Spinoza and the Stoics: Power, Politics and the Passions

Spinoza and the Stoics Power, Politics and the Passions

Also available from Continuum: Descartes and the Metaphysics of Human Nature, by Justin Skirry Kierkegaard’s Analysis of Radical Evil, by David A. Roberts Nietzsche and the Greeks, by Dale Wilkerson Rousseau’s Theory of Freedom, by Matthew Simpson Leibniz Reinterpreted: The Harmony of Things, by Lloyd Strickland Popper’s Theory of Science, by Carlos Garcia Dialectic of Romanticism, by David Roberts and Peter Murphy Tolerance and the Ethical Life, by Andrew Fiala Aquinas and the Ship of Theseus, by Christopher M. Brown Demands of Taste in Kant’s Aesthetics, by Brent Kalar Philosophy of Miracles, by David Corner Platonism, Music and the Listener’s Share, by Christopher Norris St Augustine and the Theory of Just War, by John M. Mattox St Augustine of Hippo, by R.W Dyson Wittgenstein’s Religious Point of View, by Tim Labron

Spinoza and the Stoics Power, Politics and the Passions Firmin DeBrabander

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www.continuumbooks.com # Firmin DeBrabander 2007 First published 2007 Paperback edition 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. The article ‘Stoic Realpolitik’ will appear in the September issue of IPQ 46.3, pp. 277–92. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN–13: HB: 978–0–8264–9393–4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Typeset by YHT Ltd, London Printed and bound by Lightning Source

Contents Preface

vii

Abbreviations

ix

Introduction 1 The Foundation of Perfectionism 1.1 Pantheism and determinism 1.2 Vital endeavour and the ground of virtue 1.3 The diagnosis of the passions 1.4 A this-worldly salvation

1 9 9 13 17 22

2

Psychotherapy and Virtue 2.1 ‘What is in my power to do’ 2.2 Agreeing with nature

25 25 36

3

The Sociality of Virtue 3.1 Spinoza’s critique of perfectionism 3.2 ‘Nothing is more advantageous to man than man’ 3.3 Sociality and the diffusion of enlightenment

47 47 56 62

4

Stoic Political Reason 4.1 Cosmopolis and political duty 4.2 The predicament of politics 4.3 The apotheosis of the free man

67 67 71 79

5

Reason of State 5.1 State of nature, nature of state 5.2 Political right and the most natural state 5.3 The highest form of devotion 5.4 Spinoza’s liberalism

6

85 85 91 95 100

The Philosopher in the State 6.1 Christ, the Apostles and Solomon: models of public philosophers? 6.2 Philosophical caution, political interest Conclusion

105 105 116 127

Notes Bibliography

133 143

Index

149

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Preface

Spinoza has simultaneously earned the titles of atheist and mystic, and this paradox, when I first encountered it, immediately stoked my interest in him. In my years researching and teaching the history of philosophy, I have yet to encounter a figure as complex, profound and timeless as Spinoza. This work, I will admit from the beginning, is largely an exercise in trying to understand Spinoza better. I have attempted to understand him through an approach that is often recognized in the history of philosophy and in Spinoza scholarship, but has never been explicitly undertaken. One is hard pressed to discover a figure in the history of philosophy as impressed and influenced by Stoicism as Spinoza, and they are a good pairing indeed, as the Stoics, too, are famous for inciting similar perplexity and controversy throughout the ages. I suppose the present work emerged out of a recognition that Spinoza and the Stoics are kindred spirits of sorts, and that understanding one can only help illuminate the other. Two articles have been drawn from material in this book. One piece, entitled ‘Psychotherapy and Moral Perfection: Spinoza and the Stoics on the Prospect of Happiness’, appears in the volume Stoicism: Traditions and Transformations, edited by Steven Strange and Jack Zupko, and published by Cambridge University Press in 2003. The other piece, entitled ‘Stoic Realpolitik’, appears in the Fall 2006 issue of International Philosophical Quarterly. I must thank Herman DeDijn at the Institute for Philosophy at Leuven, who introduced me to Spinoza, and Steven Strange at Emory University, my first docent in all matters Stoic and Hellenistic. Dennis DesChene directed me in fashioning this particular project, and Ann Hartle provided many of the challenging questions that shaped my approach to the topic. Many thanks are owed to Paul Bagley at Loyola College of Maryland, too, for his generous conversations, consultations and general help in ironing out this project. I am also very grateful to Louis Dupre´ of Yale University for his illuminating comments on this manuscript as it was in the works, and for his professional guidance throughout the years. Wilfried ver Eecke at Georgetown University has been especially helpful throughout this project as well, in matters pertaining to psychotherapy in particular and to the ‘business’ of philosophy in general.

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Preface

Thanks must also go to another very wise philosopher who has helped me throughout the years, with this particular topic and also with living in general (as philosophers are wont to do); namely, my father. We have spent countless car rides hashing out the finer points of metaphysics, mysticism, atheism, fundamentalism, psychotherapy and democracy. I discussed this project with my father through its many phases, and he knows its evolution all too well – he helped guide much of it. He inspired me to become a full-time philosopher (for better or for worse!) and I thank him for that. I am very grateful to another great booster in my life, my mother, who patiently read the dense and circuitous early incarnations of this work, and equally offered suggestions for its direction. She proved an invaluable resource on issues of style and syntax, in this project and countless others before it, and thus I owe her for making me the writer that I am. A student of mine once remarked upon reading Nietzsche that his wisdom and insight was deficient, since he never married and had children. I mean absolutely no insult to Nietzsche – or to Spinoza, who was also a bachelor – but I believe I concur. My wife and my children have provided me with immense inspiration, support and caring throughout this project. Spinoza wrote on love, hope, fear, desire, pleasure, pain, and ‘man’s advantage to man’, and I am grateful to my family for providing insight into these topics such as Spinoza himself never knew. I am a better philosopher thanks to my family – that I have no doubt about. I am especially indebted to my wife, however, Yara Ann Cheikh. I could not have written this without her help, support and encouragement. She asked the tough questions, and wrenched me from the clouds of speculation to consider the difficult practical consequences and implications of Spinozism and Stoicism, and philosophy in general. Thus, she is to be credited with making this piece humane, perhaps the greatest feature any work of philosophy could hope to attain.

Abbreviations

Spinoza: E TEI TP TTP

The Ethics Tractatus on the Emendation of the Intellect Tractatus Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus

The Stoics: De Fin De Off TD DL Disc Ench Const Polit L&S De Con Ep

Cicero, De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum Cicero, De Officiis Cicero, Tusculanae Disputationes Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers Epictetus, Discourses Epictetus, Enchiridion Lipsius, Two Bookes of Constancie Lipsius, Sixe Bookes of Politickes Long and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers Seneca, De Constantia Seneca, Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales

Other: Lev

Hobbes, Leviathan

Note: Unless otherwise specified, all translations from French commentary are my own.

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Introduction

Hegel considers Stoicism a stage of human consciousness, and indeed, so it must seem, as Stoicism has enjoyed several prominent resurgences in popularity throughout the ages. The term ‘stoic’ is even engrained in our colloquial language, denoting extraordinary inner fortitude that enables a person to endure external hardship. This is certainly expressed in the Stoic claim that the wise man can be happy even on the rack. The prospect of such inner fortitude is perhaps the most obvious reason for Stoicism’s perpetual appeal. Stoicism enjoyed one such resurgence in early modern Europe, which may be attributed to the political instability that reigned due to the prolonged and pervasive wars of religion. One of the most popular moral and political theorists of this period, Justus Lipsius, for example, was drawn to Stoicism in the search for a prescription for constancy amidst public upheaval. In one respect then, Stoic virtue was esteemed for rather utilitarian value: it offers a method of steeling the individual. However, the early modern resurgence of Stoicism is equally attributed to the metaphysical outlook that grounds this method. With its doctrine that God is the inner rationale by which the universe operates, Stoicism provides the model of an immanent God. As such, the Stoics maintain, God is readily accessible to the human intellect. Such a doctrine resonated in the atmosphere of growing dissatisfaction with the Christian metaphysical – and ethical – framework. The medieval Christian account of God as transcendent and mysterious, as utterly different from his creation and beyond the grasp of human reason, ensures that priestly mediation is required if one would communicate with God and aspire to a happiness that is only fully realized in the after-life. Ecclesiastical abuses of power, and the religious wars they spawned engulfing the whole Christian tradition, compromised the moral authority of the medieval model. Luther’s reforms were largely prompted by a distrust of external authority and the conviction that the individual can access God – that a person can be his own church, if you will, and enjoy an immediate relationship with God. Stoicism resonates with the Reformation insofar as its metaphysics grounds a path to salvation that relies upon the individual’s resources alone:1 any rational being can intellectually access divine nature, and in the process attain a tranquility that can be enjoyed in the here and now.

2

Spinoza and the Stoics

This accessibility to the divine enables in turn the invincibility of Stoic virtue. In short, Stoicism commanded such large appeal thanks to its immanentist theology, and to its ascription of greater capability and responsibility to the individual. Baruch Spinoza was one such early modern philosopher drawn to the Stoics. Spinoza so emulates the spirit and structure of the Stoic system, in fact, that Giambattista Vico refers to the Stoics as the Spinozists of their day!2 But while most thinkers looked to Stoicism only to reinvigorate the Christian tradition, not threaten it, Spinoza demonstrates no similar charity – at least as far as the Ethics is concerned. In this, his most celebrated work, Spinoza departs from the Christian metaphysic, and famously subjects it to terrific mockery, decrying the superstition it elicits. The attempt to attribute a human will and mind to God has resulted in gross folly and violence, Spinoza maintains. Human happiness requires a new metaphysic, and Spinoza draws upon Stoicism towards this end. Spinoza lays out, in geometrical method, proofs for an immanent God and a determined universe. While these doctrines are not exclusively Stoic in themselves,3 Spinoza’s view that meditation upon pantheism and determinism comprises the core of psychotherapy, which is in turn the focus of ethics, strongly echoes the Stoic recipe. Spinoza aims to prescribe a path to happiness that entails intellectual union with God, and is discernible in nature and available to all. In this respect, Spinoza embraces the Stoic project. Furthermore, Spinoza embraces the spirit of Stoic psychotherapy,4 insofar as meditation upon pantheism and determinism supposedly delivers a radically new way of valuing external goods, and requires uncommon courage and resolve. External goods are indifferent to happiness, the Stoics maintain, and the individual must summon significant willpower to detach himself from his common allegiances. Accepting Spinoza’s worldview also demands exceptional courage. Hume declared Spinoza’s a monstrous philosophy, and so it must have seemed, especially in the face of the Christian picture: Spinoza’s universe lacks a personal God and any providential ordering that would accord the human being a special position in the universe. Therapy begins in disillusionment for Spinoza, and involves a difficult process of diminishing common attachments and aspirations. Though Spinoza and the Stoics diverge upon the precise nature of this disillusionment – the Stoic version effectively ushers in another illusion, Spinoza must say – it is so difficult, they agree, that it is only feasible for the fewest of the few. Such is the price, paradoxically, of an egalitarian, immanent happiness. Difficult to discern in the Stoic project, however, is the moral significance of politics, and indeed, the foundation of a political philosophy. It seems to me that the unique mark of the Stoic model of ethics, which

Introduction

3

distinguishes it from its Christian counterpart and stands out in the eyes of its sixteenth- and seventeenth-century audience, is that it is largely an individual endeavour. Christian ethics focuses on interpersonal behaviour in that it prescribes how I should treat my neighbours, towards the end of creating a charitable community pleasing to God and manifesting his goodness and glory. Stoic ethics focuses, rather, on transforming the contents of the individual’s mind, and as such it is a project that starts and finishes with the individual. This much seems implicit in their very concept of ethics as psychotherapy. The Stoics indeed call for a kind of charity or social justice, but, they maintain, of greatest importance through such work is the individual agent’s intention, that he select properly, i.e. rationally. Precisely because it is a victory achieved within the individual, and because consequences ultimately bear no moral import, Stoic happiness is attainable no matter the status of one’s environment. The Stoics attribute moral significance to the individual’s disposition alone, and discount that of interpersonal relations, which are part of the domain of things indifferent to virtue and happiness. The unfortunate result of this formula is that the significance or urgency of politics is difficult to conceive. The Stoic wise man is so radically different from the common run of people; he is as ‘rare as the phoenix’, the Stoics were fond of saying, and he only receives genuine favours from other wise men – gifts from anyone else are morally worthless. Such an account of the sage suggests a rift between philosophy and politics. Carrying on Socrates’ burden, the philosopher is an anomaly in the polis. The present work aims to examine the extent or possibility of such a rift in Spinoza’s philosophy, in light of an apparent Stoic pedigree that would suggest just that. This entails understanding Spinoza’s view of the nature of virtue in order to determine whether politics has a place within it, and what political concern Spinoza musters as a result. What does he consider to be the relation of politics to the moral life? Specifically, how does his political concern emerge from a path to happiness presented in terms of psychotherapy? Since his psychotherapy, as well as his theology and metaphysics underpinning that psychotherapy, bears the mark of Stoic influence, I engage these questions in the form of a critical dialogue with the Stoics. Concurrent to the first task, therefore, is that of gauging the nature and extent of Spinoza’s Stoicism. What insights or inspirations does Spinoza draw from the Stoics? What is the extent of his commitment to Stoic doctrine? How much of a Stoic is Spinoza after all? In particular, upon what point(s) does Spinoza diverge from the Stoics that would allow him to accord greater significance to politics? These questions point, finally, to the public status of the philosopher. Does the philosopher stand to gain anything from public life, and what is his proper public role? Or rather, what is proper public philosophical behaviour?

4

Spinoza and the Stoics

I have already mentioned that Spinoza and the Stoics disagree upon the content of therapeutic disillusionment, and a difference regarding the foundation of politics initially emerges here. The Stoic universe is determined, but providentially so. Psychotherapy succeeds in producing tranquillity thanks to the understanding that the universe is ultimately ordered for the benefit of human beings. Spinoza’s universe is hardly so friendly to the human spirit: it is determined in the manner of efficient causality, and man5 is determined like any other body in nature. Spinoza’s frank and uncompromising treatment of human nature means that persons are engaged in the pursuit of power like any other bodies. Spinoza defines the pursuit of power as the essence of all beings, and this proves to be a fundamentally social pursuit. Inherent to modal existence such as that of human beings is the constant threat of being overwhelmed by more powerful forces – being swallowed up by a greater modification of infinite substance, i.e. God or nature, to express it in Spinoza’s metaphysical language. Bodies achieve sufficient force to persist in being and augment their power only by combining forces with other bodies. ‘Agreement with nature’, which the Stoics identify as the moral telos, consists in selecting as nature or reason ordains. I ‘agree with nature’ in Spinoza’s sense, rather, when I unite with other bodies to produce a more potent composite body, so as to satisfy my natural endeavour for power more effectively. Reverence for greater power and the pursuit of individual power are themes constant throughout Spinoza’s philosophy. Many have wondered how Spinoza expects to derive joy, much less tranquillity, from his stark vision of reality. The answer lies, I believe, in his view that therapy involves the augmentation and expression of individual power. In this respect, what domain supports such an endeavour better than politics? And yet the very disillusionment Spinoza endorses threatens to undermine the foundation of politics. Such is the politically troubling heritage of Stoicism. Echoing the Stoic account, Spinoza’s philosopher displays extraordinary courage among his peers, and is smitten with a vision of God and the universe that is utterly alien – but also horrifying – to them. If his metaphysical vision is so radically different from that of his neighbours, surely his lifestyle requires unique sustenance and care. It would appear that the philosopher can gain little from his neighbours’ company, but on the contrary, lose much: if he should reveal his views, he risks incurring the wrath of his neighbours, who aim to protect their own comforting worldview. These concerns threaten the continuity between politics and philosophy, which is essentially the subject of the long-standing debate surrounding Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologico-Politicus.6 Remarkably, Spinoza’s TTP lacks the Ethics’ famously scathing critique of religion, but rather, invokes its social benefits and ability to deliver a form of salvation after all. These conclusions have been accused of insincerity, and Leo Strauss

Introduction

5

declares them a prime example of esoteric writing. This view typically rests on the premise that philosophical caution such as Spinoza displays in the TTP represents a political concern that extends only so far as the establishment of a secure environment where the philosopher may privately contemplate in peace. I aim to show that the philosopher’s political caution rests on an alternate premise, one that agrees with the estimation of politics Spinoza offers in the Ethics, and allows the philosopher to remain a thoroughly political animal. For, Spinoza’s philosophy is social to its very roots, in which respect it distinguishes itself most forcefully from the Cartesianism many consider the principle philosophical target of the Ethics.7 Spinoza is certainly disgusted with the Judaeo-Christian tradition, and he ultimately disapproves of Stoicism, too. However, his philosophical ire, directed towards both of these traditions, finds its primary and most consistent focus in Descartes. Descartes embodies the worst of both traditions for Spinoza: he asserts that the essence of the human being is distinct from physical nature, and capable of self-control and comprehensive knowledge of the world.8 Descartes produces the grandest illusion of all, which can, in Spinoza’s view, only exacerbate human unhappiness. Against Descartes, Spinoza insists that an individual is intertwined with the modal existence of all other beings in nature – it cannot be conceived apart from their company – such that self-knowledge immediately brings with it the impression of neighbouring and related entities, whose behaviour is wholly determined and wholly determines me. Spinoza eschews the prospect of complete knowledge of self and world, and with it, the prospect of utterly controlling the sources of our discontent, psychological and physical. This is the seminal principle of Spinozistic therapy, I will argue, which decisively distinguishes it from its Stoic counterpart. George Santayana, a great admirer of Spinoza, incorrectly casts him as harbouring positivist suppositions.9 Nothing can be further from the truth. Spinoza’s philosophy remains a meditation upon human limitations – this is the true kernel of a therapeutic wisdom. It is peculiar, as Leibniz remarked, that Spinoza draws such a vastly different conception of God, universe and man precisely from Cartesian premises, most notably, its definition of substance. This begs the question, to what extent are the seeds of Spinozism already present in Descartes’ framework? I do not plan to broach this question here – at least not directly – but only to consider how remarkable it is that such a question may arise in the first place. In spite of a philosophical project that he knew would be viewed suspiciously by the establishment, Descartes considered himself a sort of protector of the tradition. He certainly aims to transform ‘first philosophy’, but if you accept the sincerity of his letter of dedication preceding the Meditations, he does so in order to ground and ultimately

6

Spinoza and the Stoics

defend his faith. How, then, does a figure so notoriously radical in the history of philosophy as Spinoza emerge from Descartes? Indeed, Frederick Beiser reports, in the century following Spinoza’s death, German academia deemed him the ‘very incarnation of evil’, the princeps atheorum, whose monism was the greatest threat to Christian theology, and bore the seeds of pervasive immorality.10 Jonathan Israel hails Spinoza as the ‘supreme philosophical bogeyman of early enlightenment Europe’,11 whose system became the very backbone of its later radical developments. Israel cites seventeenth-century Dutch preacher Willem Spandaw’s declaration that Spinoza was the greatest expression of a tradition of ‘godless Philosophical impiety’, which includes Zeno and the ancient Stoics.12 Though Spandaw rightly observed an affinity between Spinoza and the Stoics, Spinoza’s reception as such a radical threat to the tradition was slightly misguided. For, Spinoza harks back to pre-modern sensibilities, and in fact offers a stirring critique of the direction modernity would take. This is the ultimate insight provided by a critical study of Spinoza’s relationship with the Stoics. Spinoza’s response to the Stoics is illustrative of a larger response to the emergent forces of modernity he detected in Cartesianism. In Stoicism, I discern a prominent forebear of rational autonomy, arguably the culminating mark of modernity. Against the Peripatetics, the Stoics’ common opponents in ethical debate, who argued that virtue involves much external fortune beyond our control and a mere degree of success in taming rebellious parts of the soul, the Stoics characterize virtue in terms of self-transparency and self-determination. The hallmark of Stoicism, displayed in its very origin, appears to be the profound optimism with which it views the human individual as such. So appealing to the Reformation, after all, was the Stoic proposition that the individual is at once responsible for his impassioned plight and also vested with the possibility of his own salvation, as it were. To this extent, Spinoza’s divergence from the Stoics reveals misgivings regarding emergent rational autonomy. In the present work, I demonstrate the profundity of Spinoza’s debt to the Stoics, insofar as they provide a significant portion of the premodern themes he invokes. And yet in his dialogue with the Stoics, it would appear that Spinoza ultimately sides with the Peripatetics in their ancient ethical debate. Virtue consists in degrees, Spinoza concludes, and rests upon precarious conditions. Perhaps it would be better to say that Spinoza provides a unique contribution to modernity, insofar as he pays homage to autonomy in his own peculiar way. Spinoza indeed provides a form of ethical individualism that draws upon Stoic moral theory, as I will point out, and resonates with the later Enlightenment. Following Descartes’ monumental precedent, Spinoza eschews external authority in ethical matters. Furthermore, emptied

Introduction

7

of all symbolism and displacing the human from his privileged position, Spinoza’s universe represents a further decisive break from the medieval one. The oddity of Spinoza’s individualism, however, is that it achieves its most complete and authentic expression in the apprehension of displacement and dispersion: I am most fully myself when I understand that my essence is part of some greater entity, that my striving is one mere thread comprising some larger body. Thus, Spinoza’s ethical individualism owes a conscious debt to community, too, and in this respect he counters certain early modern misgivings regarding the nature of politics. If Stoicism offers an incipient rational autonomy, inquiry into its political heritage amounts to an inquiry into the roots of social contract theory, the political counterpart of modern autonomy. Early modern political theorists sought to protect the moral authority of the individual, and in such a project, the question of the very rationale of political association arose. As Spinoza observes, a rather practical rationale for such association is readily available: human life simply cannot persist without mutual cooperation. And yet, Spinoza determines, the practical rationale for political allegiance does not suffice. This conclusion emerges from a rather negative judgement of human intellectual capacity that was preponderant in the age, and, paradoxically, characteristic of neo-Stoic thought. With Hobbes, Spinoza agrees that humans are slaves to their passions, which proves a bondage that is terribly difficult to dissolve. For Spinoza, the task of the philosopher is not to discover a way of living among such impassioned beasts, as Strauss would have us believe, but rather, he desires that their irrepressible passions be channelled so that some kind of larger, broader salvation, which the philosopher requires for his own unique form of salvation, may follow. For such a project, Spinoza teaches, philosophy finds an unlikely ally in religion. The biblical exegesis Spinoza practises in the TTP, Beiser and Israel agree, which treats Scripture like any human written work, profoundly inspired the later Enlightenment. The spirit of Spinoza’s scriptural analysis resonates with the aspirations of rational autonomy: the reception and interpretation of revelation is available to any individual of acute mind and open spirit. To be sure, this is the lesson received by those intent on rediscovering the essential message of Scripture, including later German theologians who sought to restore the original spirit of the Reformation.13 External authority corrupts this message; internal authority alone is to be trusted. Furthermore, even Scripture can be subjected to a kind of scientific analysis. Thus, Spinoza’s exegetical approach affirms the very intuitions of the Enlightenment. But this lesson gleaned from Spinoza’s project is only part of the picture. In his study of Scripture, Spinoza meditates upon the political significance of the rise and fall of ancient Israel, and concludes that religion plays a supremely important role in the

8

Spinoza and the Stoics

formation and sustenance of patriotism. Spinoza’s political theory carries out what is suggested in the Ethics: passions are most effectively managed by passions themselves; they are our most prevalent and immediate instruments for so doing after all, and even the philosopher dares not dream that he transcends the common lot of humanity. Religion provides incomparable nourishment for the bond that holds humans together, and in turn enables all human possibilities. This is a remarkable conclusion indeed for the princeps atheorum and father of the radical Enlightenment. Perhaps the greatest constant for Spinoza is that he defies first impressions. This sums up the history of Spinoza scholarship. Initially hailed as the chief atheist, he became a model of mystical intoxication and religious authenticity in German Romanticism. Commonly considered a father of modern political liberalism, closer inspection of Spinoza’s political theory reveals convictions and conclusions more in tune with the Realpolitik of such latter-day conservatives as Henry Kissinger. Though Jonathan Israel calls him the ‘prophet of modern science’,14 Spinoza’s account of human judgement as primordially motivated by natural desire would align him with current critiques of scientific ‘objectivism’, what Thomas Nagel characterizes as the effort for an elusive ‘view from nowhere’. Spinoza is largely viewed as imparting seminal doctrines and themes for the course of modernity, and yet, as I suggest, he betrays profound suspicions regarding its direction. Such are the anomalies I will unveil and explore in examining the further anomaly that is Spinoza’s Stoicism.

1

The Foundation of Perfectionism

1.1 Pantheism and determinism Of the Stoic-inspired perfectionist moralities of the seventeenth century, Jerome Schneewind describes the central tenet as follows: ‘Believing that our minds have access to God’s and that our wills can be controlled by our knowledge, they saw us as capable of moving toward ever increasing selfgovernance. Through increase of knowledge we could become God-like if not actually divine.’1 As its name suggests, perfectionism professes to point the way to an ideal form of happiness that is complete, unassailable, selfsufficient. Furthermore, according to the Stoic model, it is the rational individual who secures this state of perfection himself. There are two fundamental presuppositions at the basis of this model: a conviction that the universe is inherently and wholly intelligible, and that rational individuals can apprehend the essential workings of nature. I will demonstrate how Spinoza, too, presents his Ethics as a perfectionist morality, not so much because it ultimately illuminates a path to perfect, unassailable happiness – which it declines to do – but rather, because it embraces the presuppositions of the Stoic model. It is characteristic of moral perfectionism that it begins by laying out the metaphysical foundation on which is predicated the possibility of human perfection, the very order into which the human mind must tap in order to achieve perfection. Any ethical conclusions of Stoicism follow directly from its metaphysics, and together they comprise a unified system. Anthony Long and David Sedley maintain that ‘of all the ancient philosophies, Stoicism makes the greatest claim to being utterly systematic’, so much so, in fact, that ‘arguably the Stoics invented the notion of Philosophy as a system’.2 Many novices to his work wonder at how Spinoza dedicates such a large portion of a piece entitled The Ethics to a discussion of the nature of God and the universe. Indeed, it reveals a penchant for philosophical systematization that is highly reminiscent of and, I believe, likely inspired by the Stoics. Spinoza famously rejects the transcendence of the Judaeo-Christian tradition, insisting instead upon the unity of all things, God, nature and man included, and his rejection of transcendence invokes Stoic

10

Spinoza and the Stoics

metaphysics. Stoicism presents the doctrine of an immanent divine, which is only a small step to the renowned Spinozistic assertion that God is nature. Indeed, many ancient Stoics already suggest the latter view. According to Stoic doctrine, Diogenes Laertius tells us, the universe is constituted by two principles: an active principle, which is the intelligent principle, namely, logos or God; and a passive principle, matter, which is wholly inert (DL VII.134). The active principle pervades the passive principle, and determines how matter will unfold. God is just the rational or intelligible ordering and unfolding of things, and as such, there are no things that exist in the universe apart from God, or which are not wholly infused with God. For this reason, Stoicism is characteristically interpreted as a form of panentheism, but many ancient commentators took it to identify God with the world. Diogenes, for example, reports that Zeno declared the substance of God to be the whole world and heaven (DL VII.148), and Cicero credits Chrysippus with the view that ‘god is the world itself and the universal pervasiveness of its mind’ (L&S 54B).3 Following Descartes’ account of substance as that which is utterly and completely self-sufficient, and requires nothing else for its existence (Principles I.50) – to which Spinoza adds, neither does it require ‘the conception of another thing from which it has to be formed’ (E Idef3)4 – Spinoza concludes that God alone is worthy of being called substance, and is thus identical with all that is, i.e. nature. Reminiscent of the Stoic doctrine of active and passive principles, Spinoza asserts that the one substance ‘God or Nature’ has two faces: ‘Natura naturans’ and ‘Natura naturata’, respectively, ‘God insofar as he is considered a free cause’, and that which ‘follows from the necessity of God’s nature’ (E Ip29s). ‘Natura naturans’ is God or nature considered as the active principle of change in the universe, and ‘Natura naturata’ is God or nature as what is acted upon, i.e. the passive principle. Spinoza is specially critical of a transcendental metaphysic that upholds the notion of an intelligent and wilful, i.e. anthropomorphic God. God is intelligible, according to Spinoza, because all things, the collection of which just is God or nature, ‘are determined from the necessity of the divine nature not only to exist but also to exist and to act in a definite way’ (E Ip29). Human beings think in terms of ends and final causes, and typically but erroneously attribute unpredictability to natural events and to God, who, they believe, has fashioned the world for man’s sake (E Iapp). Thinking of the world and God in such a manner, Spinoza argues, is the foundation of superstition and the basis of harmful and violent passions. Superstitious men anxiously strain to discern God’s intent in any natural event; they desperately endorse their vision of God’s will, and fail to see that it is in fact universal, necessary, and wholly different from – and indifferent to – human desires. As the unique substance, Spinoza holds,

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God equally bears the two attributes of thought and extension, conceived in one respect exclusively under one attribute, in another respect under the other. God is a thinking thing (E IIp1) just as much as he is an extended thing (E IIp2), a notion appalling and abhorrent to Spinoza’s contemporaries. Despite some notable differences, Spinoza’s account of God and the logic of nature is strikingly reminiscent of Stoicism, specifically insofar as both identify the two. The Stoic God is the principle of intelligibility in the universe, the immanent logic according to which natural events unfold. God or the universe is intelligible, the Stoics also believe, because its internal events are determined. That all events are determined to unfold in a particular order, the Stoics call fate, which Chrysippus describes as ‘a certain natural everlasting ordering of the whole: one set of things follows on and succeeds another, and the interconnexion is inviolable’ (L&S 55K).5 Similarly, Spinoza maintains that any finite individual thing cannot exist or be determined to act unless it is determined to exist or act by another cause that is a finite individual thing, which, in turn, is likewise determined by another cause that is a finite individual thing, and so on ad infinitum (E Ip28). For Spinoza, too, the ‘interconnexion is inviolable’.6 Thanks to this inviolability, nature is wholly intelligible: any single event can be understood in light of the logical order in which it is placed, and by which all things progress. However, Spinoza and the Stoics disagree about the character of this logic. The Stoics maintain that all events and things are determined teleologically, in the order of final causality. Every single event and every single thing has a distinct purpose, and plays a specific role within the providential order of the cosmos. That is, the purposes of all things and the purposiveness of the whole are ultimately familiar and sympathetic to ordinary human needs and wishes. All things can be seen to satisfy human desire if only the feebleness of our intellects did not prevent us from discerning this. Chrysippus illustrates this view when he points out that ‘bed-bugs are useful for waking us, that mice encourage us not to be untidy . . .’ (L&S 54O).7 In contrast, human beings occupy no such privileged position in Spinoza’s system. Like all other individual things populating the universe, man is only a finite mode of the one substance, God or nature, conceived under two attributes: the human body is just the one substance conceived under the attribute of extension, and the human mind is the one substance conceived under the attribute of thought. Since Spinoza holds that ‘the order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of things’ (E IIp7), such that ‘a mode of extension and the idea of that mode are one and the same thing expressed in two ways’ (E IIp7s), the ideas that occupy the mind are determined in just the same manner as

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are events in the physical world. While Descartes emphasized how we are special creatures in the universe, free and unique by virtue of our capacity for thought, and largely non-natural as a result; Spinoza is intent, rather, on reminding us that we are only part of nature. Further undermining the Cartesian vision of human nature, Spinoza denies the notion of human free will (E Ip32). This will cause Spinoza to reject the Stoic view of man’s relationship to the universe as well. The propensity to see ourselves as cosmically privileged creatures has led us to define things in terms of their suitability to our needs and wishes, Spinoza explains (E Iapp). This is the height of naivete´. Spinoza resolves, rather, to speak of reality and perfection as the same thing (E IIdef6). What is perfect is just what is real, what nature already provides. And what nature provides may not necessarily satisfy human aspirations, but is often difficult to accept. While the Stoics are subject to Spinoza’s critique of cosmic teleology, H. A. Wolfson argues ironically that this very critique betrays Stoic sensibilities. He describes the kernel of Spinoza’s critique as follows: ‘ ‘‘Perfect’’ has wrongly come to mean action in conformity with some external code of conduct drawn up either contrary to the nature of man, or for a human nature supposed to be ideally conceived in the mind of God and to which man must strive to attain by struggling against his real nature.’8 Spinoza’s real target here is Christianity, which depicts the human telos as something supranatural. The Stoics, meanwhile, conceive of a God working within the natural world, pervading it with rationality, and infusing nature with divine eminence. Thus, Stoicism provides Spinoza with an inspiring model for his project – one still steeped in profound religious sensibility – of simultaneously naturalizing God and sacralizing nature, as Yirmiyahu Yovel puts it.9 Stoic theology and metaphysics represent a powerful resource for Spinoza to conjure a serious alternative to the Christian worldview, which, in his opinion, is the cause of much impassioned turbulence among men, and is a totally unsuitable foundation for morality as a result. In contrast, the Stoics and Spinoza portray their cosmic vision as one that pacifies the human mind. For the Stoics, understanding the nature of things and their providential ordering imparts confidence regarding the ultimate outcome of events, and enables us to endure tribulation calmly. Likewise, Spinoza states with a remarkably Stoic tone that the doctrine of determinism ‘teaches us what attitude we should adopt regarding fortune, or the things that are not in our power . . . namely, to expect and to endure with patience both faces of fortune’ (E IIapp). The essential formula underlying both accounts is that happiness rests upon recognizing the sure and rigid lawfulness of the universe.

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1.2 Vital endeavour and the ground of virtue According to Stoic doctrine, the first branch of ethics concerns impulse (horme´), namely, the fact that ‘an animal’s first impulse is to selfpreservation, because nature from the outset endears [an animal] to itself’ (DL VII.84–5). That nature ‘endears an animal to itself’ is the Stoic doctrine of oikeiosis, translated by Cicero as conciliatio, and by Long and Sedley as ‘appropriation’, denoting the process by which an animal takes ownership of that towards which it is naturally disposed.10 The first thing appropriate – or literally, belonging – to any animal is its own life, which it thus strives first and foremost to preserve. The fact that nature ensures that animals first take care to their own preservation, the Stoics believe, attests to the inherent goodness of nature, and its providential ordering. Animals are instinctually disposed to pursue an end, namely, selfpreservation, in the same way as the whole universe is disposed teleologically. Animals, too, are informed with the divine rationality that directs the cosmos. Insofar as natural appropriateness and its universal norms constitute objective values, they ensure that oikeiosis is a prescriptive law to be seized upon for the pursuit of virtue.11 The proper human end or telos, according to the Stoics, is ‘life in agreement with nature, which is the same as a virtuous life, virtue being the goal towards which nature guides us’ (DL VII.87). Impulse amounts to a natural, fundamental desire directing animals instinctively towards self-preservation. Due to the rational and purposive, i.e. providential, character of natural operations, the Stoics are confident that instinct is trustworthy and in line with divine will. Desire – specifically, natural desire – is the foundation of virtue, and provides the fundamental information for the proper end of life and human happiness. ‘It is in virtue that happiness exists’, Diogenes informs us (DL VII.89). Thus, the Stoic doctrine of horme´ provides the link between physics and ethics, and establishes Stoic morality as one that is firmly naturalistic in its foundation. The way of virtue and happiness can be discerned in nature itself, and is not a transcendent order imposed upon nature. Nature is essentially friendly, and bears clues to proper human fulfilment. Spinoza offers an account of fundamental desire that harks back to Stoic horme´. For, he writes that ‘each thing, insofar as it exists, endeavors to persist in its own being’ (E IIIp6). The fundamental desire, striving or conatus that motivates the existence of everything, is the desire to remain in existence and flourish, that is, augment its individual power. ‘Nothing can have in itself anything by which it can be destroyed’, Spinoza explains, but ‘on the contrary, it opposes everything that can annul its existence’ (E IIIp6d). Whatever can destroy an individual being must come from outside, for of itself, any being strives only to persevere in existence. By

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definition, a being strives to be, and thus, Spinoza maintains, the conatus of a thing is nothing less than its very essence (E IIIp7). What is first of all appropriate, or what properly belongs to every animal, according to the Stoics, is its own life, which it is impelled to preserve. However, the capacity for reason also belongs to man and is distinctive of human nature (DL VII.86). Animals spontaneously seek to preserve their being, but with man, this effort is subject to reflection and assent. Therefore, the proper end of the human life, which is to live in agreement with nature, necessarily involves rational striving for self-preservation. And the more rational the better, for he who would most successfully decide in accordance with his nature will understand himself and nature as a whole. Therefore, Pascal Severac explains, nature ‘recommends’ us to wisdom, but this recommendation involves an expansion and redefinition of the human scope of agreement: ‘To be recommended to wisdom by nature is to be recommended to this accord with oneself which is no longer the immediate ‘‘conciliatio’’, but convenientia: the reflexive agreement with oneself, the agreement with one’s proper nature, i.e. one’s proper reason, which is at the same time Nature, or universal Reason.’12 Convenientia translates the Greek term homologia, which suggests that individual human reason agrees with the cosmic logos. This is the ultimate meaning of agreement with nature for the Stoics. I align my intellect with the logos of the universe, i.e. the manner in which nature unfolds, by apprehending it, and once understood, I come to accept it and even rejoice in it. Only when I truly understand nature and the divine providence that directs it, can I come to accept all events, including apparently unfortunate ones. Behind their fac¸ade, I learn what widespread ignorance prevents most people from perceiving, namely, that all things occur for the sake of our good. Furthermore, in discerning nature’s providential plan, I also come to pursue reasonable ends, that is, ends appropriate to my nature. In this manner, virtue conquers anxiety and disappointment.13 Spinoza agrees with the Stoics in grounding virtue in the conatus for selfpreservation. ‘By virtue and power, I mean the same thing,’ he writes, ‘that is, virtue, insofar as it is related to man, is man’s very essence, or nature, insofar as he has the power to bring about that which can be understood solely through the laws of his own nature’ (E IVdef8). What is it that ‘can be understood solely through the laws of one’s own nature’, which we may have the power to bring about? Spinoza suggests that it is what is unique to an individual being. Wouldn’t this then mean a being’s conatus to persevere in existence, for indeed, Spinoza identifies the conatus as the essence of any individual being? Or does he mean, rather, what is unique to man as such, namely, rationality? In effect, it is both. ‘To act in absolute conformity with virtue is nothing else but to act according to the laws of one’s own nature’, Spinoza states, but ‘we are active only insofar as we

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understand’ (E IVp24d). This latter claim hinges on an earlier proposition, which asserts that the human mind may be counted active insofar as it has adequate ideas, i.e. clear and distinct ideas of things (E IIIp3). Like the Stoics, Spinoza understands virtue in terms of a rational striving for selfpreservation (E IVp24). The manner of persevering characteristic of human nature is a rational persevering; rationality and perseverance cannot be pulled apart in the case of man. Reason serves to elucidate the very logic of the conatus, which is why Spinoza follows his proposition relating virtue and reason (E IVp24) by reminding us that no one seeks to preserve his being ‘for the sake of some other thing’ (E IVp25). Reason ensures the latter, that we remain faithful to the task of self-preservation, from which external influences would direct us. In other words, as man becomes rational – or more rational, as the case may be – he comes to appropriate his natural inheritance, his conatus that nature has disposed him to pursue. However, so long as we strive under the guidance of reason, Spinoza maintains, we strive to understand, ‘and the mind, insofar as it exercises reason, judges nothing else to be to its advantage except what conduces to understanding’ (E IVp26). In one sense, understanding is rightfully deemed advantageous, and is therefore bound up with the conatus for self-preservation. Once I understand nature and the necessary logic by which it unfolds, I agree with nature insofar as I can exploit this knowledge in the service of increasing my power. Further echoing the Stoics, Spinoza suggests at one point in the Ethics – a passage Alexandre Matheron entitles ‘le Moment Stoı¨cien de l’E´thique’14 – that such agreement with nature also elicits acquiescence regarding her plan. Once we understand, Spinoza writes, ‘we can desire nothing but that which must be’, whereupon ‘the endeavor of the better part of us is in harmony with the order of the whole of Nature’ (E IVapp32). Spinoza and the Stoics agree that all beings exhibit an impulse for selfpreservation, but human beings are conscious of this desire and are naturally disposed to submit it to rational direction. However, Bernard Carnois points out that Stoic terminology invokes a distinction between ‘adpetitus, the Latin term that translates the Greek horme´ and indicates the first tendency or initial desire of the being, and . . . adpetitio which signifies particular desire, that is, the movement by which man goes towards a determinate object’, and is generally the translation for the Greek orexis.15 The latter is a free act, Carnois explains, because ‘the representation of an object capable of satisfying the primitive tendency of the being (adpetitus) is submitted to the control of judgement, and it is only when the subject has given his assent that desire (adpetitio) is born’.16 Adpetitio (orexis) can be manipulated by judgement, and the individual’s telos consists in aligning it with universal reason, i.e. assenting only to what agrees with nature.

