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Leibniz: Strange monads, esoteric harmony and love Paul Lodge interviewed about Leibniz by Richard Marshall for 3am Magazine
3:AM: When and why did you decide to become a philosopher?
Paul Lodge: I can trace my initial philosophical thinking back a long way if that is
generously construed. My Dad did an Open University degree course in the early 1970s and
there was some philosophy involved in that. As a result this meant there was an OU textbook
on Socrates and a copy of the Anscombe and Geach volume of Descartes’ writings on a
bookshelf in our house during my childhood and, for some reason, they always intrigued me.
And I also have a very vague recollection of watching an OU dramatization of Aristophanes’
The Clouds around that time. The earliest ‘philosophical thoughts’ I remember having were
in my early teens and came in response to my Catholic upbringing and the inevitable
confusions to which that gave rise – the eucharist and incarnation were inevitable sources of
puzzlement. I also had an RE teacher at school, Bill Darlison, who lent me yet more Open
University texts when I was about fifteen which I read with little understanding. And on top
of that, there were the philosophical references that crept in from the comedy that my friends
and I consumed through TV and videos – whether it was Monty Python’s philosopher’s song
and philosophers’ football match, or Deep Thought providing the answer to the ultimate
question of life, the universe and everything. My decision to do philosophy at university
didn’t flow naturally from these, however. I’d applied to do an engineering degree at first, but
started to get cold feet when I went to look round campuses and so pulled out of the process.
And it was only as I started to think about university again about six months later that I
plumped for Psychology and Philosophy.
My religious upbringing and philosophy and psychology degree seem to be very relevant to
the things that I’ve found interesting as a philosopher. Whatever else was going on in church
and school, I was constantly forced to think about what it would be to live a good life, and
philosophy and psychology nudged me in the direction of thinking about the philosophy of
mind and the explanatory scope and limits of psychology as a natural science. Had I been
drawn to maths and philosophy, say, I’m sure I’d have ended up with other philosophical
interests later in my career, but there’s clearly a chicken and egg issue lurking here. As I
reflect now, I see myself as having decided to become a philosopher in the somewhat naïve
hope that thinking philosophically might be a way to acquire an understanding of myself and
my place in the world that would yield the wisdom to live a good and happy life. And the
major driving force behind this now seems to be the fact that I felt I could no longer rely on
the support of a religious framework (if indeed there was ever a point at which I’d done this
self-consciously). The older I get the happier I am that I was that naïve and that I ended up
with the degree course that I did, and the more I try to cultivate the naivety.
3:AM: You are a leading expert on the philosophy of Leibniz. Diderot was so impressed by
his talents that at one point he writes that he was ‘… tempted to throw away one’s books and
go die quietly in the dark of some forgotten corner.’ Later Gottleib Frege said that Leibniz
was in a class of his own. This is remarkably high praise. Can you say why his reputation is
so high and what it was that drew you to him initially?
PL: Thanks, it’s nice of you to say that. I think one of the things that makes people react to
Leibniz in the way that Diderot did is the sheer breadth of his accomplishments. Setting aside
his achievements in any particular field, Leibniz is clearly one of the greatest polymaths the
world has ever seen. He is well-known as an important philosopher, mathematician, and
natural philosopher and, to a lesser degree for his pioneering writings on jurisprudence,
linguistics, and geology. But his work extended to more practical endeavours, including
inventions such as his early calculating machine, his designs for wind driven water pumps for
use in mining, and a submarine. In one letter he even mentions an idea for shoes with springs
underneath that would facilitate quick escape from pursuers. And, on top of all that, he was a
tireless pursuer of social and political reform. Most significant in this regard were his efforts
working toward church reunification and the foundation of scientific societies, but he was
continually imagining schemes for the improvement of civil society, such as a medical
training programme oriented towards public health, proposals for tax reform and a national
insurance, and even a street-lighting plan that was ultimately implemented in Vienna.
Of course, it is not just the breadth that impresses. The discovery of the calculus alone would
have been enough for his name to survive as one of the greatest mathematicians of all time.
But he also solved a significant number of other mathematical problems as well as pioneering
binary arithmetic. In natural philosophy, his critique of Cartesian laws of motion led to him to
introduce laws for the conservation of momentum and of vis viva (a precursor of kinetic
energy) in collisions, and his rejection of absolute space and time puts him at the beginning
of a relationist tradition which survives to this day. If one turns to Leibniz’s philosophy,
breadth is again one of the most impressive features. But the extent to which he pursues
philosophy in a systematic way, attempting to provide a grand theory of everything is also
particularly striking.
However, if we look to the reception of Leibniz’s ideas things appear less rosy than the praise
from Diderot and Frege might suggest. Immediately after his death it looks like three main
things are happening to him. In Germany, there are disciples such as Wolff and Baumgarten
who try to pick up where Leibniz left off, with a focus on the idea of providing systematic
presentations of modified versions of his views that have something like the form that we
find in Spinoza’s Ethics. But this largely positive reception gets swept away as a result of the
direct attacks on Leibnizian ideas that we find in Kant’s critical philosophy. And, whilst there
are critics of Kant whose work is somewhat Leibnizian in spirit, the standard picture of the
evolution of German philosophy puts them and Leibniz squarely on the losing side.
Elsewhere in the 18th century, Voltaire is lampooning Leibniz as Dr Pangloss in Candide to
devastating effect, and more philosophical critiques of Leibniz’s natural theology and the
ethics that depends on it are being offered by Hume. And again the combined effect is
standardly regarded as devastating.
But even here, it is quite a bit more complicated. In a story that is only just beginning to be
told in the Anglophone world, it is becoming clear from work by people like Jeremy Dunham
that in 19th C. France the mood was not at all favorable toward the critical philosophy and
that Leibniz was very much the hero. And, in addition, there are ways to read Kant and
Leibniz that can give the appearance that there is a great deal more similarity between their
views than one might imagine. There are crucial differences – e.g., Leibniz differs from Kant
in being a compatibilist about freedom, and in offering a philosophical position that includes
knowledge of the existence of representation-independent entities – but there is a huge
amount of Kant that one can see latent (or event explicit) in Leibniz if one chooses to look at
him in that way.
