philosophy

1

Meditations 1 & 2 by René Descartes (1641)

translated by John Cottingham (1984)

FIRST MEDITATION

What can be called into doubt

Some years ago I was struck by the large number of falsehoods that I had accepted as true

in my childhood, and by the highly doubtful nature of the whole edifice that I had

subsequently based on them. I realized that it was necessary, once in the course of my

life, to demolish everything completely and start again right from the foundations if I

wanted to establish anything at all in the sciences that was stable and likely to last. But

the task looked an enormous one, and I began to wait until I should reach a mature

enough age to ensure that no subsequent time of life would be more suitable for tackling

such inquiries. This led me to put the project off for so long that I would now be to blame

if by pondering over it any further I wasted the time still left for carrying it out. So today

I have expressly rid my mind of all worries and arranged for myself a clear stretch of free

time. I am here quite alone, and at last I will devote myself sincerely and without

reservation to the general demolition of my opinions.

But to accomplish this, it will not be necessary for me to show that all my opinions are

false, which is something I could perhaps never manage. Reason now leads me to think

that I should hold back my assent from opinions which are not completely certain and

indubitable just as carefully as I do from those which are patently false. So, for the

purpose of rejecting all my opinions, it will be enough if I find in each of them at least

some reason for doubt. And to do this I will not need to run through them all individually,

which would be an endless task. Once the foundations of a building are undermined,

anything built on them collapses of its own accord; so I will go straight for the basic

principles on which all my former beliefs rested.

Whatever I have up till now accepted as most true I have acquired either from the senses

or through the senses. But from time to time I have found that the senses deceive, and it is

prudent never to trust completely those who have deceived us even once.

Yet although the senses occasionally deceive us with respect to objects which are very

small or in the distance, there are many other beliefs about which doubt is quite

impossible, even though they are derived from the senses—for example, that I am here,

sitting by the fire, wearing a winter dressing-gown, holding this piece of paper in my

hands, and so on. Again, how could it be denied that these hands or this whole body are

mine? Unless perhaps I were to liken myself to madmen, whose brains are so damaged by

the persistent vapors of melancholia that they firmly maintain they are kings when they

are paupers, or say they are dressed in purple when they are naked, or that their heads are

made of earthenware, or that they are pumpkins, or made of glass. But such people are

insane, and I would be thought equally mad if I took anything from them as a model for

myself.

2

A brilliant piece of reasoning! As if I were not a man who sleeps at night, and regularly

has all the same experiences1 while asleep as madmen do when awake—indeed

sometimes even more improbable ones. How often, asleep at night, am I convinced of

just such familiar events—that I am here in my dressing-gown, sitting by the fire—when

in fact I am lying undressed in bed! Yet at the moment my eyes are certainly wide awake

when I look at this piece of paper; I shake my head and it is not asleep; as I stretch out

and feel my hand I do so deliberately, and I know what I am doing. All this would not

happen with such distinctness to someone asleep. Indeed! As if I did not remember other

occasions when I have been tricked by exactly similar thoughts while asleep! As I think

about this more carefully, I see plainly that there are never any sure signs by means of

which being awake can be distinguished from being asleep. The result is that I begin to

feel dazed, this very feeling only reinforces the notion that I may be asleep.

Suppose then that I am dreaming, and that these particulars—that my eyes are open, that I

am moving my head and stretching out my hands—are not true. Perhaps, indeed, I do not

even have such hands or such a body at all. Nonetheless, it must surely be admitted that

the visions which come in sleep are like paintings, which must have been fashioned in the

likeness of things that are real, and hence that at least these general kinds of things—

eyes, head, hands and the body as a whole—are things which are not imaginary but are

real and exist. For even when painters try to create sirens and satyrs with the most

extraordinary bodies, they cannot give them natures which are new in all respects; they

simply jumble up the limbs of different animals. Or if perhaps they manage to think up

something so new that nothing remotely similar has ever been seen before—something

which is therefore completely fictitious and unreal—at least the colors used in the

composition must be real. By similar reasoning, although these general kinds of things—

eyes, head, hands and so on—could be imaginary, it must at least be admitted that certain

other even simpler and more universal things are real. These are as it were the real colors

from which we form all the images of things, whether true or false, that occur in our

thought.