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Spinoza, on the other hand, makes no such distinction between primitive and particular desire, where the latter desire can be manipulated by judgement. Indeed, Spinoza denies that desire can be subjected to our free will. Spinoza’s ‘Moment Stoı¨cien’, which invokes just such manipulation, is already doomed, it appears. He explains that ‘we do not endeavor, will, seek after or desire anything because we judge it to be good; on the contrary, we judge a thing to be good because we endeavor, will, seek after and desire it’ (E IIIp9s). In fact, Spinoza disagrees with Stoic epistemology altogether, the ramifications of which will emerge more clearly when I consider their respective therapies for the passions. We are not free to manipulate desire intellectually, according to Spinoza, but are wholly determined in our desires. The illusion that we are free results from the fact that we are conscious of our desire but are ignorant of the causes of things, specifically, the causes of our desire (E Iapp). Nevertheless, Spinoza maintains with the Stoics that desire can be perfected by knowledge, that it can achieve fulfilment with the addition of knowledge. It is clear that knowledge indeed bears therapeutic force for Spinoza, and conduces to a kind of agreement with nature, but it is also clear that knowledge must succeed on both accounts by virtue of a different dynamic from that of the Stoics. And of course, the nature of this knowledge that effects desire differs for Spinoza and the Stoics: Spinoza’s wise man is reconciled to the strict necessity that he perceives the real order of nature to be, while the Stoic sage joyfully accepts the order of nature because he knows that its course is ultimately friendly to particular human aspirations. The Stoic can will that the order of the world realize itself because that order is likable, while for Spinoza, natural necessity has nothing likable because there is no divine plan to nature: ‘To want what ‘‘God wants’’ is only to want what is not impossible’, Matheron exclaims.17 Spinoza finds an affinity in Stoic morality, I believe, insofar as it provides the model of a naturalistic ethics where the human telos is immanent and readily discernible in nature. Natural desire is the basis of virtue, and the task of the ethical life is to agree with nature, which entails rational attunement with her logic. To this extent, Spinoza and the Stoics agree in proposing moralities of agreement.18 However, the development of desire in human beings, which involves consciousness and rational direction of desire, brings with it inherent complications. Reflective consciousness often complicates and hinders the progress of natural desire, and even leads it astray.19 According to Spinoza and the Stoics, the passions are the principal impediment to the agreement that constitutes virtue and happiness. Furthermore, they agree that the passions are uniquely human insofar as they involve improper intellection, but for this precise reason they are also susceptible of emendation.

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1.3 The diagnosis of the passions That Spinoza dedicates the greater part of the Ethics to a diagnosis of and intellectual therapy for the passions is perhaps his most recognizable Stoic element. Like the Stoics, Spinoza considers the passions the obstacle to human happiness, and he essentially casts them as a matter of human responsibility by diagnosing them in terms of inadequate cognition. Specifically, Spinoza agrees with the Stoics in describing passions in terms of irrational judgements about the values of things. The impassioned person overestimates inappropriate things, which make him despondent or angry just as easily as they make him happy. In short, the impassioned person is of inconstant character, now happy, now sad, now angry, because he is emotionally invested in the wrong things – fleeting things, the Stoics would say, which come and go with the wild fluctuations of fortune. Finally, Spinoza and the Stoics both characterize the inconstancy of the impassioned person as a symptom of heteronomy: inconstancy is the product of external determination, and its remedy lies in selfdetermination. The Stoics define passions (pathe´) as excessive impulses (DL VII.110). Impassioned people ‘overstep the proper and natural proportion of their impulses’, Chrysippus explains, which he illustrates by pointing out that when men walk in accordance with impulse they can stop or turn as they please, but when they run, ‘the movement of their legs exceeds their impulse so that they are carried away and unable to change obediently . . .’ (L&S 65J).20 Impulses are thus excessive when we cannot control them. For the Stoics, the passions have a cognitive basis. According to their psychology, a person must first assent to an impression, which gives rise to any impulse. Such assent is possible because the Stoics believe that ‘the impressions of rational beings . . . are propositional in character’, and ‘hence, assent to them amounts to assent to a proposition’.21 I may appear to be overtaken by a passion, but the Stoics deny that this is beyond my control. In effect, I invite a passion to take root in me through a purely intelligible exchange. Impressions speak to rational beings, in this respect; they state a proposition to which I freely assent. If I do not perceive that I am free in such a process, this is only due to my ignorance. That the passions originate through a purely intelligible exchange points to the controversial Stoic doctrine that the soul has a single faculty character, namely, it is wholly rational in nature.22 The Platonic and Aristotelian soul harbours irrational elements that are at best subject to training by the rational part of the soul. Such a view accounts for temptation or moral incontinence in terms of a struggle between different parts of the soul, but the Stoics find themselves in the peculiar position of

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understanding temptation as a movement of the entire unitary soul, fluttering between rational and irrational judgements.23 The passions are irrational judgements involving ill-advised assent to certain impressions. But what is the content of these judgements that makes them improper? The Stoics claim that passions are mistaken judgements about the values of things. Indeed, passions are excessive impulses, and impulses are issued by nature. Therefore, they cannot be bad in themselves, since nature is inherently good. According to Chrysippus, the mistake of an impassioned judgement ‘comes not in thinking things good, but in thinking them to be much better than they are’.24 The impassioned person overvalues the object of his impression, and in this respect, is responsible for the excess of his impulse. Moreover, the objects towards which passions are directed, the Stoics note, are characteristically vulnerable and fleeting. The impassioned person attaches himself to objects that are good to some degree, but which he considers to be supremely good, for example, and he is consequently crestfallen when they disappear. He is inconstant because he suffers quickly changing joy and pain at the hands of ephemeral goods to which he is overly attached. Such goods are items at the mercy of fortune. In other words, the impassioned person desires things that do not depend on him, but which depend on external forces beyond his control. The impassioned person accords excessive value to things subject to the vast variations of the natural world. For example, his ignorance prevents him from walking, to use Chrysippus’ metaphor, when he receives the impression of a natural disaster. Rather, he fails to see the logic and divine will inherent in natural occurrences, and becomes overly anxious. If, on the other hand, he understood things, which is an endeavour that depends solely on himself and his own power, he would calmly bear the travails that fortune bestows. So on one hand, the Stoics admit that heteronomy is symptomatic of the impassioned person: attached to external goods, he is at the mercy of forces beyond his control. At the same time, however, every person is to blame for the heteronomy he suffers. I am responsible for my impassioned existence since I assent to impressions, and exhibit freedom therein. No impulse overtakes me without my active participation, in effect, whether I am conscious of this fact or not. Cicero claims that the Stoics define the soul as rational precisely to indicate how it is under our control (TD IV.7.14). Each of us is to blame for the passions we suffer, and the harmful consequences they typically bring about. The fact that ‘it is not things themselves that disturb men, but their judgments about things’ (Ench 5), as Epictetus puts it, is supposed to be encouraging, for it points out that a method for achieving respite from the passions is readily accessible. Another encouraging mark implicit in the Stoic diagnosis of the

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passions is their view that all passions are ultimately related or reducible to four primary passions (DL VII.111). Accordingly, if you should eradicate one of these fundamental passions, you eradicate its derivative passions as well. The Stoics classify the passions according to false judgements about the true nature of good and evil.25 Cicero reports that the primary passions are laetitia, the excessive delight regarding something perceived as good; cupiditas, the excessive appetite for such things; metus, the excessive fear regarding something perceived to be bad; and aegritudo, the excessive distress regarding perceived present evil (TD IV.7.14). That the passions can be neatly classified and comprehended in this fashion indicates all the more so how potentially manageable they are. Turning now to Spinoza’s account of the passions, it is first necessary to uncover his theory of ideation, for, echoing the Stoics’ intellectualist account, Spinoza includes a cognitive element in his definition of emotion. Following from his substance monism and parallelism of the attributes of thought and extension, Spinoza states that ‘the object of the idea constituting the human mind is the body, i.e. a definite mode of extension actually existing and nothing else’ (E IIp13). Since ‘the mind is the idea of the body’, any mental apprehension involves a body, specifically an individual’s own body, as it is modified by other bodies, the ideas of which are included in the idea of one’s own body (E IIp16). Knowledge of this sort, namely, the knowledge of self and other bodies through the modification of my body by other bodies (i.e. sense perception) Spinoza calls ‘perceiving after the common order of nature’, which amounts to inadequate knowledge (E IIp29s). This, the first of three kinds of knowledge, is alone responsible for the falsity involved in the passions (E IIp41s1). Perceiving things after the common order of nature is ‘to be determined externally, i.e. by fortuitous circumstances’ (E IIp29s). The heteronomy of this form of knowledge – that it is gained by external determination alone – is responsible for its lacking clear and distinct ideas. Adequate ideas involve, then, a sort of self-determination on the part of the bearer of these ideas; that is, they result from the native rational activity of the knower himself. Spinoza states that we may be called active when ‘something takes place, in us or externally, of which we are the adequate cause, i.e. when from our nature there follows something which can be clearly and distinctly understood through our nature alone’ (E IIIdef2), and passive ‘when something takes place in us, or follows from our nature, of which we are only the partial cause’ (E IIIdef2). As with his account of virtue (E IVdef8), Spinoza speaks of what ‘can be clearly and distinctly understood through our nature alone’. This suggests, I believe, that I may be counted active on one hand insofar as I exercise reason, which accounts for ‘what takes place in us’, but also insofar as ‘what takes place externally’ agrees with the logic of my conatus, that is, promotes or aids it. Indeed, Spinoza proceeds to

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define an emotion (affectus) as an ‘affection of the body by which the body’s power of activity is increased or diminished, assisted or checked, together with the idea of these affections’ (E IIIdef3). Spinoza echoes the Stoics by defining passions in terms of ideas, but adds a new twist in directly relating them to the power of the body. Spinoza defines a passion – or ‘a passive experience’ – alternately as ‘a confused idea whereby the mind affirms a greater or lesser force of existence of its body . . . than was previously the case’ (E IIIGenDefAff).26 The Stoics would agree that what distinguishes a passion as such is that it involves a confused idea; for Spinoza, this cannot be its only distinguishing mark. From the definition above, it follows that passions may involve an increase or decrease in bodily power, but it appears that they are preponderantly characterized by the latter, or rather, by a disposition to the latter. After all, confused ideation appears to be symptomatic of a decrease in bodily power, as Spinoza has established it. Confused ideas comprise the knowledge derived from bodies modifying my own, from the activities of other bodies pursuing their own respective con atus. As such, confused ideas by their very nature are generally indicative of a decrease in bodily power, even if passive experiences may involve the contrary, since I cannot guarantee that the effects of other bodies on my own – effects of bodies engaged in their own striving – will necessarily agree with my conatus. In other words, my conatus is more likely to be checked so long as I am passive, that is, so long as I am largely determined externally and am beset by confused ideas. Like the Stoics, Spinoza also associates passivity with heteronomy and lack of self-control. He describes the impassioned person as one who is in bondage, one who lacks the ‘power to control and check the emotions’ (E IVpraef). Such a person is subject to fortune (E IVpraef). Passive experiences originate in our dependence upon external things, and indeed, when I perceive according to the common order of nature, I depend upon the modifications of other bodies for information about myself and the world. As long as I am attached to external things and esteem them highly, I am invested in their sufferings, as well. Very much in tune with Stoicism, Spinoza asserts that ‘emotional distress has its origin in excessive love towards a thing subject to considerable instability, a thing we can never really possess’ (E Vp20s). In his Tractatus on the Emendation of the Intellect, Spinoza deplores the fact that people typically regard as the highest goods riches, honour and sensual pleasure, all fleeting and ultimately disappointing goods (TEI 3). Hedonism, which involves just such attachment to these wrongly exalted goods, amounts to alienation of the conatus, where I am wholly captivated by external things and fail my native vital effort, what empowers me mentally and physically.27 However, far worse than the alienation of hedonism, are the ‘traditional

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teleological anthropologies and moralities’, as Matheron puts it, where ‘man is oriented towards an objective, transcendental Good’.28 This refers to the Judaeo-Christian tradition, of course, which is deplorable first of all because it entails superstition that renders men heteronomous and wholly dependent on the will of religious authorities. But what is more, this tradition involves a kind of asceticism that contradicts the impulse of the conatus. It locates the source of all value in a realm beyond this one, and would have us believe that ‘man tends by nature towards something other than his individual ego’.29 Traditional morality imparts the illusion that we desire things because they are good, when they are in fact determined good by natural desire, according to Spinoza. As such, this tradition diverts our attention from the true conveyor of all value: the individual’s conatus. In reality, Spinoza explains, good and bad are informed by the success or failure of the conatus, i.e. what is conducive to pleasure or pain (E IIIp39s). Again echoing the model of Stoic ethics, Spinoza holds that pleasure and pain, together with desire, comprise the ‘three primary emotions’ from which all other emotions are derived (E IIIp11s). ‘Whatever increases or diminishes, assists or checks the power of activity of our body,’ Spinoza writes, ‘the idea of the said thing increases or diminishes, assists or checks the power of the thought of our mind’ (E IIIp11). The ‘passive transitions’ to states of greater or lesser perfection are, respectively, pleasure or pain (E IIIp11s). So pleasure is the transition to a state of greater perfection accompanied by the idea of its cause, which augments the power of the mind. Pain, then, checks the power of the mind. Therefore, though they refer to the body, emotions first weigh on the mind: they always involve a transition in bodily power, and an idea of such transition – which in the case of passions is a confused idea. Accordingly, Spinoza defines love as ‘pleasure (i.e. the transition to a state of greater perfection) accompanied by the idea of an external cause’, and hatred as ‘pain accompanied by the idea of an external cause’ (E IIIp13s). Desire on the other hand is present in any emotion because it is the very essence of a human being (E III DefAff). In associating passions with confused ideas, Spinoza agrees with the hallmark of Stoic psychology. The ignorance he associates with the passions, and the heteronomy they involve, leads him to understand the impassioned person in a very similar fashion to that of the Stoics, that is, as ‘inconstant’. For example, Spinoza states that people ‘vacillate when they are regarding a thing as future or past, and are generally in doubt as to its outcome’, which perception produces emotions that ‘are not so constant, but are generally disturbed by images of other things until men become more assured of the outcome’ (E IIIp18s1). Specifically, Spinoza tells us, these are the passive affects of hope and fear, which he defines respectively

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as ‘inconstant pleasure’ and ‘inconstant pain’ arising from the idea of a future or past thing whose outcome is in doubt (E IIIp18s2). The vacillation or inconstancy of the impassioned person is due to the uncertainty of his perception and judgement. But furthermore, because there are as many kinds of emotion as there are kinds of objects that affect us (E IIIp56), Spinoza deduces, ‘men can differ in nature insofar as they are assailed by emotions that are passive . . . and one and the same man, too, is variable and inconstant’ (E IVp33). The theme of alienation arises once again: the passions render me indeterminate, or rather, indisposed to selfscrutiny and apprehension. I am not properly myself. My allegiances are far too numerous – they divide my soul, and neither define nor satisfy me. Spinoza writes elsewhere that ‘the ignorant man, besides being driven hither and thither by external causes, never possessing true contentment of spirit, lives as if he were unconscious of himself, God and things’ (E Vp42s). True contentment is the goal of therapy, Spinoza and the Stoics agree, an eminently enduring tranquility that is resistant to external assaults – and effectively amounts to a state of beatitude.

1.4 A this-worldly salvation The sage alone enjoys tranquility – he alone is happy, according to the Stoics. Philosophy has taught him that external goods are unworthy of high esteem because they are essentially perishable and cannot give real, lasting joy. For the Stoics, true happiness is utterly secure, because it involves investing in an internal good that is beyond the reach of fortune. That internal good is knowledge, rational attunement with the providential order of the universe. ‘Fortune can snatch away only what She herself has given,’ Seneca proclaims, ‘but virtue she does not give; therefore, she cannot take it away’ (De Con 4). Furthermore, because it entails the utter extirpation of the passions, true happiness is internally unassailable, that is, insusceptible of internal corruption. I will ultimately point out how Spinoza shies away from – and must deny – the Stoic view of happiness in its full characterization, yet even so, he seems to aver that philosophy will deliver something similarly noble and remarkable as the Stoics proclaim. Spinoza also speaks of real happiness as a state of tranquillity that withstands the assaults of fortune, and which is enduringly incorruptible. In that passage from the Ethics Matheron calls ‘le Moment Stoı¨cien’, Spinoza says that though human power is very limited and is surpassed by the power of external forces that resist human manipulation: ‘We shall patiently bear whatever happens to us that is contrary to . . . our own advantage, if we are conscious that we have done our duty and that our power was not extensive enough for us to have

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avoided the said things, and that we are part of the whole of Nature whose order we follow’ (E IVapp32). Matheron observes that Spinoza uses the Stoic technical word officium in this passage, translated as ‘duty’, but which is itself Cicero’s translation of the Greek kathekon, meaning proper action or function.30 For the Stoics, actions become offices or duties when we realize that the true good does not lie in things we seek, but in the seeking itself, in the agreement of our intentions with the providential logic of nature. As such, Spinoza effectively suggests in this passage that the attainment of material things required by our natural advantage, namely, our conatus, is not so important as the intention of such attainment.31 This is what enables us to ‘patiently bear whatever happens to us’, because what alone matters is the knowledge of our duty – which in turn implies knowledge of the whole and our place within the whole. External goods do not really matter, but only knowledge matters. Spinoza ultimately cannot accept such a conclusion, as I will show, but he clearly follows the Stoics here in invoking the imperviousness of knowledge with regard to external misfortune. In another strikingly Stoic passage towards the conclusion of the Ethics, Spinoza says that ‘the wise man . . . suffers scarcely any disturbance of spirit, but being conscious . . . of himself, of God and of things, never ceases to be, but always possesses true spiritual contentment [vera animi acquiescentia]’ (E Vp42s). This is a curious passage that certainly invokes but falls just short of embracing the utter perfection the Stoics attribute to happiness. Spinoza believes that the wise man will largely be free of disturbance of spirit; this is a condition of his happiness. However, Spinoza does not go so far as to say with the Stoics that happiness is beyond all internal disturbance whatsoever. Nevertheless, he asserts that the wise man enjoys perpetual contentment. Despite the peculiar details of this passage, it expresses the essence of Stoic happiness: a state free of mental disturbance, afforded by and consisting in perfection of knowledge, and largely beyond interference or corruption. The happiness Spinoza and the Stoics celebrate is a form of supreme satisfaction that can be enjoyed in the here and now. Accordingly, it constitutes a remarkable contrast to the Christian view that supreme satisfaction only awaits us in the world beyond: this world is fallen; it is the domain of perpetual desire and frustration, where the soul can never find satisfaction. Glimmers of happiness only emerge in this life in the form of hope and confidence regarding the peace that awaits after death. This peace after death bears traits the Stoics ascribe to the telos: it is perpetual joy, at last beyond all disturbance; it is complete satisfaction where the soul finds its home in God, and desire reaches its end. The Christian tradition calls such a state of supreme satisfaction beatitudo, or blessedness, indicating that whoever reaches such a state has been sufficiently blessed by

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God and aided by his grace to attain this end. Just the term beatitude, therefore, suggests an element of transcendence. Remarkably, Spinoza applies this very term to his own account of happiness, but naturally rules out any element of transcendence or grace. We can enjoy the attributes of the Christian state of blessedness, but in the present. Spinoza and the Stoics agree once again in professing to deliver a ‘this-worldly salvation’.

2

Psychotherapy and Virtue

2.1 ‘What is in my power to do’ Perhaps Spinoza’s most notable Stoic trait is his psychotherapy, a moral orientation radically different from the Christian tradition. Christian morality focuses primarily on social behaviour, encouraging individuals to perform good deeds for others, as expressions of God’s glory. Personal happiness is a subordinate issue – at least nominally. On the contrary, Stoic ethics is eudaimonistic, illustrating a path to genuine satisfaction, by transforming the character of one’s mind. Duty is an expression of this project: whoever is happy is necessarily dutiful; whoever is virtuous performs his duty admirably. Duty and happiness coincide for the Stoic, as they do not for the Christian – at least, not in this lifetime. As with the Stoics, Spinoza aims to show how virtue is its own reward. And yet in spite of this most notable of similarities, Spinoza’s difference with the Stoics begins to emerge explicitly here, too. Spinoza prefaces his exposition of the remedies for the passions, after all, with his only explicit reference to the Stoics in the whole of the Ethics, which consists in a criticism of a central tenet – perhaps the single most important tenet – of the Stoic model of psychotherapy. The passions are the primary impediment to the agreement between individual and universe, i.e. convenientia, the moral telos, for the Stoics. However, that this impediment is constituted by the passions, defined in terms of unclear cognition and irrational judgement, immediately indicates that its resolution is ready at hand. We are capable of overcoming the passions, but what is more, since they result from errors in our own faculty of judgement, it is our responsibility to overcome them. But how may we be counted responsible in the face of cosmic determinism? In other words, what is in our power to secure the path to personal happiness? Luckily, Epictetus explains, the gods have placed one thing in our power, ‘the one of supreme importance, the correct use of the impressions’ (Disc I.I.7). This refers specifically to our ability to assent to or withhold assent from impressions, which is the very principle of Stoic therapy. A passion is an instance where I assent to an impression that invites an excessive impulse, and if I understand such an impression, I can simply withhold assent.

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Accordingly, the therapy for the passions calls for increased understanding – of nature, my place in nature, and what nature demands of me. With this knowledge, I will be able to identify those impressions to which I should assent and those from which I should withhold assent, with a view to the impulses that such impressions invite me to express. For the Stoics, the requisite skill for virtue is knowing your duties or ‘proper functions’,1 that is, behaviour that is reasonable given your place in nature and society (DL VII.108–9). Curing the passions and righting myself so that I agree with nature calls for a revaluation of values. Passions are linked to improper evaluation, after all: I overly value things towards which I am impelled; I wrongly consider them of extreme importance. The Stoics controversially maintain that everything other than virtue is only indifferent (DL VII.101–3), a claim I will critically examine in the following section, and the category of ‘indifferents’ includes things conducive to my health, my material prosperity, and the like. The only thing of true value, the Stoics believe, is knowledge, specifically, knowledge of things that agree with nature. ‘The sage will be inclined towards natural things, not because he regards them as goods,’ Michael Frede explains, ‘but because he realizes that they are the rational things to pursue’, and if he ‘doesn’t obtain what he is impelled towards, this will be a minor loss’.2 I ought to assent only to impressions revealing things rational to pursue. So long as this alone is my aim, I will not suffer regret, sadness or resentment at the failure to attain the objects of my pursuit. The sage is detached from natural goods and has changed his value system so that he esteems only knowledge and the exercise of reason. However, as the Stoics would have it, he who is free of passions is not terribly different from the impassioned man – at least initially. After all, the sage still pursues natural things, according to his impulses. His impulses are simply replaced with rationally regulated impulses.3 This suggests a change in the affective life of the sage. Indeed, though the Stoics laud the eradication of passions, this is not intended to be a state free of all emotion, as many of the Stoics’ detractors have commonly supposed. That the Stoic ideal involves the absence of emotion is perhaps the greatest misconception regarding the Stoics. To the contrary, the Stoics hold that the sage is one who has simply replaced his passions with rational emotions, the eupatheiai, that is, the rational counterparts to the basic passions that are also, presumably, the bases for derivative rational emotions. The eupatheiai include joy or rational elation, caution or rational avoidance, and wishing or rational desire (DL VII.116).4 The Stoics distinguish passions and rational emotions in one respect by essentially attributing different causes to them.5 In other words, he who suffers passions is said to be at the mercy of external goods; he suffers and rejoices according to their lot, which is in the hands of fortune. As long as

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he supposes that his happiness rests on these things, he can know only perpetual disappointment because, for one thing, he is ignorant as to where his true good lies, and secondly, because he rises and falls with the continual fluctuations of nature. The virtuous person, on the other hand, is wholly responsible for his happiness because it is derived from the exercise of his own rational faculty. Otherwise put, the virtuous person is the ‘complete cause’ of his actions, while the impassioned person is only the ‘proximate cause’.6 The virtuous person is in control of his impulses, which he rationally regulates, and to this extent, he may be considered wholly the cause of his actions and emotional states. Martha Nussbaum explains that ‘the Stoics view the business of teaching as one of waking up the soul and causing it to take charge of its own activity’.7 Thus, autonomy is inherent to Stoic therapy of the passions: psychotherapy is a process of recovering what is my rightful possession, namely, my faculty of rational assent. For this reason, Stoic therapy involves rigorous self-examination in the aim of discerning my nature and righting my native constitution. Stoic therapy is a process of collecting the self, and becoming most truly what one is. In this spirit, Stoic convenientia is above all an agreement with oneself8 – or within oneself, rather. As autonomous, the virtuous person is rescued from dependence on and fluctuation amidst the sea of external goods, and is delivered over to the purity and stability of self-transparent reason. Moreover, his autonomy elevates him to a new level that is effectively above nature. It is part of the wisdom of the virtuous person that he knows what to do because he rightly understands his place in the whole and what nature demands of him. This knowledge grants him special powers in a sense, for the assaults of fortune do not touch his core as they do other natural things. The foundational question of Stoic psychotherapy is ‘what is in my power to do?’ The Stoics determine that the passions, i.e. irrational judgements, alone are in our power to manipulate, and consequently, they conclude that therapy involves their manipulation. Spinoza indicates that he is motivated by a similar question and insight. He says that ‘it is necessary to know the power of our nature and its lack of power so we can determine what reason can and cannot do in controlling the emotions’ (E IVp17). Therapy begins with discerning what is in my power to do, which presupposes no small knowledge. Accordingly, Spinoza begins his Ethics by presenting a metaphysics, physics and anthropology, emulating the unity of the Stoic system: I can adequately discern and evaluate my capabilities only by knowing nature as a whole. Once I apprehend that all things in nature are determined, I will recognize that the therapy of the passions is in my power. Thus, Spinoza echoes the guiding sentiment of Stoic therapy, and asserts with the Stoics that knowledge is the central feature of therapy. Nevertheless, Spinoza makes it clear early on that his version of therapy

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will differ in one significant respect from the Stoic account. Before surveying the therapeutic powers and concrete remedies of reason, Spinoza denounces the Stoic view that ‘emotions depend absolutely on our will and that we can have absolute command over them’ (E Vpraef). Experience rebels against this view, Spinoza says, which he immediately attributes to Descartes, too, whom he proceeds to make the focus of his ridicule. Spinoza seems to credit the Stoics with the notion of a distinct faculty of free will – that he identifies their position with Descartes underscores this. To this extent, the Stoic view, so interpreted, is certainly repugnant to Spinoza who enthusiastically rejects a faculty of free will (IIp43; IIp48). However, a distinct faculty of free will is alien to orthodox Stoic doctrine, too, which maintains that the soul is unitary in character and nature. Thus, Spinoza’s critique is slightly misguided, perhaps guilty of reconstructing the Stoic position through Descartes. While the Stoics insist only upon freedom of judgement as opposed to freedom of the will, this principle of their psychotherapy, which affords ‘absolute command over the emotions’, is equally repugnant to Spinoza. For, Spinoza maintains that the conatus, or natural desire, internally informs and motivates our judgements – indeed, he holds that desire is already implicit in any cognition (E IIp49). Contrary to what the Stoics believe, we are not free to manipulate our judgement. As for the possibility of psychotherapy, Spinoza announces that ‘the power of the mind is defined solely by the understanding, thus we shall determine solely by the knowledge of the mind the remedies for the emotions’ (E Vpraef). In and of itself, knowledge does not preclude the emergence of passion, since ‘nothing positive contained in a false idea can be annulled by the presence of what is true insofar as it is true’ (E IVp1). Spinoza illustrates this claim by pointing out that although we may learn the true distance of the sun from us, this knowledge does not dispel our impression that it is only 200 feet away (E IVp1s). ‘Erroneous imaginings (imaginationes) do not disappear at the presence of what is true insofar as it is true,’ he says, ‘but only because other imaginings that are stronger supervene to exclude the present existence of the thing we imagine’ (E IVp1s). This logic applies to passions as well, since they amount to ideas, albeit confused ones. Thus, ‘an emotion cannot be checked or destroyed except by a contrary emotion which is stronger than the emotion which is to be checked’ (E IVp7). An emotion founded on something we imagine to be present, for example, is stronger than an emotion founded on something absent (E IVp9), and an emotion referring to something that is merely possible is eclipsed in power by an emotion referring to something inevitable (E IVp11). Accordingly, ‘no emotion can be checked by the true knowledge of good and evil insofar as it is true, but only insofar as it is considered an emotion’ (E IVp14). Knowledge can treat the passions, accordingly, only insofar as it

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exerts emotive force in its own right. Spinoza believes this is the case. He states that an active mind, one conceiving adequate ideas, experiences pleasure (E IIIp58). Conceived under the attribute of thought, to put it in terms of Spinoza’s metaphysical vocabulary, an individual’s conatus aims at understanding; this is the power inherent to the mind. When the mind achieves knowledge, therefore, its power is augmented, which is the definition of pleasure. Reason has the force to check the passions because its operations are joyful and produce active desire or striving that is rooted in human power.9 In this respect, I am active so long as I understand because I exercise a power unique to me, or, as Spinoza puts it, because I bring about ‘something that can be understood through my nature alone’ (E IIIdef2). Spinoza emulates the Stoics once again in distinguishing between passions and rational emotions, as well as the root components of each. I wrest self-control from the passions, according to Spinoza, insofar as the pleasure of understanding checks their power. Thus, the principle of Spinozistic psychotherapy is the ability of reason to produce more powerful emotions than the passions, to combat and countervail the latter. Unlike the Stoic model, this principle of Spinozistic therapy precludes the possibility of eradicating the passions, as is evident in the concrete remedies Spinoza describes. I will present his remedies in two categories, divided according to his theory of the kinds of knowledge. Spinoza identifies the first kind of knowledge, imagination, as that which is responsible for all falsity. Spinoza attributes specific therapeutic techniques to the second kind of knowledge, which he calls reason and consists in ‘common notions and adequate ideas of the properties of things’ (E IIp40s2). These techniques lead to the remedy afforded by the third kind of knowledge, scientia intuitiva, which Spinoza describes as knowledge proceeding from ‘an adequate idea of the formal essence of certain attributes of God to an adequate knowledge of the essence of things’ (E IIp40s2). I will deal first with the therapeutic techniques to which the second kind of knowledge lends itself. The currency of Spinoza’s second kind of knowledge, is ‘common notions’, which he defines as ideas of the common properties of all things, and ‘can be conceived only adequately’ (E IIp38). The production of common notions is an exercise that produces rational emotions to combat passive emotions. Regarding the therapeutic force of reason, the second kind of knowledge, Spinoza says that the power of the mind consists in: (1) the knowledge of emotions; (2) detaching emotions from the thought of their external cause; (3) the matter of time of the object to which an emotion is directed; (4) the number of causes to which an emotion is directed; and (5) the order according to which the mind can arrange its emotions (E Vp20s). Jonathan Bennett maintains that this list provides for

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three distinct therapeutic techniques: separating an emotion from one idea and joining it to another idea; turning passions into actions; and reflecting upon determinism.10 However, these do not seem to be distinct techniques so much as they are elements of a general approach provided by reason. Bennett also maintains that Spinozistic therapy involves turning passions into actions, but that suggests the method of Stoic therapy, rather. Passions are fundamentally irreducible, according to Spinoza, since the false ideas or impressions upon which they are founded are likewise irreducible. Spinozistic therapy is a matter of transforming a mind that is predominantly passive into one that is predominantly active, detaching the mind’s focus from inadequate ideas and attaching it instead to adequate ideas derived from reflection upon determinism. As a first and general element of the therapy pertaining to the second kind of knowledge, Spinoza states that ‘a passive emotion ceases to be a passive emotion as soon as we form a clear and distinct idea of it’ (E Vp3). Admittedly this sounds as if therapy involves transforming the passions, but Spinoza quickly adds that ‘the more an emotion is known to us, the more it is within our control, and the mind is less passive in respect of it’ (E Vp3cor). Transforming a passion would mean eradicating it, as the Stoics have it, but Spinoza only suggests that we can subject it to a degree of control, that is, reduce the extent to which it has a hold on our mind. What is more, Spinoza tells us, ‘there is no bodily affection of which we cannot form a clear and distinct idea’ (E Vp4), which means that ‘everyone has the power of clearly and distinctly understanding himself and his emotions, if not absolutely, at least in part, and consequently of bringing it about that he should be less passive in respect of them’ (E Vp4s). The egalitarianism of this proposition is impressive, but equally impressive is its suggestion that any painful occasion constitutes an opportunity for understanding, and is thus an opportunity to produce rational emotions. The mind becomes less passive and, as a consequence, more active, by a method of separating and joining. ‘If I remove an agitation of the mind [i.e. a passive emotion] from the thought of its external cause and join it to other thoughts,’ Spinoza explains, ‘then love or hatred towards the external cause, and also vacillations, that arise from these emotions will also be destroyed’ (E Vp2). This presupposes the earlier definition of love and hatred as ‘pleasure or pain accompanied by the idea of an external cause’ (E III DefAff 6, 7). I can bring under my control a passive experience, such as the experience of physical pain, by detaching my mind from the idea of the external cause with which the given passion is associated, and directing it towards ideas of other causes. With this capability in view, Spinoza describes the kinds of ideas towards which the mind is properly directed. It is in the nature of the mind, Spinoza tells us, that the greatest of all

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emotions is one directed ‘towards a thing we imagine merely in itself and not as necessary, possible or contingent’ (E Vp5). In other words, this is an emotion directed towards something imagined to be free, Spinoza tells us, which entails ignorance regarding its determining causes (E Vp5d). Knowledge brings with it the recognition of the necessity of all things – what Bennett calls ‘reflecting upon determinism’ – which provides the mind greater power over the emotions (E Vp6). To illustrate, Spinoza points out how our pain at the loss of something is typically lessened once we recognize that its loss was inevitable (E Vp6s). Emotions can be diverted from imaginings of free causes, which produce in us very strong emotions, and attached to ideas of necessary causes, which calm the mind. Emotions founded on common notions are, ‘if we take account of time, more powerful than those that are related to particular things which we regard as absent’ (E Vp7) because ideas of the common properties of things are ideas of things ‘we regard as being always present . . .’ (E Vp7d). In other words, common notions produce emotions of superior endurance. The number of causes to which the idea of a given emotion refers determines its relative strength (E Vp8). The conception of necessity, which is the object of rational emotions, involves a greater number of causes – certainly more than an emotion founded on something considered free, that is, conceived as a lone agent. Conceiving of things as determined, I see them as part of a vast network of causes, and thus, the conception of necessity produces a greater emotion than does something imagined as free. However, doesn’t this contradict Vp5, which maintains precisely the opposite, namely, that there is no greater emotion than one founded on the idea of something free? Spinoza proceeds to explain that ‘an emotion related to several different causes . . . is less harmful and we suffer from it less and are less affected towards each individual cause than if we were affected by another equally great emotion which is related to only one or to a few causes’ (E Vp9). So is an emotion founded on the idea of necessity simply a preferable substitute for passions, a substitute that is rather innocuous? And how does it assert itself in the first place, if, as Spinoza affirms, those emotions are greatest which are founded on the idea of something free? On one hand, if we detach the mind from the idea of an emotion’s cause that is imagined to be free, and attach it to what is conceived as necessary, this will diminish the urgency of my affective state, because the emotion is ‘deflected or diffused through a multiplicity of determining causes’, as Genevieve Lloyd puts it.11 At the same time, ‘what reason apprehends as necessary takes on a rival power’.12 The very conception of common notions and the necessity of all things endows reason with a power all its own, one that bears special power, it seems, in its superior endurance thanks to the perpetual presence and plenitude of the objects

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of rational emotions.13 Reason defeats the passions in a twofold manner, as it were: the idea of necessity loosens the grip of the passions on the mind, and produces emotions that ultimately outlast the latter. Since Spinoza ascribes such a prominent role in his therapy to intellection, detachment may seem a likely result. On the contrary, reason finds itself engaged with the imagination, seeking to understand its objects and check the emotions it spawns. In fact, because imagination involves affirming the presence of its object, and because the intensity of its emotions relies upon that presence, reason actually succeeds in playing this game better – its object in view is pervasive, after all. Thus, Gilles Deleuze remarks, reason satisfies the demand of imagination better than imagination can do itself!14 As for the final power the mind wields by virtue of rational knowledge, Spinoza says that ‘as long as we are not assailed by emotions that are contrary to our nature, we have the power to arrange and associate affections of the body according to the order of the intellect’ (E Vp10). He specifies this power as the ability to deduce clear and distinct ideas from one another (E Vp10d), that is, the power to produce a self-generating sequence of logically connected ideas. Stuart Hampshire calls this the distinctive mark of an active mind.15 I may be counted active insofar as I arrange ideas by virtue of my native rational activity, according to the order of reason wherein every idea is ascribed a definite cause. I may also be considered autonomous since my mind spawns a sequence of ideas that is wholly distinct from the order of imagination, that medium where I am acquainted with things through external determination. I am autonomous in another respect in that I am the cause of my emotional states, since my understanding produces its own rational emotions. Taken together, these aspects constitute Spinozistic freedom, which Deleuze characterizes as a coming into possession of my power of acting, where my conatus is determined by adequate ideas from which active affects follow, affects that are explained by my own essence.16 In challenging the imagination at its own game, rational activity can discover that the most potent idea of all is that of God. ‘In proportion as a mental image is related to more things,’ Spinoza writes, ‘the more frequently does it occur – i.e. the more often it springs to life – and the more it engages the mind’ (E Vp11). What does he mean by image? It appears that he doesn’t mean – at least, not exclusively – the erroneous products of the imagination or sense perception, but rather, any conception conjured by the mind that gives rise to an emotion. For, in the same breath, Spinoza speaks of ‘an image or emotion’, which, he says, as it ‘is related to more things, the more causes there are by which it can be aroused and fostered . . .’ (E Vp11d). Additionally, he tells us, images are more easily linked with – and consequently, conjured by – images ‘related to things which we

