“Yes, you, Socrates! Come, sit with me a moment, if you would. I have something that I have been hoping to discuss with you since I can think of no one more apt to appraise my thinking in this matter, whether it shall be criticism in my reasoning, or, as I hope and believe it shall be, praise and approbation for my cleverness on the subject.”
“Oh? Well, Epistimonas, I certainly hope for the latter as well and since generally you are of the clever sort, I shall keep my hope strong. But come, do not keep me waiting so long. What exactly is it you wanted to discuss?’
“Well, I know that in your youth you were very much interested in the theories pertaining to the heavens and the earth, of their composition, order, and, in a word, physics, and this is why many think you some kind of busybody, who teaches that the moon is a stone, that nothing else is real besides number and figure, of atoms and fanciful things of that sort. Well, don’t look that way, Socrates, we all know it’s what people think of you.”
“Yes, Epistimonas, what you say is true. In my youth I did inquire into such topics, and now I am paying the price for it. And there’s little I can do now, for as I was walking this way just a few nights ago, I had a man ask me whether the world is composed of water or horses. And if the moon were a stone, he prayed the gods drop it on my head, and maybe that would free me of my prying delusions.”
“But come now Socrates, don’t you think there’s a real point to these sorts of questions? Isn’t there a real difference between believing the moon is a god, and believing the moon is a horse?”
“Yes, the latter is humorous. But in terms of their folly, I should think that they are entirely equal, and I find myself utterly deserving of the abuses the man levied upon me that night. I now seem to be in the position that inquiries of this sort are not only pointless, but impossible.”
“Well, you can’t expect me to be satisfied with that, Socrates. I must insist you expound such a view.”
“Yes, it is about time I answer for all my previous prevarications. To begin, let us admit of the mind, that there are certain objects known to it, and of these objects, some meet the mind with such force as to appear as something real. These objects are impressions. But there are other objects which appear fainter to the mind, and these objects we call ideas.”
“I’m sorry, Socrates. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your distinction.”
“Well, look here Epistimonas. This stone in my hand, do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“This object of our mind then we may call an impression, since it strikes us with such vivacity as to force the mind to accept it as a part of a persistent reality. Now, you and I were soldiers during the battle of Delium. Do you remember?”
“How could I forget, Socrates. Though we were routed that day, ordering my retreat around yours is certainly what saved my life.”
“Think of the shield you carried. Though you were ready to cast it aside, I reminded you that a solider needs his shield even in retreat. Are you able to picture it now in your mind?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This object we may call an idea. It lacks the vividness and detail of the stone now in my hand, but we can picture it all the same.”
“Now there is a further distinction that we may allow in ideas. That is between simple and complex ideas. Think of the fruit we know as the apple. We may say that the apple, as an idea, is complex, since it may be resolved into fundamental parts. It has comprising it simple ideas, such as redness, extension, if we were to touch it, smoothness, if we were to taste it, sweetness, and so on. Now the idea of an apple is derived from our senses, but we can imagine other complex ideas such as the centaur. The centaur is almost certainly a chimerical creature, seeing as no one as has ever witnessed one before, and yet we are still able to have an idea of it. Complex ideas, then, we may say have no need for a corresponding impression. That is, no one need see a centaur to conjure up an idea of such a creature. Simple ideas, on the other hand, require a corresponding impression to be known to the mind. Imagine a blind person. They are incapable of understanding the attending idea of color, since no such impression has ever taken hold in their mind. The soul, despite the many sophistical arguments presented by philosophers, has no ideas furnished to it in its conception. All our ideas, in the first order, are derived from simple impressions.
“Now, clearly, there is some order which bonds simple ideas into complex ones. To explain the regularity to which the mind joins ideas would be near impossible otherwise. But this bond is not a necessary law of nature, but rather like a gentle attraction, since, as we have seen with chimerical creatures, the mind is free to join simple ideas in any manner which it pleases. There are three qualities which produce an association among ideas, that is, resemblance, contiguity, and cause and effect. When the mind sets itself upon an idea, these qualities suggest an association with other ideas. For the quality of resemblance, we shall have no trouble in seeing how the mind can move from one idea to another. I resemble my father, and people familiar with the man are quick to remind me of this association. As for contiguity, one idea placed before or after another often forms a union in the mind. And since the mind often forms a union between ideas simply contiguous to one another, we shall have no trouble in understanding that ideas which cause one another are closely associated in the mind. And, before you ask, Epistimonas, I shall tell you now that I will not venture to discover the causes for these qualities of attraction. I am finished with such speculations of all sorts and only say that perhaps that is how the gods have willed it, and no more.”