This class appears to include corporeal nature in general, and its extension; the shape of

extended things; the quantity, or size and number of these things; the place in which they

may exist, the time through which they may endure,2 and so on.

So a reasonable conclusion from this might be that physics, astronomy, medicine, and all

other disciplines which depend on the study of composite things, are doubtful; while

arithmetic, geometry and other subjects of this kind, which deal only with the simplest

and most general things, regardless of whether they really exist in nature or not, contain

something certain and indubitable. For whether I am awake or asleep, two and three

added together are five, and a square has no more than four sides. It seems impossible

that such transparent truths should incur any suspicion of being false.

And yet firmly rooted in my mind is the long-standing opinion that there is an omnipotent

God who made me the kind of creature that I am. How do I know that he has not brought

1 ‘... and in my dreams regularly represent to myself the same things’ (French version). 2 ‘... the place where they are, the time which measures their duration’ (French version).

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it about that there is no earth, no sky, no extended thing, no shape, no size, no place,

while at the same time ensuring that all these things appear to me to exist just as they do

now? What is more, just as I consider that others sometimes go astray in cases where they

think they have the most perfect knowledge, how do I know that God has not brought it

about that I too go wrong every time I add two and three or count the sides of a square, or

in some even simpler matter, if that is imaginable? But perhaps God would not have

allowed me to be deceived in this way, since he is said to be supremely good. But if it

were inconsistent with his goodness to have created me such that I am deceived all the

time, it would seem equally foreign to his goodness to allow me to be deceived even

occasionally; yet this last assertion cannot be made.3

Perhaps there may be some who would prefer to deny the existence of so powerful a God

rather than believe that everything else is uncertain. Let us not argue with them, but grant

them that everything said about God is a fiction. According to their supposition, then, I

have arrived at my present state by fate or chance or a continuous chain of events, or by

some other means; yet since deception and error seem to be imperfections, the less

powerful they make my original cause, the more likely it is that I am so imperfect as to be

deceived all the time. I have no answer to these arguments, but am finally compelled to

admit that there is not one of my former beliefs about which a doubt may not properly be

raised; and this is not a flippant or ill-considered conclusion, but is based on powerful and

well thought-out reasons. So in the future I must withhold my assent from these former

beliefs just as carefully as I would from obvious falsehoods, if I want to discover any

certainty.4

But it is not enough merely to have noticed this; I must make an effort to remember it.

My habitual opinions keep coming back, and, despite my wishes, they capture my belief,

which is as it were bound over to them as a result of long occupation and the law of

custom. I shall never get out of the habit of confidently assenting to these opinions, so

long as I suppose them to be what in fact they are, namely highly probable opinions—

opinions which, despite the fact that they are in a sense doubtful, as has just been shown,

it is still much more reasonable to believe than to deny. In view of this, I think it will be a

good plan to turn my will in completely the opposite direction and deceive myself, by

pretending for a time that these former opinions are utterly false and imaginary. I shall do

this until the weight of preconceived opinion is counter-balanced and the distorting

influence of habit no longer prevents my judgment from perceiving things correctly. In

the meantime, I know that no danger or error will result from my plan, and that I cannot

possibly go too far in my distrustful attitude. This is because the task now in hand does

not involve action but merely the acquisition of knowledge.

I will suppose therefore that not God, who is supremely good and the source of truth, but

rather some malicious demon of the utmost power and cunning has employed all his

energies in order to deceive me. I shall think that the sky, the air, the earth, colors,

shapes, sounds and all external things are merely the delusions of dreams which he has

devised to ensnare my judgment. I shall consider myself as not having hands or eyes, or

3 ‘... yet I cannot doubt that he does allow this’ (French version). 4 ‘... in the sciences’ (added in French version).