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clearly and distinctly understand’ (E Vp12) – that is, ideas of ‘the common properties of things or deductions made from them’ (E Vp12d) – and ‘the greater the number of other images with which an image is associated, the more often it springs to life’ (E Vp13). What is the point to all this? What is the therapeutic significance of the ease with which images can be related to one another, and the greater frequency with which emotions can be aroused as a result? Spinoza reveals his intent when he states that, since the mind can form a clear and distinct idea of any affection of the body, it can then ‘bring it about that [ideas] should all be related to the idea of God’ (E Vp14d). Any affection of the body whatsoever – most notably, instances of pain or physical frustration – can be brought under control by understanding the cause of the said affection. I suppose, then, that the joy of this moment of intellection is sustained insofar as it is associated with the idea of God, the collection of all common properties that constitute the universe, which thus makes the idea of God the ever-present adequate idea, the most powerful resource sustaining rational, therapeutic activity. But what is more, Spinoza informs us, knowledge of God amounts to love of God in its own right, for ‘he who clearly and distinctly understands himself and his emotions feels pleasure accompanied by the idea of God’ (E Vp15d), which is, by definition (E III DefAff6), to love God. Furthermore, ‘this love towards God is bound to hold chief place in the mind’ (E Vp16). So, common notions lead to the idea of God, and the pleasure associated with conceiving this idea produces the most powerful of emotions, the love of God, which Wolfson dubs ‘the sovereign remedy for the ailments of the soul’.17 At this point, the transition occurs from Spinoza’s second to third kind of knowledge. The idea of God is the basis of the third kind of knowledge, which, by definition (E IIp40s2) proceeds to knowledge of the essence of particular things. As I see it, the second kind leads to the third kind of knowledge, since the idea of God is attained by the progressive accumulation of common notions. In any case, the rational and intuitive conceptions of a thing are essentially equivalent, for ‘a thing’s particular essence is ontologically equivalent to the process of its determination’, as Yirmiyahu Yovel puts it.18 That is to say, a thing’s essence is equivalent to the manner in which it is lawfully determined to be, which common notions express. Rational and intuitive conception are just two ways of seeing the same thing, although intuition necessarily includes the idea of God, according to Spinoza’s definition, which is not the case with reason. In other words, conceiving something in terms of the common notions that determine it does not necessarily entail the idea of God – though it may easily be associated with the latter, and conjure intellectual love of God in turn – while the idea of something’s particular essence necessarily

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does. To conceive a thing in its particularity, as I will presently show, necessarily includes the vision of its modal dependence on God. The third kind of knowledge comes closest to providing me with a comprehensive defence against the passions. ‘Knowledge of God begets love towards something immutable and eternal which we can truly possess’, Spinoza informs us, which ‘can engage the greatest part of the mind and pervade it’ (E Vp20s). Common notions occupy only part of the mind, only part of my attention, but since God is the whole of nature confronting my entire field of vision, the idea of God occupies a far greater part of my mind. Common notions provide singular instances of pleasure, but the intellectual love of God provides a joy that is encompassing and enduring. Because the mind can now conceive of the body through the idea of God, the infinite substance of which the body is a finite mode, Spinoza says that the body is conceived sub specie aeternitatis (E Vp22). Due to this manner of conceiving, part of the mind itself enjoys eternity (E Vp23). While the third kind of knowledge affords this elusive and controversial eternity of mind – a controversy I will not broach here – it purportedly provides the ‘highest possible contentment of mind’, insofar as ‘he who knows things by the third kind of knowledge passes to the highest state of human perfection and consequently is affected by the highest pleasure’ (E Vp27d). The contentment arising from the third kind of knowledge is acquiescentia animi, in distinction from acquiescentia in se ipso, the contentment produced from the second kind of knowledge, which Spinoza describes as a feeling of self-contentment derived from the conception of myself exercising my power of activity, that is, reason (E IIIp53).19 The contentment arising from the third kind of knowledge also involves selfconsideration, but now I consider myself and my activity in light of the knowledge and love of God. As a result, I appreciate myself and my power of acting with the insight of my modal status. Paradoxically, this ‘highest state of human perfection’ entails – indeed, is produced by – nothing less than the vision of my ultimate weakness. Lloyd argues that the intellectual content of love of God is ‘the dependence of finite modes on substance’, that is, ‘the general truth grasped by reason in the early sections of the Ethics: that all our bodily affections depend on God or substance’.20 The difference between reason and intuitive knowledge is that the latter has superior immediacy and power. I might add that intuitive knowledge is a more comprehensive – indeed, holistic – apprehension of my dependence on God, while reason does not necessarily entail the vision of God as such, but is only the progress towards that end. Furthermore, intellectual love of God is a profound grasping of the truth of my modal status, an intimate coming to terms with it; it is a joyful dwelling with this truth, as it pervades my being. Spinoza concludes that this contentment produced by the intellectual

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love of God is blessedness (beatitudo), which is ‘not the reward of virtue but virtue itself’ (E Vp42). Reward and endeavour coincide in blessedness, that is, blessedness is its own reward. ‘We do not enjoy blessedness because we keep our lusts in check’, Spinoza claims, but rather ‘it is because we enjoy blessedness that we are able to keep our lusts in check’ (E Vp42). This is an odd claim, as he has just detailed the intellectual remedies for the passions; however, it reminds us of the inherent benefit of knowledge, that it is pleasant in itself. In any intellectual endeavour, the mind aims at knowledge, but discovers in such endeavour the emotive force of this exercise – the very reward of its activity. The doctrine that reason bears emotive force is a conspicuous difference between Spinozistic and Stoic therapy. For the Stoics, understanding brings with it the realization that things actually occur for my best interest. Hence its soothing effect. For Spinoza, on the other hand, the content of understanding brings no reassurance that nature has my personal interests in view. Nature ensures that I seek to preserve myself, and understanding nature provides me with insight regarding her laws so that I may better preserve myself. Nevertheless, Spinoza’s nature is inhospitable to human wishes. While Stoicism proves helpful in inspiring an alternative to dualistic metaphysics and transcendental morality, it ultimately commits the error of anthropocentrism. The Stoic universe is directed towards human benefit; it has human interests foremost in mind. To the extent that the Stoic sage grasps this, he is effectively distinct from and unique within nature: he does not suffer from her blows as do other of her occupants; his essence remains intact. In contrast, the truth that the highest and most potent form of knowledge beholds, according to Spinoza, is the recognition of our extreme dependence on God – and nature – that we are only a temporary manifestation of the one substance, by which we will soon be swallowed up again. In itself, this truth is hardly encouraging, though it conceivably breeds at least a kind of resignation that extinguishes the urgency of the passions. However, Spinoza maintains that grasping this truth provides more than mere resignation but joy: the very act of beholding the whole at once is an incomparable thrill, and moreover, as I will show in the following section, this insight necessarily presupposes flourishing of the whole person. From Spinoza’s insistence upon our modal dependence, there follows a deeper difference with respect to Stoic therapy: the passions are insusceptible of complete control. That passions are merely irrational judgements, and are therefore part of the rational soul to which we can assent or not, is for the Stoics a fundamental premise revealing the passions’ susceptibility to control and even extirpation. For Spinoza, on the other hand, the wisdom that cures the passions entails nothing less than the acceptance that the passions are part of the human condition.

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Apprehending my place within the whole, I understand that I am only a very small part of nature, and as such, I am at the mercy of forces far more powerful than me. Blessedness involves the recognition of my existential dependence and puniness, my ultimate inability to achieve absolute control of self or environment, and thus it invokes a different kind of autonomy from that which the Stoics profess to deliver. Understanding and accepting the perpetual influence of the passions is the very condition by which I may be counted free, according to Spinoza. The Stoic model of autonomy, in the end, amounts to further illusion, and therefore, while it proves helpful in transcending the Christian metaphysic and value system, Spinoza appears to deem Stoicism, too, worthy of transcending as a final step of therapy.

2.2 Agreeing with nature Spinoza and the Stoics concur that virtue consists in a kind of agreement with nature, and that it involves the exercise of reason. However, they differ regarding the precise ingredients of this formula, and this difference, it seems to me, spells greater divergence with respect to politics. Though Spinoza lauds the power of reason and indicates that it is integral to his conception of virtue, it does not involve detachment from goods of the external world. Rather, reason aims at bodily flourishing, and attaining the goods necessary to this end. In contrast, the Stoics diminish the role of external goods in the attainment of happiness. For them, external goods are indifferent, and happiness consists in virtue alone, understood in terms of bare knowledge, or rather, informed intention. The Stoic doctrine of indifferents results from dissatisfaction with things commonly conceived as good – external things. The problem with such things, including health or wealth, is that they are not unconditionally good. Diogenes Laertius explains the Stoics’ thinking here: ‘that which can be used well and badly is not something good. But wealth and health can be used well and badly. Therefore wealth and health are not something good’ (DL VII.103). Health and wealth are indifferents, though controversially so. In itself, the doctrine of indifferents poses a problem for Stoic theory. The Stoics define virtue as agreement with nature, and claim that man’s natural instinct points to virtue, or contains the very seed of virtue. It would seem, then, that certain external goods such as health and wealth are not indifferent, but that their pursuit is quite important. After all, my horme´ impels me to pursue health and wealth, since they are conducive to self-preservation. Thus, the Stoics admit, there is a class of indifferents, which, because they agree with our nature, may be called ‘preferred’ (DL VII.103). Health is one of those preferred indifferents,

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since it accords with our nature, and is thus virtuous to pursue. But this only refers to the pursuit of the object in question: the actual attainment of the object remains utterly indifferent to virtue, according to the Stoics. Stoic virtue amounts to rational selection of things that accord with our nature. As Cicero explains, ‘the Chief Good [summum bonum] consists in applying to the conduct of life a knowledge of the working of natural causes, choosing what is in accordance with nature and rejecting what is contrary to it’ (De Fin III.31). The actual procurement of the things pursued rightly or wisely is irrelevant. True good lies not in the objects of our pursuit, but in the pursuit itself. We must choose in accordance with cosmic rationality. This is virtue, and it is sufficient for happiness, the Stoics famously proclaim. Intention alone determines virtue, and happiness may be attributed exclusively to moral disposition. The Stoics aim to procure what is most fully in our power. External goods in the hands of fortune elude our complete control. Because virtue consists in rational selection, the virtuous person, considered empirically, is not necessarily very different from the vicious person. Virtue depends on an intangible, after all, whose empirical manifestations are of no essential import.21 The wise man may fail in external deeds, just as the ignorant man, and they may be equally infirm as a result. As a natural being, the wise man is subject to natural events, with the difference that his wisdom enables him to remain internally unruffled by their upheaval, and to continue selecting properly as reason decrees. In other words, the wise man is of constant character. The ignorant person seeks to preserve his nature in such a manner that he is attached to the external things he pursues, and this attachment, as we have seen, renders him of inconstant character. The virtuous person pursues the same things, but only because he deems them rational to pursue, and he is attached only to his ability to select rationally, which alone is fully in his power. To this extent, Stoic virtue amounts to conformity – convenientia – with oneself. Indeed, the Stoic seeks what is in his power exclusively, what is most truly his own, and the path to virtue is a process of transforming himself and making his rational soul transparent.22 As that which is most fully in my power, virtue entails invulnerability. Hellenistic moralities strive to show how ‘even the sage on the rack can be happy’. For the Stoics, this is because the sage effectively builds a fortress around himself, and is only enticed and satisfied by what he discovers within. All that I require for happiness is found within, and if I should look outside myself, I am destined to find only disappointment, frustration and pain.23 Again, this supports the extent to which the Stoic telos is ultimately a matter of agreeing with oneself above all: the internal domain is the locus of agreement, where the sage discovers what alone is truly satisfying. Perhaps it is already evident that the Stoic concept of virtue is

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problematic, and it already received considerable criticism in the Hellenistic period. After all, the Stoics describe virtue first in terms of self-preservation, but ultimately assert that material well-being contributes nothing whatsoever to happiness per se. Long and Sedley express it as ‘the difficulty of accommodating two orders of value – moral good and things in accordance with nature – under the common heading of ‘‘accordance with nature’’ while taking moral excellence to be the only good and the only constituent of happiness’.24 Initially, Stoic morality appears to be naturalistic: virtue is indicated by natural impulse, and consists in agreement with nature. Ultimately, however, Stoic morality appears to takes refuge in intellectualism, by defining virtue as rational selection. How shall these two themes be reconciled? The Stoics maintain that the sage is one who always selects properly, according to his nature, but he rests content in selecting alone, which is the only good he discovers to be indomitable. Many of the Stoics’ critics wonder whether such an end is indeed conceivable. Carneades the Sceptic from Plato’s erstwhile Academy objected that ‘if our end is specified in terms of our selecting certain items, must not the selecting itself be carried out for the sake of an end – getting and using things selected?’25 In other words, the very act of selecting is directed towards obtaining the object in view – this is what defines it. The notion of actually obtaining the object – indeed, tasting it, feeling it, relishing it beforehand – is intrinsic to the act of concerted seeking and selecting, and is responsible for its intensity. Isn’t something lacking from the selecting of he who does not really care to obtain what he pursues? Isn’t he lacking sufficiently motivating desire or energy to select in the first place? T. H. Irwin calls Stoic virtue a ‘stochastic craft’, one which ‘does not guarantee the preferred external results’.26 He, too, wonders how a serious account of a stochastic craft can negate the importance of the objects at which it aims, insofar as obtaining that object forms and drives that craft.27 Further difficulties arise when the Stoics condone rational suicide, a doctrine that best exemplifies the Stoic endeavour for detachment. Cicero explains that: When a man’s circumstances contain a preponderance of things in accordance with nature, it is appropriate for him to remain alive; when he possesses or sees in prospect a majority of the contrary things, it is appropriate for him to depart life. This makes it plain that it is on occasion appropriate for the Wise Man to quit life although he is happy . . . (De Fin III.60) Though he does not care to obtain the objects of his rational pursuit, the wise man may find himself in the utter absence of such objects, therefore leaving him with the one option of selecting what is irrational and thus

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unworthy of selection.28 In short, virtue can no longer be practised in such a circumstance. Reason has nothing left to select, so it extinguishes itself. Rational suicide is the supreme expression of the Stoic ideal of the ‘power of autonomous action’, Long and Sedley argue.29 Without the willingness to abandon life, Stoic detachment fails to achieve its full force. The worldly triumph of detachment is only complete when suicide is an option. However, the Stoics risk contradiction in one respect by seeming to value external things after all: it is the scarcity of external ‘goods’ that inspires suicide. More importantly, the notion of rational suicide would seem to contradict the premise that the natural impulse for self-preservation is the basis of virtue. Indeed, the impulse for self-preservation supposedly expresses cosmic rationality. Because Spinoza initially casts virtue similarly, he faces similar questions to the Stoics. However, I will argue, he does a better job in maintaining consistency in his account of virtue. Like the Stoics, Spinoza conceives the individual’s drive for vital interest as the foundation of virtue, and understands virtue as a form of agreement or convenientia, involving profound knowledge. However, Spinoza never loses sight of his initial understanding of virtue in terms of the power to persist, both intellectually and physically, which are two aspects of the same thing. To be sure, for the Stoics, agreement with nature proves to be intellectual agreement only. For Spinoza, on the other hand, virtue involves vital power; he ultimately characterizes accordance with nature in terms of such power. Spinozistic convenientia is only an expression and maximization of vital power, which are one and the same thing. Henry Allison claims that Spinoza finds himself in a curious paradox – analogous to the Stoic predicament – insofar as he asserts the primacy of self-preservation but identifies the summum bonum with understanding.30 Indeed, Spinoza states that ‘the conatus to understand is the primary and only basis of virtue’ (E IVp26), and that perfecting the intellect ‘alone comprises human blessedness’ (E IVapp4). What is more, Spinoza suggests in other places that we may be able to achieve and maintain tranquillity despite a poverty of material goods (E IVapp32; Vp42s). In general, Spinoza’s description of blessedness in Ethics V seems to stray from his original account of virtue. Accordingly, he appears to arrive, like the Stoics, at an unabashed intellectualism, which would contradict the monism of his metaphysics. This seems to be Spinoza’s tendency first of all insofar as he depicts therapy as a matter of the understanding alone (E Vpraef), and proceeds to prescribe intellectual remedies for the passions. Furthermore, what many consider the most controversial aspect of the Ethics, Spinoza asserts the eternity of the mind. If the mind is the idea of the body, and the order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of bodies, how can ‘something of the mind remain, which is eternal’

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(E Vp23)? This doctrine appears to be the most glaring evidence of Spinoza’s bias towards the intellect. While Spinoza certainly spends the greater part of the Ethics considering blessedness in terms of intellection, he makes it clear at several points that the body is never out of sight, and that, in fact, blessedness presupposes or directly involves its flourishing. As I observed in the previous chapter, Spinoza defines virtue as the power ‘to bring about what can be understood solely through the laws of [one’s] own nature’ (E IVdef8). The latter phrase suggests what is unique to the human being, namely, reason. A person is virtuous then insofar as he exercises his native capacity for reason; he may also be counted active to this extent. However, Spinoza reveals that virtue means something else, in addition. Further on he specifies that ‘the more every man endeavors and is able to seek his own advantage, that is, to persevere in his own being, the more he is endowed with virtue’ (E IVp20; emphasis added). The inability to preserve one’s being is a mark of weakness, a lack of power, i.e. an absence of virtue. Virtue is not simply a matter of right intention, then, but success in carrying out that intention – specifically, the intention to preserve and augment one’s being. Therefore, Spinozistic virtue is a kind of vitalism.31 To the agreement or convenientia in which virtue consists, Spinoza ultimately lends a distinctly physical flavour. This is grounded, first of all, in a section known as ‘the physics in the Ethics’. Immediately following his assertion that the mind is the idea of the body (E IIp13), Spinoza admits that, due to this union of mind and body, if we would ‘determine the difference between the human mind and others and in what way it excels them, we have to know the nature of its object, that is, the nature of the human body’ (E IIp13s). Consequently, he proceeds to discuss the nature of bodies, what distinguishes them from one another, what characterizes their manner of movement, and most importantly, what determines their relative power or ability to persist in motion. Composite bodies, Spinoza argues, have greater power or ability to persist in motion, and the more so the greater the composition. Since humans, too, are only composite bodies, the same rule applies to them. Thus, ‘the human body needs for its preservation a great many other bodies, by which . . . it is continually regenerated’ (E IIp13post3), Spinoza explains. According to the laws of physics, human beings tend to persevere more successfully as they combine with more bodies, and they require continual provisions of bodies. The notion of convenientia arises in the Ethics at IVp31, where Spinoza says that ‘a thing in agreement with our nature [‘Quatenus res aliqua cum nostra natura convenit’] is necessarily good’. What ‘agrees’ with our nature amounts to what preserves it (E IVp31d), that is, what augments and thereby sustains the striving of our conatus. In the following proposition, Spinoza says that ‘insofar as men are subject to passive emotions, to that

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extent they cannot be said to agree in nature’ (E IVp32). Passions cause men to repel one another – in conflict, for example – rather than bind together, but it is from just such union that greater power of persevering is to be gained. That passions are detrimental in this sense points to a difference between the Stoics and Spinoza regarding the nature of alienation they represent. For the Stoics, passions represent an alienation of a person from himself, from his rational essence, and therapy is a process of selfscrutiny and transforming one’s soul in the aim of mending this internal alienation. Spinoza focuses, rather, on how passions alienate a person from himself insofar as he is conceived as a natural being, striving to persevere within, but also by virtue of, a particular environment. In other words, Spinoza is concerned with how the impassioned person is alienated from nature, from the domain of physical laws in which he must strive to persist in being as only a natural being can.32 Stoic virtue is a matter of agreeing with the logic of the divine mind that motivates the universe, but it is achieved internally, in transforming one’s soul. For Spinoza, however, the mind is the idea of the body, which is part of nature. Thus, the endeavour to preserve myself, as well as virtue and happiness, of which this endeavour is the foundation, necessarily involves dealing with things outside myself.33 Spinozistic virtue is a matter of agreeing with the environment around me. It is a matter of uniting with bodies that agree with my nature, insofar as they fortify my individual power of persevering. Stoic virtue is an activity carried out and achieved in the quiet fortress of the mind.34 Spinoza insists, rather, that virtue is an extroverted activity, for I can hardly persist in being – as nature, and, consequently, reason decrees – by my resources alone. I must look beyond myself in order to persevere. As Spinozistic convenientia takes this form, Deleuze argues that the ‘first effort of reason’ is to avoid sad passions (les passions tristes) which diminish my power of acting.35 In fact, Deleuze also points out, insofar as agreement between bodies involves likeness in nature, it provides for the genesis of common notions.36 Fruitful encounters presuppose engagement with bodies that are sufficiently similar to my own in some sense, and the perception of this similarity sets the stage for common notions. According to this account, Spinozistic convenientia supports the development and sustenance of reason, the second kind of knowledge. As such, convenientia is a prerequisite for any sophisticated mental activity, but it does not simply consist in the latter, as the Stoics would have it. As Matheron argues, the cultivation of reason requires certain propitious empirical conditions: ‘in order for our clear and distinct ideas to be deployed without hindrance, it is necessary that our perceptual field is balanced and rich, i.e. that our body maintains the greatest possible number of relations with the world’.37 That reason develops and operates in this way concurs with Spinoza’s

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admiration of the complexity of the human body. In a criticism apparently aimed at Descartes’ view that the body is an essentially simple mechanism, Spinoza writes that ‘nobody as yet has determined the limits of the body’s capabilities: that is, nobody has yet learned from experience what the body can and cannot do, without being determined by mind, solely from the laws of its nature insofar as it is considered corporeal’ (E IIIp2s). Since the mind is the idea of the body, the complexity of the human body provides for the complexity and sophistication of human thought. Such organic complexity distinguishes humans from lower animals and inanimate beings: it ensures that we may be affected by and act upon our environment in a greater variety of ways, which is the basis of our ability to ‘reflect more of the order of causes in Nature as a whole’, according to Hampshire.38 Blessedness consists in a state of knowledge as close to divine omniscience as possible, and God knows all things because he physically is all things: his mind includes the idea of every body that is. Therefore, the greater the physical scope of man, that is, the greater the number and variety of things with which he is physically engaged, the closer he comes to approximating the breadth of divine perception. Spinoza explains that ‘those things above all are advantageous which can so feed and nourish the body that all its parts can efficiently perform their function. For as the body is more capable of being affected in many ways and of affecting external bodies in many ways, so the mind is more capable of thinking’ (E IVapp27). Due to the organic complexity of the human body, it requires more varied and more thorough engagement, it would seem, in order to activate its full potential. Mere bread and fruit is not sufficient, but arguably music, art and other forms of entertainment are also necessary nourishments of this complex organism. And as the body is stimulated more broadly by various nourishments, Spinoza maintains, ‘the mind too is equally capable of conceiving many things’ (E IVapp27). One thing in particular the mind may come to conceive through varied and intense bodily nourishment is the capacity and limitation of its correlative body, that is, the truth of my modal status and the true nature of human freedom. In light of Spinozistic unity of body and mind, Hampshire wonders how Spinoza can portray the understanding as being amended by a ‘purely intellectual method and discipline’.39 Indeed, in the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect, Spinoza focuses exclusively on intellectual remedies, and in the Ethics, he concludes with the controversial doctrine of the eternity of the mind, which certainly seems to represent a purely intellectual salvation. Against the contention that therapy is exclusively intellectual, I must reiterate that reason only battles the passions successfully by playing by the very rules of the imagination, which is, for Spinoza, sense perception. At the very least, this point clouds any strict distinction

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between intellectual and physical methods or elements of therapy. But furthermore, Spinoza clearly admits that we only have the power to arrange emotions, a key element of therapy, so long as we are not assailed by passive affects that are simply too harmful and overpowering (E Vp10). This means that the very possibility of therapy requires sufficiently comfortable empirical conditions. The doctrine of the eternity of the mind seems to present a precarious surfeit of mind over matter, which threatens to contradict the tenets of Spinozistic metaphysics. As Spinoza reveals, however, the eternity of the mind hardly requires leaving the body behind; it does not seem to consist in some extra-bodily state, but rather, it presupposes nothing less than bodily flourishing. Concluding his discussion of this doctrine, Spinoza announces that ‘he whose body is capable of the greatest amount of activity has a mind whose greatest part is eternal’ (E Vp39). I take this to mean that he whose body is engaged with the greatest number and variety of things, receiving nourishment from such varied sources, has the greatest part of his mind populated by common notions, that is, ideas of bodies sub specie aeternitatis. Spinoza explains that ‘he whose body is capable of the greatest amount of activity is least assailed by evil emotions . . .’ wherefore ‘he has the capacity to arrange and associate the affections of the body according to the intellectual order and consequently bring it about that all affections of the body are related to God’ (E Vp39d). The greater the diversity of bodies with which I am engaged and the greater the number of bodies agreeable in nature with which I consort, the more occasions I have to conceive them adequately, i.e. from the vantage point of eternity or within the context of necessity. Spinoza goes on to say that a child of limited physical development has ‘practically no consciousness of itself, of God or things’, in contrast to one who is physically mature and developed (E Vp39s). A high degree of bodily activity and physical familiarity is the necessary correlate of a mind of expansive consciousness. That he distinguishes degrees of mental activity according to degrees of bodily activity suggests that physical improvement is an important prerequisite for the therapy for the passions. In fact, while the Stoics believe that children and animals demonstrate a spontaneous oikeiosis or ‘at-home-ness’ with nature, which recommends virtue, Spinoza holds, on the contrary, that the conduct of animals and children provides no such model of virtue. According to Spinoza, it is rational to be actively engaged in the natural world, to understand things with the aim of discerning what can augment my power of acting. Reason is benefited by bodily flourishing, but it is part of reason to seek out the means to such flourishing as well, since the wise person realizes that flourishing aids the increase in knowledge. Matheron calls this the ‘complete cycle of the rational life’: knowing in order to

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better organize the world, in order to know better still.40 Virtue requires beneficial empirical conditions, which in turn empowers a person to seek out such benefits more consistently. ‘Reason enables us to command fortune as far as we can’, (E IVp47s) Spinoza asserts. Granted, part of wisdom is the understanding that this is scarcely possible, thanks to our modal status and the necessity with which nature unfolds. Nevertheless, such determinism does not preclude the possibility that I may strive to position myself properly in order to profit from fortune if it should fall to my advantage. Such practical prudence is in fact founded upon understanding the necessity of the laws of nature. It is peculiar, and perhaps counterintuitive, how Spinoza expects that an uncompromising anti-anthropocentric view of the universe will produce joy and be the core ingredient of our ‘salvation’.41 Such a view, which will seem initially gloomy to most, succeeds in achieving not only tranquillity but joy because it presupposes the flourishing of the whole of the person. Wisdom is only achieved by a certain thriving of the individual, and conduces to such thriving in turn. In short, wisdom and thriving go hand in hand, for Spinoza. And by its very nature, physical thriving involves a greater proportion of affects of pleasure, where I rejoice at ideas of increased bodily power. Thus, physical flourishing provides bountiful emotions of the strong and joyful sort to combat the passions. For Spinoza, in any case, it does not follow that the sage on the rack can be happy, insofar as his conatus is frustrated. Certainly, his ability to conjure common notions may allow him to combat passive affects, but only to a modest extent. While the sage may weather the storm better than most, Spinoza simply cannot consider such a condition ‘happiness’. The happiness of the Stoic sage will remain intact so long as he is on the rack because, the Stoics aver, he rests secure and satisfied in the knowledge that he selects in concert with divine rationality. Such a state is morally deficient in Spinoza’s eyes because virtue entails vital success, and not merely proper selection with nothing to show for it. In short, ‘success is a mark of virtue, and not merely effort’, as Matheron asserts.42 Accordingly, Spinoza unleashes a vehement attack on the notion of rational suicide. ‘Those who commit suicide are weak in spirit and are completely overcome by external causes contrary to one’s nature’, he declares (E IVp18s). The impulse for suicide must always come from outside myself, and thus, is actually the result of external influences. My conatus can never involve its own destruction. To do so would be an inherent contradiction: ‘that a man, from the necessity of his own nature, should endeavor to cease to exist . . . is as impossible as that something should come from nothing’ (E IVp20). Suicide is not a rational option because reason, by its very nature, is invested in vital effort, and its basic purpose is to elucidate the latter. Reason’s dedication to and success at

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this primal effort is responsible for its own development and sophistication. Suicide cannot be, as for the Stoics, an expression of autonomy. To the contrary, Spinoza sees it as the greatest expression of heteronomy. Because the conatus that is our essence impels us to persevere in being, suicide is quite simply a sign that one is lost to oneself. When the Stoic sage commits suicide, it is an expression of stubborn self-possession, the refusal to submit oneself to external will. While the Stoics hold that suicide, when called for, alone keeps the soul’s virtue intact, Spinoza depicts suicide as precisely the flight of virtue. For, the conatus to persevere in being permeates and animates all activities: ‘No one can desire to be happy, to do well, to live well, without also desiring to be, to do, to live, i.e. to actually exist’, Spinoza asserts (E IVp21). The Stoic will commit suicide in order to preserve his virtue, and thereby, his happiness, but for Spinoza, happiness is inconceivable without vital striving. As Matheron argues, Spinoza’s ideal human being is one who, in every case and situation, acts precisely as his self-preservation requires.43 Spinoza insists upon a vitalistic account of virtue, which is arguably the Stoics’ starting point, too; one that they ultimately fail to uphold. From such vitalism, however, it follows that Spinozistic virtue is vulnerable, again in contrast to Stoic virtue. Vulnerability is the price of this vitalism, which depends upon the environment and the strength neighbouring bodies have to offer, as Spinoza expresses in his version of convenientia. As I will show in the next chapter, the vitalism of Spinozistic virtue and the vulnerability inherent to it ensure that social life is necessary for its attainment, and this establishes the foundation of politics in Spinoza’s system.

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The Sociality of Virtue

3.1 Spinoza’s critique of perfectionism Spinoza has followed the Stoics, I have argued, in establishing the foundation for moral perfectionism. They both establish that the universe unfolds in a manner discernible to human reason. They also maintain that passions are central to human unhappiness, but because passions harbour a cognitive element, their therapy is ready at hand. The Stoics insist that a cure is a real possibility, though they admit it is rare. Spinoza affirms the egalitarianism and feasibility of therapy, but denies the possibility of a cure for the passions. In fact, this realization is a necessary element of therapy, according to Spinoza. Wisdom entails seeing myself as part of nature, and this insight involves recognizing human limitations. God alone is unlimited, and I am only part of God and never on a par with him in any sense. The thesis that I am part of nature, and what this means for Spinoza, ultimately eliminates him from the camp of moral perfectionism. Spinoza’s critique of perfectionism lends special significance to politics in his philosophy. Politics is precisely Spinoza’s response to our existential limitations; it is the means for persisting in being, and thereby developing and securing the activity of reason – and attaining virtue – despite our modal weaknesses. For the Stoics, the sage is the ideal of moral perfection. Stoic virtue is marked by consistently reasonable and unwavering decision-making, which ensures that the sage does everything well, according to Long and Sedley.1 The Stoic sage never rushes to action, but always maintains a ‘walking pace’ in fulfilling his natural impulses. Cicero explains that It is characteristic of the wise man that he does nothing he would regret, nothing against his will, but he does everything honorably, consistently, seriously, and rightly . . . he anticipates nothing as if it were bound to happen, he is shocked by nothing when it does happen . . . he refers everything to his own judgment and stands by his own decisions (L&S 63M).2

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The sage is subject to no regret, disappointment or shock because he is confident on one hand that all events are providentially ordered, and on the other hand that he can let external goods fall away because he possesses and enjoys what alone is in his power, and which, as a result, can never be taken away or lost. Therefore, the Stoics hold that the happiness of the wise man remains intact no matter the material conditions in which he lives. As perfection, of course, Stoic virtue is not susceptible of degrees. This doctrine may be attributed to the monistic psychology of the Stoics, whereby ‘a person’s reasoning faculty is . . . either consistent or inconsistent’.3 For Plato and Aristotle, who endorse the notion of a varied soul, happiness is necessarily a matter of degrees since virtue involves training parts of the soul that are essentially irreducible to reason. For the Stoics, however, the exclusively rational nature of the soul means that it may be rendered self-transparent and devoid of passions: there is no part of the soul that necessarily eludes my grasp.4 As an unfortunate consequence of this doctrine, whoever does not achieve the high standard of Stoic virtue remains vicious no matter how close he may come to achieving it. Plutarch writes that the Stoics illustrate this doctrine accordingly: ‘just as in the sea the man an arm’s length from the surface is drowning no less than the one who has sunk five hundred fathoms, so even those who are getting close to virtue are no less in a state of vice than those who are far from it’ (L&S 61T).5 By insisting that virtue amounts to perfection, however, the Stoics find themselves in a peculiar predicament. Their sage is the model of ethical practice, and yet he is as ‘rare as the phoenix’. Stoic psychotherapy appears eminently practical insofar as it is available to all humans by virtue of their possessing reason, but the Stoics admit that virtue eludes the vast majority of human beings. Since virtue is perfection, it is an all-or-nothing affair. This feature of Stoic ethics is frustrating to prospective students and followers. The Stoic sage is so radically different from the vast majority that, arguably, he becomes a largely unreasonable and unattainable ideal. As Seneca puts it, ‘[the wise man’s] virtue has placed him in another region of the universe; he has nothing in common with you’ (De Con 15.3). The essential message of Spinozistic wisdom by contrast is that perfection is impossible. In fact, the model of Stoic tranquillity is an illusory goal, as Spinoza would have it, and as such, constitutes a hindrance to salvation. That I am a finite mode of infinite substance is the kernel of Spinozistic wisdom. Spinoza lays the foundation for this claim in Ethics II, which concerns the nature of modal existence, where he asserts that the human body is just part of a vast interconnection of bodies, and is thus determined by other bodies to act in a particular way. Insofar as it exists at all, a body is modified by other bodies, which are in turn modified by other

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bodies to act in particular ways, and so on ad infinitum. ‘The human mind has no knowledge of the body, nor does it know it to exist,’ Spinoza writes ‘except through ideas of the affections by which the body is affected’ (E IIp19). Knowing the body in this manner, the mind is always drawn to the ideas of other bodies, which are included in the idea of its own body insofar as it is modified, that is, insofar as it exists at all. Accordingly, self-reflection immediately brings me beyond the borders of myself, as it were, and these borders are revealed to be illusory. As Deleuze argues, I am defined in terms of longitude and latitude, as if located on a map: my position and relation with respect to others is intrinsic to my being. If we are Spinozists, we will define something neither by its form, nor by its organs and functions, nor as a substance or as a subject . . . [We] define it by longitude and latitude . . . We call the longitude of a body whatever is the ensemble of relations of speed and slowness, of rest and of movement, between particles which compose it from this point of view, that is, between ‘unformed elements’. We call latitude the ensemble of affects which fill a body at each moment, that is, the intentional states of an anonymous force (the force of existing, the power of being affected).6 So much of ‘me’ remains inscrutable to myself. This is the case, first of all, thanks to my interconnectedness with other bodies: to examine myself is to see that I am determined by other bodies, and my attention is immediately directed to the infinite network of bodies that compose the universe. Moreover, the conatus that motivates me, which characterizes my latitude, is anonymous, according to Deleuze, because it is not subject to free will and it precedes rational self-reflection, I suppose. This expresses the critique of individualism inherent to the Spinozistic system, a significant countertrend to Cartesianism. The self-isolating, self-ascertaining Cogito epitomizes the robust Cartesian conception of the individual. Spinoza shakes the very foundation of Cartesian individualism since, by asserting that the mind is just the idea of the body as it is necessarily modified by other bodies, he precludes the possibility of capturing the essence of thought in isolation from other thoughts. In other words, there can be no such thing as the Cartesian Cogito since there can be no isolated bodies, and as a consequence, no isolated thought, no detached and selftransparent ‘me’. Ethics V further undermines individualism: as I come to understand God, my individuality disappears, and my mind becomes progressively united with the mind of God.7 To conceive of bodies sub specie aeternitatis, as I understand it, amounts to conceiving of them in the manner of God,

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that is, to achieve the status of clear and distinct idea in the very mind of God. Insofar as I conceive adequately, I conceive things as God does, that is, as they are beheld in the mind of God where all ideas are adequate. Wisdom involves seeing the human mind’s place within the divine mind. And yet Spinoza intends this vision of ultimate unity to humble us. Intuitive knowledge involves the affirmation of anti-anthropocentric truth, and the acceptance of myself as decentred, as the locus of activity that is only one minute part of God. As my mind becomes progressively populated with a higher proportion of adequate ideas, and thereby unites with the mind of God in a sense, I will see that I have been part of God all along, and that God is the truth of my animation and motivation. However, Spinoza complains, ‘most believe that man disturbs Nature rather than follows nature’s order and has absolute power over his actions and is self-determined . . . as if he were not a natural phenomenon, but a phenomenon outside of existence’ (E IIIpraef). As a natural phenomenon, as a finite mode of infinite substance alongside other finite modes, man is in fact always subject to forces greater than himself. Every individual thing in nature is surpassed in strength and power by something else, Spinoza asserts (E IVaxiom). No matter how hard I try, I cannot guarantee that I will be active, that I will be the adequate cause of my states. ‘It is impossible for a man not to be part of nature and not to undergo changes other than those which can be understood solely through his own nature and of which he is the adequate cause’, Spinoza explains, for if he could, ‘he cannot perish but would always necessarily exist’ (E IVp4). It is the very condition of modal existence to be subject to external determination beyond my control. Passive affection is a natural feature of the human condition. I am always beset by forces that exceed my capacity to capture them intellectually, forces that occasionally cause me unavoidable pain and repel the therapeutic essays of the understanding. According to Spinoza, I must accept that ‘man is necessarily always subject to passive emotions, and that he follows the common order of nature, and obeys it, and accommodates himself to it as far as the nature of things demands’ (E IVp4cor). As long as man follows the common order of nature, that is, as long as he remains a natural being, he will suffer passive affects. I can only continue to follow the common order of nature as long as I exist, that is, employ the first kind of knowledge, which is necessarily beset by error. As long as I employ such knowledge, which is basic to my modal status, I am bound to suffer passive affects. I cannot avoid passions, but only mitigate the extent to which they determine me to act. As part of nature, all men are occasionally (or typically) subject to forces too large to capture intellectually, or too harmful to their organic functioning, and therefore, impossible to conceive adequately – at least immediately. Passive affection cannot be avoided, and yet the best we can