“Socrates, I must admit I am disappointed in this circumspect approach, since I must admit, embarrassingly, that I came here to witness the famous obstinance of Socrates, even more so than to engage you in philosophy. So far I cannot find fault in what you have presented to me, but my intuition feels uneasy about the whole arrangement.”
“How so, Epistimonas?”
“Well, you claim that all ideas in their first order have their origin in corresponding impressions. But think about the ideas we have of time and space. If your principle is true, which impressions correspond to these ideas?”
“I will present to you now, Epistimonas, that famous obstinance of Socrates you so desire. We have impressions neither of space nor time and thus we have no ideas of them as such.”
“Please explain!”
“Well in the first place, it is absurd to suggest one can observe space. Since if I were to ask you to think of space, you would have no way to determine if you were thinking about nothing, or if you were truly thinking of space.”
“But, Socrates, we often perceive objects which occupy space, and this property of objects which we may call extension, implies its existence, since extended objects occupy space necessarily.”
“Well let us examine this idea of extension. When I look at a table, for example, I do not perceive extension as such, but merely a disposition of colored points. Then, what I have perceived is neither space nor extension, but a disposition of points. And likewise, we never observe what may be called time. What we observe is a succession of events. When I observe a petal falling from its stem, I simply observe a change in the disposition of points. I am aware of nothing more beyond a succession of perceptions. Nowhere in this event or any other do I observe objects which may be called space or time, nor do I think it possible to do so.”
“So we have no reason to suppose the existence of time or space?”
“We have reason to suppose the existence of a disposition and succession of points, no more. If we do not have knowledge of time and space from our impressions, from whence else would they derive?”
“From the soul, of course.”
“Even if I granted you, Epistimonas, the ideas of space and time existing innately in the soul, these would be private structures, and would have no guarantee of a reflection of a persistent reality beyond one’s self. What is to be noted here is that these ideas do not originate from our senses.”
“Well Socrates, now I am entertained! Not only have you espoused the most ridiculous beliefs, but you have done it in such a way that I am forced to follow you in the same manner. But, since I care for you, Socrates, I have found a way to bring you down from those lofty clouds you reside, since I can’t bear the ridicule and contempt our city bears for you. You say our ideas require impressions. But we clearly have impressions of objects existing beyond the self, and so even though you may fuss over space and time, you are forced to agree, with the greater part of mankind, that there is no denying a reality of objects existing beyond the self.”
“Well, Epistimonas, although I am thankful to have a friend such as you, I am afraid that I must disagree with you in this matter. Not only do we not have any reason to suppose the existence of an external world, but I claim that no one has ever perceived an object existing externally from their own perception. The only thing present to the mind is our perceptions, no more. External objects become known to us only by those perceptions they occasion. So, whether something exist beyond my perception is utterly unknowable, and as it seems to me, this idea of an external existence is not only unknowable, but useless.
“Continuing this analysis further, we often attribute a continued and distinct existence to bodies. Although I have not observed the shield you carried into battle in many years, I still suppose it to exist in some form, even though it has not been continually present to my senses. But the senses are incapable of informing me of a continued existence in this way, because it is entirely possible that as I exit a room, the room vanishes until I set my eye upon it again, and as I move my eye from your shield, it ceases to exist until I happen upon it again. And as for distinctiveness, it is as we have already said. The mind is aware of nothing but perceptions, and to suppose these perceptions to be representations of objects distinct from them, is in no way supported by our observations. As far as we can tell employing solely our observation, there may be no distinct object which corresponds to our perception of your shield, and each time our senses take hold of your shield it is an entirely different perception which may not be representative of a shield-in-itself, as it may be.”
“But if our senses, as you have convinced me, are not responsible for our belief in a continued and distinct existence of bodies, then what could possibly explain the regularity of objects we so often observe?”