In the 20th century, Russell poses a big problem for Leibniz. Whilst he was impressed with
some of what Leibniz is doing, his two big take-home messages are: 1) that Leibniz’s
metaphysics drops out of a logic that involves confused understanding of the proposition as
something that must have subject-predicate structure; and 2) that Leibniz was intellectually
dishonest, and that had he been honest he would have had to admit that his views were really
very similar to those of Spinoza. It is true that there was a resurgence of interest in Leibniz’s
philosophical logic later in the century, and that he became seen as a kind of grandfather
figure for possible worlds semantics and for relationism in the philosophy of space and time.
But the theories themselves bear little relationship to the details of what Leibniz actually
intended, and nor is there any suggestion that his views were feeding into the debates
themselves in a significant way. He is also a perennial reference point for discussion of the
principles of sufficient reason and principle of the identity of indiscernibles, but there is little
attention to Leibniz’s reasons for adopting these principles.
At this point in the 21st century, my sense is that, outside the community of early modern
scholars, Leibniz is a philosophical curiosity, but not someone who is thought to have much
to offer as a source for contemporary thinking. But here, he occupies a very odd position.
Most professional philosophers don’t claim to know anything about Leibniz, nor is there a
live tradition that draws on his views explicitly in a way that is true of people like Hume,
Kant, and even Spinoza. And yet when I tell people that I study Leibniz, I almost invariably
get responses that suggest a great respect and acknowledgement that he was something quite
special.
As for what drew me to him: I studied Leibniz for the first time in a graduate class run by
Martha Brandt Bolton (who ultimately became my PhD supervisor) in which we read
Locke’s Essay and Leibniz’s New Essays (his book-length critique of the Essay). I don’t
remember much from that time. But I do remember being very struck by the strangeness of
what he had to say about the ultimate nature of reality, and wanting to try to work out how
anyone could have been led to actually advance such a view – here I am thinking of the
standard reading of Leibniz’s metaphysics, according to which he regards the actual world as
comprised by an infinite number of unextended mind-like monads, with the physical world
somehow reduced to the appearance of these entities to one another.
At that point, I was expecting to do my thesis in philosophy of psychology. I liked the idea of
knowing more about the big systematic philosophies of the past, but given the way that the
history of philosophy fitted into the scheme of things in the UK (and to some extent still
does) I didn’t have a sense that there was really a living to be made doing that. But I found
myself unable to formulate any positive ideas in philosophy of psychology that didn’t seem
wildly out of step with the context in which I was working and taking a largely critical
approach just didn’t seem like it would be much fun or life-affirming. I also wrote a term
paper that Martha seemed to like, and in her found someone who clearly was able to sustain a
career just writing about the views of historical figures. And, with hindsight, it seems to me
that her affirmation was an absolutely essential factor in the decisions I took, together with
some of the negative feedback that I got from other quarters – some of which now seems a lot
less plausible than it did then. But it was hard, of course, to gainsay those giving their stamp
of disapproval given their professional reputations.
3:AM: Despite his immense reputation and productivity and achievement he never wrote a
magnum opus did he? In this respect he is very different from his peers such as Descartes and
Spinoza and Locke. Was this because of his personality or were there other reasons for this?
PL: It’s hard to know why this was the case, but there are a number of things that might have
stood in the way. Given the breadth of his interests, one might be tempted to think that
Leibniz never found the time to compose a treatise of this kind. But this flies in the face of
the fact that he wrote a number of book-length works, including two philosophical works –
The New Essays, which I’ve already mentioned, and the Theodicy, a lengthy series of essays
whose official focus is the defence of divine justice in response to the problem of evil, but
which range over a whole host of issues in philosophical theology as well as offering a
sustained discussion of Leibniz’s understanding of freedom.
One possibility is that it was partly a reaction to the extremely negative response that he
received from Antoine Arnauld in the late 1680s when he sent him a summary of his
Discourse on Metaphysics, a work which contained an outline of many of the main themes of
Leibniz’s philosophy at the time. But another explanation may lie in the form in which he
thought such a magnum opus ought to be written. Leibniz often claimed that he would like to
present his philosophy as a demonstrated system. And whilst it is not entirely clear what he
meant by this, there is reason to think that he had in mind something similar to Spinoza’s
Ethics (indeed, as I noted above, this is precisely what some of disciples tried to do for him
after his death). In the places where he speaks of such an ideal form of presentation, he often
suggests time is an obstacle. But there are also suggestions that there were things that Leibniz
still needed to work out, or at least which he needed to express more adequately in order to be
able to write such a treatise. So it may well be that Leibniz never reached a point in his life
where he felt that his philosophical views were perfected enough for him to present them in
the way that he would have wished a magnum opus to take.
3:AM: One of the main focuses of your research has been Leibniz’s correspondence with a
relatively unknown figure called De Volder. Why did you choose to spend so much time on
this?
PL: Absent a canonical text, Leibniz scholars are reliant on other sources more than scholars
of other figures. Some of these are published essays; others are unpublished essays and
longer unpublished manuscripts, along with large numbers of half-finished pieces. But we
also have a huge volume of correspondence, and it is universally acknowledged by students
of Leibniz that some of these letters contain the best records of Leibniz’s views that remain –
e.g., the correspondences with Clarke, Arnauld, Des Bosses, and my guy De Volder.
Again, the proximate cause of my focusing on this correspondence was clearly my teacher
Martha Brandt Bolton. I’d decided on Leibniz for my thesis and was foundering around. I’d
thought about maybe focusing on his account of relations, and I had a more grandiose idea of
trying to trace the Augustinian themes in his work, in the wake of Stephen Menn’s book on
Descartes and Augustine. But then Martha suggested one day that Leibniz and De Volder
would be a good thing to look at, given that no-one had subjected the conference as whole to
serious study. This was probably partly because of the then very recent, and wonderful, study
of the Leibniz-Arnauld Correspondence by Robert Sleigh Jr. (which I won’t now need to put
in my list recommended books when you ask for that at the end of the interview), but also
because Martha knew how much really important material the correspondence contains for
understanding Leibniz’s mature metaphysics.
De Volder brings out the best in Leibniz because he asks key questions about Leibniz’s
conception of substance and the fundamental nature of material reality from a Cartesian
perspective. He thus stands proxy for one of the (by then dead) key figures against whom
Leibniz develops his views over the course of his entire career. Furthermore, it is in this
correspondence (as people had known for a long time) that we get the clearest commitment to
the thought that all there to reality in the end is an infinite plurality of monads, along with
what seems to the clearest (and I don’t mean by that transparently clear) articulation of how
this conception of reality is supposed to cohere with the world as revealed in ordinary
experience and through mathematical physics.