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hope for is to avoid being excessively determined by it in our actions. Many have wondered why Ethics IV is entitled ‘On Human Bondage’, since it is here that Spinoza begins to discuss what men are capable of, and present his characterization of the ‘free man’ (E IVp67–73). I submit that Spinoza entitles it such because he believes that I remain bonded so long as I believe with the Stoics that reason grants me the power to ‘feel external happenings as things that merely graze the surface of [my] skin’, as Nussbaum puts it.8 Spinozistic therapy involves understanding passive affections with a view to joining on to the adequate idea of these affections sequences of adequate ideas, and consequently, a series of active affects. Thus, by such a process, passions do not disappear, but only their derivatives disappear, those sequences of passions linked to the original passive affect. However, Spinozistic therapy is predicated upon the adequate conception of the said affection, and if we cannot avoid passive affection because we are acted upon by external forces too powerful or too large to conceive, then the subsequent adequation of ideas does not always succeed. Many passive affects inevitably elude the therapeutic methods Spinoza prescribes, such as unavoidable sickness or physical harm. The inability to master the self, stemming from the inability to achieve absolute control over the passions, reveals a relative impotence of reason. ‘As long as we do not have perfect knowledge of our emotions,’ Spinoza resolves, ‘we must conceive of a right method of living, of fixed rules of life, commit them to memory and continually apply them to particular situations frequently encountered in life, so that our causal thinking is thoroughly permeated by them’ (E Vp10s). In those cases where I am faced with overwhelming external forces, I may be more likely to respond appropriately if my mind is trained to think in a certain manner, that is, to associate certain images and thoughts with one another habitually so that they appear together. As one rule of life, Spinoza advises that ‘hatred should be conquered by love or nobility and not repaid with hatred’ (E Vp10s). In order to have this rule ready to hand, Spinoza says that we should reflect and consider how the common offences committed by persons are products of necessity, and not free will (E Vp10s). In this way, we will come to ‘associate the image of a wrong with the presentation of this rule . . .’ with the result that ‘the wrong, or the hatred that is wont to arise from it, will occupy just a small part of our imagination and will easily be overcome’ (E Vp10s). By occupying only a small part of the imagination, the idea of the wrong will be more easily conceived, and thereby subjected to therapy. So the previously denigrated imagination plays a rather important role in the therapy of the passions, in that Spinoza calls on the mind to conjure images favourable to therapy. This passage on the ‘rules of life’ is one of the more confusing passages

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of the Ethics, for Spinoza does not list any further specific ‘rules of life’, but seems interested, rather, in the general idea behind them, how they work and what they are supposed to achieve. As a general theme characterizing such rules, Spinoza says that ‘in arranging our thoughts and images we should always concentrate on that which is good in every single thing so that in so doing we may be determined to act always from the emotion of pleasure’ (E Vp10s). Oddly enough, Spinoza seems to call for us to impose an illusion of sorts upon ourselves, where we conjure the emotion of pleasure when the idea of bodily increase may not be available – and not in the way that mere intellection in itself produces the emotion of pleasure. Indeed, Spinoza suggests a means of conjuring pleasure when even such intellection is not entirely possible. In this passage on the ‘right method of living’, Spinoza appears to be concerned primarily with the motivation behind therapy, and certainly motivation determines the success of such therapy. The proper motivation behind therapy is that my life should become identical with the right method of living, so that I am inspired to defeat the passions not by anger, hatred, resentment or despair, but by joy and love, because only joy and love can successfully challenge the passive emotions. Spinoza says that ‘he who diligently follows these precepts and practices them will surely within a short space of time be able to direct his actions for the most part according to reason’s behest’ (E Vp10s). Why is this the case, according to Spinoza? Why ought I to impose upon myself such imaginary thinking, the illusion of pleasure? How does this help a person ‘direct his actions according to reason’s behest’, and what does it say about therapy and the power of reason? It is indeed peculiar that ethics aims to procure pleasure, but presupposes it at the same time in order to secure proper motivation, according to Spinoza. On one hand, this makes some sense, for how can therapy succeed if one is inundated by passive affects in the first place, such as anger and hatred? On the other hand, pleasure is the proper precondition of therapy because reason is not able to institute the therapeutic project by itself. That is, reason is not able to advertise its therapy by appealing to the pleasure it can induce. Because rational maturity and readiness is predicated upon physical flourishing, reason continually derives force for its exercise from elsewhere: it appeals to the imagination. I must practise conjuring images of advantage and pleasure in all that I conceive, so that my mind will be sufficiently encouraged and strengthened to undertake methods of rational therapy in even the most dire of conditions – indeed, to undertake such methods at all! After all, how can rational activity appeal to a person who has never experienced the joys of intellection? I must be lured in and continually appeased by the attractions of the imagination. If I would ever hope to engage in rational therapy as the Ethics details, the ‘right method of living’ must serve as my

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point of entry and my continual sustenance. Indeed, Spinoza tells us, ‘supreme contentment of spirit follows from the right way of life’ (E Vp10s). This means then that the passions must already be somewhat tamed for therapy to occur. Spinoza strikes a distinctly Aristotelian chord here, in this respect, that moral excellence does not arise in us by nature, but is developed through habituation, through the constant exercise of virtuous activities. For Spinoza, such habituation involves conjuring proper images and proper associations of images, which provides the proper passions to start off with. Religion can play an important role here. This may seem odd in light of Spinoza’s memorable criticism of religion in Ethics I. Nevertheless, religion can provide proper images and proper taming of the passions, and Spinoza seems to admit as much. Granted, religion often provides mistakenly anthropocentric images; however, Christianity in particular urges men to look for the good in others, which is precisely what Spinoza echoes in his injunction to repay hatred with love (E Vp10s). And religion can aid the anti-anthropocentric aim of the Ethics, even though it seems to indulge in anthropocentric ideas, since religion provides practice for forgetting oneself, as Herman De Dijn puts it.9 Insofar as they are carried out for the glory of God first and foremost, and are expressions of obedience to God, religious rituals aim to decentre persons. As Pascal expresses it in his famous ‘Wager’ argument, religious rituals have the fortunate effect of taming the passions: You want to be cured of unbelief and you ask for the remedy: learn from those who were once bound like you who now wager all they have . . . They behaved just as if they did believe, taking holy water, having masses said, and so on. That will make you believe quite naturally, and will make you more docile . . . [The] fact is that this diminishes the passions which are your great obstacles.10 The passions generally express the anxious desire to assert one’s personal will on the world. Religious rituals subdue the passions because they provide the contrary expression, namely, the recognition that we are ultimately impotent, and in the hands of a greater, inscrutable power. This echoes the content of Spinoza’s therapeutic wisdom, and thus, it is no mistake that Spinoza apologizes for religion by saying that those who are subject to the religious passions of humility, repentance and reverence are more liable to live according to the guidance of reason, and enjoy beatitude (E IVp54s). Since the passions cannot be completely controlled, since reason is relatively feeble, perfect virtue simply is not possible. Virtue is a matter of degrees. Spinoza admits this much when he states that ‘the mind is most

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passive whose greatest part is constituted by inadequate ideas, so that it is characterized more by passivity than activity’, and ‘the mind is most active whose greatest part is constituted by adequate ideas’ (E Vp20s). The mind that may be counted active is not one totally bereft of passivity, contrary to the Stoic ideal, but is only mostly populated by adequate ideas. It is inevitable that even the wise man possesses inadequate ideas, since he is part of nature and must occasionally suffer influences that overpower him physically and mentally. Freedom for Spinoza consists only in a higher proportion of adequate to inadequate ideas populating the mind. Furthermore, he says, ‘the greater the number of things the mind knows by the second and third kinds of knowledge, the greater is the part of it that survives, and consequently, the greater is that part of it that is not touched by emotions contrary to our nature’ (E Vp38d). The wise mind may be called eternal insofar as it is mostly populated by ideas sub specie aeternitatis, and, likewise, tranquil insofar as it is mostly populated by ideas that are beyond the reach of passive affects. If virtue is a matter of degrees, the lives of the philosopher and nonphilosopher retain some essential connection. At best, a person is more or less wise, since wisdom is determined by the proportion of adequate to inadequate ideas populating his mind. Accordingly, salvation does not entail the transformation into a state that is totally different from bondage to the passions. Spinoza’s wise man is not a radically different being, as a result, but suffers ailments shared by all men, only to a lesser degree. The Stoic sage, on the other hand, is indeed radically different; his perfection effectively divorces him from the rest of humanity. Ethics amounts to perpetual progress for Spinoza. Specifically, it entails the continual struggle to augment the proportion of adequate over inadequate ideas, and to combat the ever-present passive affects, which, with the onslaught of old age, presumably become only more challenging. As a result, the project of liberation is inherently incompletable; the mind that can so completely free itself from inadequate ideas and passive affects is no longer part of nature.11 Ethics is a matter of continual struggle against more powerful forces that can never be vanquished, but only temporarily stayed. The prospect of utter self-control and everlasting peace is a harmful illusion, as Spinoza has it, that must be banished if one would ever hope to achieve happiness, a happiness that consists only in degrees. In this respect, Stoicism is a further casualty of the Spinozistic project, falling alongside the Judeo-Christian metaphysic Spinoza so deplores in the appendix to Ethics I. Rather, Spinozistic psychotherapy is closer in spirit to a later counterpart: Freudian psychoanalysis. Like Spinoza, Freud is pessimistic about the possibility of attaining complete happiness, and in fact maintains that the psychoanalytic cure for neurotic misery entails the

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dispersal of such a vain hope.12 Stoic therapy is fatally optimistic, trumpeting the wise man’s victory over fortune; Spinozistic and Freudian models of therapy entail resignation regarding our existential condition. Freud observes that his patients often object in frustration that analysis only reveals how their sufferings are due in large part to their own ‘relation and destinies’, which can never be changed. Freud says he always answers the same: ‘I do not doubt at all that it would be easier for fate than for me to remove your sufferings, but you will be convinced that much will be gained if we succeed in transforming your hysterical misery into everyday unhappiness, against which you will be better able to defend yourself with a restored nervous system.’13 While Spinozistic therapy purports to deliver some kind of salvation, Freud would surely eschew such an exalted goal; psychoanalysis aims only ‘to produce a normal person’, Yovel reminds us.14 Nevertheless, both thinkers identify the same means to these divergent ends, and in any case, Spinoza would add, the wise man is only ‘saved’ insofar as he recognizes his normalcy, and that he is not terribly different from the common lot of humanity. Spinoza’s philosopher is separated from the common people’s unhappiness by mere degrees of intellectual clarity, and is certainly no stranger to their sufferings: he is unique among the masses only insofar as he resolutely faces up to his modal existence and the ramifications thereof. As part of nature, man is an ending thing. To be perfect is to be on a par with God. If man should achieve the goal of perfection, he would no longer be a man, he would no longer be an individual – indeed, he would no longer be alive, by Spinoza’s estimation. Hampshire interprets the end – that is, perfection – as a state of complete and total knowledge, where the mind is wholly populated by adequate ideas reflecting the whole of nature.15 However, I can never reflect the whole of nature because of my bodily limitations, namely, that mine is a finite body. Spinoza has established that the scope of my mental activity is founded upon the scope of my bodily activity (E IVapp27), but my body can never interact with the whole of nature so that I may have an idea of all things – much less interact with, and conceive adequately, all at once. Inadequacy of ideas is symptomatic of modality, and hence, of particularity and the illusion of individuality. I would no longer exist as an individual – and thus, I would not exist at all – if I were to achieve perfect knowledge. I would just be one with the divine mind, which only fully occurs at death. Lloyd identifies this as the recurring paradox of the Spinozistic self: its aim of complete self-illumination would involve its own destruction.16 Ethics is the attempt to articulate myself, to express my identity and fulfil my native power in its intellectual and physical aspects amidst forces that constantly overpower me. Thus, there is ultimately a

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tragic element to Spinozistic ethics, since I am necessarily driven to pursue an end that is futile, and whose futility ought to become all the more clear as the content of my mind becomes more adequate. This project is impossible, but it leads to glimpses of God so glorious that they inexorably drive me on nonetheless, ever deeper into more intimate familiarity with my own modal status and, in turn, the very fabric of God and nature.

3.2 ‘Nothing is more advantageous to man than man’ Unlike Stoic virtue, Spinozistic virtue is no state of unassailable perfection. The life of virtue involves continued passive affection, and even passive determination, albeit to a lesser extent. Virtue does not involve absolute control over the passions, but rather, the resignation that, seeing myself as part of nature, I must live with them always. The truth that I am only part of nature indicates the perpetual weakness of my being, that I am ultimately dependent upon God. But it also indicates my dependence upon other persons. Thus, we are led to the role and importance of society in the life of virtue. As Spinoza expresses it in his physics and epistemology, the human being is never isolated: I know myself only insofar as I am always in the company of other bodies that can aid or hinder my power of motion. Accordingly, Spinoza’s philosophy is thoroughly social, down to its very roots. And just as wisdom entails the realization that I am part of nature, so I must realize that I am part of society. Virtue entails both forms of insight. Association is a matter of augmenting an individual’s power of self-preservation, which is precisely what Spinoza identifies with virtue. Sociality is thus inherent to the life of virtue. As the Stoics establish it, by contrast, sociality is hardly essential to virtue. This is a result of the famous self-sufficiency of the Stoic sage. The sage is impervious to nature’s assaults because he has discovered the only thing he needs, the only true source of satisfaction, which he finds at home, in the depths of himself. This already suggests the sage’s attitude towards the society of other men. Seneca writes that [No] injury can be done to the wise man . . . if no one can do him an injury, no one can do him a service either. The wise man, on the one hand, lacks nothing that he can receive as a gift; the evil man, on the other, can bestow nothing good enough for the wise man to have. For a man must have before he can give; the evil man, however, has nothing that the wise man would be glad to have transferred to himself. It is impossible, therefore, for any one either to injure or to benefit the wise man, since that which is divine does not need to be helped and cannot

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be hurt; and the wise man is next-door neighbor to the gods and like a god in all save his mortality. (De Con VIII.1–2) The self-sufficiency of the Stoic sage ensures that he is radically different from other human beings, so that he effectively transcends society. Society offers him nothing he desires or urgently seeks out – as Seneca has it, the sage can take or leave whatever his ignorant neighbours offer him. A veritable god among men, the sage is not harmed by those things that commonly harm other people, so neither does he need in the same way the protection that association can provide. Indeed, he is all too ready to die, if it comes to that. In a stronger sense, however, it would appear that the Stoic sage must in fact disdain what his neighbours have to offer him. Since he knows that true happiness requires no external goods but rests in reason alone, his neighbours’ gifts are useless to him. The evil man has nothing good enough to offer the wise man, Seneca maintains, but since the vast majority of men fall short of virtue and must be considered vicious as a result, it follows that society is comprised of evil men. The wise man’s judgement of his neighbours is, obviously, not very political, for if he were to reveal his convictions he would surely incur his neighbours’ wrath, reminiscent of Socrates’ demise. And yet, the wise man’s self-sufficiency can afford him the luxury of being socially unsavoury if he so wishes, since nothing can harm what is of real worth to him. So detached is the Stoic sage, so content at home in himself, that he may transcend family ties as well, for the wise man’s family members are also grouped with those external things indifferent to happiness. For example, Epictetus advises that In the case of everything that delights the mind or is useful or is loved with fond affection, remember to tell yourself what thing it is . . . If you are fond of a jug, say ‘It is a jug I am fond of’; then if it is broken, you will not be disturbed. If you kiss your child, or your wife, say to yourself that it is a human being that you are kissing; and then you will not be disturbed if either of them dies. (Ench 3) Seneca admires similar detachment in the story of Stilbo the Megarian.17 Seneca tells of how Demetrius the ‘Sacker of Cities’, having captured Stilbo’s homeland, asked the philosopher whether he had lost anything in the siege, to which Stilbo defiantly replied ‘I have all my goods with me! . . . I have lost nothing!’ (Ep IX.18–19). And yet, Seneca informs us, Stilbo had lost his wife and daughters in the siege. ‘There is a brave and stout-hearted man for you!’ Seneca declares (Ep IX.19). Stilbo’s pronouncement accords with Stoicism because ‘the Stoic also can carry his goods

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unimpaired through cities that have been burned to ashes; for he is selfsufficient’ (Ep IX.19). Like Stilbo, the Stoic avoids disappointment in the face of distress, but he does so apparently at the cost of diminishing interpersonal ties that bind the rest of humankind. Not only does the wise man’s detachment, which the vast majority is incapable of attaining, cause him to stand above society, but the degree of detachment – towards his own family members even – is so extreme that one can easily imagine how it might disturb his neighbours and cause them to eye him with suspicion, even fear. The Stoic account of the wise man’s self-sufficiency indicates that association is not necessary for the attainment of virtue. The wise man finds within himself alone the resources that happiness requires, namely, the exercise of his own faculty of rational selection. Precisely by convincing himself of the worthlessness of everything outside himself, which he discovers in the process of perfecting his intellect, the sage becomes resistant to distress. Perhaps there is a way to allow the Stoics to maintain the significance of association, not with respect to the attainment of virtue, but with respect to the life of virtue, the continued exercise of rational selection. In the following chapter I will consider the Stoic doctrine of duty, which assigns socially and politically appropriate functions to the wise man, to any man. At present, however, it is sufficiently clear that association has a precarious relation to virtue for the Stoics. Spinoza cannot admit the self-sufficiency of the Stoic wise man, for which reason he attributes society such importance in the life of virtue. Since the human body requires for its self-preservation the resources offered by numerous other bodies (E IIpost4), Spinoza maintains that ‘we can never bring it about that we should live a life quite unrelated to things outside ourselves. Besides, if we consider the mind, surely our intellect would be less perfect if the mind were in solitude and understood nothing beyond itself’ (E IVp18s). This latter claim anticipates the doctrine that the mind is more active as the body is engaged with a greater number of things (E IVapp27). Indeed, the solitary life limits the number and variety of things for such engagement, and consequently limits the mind’s activity as well. Among those things outside ourselves necessary for self-preservation, Spinoza claims, the most excellent are those which ‘are in complete harmony with our nature’, for, ‘if two individuals of completely the same nature are combined, they compose an individual twice as powerful as each one singly’ (E IVp18s). Things advantageous to our nature are those with which we may combine in order to augment our power. Accordingly, ‘nothing is more advantageous to man than man’ (E IVp18s). Spinoza’s account of convenientia is therefore the ground of sociality. Spinoza explains that ‘men can wish for nothing more excellent for preserving their own being than that they should be in harmony in all

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respects, that their minds and bodies should compose . . . one mind and one body, and that all together should endeavor as best they can to preserve their own being, and that all together should aim at the common advantage of all’ (E IVp18s). Since virtue entails successful preservation of one’s being, and since the collaboration of bodies is critical to this endeavour, association is a necessary element of virtue. Just as bodies that cohere are more likely in their union to persist in motion, so persons who cohere are more likely to secure the trajectory of their communal conatus, and in the process, the trajectories of their individual cona¯tus. If a person is sufficiently knowledgeable and understands the nature of bodies, and understands that he, too, obeys the laws governing bodies in nature, he will recognize the advantage in collaborating with other men. Accordingly, it is the mark of rational men to collaborate, and due to their practical insight, they are especially effective at collaborating. Rational men are most harmonious thanks to their practical insight, and yet Spinoza asserts that ‘whatever things cause men to live in harmony cause them also to live by the guidance of reason’ (E IVp40). This suggests a curious predicament: association is what rational people do, but it is also the very context in which rationality properly arises. The latter would seem to follow from the principles of Spinoza’s epistemology. He explains the genesis of common notions thus: ‘of that which is common . . . to the human body and some external bodies by which the human body is affected . . . the idea also in the mind will be adequate’ (E IIp39),and ‘hence it follows that the mind is more capable of perceiving more things adequately in proportion as its body has more things in common with other bodies’ (E IIp39cor). Where better to encounter bodies similar to my own than in the company of other people? It is unclear whether human society is the only environment in which common notions, the essential components of rational knowledge, arise, but it certainly appears that society is a most propitious environment for their development. The mind is only active as its body is enabled in its own activity, that is, aided in its self-preservation and flourishing by collaborating with other bodies. The life of reason, and as a consequence, the very possibility of therapy and salvation itself – indeed, the entirety of philosophy – require social collaboration. Reason is ‘imprisoned in a circle’, Matheron argues: ‘the desire to know, in order [for it] to end up . . . at the acquisition of new knowledge, ought to possess the force that alone, however, this acquisition would be able to confer upon it’.18 The force Matheron has in mind is the practical knowledge that enables an individual to organize his environment in a beneficial manner and provide a wealth of objects for mental conception and reflection, that is, for the flourishing life of reason. The problem facing reason, at least initially, is that the end at which it aims is

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identical with the means of attaining that end! Reason emerges in the effort of organizing one’s environment – it makes its first appearance in the form of utilitarian insight – and achieves its highest expression therein, for certainly, this is what virtue entails. And yet such organization is precisely the sustenance reason requires to get off the ground in the first place. As Matheron explains, to become rational, a person would already have to be rational in some sense, because reason cannot elevate itself to the level where it may combat the passions.19 Thus, ‘the individual cannot save himself alone’.20 While therapy counteracts the extent to which an individual is determined by ever-present passions, social cooperation reduces this in the first place, which the very possibility of therapy requires. What disposes the human body to affect and be affected by external bodies in ever more numerous ways is advantageous, Spinoza maintains (E IVp38). Society disposes the body in this manner by nourishing its strength and providing it with a wealth of bodies that are friendly but diverse. A rich and balanced environment is conducive to the mind’s activity insofar as it exercises the body in a varied manner. This suggests a compelling link between social life and virtue, especially insofar as it invokes Spinoza’s characterization of a peculiar form of pleasure he praises, namely, hilaritas.21 Though hilaritas is clearly a ‘higher order joy’, as Lloyd dubs it, its significance is often overlooked.22 Hilaritas is a form of pleasure, Spinoza tells us, that cannot be excessive, but is always good (E IVp42), where ‘all parts of the body are affected equally; that is, the body’s power of activity is increased or assisted in such a way that all its parts maintain the same proportion of motion and rest towards one another’ (E IVp42d). Spinoza distinguishes hilaritas from titillatio, a form of pleasure consisting ‘in one or more of the body’s parts being affected more than the rest’ (E IVp43d). Titillatio poses the danger that its power ‘can be so great as to surpass the other activities of the body and to stay firmly fixed therein, and thus hinder the body’s ability to be affected in numerous other ways’ (E IVp43d). By fixating on the affection of one or few parts of the body, titillatio prevents the human body from being equally affected, and thus, from being ‘equally capable of all functions that follow from its own nature’ (E IVp45s2). Hilaritas is the pleasure that arises when the full complexity of the human body is engaged, and all parts successfully exercise their natural abilities. As such, hilaritas gives rise to increased activity of the mind. Social life conduces to the ‘higher order pleasure’ of hilaritas. Immediately following his account of hilaritas, Spinoza explains that It is . . . the part of a wise man to refresh and invigorate himself in moderation with good food and drink, as also with perfumes, with the

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beauty of blossoming plants, with dress, music, sporting activities, theaters and the like . . . For the human body is composed of many parts of various kinds which are continually in need of fresh and varied nourishment so that the entire body may be equally capable of all the functions that follow from its own nature, and consequently that the mind may be equally capable of simultaneously understanding many things . . . Therefore, of all the ways of life, this is the best and is to be commended on all accounts. (E IVp45s) This seems to be Spinoza’s counterpart to the Stoic wise man. His wise man requires various types of pleasures, which are ultimately indifferent in the Stoics’ eyes. As I will elucidate in the following chapter, the Stoic sage will indulge in such activities should he deem them natural to his being, and rational to pursue. However, he will by no means take part in such activities on the basis that he needs the various types of pleasure they provide. Spinoza’s wise man, on the contrary, pursues moderate pleasures in order to satisfy the diverse needs of his complex being, and to exercise all of its capacities. Furthermore, this passage above indicates a direct link between hilaritas and increased mental activity. As the complexity of the human body is engaged, a wide variety of objects is entertained, thus providing more material for the mind to reflect upon, more objects in which to discern similarities and conceive laws of nature, moving ever upward to knowledge of God. One is wise precisely because he entertains a wide range of objects, the breadth of which is only fully provided within the context of the social life, as is the sustained ability to navigate that breadth. Hilaritas is a uniquely human form of pleasure because it engages uniquely human mental activity, that is, the ability to retain experiences beyond the present and reflect upon one’s life as a whole. It must be the case that hilaritas involves transcending the present, since all parts of a person cannot be equally stimulated at any given moment. This is why Spinoza says that hilaritas is more readily conceived than observed (E IVp44s). In this respect, hilaritas is further distinguished from titillatio, which is enjoyed by any being in nature who is faced with the overwhelming opposition of natural forces: such opposition ensures that pleasures are necessarily partial and momentary. Thus, hilaritas is the pleasure characteristic of a being that is physiologically complex but also reflexive in nature and able to retain the full spectrum of its diverse stimulation. The doctrine that pleasure is the human telos, that happiness consists in pleasure, has been thoroughly derided through the ages by those who argue that it fails to distinguish men from the animals. It is the animalistic or lower parts of the soul that seek pleasure, and to assert this as the telos is to debase the human species. For Spinoza, however, there is a

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distinctly human pleasure that eludes simplification thanks to the complexity of the human being. So complex is man that his pleasure transcends the merely physical, and, as the life of the wise man attests, it involves diverse aesthetic activities. Of course, Spinoza also holds that there is intellectual pleasure in conceiving God. These aspects of pleasure have in common that they are founded upon a wealth of objects with which the human body is engaged. Social life enables the human body to indulge fully in that wealth, and provides for such wealth in its own right. The solitary life is inappropriate for virtue, according to Spinoza, because Each would find strength and time fail him if he alone had to plough, sow, reap, grind, cook, weave, stitch, and perform all the other numerous tasks to support life, not to mention the arts and sciences which are also indispensable for the perfection of human nature and its blessedness. We see that those who live in a barbarous way with no civilizing influences lead a wretched and almost brutish existence . . . (TTP V, 19)23 Social existence provides a wealth of resources with which to interact, but also the division of labour that allows the philosopher time to meditate upon his interactions. That society is sophisticated enough to allow for division of labour invokes the need for politics, for, certainly, social existence is worth little if poorly organized. Budding reason seeks out joyous passions: this is where novice reason understands that its life takes root and sustenance, and accordingly, what it identifies as a good to be pursued. Here the effort of reason comes to be identified with the ‘art of organizing encounters’, as Deleuze puts it; encounters that occasion joyous passions.24 Politics is the premier organizer of propitious encounters, ensuring that the passions that befall its citizens are more often joyous than sad. In this respect, reason and politics aim at the same end. If this is the case, the rational person must to some extent demonstrate political involvement, or at least no small political concern, since the possibility of attaining virtue depends upon it. An individual can hardly organize beneficial encounters on his own, but requires political assistance. And yet if the political structure at hand is poorly organized, his salvation is doomed just as well.

3.3 Sociality and the diffusion of enlightenment Nothing is more advantageous to man than man, but in particular, Spinoza maintains, one who lives by the guidance of reason is the single

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most advantageous individual thing in the universe (E IVp35cor1). Why is this exactly? And is such a person the most advantageous to all men, rational and irrational alike? What is especially advantageous about him in the first place? Is the rational man most advantageous by virtue of his special insight? In one respect, it is not his insight per se that is advantageous, but the fruits his insight bears. After all, it is the mark of the rational man to perceive the utilitarian value of cooperation and become a most willing partner in such cooperation. His insight will make him eager to contribute to social flourishing because, more than anyone, he recognizes its value. In the process, he will aid his neighbours’ cona¯tus as he promotes the communal conatus. In another respect, the rational man is advantageous insofar as he may serve as a model of practical prudence, presumably more successful than most in the task of selfpreservation thanks to his practical insight: he exemplifies the selfpreservation all men should emulate. ‘[W]hen every man is most devoted to seeking his own advantage,’ Spinoza asserts, ‘men are of most advantage to one another’ (E IVp35cor2). This suggests that the rational man should aspire and also strive to make his neighbours seek their own advantage. Their welfare is implicated in his own, and if he would secure the latter, he must secure the former as well. For this reason, Spinoza rejects the claim that egoism is the basis of vice and impiety (E IVp18s). Egoism – the individual commitment to selfpreservation – is a perfectly fine basis for virtue, in Spinoza’s view – indeed, it is its only reasonable basis. It appears then that the rational man will be quite involved in the lives of his neighbours, but in what way exactly? Matheron argues that if the rational man would make his peers as good utilitarians as he, and thereby good partners in social cooperation, he must strive to make them intelligent.25 If no one is more advantageous than a rational man, the rational man will naturally seek to collaborate with others of his type. But if none are found in the vicinity, it seems that he will have no recourse but to strive to make his neighbours rational. As Matheron puts it, the principal means of bringing about required social concord is the ‘diffusion of enlightenment’.26 However, what kind of enlightenment must the rational man strive to diffuse in order to achieve such concord? To what kind of general intelligence ought he aim to contribute so that he may be surrounded by people who are as good utilitarians as he? On one hand, Spinoza writes, ‘those governed by reason, i.e. who aim at their own advantage under the guidance of reason, seek nothing for themselves that they wouldn’t desire for the rest of mankind’ (E IVp18s). The rational man will indeed aim to transmit rationality, but this statement implies only that he will strive to enable his neighbours to pursue their vital interest intelligently – or prudently, rather. However, Spinoza

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suggests much more when he states that ‘the good at which every man who pursues virtue aims for himself, he will also desire for the rest of mankind, and all the more as he acquires greater knowledge of God’ (E IVp37). This seems to suggest that whoever discerns God and experiences, however briefly, the joy in such perception, will desire that others enjoy this vision, too. This would mean that the philosopher desires that others share in his salvation, in effect, and he will work towards this end. According to Spinoza’s logic of imagination and similitude, we take joy in others’ joy (E IIIp27, p29), and thus, the philosopher can do himself no greater favour than to lead his neighbours to knowledge of God, which produces the most thrilling joy of all. This reveals a significant difference between the Stoic and Spinozistic sage. Spinoza’s sage, who is not morally perfect, and who must live alongside the common people, is never definitively protected against the threat they pose. Thus, he is necessarily concerned for the salvation of his neighbours, while the Stoic sage is not and needs not be so concerned.27 Spinoza’s sage must strive to promote his neighbours’ salvation, since his own salvation depends upon it. The vulnerability of happiness cannot be counted a motive for the Stoic sage to promote his neighbours’ salvation. But what is the status of his neighbours’ salvation about which Spinoza’s philosopher is supposedly so concerned? Spinoza reveals a further motivation for the philosopher to educate his neighbours, and in the process, suggests the nature of this general salvation at which the philosopher aims. He writes that ‘Since among particular things we know of nothing more excellent than a man who is guided by reason, nowhere can each individual display the extent of his skill and genius any more than in so educating men that they come at last to live under the sway of their own reason’ (E IVapp9). Such sentiment prompts Robert McShea to remark that Spinoza ‘believes it would be better if [the mass of people] could be governed through their own enlightened self-interest; his political goal is the improvement of men so that they can be so ruled and so rule themselves’.28 Is this in fact the public aim of Spinoza’s philosopher? It appears that the philosopher will indeed have political concern insofar as his own salvation relies upon the status of his environment, which includes the welfare of his neighbours. But what exactly is the status of his neighbours’ welfare that he pursues? Spinoza suggests initially that the rationality the rational man aims to transmit amounts to utilitarian prudence: he strives to ensure that his neighbours intelligently pursue vital interest. What kind of intelligence must the people possess in order to secure social concord such as the philosopher desires and requires? Wouldn’t it suffice for social concord that people be something less than self-governing individuals, the goal McShea claims the philosopher will aim to achieve? This leads to the question, what is political reason, according to

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Spinoza? What would Spinoza consider to be rationality at the public level – rationality with which the philosopher would be satisfied and to which he would contribute? Spinoza’s philosopher is committed to spreading some form of rationality in the aim of promoting his neighbours’ salvation, while the Stoic is not. This distinction is clouded, however, by the fact that the Stoics insist that society and politics are natural and thus rational, and that the sage will be socially and politically engaged after all. In order to determine the nature of Spinozistic political reason, insofar as I draw it from a comparison with the Stoics, it is first necessary to be clear on the nature of Stoic political reason. It is an odd consequence that, despite their insistence that politics is rational, the Stoics characterize their sage as an exception to common society. The Stoic sage really has nothing to gain from his ignorant neighbours, it seems clear to me, and interaction constitutes at best an annoyance, or at worst an impediment to the attainment of wisdom. It is also odd, furthermore, that though Spinoza has established that association is integral to the attainment of virtue, he issues a selection of rather Stoic expressions regarding the public behaviour of the philosopher in a section of Ethics IV entitled ‘The apotheosis of the free man’. What does this section indicate about the approach towards political reason within Spinoza’s system?

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Stoic Political Reason

4.1 Cosmopolis and political duty That politics is rational is rooted in the Stoic doctrine that human beings are social by nature. In Cicero’s account, social attraction and affection follow from the natural love of parent for child, such that members of society ‘should feel akin to one another’ (De Fin III.63). Seneca holds that humans are social animals because they are ‘born for mutual help’ (De Ira I.5). In fact, in De Ira, where Seneca critiques the view that anger is politically useful, he argues that anger contradicts human nature, because it ruptures the natural bond among men. ‘Human life is founded on kindness and concord,’ he writes, ‘and is bound into an alliance for common help, not by terror, but by mutual love’ (De Ira I.5). Anger and other such passions are cases of alienation, where a person is alienated from his true identity, from that wherein true happiness is to be found, and also from others with whom his passions drive him to violent interaction. Humans are drawn together because nature has disposed them to view one another with affection. This is not, however, the only basis of human union and mutual respect, according to the Stoics. Rather, the human being is a sacra res homini, Seneca states (Ep XCV.33) – a thing sacred for other men – insofar as he is rational. The basis of a mature bond between people is their mutual respect for shared rationality. Even if people do not demonstrate any sophisticated form of rationality such as that of the sage, all have the potential for such rationality. Such conviction inspired Seneca to encourage treating slaves as members of the family (Ep XLVII.11). Rationality also unites humans with the divine, the rational logos that directs the universe. Thus, we arrive at the Stoic doctrine of the cosmopolis, the universe as city. The Stoics look upon and express the cosmic order as a political structure, the laws of which are the basis of moral and civil laws.1 The logos of the universe, which directs its motions, is rational and law-like, and as a result, bears upon all rational beings, making all men ‘citizens of the universe’ (Disc II.10,3). Seneca explains that there are two communities, ‘one which is great and truly common, embracing gods and men, in

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which we look neither to this corner nor to that, but measure the boundaries of our state by the sun; the other, the one to which we have been assigned by the accident of our birth’ (L&S 67K).2 We are, one and all, citizens of the world first and foremost, and therefore share a common government. Thus it is always possible to abstract from the social standing of a person, be he slave or king, and view him just like yourself, a rational citizen of the universe. As persons become more rational, they will discern their common bond with other men that transcends the particular sociopolitical context in which they find themselves. This radical egalitarianism provides the basis for the Stoic notion of Natural Right, Andre´ Bridoux explains.3 In order for the universe to comprise some sort of political entity, it must have laws. The Stoics distinguish between natural and civil law, the former pertaining to the cosmopolis, the latter to the temporal state. Natural law is the law of the logos of the universe, the collection of rationally discernible rules by which nature is orchestrated, by which its constituent beings are disposed and determined to behave. In the case of human beings, who are naturally disposed to be affectionate and respectful towards their fellow humans, natural law decrees that they be just to one another (DL VII.128). If justice proceeds from natural law, any civil law that seeks to uphold the true ideal of justice must accord with natural law. Natural law is the basis of civil law, and is also the standard against which the latter must be measured.4 As Cicero puts it, ‘true law is right reason in agreement with nature, diffused over everyone, consistent, everlasting, whose nature it is to advocate duty by prescription and deter wrongdoing by prohibition’ (L&S 67S).5 Natural law issues forth in the prescription of duties to those who would rationally discern them. Duties are at once rational and natural, therefore, and they bear upon the details of political behaviour. Diogenes explains that the Stoic notion of duty refers to that for which ‘a reasonable defence can be adduced, e.g. harmony in the tenor of life’s process, which indeed pervades the growth of plants and animals. For even in plants and animals . . . you may discern fitness of behavior’ (DL VII.108). Duty seems to occupy a peculiar position between impulse and virtue. It is more than impulse, which all beings manifest, since duty is characteristic of rational beings. Nevertheless it is prompted by natural disposition, which allows Diogenes to liken it to ‘natural fitness of behavior’ exemplified by plants and animals. On the other hand, duty falls short of virtue itself, though it appears to be characteristic of the virtuous person to recognize and act upon duty. Pierre Hadot argues that the purpose of the theory of duties is ‘to provide us with a practical code of conduct which would . . . allow us to make distinctions between indifferent things, and to accord a relative value to things which are, in principle, without any

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value’.6 Duties pertain to concrete behaviour in the world; they pertain to the pursuit of and interest in external things, and therefore cannot bear upon happiness proper. Even so, the Stoics admit the rationality and inherent goodness of natural dispositions and situations, and so must defend the information they provide. Nature disposes us to require mutual help; it disposes us to feel affection for other persons. It remains rational then to act in accordance with such dispositions, that is, perform one’s duties. And as rational beings who must strive to agree with our nature, it is beholden upon us – it constitutes an ‘ought’ – to carry out such disposition. The trick is to perceive what nature demands of us. Epictetus advises us that ‘if you . . . are on the council of any city, you should remember that you are a councillor; if a youth, a youth; if an old man, an old man. For each of these names, if rightly considered, always points to the acts appropriate to it’ (Disc II.10,10–11). Obviously, it is easier to figure out what nature demands of you in some roles as opposed to others. Some roles are also easier to play. As Epictetus suggests, moreover, doing one’s duty does not necessarily require any great feat of rational discernment. After all, he admonishes youths to play their appropriate role, even while they fall short of mature reason. Oddly enough, the wise man must have the most practical expertise: he knows the right thing to do in every single situation, which is what Cicero means when he says that the wise man has no regrets (TD V.81). The sage knows better than anyone the social nature of humankind, and sees that he is thereby disposed to political involvement, should nature place him in a position that calls for it. He knows to engage in politics because nature disposes people to ‘form public assemblies and take part in them’ (De Off I.12), Cicero asserts. The wise man is also prompted to take part in politics because he recognizes that human beings are designed by nature to protect one another (De Fin III.68). Stobaeus explains that the wise man will participate in politics ‘on the basis of preferential reason’, which likewise prompts him to marry and have children, since such things agree with the nature of an animal that is ‘rational, sociable and gregarious’ (L&S 67W).7 Such things as political involvement and marriage are ‘preferred indifferents’, according to Stoic doctrine – for indeed, strictly speaking, they must be considered indifferents – which means that in any given situation where the wise man is faced with choosing between indifferents, he will select these things because he recognizes them to be natural, and hence rational. The ‘preferred indifferents’ that constitute duty thus fall short of being properly good because they are not virtue itself. Yet it appears that the virtuous person can perform his duty best since he, above all, has insight into nature and knows what she demands of him in every situation. Political involvement is rational as far as the wise man is

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concerned, because it is what nature prompts – it is simply what rational men do. Due to his eminent insight, his knowledge at any given moment of his social and political duty, the sage is the model citizen, and, some suggest, the model ruler, too. Diogenes says that, according to the Stoics, ‘friendship exists only among the virtuous, on account of their similarity. They describe friendship as a certain sharing of life’s wherewithal, since we treat our friends as we treat ourselves’ (DL VII.124). His special insight into the social affection to which humans are naturally disposed enables the sage to demonstrate par excellence the bond of mutual help among people. Malcolm Schofield echoes a similar point in reporting that the Stoics seem to have held that the wise men alone are true citizens of the universe, which implies that ordinary men are only potential citizens.8 The wise man’s philosophical insight involves superior practical knowledge insofar as his apprehension of nature’s rational will provides him with expertise regarding duties. It also follows, then, that ‘only the wise can maintain kingly rule’, and that ‘the wise and good are alone fit to be magistrates, judges or orators . . .’ (DL VII.123). When Cicero applied Stoicism in formalizing legal and political theory, what Marcia Colish calls his ‘Stoicization’ of law and politics, she reports that the sage emerges as the ideal statesman because The liberty and harmony which the ruler pledges himself to promote can neither be understood nor attained except by a man who has achieved the moral liberty and inner harmony which stem from Stoic apatheia and autarchy. The statesman is fit to rule others because he has brought his own being under the control of his hegemonikon. The ruler’s relationship to the state parallels the control of the human logos over man’s other faculties just as it parallels the function of the divine logos ruling the natural universe.9 The sage’s self-control earns him the right to rule: his very self is a model of ruling, where reason reigns. However, that this characteristic makes the sage worthy of ruling suggests something about the nature of his ruling, the nature of his political mission, to which I will now turn. Colish implies that the sage strives to see his rational self-control reflected on a political level. Does this mean that the sage will aim to eradicate passions on a large scale, and bring about universal recognition of natural law? Perhaps this is what Diogenes has in mind when he writes that ‘the Stoic sage will partake in politics if nothing hinders him, since thus he will restrain vice and promote virtue’ (DL VII.121). Does Diogenes mean to say that the sage partakes in politics in order to restrain his own vice and promote his own virtue, or restrain the vice and promote the

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virtue of others? His statement is not clear, but since it is difficult to imagine the Stoics holding to the former view, the latter option is likely. In any case, it appears that promoting virtue amounts to a natural urge for the Stoics, and is thus at once rational. Wise men are driven to rule, which they feel concretely as the desire to impart wisdom, because ‘just as bulls have a natural instinct to fight with all their strength and force in defending their calves against lions,’ Cicero explains, ‘so men of exceptional gifts and capacity for service . . . feel a natural impulse to be the protectors of the human race’ (DeFin III.65). In sum, the Stoics indeed assert that humans are social by nature. As rational creatures, we are citizens of a universe that is characterized politically, the cosmopolis, and we share citizenship with the gods. Politics is rational because it agrees with nature, and as a result, the wise man will recognize and exercise his duty to be politically engaged. Finally, some suggest that the wise man’s political involvement will take the form of spreading philosophy publicly. However, Stoic political thought gives rise to some troubling questions. First of all, though politics is rational, it remains strictly speaking indifferent to happiness. Therefore, what kind of political enthusiasm will – or can – the philosopher-ruler demonstrate? This follows the question of the political appropriateness of the Stoic mindset: the Stoics warn against worldly attachment, which is precisely what politics would seem to require. Thus, it is by no means clear that the natural role for the philosopher is that of ruler. In fact, what kind of citizen – of a temporal state, that is – is the philosopher if he sees himself first as a citizen of the universe, subservient to natural law? Such perplexities may lead to the notion that Stoicism offers no proper political thought at all: Stoic insight does not ultimately bear on worldly regimes, but instead aims to transcend them. Stoicism may even come to seem distinctly anti-political.