“Let us take, for example, a chair that sits in my house. What makes me to believe that it has a continued and distinct existence? Upon every instance in which I have observed the chair it has maintained a sort of constancy and coherence. That is, day after day and year after year the chair has changed very little, and any changes that have occurred have been gradual enough as to not alarm my senses. But no where do we perceive an identity that is certain and assigned to the chair. All we have is a long chain of resembling perceptions, and to these resembling perceptions we have designated to the chair the fiction of a continued and distinct existence.”
“Though I am now forced to agree with you that we are incapable of observing identity in an object, I should think the idea of identity is inherent in the object itself, since it is widely agreed to by philosophers that objects require the idea of substance to maintain a coherent reality.”
“Well perhaps these philosophers are correct. But to be true to philosophy, it is required of us to examine these suppositions the same as any other, since no one is free from dogmatism and fallacy. When we perceive an apple, to take our example again, we notice that the idea is simply a composite of various perceptions. The idea of apple is composed of redness, roundness, sweetness, and so on. Substance is supposedly what remains of an object beyond its perceivable qualities, but, as we have agreed, ideas require a corresponding impression to be meaningful. This imperceptible bond which philosophers have labeled substance is simply an association in the mind of certain clusters of perceivable qualities. Though we often fancy each object to have an underlying substance, all we are certain of are bundles of perceptions which regularly associate and have no idea of this association beyond what occurs in the mind.
“And beyond the substance of external objects, philosophers often apply the idea to that of the soul. They say that behind our internal impressions, of love, hate, pain, and so on, there is an underlying substance of mind, which give rise to these impressions. But I ask you, Epistimonas, what impression do we have of mind, beyond our internal perceptions? The idea of mind, and the idea of substance, are unnecessary and unexplanatory, since all ideas—even those internal ideas of love and joy—are separable and do not imply the existence of anything beyond it, just as the egg does not necessitate the existence of a chicken beyond it. And related to this idea of mind, we have the idea of self which is often accepted as a prerequisite for any further philosophy to occur. But I ask again, Epistimonas, from what impression do we derive the idea of self? When I enter into my internal workings, all I am able to observe are various perceptions which pass with extreme rapidity and variable influence. At one moment I feel love, and at another I feel hunger, and so on, but try as I may, I am never able to grab hold of any impression which I may label as self. Rather than being the singular and simplistic entity which we often envision, self appears to be the binding of various internal impressions, and cannot in any way be said to exist as some underlying substance distinct in itself. For when I sleep, or when death finally takes me, shall I say that there is a self existing apart from my perceptions? When we speak of self, or identity then, it is of that binding structure which relates our various internal and external impressions in the mind, and this binding structure is a result of memory, which serves to relate our ideas in various capacities. Memory does not produce personal identity, but discovers it, by showing us the relation of cause and effect among our different perceptions.
“Now, this is another serious matter which requires our attention. Let us imagine our apple again. Free your mind now, Epistimonas, and allow all preconceptions to be emancipated. Nowhere in the mere observation of the apple do we observe a necessity of it being caused.”
“I don’t quite understand you, Socrates. It is clear that the apple is indeed caused, since it is well known that an apple is grown from a seed.”
“But Epistiomonas, I just a moment ago asked you to free your mind of all preconceptions. I ask you Epistimonas, from which faculty does the idea of the apple’s necessary cause arise?”
“From experience, of course.”
“Exactly. So it is not from any quality intrinsic to the apple itself which gives rise to the idea of a necessary cause, but rather from our experience. It is, as we have seen, to be found in a relation of objects.”
“Before you continue Socrates, could we not say that the idea of a necessary cause could be in the object itself, if we define it as such?”
“Indeed, Epistimonas. I could, for example, proclaim that a chicken is necessarily white. But I have said nothing about reality, since, tomorrow, I may come across a black chicken. There is nothing contradictory about the idea of a black chicken, or a chicken made from pure gold, or a chicken to spontaneously arise from nothing. And to prove, through demonstrative processes, that a chicken is necessarily white or necessarily caused, is impossible, since there an infinitude of possibilities for oddly colored chickens to appear to me, and it is enough to satisfy me in its possibility, since the mind has no trouble in forming a clear conception of its occurrence. That is to say, if we define an apple to be necessarily caused, then that is all well and good, but I believe you have cheated me since you speak of private objects removed from me, as much as I would have cheated you had I told you a chicken, after observing one or a million, is necessarily white.”