In taking on the correspondence, the form of my thesis was pretty much decided – it was just
a commentary on the main themes, and so that was a big bonus. But I faced the trickier task
of having to translate quite a lot of Leibniz’s letters and all those by De Volder. And it is this
side of things that has kept me with De Volder so long, given that I secured a contract with
Yale to do an edition for the Yale Leibniz series and, absent a proper critical edition, I took
on the somewhat foolhardy task of going back to the manuscripts to produce a transcription
and translation.
That said, it still feels like I’ve only scraped the surface of this incredibly rich set of letters
and my hope is that the edition and my efforts to explain it will spur others to think about it
more. I also quite enjoy the thought that it’s unlikely anyone will try to replace my edition for
a while, and that I’ll enjoy a kind of longevity through it that I’m sure I’d never have if I’d
devoted the time to writing other things.
3:AM: In understanding that Leibniz can be usefully contrasted with Descartes on several
issues. He argued against Cartesian dualism didn’t he? They had different conceptions of the
body. Can you say something about their disagreement?
PL: The views of Descartes and later Cartesians are some of Leibniz’s most frequent targets.
Whilst there are other important differences, e.g., their conception of God and God’s relation
to the created world, their views about freedom, and their understanding of what epistemic
warrant requires, I’ve written mainly about the ways in which Leibniz attacked the Cartesian
conception of body. It’s easier to see the negative side here than to understand the alternative
Leibniz had in mind. Indeed, it’s clear that his conception of the alternative underwent
evolution over time and it is hard to find a truly stable view. Two key features of Cartesian
matter worry Leibniz, namely, its indefinite divisibility into homogeneous geometrically
extended parts and its passivity. Leibniz insists that genuine entities must be indivisible –
otherwise they would be composites of the entities comprising them. With this in mind,
Cartesian matter immediately fails to meet the condition for being genuinely real. So,
assuming the material world is real, Leibniz is convinced that there must be more to matter
than being geometrically extended. The other key reason that Leibniz rejects Cartesian matter
is based on the fact that the material world is in motion and that the cause of at least some of
that motion is external to us. From this Leibniz infers that source of that motion must either
be intrinsic to matter or extrinsic to the matter and to us. The only game in town that makes it
extrinsic is occasionalism (roughly the view that attributes all causal power to God), but
Leibniz has a number of arguments against this view. So, he thinks we should accept that
matter has an intrinsic source of motion, which is again inconsistent with the Cartesian
conception of matter as passive geometrically extended stuff.
Leibniz’s positive story is really tricky to articulate. But, on the standard reading, at the heart
of the view is the claim that matter is comprised of an infinite number of things that are
essentially active, and that we can only understand that activity by analogy with the kind of
activity that is present in the rational activity of human minds. This leaves Leibniz needing to
explain how it is that this conception of the nature of body can be made to square with the
way in which bodies appear in ordinary experience and the way that this relates to
mathematical physics. And it is here that the idealistic elements of Leibniz’s thought come in,
since he thinks that the extension of matter and the features of matter that depend it being
extended (such as size, shape, and locomotion), are in an important sense representation
dependent.
A rejection of Descartes substance dualism is a corollary of this. There’s not a huge gap
between Leibniz and Descartes on the nature of the human mind, but, as we’ve just seen,
bodies are infinite pluralities of mind-like entities rather than masses of material substance.
Furthermore, within this framework, Leibniz rejects the Cartesian view that other animate
beings are merely complex material systems. For every animate body in our representation of
the material world, there is a mind-like entity that stands in a relation to it analogous to the
one that our minds stand in to our bodies.
3:AM: Spinoza and Hobbes were a different threat to Descartes for Leibniz. What was it that
worried him about them and how did he respond to their views?
PL: It’s quite hard to pin down just how much Leibniz really differs from Spinoza. And in
that respect there is certainly some truth to the famous charge by Russell that I mentioned
above. One issue is that Leibniz was desperate to avoid committing himself to
necessitarianism, a position that he, like others, ascribed to Spinoza. But at the same time
Leibniz presents an account of the nature of reality that is self-consciously and
unapologetically deterministic. God’s determinate nature determines that reality emerges in
the fully determinate way that it does.
There has been a lot of ink spilled over how Leibniz wants to distinguish between necessary
and contingent truths, given his determinism, and again it’s not clear that he is consistent over
time. But it seems to me that he settles with the idea that the difference between necessary
and contingent truths is exhausted by a difference in the logical structure of the propositions
that express them. Perhaps the easiest way to get the position across is to start by noting that,
anachronistic terminology aside, Leibniz holds that all true propositions are analytic and of
subject predicate form. The difference between necessary and contingent truths is cashed out
in terms of the number of steps that it would take to show that predicate term is contained in
the subject term by a resolution of the terms involved. If it can be accomplished in a finite
number of steps, the proposition is necessary, if it would, per impossibile, take an infinite
number of steps, the proposition is contingent. Given the infinite complexity of the actual
world, Leibniz thinks that this distinction tracks the distinction between truths about the
created world and those that would be true in any possible world, and hence of any
proposition that concerns this world. It also seems to track the epistemic capacities of finite
minds in such a way that they can, in principle, understand that necessary truths must be true,
but cannot do the same for contingent truths. So the account makes sense of why it is that we
judge that contingent truths could have been otherwise, i.e., because we can’t rule out their
falsity absolutely. But it doesn’t do justice to the gap that we seem to be able to open up
between what we think could have been otherwise and what actually could have been. And
Leibniz seems to leave us in a situation where the contingent truths really couldn’t have been
other than true, given his determinism.
All this makes his obvious satisfaction with the account rather puzzling. But there’s at least
one thing that might allow us to see what work it could do, if we think about what Leibniz
says about freedom. One of the key aspects of Leibniz’s account is his attempt to show how
he can respond to the worry that Arnauld had raised when Leibniz made it apparent that his
view of divine and human activity was thoroughly deterministic. Leibniz characterizes the
charge of Arnauld and others as an accusation that he is making all human activity necessary.
The account of modality that Leibniz offers is brought to bear on this challenge in two ways.