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flesh, or blood or senses, but as falsely believing that I have all these things. I shall

stubbornly and firmly persist in this meditation; and, even if it is not in my power to

know any truth, I shall at least do what is in my power,5 that is, resolutely guard against

assenting to any falsehoods, so that the deceiver, however powerful and cunning he may

be, will be unable to impose on me in the slightest degree. But this is an arduous

undertaking, and a kind of laziness brings me back to normal life. I am like a prisoner

who is enjoying an imaginary freedom while asleep; as he begins to suspect that he is

asleep, he dreads being woken up, and goes along with the pleasant illusion as long as he

can. In the same way, I happily slide back into my old opinions and dread being shaken

out of them, for fear that my peaceful sleep may be followed by hard labor when I wake,

and that I shall have to toil not in the light, but amid the inextricable darkness of the

problems I have now raised.

SECOND MEDITATION

The nature of the human mind, and how it is better known than the body

So serious are the doubts into which I have been thrown as a result of yesterday’s

meditation that I can neither put them out of my mind nor see any way of resolving them.

It feels as if I have fallen unexpectedly into a deep whirlpool which tumbles me around

so that I can neither stand on the bottom nor swim up to the top. Nevertheless I will make

an effort and once more attempt the same path which I started on yesterday. Anything

which admits of the slightest doubt I will set aside just as if I had found it to be wholly

false; and I will proceed in this way until I recognize something certain, or, if nothing

else, until I at least recognize for certain that there is no certainty. Archimedes used to

demand just one firm and immovable point in order to shift the entire earth; so I too can

hope for great things if I manage to find just one thing, however slight, that is certain and

unshakeable.

I will suppose then, that everything I see is spurious. I will believe that my memory tells

me lies, and that none of the things that it reports ever happened. I have no senses. Body,

shape, extension, movement and place are chimeras. So what remains true? Perhaps just

the one fact that nothing is certain.

Yet apart from everything I have just listed, how do I know that there is not something

else which does not allow even the slightest occasion for doubt? Is there not a God, or

whatever I may call him, who puts into me6 the thoughts I am now having? But why do I

think this, since I myself may perhaps be the author of these thoughts? In that case am not

I, at least, something? But I have just said that I have no senses and no body. This is the

sticking point: what follows from this? Am I not so bound up with a body and with

senses that I cannot exist without them? But I have convinced myself that there is

absolutely nothing in the world, no sky, no earth, no minds, no bodies. Does it now

5 ‘... nevertheless it is in my power to suspend my judgment’ (French version). 6 ‘... puts into my mind’ (French version).

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follow that I too do not exist? No: if I convinced myself of something7 then I certainly

existed. But there is a deceiver of supreme power and cunning who is deliberately and

constantly deceiving me. In that case I too undoubtedly exist, if he is deceiving me; and

let him deceive me as much as he can, he will never bring it about that I am nothing so

long as I think that I am something. So after considering everything very thoroughly, I

must finally conclude that this proposition, I am, I exist, is necessarily true whenever it is

put forward by me or conceived in my mind.

But I do not yet have a sufficient understanding of what this ‘I’ is, that now necessarily

exists. So I must be on my guard against carelessly taking something else to be this ‘I’,

and so making a mistake in the very item of knowledge that I maintain is the most certain

and evident of all. I will therefore go back and meditate on what I originally believed

myself to be, before I embarked on this present train of thought. I will then subtract

anything capable of being weakened, even minimally, by the arguments now introduced,

so that what is left at the end may be exactly and only what is certain and unshakeable.

What then did I formerly think I was? A man. But what is a man? Shall I say ‘a rational

animal’? No; for then I should have to inquire what an animal is, what rationality is, and

in this way one question would lead me down the slope to other harder ones, and I do not

now have the time to waste on subtleties of this kind. Instead I propose to concentrate on

what came into my thoughts spontaneously and quite naturally whenever I used to

consider what I was. Well, the first thought to come to mind was that I had a face, hands,

arms and the whole mechanical structure of limbs which can be seen in a corpse, and

which I called the body. The next thought was that I was nourished, that I moved about,

and that I engaged in sense-perception and thinking; and these actions I attributed to the

soul. But as to the nature of this soul, either I did not think about this or else I imagined it

to be something tenuous, like a wind or fire or ether, which permeated my more solid

parts. As to the body, however, I had no doubts about it, but thought I knew its nature

distinctly. If I had tried to describe the mental conception I had of it, I would have

expressed it as follows: by a body I understand whatever has a determinable shape and a

definable location and can occupy a space in such a way as to exclude any other body; it

can be perceived by touch, sight, hearing, taste or smell, and can be moved in various

ways, not by itself but by whatever else comes into contact with it. For, according to my

judgment, the power of self-movement, like the power of sensation or of thought, was

quite foreign to the nature of a body; indeed, it was a source of wonder to me that certain

bodies were found to contain faculties of this kind.