“But, Socrates, it is a general maxim of philosophy that whatever begins to exist, must have a cause of existence.”
“Yes, it is. But I have never much cared for the general maxims of philosophy, finding most to be misguided at best, and deceitful at worst. That what has begun to exist, it is certain, has began to exist. There is nothing in any object—nay, in the universe itself—which implies the necessity of itself or anything beyond it. An apple, a chicken, and an entire universe may arise from nothing. It is from experience only that we can infer the existence of one object from that of another. And this inference, if possible at all, can only be made by the association of ideas we know as cause and effect, since it is the only association of ideas which implies in itself a kind of necessity.”
“But it is certain that a causal relationship does indeed imply a necessity, Socrates. For example, it is through the necessary connection of chicken and egg that we can be certain that the egg was indeed caused, because a chicken is necessary to produce an egg. This much is plainly obvious, Socrates, and for anyone to deny it would not only be wrongheadedness, but madness.”
“It is, as I have said, possible for me to conceive a chicken egg to not come from a chicken, and this demonstration is enough to convince me against its necessity. It is, as we have already admitted, only through experience that I gain the idea of one object causing the other, not in the idea itself. Only after observing multiple associations of chicken and egg do we insist upon its necessity.
“It shall be helpful at this point, Epistimonas, to more closely examine this idea of cause and effect, and see if this will help extricate ourselves from our current disagreement.”
“Yes, it shall.”
“Let us imagine a round stone which encounters another. The first stone, through some power or force, we say, causes the second stone to move.”
“Yes, so much is obvious.”
“The first thing we notice is that the cause and effect are contiguous, this particular event being contiguous in time and space.”
“Indeed. We may also note, Socrates, that there is a regular succession between cause and effect. That is that a cause always precedes its effect.”
“Why yes, Epistimonas, very astute. And what else?”
“And lastly, we may say that a cause and effect have a necessary connection betwixt one another.”
“And this is certain?”
“Why yes, of course. In every instance in which we observe one stone to contact another we always have observed one stone to impart motion to another.”
“And always will?”
“And always will. It is so certain as to say that there is a necessary connection between the contact and the motion.”
“And it is certain because you have observed this necessary connection?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“You have observed the contact of one stone causing motion in the other?”
“Nothing could be more obvious, Socrates.”
“Well, Epistimonas, I must admit the matter is not so readily obvious to me. You must possess some peculiar sense which I lack, since wrack my brain as I may, I cannot in any instance convince myself that I have ever observed cause.”
“Please explain, Socrates.”
“Think of our stones. What we in fact observe, Epistimonas, is one stone moving, then the stones becoming contiguous in space, and shortly thereafter the other stone begins to move. Is this what you mean when you say we observe cause in events?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So we have said that we may observe cause in an object when there is contiguity in space or time between cause and effect and when there is a succession of one event from another.”
“Expressly so.”
“Then imagine me, small insignificant Socrates, to ride upon the gait of a titan. Imagine, before the titan takes a step, I gently knock on its foot. Can we truly say that we have observed Socrates to have caused motion in the titan?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Socrates. There is a difference between observing an event to be contiguous and successive, and observing an event to be caused. In the first instance we observe a stone to cause motion in another, in the second we merely observe a knock before the titan happens to take a step. But it is clearly not you who has caused the motion.”
“Well for the life of me, Epistimonas, I cannot see what you mean. If you truly observe cause in the former interaction and not the latter, I must think you possess the perceptiveness of wide-eyed Athena, because in both instances I observe a comparable state of affairs, and in neither can I observe anything which I may label as cause.”
“What you fail to realize, Socrates, is that since we have always observed motion in one stone to impart motion in another, then this regularity of association is what is needed to say we have observed cause.”
“Why, Epistimonas! You were keeping this secret determination from me! So, what we shall say now, is that contiguity, succession, and a constant conjunction between one object and another is what gives rise to this idea of cause and effect. Is this so?”