First, given the infinite complexity of everything that happens in the created world, every
proposition about human activity turns out to be contingent. But, furthermore, Leibniz’s
account makes some sense of why necessity would be a problem even if one were a
compatibilist. For, suppose that the outcomes of deliberation were necessary in Leibniz’s
sense. This would mean that, at least in principle, one could know with certainty before one
deliberated what the outcome of the deliberation would be. And were this the case, one might
think that this would disrupt our practice of conceiving of ourselves as the instigators of our
actions. So perhaps Leibniz’s thought is that it is ignorance regarding our place in the causal
nexus that leads us to regard ourselves as the uncaused cause of the changes that involve our
agency and that that in turn is a part of our conception of free action.
But although there is a kind of internal coherence to this, it is hard to see that it leaves him in
any better position than Spinoza, for whom the necessity of things is a result of an equally
unintelligible chain of infinite causes. And it isn’t really getting at the intuition that led his
opponents to worry about the necessity of human actions, since these opponents are
libertarians, who would be just as concerned about actions being wholly determined.
Another key distinction between Leibniz and Spinoza is the fact the Leibniz wants to retain
the thought that the world has a teleological structure, in other words, he wants the notion of
final cause to play a role in his philosophy. The basic reason for this is that he wants to save
the thought that the universe is a good place (indeed, the best place it could have been) and
that it was caused to exist for the sake of its goodness. Spinoza resolutely denies this, and
claims that good/bad are ultimately to be explained in terms of human preferences. The
justification for Leibniz’s view is very unclear, and stands at odds with most people’s
intuition that a lot of bad stuff happens. My current thinking is that the ultimately answer may
have to turn on a form of mystical apprehension that underwrites Leibniz’s own
understanding of the world as a harmonious unity. But the details of this are something I have
yet to formulate.
Leibniz’s biggest beef with Hobbes is actually one he has with Descartes too, namely that
they are guilty of divine voluntarism regarding necessary truths, in particular those of
morality and mathematics. The critique here is not particularly novel. Leibniz simply argues
that without some facts of the matter independent of God’s will then there is no sound basis
for normativity. That the grounds for normativity must be robust in this way goes without
argument. Leibniz tries to rely on the intuition that mathematical truths seem like they simply
could not be other than true, but in the places that Hobbes and Descartes are under explicit
attack it doesn’t go any deeper than that. This is not to say, however, that we couldn’t try to
investigate these foundational issues further by looking to other places in which they are
relevant.
3:AM: Leibniz’s is often characterized as an Idealist. Does this seem right to you?
PL: Of course, we have to be very careful with labels such as “idealist”. And, in thinking
about this question, it’s also important to note that different scholars have different views,
many of which are well-argued and plausible and that there are good reasons to think that
quite a bit of evolution took place over the course of his career. The kind of reading that
interests me is one that assumes that something like the standard monadological view is
correct. As I see it, even with this in place, Leibniz isn’t an idealist as that term is often
understood – i.e., he is not someone who thinks that the material world is something that
exists entirely in the conscious mind, or minds, of those who experience it. When I perceive a
material object, I am perceiving something (or to be more precise some things) that exist
independently of my perception of them.
But the twist comes when one considers what it is that Leibniz thinks about the nature of the
things I am perceiving. On the monadological view, the ultimate nature of reality is exhausted
by the existence of an infinite plurality of mind-like entities. Thus, when I perceive
something that appears to me to be a material object with a spatio-temporal location, I am in
fact perceiving an infinite number of unextended mind-like things, which appear to me in this
way because of my finite cognitive capacities. But ‘appear’ has to be used with caution here.
For although I am consciously aware of these things, I am not aware of all of them
individually. In some cases, I’m consciously aware of those that ‘control’ the movements of
macroscopic animate bodies. But in most cases my awareness of the monads that are the
ultimate content of my perceptual experiences is like the way in which the sound of the
individual waves is present in my perception of the roar of the ocean, to use one of Leibniz’s
favoured examples.
One way to think of this is on analogy with the way in which people commonly understand
the distinction between primary and secondary qualities that is associated with Locke. For
Locke, the coloured appearance of a body is a feature of the sensation that the perceiver has
when looking at a material thing whose intrinsic properties are exhausted by the so called
primary qualities, i.e., the size, shape and motion of the particles that compose it. Leibniz
requires us to accept that this thesis be extended to include the size, shape, and motion and
the individuality of the particles themselves. For these are simply features of the way that
pluralities of mind-like entities appear to one another. This leaves Leibniz with an interesting
position. Material things have a reality that is independent of our perception of them.
However, all their material features are perception dependent, and the reality of what is
perceived is itself characterizable in ‘mental’ terms. So he is a ‘realist’ about matter. But if
idealists are those who think that all there is in the world are mind-like things and ‘mental’
properties, then he counts as an idealist in this sense.
3:AM: Of course, he is famous for his Monadology? This is a crucial part of his metaphysics.
So what is a monad and what does it do? Is it a kind of pantheism that claims that all nature is
full of life?
PL: The easiest (and indeed only) way to get a handle on what monads are is through self-
knowledge, or rather, through a particular interpretation of oneself as a mind-like being
which accurately represents a world distinct from itself via outer sense, but which is causally
isolated from that world and produces those representations spontaneously. The rest of the
infinite plurality of existing monads are like us in these regards, but only some are self-
conscious reasoning beings in the way that we are. Lots of them fail to have self-
consciousness but are said to be aware in a rudimentary sense, and lots are said to be so dull-
witted that their internal lives are like a dreamless sleep. There are also lots of monads that
are much cleverer than us, by which Leibniz seems to mean that they have greater ability to
negotiate the infinite plurality of beings conceptually. And then there is the super-monad,
God who is the source of all the others and is characterised using the traditional tripartite
conception of the divinity.
But Leibniz is insistent that his view is not pantheistic. The individual monads are genuinely
distinct from each other and from God. God concurs with their activity and continually
creates them, but is not to be identified with them in substance. Just how sustainable that
view is, and indeed, just how much Leibniz was honest in claiming that monads are genuine
sources of activity, which for Leibniz is a necessary condition for them to count as genuine
individuals, continues to be matter of debate among scholars.
3:AM: The more we get into his thinking it’s not clear whether he’s a rationalist or an
empiricist like Locke, Berkeley and Hume. He thinks we have innate ideas and holds to the
principle of sufficient reason so that puts him in the rationalist camp. Where do you place
him?