But what shall I now say that I am, when I am supposing that there is some supremely

powerful and, if it is permissible to say so, malicious deceiver, who is deliberately trying

to trick me in every way he can? Can I now assert that I possess even the most

insignificant of all the attributes which I have just said belong to the nature of a body? I

scrutinize them, think about them, go over them again, but nothing suggests itself; it is

tiresome and pointless to go through the list once more. But what about the attributes I

assigned to the soul? Nutrition or movement? Since now I do not have a body, these are

mere fabrications. Sense-perception? This surely does not occur without a body, and

7 ‘. . . or thought anything at all’ (French version).

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besides, when asleep I have appeared to perceive through the senses many things which I

afterwards realized I did not perceive through the senses at all. Thinking? At last I have

discovered it—thought; this alone is inseparable from me. I am, I exist—that is certain.

But for how long? For as long as I am thinking. For it could be that were I totally to cease

from thinking, I should totally cease to exist. At present I am not admitting anything

except what is necessarily true. I am, then, in the strict sense only a thing that thinks;8 that

is, I am a mind, or intelligence, or intellect, or reason—words whose meaning I have

been ignorant of until now. But for all that I am a thing which is real and which truly

exists. But what kind of a thing? As I have just said—a thinking thing.

What else am I? I will use my imagination.9 I am not that structure of limbs which is

called a human body. I am not even some thin vapor which permeates the limbs—a wind,

fire, air, breath, or whatever I depict in my imagination; for these are things which I have

supposed to be nothing. Let this supposition stand;10 for all that I am still something. And

yet may it not perhaps be the case that these very things which I am supposing to be

nothing, because they are unknown to me, are in reality identical with the ‘I’ of which I

am aware? I do not know, and for the moment I shall not argue the point, since I can

make judgments only about things which are known to me. I know that I exist; the

question is, what is this ‘I’ that I know? If the ‘I’ is understood strictly as we have been

taking it, then it is quite certain that knowledge of it does not depend on things of whose

existence I am as yet unaware; so it cannot depend on any of the things which I invent in

my imagination. And this very word ‘invent’ shows me my mistake. It would indeed be a

case of fictitious invention if I used my imagination to establish that I was something or

other; for imagining is simply contemplating the shape or image of a corporeal thing. Yet

now I know for certain both that I exist and at the same time that all such images and, in

general, everything relating to the nature of body, could be mere dreams <and chimeras>.

Once this point has been grasped, to say ‘I will use my imagination to get to know more

distinctly what I am’ would seem to be as silly as saying ‘I am now awake, and see some

truth; but since my vision is not yet clear enough, I will deliberately fall asleep so that my

dreams may provide a truer and clearer representation.’ I thus realize that none of the

things that the imagination enables me to grasp is at all relevant to this knowledge of

myself which I possess, and that the mind must therefore be most carefully diverted from

such things11 if it is to perceive its own nature as distinctly as possible.

But what then am I? A thing that thinks. What is that? A thing that doubts, understands,

affirms, denies, is willing, is unwilling, and also imagines and has sensory perceptions.

8 The word ‘only’ is most naturally taken as going with ‘a thing that thinks’, and this interpretation is

followed in the French version. When discussing this passage with Gassendi, however, Descartes suggests

that he meant the ‘only’ to govern ‘in the strict sense’. 9 ‘. . . to see if I am not something more’ (added in French version). 10 Lat. maneat (‘let it stand’), first edition. The second edition has the indicative manet: ‘The proposition

still stands, viz. that I am nonetheless something.’ The French version reads: ‘without changing this

supposition, I find that I am still certain that I am something’. 11 ‘... from this manner of conceiving things’ (French version).