4.2 The predicament of politics Questions regarding Stoic political thought emerge in earnest with the claim that duty is ‘neither a good nor an evil’ (De Fin III.58). ‘All duties are means to the end of attaining the primary needs of nature,’ Cicero explains, ‘yet it must not be inferred that their attainment is the ultimate Good, inasmuch as moral action is not one of the primary natural attractions, but is an outgrowth of these, a later development’ (De Fin III.22). This suggests that the recognition of and the effort to perform duty are characteristic of the lifestyle of the wise man, but not integral to his virtue as such. Indeed, the wise man performs his duty best precisely because he is already virtuous, i.e. wise.10 His supreme insight makes him

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expert at recognizing his duty. While Aristotle indeed holds that participation in civil life is a means of attaining virtue, Colish argues, such participation is a duty incumbent upon the Stoic sage only insofar as his wisdom and virtue are already complete.11 Of itself, the performance of duty cannot be integral to virtue, since duty by nature pertains to viewing and pursuing things other than mere knowledge as goods of some sort. Duty pertains to our orientation regarding external goods, in other words, while philosophy specifically calls for devaluing such things, so as to attain tranquillity in knowledge. The realm of external goods gives rise to those attachments so troubling to the soul. Illustrating the predicament of political involvement, Chrysippus is credited with claiming that ‘the wise man will make public speeches and engage in politics as if he regarded wealth and reputation and health as good’ (L&S 66B).12 What kind of political animal is Chrysippus’ philosopher, who only feigns interest in those things that are considered real goods in the political context? If the performance of rightly intended actions amounts to nothing more than an ‘after-growth’, as Cicero puts it (De Fin III.32),13 will the wise man involved in politics have any real concern about the success of his policies? His true attachment is to virtue, and he knows that any involvement in the attainment of external goods is inconsequential to real happiness. This invokes what Bridoux calls the ‘Cynic ideal’ inherent to Stoicism, that a person can be self-sufficient and deem all that society and civilization offers superfluous.14 Society and civilization are superfluous because they are mere convention, the Cynics maintain. With respect to the Stoics, I take this to suggest that they recognize a distinction between the social and political impulse in men, and the details of social and political involvement – cultural ceremonies, civil laws, for example. The sage has a general disposition towards social and political involvement, but the details of that involvement differ from place to place, wherefore they are ultimately inconsequential in themselves. A rift appears then within the supposed rationality of politics for the Stoics. It matters that the sage is impelled towards political involvement, but the specific expressions thereof, which vary according to geography and situation, do not. But in this case, won’t the wise man’s political engagement lack requisite seriousness and commitment? Nussbaum suggests, for example, that ‘if [the Stoic] pursues the Nazis, on the battlefield or in the law courts, it will be not because he attaches any intrinsic value to the righting of these wrongs, but because he has come to believe that this is what the universe requires of him right now’.15 It might be replied that the philosopher who battles the Nazis indeed derives sufficient inspiration and motivation from his insight into divine providence and desire to fulfil it. However, this does not dispel the political oddity of the Stoic wise man, whose motivation is typically alien to politics, and for good reason. After

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all, if the philosopher-king should accept the downfall of his realm as part of divine providence, how committed will he be to counteracting this development, as his duty demands? Practically speaking, how much effort will he put into the task if he recognizes that it is ultimately futile – especially if he already looks upon his family members, whose lives would be threatened by such developments, as fleeting things and inessential to happiness? Indeed, the Stoics seem to slide towards the denigration of particular, concrete politics. The only real politics, the only politics worthy of sincere dedication, is that of the cosmopolis and the natural law. The sage recognizes his political orientation in light of these things, not in light of the particular policies and institutions that characterize the earthly city he inhabits. Accordingly, the wise man suffers a conflicted calling between the two political domains, and more often than not, the temporal one loses out because it is characterized as a nuisance and obstacle to those seeking virtue, and as essentially unimportant to those already virtuous. In short, the consequence is that patriotism occupies a tenuous place in Stoic thought, and is ultimately viewed critically. The suspicious eye towards politics is borne out by the Stoic – and neoStoic – praise for constancy. Though Stoic and neo-Stoic writers suggest that constancy is a particular virtue, it is rather that which characterizes all virtues, and indeed the very disposition and behaviour of the sage due to his agreement with nature, Jacqueline Lagre´e argues.16 The Stoics consider this firmness especially useful in the public domain, and invoke it to describe the proper character of the wise man regarding assaults of public misfortune. Seneca describes it as the firmness of the sage in the face of political offences, exemplified by the resolute and unflappable Cato who ‘stood alone against the vices of a degenerate state that was sinking to destruction beneath its very weight . . .’ and suffered people’s abuses as a result, but remained unharmed because ‘the wise man is safe and no injury or insult can touch him’ (De Con II.2–3). The notion of constancy was forcefully resurrected in the sixteenth century amidst the tumult of the religious wars that spared hardly any part of Europe. Numerous treatises on constancy emerged in this period, but perhaps the most popular was that of Dutch moral philosopher Justus Lipsius, which enjoyed 80 reprints.17 Lipsius’ writings on constancy, and the political consequences of his views on the topic, are especially interesting to the study at hand because Lipsius was extremely popular in Spinoza’s homeland (he lived in Leiden for many years, and in Louvain for a long time thereafter), and in Spinoza’s era (Lipsius preceded Spinoza by about two generations). Thus, it is likely that Lipsius’ ideas were known to Spinoza, or at least, had an indirect influence on his thought. The full title of Lipsius’ treatise is ‘On constancy in two books which

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contain an exhortation chiefly on public ills’ (De Constantia libri duo qui alloquium praecipue continent in publicis malis).18 As the title suggests, De Constantia amounts to ‘a prescription for the behavior of the individual in the state, society and politics, that domain where man has too often felt himself to be a victim rather than a denizen’, Gerhard Oestreich explains, to which extent, Lipsius’ ‘ideas were primarily political in character’.19 Specifically, Lipsius prescribes a manner of protecting oneself psychologically against political turmoil. Constancy is the cure for one trapped in such turmoil. It consists in ‘a right and immovable strength of the mind, neither lifted up nor pressed down with external or causal accidents’ (Const I.4). A significant step in attaining such constancy, in Lipsius’ view, is to diminish patriotic attachment to one’s homeland, and he draws on Stoicism to help with precisely this. The ultimate aim is to fashion a soul that is like ‘an enclosed garden, protected from the noises of the city: enclosed, well sheltered against things from outside . . .’ (Const II.3). People suffer emotionally at the hands of political turmoil because they are overly anxious about the fate of their homeland, Lipsius believes. In order to temper my patriotism, he advises that I recognize my love of country as mere convention, the product of custom and not nature (Const I.11). ‘Patriotism is but dissimulation’, Lipsius proclaims, because people are not truly anxious about the fate of their homeland at all, but are only worried about their own well-being, to the extent that it is bound to that of the state (Const I.8). Self-love is essential, but love of country is not; love of country is merely an extension of self-love. And the condition of my homeland is by no means intrinsic to the promotion of my well-being. ‘Change your habitation’, Lipsius writes, ‘and every other part of the world will do this much for you’ (Const I.11). Moreover, my true homeland is not the place where I happen to be born. That is heaven alone (Const I.11). This profoundly echoes the Stoic view that ‘the true city is the cosmic city’, as Schofield puts it.20 Indeed, Epictetus asserts that a person is ‘a part of a city, first, of that made up by gods and men; and next, of that to which you immediately belong, which is a miniature of this universal city’ (Disc II.5,26). My primary allegiance is to the rational order of the cosmos, and only next to my homeland. So certainly, Lipsius would say, it is possible to avoid sadness at the sight of my homeland’s demise once I recognize my true homeland, which never suffers any such assaults. Lipsius further invokes the Stoic doctrine of providence and necessity in order to combat public anxiety. He admonishes that ‘it is important to believe necessity to be naturally borne together with public ills. You may fear public turmoil, but not prevent it! The recognition of necessity overthrows sorrow’ (Const I.21). Providence has determined the fate of my homeland, and no amount of anxiety, no urgent action can reverse it. Accordingly, such anxiety and urgency are uncalled for, and are to be

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replaced with calm as I watch my homeland ravaged according to what can only be divine intent. ‘Steer your ship into this port [of constancy],’ Lipsius urges, ‘where there is security and quietness, a refuge and sanctuary against all turmoil and troubles, where, if you have once moored your ship there, let your country not only be troubled, but even shaken at the foundation; you will remain unmoved’ (Const I.6). Lipsius demonstrates how Stoicism is or may be anti-political, for that is precisely how he invokes constancy: he draws on Stoic doctrine in order to undermine patriotism and public concern. Lipsius reminds us how politics poses a problem to philosophy within the Stoic scheme of things. Marcus Aurelius, Hadot argues, found himself in a curious predicament as emperor and Stoic insofar as he was trusted with the task of promoting the happiness of his subjects, in the acquisition of things he considered unimportant.21 The aspiring philosopher who is politically engaged has the strange task of pursuing goods, which his philosophical doctrine states are not good whatsoever. He is ambivalent in that respect, and Epictetus characterizes this as a serious obstacle indeed. ‘If you want to have both [tranquillity] and public office and riches, too,’ he writes, ‘you will perhaps not gain even the latter, because you are aiming at the former, but you will certainly fail to get the former, by which happiness and freedom are obtained’ (Ench I). Achieving utter self-control, discerning what is properly your own and ordained for you by nature, and attaining the ultimate tranquillity this control provides, all require singleness of focus. Involvement in and attachment to political goods is a threatening diversion. Thus, politics is not the optimal environment in which to practise philosophy, ultimately. The wise man is confronted with two duties that are difficult to reconcile, Hadot explains: ‘on the one hand, our duty to love other human beings, with whom we form one single body, tree or city; on the other, our duty not to let ourselves be cajoled into adopting their false values and maxims of life . . .’ i.e. the duty to hate ‘what they love’.22 The wise man must disdain what the common people value. Such a dilemma prompts Marcus’ advice to the aspiring philosopher: ‘grow on the same trunk but don’t profess the same principles’ (Meditations XI.8,6). Of course, one might point out, politics can pose no real threat to the Stoic sage, since his virtue is unassailable and incorruptible; he cannot be cajoled into accepting the people’s values. Yet politics is a clear threat to the potential philosopher, which underscores the point that politics is not integral to the attainment of virtue. Furthermore, the Stoic philosopher – novice and sage alike – poses a threat to the political establishment since his allegiance is torn: he recognizes a true homeland beyond the temporal one. Natural law is the source of normative force. Civil laws are only the strained imitations of natural law and derive whatever genuine authority

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they possess from the natural law, what the Stoics call right reason. Schofield writes that ‘the point of [the Stoic] equation of law with right reason is to identify an alternative source for its authority: not the state, but reason. Its effect is to internalize law . . .’23 Since civil laws very often owe their origin to chance and to human pettiness, the Stoic sage is ‘a stranger to the positive law’, Bridoux remarks.24 It should come as no surprise then that the Stoic sage poses a threat to temporal sovereigns. In case of conflict between natural and civil law, he will side with what he discerns to be the demands of natural law. Seneca expresses this much in his admiration for Stilbo the Megarian and his confrontation with Demetrius the Conqueror. Stilbo responded boldly to Demetrius, though he was ‘being questioned by a king on his throne, ensconced amid the arms of his victorious army’, but with his bold response, Seneca declares, Stilbo ‘wrested the victory from the conqueror and bore witness that, though his city had been captured, he himself was not only unconquered but unharmed’ (De Con V.6–7). Anyone who would claim to ‘wrest victory’ from a sovereign or assert his immunity to any punitive measures naturally represents a political threat. Stilbo announces his devotion to a realm that transcends the political. In this respect, philosophy is clearly inimical to politics. In the interests of practical ruling, Marcus concludes, its ideals must ultimately be exempted from the political domain. Philosophy has no place in the dirty world of politics. Its ideals often run contrary to political goals, but furthermore, Marcus determines, it is impossible to transmit and achieve such ideals politically, i.e. on a broad scale. According to Hadot, Marcus held no illusions about bringing his subjects to the life of virtue. He likely concluded this from his perch above the madness of the Circus Maximus, which he hated to attend, and rather spent his time there dictating letters or struggling to read.25 Perhaps it was precisely this setting that inspired him to write that ‘there is no better solace in the face of death than to think on the nature of the surroundings you are leaving and the characters you will no longer have to mix with . . . that you are parting from men of far other principles than your own’ (Med IX, 3). Marcus recognizes a tremendous gulf between the philosopher and the masses. This gulf will prevent the realization of ideals couched in the doctrines of natural law and the cosmopolis, such as that the rational equality of all humans might become readily, clearly visible. People remain rational only in potentiality: their rational capacity is perpetually obscured; it is trampled underfoot by bestial drives, prominently displayed in the Coliseum. The astute sovereign must realize this, Marcus advises, and not hope to achieve ‘Plato’s ideal commonwealth . . . for who can hope to alter men’s convictions?’ (Med IX, 29).26 In fact, not only will such a vain endeavour lend nothing to the sovereign’s attaining virtue, but on the contrary, it will expose him all the more to corrupt

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values, as he must become more intimately involved in the lives of those he hopes to save. According to Marcus, such ‘infection of the mind is a far more dangerous pestilence than any unwholesomeness or disorder in the atmosphere around us’ (Med IX, 2). For his own sake, the philosopher emperor ought not play teacher to the masses. His ideals are useless with respect to them. Accordingly, Hadot explains, ‘philosophy does not propose a political program’ for Marcus, but rather, ‘he expects that philosophy will form him and prepare him, by means of the spiritual exercises which he performs, to carry out his political action in a specific spirit and style. What one does matters less than the way in which one does it.’27 This suggests a remarkable aspect of Stoicism’s political tradition. As far as Marcus is concerned, Stoic virtue is politically useful for the manner in which it moulds the character of political figures first and foremost, and that of the citizens only secondarily, if at all. Philosophic therapy is transmitted on an individual basis, and is practised within, in the effort of self-control. At the political level, Stoic philosophy is esteemed for the moral prescriptions it provides certain individuals, not for any larger political agenda. To be sure, certain types of political agenda may be likely to follow from the kind of character instilled in the sovereign, but with respect to those agendas, philosophy is deemed inessential, and even a troublesome idealism. Cicero expresses the political value of Stoic constancy thus: ‘Not without reason . . . are stronger emotions aroused in those who engage in public life than in those who live in retirement, and greater is their ambition for success; the more, therefore, do they need to enjoy greatness of spirit and freedom from annoying cares’ (De Off I.73). In one respect, philosophical detachment serves a very important political role in deterring tyranny and the abuse of power. In another respect, detachment is a necessary disposition of any ruler whatsoever, insofar as petty attachments may threaten to dissolve his focus and political resolve. After all, a politician must often make difficult decisions that entail painful sacrifices in the short run, and only an unwavering foresight will enable him to persevere. The Stoics may have considered their figure of the wise man a certain victory for political philosophy. For, they provide the model of the just ruler similar to Plato’s philosopher king, the ruler who is not interested in ruling, who believes he has nothing to gain from ruling, and may therefore be trusted not to abuse his power. But what kind of ruler will this be, what kind of political motivation and effectiveness will he exhibit, in light of his profound detachment? Philosophy entails ultimate unconcern for consequences, but politics puts a premium on consequences, and concerted action demands some degree of attachment. In reading Marcus, the student of Stoicism may just as easily learn that philosophy is politically valuable insofar as it serves notice to the sovereign that the preponderant character

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of the masses will forever prevent the emergence of the ideal state – much less a very peaceable, stable one – and that he must resign himself to accept messy consequences. That Stoicism leads to a rather stark political realism, is fully realized in Lipsius’ Politica, where he focuses on training the character of the prince, who must be steeled against the volatility and capriciousness of the masses. The people are ‘inconstant, subject to passions, void of reason, envious’ (Polit IV.5), Lipsius declares, and it is precisely this general inconstancy which requires the ruler to eschew eternal laws of political guidance, i.e. a political science. The subject matter of which the prince must be expert is ‘a very diffused thing, confused and obscure’ (Polit IV.1), and ‘foreign to all method’ as a result, Lagre´e explains28 ‘Proper prudence, what the prince requires, can hardly be tied to precepts’ (Polit IV.1). Referring to the demand that the ruler occasionally deceive the masses, Lipsius appeals to Seneca the Elder’s assertion that ‘Necessity overrules all law’ (Polit IV.14).29 For Lipsius, philosophy is politically useful in arming the prince and his soldiers with Stoic resiliency, towards the end of establishing a strong and enduring state. Lagre´e argues that for Lipsius, the ethic that guides the prince – the political ethic – has a different aim from the moral one: the former aims at achieving peace and order, and in the mind of the prince, overshadows the aims of the latter, which include justice and freedom.30 The enlightenment of the masses is far from the ruler’s proper aim, and effectively amounts to an illusion the prince must reject. A certain Machiavellian tone starts to emerge in Lipsius’ political theory. Indeed, Oestreich claims that Machiavelli’s harsh political realism ‘had a counterpart in the neostoic view of man’.31 I have traced a peculiar development within Stoic political thought, namely, that the predicament of politics within the Stoic system leads to the doorstep of Machiavellianism. The Stoic doctrine that virtue is insusceptible of degrees, and that the vast majority of humankind is ignorant as a result, tends towards a rather negative view of the citizenry of the temporal state. The virtues Stoicism professes to deliver are deemed propitious for the character of the ruler, whose integrity involves refraining from the vain effort to enlighten the masses. In this scheme, Stoicism appears to play a largely ethical role, and lacks a properly political agenda. In other words, as far as Lipsius is concerned, Stoicism proves a helpful resource in transforming the individual: the citizen must be rendered impervious to public misfortune, especially the fate of his homeland; the prince must be made resilient to pain and suffering in the manner of a Stoic sage, and he must be constant and resolute in his political decisionmaking. But by no means does this account of Stoicism aim at producing a ruler who is subservient to the natural law and dedicated to realizing the rational fellowship of all people.

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In this section, I have sought not to criticize the political aptitude of Stoicism, but rather to point out how politics occupies a problematic place within the Stoic system. I examine Stoic political thought towards the end of better understanding Spinoza’s political philosophy and specifically, the significance of politics with respect to the life of virtue. In contrast to the Stoics, Spinoza holds that politics is much more important to the life of virtue, insofar as it is necessary for its very attainment. Nevertheless, a peculiar section of the Ethics known as ‘The apotheosis of the free man’ (E IVp67–73) presents a rather conflicted view of the philosopher’s relationship to politics. Spinoza betrays concerns regarding the philosopher’s place in the polis that invoke some Stoic themes just visited. I must consider his quasi-Stoic suspicions regarding the polis before I engage Spinoza’s political philosophy proper.

4.3 The apotheosis of the free man At the end of Book IV of the Ethics, Spinoza dedicates several propositions to describing the character of the ‘free man’ and his relationship with his neighbours. Spinoza’s characterization of the free man so echoes Stoic themes that Allison calls this free man ‘the Spinozistic counterpart of the Stoic sage’.32 Thus, this section is of special interest to our inquiry into Spinoza’s estimation of the significance of political involvement in the life of virtue. Spinoza begins this section with the assertion that ‘a free man thinks of death least of all things and his wisdom is a meditation of life, not of death’ (E IVp67). A free man who lives only according to the dictates of reason, Spinoza tells us, ‘is not guided by fear of death, but directly desires the good; that is, to act, to live, to preserve his being in accordance with the principle of seeking his own advantage’ (E IVp67d). It is noteworthy that the first proposition regarding the free man concerns his vitalism. So consumed is he with life and the endeavour to persist in living, that the free man does not think of death. Of course, this does not mean that he is ignorant of death – for he, above all, is mindful of his finitude – but rather, he is wholly dedicated to his vital pursuits and thoroughly enjoys the pleasure of living. Spinoza’s characterization of the free man brings to mind as a contrast the Christian who sacrifices this life for the sake of the next, and is in this sense consumed with death. But that Spinoza’s free man directly pursues the good suggests that his alternative, the Christian, only indirectly pursues the good. In this respect, Spinoza anticipates Nietzschean ressentiment, in a way: Christian self-denial amounts to an expression and assertion of vital power over others, namely, the naturally strong and vibrant, and thereby remains an indirect pursuit of the good, as

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Spinoza understands it. With this first assertion, furthermore, Spinoza again distances himself from the Stoics, whose sage entertains the option that he may reject this life. However, Spinoza sounds much more Stoic shortly thereafter when he asserts that the free man will try to avoid receiving the favours of his ignorant neighbours (E IVp70). The ignorant person will expect the favours he can offer to be repaid in similar manner, that is, expressing similar value and esteem, but the free man must strive to avoid repaying such favours because he ‘tries to guide himself and others by the free judgments of reason and to do only those things that he himself knows to be of primary importance’ (E IVp70d). Spinoza’s concern here reflects Seneca’s claim, Wolfson observes, that the wise man should not receive favours from unworthy persons.33 Spinoza also echoes Marcus Aurelius’ dilemma: Marcus must display esteem for things his subjects value, knowing all the while that they are essentially unimportant. Epictetus would add that such ambivalence hinders the life of virtue. As Spinoza has it, if the free man finds himself in such a situation, he knows that he compromises his goodness and wisdom by stooping to the values of the common people, and yet he also knows that if he does not respond in the manner they expect, he will incur their resentment. It would appear, then, that the free man must wholly avoid such exchanges with the ignorant. This suggests that the free man does not gain anything essential from social life, but rather, is hindered by it. To be sure, the wise man likely has little to gain intellectually from exchanges with the ignorant. However, if Spinoza is worried about the dangers his free man faces in the company of ignorant men, namely, the danger that he will regress intellectually and morally, the free man certainly dooms himself by dissociating from the ignorant. Spurning the favours of his neighbours, or avoiding them altogether, will fill their heads with dangerous speculations. Why is he always apart, they may wonder? Why doesn’t he mingle with us? Does he think he is special? Does he think we are beneath him? By manifesting his perceived difference from them, the free man risks angering his neighbours, which may bring an end to his days of philosophizing. Moreover, if the free man should indeed aim to guide others to the life of philosophy, his aloofness will surely counter this effort: he will fail to attract apprentices at best, or rile them at worst, further aggravating their passions. But Spinoza realizes this threat, for he quickly admits that [Men], however ignorant, are still men, who in time of need can bring human help, than which nothing is more valuable. So it often happens that it is necessary to accept a favor from them, and consequently to return it so as to give them satisfaction. Furthermore, we should exercise

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caution even in avoiding their favors so as to avoid appearing to despise them . . . thus giving offense by the very attempt to escape their hatred. (E IVp70s) Perhaps the common people can offer the free man nothing of intellectual worth per se, but since his intellectual activity is predicated upon and has as a counterpart physical flourishing, he certainly requires their favours for the sake of the latter. If the philosopher indeed requires the material help his neighbours provide, what then does Spinoza consider to be their unsavoury favours? They likely include such things as prayers, religious ceremonies or superstitious rituals, all things the philosopher holds in low esteem. It is conceivable also that those unsuitable favours should include material benefits that the ignorant people value but the free man knows to be unnecessary or even harmful, which exacerbate the impassioned life, such as alcohol and sexual licence. If the free man would benefit from the physical aid his neighbours provide, he must be truly ‘political’ in his dealings with them, and occasionally accept or acknowledge their base favours so that he may benefit from their more valuable ones. He must play the game of the common people: he must put on a face of genuine gratitude, react as if their offerings are welcome, and yet avoid as much as he can without causing a disturbance. Clearly, Spinoza is very sensitive to the risk that the philosopher may offend his neighbours. Spinoza states further that ‘only free men are truly grateful to one another’ (E IVp71), since only free men have something worthy to offer one another (E IVp71d). This clearly echoes the Stoic claim that ‘friendship exists only among the virtuous’ (DL VII.124), a problematic view for Spinoza, again, as it would seem to belittle the vital aid the community of common people provides, and thereby threaten the vitalism of his account of virtue. In truth, the common people and the free man may not offer radically different things after all in terms of what is of vital importance. The wise man who enjoys a flourishing life of rich and varied resources and is guided by a successful practical rationality provides superior vital aid to his neighbours. It is in this sense that the man guided by reason is the most advantageous thing in the universe (E IVp35). The promotion of his conatus is clearest for him, and he is most devoted to it. And ‘when each is most devoted to seeking his own advantage’, that is, when each demonstrates practical rationality, ‘men are of most advantage to one another’ (E IVp35d) because they contribute to the vital flourishing of their neighbours, whose flourishing they know their own success requires. The free man only requires neighbours who have attained a degree of practical rationality – he doesn’t necessarily need the company of philosophers, as Spinoza has set it up so far.

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But Spinoza again sows trouble when he declares that the free man never lies (E IVp72). Anticipating Kant’s famous argument from the Groundwork, Spinoza says that if the free man were to lie to save himself, ‘it would be better for every man to act deceitfully, that is, it would be better for men to agree in words only, but to be contrary to one another in reality, which is absurd’ (E IVp72d). If the free man should engage in deceit, it would somehow be appropriate for all men to lie, thus rendering social cooperation impossible. Naturally, this proposition appears anomalous to Spinoza’s thinking. As a being for whom the promotion of his conatus is most obvious and to which he is most devoted, surely the free man would place that above everything else, including honesty. In a sense, the prohibition against lying means that the free man stands above the social bond that holds common people together. Due to their impassioned state and their untrustworthiness, the common people must be compelled by the threat of force to cooperate, Spinoza maintains, while the free man requires no such coercion because he directly perceives the value of social cooperation (E IVp37s). Politicians can be honest with him. Since the free man requires no coercion to behave, he is a kind of model citizen, towards which all citizens should develop in a successful society where people become aware of their individual advantage and their benefit to one another; that is, where they become more rational. In a society that grows more rational in this way, the free man will not be called upon to accept and repay falsely the favours of the ignorant. Spinoza means to say, Allison suggests, that deceit is irrational in that it typically leads to social disorder rather than harmony.34 Deceit is characteristic of the pre-social state where anarchy reigns and stifles human self-preservation. And yet, even a modicum of deceit should not risk throwing society into chaos, Allison admits, which leads him to conclude that ‘there is no good Spinozistic reason for the free person not to be prudent’ in certain circumstances.35 Any doubts regarding the importance of political life are erased with the final proposition of this section (and Book IV), however, where Spinoza asserts that the rational person is more free when he lives under civil law than if he were to live alone ‘where he obeys only himself’ (E IVp73). In light of Spinoza’s social physics, it is no surprise that solitary life is unfavourable. But why should he dismiss solitary life if it amounts to obeying oneself alone? This sounds a lot like autonomy, and isn’t some sort of autonomy precisely what distinguishes the virtuous person, as Spinoza would have it? The virtuous person is autonomous insofar as he selects internally accessed knowledge over beliefs imposed from external forces – e.g. from society, from the Church, from tradition – and thereby determines his own emotions. If autonomy is indeed characteristic of virtue, but Spinoza is critical of the solitary life where one obeys only oneself, what does he mean here?

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Spinoza explains that Insofar as [the free man] endeavors to preserve his own being according to the dictates of reason – that is, insofar as he endeavors to live freely – he desires to take account of the life and the good of the community, and consequently to live according to the laws of the state. Therefore, the man who is guided by reason desires to adhere to the laws of the state so that he may live more freely. (E IVp73d) The rational person is motivated by genuine concern for the community because he perceives that living under a system of political laws conduces to living more freely. How can this be? Spinoza suggests previously that cohabitation with the ignorant in fact poses a threat to such freedom. It is important to remember that the free man admires the strict lawfulness of the universe, for the recognition of lawfulness or necessity constitutes his freedom. Such is the strange paradox of Spinozistic freedom, that it consists in the recognition of necessity, but is a wisdom that frees us from prejudice, and consequently, from the passions. Moreover, the contemplation of necessity also produces the pleasure of knowing. It follows that a man becomes a lover of lawfulness to the extent that he is free and rational – insofar as he recognizes that lawfulness is responsible for his freedom and rationality – and thus, the free man would consciously seek to embrace lawful living in its many forms. But why would the free man love political lawfulness in particular? Why is he more free under a system of political law? What kind of freedom does Spinoza have in mind, exactly? Is political lawfulness conducive to the intellectual life in particular? Perhaps, in the sense that the city provides a setting where the rational man can exercise an obedience to civil law analogous to his philosophical reverence for natural law. In other words, he may practise his metaphysical resignation in affirming his status as part of a whole – that he is no exception to society just as he is no exception to nature. Political life reminds the philosopher that he is human, and thereby contributes something to his wisdom and therapy. The city imposes lawfulness upon its subjects, and cultivates reason, which is effectively the art of discerning the lawfulness – i.e. necessity – of all things. In this respect, Spinoza strikes a distinctly Kantian chord, and distances himself once again from the Cartesian paradigm: freedom is achieved in the recognition of and respect for law – indeed, in the reverence for lawfulness as such – not in freedom from lawfulness, i.e. not in contingent freedom. Alternately, a system of law may be considered propitious to freedom merely insofar as it allows the philosopher to carve out a secure space for philosophy. Hampshire maintains, for example, that ‘social and political

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instability and personal rivalries interfere with that independence and detachment the free man requires for the pursuit of knowledge.’36 Political stability delivers requisite peace and quiet for the philosopher. After all, he can hardly contemplate in the midst of civil strife. But Hampshire’s statement is less plausible in light of the fact that Spinoza’s philosopher is neither detached nor independent, as I have argued. Spinoza’s philosopher is a fundamentally extroverted being, involved in the polis; his enlightenment relies upon his surroundings. He is physically, and correlatively, mentally engaged with the things around him, and the richer and more varied his environment, the more vigorous the life of reason. From political involvement, Spinoza’s philosopher gains the riches for the life of virtue, which does not consist in intellectual exercise alone, as if such a thing were even conceivable according to Spinoza’s monism. Perhaps politics is rightfully called rational insofar as it sets the stage for therapy, and is a necessary element thereof. Deleuze argues that political organization imitates and takes the place of reason for those who lack it, and thus, prepares them for the rational life.37 Indeed, the polis sets the stage for the rational life by providing freedom from the assaults of nature and the passions that accompany them. Therefore, politics achieves to some extent the very ends therapy serves, Deleuze argues, which suggests that there is a great resemblance between the city and the ideal of reason.38 These are some ways of conceiving the rationality of politics, in Spinoza’s view. The claim that one is free under a system of law offers some tantalizing possibilities. But questions persist. What makes a state rational? Is it rational insofar as it nourishes the rationality of its citizens, and what kind of rationality does it nourish? Or is rationality perhaps a characteristic of a state as such, so that a state may be counted rational even if its citizens are not properly rational, that is, rational individuals? To determine these questions conclusively, I will now turn to Spinoza’s political philosophy proper.

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Reason of State

5.1 State of nature, nature of state Human beings are by nature impassioned, Spinoza maintains, and though impassioned persons are ultimately said not to agree in nature (E IVp32), their passions in fact draw them together and cause them to associate in the first place. This dynamic is rooted in Spinoza’s doctrine of the ‘imitation of the affects’, which maintains that ‘from the fact that we imagine a thing like ourselves to be affected by an emotion, we are affected by a similar emotion along with it’ (E IIIp27d). As a result, we strive to do what we believe affects other people with pleasure, for we, too, are affected with pleasure in the process; in turn, we avoid what we take to affect others with pain, insofar as this also affects us negatively (E IIIp30). Accordingly, men are compelled to love, desire or hate what others love, desire or hate (E IIIp31), making for a veritable communion of passions. This doctrine has two noteworthy consequences. On one hand, people strive by nature to please their neighbours. They can do so directly by means of beneficial deeds, which make the agent self-satisfied (the pleasant ‘idea of oneself as cause of another’s pleasure’). Or they can please others indirectly, first in affirming the attraction and worthiness of what is commonly held to be good, just by virtue of pursuing it themselves, or secondly by becoming a model of pleasure their neighbours can admire and derive pleasure from in turn. On the other hand, it is significant that insofar as people strive to love, desire and hate the same things, they are driven towards common passions and can be influenced together, that is, manipulated in common as a single body. ‘Since men are led more by passion than reason,’ Spinoza points out, ‘it follows that a multitude comes together and wishes to be guided . . . by one mind not at the suggestion of reason, but of some common passion, that is, common hope or fear, or the desire of avenging some common hurt’ (TP VI, 1).1 Thus, the genesis of society is by no means rational, according to Spinoza. It does not arise because reflectively aware individuals deliberately decide that association is best. As Matheron points out, people impose political institutions and laws not to resolve the problems arising from impassioned existence, but only to address exclusively passionate causes

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such as ambition or the desire for glory.2 Such institutions and laws are merely a means of achieving what impassioned people establish as good and worthy of pursuit. It follows from the doctrine of the imitation of affects that Spinoza’s state of nature is not necessarily characterized by competition, and differs from Hobbes’ state of nature in this respect, even while Hobbes’ influence is prominently felt elsewhere in Spinoza’s political philosophy. Spinoza sounds distinctly Hobbesian, for example, when he remarks that ‘because men are in the highest degree liable to these passions (i.e. anger, envy, hatred), therefore men are naturally enemies’ (TP II, 14). The passions typically attract people to one another, but do not necessarily rule out competition in the process. Passions are especially incited to levels of violence when they concern goods that cannot be shared or partaken of by all (E IIIp32). Furthermore, the logic of inter-human affections can just as well spell divisiveness. After all, since witnessing someone else’s pain will hurt me, too, I may seek to destroy this object of sadness, hatred, i.e. pain. Hence Spinoza’s agreement with the Stoics concerning the worthlessness of pity: pity effectively means saddling myself with pain (E IVp50d). In any case, the chief problem with the passions, why they necessitate political society, is the ignorance of which they are symptomatic. Spinoza writes that If men were so constituted by nature as to desire nothing but what is prescribed by true reason, society would stand in no need of any laws . . . But human nature is far differently constituted. All men do seek their own advantage, but by no means from the dictates of sound reason. For the most part the objectives they seek . . . are determined only by fleshly desire, and they are carried away by their emotions. (TTP V, 20) Rational and ignorant men alike share the endeavour for self-preservation, but the rational man strives intelligently, and therefore, with greater success. Society would need no laws if all persons were rational because individuals would immediately recognize the practical benefits of social harmony and the sacrifices that social coexistence entails. It is a rule of human nature, Spinoza states, that ‘every single man thinks he knows everything and wants to fashion the world to his liking’ (TTP XVII, 15). Ignorant as to how best to promote their egoistic interests, persons tend to assert their will imprudently upon their neighbours. The fault of impassioned human beings is that they are stupidly selfish, McShea claims, and fail to attain the vital success they seek.3 Spinoza expresses the problem alternately in terms of ‘right’. ‘Since it is the supreme law of Nature that each thing endeavours to persist in its present being,’ he writes, ‘each individual has the sovereign right to do

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this, i.e. to exist and to act as it is naturally determined’ (TTP XVI, 4). Spinoza identifies right with power, specifically, the power to persevere in existence, and natural right with the power ‘with which everything takes place, i.e. the power of nature itself’ (TP II, 4). The sovereign right that humans possess by nature faces numerous challenges, one being the competition of other people exercising their own right. As a consequence, persons are not exactly sovereign, but are overwhelmed by competing forces. The higher the degree of fear and pain present in a person’s life, the less right he may be said to have (TP II, 15). Some individuals will exercise their right at the expense of others, and unwittingly undermine their own right in the long run. In short, they do not assert their sovereignty prudently, and the power of humans, both individually and communally, is diminished. The solution for the weakness of individuals’ rights is social addition. When two individuals combine their strength, they have more power and thus more right, Spinoza tells us, and the larger the union, the greater the right they possess (TP II, 13). Indeed, so necessary is this union to the survival and preservation of individuals that natural right can only be conceived, really, where people have so combined to protect and promote themselves (TP II, 15). It is a great irony that individuals achieve greater right within the social context by limiting their own individual right to some degree. Thus, Spinoza maintains, reason decrees that ‘the unrestricted right naturally possessed by each individual should be put into common ownership and that this right should no longer be determined by the strength and appetite of the individual, but by the power and will of all together’ (TTP XVI, 13). With this, we arrive at Spinoza’s version of the social contract. Individual right is guaranteed precisely in being transformed into communal right. But how is this transformation instituted? Do individuals exchange individual for communal right by their own free, reflective decision? It would appear not since Spinoza maintains that ‘nobody makes a contract, or is bound to abide by an agreement, except through hope of some good or apprehension of some evil’ (TTP XVI, 44). Persons are not guided by reason in such a case, but by passions of hope and fear. He who is indeed guided by reason does not have to be cajoled into social cooperation since he directly discerns its utility. Therefore, the social contract does not pertain to rational persons, but ignorant ones. And yet, Spinoza indicates, it agrees with the decrees of reason nonetheless. In the state of nature a kind of lawlessness exists where each individual pursues his own individual right, what he is naturally capable of doing, with no regard to his neighbours’ pursuits. Spinoza agrees with Hobbes that there is no justice – or charity or sin – in the state of nature (TTP XIX, 7–8). The standard of justice – i.e. law itself – is instituted only with the