PL: I’m not so keen on the rationalist/empiricist labelling scheme. Those terms seem to mean
too many different things to too many people at this point. There are some aspects of his
philosophy that seem to distance him from Locke and Hume in important ways, however. I
won’t try to compare him with Berkeley, as that seems to me a very murky question in itself,
and one that is compounded by the fact that I don’t have a clear idea about what I think
Berkeley is doing.
As you note, Leibniz is a proponent of innate ideas (indeed, he thinks that all our ideas are
innate) and one of the key features of this view is the anti-Lockean thesis that we possess
many of these ideas without being aware of their content. Indeed, to my mind, this is one of
the most important things that Leibniz introduces into the history of philosophical thought,
namely, the unconscious. He’s also opposed to Locke and Hume’s apparent commitment to
sensory simples. Indeed, it seems to me that he does not want to regard sensations as genuine
objects of awareness at all (though that’s probably a somewhat idiosyncratic reading that it
would take me some time to try to defend). In addition, he is committed to the claim that the
mind is an individual substance that persists over time and that we are directly aware of this
in our own case. This stands against Locke’s official agnosticism, but Leibniz also appears to
suspect Locke was a materialist, and the rejection of materialism is clearly an important
aspect of Leibniz’s critique of Locke in the New Essays. And, of course, he’s miles away
from the standard reading of Hume here according to which the self is some kind of bundle of
perceptions. Leibniz’s view of the mind would not be possible if he didn’t think that we were
able to know things without their being available as objects of awareness. His response to
Hume’s challenge that we do not catch ourselves when we try to look would be to say that we
can be aware of ourselves in act whenever we engage in mental activity – which is, for
Leibniz, all the time. His commitment to this seems to me to be very clear in his response to
occasionalists like Malebranche.
3:AM: Leibniz uses the famous mill argument in Section 17 of the Monadology to show that
a machine couldn’t think. He’s arguing against Locke here isn’t he? What is the metaphor
supposed to show and why do you think contemporary commentators such as Richard Rorty,
John Searle and Margaret Dauler Wilson are unfaithful to what Leibniz intended?
PL: I’ve now written about this a couple of times, initially with Marc Bobro back in 1998,
but again this year in a paper that was first published in the first edition of the new online
journal Ergo. Marc and I criticized Rorty and Searle on the grounds that they attribute to
Leibniz some kind of argument from ignorance. They seem to be saying that what Leibniz
wants us to grasp is that knowledge of the workings of a physical system like a mill would
leave us unable to see how anything of that sort could ever think (and here it seems to be the
existence of conscious awareness that drives them). But in 1998 Marc and I claimed that
Leibniz would surely have seen the obvious worry – i.e., that we just might not be able to
make the right connections given what we now know about how physical things work.
Margaret Dauler Wilson had a different reading. Her suggestion was that Leibniz was trying
to get us to see that an essentially divisible thing could never be unified in such a way that it
could ground the unity of consciousness. This then led Dauler Wilson to offer a Kantian
critique of Leibniz, namely that he was illegitimately moving from the unity of consciousness
to the assumption that the subject of conscious awareness was itself a unity. Here our worry
was that Leibniz talks about perception as the key thing that a machine could never do, and
perception is something that can be a feature of entities which have no conscious awareness
for Leibniz. We claimed instead that it was still a clash between the essential divisibility of
physical things and unity that was at issue, but that it was of a kind that left Leibniz immune
to the Kantian critique. Of course, there was still the issue of why he thought that perception
should be understood in this way, but we took the fifth on that. The argument seems to have
lain dormant in the secondary literature for quite a while after that. But a couple of years ago,
Stewart Duncan wrote a paper in which he extended the discussion of the mill argument to
other texts in which it occurs and made a good case for the claim that Leibniz was up to
different things in different places, sometimes offering an argument from ignorance,
sometimes something like our unity of perception argument. But he also argued that it was
the former that was going on the Monadology.
In the course of trying to work out whether Stewart had rendered our reading implausible I
decided I might be able to respond and, in the recent paper, I try again to push against the
claim that there’s an argument from ignorance, and to defend the reading of the Monadology
passage. But I also came across a passage in an essay recently translated by Lloyd Strickland
in which the mill is directly connected to the fact that Leibniz thinks of all ‘mental’ states
(here we have to remember that this includes unconscious perceiving) as involving the
activity of the entities that are in those states. Once one focuses on the kind of materialism
that Leibniz had in his sights – i.e., one that invokes a conception of matter as essentially
passive – it then becomes easy to see why states of mills couldn’t alone comprise mentality.
This perhaps turns the argument into something that would have interested the likes of Rorty
and Searle less, given that it invokes a seventeenth century conception of matter in a way
that’s essential to the argument. But, especially in light of the fact that Marleen Rozemond
has also published a paper this year which independently makes the same point, it offers the
possibility of moving our understanding of Leibniz’s rejection of materialism forward. And
whilst that might be more fun for the early modern geeks than others, there are definitely
some deep philosophical issues bubbling under the surface regarding the connection between
activity and perception, which Marleen has begun to explore more than I have.
3:AM: Newton wrote extensively on the occult. Did Leibniz?
PL: It depends on what counts as occult. I think it’s clear that Leibniz thought that there was
wisdom to be found in the thoughts of anyone who had put sustained effort into their
thinking. Indeed, it’s an artifact of his philosophy that this should be the case, given that, on
one level of analysis, we are all finite instantiations of the very same infinite essence, i.e., the
divine essence. So he was a voracious gatherer of information, and some of that arose from
activities such as hanging out in alchemical circles, talking with the notorious Francis
Mercurius van Helmont about the work of Christian Knorr von Rosenroth and others to
assimilate the Kabbalah into Christendom, such as Anne Conway, or looking seriously at the
ideas that were being brought back from China by the Jesuit missionaries. There’s also a
well-known admission from Leibniz, nicely documented in a recent Stanford Encyclopedia
article by John Whipple, that he sometimes presented his philosophy in an exoteric way and
sometimes in a more esoteric one. So there is a sense in which he regarded elements of his
own views as deserving to be kept occult.