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This is a considerable list, if everything on it belongs to me. But does it? Is it not one and

the same who is now doubting almost everything, who nonetheless understands some

things, who affirms that this one thing is true, denies everything else, desires to know

more, is unwilling to be deceived, imagines many things even involuntarily, and is aware

of many things which apparently come from the senses? Are not all these things just as

true as the fact that I exist, even if I am asleep all the time, and even if he who created me

is doing all he can to deceive me? Which of all these activities is distinct from my

thinking? Which of them can be said to be separate from myself? The fact that it is I who

am doubting and understanding and willing is so evident that I see no way of making it

any clearer. But it is also the case that the ‘I’ who imagines is the same ‘I’. For even if, as

I have supposed, none of the objects of imagination are real, the power of imagination is

something which really exists and is part of my thinking. Lastly, it is also the same ‘I’

who has sensory perceptions, or is aware of bodily things as it were through the senses.

For example, I am now seeing light, hearing a noise, feeling heat. But I am asleep, so all

this is false. Yet I certainly seem to see, to hear, and to be warmed. This cannot be false;

what is called ‘having a sensory perception’ is strictly just this, and in this restricted sense

of the term it is simply thinking.

From all this I am beginning to have a rather better understanding of what I am. But it

still appears—and I cannot stop thinking this—that the corporeal things of which images

are formed in my thought, and which the senses investigate, are known with much more

distinctness than this puzzling ‘I’ which cannot be pictured in the imagination. And yet it

is surely surprising that I should have a more distinct grasp of things which I realize are

doubtful, unknown and foreign to me, than I have of that which is true and known—my

own self. But I see what it is: my mind enjoys wandering off and will not yet submit to

being restrained within the bounds of truth. Very well then; just this once let us give it a

completely free rein, so that after a while, when it is time to tighten the reins, it may more

readily submit to being curbed.

Let us consider the things which people commonly think they understand most distinctly

of all; that is, the bodies which we touch and see. I do not mean bodies in general—for

general perceptions are apt to be somewhat more confused—but one particular body. Let

us take, for example, this piece of wax. It has just been taken from the honeycomb; it has

not yet quite lost the taste of the honey; it retains some of the scent of the flowers from

which it was gathered; its color, shape and size are plain to see; it is hard, cold and can be

handled without difficulty; if you rap it with your knuckle it makes a sound. In short, it

has everything which appears necessary to enable a body to be known as distinctly as

possible. But even as I speak, I put the wax by the fire, and look: the residual taste is

eliminated, the smell goes away, the color changes, the shape is lost, the size increases; it

becomes liquid and hot; you can hardly touch it, and if you strike it, it no longer makes a

sound. But does the same wax remain? It must be admitted that it does; no one denies it,

no one thinks otherwise. So what was it in the wax that I understood with such

distinctness? Evidently none of the features which I arrived at by means of the senses; for

whatever came under taste, smell, sight, touch or hearing has now altered—yet the wax

remains.

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Perhaps the answer lies in the thought which now comes to my mind; namely, the wax

was not after all the sweetness of the honey, or the fragrance of the flowers, or the

whiteness, or the shape, or the sound, but was rather a body which presented itself to me

in these various forms a little while ago, but which now exhibits different ones. But what

exactly is it that I am now imagining? Let us concentrate, take away everything which

does not belong to the wax, and see what is left: merely something extended, flexible and

changeable. But what is meant here by ‘flexible’ and ‘changeable’? Is it what I picture in

my imagination: that this piece of wax is capable of changing from a round shape to a

square shape, or from a square shape to a triangular shape? Not at all; for I can grasp that

the wax is capable of countless changes of this kind, yet I am unable to run through this

immeasurable number of changes in my imagination, from which it follows that it is not

the faculty of imagination that gives me my grasp of the wax as flexible and changeable.