“This is what we have agreed.”
“Very well, let us, once again, ride upon the foot of our titan. Imagine since the monster’s birth I have attached myself to its foot, and before every step it takes I gentle knock upon it. If you were to carefully observe the life of this titan, you would see poor old Socrates—as we have admitted by our criteria—to be causing motion in the titan!”
“If this be our idea of cause, so be it. But for myself I cannot find satisfaction in thinking it an idea of any value, since it leads us to things we manifestly cannot accept, such as insignificant actions imparting motion in titans. But I do not mean to leave you crestfallen, Epistimonas, so please don’t look that way. We may still be able to save our idea of causation, if we prove this principle: that instances of which we have had no experience must resemble those of which we have had experience. That is to say that nature is confined in such a way as to continue always uniformly the same.”
“Well will it be possible to prove, Socrates? Because by what you have already said I don’t see how it shall. To prove this principle by demonstrative processes would seem to be impossible, since as we have said, there are an infinitude of possibilities to observe, and the only way to bypass these infinities would be to invoke the very principle which is in question. And to prove this principle using our second faculty, that of reason, also seems a remote possibility. There is nothing contradictory in the idea of a nonuniform nature. The idea is, strictly speaking, logically consistent, since we can conceive nonuniformity to be a property of nature without negating itself.”
“Well said, Epistimonas! It is only that we have formed a habit of observing nature to behave uniformly that we have insisted upon its necessity. That is to say, that our principle that nature continues always uniformly the same can only be assented to by a habit of thinking it to be the case, and never by experience or reason. And to this principle we may add all our beliefs. We have always observed the sun to rise in the morning, but to suppose it will rise the same tomorrow, can never be logically or demonstrably founded. We have always observed eggs to come from chickens, and jokes to cause smiles, and harm to cause pain, but this is merely because we have formed a habit in our minds of associations between these objects. Tomorrow a chicken’s egg may come from a goat and telling a joke may cause the moon to disintegrate. And the only reason we feel these latter associations absurd is simply because these habits of association are ill-formed in our minds. Our beliefs are simply a species of ideas which feel more strongly than so-called fictitious ideas. But we must never mistake this feeling of vivacity as an indicator of some greater truth or hidden connection. our beliefs are derived entirely from habit—never from reason, and never from experience.”
“If what we have said now is true, Socrates—and, even though I am repulsed by the idea, I cannot find error in your conclusions—then by the gods no one will ever be able to live happily and productively again. Not only am I incapable of speaking intelligently about the probability of the sun rising tomorrow, but I am rendered ignorant on the great host of empirical conclusions. Bread may have nourished me yesterday, but tomorrow it may cause transmogrification; stones may no longer impart motion but turn one another into bundles of flowers. Reason, experience, have no bearing on these matters, as it now seems to be. I am, I say, utterly disconsolate about any future determination.”
Yes, Epistimonas, what you say about our predicament pertaining to uncertainty is true. We believe the sun will rise tomorrow, not because of any foreknowledge of its necessity, but merely because we feel it to be so. Philosophers, astronomers, engineers, are artists too, whose principles and arguments are determined—like the colors chosen for a painting—by our taste and sentiment. We may be certain of these two principles: that there is nothing in any object, considered in itself, which can afford us a reason for drawing a conclusion beyond it, and that even after the observation of the frequent or constant conjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference concerning any object beyond those of which we have had experience. And through these principles we see that most of human knowledge is unfounded, unable to be verified in any way. And yet, Epistimonas, though we have maintained the most rigorous skepticism that philosophy requires of us, we see that we cannot in practice believe what is so clearly true. For though our philosophy has shown us the irrationality of believing in self, time and space, causation, and so on, we are forced to take all of these ideas as presuppositions not for just any future philosophy, but for any productive enterprise.”
“What, then, shall we do to extricate ourselves from this predicament, Socrates?”
“Why there is nothing to be done, Epistimonas. Put up philosophy, I say, or treat it the same as a hobby or game. Stick to tending sheep and you shall have lived a complete life.”
I’m not a philosopher, so I’m sure there’s a few mistakes in my reasoning. Most of these ideas were borrowed from Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature. Peace.
antintheagora 