The motivations here are complex, I think. Partly, I have the sense that he felt people had no
idea what he was talking about when he struggled to express his deepest views and so didn’t
think it worthwhile trying to express them in much of his public work. But, there’s clearly a
worry about the extent to which his views might have seemed dangerously close to those of
Spinoza (and in many ways they are very close) with all the worries about that might have
brought for someone who clearly thrived on human company and who wanted his ideas to be
taken up by others rather than portrayed as heretical and inadmissible.
The esoteric/exoteric distinction also gives the interpreter another level of hermeneutic
license which makes Leibniz’s philosophy even more fun to play around with. Indeed, it’s
one that fascinates me. I sometimes wonder whether Leibniz be being self-consciously ironic,
when he portrays his views as if they were a true depiction of general claims about the
structure of reality. And with this thought in mind, I naturally turn to thoughts about whether
he might think that we ought to regard ourselves as monads in the best of all possible worlds
and to propagate that view for reasons that are grounded in something other than the belief
that they correspond to the way things are.
At the extreme it can sometimes look as though his method is much like Kant’s, but without
all the torture that goes into trying to establish the necessity of the claims themselves. At
other times, it seems to me that for Leibniz himself what emerges from his theorizing might
justified on pragmatic grounds in service of that which makes this world seem to him to be
genuinely as good as one could want it to be. But I’m a long way from having a good story to
tell about how that might go.
3:AM: How does your approach to Leibniz differ from others? Are you aware of how your
research is taking you in a certain direction which puts you at odds with some previous views
about Leibniz?
PL: As I look back on the things I’ve written I can see a few things that look like points of
contrast with other well-known readings – though I think a lot of what I think is dependent on
the way in which I have assimilated the views of others. For example, I often find it hard to
see the difference on some of the commonly discussed issues between what I think and
what’s been written by Robert Merrihew Adams, Donald Rutherford and, of course, my own
supervisor, Martha. But there are some things I’ve said that I think it would be nice to see
people pick up on. One thing I’ve tried to emphasize is the extent to which Leibniz’s
justifications are often empirical in nature. Indeed, it seems to me that his views on
contingency force him to accept that we could never know anything about the created world
in any other way given our finite capacities. If so, then this pushes back quite significantly
against the conception of Leibniz as a ‘rationalist’ that people often have.
I’ve also tried to approach other aspects of Leibniz’s metaphysics on the basis of assuming
that we are finite cognizers in an infinitely complex world. Thus, I’ve argued that Leibniz
thinks the world of material individuals involves the constructive activity of finite minds, but
that this doesn’t leave him committed to the view that the material world is entirely mind-
dependent. But there is a big puzzle at the heart of this interpretation that I still find myself
unable to resolve, since it appears that in thinking about the monads as bodies we are
employing models that reify abstract features that neither monads themselves, nor the
perceptual field in which they appear can be understood to instantiate. Whether that’s a
problem for the interpretation or for Leibniz is the 64,000 dollar question. It seems to me that
it’s something he never got entirely clear about and that the notorious (to Anglophone
Leibniz scholars) puzzles about Leibniz’s use of the category of corporeal substance and his
invocation of the notion of a ‘substantial bond’ in his correspondence with Des Bosses are
evidence of his recognition of this puzzle.
I also, with Ben Crowe, developed some ideas on faith and reason that I still find quite
interesting. I’m not sure they ascribe a particularly novel position to Leibniz as opposed to
the philosophical tradition he’s working in, but they again suggest we need to think seriously
about the extent to which Leibniz thinks that there are a priori reason-governed justifications
for all the beliefs that we are entitled to accept. And, again this pushes back against the 21st
century expectation that we will find Leibniz to be an arch-rationalist.
As for the future: I think it depends how much I end up trying to articulate some of the more
idiosyncratic ideas that I have. I’m interested in writing more about Leibniz’s ethics. Indeed,
I’d like to try to approach his work in such a way that I present him as primarily interested in
an ethics that includes an understanding of the world that has a kind of eschatology at its
heart. It’s well-known that Leibniz cared about the problem of evil, but I think it’s less well-
known just how obsessed he was with it from quite early on in his life. One of his first
accomplished pieces of writings, the Confessio Philosophi is very similar in intent to the
much later, and more famous Theodicy. There are differences, but the continuity is quite
striking, and it’s also clear that the notion of harmony of the world is at the heart of his
response. Whilst the Confessio is a very theoretical piece of writing, a slightly later piece, On
the Secrets of the Sublime, suggests to me that Leibniz regarded himself as having found the
key to the good life as a result of acquiring the capacity to experience it as a harmonious
unity. As I hinted at above in connection with the relation between Leibniz and Spinoza, this
essay exudes something that seems like an almost mystical exuberance, as does another later
piece, which Donald Rutherford has translated as “Leibniz’s Philosophical Dream.” I’d like
to play around with the extent to which Leibniz’s philosophy can be seen as an attempt to
articulate this quasi-mystical insight so as to make it available to as many as possible –
something which he appears to me to try to do by giving an account of the world according to
which it is something that will be available to all rational creatures in the fullness of time.
Part of the reading that’s sort of hatching in my mind at this point also tries to tie this into
both the meaning and justification of the principle of sufficient reason, which I want to
construe (in part) as a practical principle, and as part of a more general conception of the
priority of the practical over the theoretical in Leibniz. The emphasis on praxis isn’t
completely radical reading among scholars. The fact that pragmatic considerations play a big
role in his thinking has often been a component in the ways others have seen him – it’s
notable that one of Dewey’s very early writings was a study of Leibniz’s New Essays. And, in
his recent translation of the correspondence between Leibniz and Electress Sophie and Queen
Sophie Charlotte, Lloyd Strickland has emphasized the extent to which Leibniz is offering the
princesses what he calls a ‘philosophy of contentment.’ But Strickland appears to think of
Leibniz as offering a true account of things, seeing the truth of which suffices for
contentment. I’d like to give these kinds of thoughts more of an existential twist and combine
them with reflection on the extent to which Leibniz thinks that an account of reality offered
by a finite being such as he was could ever be justified on the grounds that it corresponds
with the nature of things.
I’m hoping to teach a graduate course on Leibniz’s Theodicy in the near future and that may
provide the vehicle for exploring some of the ideas in a more scholarly way.
I’d also like to explore further the role that the notion of ‘love’ plays in Leibniz’s philosophy.
