mieux pourquoi une autre cervelle a des idées réguliéres & suivies. Ils se croiront sages, & ils seront aussi foux que lui.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the 73 articles in the 1764 first edition, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
There is no question of reviving Erasmus’s book, which today would be no more than a rather insipid commonplace.
We call madness that disease of the brain’s organs which necessarily prevents a man from thinking and acting like other people. Unable to manage his property, he is placed under legal disability; unable to form ideas suited to society, he is excluded from it; if he is dangerous, he is confined; if he is violent, he is bound.
What matters is to observe that this man is not without ideas. He has them, like everyone else, while awake and often while asleep. We may ask how his spiritual, immortal soul, lodged in his brain and receiving through the senses ideas that are perfectly clear and distinct, nevertheless never forms a sound judgment of them. It sees objects as the souls of Aristotle and Plato, Locke and Newton saw them; it hears the same sounds and has the same sense of touch. How, then, receiving the perceptions experienced by the wisest people, does it combine them into extravagant patterns without being able to help itself? If this simple and eternal substance has the same instruments for its actions as the souls of the wisest brains, it ought to reason as they do. What can prevent it? I can just about conceive that if my madman sees red where the wise see blue; if, when the wise hear music, my madman hears an ass braying; if, when they are at a sermon, he thinks he is at a comedy; if, when they hear yes, he hears no—then his soul must think the reverse of theirs. But my madman has the same perceptions as they do. There is no apparent reason why his soul, having received all its tools through the senses, cannot use them. It is pure, we are told; in itself it is subject to no infirmity. Here it is, equipped with every necessary aid: whatever happens in his body, nothing can change its essence. And yet it is taken, inside its case, to the Petites-Maisons asylum.
This reflection may lead us to suspect that the faculty of thought God gave man is liable to disorder, like the other senses. A madman is a sick man whose brain suffers, just as a gout sufferer is a sick man with pain in his feet and hands. He thought with his brain as he walked with his feet, knowing nothing either of his incomprehensible power to walk or of his no less incomprehensible power to think. One has gout in the brain as in the feet. In the end, after a thousand arguments, perhaps faith alone can convince us that a simple, immaterial substance can be ill.
The learned men, or the doctors, will tell the madman: “My friend, though you have lost your common sense, your soul is as spiritual, as pure, as immortal as ours. But our soul is well housed, and yours badly; the windows of its house are blocked, it lacks air, it is suffocating.” In his lucid moments the madman would answer: “My friends, as usual you assume the very point at issue. My windows are as open as yours, since I see the same objects and hear the same words. Necessarily, then, either my soul misuses its senses, or my soul itself is merely a damaged sense, a corrupted quality. In short, either my soul is mad in itself, or I have no soul.”
One of the doctors may reply: “My colleague, perhaps God created mad souls as he created wise ones.” The madman will retort: “If I believed what you tell me, I would be madder still. Please, you who know so much, tell me why I am mad.”
If the doctors still have a little sense, they will answer: “I know nothing about it.” They will not understand why one brain has incoherent ideas; nor will they understand any better why another has orderly, connected ideas. They will think themselves wise, and they will be as mad as he is.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation of the same 73 articles, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
This is not an attempt to write Erasmus’s book again. Nowadays that would just be a fairly dull repetition of things everyone knows.
Madness is the name we give to a disease affecting the organs of the brain. It leaves a person necessarily unable to think or act as other people do. If he cannot look after his property, the law stops him from managing it. If his ideas make him unable to fit into society, society shuts him out. If he is dangerous, he is locked up. If he becomes violent, he is tied up.
The important point is that he still has ideas. Like other people, he has them when he is awake and often when he sleeps. We may ask how his soul, which is spiritual and immortal and lodged in his brain, takes in every idea through the senses, very clear and distinct, and yet never reaches a sensible judgment about any of them. It sees things just as Aristotle’s and Plato’s souls did, and Locke’s and Newton’s. It hears the same sounds and feels things in the same way. So why does it take the perceptions that the wisest people experience and helplessly put them together in absurd combinations? If this eternal substance, which has no parts, uses the same equipment as the souls of the wisest people, it should reason as they do. What could stop it? I could just about understand it if the madman saw red when sensible people saw blue. Or if they heard music and he heard a donkey bray. Or if they attended a sermon and he thought he was watching a comedy. Or if they heard yes and he heard no. In those cases his soul would have to think the opposite of theirs. But he perceives the same things they do. His soul has received all its equipment through his senses. There is no obvious reason it cannot use it. We are told the soul is pure and cannot become ill in itself. It has everything it needs. Whatever happens to his body cannot alter what the soul is. Yet the soul, along with the body that holds it, is taken to the Petites-Maisons asylum.
This may make us wonder whether the ability to think, which God gave human beings, can break down just as the other senses can. A madman is ill in his brain, as someone with gout is ill in his feet and hands. He used his brain to think, just as he used his feet to walk. He understood neither the incomprehensible power that let him walk nor the equally incomprehensible power that let him think. The brain can have gout as the feet can. After a thousand arguments, perhaps only faith can persuade us that something immaterial and without parts can be sick.
Scholars or doctors will say to him, “My friend, you have lost your common sense, but your soul is just as spiritual, pure, and immortal as ours. The difference is that ours lives in a good house and yours in a bad one. Your soul’s windows are blocked. It has no air and is suffocating.” When he has a clear moment, the madman would answer, “Friends, you are doing what you usually do: taking the disputed point for granted. My windows are open just as yours are. I see the same things and hear the same words. That means my soul must either be using its senses badly, or itself be nothing more than a faulty sense, a damaged quality. Put simply, either my soul itself is mad or I have no soul.”
One doctor could answer, “My colleague, perhaps God made mad souls as well as wise ones.” The madman will respond, “Believing you would make me even madder than I am now. Please tell me why I am mad, since you know so much.”
If the doctors have any sense left, they will say, “I have no idea.” They will not know why one brain produces disconnected thoughts. They will be equally unable to explain why another produces thoughts that are consistent and connected. They will believe they are wise, but they will be just as mad as he is.
About this section
F — Folie is part of Pocket Philosophical Dictionary by Voltaire. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is article 42 of 73 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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