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contract and enters with the state, but an individual is obliged to obey the law insofar as it is effectively an extension of his own will, his own decisionmaking (TP III, 5). Although Spinoza believes that individuals are not rationally induced to be social creatures, but only cajoled or coerced, he speaks here as if they consciously agree to the laws, and thus remain faithful to them as if they were their own decision. Perhaps it is important to note that men would indeed make such a decision if they were individuals possessing mature reason. Spinoza ascribes a mysterious rationality to the contract. He says on one hand that in this contract people ‘would have failed had appetite been their only guide (for by the laws of appetite all men are drawn in different directions), and so they had to bind themselves by the most stringent pledges to be guided in all matters by reason and to keep appetite in check . . .’ (TTP XVI, 14). However, Spinoza then asserts that people only accept the contract through ‘hope of a greater good or fear of greater loss’, and that, accordingly, the stability of the contract is ensured insofar as it provides people with the prospect of attaining a greater good or avoiding a greater evil (TTP XVI, 15). Spinoza does not ascribe rational curtailment of appetites to the individuals themselves. The vast majority of men are impassioned and ignorant in a state of nature, and a contract, with its measures of coercion and enticement, is necessitated precisely by the absence of rationality. What then is rational in the contract, according to Spinoza? It appears that the contract itself may be counted rational. What emerges from the social contract is rational, though the contracting members themselves are not rational individuals. Indeed, Spinoza remarks in the Ethics that ‘by the guidance of reason we pursue the greater of two goods and the lesser of two evils’ (E IVp65). Spinoza mimics this very language in the quote above: the contract, and the passions on which it plays, guides persons in a manner that is analogous to reason, and towards ends that reason pursues. The contract is, thus, proto-rational. Spinoza’s contracting individuals are unwittingly rational, for in instituting a state, they achieve a rational feat. Spinoza’s version of the contract appears more coherent and convincing than Hobbes’, for it is unclear how Hobbesian individuals rationally decide that contracting is the best course of action in spite of the fact that they remain largely ignorant, and voraciously selfish. Why should they consciously decide to hand their rights over to a sovereign who is beyond the law, and who will exercise coercion over them? In their deliberation, will Hobbesian individuals agree to submit to the fearful figure of the sovereign? And why should they require such severe coercive measures, according to Hobbes, if they can indeed rationalize to some degree? Spinoza holds, on the contrary, that individuals make no such reflective decision: if they possessed a budding rationality mixed with persistent

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ignorance and also ever-present egoism, they could hardly be expected to hand their power over to someone else. Spinoza seems to believe that humans cannot be led to forfeit their natural independence in a reflectively wilful manner. Society appeals to people insofar as they are impassioned, and though coercion is present in the state, it must remain secondary. For, Spinoza maintains, ‘in every state laws should be so devised that men may be influenced not so much by fear as by hope of some good that they urgently desire, for in this way each will be eager to do his duty’ (TTP V, 24). Laws must be written so as to inspire hope, i.e. a passion. Specifically, the state’s laws must inspire in its citizens the hope of attaining individual ends, according to Spinoza, and thus, the laws effectively allow citizens to harbour the belief that they remain independent, in some respect. Though misguided, Spinoza deems this desire to retain our independence so fierce, so stubborn – it is analogous to the opinion Spinoza derides in the Ethics, namely, the belief that we are metaphysically free. As a result, he will stress that the prudent politician must refrain from appearing to compromise or threaten his citizens’ sense of independence. But if Spinoza’s contracting agents do not decide on rational grounds, can we properly speak of a social contract at all? Isn’t it the mark of contract theory that individuals rationally decide upon the institution of the state, and this decision calls on them to obey the sovereign freely and responsibly, since they are effectively obeying themselves in so doing? Contract theory is marked by the claim that individuals succeed in retaining their rational independence within the state, which the state is precisely engineered to protect. Spinoza’s commitment to contract theory is by no means clear since such a notion is absent from his Tractatus Politicus. McShea argues that Spinoza’s social contract is ‘merely an explanatory device to make clear some fundamental and necessary relations between men in civil society’ with ‘no reference to possible or actual historical events’.4 The most significant feature or aspect of human relations that the contract exemplifies for Spinoza, I believe, is the constancy of human interest in preserving and augmenting individual right, and the greater facility with which this interest is satisfied in civil society. In other words, Spinoza’s contract serves to exemplify how human nature remains constant within the state, how its basic interest is retained and bolstered, and how it suffers no radical transformation, contra Hobbes. For Hobbes, there is a rupture between the state of nature and the civil state. Breaking the law, he warns, returns the citizen to the state of nature, and that rebellion or insurrection risks reverting the whole society to the latter (Lev XXIX.174). The state of nature is so perfectly horrible, and we can be saved from it only by civil society that is radically different from the state of nature. As if addressing Hobbes himself, Spinoza asserts that the institution of civil society does not mean that ‘men lose their human

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nature and put on another . . .’ (TP IV, 4). ‘The natural right of every man does not cease in the civil state. For man, alike in the natural and in the civil state, acts according to the laws of his own nature, and consults his own interest’ (TP III, 3). Spinoza’s state succeeds in appealing to man the impassioned egoist. It entices him to obey by representing a good to his egoistical judgement. Spinoza states elsewhere that ‘the difference between Hobbes and myself . . . consists in this, that I always preserve the natural right in its entirety, and I hold that the sovereign power in a state has right over a subject only in proportion to the excess of its power over that of a subject. This is always the case in a state of nature’ (Epistle 50). Spinoza is intent on maintaining that citizens retain right, while Hobbesian citizens retain very little right, and find that their right is largely replaced by that of the sovereign. Spinoza likely believes he ‘always preserves natural right in its entirety’ in light of his view that persons retain the right to freedom of judgement, which I will discuss shortly. I take it that Spinoza also believes he preserves natural right more faithfully since, by his account, citizens do not obey so much by fear, but rather by the belief – ignorant and egoistical though it is – that they are taking advantage of civil society to pursue their particular advantage. In other words, for all they know – or care – Spinoza’s citizens are in a state of nature, because they are still just getting their own, if you will. In this respect, there is no essential difference between nature and civil society for Spinoza. Indeed, as Sylvain Zac reminds us, we should expect that Spinoza maintain continuity between the two, if he would remain faithful to his monism.5 Spinoza admits a difference between civil and natural law that is ultimately minimal. In the TTP, he distinguishes between law that depends on nature’s necessity, and law that depends on human will, ‘which could more properly be termed a statute’, and ‘which men ordain for themselves and for others with a view to making life more secure and more convenient’ (TTP IV, 1). Human laws, i.e. civil laws, pertain to human interest specifically, while nature’s laws do not. Nevertheless, human laws are themselves just an expression of natural law, because, in the construction of civil law, human beings are following their natural impulse – the natural law – to preserve themselves. Nature herself does not deliver civil law in all its detail, but she certainly provides the impetus for it, and the human being who conceives statutes is just as much a natural being heeding the call of self-preservation as is the caveman who hunts for food. The main difference between the natural and the civil state is that the latter organizes the impassioned egoism of its members so that people are subject to the same influences and the same compulsion at the hands of the sovereign (TP III,3). As Matheron puts it, the genesis of the state is a ‘passage, no longer from independence to dependence, but from the fluctuating

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interdependence of the state of nature to the consolidated interdependence by which the political society can be defined’.6 Insofar as Spinoza describes society as the addition of bodies according to the laws of physics, the state is a ‘res naturalis’, Hans Blom points out.7 Any unintelligent bodies in nature persist in being insofar as they bind together to constitute a larger, more forceful body. Likewise, human bodies discover that they can persist more successfully in combination. The state is this greater body, and behaves like a body, too, in striving to persist in being. In this respect, the state satisfies what Etienne Balibar calls the ‘principle of natural reason’: the endeavour for self-preservation becomes inextricably connected to the endeavour to combine powers.8 The state is at once rational and natural because it satisfies the rational decree to promote the conatus. The confluence of reason and nature in the Spinozistic state invokes the Stoic identification of reason with nature. And yet Spinoza diverges significantly from the ‘Cynic element’ of Stoic social thought; that is, the strong distinction between nature and convention. For Spinoza, the state is not mere convention, but is an extension of nature, such that civil law is likewise an extension of natural law: the two are identical in aiming at individuals’ self-preservation. The Stoics maintain that society and politics are natural and thus rational, but the sage recognizes the priority of natural law and will heed it before civil law should the two conflict. The Stoic sage is mindful that the state is transitory and therefore inessential to real happiness. Spinoza must agree that the state is ephemeral like any composite body, but necessary insofar as natural bodies, i.e. human bodies, require it for their preservation. Civil law is thus an unequivocal good for Spinoza because he, unlike the Stoics, asserts the unequivocal goodness of self-preservation. Accordingly, obedience to civil law amounts to obedience to natural law.

5.2 Political right and the most natural state Spinoza notes that insofar as a citizen heeds the sovereign’s command, as is the necessary structure in the civil state, he appears to be acting not from his own right, but from the ruler’s (TTP XVII, 6). This statement invokes a problematic relationship of politics with respect to reason insofar as politics threatens the freedom and independence Spinoza associates with the life of reason. If freedom is characteristic of the rational life, but reason compels us to submit our individual right to the right of the sovereign, what becomes of freedom in the state? Recognizing this dilemma, Spinoza assures us that, in accordance with reason’s decrees, the state in fact delivers its subjects to freedom. He writes,

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Perhaps it will be thought that we are turning subjects into slaves, the slave being one who acts under orders and the free man one who does as he pleases. But this is not completely true, for the real slave is one who lives under pleasure’s sway and can neither see nor do what is for his own good, and only he is free who lives whole-heartedly under the guidance of reason. (TTP XVI, 32) A person is a slave to the extent that he is subject to his impassioned self alone, and not necessarily to a ruler, with the difference that the latter may promote better what the individual by his efforts only pursues. One is only a slave if the ruler is not ruling in his interest. But so long as the sovereign indeed rules for the benefit of his citizens, he effectively delivers citizens to themselves (TTP XVI, 33). That is, the sovereign frees his subjects in this sense – he frees them of obstacles to the task of self-preservation. Insofar as his job is to protect his subjects and reduce their fears and anxieties, furthermore, he also liberates them from the grip of the passions somewhat. In the Tractatus Politicus, Spinoza wonders if it is ‘contrary to the dictate of reason to subject oneself to the judgment of another?’ (TP III, 6). In a vein similar to the TTP, he replies that since people are largely impassioned, reason commands that no one should be independent. ‘Besides, reason altogether teaches to seek peace and peace cannot be maintained unless the commonwealth’s general laws be kept unbroken’ (TP III, 6). Civil society is rational, and the rationality of subjection to the sovereign is proportionate to the sovereign’s degree of power, i.e. his success in keeping the laws inviolate. Indeed, Spinoza admits later on that ‘the greater the right of the sovereign the more does the form of the state agree with the dictate of reason’ (TP VII,7). From Spinoza’s physics, it follows that the stronger the social body, the stronger its component individuals; the more secure the state, that is, the more inviolate its laws by which it organizes and protects individuals’ endeavours, the greater will be the individual power of each citizen. To the extent that it promotes its citizens’ interests, strong sovereignty is preferable, and can certainly deliver its citizens to the freedom Spinoza equates with preserving ‘the power of existing and operating according to laws of human nature’ (TP II, 7). He is free who succeeds in promoting his individual conatus – that is, he is free from external influence to the extent that he succeeds in satisfying his conatus. He is true to himself, to his essence, and expresses his individualism in this respect. But moreover, the more a person may be considered free, Spinoza tells us, the more we are obliged to count him rational (TP II, 7). It is odd that Spinoza ascribes rationality to such a person, since it is not necessarily by virtue of individual rationality or rational autonomy that he is free in this sense: the

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powerful, secure, nourishing state can deliver such freedom. Indeed, politics presupposes that citizens are not rational. Does this mean then that reason is the product of such freedom and political power? Perhaps, but what kind of reason is it? Reason of state is not a property of the ruler. People are by and large impassioned, including prospective rulers. The prospect of so much power is enough to tempt the passions of any person, no matter how even-tempered he may be. Furthermore, the rationality of the state cannot rest in or rely upon the rationality of any one individual, for it follows from the Ethics that no one is perpetually and completely rational. The virtue of a state is its security, Spinoza maintains, and reason of state amounts to whatever conduces to it. Reason of state transcends the particulars of a regime, the particular set of citizens or rulers, whose character may vary according to time and place. The power of the sovereignty, that is, its effectiveness to serve citizens’ interests, depends on the constitution of the state itself. In the TP, Spinoza discusses the best arrangements of various constitutions, including monarchy, aristocracy and democracy, while in the TTP, he reveals his preference for democracy. In the latter, he claims that the democratic state is the most natural state because it preserves natural equality, and individuals take part in ruling just as they rule themselves in nature (TTP XVI, 36). Democracy is the closest to self-determination on the part of the citizens. However, Spinoza maintains, ‘in a democracy all the citizens undertake to act, but not to reason and judge, by decision made in common’ and thus, in order to be fully faithful to man’s natural state, the political constitution must also grant freedom of judgement to its citizens (TTP XX, 38). Spinoza draws his lessons about the superiority of the democratic state from the history of the biblical state of Israel, as documented in Scripture. In fact, it is worth noting, Spinoza basically views and treats Scripture in the TTP like a history of ancient Israel, and a manual of political insight, something few if anyone had ever done previously. In any case, as long as the Jews retained sovereignty, Spinoza observes from their history, they were afflicted by one civil war only; internal strife escalated after the institution of the monarchy, when sovereignty was vested in one man instead (TTP XVIII, 15). What was it about the sharing of sovereignty among all Israelites that was especially conducive to political stability? Spinoza argues that the early Jewish state prevented its citizens’ defection because it catered to their self-interest: ‘Nowhere else did citizens have stronger right to their possessions than did the subjects of this state, who had an equal share with the captain in lands and fields, and were each the owners of their share’ (TTP XVII, 85). If each person has something to gain in the flourishing of the state, all will work diligently to preserve political peace; they will fight voraciously to defend their homeland

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because they see themselves defending their own interests above all, as opposed to the interests of the king. Human nature, after all, is ‘so constituted that everyone seeks with the utmost passion [summo cum affectu] his own advantage, and judges those laws to be most equitable, which he thinks necessary to preserve and increase his own substance, and defends another’s cause so far only as he thinks he is thereby establishing his own’ (TP VII,4). Monarchy is problematic then – at least superficially – because it privileges the interest of one above all. The democratic state is preferable because, quite simply, Spinoza believes it is the most powerful state. It capitalizes upon the egoism of its citizens better than any other form of constitution, making the welfare of the state as a whole most intimately tied to each citizen’s self-interest. Insofar as it mitigates internal strife and galvanizes the support of its citizens, the democratic state has the best chance of enduring over time, that is, sustaining its conatus to persist in being, to which extent the democratic regime is rational. But shared sovereignty must be complemented by freedom of judgement, Spinoza warns, since ‘men are so constituted that their resentment is most aroused when beliefs which they think to be true are treated as criminal, and when that which motivates their pious conduct to God and man is accounted as wickedness’ (TTP XX, 29). The regime that suppresses freedom of judgement risks inciting retribution, rebellion (TTP XX, 44), and thereby undermines its own right to preserve its being. In this respect, the oppressive regime may not be counted rational. In the preface to the TTP, Spinoza reveals that he aims to demonstrate that ‘not only can this freedom [of judgement] be granted without endangering piety and peace of the commonwealth, but also that the peace of the commonwealth and piety depend on this freedom’ (TTP Praef, 12). I don’t believe that Spinoza defends freedom of judgement for its own sake, as if it were an abstract, universal right the state is morally obliged to accord its citizens. Nor does he defend freedom of judgement merely in order to secure the freedom to philosophize. Rather, Spinoza defends freedom of judgement, and consequently the freedom to philosophize, because they lend themselves to political stability and social flourishing: they conduce to greater and more secure political right. In considering the best regime, one must take into account the staunch though misguided sense of individualism citizens harbour. If a state is to preserve its being, it must appeal to the impassioned self-interest of its citizens, and if it does not, it sows the seeds of its quick demise. Spinoza agrees with Machiavelli that ‘a commonwealth is always in greater danger from its citizens than from external enemies’ (TP VI,6). Indeed, internal unity of citizens is a prerequisite for the state to fight off other predatory regimes, for the state derives greater internal strength from the devotion

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and enthusiasm of its citizens. Therefore, the liberal state has greater right than do tyrannies, that is, greater power to preserve its being, and by virtue of its internal makeup, it has the capacity to defeat and outlast any such tyranny. If he demonstrates the superior right of the liberal state in the TTP, why does Spinoza entertain other forms of constitution in his later political work, where he refrains from asserting the primacy of democracy?9 Perhaps Spinoza’s enthusiasm for democracy was diminished by witnessing the horrific murder of the De Witts at the hands of an angry mob in the Hague in 1672. After the Grand Pensionary of Holland and his brother were literally ripped to pieces, Spinoza wished to erect at the scene a placard denouncing the ‘ultimate barbarism’ of the masses who committed this deed, but luckily his landlord prevented him from doing so.10 Perhaps Spinoza came to suspect that it was too risky to rest political stability on the people’s impassioned egoism. But already in the TTP, he recognizes the capricious nature of the people, and looks again to the Hebrew state for inspiration in moulding them.

5.3 The highest form of devotion According to Spinoza, citizens are bound to the state insofar as it serves their interests, and to this extent, theirs is a utilitarian obligation or bond. However, this is a precarious state of affairs. As any politician knows, he must occasionally make difficult choices that appear to have little immediate benefit, or he must pursue measures that benefit one part of the population directly but the rest only indirectly – if at all. In the lack of foresight Spinoza ascribes to the citizens, they are largely incapable of conceiving such prudence. If their obligation is utilitarian, citizens will cease to be bound to the state once it no longer appears to serve their individual interests. The citizens are largely ignorant, and thus their impression of the state’s success in serving their interests remains just that, an impression, and a highly indeterminate one at that. They may threaten at any moment to abandon the greater cause of the state – if individual advantage is suddenly no longer apparent in it – for the sake of immediate personal advantage. To counter insubordination, the state may simply employ coercive measures, but this is not properly characteristic of the free state, according to Spinoza, which is ruled more by hope than by fear (TP V, 6). In the first place, people are not obedient by nature; indeed, they fancy themselves independently devoted to projects of self-interest. ‘Men are not born for citizenship,’ Spinoza admits, ‘but must be made so’ (TP V, 2). The obedience of the citizenry is difficult enough for the sovereign to guarantee; what is more, he requires willing – even eager – obedience. Spinoza

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recognizes the challenge that every citizen must be convinced that in every case his own well-being is served precisely through serving the interests of all other citizens. In other words, ‘to frame such a constitution that every man . . . will set public right before private advantage, this is the task’ (TTP XVII, 16). Without this measure, the state will, unknown to the citizens perhaps, collapse. We must make national devotion the highest form of devotion, in Spinoza’s view, ‘for if the state is destroyed nothing good can survive . . .’ (TTP XIX, 22). The Stoics certainly fall short of making a comparable assertion. The duty to country is secondary to that to the cosmopolis, according to the Stoics, and is even subordinate to familial duty. Devotion to one’s country is highest for Spinoza since every other form of well-being is predicated upon political well-being. Political association is the only way of promoting the effort of an individual’s conatus: reason decrees against independence, solitude. And yet in speaking of devotion (pietas), Spinoza suggests an especially profound form of attachment to country. In the language of piety (which, incidentally, is also familiar to Stoic duty), Spinoza reveals the secret ingredient at the core of patriotism: religion. In order to guarantee willing obedience on the part of the citizens, to expand their self-interest so that it encompasses whomever the political powers require it to encompass – to transform them into citizens, as it were – the state must be implicated in the people’s religion. Spinoza derives this insight, too, from his careful study of biblical Israel. How was such a small state able to endure over time in the face of overwhelming odds, not least of which were the tremendous political powers surrounding it? In the first place, how was this small band of former slaves able to unite so forcefully that it could migrate as an entire people from Egypt to their homeland? In addition to their democracy, the early Hebrew state displayed another helpful feature: the Jews ‘resolved to transfer their right not to any mortal man, but to God alone’ (TTP XVII, 27). They recognized God as their sole sovereign, and as a result, every deed bore political and religious significance at once. Biblical Israel endured because it succeeded ‘in removing the causes of strife, namely, that no man served his equal, but only God, that charity and love towards one’s fellow citizens was regarded as a supreme religious duty’ (TTP XVII, 87). Spinoza recognizes Moses as the engineer of this remarkable feat, which amounts to the institution of a state religion. With this state religion, Moses made ‘people do their duty from devotion rather than fear . . . He bound them by promising benefits from God in the future’ (TTP V, 29). Moses solved the problem in which political advantage is unapparent to the citizens. He united the public and private domains of people. With God as the recognized sovereign, the prospect of blessedness inhabited any public deed, and consequently, people were

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eager to assist those deeds where immediate personal advantage was not discernible. Spinoza’s analysis of Scripture, moreover, reveals that its essential message is itself politically propitious. According to Scripture, Spinoza maintains, the sole aim of faith is obedience to God (TTP XIV, 8). Since St James says that ‘faith in itself without works is dead’ (TTP XIV, 14), obedience consists in works, specifically, works of justice and charity. ‘Obedience to God consists solely in loving one’s neighbor’, Spinoza explains, which means that ‘Scripture commands no other kind of knowledge than that which is necessary for all men before they can obey God according to this commandment . . .’ (TTP XIII, 8). This latter statement invokes the basis of Spinoza’s argument for the separation of philosophy and theology. Scripture requires this most basic form of knowledge, accessible to the vast majority of people, but ‘the intellectual or exact knowledge of God is not a gift shared by all the faithful, as is obedience’ (TTP XIII, 9). That faith consists in obedience to God, which in turn consists in works of justice and charity, is the common message of both Testaments of the Bible, in Spinoza’s view. Indeed, Spinoza asserts, ‘the prophets [of the Old Testament] commend above all else justice and charity . . .’ and thus, ‘their moral teaching is in full agreement with reason, for it is no accident that the Word of God proclaimed by the prophets agrees in all respects with the Word of God that speaks in our hearts’ (TTP XV, 34). Such statements as this elicit the objection that Spinoza violates his aim of distinguishing philosophy and theology. If the prophets only know God in an unphilosophical manner – as they necessarily do, since Spinoza describes them as persons of exceptionally active imagination who receive revelation by means of external signs (TTP II), both of which are traits unbefitting a philosopher – how can their message agree with reason? It is becoming clear, however, that political stability, and religion’s role in contributing to this end, is the overarching theme of the TTP. In this light, the prophets’ message may very easily agree with that of reason insofar as it commends social harmony, and in turn, the advantage to individuals’ strivings that follows from social harmony. To this extent, religion may be counted rational. Biblical Israel illustrates a commendable convergence of politics and religion, and yet Spinoza admits that its model is no longer possible. The Jewish people’s covenant with God is irrelevant since God ‘has revealed through his Apostles that his covenant is no longer written in ink or engraved on tables of stone, but is inscribed by God’s spirit in men’s hearts’ (TTP XVIII, 2). Christianity is God’s message revealed to a universal audience, as opposed to the Old Testament revealed to the Jews only. Christianity must now provide the model for state religion, but remain somehow based on the Jewish model. Christianity must play the

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same role religion played in the Israelite state, and, precisely because it purports to be universal, the Christian message provides the basis of a universal faith that may be applicable to any political setting. ‘The dogmas of the universal faith,’ Spinoza affirms, ‘must all be directed to this one end: that there is a Supreme Being who loves justice and charity, whom all must obey in order to be saved, and must worship by practicing justice and charity to their neighbor’ (TTP XIV, 24). The essence of Spinoza’s universal faith, therefore – what ultimately characterizes and defines it – is political utility: of practical political measures, it makes expressions of religious devotion. In fact, since religion and politics agree in commending justice and charity, ‘it follows that God has no kingdom over men save through the medium of those who hold sovereignty’ (TTP XIX, 6), and ‘no one can rightly obey God unless his practice of piety . . . conforms with the public good’ (TTP XIX, 26). In turn, since the sovereign is most expert in the public good, he is the proper interpreter of faith. Again drawing lessons from the Hebrew state, Spinoza observes that sectarian divisions arose in its history when religious leaders sought after secular power (TTP XVIII, 21), and, furthermore, that the integrity of religion itself was threatened as long as the prophets were independent of the secular authorities: ‘in exercising their freedom to warn, to rebuke and to censure, [the prophets] succeeded in annoying men rather than reforming them, whereas men who were admonished or castigated by kings were more apt to turn from their ways’ (TTP XVIII, 13). For the benefit of religion and politics alike, the sovereign must control the external forms of religious devotion, and in so doing, orchestrate the manner in which religion celebrates national devotion. After all, the religious authorities cannot be counted on to include patriotism in the people’s creed. Moreover, as interpreter of religion, the sovereign will attain the proper aura of authority. ‘Everyone knows how much importance the people attach to the right and authority over religion,’ Spinoza remarks, ‘and how all revere every single word of him who possesses that authority, so that . . . he to whom this authority belongs has the most effective control over minds’ (TTP XIX, 40). So powerful is the role of interpreter of religion, in fact, that to refuse it to the sovereign amounts to dividing sovereignty and sowing the seeds of internecine conflict (TTP XIX, 41). A perpetual point of conflict among Spinoza scholars is the character of this salvation Spinoza attributes to revealed religion in the TTP. Mysteriously, simple obedience is a way to salvation (TTP XV, 44), Spinoza discloses, alternately wondering how ‘men can achieve blessedness simply through obedience without understanding . . .’ (TTP XV, 22). In the Ethics, Spinoza refers to the third kind of knowledge, that highest form of intellectual perception, as blessedness. Isn’t it an obvious contradiction to

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say that the ignorant masses, through minimal – and misguided – knowledge of God’s nature, can achieve a state comparable to that of the wise man? Spinoza also states that ‘intellectual knowledge of God which contemplates His nature as it is in itself – a nature which men cannot imitate by a set rule of conduct nor take as their example – has no bearing on the practice of a true way of life, on faith and on revealed religion . . .’ (TTP XIII, 24). How can the latter way of understanding God have an equal, much less privileged, access to the true way of living? I believe this passage reveals precisely what form of salvation revealed religion can provide, which is in fact comparable to that of philosophy. While it is admittedly difficult to understand how revealed religion exclusively provides access to the true way of life, it is conceivable that the pious believer and the wise man bear the same external disposition even while their intellectual insight is clearly different. As DeDijn points out, the pious believer is characterized by calmness, courtesy and charity, 11 which are all traits that certainly pertain to the philosopher, too. The pious believer and the philosopher may both be peaceful persons who successfully pursue their own advantage, to which extent both may be counted rational, though the believer is unwittingly so. But as for the internal dispositions of believer and wise man, they, too, cannot be terribly different after all, since it follows from the Ethics that the wise man is not perfectly wise, but only wise in part, and intermittently wise at that; he is not terribly different from his ignorant neighbours, and his difference is difficult to quantify. Furthermore, since ‘the mind is the idea of the body’, external behaviour is a direct correlate of internal disposition, and therefore, it would seem, two men who demonstrate similar behaviour must have much in common in terms of internal disposition. As he reveals in his ‘Wager’ argument, Pascal would point out that the exercise of religious rituals tempers the passions. And indeed, external behaviour characterized by the focused pursuit of personal advantage and peaceful cooperation towards this end reflects some internal state of tranquillity, whether it is due to intellectual insight or egoistical engagement in religious rituals or even commerce. Spinoza even goes so far as to say that the Holy Spirit, which fills the faithful person, ‘is nothing other than the peace of mind [acquiescentiam animi] that results from good actions’ (TTP XV, 41). Acquiescentia animi is the very term Spinoza uses in the Ethics to refer to the tranquillity of the philosopher. It is quite remarkable that the pious believer and the philosopher may both be ascribed acquiescentia animi, though they clearly derive it from different processes. And yet their affinity ought not be so surprising, after all. The Ethics portrays virtue as a matter of degree, vulnerable to external influence. As a result, there can never be a great difference between the wise man and his neighbours – especially those peace-loving men of faith.

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But Spinoza’s political writings reveal even more so the affinity between believer and philosopher, where Spinoza suggests that the lives of both may be deemed rational. He who actively cooperates with his neighbours, who practises charity towards them, who obeys the laws, and most importantly, who enjoys the personal advantages of social life, behaves rationally. His conatus is promoted no less than that of the philosopher who derives practical prudence from his profound insight, that is, who is self-consciously – or internally – rational. The ignorant person knows what he wants, namely, self-preservation, but typically does not discern the best means of attaining it; the philosopher knows what he wants and how best to attain it. With political guidance, the ignorant person receives this prudential insight, though it comes from outside. Does this then mean that he is heteronomous and that his salvation is somewhat less admirable? Perhaps, and yet if his lifestyle affords him simple serenity, ample vigour and joy for living, his form of salvation is certainly one the philosopher admires and partakes in himself.

5.4 Spinoza’s liberalism Spinoza opens his Tractatus Politicus with the Machiavellian assertion that he will expound the best form of political constitution, not in light of human nature as philosophers idealize it, but in light of human nature as it truly is (TP I,1). This calls for looking upon the passions as properties of human nature (TP I, 4). Politics treats men exclusively in terms of their impassioned nature, accordingly, and does not ‘look to proofs of reason for the causes and natural bases of dominion . . .’ (TP I,7). The passions are the terms of politics; they alone are to be taken into consideration in the political realm. Douglas Den Uyl suggests that Spinoza resolves to focus exclusively upon persons’ impassioned nature because philosophers are so few and far between that their significance is negligible within social theory.12 And yet it would serve us well to remember that the philosopher is also impassioned, only to a lesser extent. Accordingly, it is not inappropriate to include him in political considerations; insofar as he remains susceptible to passions, he is a subject of political right. Passions are the terms of the political domain, which means that political measures are themselves of an impassioned nature. ‘Men are more led by blind desire than by reason’, Spinoza explains, and ‘therefore the natural power or right of human beings should be limited, not by reason, but by every appetite whereby they are determined to action, or seek their own preservation’ (TP II, 5). Politics is the domain of the interplay of the

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passions. Persons are manipulated in the polis by passions, such as the fear of punishment or the hope of personal benefit – state religion, for example, proposes personal benefit in the form of everlasting life. Albert Hirschmann argues that the problem with the passions is that they are inconstant and unpredictable, and consequently, the task is to replace them with constant passions, i.e. predictable ones, a prime example of which is mercantile ambition.13 The government that succeeds in promoting economic prosperity enjoys a population of contentedly industrious citizens focused on projects of personal wealth.14 Passions are capricious by nature – at least from the vantage point of our limited intellect and with regard to our native power – but the model state will render them predictable, and therefore, manageable. The sovereign achieves what he wants by manipulating citizens positively, not negatively – by enticing, not coercing them. The political end is attained only indirectly in this way since people, in their preponderant ignorance, do not directly grasp the value and utility of the state (TP X, 6): they are focused on their own advantage, and will quickly abandon political duty if the state no longer serves their personal interest. The state manipulates people, therefore, by directing them towards ends other than frankly political ones, but which in fact produce politically propitious traits. This is why religion, for example, is such a powerful instrument in the political domain: it teaches people to treat one another fairly, after all, but at the prospect of eternal happiness or avoiding eternal damnation. To manipulate people directly, Spinoza maintains, is to risk causing trouble, for whoever ‘seeks to regulate everything by law will aggravate vices rather than correct them’ (TTP XX, 24). This claim is exemplified by his argument for freedom of judgement. He means to say, I take it, that the sovereign must be cautious in directly influencing his citizens who simply cannot be reasoned with concerning the inherent virtues and consequent demands of political life. He must rather be a silent guide in people’s lives, because acting otherwise will threaten their perceived individualism – and nothing enrages people more than that, according to Spinoza. It becomes clear in what sense Spinoza’s political philosophy is liberal. The governing party must observe people’s perceived individualism and their focus on individual advantage. Politics grants freedom of judgement as a requisite of political right, in light of human nature. The model political regime is liberal insofar as it avoids directly moulding citizens and interfering with their lives because such a programme will irritate its independent-minded citizens. This means, as Den Uyl argues, that the state is not in the business of moral education.15 Indeed, in the opening of the Tractatus Politicus, Spinoza states the following as a veritable rule of political theory:

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We showed [in the Ethics] . . . that reason can, indeed, do much to restrain and moderate the passions, but we saw at the same time, that the road, which reason herself points out, is very steep; so that such as persuade themselves that the multitude of men distracted by politics can ever be induced to live according to the bare dictate of reason, must be dreaming of the poetic golden age, or of a stage-play. (TP I, 5) To dream in this manner is a political liability. However, this does not rule out the possibility that politics is indirectly involved in the project of moral improvement, as it must be, since philosophy is certainly nourished by the polis in the first place. What does all this mean with regard to Stoic political theory? Or rather, what does Stoic politics teach about Spinoza’s political convictions? The Stoic advocacy of egalitarianism may well have supported Spinoza’s preference for democracy. For the Stoics, such egalitarianism provides for the possibility of general enlightenment, but Spinoza’s interest in democracy lies largely in the fact that it lends itself to solid and enduring political power. Lagre´e is also eager to point out that early modern philosophers such as Spinoza draw inspiration from Stoicism in developing the idea of universal religion. With its doctrine of the rational unity of humankind and a God readily discernible to all rational beings, Stoicism provides the model for a religion common to all men, which ceases to divide but instead draws men together.16 To this extent, Stoic-inspired universal religion is ire´nique, that is, conducive to peace, Lagre´e argues, for it cultivates a religious society of rational men who directly perceive the divine command and the human virtue of peace. Once again, however, though Stoic inspiration may be evident in Spinoza’s universal religion, he appeals to this notion insofar as it serves political power by cultivating the obedience of citizens the political structure requires. Spinoza exhibits greater affinity to those Stoics, rather, who recognize a gulf between wise and ignorant men, and who hold that politics, which caters to the opinions of the ignorant, is not the proper venue for enlightening men. Nevertheless, this feature does not preclude politics from being integral to the life of virtue, for Spinoza. Marcus Aurelius, who expresses such pessimism about the role of politics with respect to a universal enlightenment, characterizes politics as an annoying obligation. He recognizes that the political realm is not where true virtue is to be found, and that he must take care in appearing to approve those things people wrongly esteem. For Spinoza, on the contrary, politics is a necessary consideration for the life of virtue – and not merely a necessary evil. After all, philosophy is predicated upon political stability. But it appears that politics is integral to virtue in another sense. Politics provides a kind of salvation, as it were – it constitutes saving force

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to ignorant and wise alike. Granted, politics does not cultivate intellectual salvation, but insofar as it seeks to supplant harmful passions with beneficial ones, it effectively mimics the process of therapy. In other words, politics is a domain where therapy takes place – as is religion, whose own therapeutic power Spinoza reveals through the analysis of political power. Politics and religion defeat harmful passions with passions that may be called rational to the extent that they promote self-preservation. Perhaps this is only a lesser salvation, as Thomas Cook would have it.17 But again, since there is no clear or absolute distinction between wisdom and ignorance, between active and passive states – since they are only matters of degree – it is hard to distinguish higher and lesser salvation: the two overlap, and are, furthermore, mutually sustaining. The wise man must also derive real sustenance from politics and religion; when suffering from overwhelming passive affects, he requires the remedies that serve all people. And since the philosopher necessarily suffers bouts of ignorant egoism that plague all fellow humans, he too must be susceptible to political coercion and enticement, at least occasionally.

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6

The Philosopher in the State

6.1 Christ, the Apostles and Solomon: models of public philosophers? Spinoza’s ‘Apotheosis of the free man’ in Ethics IV reveals something of his view of the appropriate behaviour of the philosopher in the polis. However, as I pointed out, the view this passage presents is rather conflicting. In warning the free man to avoid receiving favours from his ignorant neighbours, Spinoza seems to view the city similarly to the Stoics, that is, as a nuisance, but also as a danger. And yet Spinoza concludes this section with the assertion that a person is most free living under a system of civil law. I aim to understand Spinoza’s ultimate views of the matter, and have argued that the Ethics already makes it clear that politics is of significant moral necessity. What, when Spinoza’s political writings are taken into account, is the proper political comportment of the philosopher? The best place to start in this endeavour is with those examples of persons whom, at first glance, Spinoza appears to characterize as philosophers in the TTP – or, rather, figures to whom he ascribes ostensibly philosophical traits: Solomon, the Apostles, and most importantly, Christ. That Spinoza does this is remarkable in itself, of course, since these figures have rarely, if ever, been called or considered philosophers. Thus, part of my interest and aim is to understand what Spinoza actually thinks of these figures, whether they are indeed worthy of the title ‘philosopher’, which is a matter of long-standing dispute, and what Spinoza is trying to achieve in his cryptic accounts of Christ, Solomon and the Apostles. Understanding his precise view of these figures will provide greater insight into Spinoza’s specific view of the relationship between philosophy and politics – and religion, too. I will start by examining Christ because he is, quite simply, the most perplexing of these characters and the figure who is most obviously a philosopher for Spinoza, many argue. To the other prophets of the Old Testament, Spinoza maintains, God revealed himself mediately, by means of signs (TTP II), but with Christ, God revealed himself ‘not by words or by visions, but directly, so that God manifested Himself to the Apostles through the mind of Christ . . .’ (TTP I, 23). Of the Old Testament

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prophets, only Moses had direct communication with God, according to Spinoza, in that he ‘spoke with God face to face’, but this does not compare to Christ’s communication with God, which lacked verbal mediation altogether, and was ‘mind to mind’ (TTP I, 24). Spinoza characterizes the prophets of the Old Testament as persons of exceptionally active imagination, and as a result, God adapted his message to their particular beliefs and manners of speaking when he revealed himself to them (TTP II). The Old Testament makes it clear that God’s message was adapted specifically to the beliefs of the prophets insofar as they passed them on to the Jewish people in particular. As for Christ, however, because he communicated directly with God, mind to mind, he did not need God to adapt his revelations to Christ’s beliefs (TTP IV, 31). As such, Christ received God’s message purely, that is, free of perspectival contamination, as was characteristic of the prophets’ revelation. Christ received God’s message so purely because his mission was to teach the whole human race. ‘Thus it was not enough for him to have a mind adapted to the beliefs of the Jews alone; his mind had to be adapted to the beliefs and doctrines held in common by all mankind . . .’ (TTP IV, 31). Since Christ sought to spread God’s message universally, he focused less on detailed, particular commands, such as the book of Leviticus contains. Moses revealed specific commands regarding our actions, but Christ’s mission extends into the interior of men. Christ ‘condemned not merely the external act, but the very wish’ (TTP V, 8), Spinoza states. Moses advocated ceremonial observance, which pertains exclusively ‘to the temporal prosperity of the state . . .’ and ‘promises nothing but material advantages’ (TTP V, 6). In the Pentateuch, Spinoza maintains, Moses promises only worldly success, and though they indeed contain much in the way of moral teachings, these five books are adapted to the beliefs of the Jews and ultimately pertain to the welfare of the Hebrew nation alone (TTP V, 7). Christ’s message is for all persons, and to this end lays a claim to the interior of men, wherefore Christ promises a spiritual, not material, reward (TTP V, 8). In his depiction of Christ’s universalist project, Spinoza invokes strains of philosophy. He says that those doctrines held in common by all people to which Christ’s mind was specifically adapted are ‘those axioms that are universally true’ (TTP IV, 31), and as a result, Christ ‘taught only universal moral precepts’ (TTP V, 8). This echoes the Ethics, which presents morality in terms of axioms and precepts. According to St Paul, Spinoza argues, blessedness amounts to possessing the ‘mind of Christ’, which means that one ‘would thereby perceive the laws of God as eternal truths’ (TTP IV, 36). Again, this language echoes the Ethics and suggests that Christ apprehends the philosophic vision, namely, that of the eternal laws of God/nature.