It’s so key that’s it’s not at all silly to think of him as a philosopher of love. It plays a
foundational role in his ethics, where the primary virtue is justice, which he defines as “the
charity [i.e., love]” of the wise. To love is said to be to take pleasure in the perfection of the
other, and this cocktail of ideas yields a kind of communitarian political philosophy that I
think has perhaps been unjustly neglected. Some of that is due to the fact that it’s expressed
in a context that can leave Leibniz looking like a conservative apologist for hereditary
monarchy. But if appropriately decontextualized, the key ideas seem to me far more
progressive and to prefigure the ‘social liberalism’ that was all the rage in late 19th century
Britain. Indeed, I’m currently getting very interested in the similarities between Leibniz and
T. H. Green, and even more inchoately, whether there are interesting connections to be drawn
between Leibniz and Jung. But that’s another pair of stories.
3:AM: Leibniz corresponded with quite a number of women during his lifetime and seems to
have had close relationships with Sophie, Electress of Hannover and Queen Sophie Charlotte
of Prussia. Should we think of him has having had feminist leanings?
PL: Leibniz clearly placed a high value on his relationships with Sophie and Sophie
Charlotte, and did correspond with them, and talk with them, about philosophical issues quite
a bit. And he had quite a lengthy philosophical correspondence with Damaris Masham. But I
think we have to be wary of thinking that he treated them as the kinds of intellectual partners
that he sought in other correspondences and relationships. There were important personal and
political reasons to engage with each these three women. In the case of Sophie and Sophie
Charlotte, he played the role of courtier, and it’s also the case that his relationships with them
had an important role in his emotional life.
The correspondence with Damaris Masham dates from a time when Locke was staying at her
house, and there is some suggestion that his real aim in writing to Masham was to try to
communicate indirectly with Locke through her. Furthermore, at least in the case of the
correspondences with Sophie and Sophie Charlotte, when philosophy is at issue, Leibniz does
almost all the talking, and is clearly trying to persuade them of the practical advantages that
adherence to his philosophical outlook might bring to them. I think he did this because he
cared about them as people, but it can all seem a little patronizing from a 21st century
perspective. That said, he does seem to have thought the relationship between man and wife
should be one of genuine friendship and to have conceived of that as involving a partnership
of equals. So he probably wasn’t all bad when it comes to gender politics.
Furthermore, one tangential thing we as readers can get from thinking about Leibniz’s
interactions with women is a window into the thought of some of the important women
philosophers of the period. Whilst Leibniz may not have learned a lot from Masham, for me
at least, knowing about Leibniz provided a route into discovering the existence of her as a
philosopher in her own right. And consideration of some of intellectual circles in which he
moved in the 1690s led to me find out about Anne Conway whose Principles of the Most
Ancient and Modern Philosophy, has a Neoplatonic metaphysics that bears some striking
resemblances to Leibniz’s own views. I’ve never done serious research on either of these two
figures, though I am intending to teach a graduate seminar in 2015 on women philosophers of
the early modern period in which Conway will certainly figure (Masham may have to be
eclipsed by Margaret Cavendish given that I’ll only have eight sessions to work with). And
there is now a really good body of secondary literature, and more emerging all the time, that
will help to facilitate this kind of teaching. For many years, people such as Sarah Hutton,
Eileen O’Neill, Margaret Atherton, and Lisa Shapiro (and many others) have been working to
help us enlarge our conception of the role of women philosophers in the early modern period.
Indeed, Sarah Hutton recently published an intellectual biography of Conway, and Christia
Mercer is now working on a full-scale treatment of the Principles. I think of these kinds of
projects as some of the most exciting things that are going on in early modern philosophy
scholarship at the moment. Furthermore, they are an important part of the more general move
toward a more inclusive profession which (notwithstanding the very serious growing pains) I
also feel lucky to be living through.
3:AM: Your work as a scholar has been to develop philosophical understanding of this major
historical figure. So how do you conceive of your work. Is it philosophy? It seems to me that
engagement with the philosophical ideas of a historical figure immediately turns the process
into one where the scholar is doing philosophy. Do you agree?
PL: I’m a philosopher by training and my readings of Leibniz are as someone who is trying
to articulate a fairly systematic philosophical worldview, the nature and grounds for which I
try to make intelligible to myself and others. I haven’t tried to defend those views as views
myself, and nor do have I tried to develop neo-Leibnizian ideas that might serve as
expressions of first order philosophical claims. So, since I tend to reserve the expression
‘doing philosophy’ for the latter, I am happy to regard my work as philosophically informed
interpretation rather than philosophy. But I also hope that I’m contributing to keeping alive a
system of ideas that might be usefully engaged with by those who do want to develop and
articulate their own philosophical views. And clearly the questions I bring to the text are
completely infused with the beliefs (however ill-formed) that I have about the issues I see
Leibniz as discussing.
I think lots of the people that I know who write about philosophical texts are engaging with
texts philosophically in something like this sense. But one sees differences within this kind of
approach. In particular, there are some people who like to bring in concepts from
contemporary philosophy a bit more than I do. I’d rather let Leibniz speak in his own (if
translated) voice where that’s possible. And some people are a bit more interested in
assessing whether it would be reasonable now to hold the views they are ascribing, or
modified versions.
In fact, in private I’m doing my own philosophizing all the time and I find thinking about
Leibniz’s texts very helpful in this regard, both positively and negatively. I’m most interested
in foundational questions about normativity and one thing that can definitely be said for
Leibniz is that he is pushing philosophy to its limits in this regard.
But it would be wrong to ignore the extent to which there is also an aesthetic motivation. I
like to think of Leibniz’s thought as a bit like a musical instrument that I’ve been learning to
play for a long time. Given that I can ‘play Leibniz’, there is much fun to be had from
carefully learning a new bit of text, or playing through the readings of others. And then there
is the great pleasure that comes from playing in the analogue of a band, i.e., talking with
people who have worked on Leibniz for a long time and see things in something like the
same way as I do, but who have their unique interpretations that can be shared for mutual
benefit.
And, herein lies, I think, one of the great things about doing philosophy through historical
figures like Leibniz. Whilst it’s very hard to leave your ego at home, there is less personal at
stake when trying to discuss what you think Leibniz thought about x than when trying to say
what you think about x. For one thing, everyone knows deep down, it would be crazy to think
that they understood Leibniz an sich, and, for another, we all know he was a lot better at
philosophy that we will ever be! And yet the joy of thinking philosophically is ever present.