And what is meant by ‘extended’? Is the extension of the wax also unknown? For it

increases if the wax melts, increases again if it boils, and is greater still if the heat is

increased. I would not be making a correct judgment about the nature of wax unless I

believed it capable of being extended in many more different ways than I will ever

encompass in my imagination. I must therefore admit that the nature of this piece of wax

is in no way revealed by my imagination, but is perceived by the mind alone. (I am

speaking of this particular piece of wax; the point is even clearer with regard to wax in

general.) But what is this wax which is perceived by the mind alone?12 It is of course the

same wax which I see, which I touch, which I picture in my imagination, in short the

same wax which I thought it to be from the start. And yet, and here is the point, the

perception I have of it13 is a case not of vision or touch or imagination—nor has it ever

been, despite previous appearances—but of purely mental scrutiny; and this can be

imperfect and confused, as it was before, or clear and distinct as it is now, depending on

how carefully I concentrate on what the wax consists in.

But as I reach this conclusion I am amazed at how weak and prone to error my mind is.

For although I am thinking about these matters within myself, silently and without

speaking, nonetheless the actual words bring me up short, and I am almost tricked by

ordinary ways of talking. We say that we see the wax itself, if it is there before us, not

that we judge it to be there from its color or shape; and this might lead me to conclude

without more ado that knowledge of the wax comes from what the eye sees, and not from

the scrutiny of the mind alone. But then if I look out of the window and see men crossing

the square, as I just happen to have done, I normally say that I see the men themselves,

just as I say that I see the wax. Yet do I see any more than hats and coats which could

conceal automatons? I judge that they are men. And so something which I thought I was

seeing with my eyes is in fact grasped solely by the faculty of judgment which is in my

mind.

However, one who wants to achieve knowledge above the ordinary level should feel

ashamed at having taken ordinary ways of talking as a basis for doubt. So let us proceed,

and consider on which occasion my perception of the nature of the wax was more perfect

and evident. Was it when I first looked at it, and believed I knew it by my external

12 ‘... which can be conceived only by the understanding or the mind’ (French version). 13 ‘... or rather the act whereby it is perceived’ (added in French version).

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senses, or at least by what they call the ‘common’ sense—that is, the power of

imagination? Or is my knowledge more perfect now, after a more careful investigation of

the nature of the wax and of the means by which it is known? Any doubt on this issue

would clearly be foolish; for what distinctness was there in my earlier perception? Was

there anything in it which an animal could not possess? But when I distinguish the wax

from its outward forms—take the clothes off, as it were, and consider it naked—then

although my judgment may still contain errors, at least my perception now requires a

human mind.

But what am I to say about this mind, or about myself? (So far, remember, I am not

admitting that there is anything else in me except a mind.) What, I ask, is this ‘I’ which

seems to perceive the wax so distinctly? Surely my awareness of my own self is not

merely much truer and more certain than my awareness of the wax, but also much more

distinct and evident. For if I judge that the wax exists from the fact that I see it, clearly

this same fact entails much more evidently that I myself also exist. It is possible that what

I see is not really the wax; it is possible that I do not even have eyes with which to see

anything. But when I see, or think I see (I am not here distinguishing the two), it is

simply not possible that I who am now thinking am not something. By the same token, if

I judge that the wax exists from the fact that I touch it, the same result follows, namely

that I exist. If I judge that it exists from the fact that I imagine it, or for any other reason,

exactly the same thing follows. And the result that I have grasped in the case of the wax

may be applied to everything else located outside me. Moreover, if my perception of the

wax seemed more distinct14 after it was established not just by sight or touch but by many

other considerations, it must be admitted that I now know myself even more distinctly.

This is because every consideration whatsoever which contributes to my perception of the

wax, or of any other body, cannot but establish even more effectively the nature of my

own mind. But besides this, there is so much else in the mind itself which can serve to

make my knowledge of it more distinct, that it scarcely seems worth going through the

contributions made by considering bodily things.

I see that without any effort I have now finally got back to where I wanted. I now know

that even bodies are not strictly perceived by the senses or the faculty of imagination but

by the intellect alone, and that this perception derives not from their being touched or

seen but from their being understood; and in view of this I know plainly that I can

achieve an easier and more evident perception of my own mind than of anything else. But

since the habit of holding on to old opinions cannot be set aside so quickly, I should like

to stop here and meditate for some time on this new knowledge I have gained, so as to fix

it more deeply in my memory.

14 The French version has ‘more clear and distinct’ and, at the end of this sentence, ‘more evidently,

distinctly and clearly’.