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Spinoza suggests furthermore that Christ aimed to free people in a manner analogous to philosophy. ‘Christ freed people from bondage to the law,’ he states, ‘while nevertheless giving further strength and stability to the law, inscribing it deep in their hearts’ (TTP IV, 34). That law to which men were bound and from which Christ freed them is, presumably, Moses’ moral code, the ten commandments, which is at once religious, moral and civil law since it pertains to the welfare of biblical Israel. Spinoza explains that God sent Christ so that people would no longer ‘act righteously from the law’s command but from the unwavering resolution of the heart. Thus, Paul’s teaching coincides exactly with ours’ (TTP III, 45). The law is to be strengthened by its inscription in men’s hearts, an internalization of law that amounts to rendering people autonomous. Christ intended to liberate people from ‘acting righteously’ at the behest of the external law, to acting righteously at their own behest, in effect. Philosophy, too, aims to reduce heteronomy in rendering the mind active, in elevating it from passivity, that is, in relieving it from being determined solely by external influences. Christ appears to be involved in a similar project of delivering individuals from merely external determination to a kind of self-determination. As to the specific nature of Christ’s knowledge, Spinoza describes him as ‘a man who can perceive by pure insight [sola mente aliqua perciperet] that which is not contained in the basic principles of our cognition and cannot be deduced therefrom . . .’ which is only possible for ‘a mind whose excellence far surpasses the human mind. Therefore . . . [no one] has attained such a degree of perfection surpassing all others as Christ’ (TTP I, 22–3). What does Spinoza mean by knowledge that ‘surpasses the human mind?’ How can he admit such a thing in light of his metaphysics? If Christ has a human body, isn’t his knowing faculty subject to the same limitations as that of all other people? And yet Spinoza asserts, ‘wisdom that is more than human . . . took on human nature in Christ . . .’ (TTP I, 23). What kind of person can Christ be in Spinoza’s opinion? Is he a person at all? Since Jesus cannot have been supernatural by the laws of Spinoza’s metaphysics, Leo Strauss declares that he could only have been ‘the greatest philosopher who ever lived’.1 If Christ is a philosopher, however, and his project is philosophical, Spinoza would seem to contradict that aim of the TTP to distinguish philosophy from theology. This discrepancy is one of the foundations of Strauss’ claim that Spinoza is engaged in esoteric writing in the TTP, i.e. that Spinoza is not sincere: Spinoza in fact believes that philosophy and theology should not be distinguished, but that the former should supplant the latter. According to Alan Donagan, for one, Strauss is mistaken in calling Christ a philosopher, since the knowledge Spinoza ascribes to him is by no means philosophical. Spinoza appears to attribute the second kind of

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knowledge to Christ (rational knowledge consisting in common notions) when he says that Christ’s message was universally communicated by virtue of being adapted to ‘doctrines held in common by all mankind’, namely, ‘axioms that are universally true’ (TTP IV, 31). Spinoza indeed seems to ascribe scientia intuitiva to Christ, for, he claims, Christ perceived God adequately (TTP IV, 31). And yet, Spinoza suggests in what way Christ’s knowledge does not meet the standards of philosophy when he writes that what Christ perceived ‘is not contained in the basic principles of our cognition [in primis nostrae cognitionis fundamentis non continentur]’ (TTP I, 22). Christ is nothing more than a prophet, in Donagan’s view, albeit a far greater one than Moses, and a mysterious one, too, who received sure cognition from God ‘in a way that, although natural, nobody yet understands’.2 In line with Spinoza’s monist metaphysics, Christ’s cognition is necessarily natural, but he falls short of the title of philosopher because he cannot demonstrate universal moral precepts from the first principles of God’s nature in the manner of the Ethics.3 Christ did not seek to contemplate in solitude the nature of the universe and demonstrate its order, as did Spinoza. Christ’s intention was to minister to people, and he was a moralist by Spinoza’s account, but not a philosophical one. Christ was a moralist who sought to spread an ethical message to all people, especially the meek, the weak and poor. And whether he willed it or not, his mission had significant political consequences. Concerning Christ’s specific political intent, Spinoza says that he ‘was not sent to preserve the state and to institute laws, but only to teach the universal law’ and that he ‘by no means abrogated the law of Moses, for it was not Christ’s purpose to introduce new laws into the commonwealth. His chief concern was to teach moral doctrines, keeping them distinct from the laws of the commonwealth’ (TTP V, 9). Indeed, this much is evident in Christ’s admonition to ‘give Caesar what is owed Caesar, and to God what is owed God’ (Matt. 22: 21). Spinoza distinguishes Christ’s approach from that of the Pharisees ‘who taught that the blessed life was his who observed the laws of the commonwealth, i.e. the law of Moses; whereas, in fact, this law concerned only public good, and its aim was to coerce the Hebrews rather than instruct’ (TTP V, 9). The Pharisees erred against the nature of political right, as Spinoza would have it, in coercing rather than enticing the people to obey. In contrast, by inscribing the law in people’s hearts, and effectively consigning it to their agency – as if the law were now their own, proceeding from within – Christ strengthened and granted further stability to the law (TTP IV, 34). Furthermore, Christ’s message remains the essential one of Scripture, namely, that of justice, charity and love of neighbour. In this light, therefore, Christ’s project may be considered politically propitious because he transmitted a message of social unity and indirectly

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strengthened the civil laws as a result; he preached obedience, after all. Christ encouraged people to cooperate and help one another, and promised a spiritual reward, thereby mollifying the multitude who could receive no material reward at all – especially that of independence from Rome. In fact, insofar as his mission was non-political – or rather, insofar as it was not directly or expressly political, according to Spinoza – Christ avoided plunging the people into bloody revolt against the existing powers. In a sense, Christ’s emphasis upon spiritual reward assisted the Pharisees: he relieved the Pharisees of the people’s wrath by directing their aspirations towards a spiritual reward, for the Pharisees could hardly be expected to deliver the specific material reward the Jews wanted. By Spinoza’s account, Christ exhibited special acumen regarding the particular political setting of his day. To Christ, he ascribes the following feat: ‘before the coming of Christ, the prophets used to proclaim religion as the law of their own country . . . whereas after the coming of Christ the Apostles preached religion to all men as a universal law . . .’ (TTP XII, 24). The political setting called for such innovation, Spinoza believes, for Christ foresaw the dispersion of the Jews, and that ‘they should practice piety to all without exception . . .’ which shows ‘that religion has always been adapted to the good of the commonwealth’ (TTP XIX, 30). Spinoza intends his depiction of Christ to exemplify what I have identified as the overall aim of the TTP, namely, that religion can aid the augmentation and fortification of political right. Again, the point is that religion does so indirectly, which is why Christ is no statesman either. Christ reacted to the particular political necessity of his day, and everything he did must be seen in this light, according to Spinoza. Precisely in distinguishing the religious, i.e. the moral, from the civil law, as the prophets and Pharisees never did, Christ strengthened the latter – indeed, he strengthened both laws alike, Spinoza would say. Spinoza purports to do the same thing: by impressing upon people the need to derive moral guidance from a source other than the civil law, they might live peacefully and contribute to the stability of the state. After all, direct intervention on the part of the state tends to irritate men’s vices rather than pacify them (TTP XX, 24). But the lesson Spinoza wishes to impart in his account of Christ is incomplete without considering his view of the Apostles, too, who, in their own right, appear rather philosophical. The Apostles revealed God’s word in a manner very different from the Old Testament prophets. Spinoza writes that the Apostles ‘employ argument, so that they seem to be conducting a discussion rather than prophesying. The prophetic writings, on the other hand, contain only dogma and decrees, for they represent God as speaking not like one who reasons, but one who makes decrees . . .’ (TTP XI, 4). The Apostles represent God as a reasoning God, thanks to their own manner of presentation, which

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amounts to rational argumentation. Paul in particular engaged in ‘lengthy chains of logical argumentation’ (TTP XI, 7). Their manner of exhortation reveals that the Apostles relied upon ‘their own natural faculty’, and did not derive their lessons from ‘revelation and God’s command’ (TTP XI, 8). They were ‘dictated solely by natural light and were able from natural knowledge to teach matters that do not fall within its scope’ (TTP XI, 14). How can the Apostles in their exclusive reliance upon natural knowledge have taught matters that ‘do not fall within its scope?’ Spinoza says that the religion preached by the Apostles consisted in relating the story of Christ, which ‘does not come within the scope of reason, yet its substance, which consists essentially in moral teachings as does the whole of Christ’s doctrine, can be readily grasped by everyone by the natural light of reason’ (TTP XI, 15). By what ‘escapes the scope of natural knowledge’, I suspect that Spinoza is referring to the miraculous events of Christ’s life, his resurrection and ascension. The ethical message of Christ’s story, on the other hand, is easily comprehensible by natural knowledge, and is easily transmitted. Aside from the assertion that they presented God’s word in the manner of rational argumentation, there is no indication that Spinoza takes the Apostles to be philosophers. He depicts their message as being rather simple and even mundane, since he says that their discussions ‘contain nothing but brotherly admonitions mingled with courteous expressions’ (TTP XI, 8). He attributes no special insight to the Apostles, such as the adequate idea of God that Christ beheld, but only the knowledge of Christ’s life story. What are we to make then of the rational argumentation the Apostles employed, especially Paul? It appears that the Apostles mimicked philosophizing when called for, according to Spinoza, in order to comply with Christ’s command to spread God’s word to all men. To the Greeks, a people familiar with philosophy, Paul presented God’s word by means of rational argumentation so as to ‘be a Greek with the Greeks’ (TTP III, 46), Spinoza argues, while the other Apostles ‘preaching to the Jews who despised philosophy . . . taught a religious doctrine free from all philosophic speculation’ (TTP XI, 24). Spinoza suggests that the Apostles were indeed capable of teaching religious doctrine permeated by philosophic speculation. And yet elsewhere he betrays a low estimation of the philosophizing in which Paul would have engaged with the Greeks, for he declares the speculation of Aristotle and Plato nothing better than ‘fantasies of an uneducated person’ (TTP, XIII, 7). What does this portend for the ‘philosophizing’ of the Apostles? Spinoza laments how the fathers of the Church ‘multiplied religious dogmas to such an extent and confused them with so much philosophy that the supreme interpreter of religion had to be a consummate philosopher and theologian and to have time for a host of idle speculations’

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(TTP XIX, 54). The Apostles committed the error of fusing philosophy and theology, the precise error the TTP targets, which has deleterious political consequences. Because dogmas were mixed with philosophical speculations, their interpretation ‘ruled out all but men of private station with abundant leisure’ (TTP XIX, 54). In other words, the stewardship of religious dogma eluded the secular authorities, and required unique authority all its own, effectively creating a case of dual sovereignty, and in turn, perpetual struggle between the secular and religious authorities. But Spinoza detects something more pernicious in what the Apostles wrought at the origin of the Church, something which explains those most bitter, incessant conflicts: the religious wars. What accounts for the extraordinary power of the churchmen, who ‘succeeded in doing by the pen alone’ what ‘no monarch could achieve by fire and sword’ (TTP XIX, 44), making them such imposing foes – especially to one another? In appealing to philosophy to adapt themselves to the beliefs of their audience, the Apostles effectively conceal opinion and prejudice under the guise of philosophy, and render their message no longer universal in the manner of Christ. But furthermore, by dressing up particular beliefs as universal claims, as components of rational argument, the Apostles rendered those beliefs all the more intractable and incompatible with one another. Such is the state of affairs that, Michael Rosenthal argues, ‘opened the way for sectarian turmoil and insurrection’.4 The extraordinary and especially devastating power Spinoza attributes to the churchmen is due to the fact that they pretend to speak for eternal truth: monarchs, who have mere earthly interests, don’t stand a chance against the churchmen. And when pitted against one another, the churchmen make for a vicious fight. Hume illustrates the predicament thus: ‘Two men traveling on the highway, the one east, the other west, can easily pass each other, if the way be broad enough: But two men, reasoning upon opposite principles of religion, cannot so easily pass, without shocking.’5 Each insists that his is the only way of passage, thus dooming coexistence and compromise. In fact, Spinoza’s account of the Apostles invokes Hume’s critique of what he calls political parties ‘from principle’, specifically, ‘abstract speculative principle’. Parties founded on frank admissions of interest, as opposed to principle, easily cohabit and compromise, Hume claims. Parties founded on principle, however, prove especially intractable, and ‘have been the origin of all religious wars and divisions’.6 Though Hume says that the phenomenon of ‘parties from principle’ is rather modern, he traces its destructive tendencies to the advent of the Christian religion, a diagnosis that echoes Spinoza’s critique of the Apostles. When the church fathers got hold of philosophical principles and methods of argumentation, they employed it disingenuously to advance their personal interests

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and express their national jealousies. As a result, Hume remarks, ‘in modern times, parties of religion are more furious and enraged than the most cruel factions that ever arose from interest and ambition’.7 Spinoza would have remarked something very similar about his native Holland, ravaged by dispute between conservative Calvinist monarchists and religiously tolerant, Cartesian-influenced republicans, such as the De Witt brothers, culminating in the massacre of the latter. Each side proves so uncompromising because interest has become intermingled with and disguised by claims to universal truth – by religious dogma on one side, but also by universal rational decrees on the other. Spinoza would suggest that philosophy be kept absent from the public realm, where few are truly worthy of managing it anyway, in order to avoid such a deplorable state of affairs where political parties, supposedly founded upon religious or philosophical principle, insist that they alone have universal right. Parties must be honest about their interest if they would expect peaceful compromise; concealing their interests behind moral, religious or philosophical principle endangers reconciliation. This agrees with the conclusion of the previous chapter that politics concerns the augmentation of power, according to Spinoza, not moral improvement. If the state should become involved in the latter, it risks introducing politically dangerous categories, which do not pertain to its proper aim anyhow, but oppose it on the contrary. Spinoza wonders, furthermore, by what right the Apostles, these ‘men of private station were enabled to preach religion’ (TTP XIX, 31)? From the history of ancient Israel, he draws the fundamental lesson that political peace and stability require the sovereign to control the religious affairs of the state. Since the Apostles independently claimed the power of supernatural authority by virtue of their natural faculties alone, they challenged the authority of the state. But we may assume that they pose a political danger for Spinoza in another sense. Spreading a message that induces obedience, the Apostles wielded teachings of tremendous political potency, but because they were independent of the particular authorities, they planted this message with no worldly direction. The resulting danger is that the people’s obedience is not anchored to any immediate regime, and they are left ripe for competing authorities to swoop in and capitalize upon the people’s acquiescence. That powerful obedience-inducing effect of religion must necessarily be attached to an existing political establishment. Otherwise, this sets the stage for competition over the people’s easy allegiance. So powerful is the obedience prepared by religion that it must be directed to and orchestrated by the powers that be, and used for its services only. The Apostles erred against this premise of political right. Spinoza stipulates, however, that the Apostles preached ‘by right of the power they had received from Christ against unclean spirits. For . . . all

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men are bound to keep faith even with a tyrant except from him to whom God, by sure revelation, has promised his special aid against the tyrant’ and consequently, he stresses, ‘the authority which Christ gave the disciples was a unique occurrence . . . and not an example for others’ (TTP XIX, 33). The Apostles’ mission is unique, Spinoza suggests, and a dangerous precedent. It should not be permitted again, perhaps even in the face of tyranny. It is preferable to suffer tyranny since independent evangelizing threatens to give rise to sectarian disputes that are wholly insufferable. At least the tyrant has a greater chance of delivering political stability, and if he is at all prudent, he will restore the people’s freedom in order to ensure his own power. In any case, it appears Spinoza seems to believe that the people’s freedom is not to be secured by independent religious crusades. Such freedom is only possible within a strong, secure political regime. But how can a tyrant be expected to discern the political value of the people’s freedom in the first place? This is an enduring question facing Spinoza, but one which his account of Christ may address: Christ’s is a politically non-threatening method of liberation, which, in conducing to the people’s obedience, may convince the authorities of the particular freedom that is in their interest to allow. Solomon, as Spinoza depicts him, sounds to be a Spinozistic and Stoic philosopher at once. According to his interpretation of Solomon’s Proverbs, Spinoza attributes to Solomon the view that ‘misfortunes consist only in folly’ (TTP IV, 41) and that the intellect alone ‘makes a man blessed and happy and affords true peace of mind [animi tranquilitatem]’ (TTP IV, 42). Solomon also held that ‘only the wise live with tranquil and steadfast mind [animo pacato et constante vivunt],’ according to Spinoza, ‘unlike the wicked, whose minds are agitated by conflicting emotions, and so have neither peace nor rest’ (TTP IV, 42). Furthermore, Spinoza credits Solomon with the view that ‘the happiness and peace of the man who cultivates his natural understanding depends not on the sway of fortune but on his own internal virtue . . .’ (TTP IV, 46). Apparently, Solomon shares the basic view of Stoic and Spinozistic therapy that unhappiness proceeds from ignorance, and that wisdom entails tranquillity. But Spinoza also attributes to Solomon notions that are distinctly Spinozistic, by virtue of the language in which he describes them. According to Spinoza, Solomon clearly believes that ‘our intellect and knowledge depend solely on the idea or knowledge of God and spring from it and are perfected by it . . .’ (TTP IV, 44). Spinoza’s language strongly suggests that Solomon is a philosopher, and yet he laments that Solomon ‘also considered himself above the Law . . . and paid little heed to all the laws regarding the king, consisting of three main articles (see Deut. ch.17 v.16, 17). Indeed, he plainly violated these laws (in which, however, he did wrong, and by indulgence in pleasures

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behaved in a way unworthy of a philosopher)’ (TTP II, 48). Apparently, Solomon broke the proscriptions against polygamy and hoarding of gold and silver. For Spinoza, you will remember, a philosopher directly intuits and abides by proper behaviour, wholly by his own effort, and to this extent alone may be considered above the law, or at least not requiring the impulsion of external law. By succumbing to lust and greed, however, Solomon fails to abide by his internal law. In any case, though the philosopher does not require the influence of external law, it follows from Ethics IVp73 that he should not seek to be an exception to the law, since he is most free living under a system of law. Thus, it appears that Solomon ultimately falls short of being a philosopher. What are we then to make of Spinoza’s account of Solomon? In a sense, Spinoza’s Solomon is a compelling parallel to Marcus Aurelius, both exemplifying the Stoic monarch. Unfortunately, Spinoza does not reveal his views of the relationship between philosophy and politics in the figure of Solomon – at least not explicitly. From a political standpoint, Spinoza would seem to frown upon Solomon and his imprudent extralegal behaviour since Spinoza attributes the downfall of ancient Israel in part to the institution of monarchy and its abuses of power. Spinoza reveals his intent regarding the figure of Solomon, I believe, in the fact that he is most concerned with Solomon in the chapter on divine law, which aims to demonstrate that ‘Scripture unreservedly commends the natural light and the natural Divine law’ (TTP IV, 50), that is, that Scripture commends a purely moral message, and not a particular political one. Solomon is an example of someone whose religious vision is wholly moral, free of political intent. I take it that Spinoza invokes Solomon in order to demonstrate the purely moral content of Scripture and the possible separation of religion from a particular political aim, contrary to the prophesies of the other authors of the Old Testament. In this respect, Solomon prepares the message of Scripture for its eventual universalization in Christ. But this also means that Solomon is a poor political figure, since an effective sovereign ought to adopt and champion a form of religiosity that is highly political – a national faith – and not purely moral. Thus, I submit that Solomon is a model of a misguided philosopher-king, though he does not, admittedly, fully meet Spinoza’s standard of philosopher. Perhaps his philosophical shortcomings (i.e. his inability to exemplify the behaviour of a philosopher), are due to the political temptations offered by his position. In sum, there are no philosophers in Scripture for Spinoza, but his accounts of Christ, Solomon and the Apostles reveal very particular recommendations for religion, politics and philosophy in their precarious relationship. The essence of religion is its universal ethical message. Though its universality distinguishes religion from politics, which

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necessarily deals in historical and cultural specifics, religion provides critical assistance to the stability of any particular regime. Indeed, religion in its purity induces obedience and harmony, and thanks to its universality, may be applied in any political context. If religious leaders are vested with authority over the people’s faith, however, and make a particular worldly goal – such as the liberation of the Jewish state – the essence of faith, they will threaten to compete for sovereignty with the secular authorities. This sets the stage for civil conflict, and thus ultimately betrays the essential aim of Scripture. The secular authorities alone are rightly vested with power to interpret the message of Scripture and determine its proper worldly expression, in Spinoza’s view, for they alone are expert in that world – the particular political context – where it is to be realized. As such, paradoxically, the secular authorities ensure that the essential message of Scripture suffers no corruption and retains its identity and integrity. The morality that Christ and the Apostles teach is not quite philosophy, since it primarily induces the people to obey, and the philosopher is not properly obedient. Certainly, he will act as Scripture and the sovereign decree, but he will do so immediately with no need for external impulsion, since he directly grasps the utility of and need for social cooperation. The philosopher can be addressed frankly about what society requires of him, unlike the rest of the populace who cannot be rationally convinced that their welfare is tied to the welfare of all others. Though the morality of Scripture falls short of philosophy, the two largely agree. The greatest single difference between the two is the location from which they proceed; the moral code of Scripture is imposed from without, that of philosophy, from within. Christ and company are no philosophers, but Spinoza’s treatment of them reveals something essential about the role of philosophy with respect to religion and politics: like the simple ethical message of Scripture, philosophy can serve political ends, but only indirectly. There is no confluence of philosophy and politics, though both may be mutually assisting. As the Apostles illustrate, there is something politically dangerous about philosophy, that it can be used improperly, with politically devastating consequences. Most people are not able for philosophy, and would use it to universalize their own particular opinions, thereby setting the stage for civil strife. So for the sake of political peace and flourishing, philosophy, too, must be kept in the right hands, and out of the hands of those unworthy philosophers who would use it to advance their personal prejudices. Spinoza’s philosopher will not strive to diffuse enlightenment. At least, he will not do so directly, but indirectly, by promoting and preserving the political right of the sovereign, that prerequisite for any philosophical enlightenment.

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6.2 Philosophical caution, political interest The philosopher may be the sovereign’s greatest ally, in fact, since Spinoza appears to hold that sedition is contrary to reason. In a footnote to the TTP, he states that A man can be free in any kind of state, for a man is free, of course, to the extent that he is guided by reason. Now (though Hobbes thinks otherwise) reason is entirely in favor of peace; but peace cannot be secured unless the general laws of the state are kept inviolate. Therefore the more a man is guided by reason, that is, the more free he is, the more steadfastly he will observe the laws of the state and obey the commands of the sovereign whose subject he is. (TTP XVI, 34, note) This statement is especially remarkable since it appears in the TTP, where Spinoza endorses democracy as the best form of constitution. Reason will prevail upon us to observe the laws of the state, even if they should be issued by a tyrant or some other less desirable sovereign. Insofar as laws enable individuals to pursue their advantage and preserve their being, reason cannot demand that we break them. To this extent, such laws are rational, and are constituents of a rational state. Both he who is and he who is not self-consciously rational can be expected to remain faithful to the laws in a rational state. Both sorts of persons will observe the laws for the sake of perceived advantage gained by lawful life. The person who is externally rational – whose life as such may be counted rational insofar as his conatus is promoted – abides by the law because he perceives his interest in avoiding the state’s coercive measures, or because his faith commands political loyalty, which he obeys as part of his ultimate aim to attain salvation. The person who is self-consciously or internally rational, on the other hand, abides by the law because he immediately discerns his advantage in so doing. Spinoza remarks elsewhere that ‘if a man who is led by reason has sometimes to do by the commonwealth’s orders what he knows to be repugnant to reason, that harm is far compensated by the good which he derives from the civil state’ (TP III, 6). Such a person remains rational insofar as he selects that lesser evil, which turns out to be a greater good. The philosopher will suffer what he perceives to be unfair rule just as he suffers the society of impassioned folk in the first place. As Spinoza explains in the Ethics, ‘although men mostly allow lust to govern their actions, the advantages that follow from living in society far exceed the disadvantages. Therefore it is better to endure their injuries with patience and to apply oneself to such measures as promote harmony and friendship’ (E IVapp14). Spinoza suggests here a positive social contribution for

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the philosopher. No matter the regime, it is rational to promote harmony and friendship towards the end of social peace and stability. Accordingly, the philosopher will engage in such activity, again, no matter the regime – however, it must be a regime that allows for the promotion of harmony in the first place. This leads to the question, what can the philosopher – or anyone – do to help establish a state that lends itself to harmony and peace? If the state does not promote such an end, what can the citizen contribute towards the emergence of a stronger, and consequently, freer, more rational regime? McShea puts the question thus: ‘What about the case of the individual living in a state whose ruler is much less enlightened than he himself is . . . [such as Thoreau, who] had a rational apprehension of the undesirability of slavery? . . . How in terms of Spinoza’s principles are we to understand Thoreau’s action in going to jail rather than pay taxes to that government?’8 Since Thoreau’s actions represent a danger to political stability, which Spinoza privileges, I believe he would not condone Thoreau’s actions. And yet Spinoza’s endorsement of a democratic and egalitarian constitution means that he would share Thoreau’s rational apprehension that slavery is undesirable. But, Spinoza endorses such a constitution for the sake of political power in the first place, namely, for the special cohesion it leant to ancient Israel. Equality is merely a measure of political prudence, as Spinoza has it, for it gives citizens a greater interest in the well-being of the state and is ‘most effective in deterring citizens from contemplating defection’ (TTP XVII, 85). Spinoza’s philosopher will perceive that slavery is undesirable on the basis of ‘right’ as he knows it, that is, the power to preserve one’s being, which is promoted by maximum political right or power. He will perceive that slavery is undesirable because a population of slaves is a ticking bomb. The slave population, which has little or no interest in the welfare of the state, will be unwilling defenders at best, or eager rebels at worst. To this extent, slavery is irrational, that is, contrary to the state’s conatus. What will the philosopher – or any citizen who may be counted rational – do in the face of irrational policies? I am not sure that he would do anything, as Spinoza would have it – at least, not directly. Perhaps in demonstrating the confluence of freedom, social equality and patriotic devotion in his own life a person can convince the authorities of the benefit of granting similar freedom and equality to all citizens. Spinoza would seem to believe that the best thing any citizen can do is obey the laws and the sovereign’s commands, for this is his greatest contribution to social welfare, namely, in maintaining political stability. And of course, the philosopher can be proactive in his charity towards neighbours. But neglecting to grant equality and freedom of judgement are dangerous measures for the state and could ultimately spell its demise. Presumably,

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therefore, the ruling party must learn its lesson regarding equality and freedom sooner or later, and uphold them for the sake of its own preservation. The people’s equality and freedom will be more secure anyway as the authorities recognize these to be in their interest. To demand of the state the defence of equality and freedom for any other reason or on any other basis does not guarantee the security of these institutions. For, it follows from Spinoza’s psychology that the sovereign can be expected to defend tooth and nail what agrees with his perceived personal (which is, in his case, political) interest. I believe, therefore, that Spinoza’s philosopher would not approach the political powers in order to convince them of the value of equality and freedom of judgement, nor would he campaign for those ideals publicly. On one hand, such action risks irritating the sovereign and bringing upon oneself the threat of violent punishment, or it risks inciting the people to rebellion and throwing the state into chaos. On the other hand, it is unlikely that the philosopher would be able to convince the sovereign that equality and freedom are in his personal interest, since such insight is counterintuitive – or at least, not immediately apparent or desirable – to those in power, and their value is learned through time and experience. Political rulers are not philosophers, according to Spinoza, so they will not directly perceive their advantage in social cooperation, though they are likely better at grasping it than the vast majority of citizens. Indeed, foresight is part of the politician’s craft, but by no means does it amount to philosophical insight. Politics entails distinct talents and means, which are, however, not terribly alien to the philosopher. Spinoza distinguishes most vocally between philosopher and politician in the opening of the Tractatus Politicus, where he states his intention to deduce the best forms of constitution in light of impassioned human nature. He complains in Machiavellian fashion that [Philosophers] conceive of men not as they are but as they themselves would like them to be. Whence it has come to pass that, instead of ethics, they have written satire, and that they have never conceived a theory of politics which could be turned to use . . . Thus no men are esteemed less fit to direct public affairs than theorists or philosophers. (TP I, 1) Philosophers are too idealistic and, as a result, are not cut out for the realism politics requires. Philosophers resist considering people as they truly are, but politicians do not – indeed, politicians tend to regard people in the lowest light. Spinoza states further that ‘statesmen have written about politics far more happily than philosophers’, an especially odd statement in light of its author (TP I, 2).

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Strauss observes a similarity between the philosophers criticized in TP I and the moralists Spinoza opposes in the preface to Ethics III,9 namely, those who mistakenly insist on conceiving ‘man in nature as a kingdom within a kingdom’ (E IIIpraef). This would mean that in the passage above, Spinoza is critical of the political musings of what can only be false philosophers. Strauss’ point begs the question whether Spinoza applies the same criticism above to his own vision of the philosopher, or only intends to disparage would-be philosophers. Spinoza must consider himself a philosopher since he demonstrates – and presumably knows – the beatific vision that proper philosophy can produce. So if Spinoza is able to look at men ‘as they are’ and not idealize them, then certainly his philosopher must be able to do so, too. Philosophy also involves the frank assessment of impassioned human nature, from which, in turn, a frank political theory may follow. In this respect, the philosopher and the politician are not terribly different. Nevertheless, Spinoza never offers the model of a true philosopher-king – he never explicitly or concretely entertains a philosopher ruling. Solomon perhaps comes closest to such a thing, but falls short of being truly philosophical, and is associated with a doomed political institution, the Jewish monarchy. The ruler Spinoza appears to admire most in the TTP is Moses, but nowhere does he suggest that Moses is to be confused with a philosopher. Moses largely provides the model of political right Spinoza admires: he unified the Jews and made them submit to political rule by combining religious and political allegiance; he orchestrated a form of democracy, where the people transferred individual rights to God; and he occupied the role of ‘sole lawgiver and interpreter of God’s laws’ (TTP XVII, 37). As a model statesman who is by no means philosophical, Moses serves to demonstrate the difference between philosopher and politician in Spinoza’s mind. The politician’s exclusive aim is political right, and his talent is his ‘ability to play on existing mass emotions and prejudices’, as McShea argues.10 The politician is able to overcome the detrimental power of the passions by channelling them so that they contribute to political right. The philosopher on the other hand is privy to the insight that politics – and religion – are not the only means by which the passions can be managed, but that philosophical knowledge serves this purpose best of all. Strauss argues that ‘the specific intelligence of the ruler is cunning. The able politician knows how to work on those passions of the multitude which best induce to obedience’.11 To be sure, the philosopher, too, knows the passions of the multitude well – he knows them scientifically. But of course, this is not the extent of philosophical knowledge, while it is indeed the extent of political insight. Due to his own impressive practical prudence, Spinoza’s philosopher may be able for cunning such as the

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politician displays. He may be able for the political lifestyle, but he cannot be expected to settle for such a lifestyle once smitten by love of God. In accordance with Spinoza’s psychology, the philosopher will behave like all other people and pursue what is most advantageous, what is most in his interest – what most promotes his conatus to be and to understand, and is thus most pleasant. Having found the greatest pleasure in the love of God, the philosopher will pursue this endeavour wholeheartedly and cannot be expected to compromise his concentration upon it willingly for the sake of assuming political business, though he will never deny the significance of the latter. It is a popular view, voiced most prominently by Strauss among many others, that for Spinoza the philosopher stands apart from politics and his only political interest is to secure the freedom to philosophize. This claim rests on the anterior view that ‘an unbridgeable gulf separates the multitude from the wise’.12 Spinoza admits ominously that ‘the masses can be no more freed from their superstition than from their fears’ (TTP Praef, 33). The impassioned masses are effectively impervious to the approaches of philosophy. Politics accepts the masses as they are in their impassioned state, while philosophy would seek to transform that impassioned state into activity. But it also follows from Strauss’ view that, since the people’s impassioned state is so intractable, the philosopher must merely find a way to pursue his exalted project in their midst. The philosopher should not entertain the political vision of enlightening the masses, since they simply cannot be enlightened in the first place. To the contrary, in their impassioned state, the masses pose a danger to philosophy. This position is summed up nicely by Paul Bagley, who maintains that the TTP is primarily concerned with solving the philosophical problem of ‘how rational men can live peacefully and securely among a majority of men who are slaves to their passions’.13 This is the proper extent of the philosopher’s political considerations. The masses are hopeless and unable for the steep path of philosophy. Therefore, they are better off excluded from the philosophical project altogether, but a political solution must be found to keep them peaceful so that the philosopher may engage in contemplation. According to this view, Spinoza defends freedom of judgement in the TTP primarily because he is interested in securing a place for philosophy. Precisely such a gap between the wise and ignorant drives Spinoza to conceive political theory in the first place, Strauss maintains: Spinoza’s interest in the state is mediated by theory . . . For on this assumption the gulf between the few wise and the multitude is given, and political theory is unconcerned with the wise and concerned only with the multitude. The abyss, created by interest in theory, between the wise and the multitude, makes the wise essentially spectators of the life

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of the multitude. For the wise, the multitude becomes an object of theory.14 Due to his difference from the masses, the philosopher can only deal with them indirectly, through the mediation of theory. The philosopher strives to organize the impassioned masses in a scientific manner, which is why he resolves to treat passions like properties of nature. Perhaps in his frustration at the obduracy of the people’s passions, the philosopher believes this is all he can do, and objectifying the passions in this manner amounts to an act of understanding that is pleasant anyway. But Strauss suggests that such theorizing is a distinctly unpolitical act, relegating the philosopher to the status of political spectator. Due to his desire for contemplation, Strauss argues, Spinoza’s philosopher ultimately does not concur with reason of state. Since ‘no man can live wisely, in other words, live purely in accord with the dictates of reason, when he is distracted by the claims of public business’, Strauss writes, ‘the wise man, who is most profoundly interested in the state, and who recognizes most clearly the advantages of the state, stands apart . . . from the specific reason of the state’.15 Strauss admits that the philosopher has considerable interest in the welfare of the state, but only as a necessary evil that must be dealt with, not something that produces joy in its own right – political concern is the lesser of two evils, in other words, the worse evil being utter chaos. The philosopher contributes to reason of state necessarily, but as if it were merely a chore. Social obligations are not the philosopher’s primary focus, but he performs them so that he may later enjoy the pleasures of intellection in the peace and quiet of his study. In their passions, the people constitute at best a distraction to the philosopher’s proper endeavour, and at worst, they pose a threat. As a result, the philosopher must be very careful in his dealings with the common folk, and in this respect, his disposition parallels that of the politician, but is aimed at a different end of course. Like the politician, the philosopher must employ deceit in order to protect himself and his endeavour. In fact, Strauss claims, philosophers ‘are much more exposed to the suspicions of the multitude than statesmen, and therefore in greater need of caution than anyone else’.16 Why is this? Perhaps because the philosopher’s work is especially angering to the superstitious multitude. Strauss points out that Spinoza’s signet ring bore the inscription ‘Caute’, and claims that ‘by this he didn’t primarily mean the caution required in philosophic investigations but the caution that the philosopher needs in his intercourse with non-philosophers’.17 The philosopher’s caution enables him to live under any form of political constitution, according to Strauss. The philosopher will simply refrain from uttering his true beliefs, and he will do so ‘not so much for

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reasons of convenience as for reasons of duty’.18 What duty does the philosopher heed in refraining from expression of thought? Is it the political duty to refrain from irritating the common people with heterodox philosophical notions? Or is it the philosophical duty to protect the endeavour of contemplation by avoiding public anger and hatred or its contamination by mere opinion? The latter is the case, I believe, since Strauss has the philosopher exclusively dedicated to the practice of philosophy and plainly uninterested in political duty – at least for its own sake. As he has it, Spinoza subordinates political duty to philosophical duty. And yet, oddly enough, Strauss also states that ‘nature has entrusted the spiritual guidance of mankind’ to the philosopher.19 Wouldn’t this seem to render political duty more significant to the philosopher? How can he refrain from expression if he is entrusted with the spiritual guidance of mankind? Strauss’ interpretation has no problems as long as the philosopher is only intent upon contemplation, but how is the philosopher to guide his neighbours to salvation if they are impassioned, and resist becoming untracked from his own moral improvement in the process? Strauss’ solution is that the philosopher presents his message to the people in an esoteric manner, of which the TTP is the prime example. Strauss makes much of the first of Spinoza’s three ‘rules for living’ from the TEI, which states that philosophers must aim To speak to the understanding of the multitude [Ad captum vulgi loqui] and to engage in all those activities that do not hinder the attainment of our aim. For we can gain no little advantage from the multitude provided that we accommodate ourselves as far as possible to their level of understanding. Furthermore, in this way, they will give a more favorable hearing to the truth. (TEI 17) Spinoza exemplifies this rule in the TTP, Strauss believes, by effectively being a ‘Christian with the Christians in the same way as Paul was a Greek with the Greeks’.20 Specifically, Spinoza makes a point of praising Christ above all other prophets, and characterizes him as a philosopher even though this clearly threatens his aim of separating philosophy from theology. In general, Spinoza attributes salvation to the religious path of obedience, admitting the mystery of this equation, even while it clearly does not measure up to the salvific method he presents in the Ethics. This suggests that Spinoza is not completely sincere in the TTP – nor is he when, John Colerus reports, he informs his landlady that he does not doubt that she will be saved in her faith.21 In lying to his landlady in this manner, Cook argues, Spinoza invokes the ‘patronizing accommodation to the beliefs and capacities of ordinary people’ that he ascribes to Paul and Jesus in the TTP.22

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How, in Strauss’ view, does Spinoza expect to ‘provide spiritual guidance to mankind’ through the writing style of the TTP ? In the TTP, Strauss argues, Spinoza is trying to speak to a targeted audience of potential philosophers ‘in such a way that the vulgar will not understand what he means’.23 Spinoza aims to provide spiritual guidance to mankind, then, by effectively speaking above the capacity of the multitude. In itself, this approach does not sound much like broad spiritual guidance. And yet for Strauss, Spinoza aims to address those who are alone capable of being influenced positively by his doctrines. Because he aims to elude the capacity of the vulgar and pacify them at the same time, Spinoza presents heterodox doctrines under the guise of orthodox phrasing.24 For example, Spinoza speaks of divine law, but by divine law he does not mean the wilful edict of an anthropomorphic God obeyed through particular acts of outward behaviour, but rather, the law of nature itself, which, echoing the Ethics, he says a person observes when he ‘makes it his object to love God . . . from the mere fact that he knows God . . .’ (TTP IV, 14). However, it appears that such a technique of itself cannot be the mark of esoteric writing since Spinoza does something very similar in the Ethics where he betrays no caution regarding religion, as the highly critical appendix to Book I illustrates. In the Ethics, Spinoza employs terms familiar to the Scholastic and Cartesian traditions, such as substance, attribute, and even beatitude, but reveals from the start that he means something very different by them. This does not appear to be a case of hiding behind traditional terminology, so much as an attempt to correct traditional definitions of these terms, and assign them the proper definitions to which logic compels us.25 Spinoza appears to be doing something similar in the TTP, I believe, when he plainly defines a miracle as ‘an event whose natural cause we . . . cannot explain by comparison with any other normal event’ (TTP VI, 14). That statement is orthodox neither in phrasing nor content – Spinoza’s caution is wholly absent here! In any case, I don’t wish to dispute that Spinoza is especially cautious, or that he demonstrates caution in his writing – for indeed, he had good reason for such caution. I only observe that there is some reason to doubt elements of Strauss’ claim. I am interested, rather, in disputing the premises typically supporting this claim. Strauss maintains that Spinoza ‘will adapt the expression of his thought to the generally accepted opinions by professing . . . these very opinions, even though he considers them untrue or absurd’.26 By describing Spinoza’s intent in this manner, Strauss invokes the very dilemma of Marcus Aurelius, where the philosopher must utter what in his heart he knows is not true. In fact, Strauss could almost be speaking of Marcus himself when he speaks of the ‘inner anomaly of Spinoza’s position’, that ‘he affirms for others what he rejects for himself; and therewith he constructs the

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political world from the distance of contemplation, affirming the powers which form it, ‘loving’ them after the manner of ‘amor fati’, but expelling them from the sphere of his own life’.27 Herein lies the error of Strauss’ interpretation, I believe. For Spinoza, it is not at all clear that the philosopher ‘affirms for others what he rejects for himself’. The philosopher does not – cannot – wholly reject religion and politics, which play on the passions of the multitude. Since he is a vulnerable being himself, the philosopher requires what common politics and even common religion can provide. As the Ethics reveals, the polis comprises a domain of sustenance and intrinsic enjoyment for the life of virtue. Can the philosopher be distracted by the impassioned upheavals of his neighbours? Certainly, though he does not strive to pacify them merely for the sake of peace and quiet, but rather because he requires a flourishing environment in which his particular endeavour or discipline may take root and find continual sustenance. I suspect that the view expressed by Strauss and company commits the error of ultimately vilifying the passions, while Spinoza maintains an altogether different view of them. The terrific caution Strauss assigns the philosopher in his dealings with his impassioned neighbours suggests that the passions are to be avoided at all costs. On the contrary, Spinoza’s political thought expresses a resignation towards the ubiquity of the passions and their influence – but its true insight is the discovery of their benefit. In fact, politics and religion prove stepping stones to salvation precisely because the passions themselves constitute the path to salvation. It is quite remarkable that Spinoza disparages religion so thoroughly in the Ethics, but largely omits the same critique in his political writings. Is this merely a case of duplicity? I don’t believe it is, since the TTP aims to reveal political right and recognizes religion’s benefit to this end. The people’s superstition cannot be vanquished, but perhaps it can be coaxed into producing beneficial passions, which bear therapeutic value in combating harmful ones. Spinoza’s philosopher and politician are not terribly different after all, as I have argued. Strauss tends to underline the difference between the lives of politics and philosophy, and yet he admits the philosopher’s practical expertise. He fails to own up to the ultimate implications of this admission, however. Philosophy and politics share the same end, though the end of politics is only partially that of philosophy. Salvation ultimately entails the flourishing of the whole person, which politics is essential in delivering. There simply is no salvation apart from civic harmony, in contrast to the Stoic sage who can be happy even on the rack. The philosopher’s ultimate interest in love of God is indelibly tied to interest in the state. Strauss characterizes Spinoza’s philosopher as being so very different

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from his ignorant neighbours. He ignores that Spinoza’s philosopher is not all that removed from ignorance, and only knows wisdom in part, in the first place. More importantly, that wisdom involves the recognition that one is part of nature and not exceptional in the least. When the philosopher acts cautiously he does so just like any person pursuing his personal interest, and furthermore, he does so not merely in order to carve out a space for philosophizing in peace, as Strauss and company conclude. According to Spinoza, reason is cultivated and augmented by interacting with similar bodies, and philosophy draws sustenance from a rich and varied environment. Thus, solitude is hardly philosophy’s proper lot. The philosopher recognizes the political danger of publicly enunciating his troubling convictions. Therefore, his caution is paradoxically the philosopher’s unique contribution to a flourishing society, which nourishes him in turn.