3:AM: It’s probably not very cool or scholarly, but if you were to rank Leibniz where would
you place him in a league table of all time greats? I ask, because he isn’t as well known now
as Descartes. In terms of their ranking, is his relative obscurity fair?
PL: I have a suspicion he is the most impressive of all. But I would expect myself to be
tempted by that thought that, and presumably, mutatis mutandis, that would be the standard
response from anyone who focuses so much of their attention on a single historical figure.
My hunch is that wherever one finds enough text that survives over time which apparently
emanates from the same human being, and which sustains the level of interpretative
engagement that Leibniz’s work does, one will find someone who prompts a similar kind of
adulation.
I guess the best I can do is to say that I think that if you start to find reading Leibniz
interesting, continuing with it is likely to be an extremely rewarding experience and one
which will allow you to do a lot of philosophical thinking. And perhaps the existence of so
much text and the lack of a single text that appears to provide a canonical statement of his
views, means that you could get wrapped up in reading and thinking about his view for a long
time – assuming, of course, that you’re lucky enough to find the financial support that
facilitates that.
3:AM: When you are not steeped in the seventeenth century philosophical world, have you
found any books or art or films outside of philosophy enlightening?
PL: I’m a bit of an obsessive and tend to go back to the same things over and over again.
Indeed, I have only one publication that doesn’t have the word ‘Leibniz’ in the title. I don’t
read a lot of fiction these days, since I find it hard not to pick up a philosophy book when I
have the time to read. Indeed, most of the novels that I’ve read, I read in my teens and early
twenties. One person I do go back to regularly is Hermann Hesse. There’s plenty not to like
about his books – the most obvious being that they are pretty much devoid of significant
female characters. But they hold a fascination for me, and The Glass Bead Game is my
favorite. If I had to pick one other favorite novel, it would probably be Orlando by Virginia
Woolf.
I listen to music pretty much all the time that I’m not watching the TV and DVDs that our
kids are watching. Mainly that means turning on BBC Radio 3 and getting whatever I’m
given. And, given just how much wonderful classical music there is, it’s rare that I turn it off.
But again I have my perennial obsessions. With classical music, it is Wagner, and mainly The
Ring. Again, there are loads of things to hate about Wagner if you let yourself. But The Ring
is indescribably wonderful in so many ways. I also like other kinds of music and the
perennial favorites here are Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, and Peter Gabriel (with Genesis and
particularly the first 4 of his solo albums).
With all these artists, one of the key issues for me is the familiarity. I know there are lots of
other newer things out there and I’m not immune to novelty (I can rattle off “Let it Go” and
“Do you want to Build a Snowman?” in my sleep at the moment) and am fully aware that
there are many of great things I’m probably missing out on. But I have my old friends and the
richness of the experiences that returning to them again and again provides is generally more
attractive to me. Crucially, there are common themes of alienation and redemption through
love running throughout these works.
I’m pretty illiterate with the visual arts, but I love to walk around the National Gallery and
Tate Modern in London. I also love the Rothko Chapel in Houston. As with music and
philosophy the survival of canonical things seems to me to be indicative of something.
Indeed, I once said in a job interview that I studied Leibniz because I thought his
philosophical system needed to be preserved for future generations as one of the great
achievements of human thought, much like Bach’s mass in B minor. It was somewhat
tongue-in-cheek, but only somewhat. That said, again I really wouldn’t want to leave the
impression that I’m immune to the charms and values of the new.
Another thing that I wouldn’t want to leave out is the beauty I find in places. I was born in
Yorkshire and steeped in experiences of the Yorkshire Dales and the glacial landscapes of
northern England. Three places stick out in particular. In the Lake District, it is Castlerigg
stone circle just above Keswick and in Yorkshire there are two places: the head of Swaledale
where the moraine Kisdon towers above the villages of Keld, Thwaite and Muker; and the
tiny church of St Mary Lead, about 3 miles from where I was born, which stands isolated in a
field that abuts the landscape in which the battle of Towton was fought in 1461, the bloodiest
battle ever to take place on British soil. Finally, there is our garden at home in Oxford. It’s
nothing special, but we have lots of lavender and hollyhocks and I love to watch all the
insects going about their business in the summer. If there’s a time when the notion of pre-
established harmony, and, indeed, the thought that this is the best of all possible worlds
resonates for me, it’s when the bees are buzzing in among the flowers and going about their
own harmonizing activity. But that’s not to say I can reconcile this rationally with the horrors
that we rational beings inflict on each other.
3:AM: And finally for the monadalising readers here at 3am, are there five books you could
recommend that would give us further insights into this philosophical world? (other than your
own book of course which we’ll all be scampering away to buy once we’ve finished here!)
PL: It is a bit tough to get started with Leibniz and I am a little reluctant to single out five, so
I want to cheat a bit if that’s Ok.
My favourite introductory book is Nicholas Jolley’s Leibniz.
If you want to know more about Leibniz the man, there is Maria Rosa Antognazza’s
magisterial Leibniz: A Biography. It’s a fantastic piece of scholarship and a breezy read (for
an intellectual biography) that brings out very clearly the practical dimension to Leibniz’s
philosophical life.
As one moves on to the more advanced books, there are lots of good ones to choose from. I
myself have probably learned most from Robert Merrihew Adams’ Leibniz: Determinist
Theist, Idealist; and Donald Rutherford’s Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, both of
which present somewhat sympathetic readings of Leibniz’s ideas, even though neither author
has philosophical assessment as their focus. But I also have a great regard for a book which
takes a rather different approach, namely Christia Mercer’s Leibniz’s Metaphysics: It’s
Origins and Development, which has a particular focus on the ways in which the
preoccupations of Leibniz’s eclectic teachers led him to be infected with ideas (including a
heavy dose of renaissance Neoplatonism) that would be played out during the remainder of
his career.
I also can’t go without mentioning Daniel Garber’s book, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad,
which I first heard as a lecture series and have just read for the third time this summer in
preparation for a conference on his work. Dan says a lot of things that are different to things I
would say, but it’s full of really interesting ideas.
Finally I wouldn’t want to leave out a few more things that are for those who might end up
more obsessed. One is a book: Mark Kulstad’s Leibinz, Perception, Apperception and
Reflection, and the other things are the academic papers of two people who’ve never written a
book – namely Gregory Brown and my teacher Martha.