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Conclusion

This comparison with the Stoics underscores the vulnerability of Spinozistic virtue, which in turn nullifies any definitive boundary between wise and ignorant. The philosopher depends upon his environment for the attainment and sustenance of his virtue, and his vulnerability aligns him with his common neighbours. He seeks what the common people seek, and he, too, is impassioned, only to a lesser extent. If confronted with the emperor Marcus’ dilemma, where the philosopher must ‘grow on the same trunk’ as the common people but profess different values, Spinoza’s philosopher should reply that such a dilemma does not pertain to him. He shares the practical concerns of the common people. Foremost in his mind is the realization that the desire ‘to be happy, to do well, to live well’, is predicated upon the desire ‘to be, to do, to actually exist’. He must take care to secure and sustain the latter if he would attain virtue. Though Spinoza’s philosopher enjoys glimpses of something far more thrilling and satisfying than the multitude will ever know, he recognizes that it rests on vital flourishing: this is where the roots of reason lie. The primacy of his vital endeavour ensures that just as he is part of nature, so is he part of society. Though the difference between wise and ignorant is difficult to specify, Spinoza seems to believe that it is somehow irreducible, nonetheless. Central to the philosopher’s vital endeavour is the wisdom that he is part of nature, while the common people persist in the ignorant belief that they are free. This unbridgeable gap between wise and ignorant prompts Spinoza to follow the Stoics in maintaining that the political role of the philosopher in no way involves spreading philosophical enlightenment to his neighbours. On one hand, Spinoza and the Stoics agree, the philosopher refrains from such a project because the masses are simply incapable of philosophical enlightenment. Or at least they are not optimistic about the success of publicly philosophizing to the masses themselves, and to the lowest element thereof, which, they would seem to believe, invariably predominates due to its propensity for violence, as Spinoza witnessed in the ghastly demise of the DeWitt brothers. Perhaps on an individual basis – and only with some previous training of the passions – may people be receptive to philosophical tutelage.

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With the Stoics, Spinoza affirms the public reticence of the philosopher regarding his expertise; however, Spinoza’s conclusion is founded on different premises. I have argued that Spinoza’s aim to hold philosophy and politics apart in this manner is in fact an expression of political – and ultimately, philosophical – concern, while it is exclusively an expression of philosophical concern for the Stoics. Spinoza’s philosopher is reticent for the sake of his and his neighbours’ vital goals, which he knows are intertwined. He understands that the masses’ ignorance will likely cause them to receive his unique insight with suspicion and even violence. If he should profess his insight publicly, it might easily fall into the wrong hands and be used improperly, with devastating political implications, as Spinoza’s account of the Apostles and the origin of the Church suggests. Spinoza’s philosopher refrains from the diffusion of enlightenment because it is not politically expedient, and would doom his and his neighbours’ interests at once. He is concerned about the welfare of his neighbours, and desires that they be saved in the manner of which they are capable, because his own salvation depends upon it. The Stoic, on the other hand, does not seek to enlighten the masses, since their salvation is not a matter of urgency for him as it is for Spinoza’s philosopher. Wisdom and happiness for the Stoic ultimately do not depend on the state or the political climate. As Epictetus argues, getting involved with the masses, i.e. getting involved in politics, risks sidetracking a person from wisdom. In fact, I believe it is Spinoza’s view that the reticence and caution of the philosopher aids the diffusion of enlightenment better than any proactive approach. The philosopher is driven to share his profound joy with those around him, but following the model of Christ from the TTP, he will do so indirectly, in a politically non-threatening manner, which entails that he philosophize in private. Only when his neighbours have achieved the lesser state of salvation are they ready – as individuals – to proceed along the steep path of philosophy. But this lesser salvation that politics and religion provide is no mean achievement in the philosopher’s eyes. After all, his neighbours’ contentment is a source of joy for the philosopher, and in itself it is equally a source of real pleasure. Politics and religion bear therapeutic force, according to the principles of Spinoza’s psychotherapy. Politics and religion instil less harmful passions, such as hope, fear and humility, which combat more harmful ones. Without the introduction of such less harmful passions, which, Deleuze would say, usher in ‘joyous passions’, the delicate flower of reason would never unfurl in the first place. And in his state of vulnerability, the philosopher certainly requires the therapeutic aid politics and religion can provide when he must endure unavoidable physical suffering, which is the destiny of any finite mode of infinite substance.

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Religion is significant to politics for Spinoza insofar as it induces people to obedience and cooperation. Such an arrangement has elicited a recurring question in my mind: if religion achieves only an instrumental status in Spinoza’s eyes, as it seems, won’t this diminish its peculiar power? The unique benefit of religion such as Christianity is tied to a metaphysics that Spinoza must ultimately reject. Can he sever religion from its misguided metaphysics – or at least mitigate its prominence – and hope to retain its beneficial elements at the same time? Can the philosopher successfully play his public role and endorse religion in a manner that is convincing to his neighbours when he knows in his heart that it amounts to a mass of illusions? Spinoza occasionally attended the Lutheran services of his landlord’s church in The Hague, and held the pastor in high regard, commending his excellent sermons.1 I suspect that Spinoza enjoyed those services in part because he derived genuine comfort from them. Indeed, he would have to say that the philosopher, all too aware of the mercilessness of the universe, engaged in an exercise of unmatched rigour, and continually seeking resources to battle the ever-persistent passions is also in need of occasional comfort such as religion can provide. George Santayana, who expressed considerable affinity with Spinoza’s philosophy, held that at the very least religion represents a triumph of human spirit; that it is a flight of fancy, hope and imagination, which expresses human power in its own right. Furthermore, Santayana was fond of saying, insofar as religion teaches that we are at the mercy of an ultimately inscrutable force in the universe, that it agrees with philosophical wisdom.2 This dual aspect of religion proves to be its unique benefit, when it cautiously suggests hope but solemnly reminds us of human limitations. In this respect, religion recommends a recipe for human power that is not terribly different from Spinoza’s. Paradoxically, human power is augmented with the apprehension of our precarious modal status, Spinoza maintains; freedom comes from the recognition of determinism. What about the instrumentality of politics? I have established that Spinoza’s philosopher harbours political concern that is unmatched by the Stoic, but to what end? Since Spinoza admits the public reticence of the philosopher, doesn’t this assert a fundamental rupture between philosophy and politics, which can only mean that politics enjoys at best instrumental value in the philosopher’s eyes? In response to the initial question of this work, whether there is a rupture between philosophy and politics in Spinoza’s system, I must answer in the affirmative. A rift between politics and philosophy emerges with his aversion towards public philosophizing, and thus, paradoxically, it emerges for the sake of their common good. It is not accurate to say that politics and philosophy share the same aim, but rather, philosophy encompasses the aim of politics. Contemplation is a

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thoroughly public affair for Spinoza, requiring a wealth of diverse objects and activities to engage, which only a thriving city can provide. The ideal of the Stoic who could enjoy a life of philosophy entirely in isolation, who could know happiness even when divorced from any material comfort, Spinoza rejects, since the Stoic ideal clings to the illusion of self-control. Indeed, isolation – whether literally holed up in a mountain cave, or intellectually detached amidst human society in the manner of the Stoic sage – is a typical means of attempting self-control. Philosophers perpetually entertain the prospect of excluding public influence, declaring it mere opinion, in illuminating the path to autonomy. Martin Heidegger, for example, identifies the gossip and hearsay of ‘Das Man’, the ‘they-self’ – i.e. common society – as an influence that must be excluded in favour of resolutely facing one’s death, that is, owning up to one’s ultimate individuality. Spinoza teaches, rather, that public detachment is not the proper path to autonomy. Autonomy involves nothing less than the recognition of our indelible heteronomy. If I would attain some degree of self-control, which can only be a degree at that, and which amounts to determining my emotions and promoting my conatus as far as I am able, I must recognize my debt to external influence and that I am ultimately at its mercy. Such is the wisdom that makes philosophy eminently practical, according to Spinoza, since wisdom includes the fundamental lesson regarding the nature of power. If Spinoza’s philosophy may be counted a philosophy of disillusionment, his politics proceeds from and inherits its frankness regarding the nature of power. This distinguishes Spinoza’s liberalism from contemporary liberal political theory. With the French Revolution, political theory came to be enamoured with rights, understood in terms of universal principles pertaining to rational human nature as such: if liberal democracy is the superior political constitution, this is because it observes these primary principles. In contrast, Spinoza subordinates such principles to power; they are justified on the basis of power, and if they do not serve power, then the monarchic or aristocratic forms of government may suit us better. I suppose that Spinoza’s politics anticipates Nietzsche’s critique in this regard. Underlying our supposed principles is the drive for power – indeed, the latter defines all our efforts. If we would attain power, we must be frank about the nature of our projects. Like therapeutic disillusionment, political frankness serves the pursuit of power, while disingenuous politics frustrates it. As Hume suggests, insistence upon political principle – insistence upon employing absolute categories in the political realm, such as ‘evil’, ‘truth’, ‘eternal justice’ – distances us from political reconciliation, and thus impedes our fundamental endeavour. If we would aspire to a truly liberal political regime, one where human freedom is maximized, Spinoza warns, we must avoid liberal principles.

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But isn’t a politics devoid of principle distinctly unsatisfactory? Doesn’t it land us in the lap of utilitarianism and its attendant problems and questions? Spinoza would have to say no, because a means/end dichotomy is ultimately incompatible with the spirit of his monism. For Spinoza, there is no such thing as mere utility, where something serves only to some further end. What serves the body serves the mind at once; what serves life serves virtue, and vice versa; what serves politics serves philosophy. Those higher goals of human existence, if they may indeed be termed such, are only attained by commitment to and concentration upon their vital foundations; indeed, they are only an extension of the latter. If there is any chance of attaining some kind of transcendence from the harsh facts of this existence, it is not by conceiving man as a ‘kingdom within a kingdom’, by aligning ourselves with categories abstracted from the character of existence, but only by embracing existence as such, by focusing on the task at hand, which readily announces itself. From this alone comes joy that offers respite from the perpetual assault of natural forces, according to Spinoza. If we would seek our greatest advantage, we need not look longingly to the stars, which seem so still and eternal, but to immanent and proximate power welling up in us and those extensions of ourselves, our neighbours, for ‘nothing is more advantageous to man than man’.

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Notes

Introduction 1

Regarding the Reformers’ affinity for Stoicism, see Le´ontine Zanta’s La Renaissance du Stoı¨cisme au XVIe Sie`cle (Paris: H. Champion, 1914). 2 The New Science, I.335. 3 Indeed, some scholars detect in Spinoza’s naturalism influences of the Averroistic Aristotelianism he would have encountered in the works of the Jewish medieval masters. 4 By the term ‘psychotherapy’, I understand the Socratic therapy of the soul characteristic of Hellenistic approaches to ethics, in distinction from Freudian psychoanalysis. See Martha Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 5 Following Spinoza’s practice, and to avoid awkward inconsistencies, I frequently use ‘man’, ‘men’ and male pronouns generally within this book. No sexist bias is intended. 6 Henceforth, I will be referring to the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus as the TTP. 7 Edwin Curley, for example, holds that ‘the central themes of the Ethics can be derived from a critical reflection on the Cartesian system’. Cf. Behind the Geometrical Method (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988), p. 3. 8 It is Spinoza’s view that Descartes held the passions of the soul to be susceptible of complete control (cf. preface to Ethics V), which is arguably inaccurate. 9 Cf. George Santayana, ‘An Ultimate Religion’, in The Philosophy of Santayana, ed. Irwin Edman (New York: Random House Modern Library, 1936), p. 582. 10 Frederick Beiser, The Fate of Reason (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), pp.48–9. 11 Jonathan Israel, The Radical Enlightenment (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 159. 12 Israel, p. 307. 13 As the eighteenth century progressed in Germany, Beiser argues, Spinoza’s pantheism was seen as an ally of Luther’s ideal of the individual’s immediate relationship with God. Thus, Spinozism became a force in resurrecting the original spirit of Lutheranism, and in combating the dogmatism that had emerged with the political entrenchment of the latter. Cf. Beiser, pp. 51–52. 14 Israel, p.60.

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Chapter 1 1

Jerome Schneewind, The Invention of Autonomy (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 12. 2 A. A. Long and David Sedley (eds), The Hellenistic Philosophers, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 160. 3 L&S (Long and Sedley’s The Hellenistic Philosophers) 54B = Cicero, De Natura Deorum 1.39. 4 I abbreviate references from Spinoza’s Ethics in the following manner: book number first, followed by proposition number (p26, e.g.) – unless it is a definition (def) axiom (axiom), preface (praef), appendix (app), or a postulate (post) – and then proof or demonstration (d), corollary (cor) or scholia (s). 5 L&S 55K = Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae 7.2.3. 6 Wilhelm Dilthey claims that ‘the idea of determinism holding the cosmos together comes to Spinoza from the Stoics’. ‘This was a Stoic notion,’ he writes, ‘widespread in literature, imposed upon Spinoza.’ Cf. Dilthey, Œuvres 4: Conception du Monde et Analyse de l’Homme depuis la Renaissance et la Re´forme (Paris: Les E´ditions du Cerf, 1999), p. 426 (my translation). 7 L&S 54O = Plutarch, De Stoicorum repugnantiis 1044D. 8 Harry Austin Wolfson. The Philosophy of Spinoza: Unfolding the Latent Processes of his Reasoning (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 223. 9 Yirmiyahu Yovel, Spinoza and Other Heretics, Volume I: The Marrano of Reason (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), p. 148. 10 Long and Sedley, p. 351. 11 See Pascal Severac, ‘Convenir avec Soi, Convenir avec Autrui: E´thique Stoı¨cienne et E´thique Spinoziste’, Studia Spinozana 12 (1996): 107. 12 Severac, p. 115. 13 See Epictetus, Enchiridion VIII (hard translation). Also see Bernard Carnois, ‘Le De´sir selon les Stoı¨ciens et selon Spinoza’, Dialogue 19 (1980): 260, 270. 14 Alexandre Matheron, ‘Le Moment Stoı¨cien de l’E´thique de Spinoza’, in Le Stoı¨cisme aux XVIe et XVIIe Sie`cles, ed. Jacqueline Lagre´e (Caen, France: Presses Universitaires de Caen, 1994). 15 Carnois, 259. Carnois attributes this distinction between adpetitio and adpetitus to no text in particular, but claims to derive it from Stoic terminology in general. However, one place he invokes to support his claim is the opening sentence of Epictetus’ Enchiridion I, where Epictetus speaks of impulse and desire (adpetitus and adpetitio), apparently distinguishing the two. 16 Carnois, p. 259. 17 Matheron, ‘Le Moment Stoı¨cien’, p. 157. 18 Severac, p. 105. 19 As Carnois puts it, Spinoza and the Stoics ‘admit that desire, according to whether it is well or poorly illuminated, can be the principle of the passions or the principle of wisdom’ (Carnois, p. 263). 20 L&S 65J = Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis IV.2.10–18. 21 Michael Frede, ‘The Stoic Doctrine of the Affections of the Soul’, in The Norms

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of Nature, eds M. Schofield and G. Striker (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 106. 22 This is the orthodox Stoic view. Posidonius famously disagreed that the soul has a unitary, rational character, and instead endorsed the tripartite account of the soul. See Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis V.6.34–7 (L&S 65I). 23 Plutarch, De Virtute Morali 446F (Long and Sedley translation). 24 Martha Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), p. 370. 25 Susan James, ‘Spinoza the Stoic’, in The Rise of Modern Philosophy, ed. Tom Sorrell (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), p. 293. 26 GenDefAff refers to a section at the end of Ethics III entitled ‘General Definitions of the Emotions’. 27 Andre´ Matheron, Individu et Communaute´ chez Spinoza (Paris: Les E´ditions de Minuit, 1969), p. 85. 28 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 84. 29 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 85. 30 Matheron, ‘Le Moment Stoı¨cien,’ p. 152. 31 Matheron, ‘Le Moment Stoı¨cien,’ p. 155.

Chapter 2 1

The latter term is Long and Sedley’s translation of the Greek kathekonta and the Latin officia. 2 Frede, pp. 109–10. 3 Long and Sedley, p. 420. 4 Long and Sedley also translate these terms (the Greek, ‘charan’, ‘eulabeian’ and ‘boulesis’, respectively) as ‘well-reasoned swelling’ (elation), ‘well-reasoned shrinking’ and ‘well-reasoned stretching’ (L&S 65F). Long and Sedley emphasize how these emotions refer to movements of the soul. There is no rational counterpart for aegritudo or distress. 5 James, p. 312. 6 James, p. 312. 7 Nussbaum, p. 345. 8 Severac, p. 115. 9 Lloyd, 1996, p. 86. 10 Bennett, 1984, pp. 333–42. 11 Lloyd, p. 105. 12 Lloyd, p. 106. 13 Henry Allison claims that, ‘the greater endurance of rational emotions compensates for their lack of intensity’. Cf. Henry Allison, Benedict de Spinoza: An Introduction (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), p. 162. 14 Gilles Deleuze, Spinoza et le Proble`me de l’Expression (Paris: Les E´ditions de Minuit, 1968), p. 274. 15 Stuart Hampshire, Spinoza (London: Faber & Faber, 1956), p. 103. 16 Gilles Deleuze, Spinoza: Philosophie Pratique (Paris: Les E´ditions de Minuit, 1981), 70–1.

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Wolfson, p. 273. Yovel, The Marrano of Reason, p. 162. 19 For a helpful discussion of the difference between these two types of acquiescentia, see Donald Rutherford’s article, ‘Salvation as a State of Mind: The Place of Acquiescentia in Spinoza’s Ethics’. British Journal of the History of Philosophy 7 (1999): 447–73. 20 Lloyd, p. 113. 21 This is similar to the problem Kant faces in the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals. Moral goodness rests exclusively on a good will, for Kant, but how can you tell empirically whether one has a good will and is universalizing maxims? 22 Severac, for example, argues that ‘Stoic convenientia . . . is a relation to oneself, which is ontologically possible because the ego, due to passion, can be in discord with itself . . .’ and thus ‘to agree, for the Stoic sage, is to reduce a distance: a distance between oneself and oneself’ (Severac, p. 116). 23 Seneca expresses this point at Ep.9.15. 24 Long and Sedley, p. 408. 25 Long and Sedley, p. 407. 26 T. H. Irwin, ‘Stoic and Aristotelian Conceptions of Happiness’, in The Norms of Nature, ed. M. Schofield and G. Striker (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 232. 27 Irwin, p. 234. 28 Long and Sedley, p. 428. 29 Long and Sedley, p. 429. 30 Allison, p. 149. 31 Though the term ‘vitalism’ typically refers to a particular doctrine of biology, I use it in a special sense, to express Spinoza’s insistence that virtue entails success in the endeavour to persist in being, and moreover, flourishing in that being, in both bodily and mental aspects. 32 Severac argues that Spinozistic agreement is not a matter of reducing a distance within myself, as is the case with Stoicism, but is rather a matter of augmenting my power (Severac, p. 116). 33 Lloyd, p. 87. 34 Indeed, Pierre Hadot calls it ‘La Citadelle Inte´rieur’, in his book of that same title, trans. Michael Chase (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). 35 Deleuze, Proble`me de l’Expression, p. 262. 36 Deleuze, Proble`me de l’Expression, p. 262. 37 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 253. 38 Hampshire, p. 82. 39 Hampshire, p. 83. 40 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 253. 41 Herman De Dijn, ‘Knowledge, Anthropocentrism and Salvation’. Studia Spinozana 9 (1993): 253. 42 Andre´ Matheron, ‘Spinoza et le Pouvoir’, in Anthropologie et Politique au XVIIe Sie`cle (E´tudes sur Spinoza) (Paris: Vrin, 1986), p. 105. 43 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 246. 18

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Chapter 3 1

Long and Sedley, p. 383. L&S 63M = Cicero, Tusculanae Disputationes, 5.81–2. 3 Long and Sedley, p. 383. 4 See Nussbaum, 1994, p. 389. As she puts it, ‘the passions are susceptible of extirpation because they are beliefs, and not organic parts of our innate constitution’. 5 L&S 61T = Plutarch, De Communibus Notitiis contra Stoicos 1063A–B. 6 Deleuze, Philosophie Pratique, p. 171. 7 Hampshire, p. 131. 8 Nussbaum, p. 395. 9 De Dijn, ‘Knowledge, Anthropocentrism and Salvation’, p. 253. 10 Blaise Pascal, Pense´es, trans. A. J. Krailsheimer (London: Penguin Books, 1966), p. 125. 11 Lloyd, p. 104. 12 Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death (New York: The Free Press, 1973), p. 57. 13 Sigmund Freud, Selected Papers on Hysteria, in the Major Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. A. A. Brill (Chicago: Encyclopedia Brittanica, 1952), p. 81. 14 Yirmiyahu Yovel, Spinoza and Other Heretics, Volume II: The Adventures of Immanence (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), p. 155. 15 Hampshire, p. 53. 16 Lloyd, p. 136. 17 It should be noted, however, that Seneca generally aims to distinguish the Stoic sage from the image of Stilbo in Epistle 9, apparently on the basis that Stilbo is apathetic and has no desire for friends, both of which features do not apply to the Stoic sage. 18 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 280. 19 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 280. 20 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 282. 21 Shirley translates hilaritas as ‘cheerfulness’. 22 Lloyd, p. 90. 23 All quotations from the TTP are from the Samuel Shirley translation (Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Publishers, 1991), but I have referenced the TTP in the standard manner, according to the section numbers of the edition of the work by C. H. Bruder in Benedicti de Spinoza Opera omnia quae supersunt omnia, 3 vols (Leipzig: B. Tauchnitz, 1843–46). 24 Deleuze, Proble`me de l’Expression, p. 241. 25 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 270. 26 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 271. 27 Jacqueline Lagre´e argues this point in her essay ‘Spinoza et le Vocabulaire Stoı¨cien dans le Tractatus Theologico-Politicus’, in Spinoza: Ricerche di Terminologia Filosofica e Critica Testuale, ed. Pina Totaro (Florence: Olschki, 1997), p. 99. 28 Robert McShea, The Political Philosophy of Spinoza (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), p. 174. 2

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Chapter 4 1

Long and Sedley, p. 434. L&S 67K = Seneca, De Otio 4.1. 3 Andre´ Bridoux, Le Stoı¨cisme et son Influence (Paris: Vrin, 1966), p. 125. 4 Marcia Colish, The Stoic Tradition from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), pp. 95–6. 5 L&S 67S = Cicero, De Republica 3.33. 6 Hadot, p. 189. 7 L&S 67W = Stobaeus, 2.109. 8 Malcolm Schofield, The Stoic Idea of the City (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 73. 9 Colish, p. 92. 10 In fact, Cicero points out that the Stoics distinguish between kathekonta (officia, duties) and katorthomata. The sage only performs katorthomata (which Cicero translates as recte facta), which denote perfected duties or actions that are wholly performed from right reason. As Cicero puts it, recte facta ‘contain all the factors of virtue’ (De Fin III.24), which, I take it, means that virtue permeates all aspects of such actions. The wise man always acts in a morally appropriate manner; that is, he always performs his duties from right reason. Katorthomata are not different from kathekonta with regard to the content of the acts performed, but rather, with regard to the manner in which they are performed, and perhaps the intention behind them. 11 Colish, p. 39. 12 L&S 66B = Plutarch, De Stoicorum Repugnantiis 1034B. 13 ‘It is what the Stoics call epigennematikon’, Cicero writes. 14 Bridoux, p. 136. 15 Nussbaum, pp. 415–16. 16 Jacqueline Lagre´e, ‘Constance et Coherence’ (paper presented at the Loemker Conference, ‘Stoicism: Traditions and Transformations’, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia, 31 March – 2 April 2000). 17 Jacqueline Lagre´e, ‘Constance et Coherence’. 18 Gerhard Oestreich, Neostoicism and the Early Modern State (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1982), p. 13. 19 Oestreich, pp. 13–14. 20 Schofield, p. 93. 21 Hadot, p. 217. 22 Hadot, p. 292. 23 Schofield, p. 69. 24 Bridoux, p. 128. 25 Daniel Mannix, Those about to Die (New York: Ballantine Books, 1958), p. 39. 26 Cf. Hadot, p. 303. He explains there that it was customary to invoke Plato’s Republic as an example of an ideal state ‘in which all the citizens would have become philosophers’. 27 Hadot, p. 306. 28 Jacqueline Lagre´e, Juste Lipse et la Restauration du Stoı¨cisme (Paris: Vrin, 1994), p. 92. 2

Notes 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

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Seneca the Elder, Declamations, IX.4.5. Lagre´e, Lipse, p. 94. Oestreich, p. 70. Allison, p. 156. Wolfson, II, pp. 258–9. He refers to De Beneficiis II.18,6. Allison, p. 158. Allison, p. 159. Hampshire, pp. 122–3. Deleuze, Proble`me de l’Expression, p. 247. Deleuze, Proble`me de l’Expression, p. 245.

Chapter 5 1

I will refer to Spinoza’s Tractatus Politicus as the TP. Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 283. 3 McShea, p. 167. 4 McShea, p. 85. 5 Sylvain Zac, ‘Socie´te´ et Communaute´’, in Philosophie, The´ologie, Politique dans l’Œuvre de Spinoza (Paris: Vrin, 1979), p. 102. 6 Matheron, Individu et Communaute´, p. 327. 7 Hans Blom, ‘Politics, Virtue and Political Science: An Interpretation of Spinoza’s Political Philosophy’. Studia Spinozana 1 (1985): 218–19. 8 Etienne Balibar, Spinoza and Politics, trans. P. Snowden (London: Verso, 1998), pp. 83–4. 9 Of course, Spinoza died just as he was about to broach the topic of democracy in the TP. 10 Steven Nadler, Spinoza: A Life (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 307. 11 Herman De Dijn, ‘Spinoza and Revealed Religion’. Studia Spinozana 11 (1995): 49. 12 Douglas Den Uyl, ‘Passion, State and Progress: Spinoza and Mandeville on the Nature of Human Association’. Journal of the History of Philosophy 25 (1987): 376. 13 A. O. Hirschmann, The Passions and the Interests (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977), pp. 52–6. 14 Perhaps this sheds light on Vico’s curious remark that Spinoza’s commonwealth is a ‘society of shopkeepers’ (The New Science I. p.335). Spinoza’s model regime is one where the people’s passions are mollified by capitalistic industry. 15 Douglas Den Uyl, ‘Power, Politics and Religion in Spinoza’s Political Thought’, in Piety, Peace and the Freedom to Philosophize, ed. Paul Bagley (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999), p. 138. 16 Jacqueline Lagre´e, La Raison Ardente (Paris: Vrin, 1993), pp. 13–18. 17 Thomas Cook, ‘Did Spinoza Lie to his Landlady?’ Studia Spinozana 11 (1995): 32. 2

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Chapter 6 1

Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), p. 171. 2 Alan Donagan, ‘Spinoza’s Theology’, in The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza, ed. Don Garrett (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 371. 3 Donagan, p. 373. 4 Michael Rosenthal, ‘Toleration and the Right to Resist in Spinoza’s TTP’, in Piety, Peace and the Freedom to Philosophize, ed. Paul Bagley (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999), p. 131. 5 David Hume, ‘Of Parties in General’, in Essays: Moral, Political and Literary (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1985), p. 60. 6 Hume, p. 61. 7 Hume, p. 63. 8 McShea, p. 193. 9 Strauss, Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, p. 225. 10 McShea, p. 98. 11 Strauss, Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, p. 236. 12 Strauss, Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, p. 245. 13 Paul Bagley, ‘Religious Salvation and Civic Welfare: ‘Salus’ in Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologico-Politicus’. Studia Spinozana 12 (1996): 181. 14 Strauss, Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, p. 229. 15 Strauss, Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, p. 240. 16 Strauss, Persecution, pp. 179–80. 17 Strauss, Persecution, p. 180. 18 Strauss, Persecution, p. 180. 19 Strauss, Persecution, pp. 179–80. 20 Strauss, Persecution, p. 190. 21 John Colerus, The Life of Benedict de Spinosa (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1906), p. 41. 22 Cook, pp. 35–6. 23 Strauss, Persecution, p. 184. 24 Strauss, Persecution, p. 184. 25 Yovel writes that Spinoza ‘didn’t speak of God or salvation in order to deceive his audience but to claim that he had finally found what God truly is and how salvation can be attained’. Cf. Yovel, Spinoza and Other Heretics, p. 137. In fact, Yovel proceeds to critique Strauss here, arguing that Strauss ignores the sincere religious intent of Spinoza’s project: that Spinoza indeed aims at salvation, but in a new way. Accordingly, Yovel explains, Spinoza’s use of religious terms ‘is not intended as an atheist’s mask but also and primarily as a means for preserving essential elements of religion within Spinoza’s new philosophy of reason, so as to make it a religion of reason’. Yovel, Spinoza and Other Heretics, p. 152. 26 Strauss, Persecution, pp. 177–8. 27 Strauss, Critique of Religion, p. 229.

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Conclusion 1

Nadler, p. 290. For example, cf. Santayana’s essay entitled ‘An Ultimate Religion’, delivered at The Hague to commemorate the tercentenary of Spinoza’s birth, in The Philosophy of Santayana, ed. Irwin Edman (New York: Random House Modern Library, 1936). 2

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I. Primary Sources Spinoza The Ethics, Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect and Selected Letters. Trans. Samuel Shirley. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 1992. The Letters. Trans. Samuel Shirley. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 1995. Opera omnia quae supersunt omnia, 3 vols. Ed. C. H. Bruder. Leipzig: B. Tauchnitz, 1843–46. Opera quotquot reperta sunt. 2 vols. Ed. J. P. N. Land, J. Van Vloten. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1914. The Political Works. Trans. A. G. Wernham. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958. Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. Trans. S. Shirley. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Publishers, 1991. Works of Spinoza, volume 1: The Political Treatise and the Theologico-Political Treatise. Trans. R. H. M. Elwes. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1951.

The Stoics Aurelius, Marcus. The Meditations. Trans. G. M. A. Grube. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1983. Cicero, Marcus Tullius. De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum. Trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983. ——. De Officiis. Trans. W. Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975. Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers, Vol. II. Trans. R. D. Hicks. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925. Epictetus. The Discourses, the Handbook, Fragments. Trans. Robin Hard. Ed. Christopher Gill. London: The Everyman Library, 1995. Lipsius, Justus. Sixe Bookes of Politickes. Trans. William Jones. New York: Da Capo Press, 1970. ——. Two Bookes of Constancie. Trans. John Stradling. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1939.

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Long, Anthony and David Sedley (trans. and eds). The Hellenistic Philosophers, Volume 1. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Seneca, Lucius Annaeus. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales. Trans. R. M. Gummere. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920. ——. ‘De Constantia’, in Moral Essays, Vol. I. Trans. John W. Basore. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928. ——. ‘De Ira’, in Moral Essays, Vol. I. Trans. John W. Basore. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928. Other Descartes, Rene´. Principles of Philosophy, in Philosophical Works of Descartes, Volume I. Trans. E. S. Haldane and G. R. T. Ross. New York: Dover Publications, 1955. Freud, Sigmund. Selected Papers on Hysteria, in the Major Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. A. A. Brill. Chicago: Encyclopedia Brittanica, 1952. Hume, David. ‘Of Parties in General’, in Essays: Moral, Political and Literary. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1985. Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Ed. Richard Tuck. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Pascal, Blaise. Pense´es. Trans. A. J. Krailsheimer. London: Penguin Books, 1966.

II. Secondary Sources: Allison, Henry E. Benedict de Spinoza: An Introduction. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987. Arnold, E. Vernon. Roman Stoicism. New York: The Humanities Press, 1958. Bagley, Paul J. ‘Religious Salvation and Civic Welfare: ‘Salus’ in Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologico-Politicus’. Studia Spinozana 12 (1996): 169–84. Balibar, Etienne. Spinoza and Politics. Trans. P. Snowden. London: Verso, 1998. Barbone, Steven. ‘Virtue and Sociality in Spinoza’. Iyyun, the Jerusalem Philosophical Quarterly 42 (1993): 383–95. Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: The Free Press, 1973. Beiser, Frederick. The Fate of Reason. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987. Bennett, Jonathon. A Study of Spinoza’s Ethics. New York: Hackett Publishing Company, 1984. Blom, Hans. ‘Politics, Virtue and Political Science: An Interpretation of Spinoza’s Political Philosophy’. Studia Spinozana 1 (1985): 209–29. Bridoux, Andre´. Le Stoı¨cisme et son Influence. Paris: Vrin, 1966.

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Index Allison, Henry 39, 79, 82 Aristotle 17, 48, 53, 72, 110 Bagley, Paul 120 Balibar, Etienne 91 Beiser, Frederick 6, 7 Bennett, Jonathan 29, 30 Blom, Hans 91 Bridoux, Andre´ 68, 72, 76 Carneades 38 Carnois, Bernard 15 Chrysippus 10, 11, 17, 18, 72 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 10, 13, 18, 19, 23, 37, 38, 47, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 77 Colerus, John 122 Colish, Marcia 70, 72 Cook, Thomas 103, 122 Cynics 72, 91 DeDijn, Herman 53, 99 Deleuze, Gilles 32, 41, 49, 62, 84, 128 Den Uyl Douglas 100, 101 Descartes, Rene´ 5, 6, 10, 12, 28, 42, 49, 83, 123 Diogenes Laertius 10, 13, 14, 17, 19, 26, 36, 68, 70, 81 Donagan, Alan 107–8 Epictetus 18, 57, 69, 74, 75, 80, 128 Freud, Sigmund 54–5 Hadot, Pierre 68, 75, 76, 77 Hampshire, Stuart 32, 42, 55, 83–4 Heidegger, Martin 130 Hirschmann, Albert 101 Hobbes, Thomas 7, 86–90 Hume, David 2, 111–12, 130

Lagre´e, Jacqueline 73, 78, 102 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 5 Lipsius, Justus 1, 73–5, 78 Lloyd, Genevieve 31, 55, 60 Long, Anthony 9, 13, 38, 39, 47 Machiavelli, Niccolo` 78, 94, 100, 118 Marcus Aurelies 75, 76–7, 80, 102, 114, 123, 127 Matheron, Alexandre 15, 21, 22, 41, 43, 44, 45, 59, 60, 63, 85, 90 McShea, Robert 64, 86, 89, 117, 119 Nagel, Thomas 8 Nietzsche, Friederich 79, 130 Nussbaum, Martha 27, 51, 72 Oestreich, Gerhard 74, 78 Pascal, Blaise 53, 99 Peripatetics 6 Plato 17, 38, 48, 76, 77, 110 Plutarch 48 Rosenthal, Michael 111 Santayana, George 5, 129 Schneewind, Jerome 9 Schofield, Malcolm 70, 74, 76 Sedley 9, 13, 38, 39, 47 Seneca, Lucius Annaeus 22, 48, 56–7, 58, 67, 76 Seneca the Elder 78 Strauss, Leo 4, 7, 107, 119–25 Thoreau, Henry David 117 Vico, Giambattista 2 Wolfson, H. A. 12, 80

Irwin, T. H. 38 Israel, Jonathan 6, 7

Yovel, Yirmiyahu 12, 33, 55

Kant, Immanuel 82, 83 Kissinger, Henry 8

Zac, Sylvain 90 Zeno of Citium 10