IN ORDER TO advance the general good of the human race (at least as he saw it), Leibniz believed that he would have to pursue his own personal good, too. To the famous Jansenist theologian Antoine Arnauld, the aspiring twenty-five-year-old philosopher made this confession: advance the general good of the human race (at least as he saw it), Leibniz believed that he would have to pursue his own personal good, too. To the famous Jansenist theologian Antoine Arnauld, the aspiring twenty-five-year-old philosopher made this confession: There is nothing, I think, upon which I have brooded more earnestly over the course of my life, however short, than the problem of a.s.suring my security in the future, and I confess that by far the greatest cause of my philosophizing as well has been the hope of winning a prize not to be disdained-peace of mind-and the ability to say that I have demonstrated certain things which have heretofore merely been believed or even, in spite of their great importance, ignored.

Leibniz, no less than Spinoza, was keen to win philosophical honor. But, whereas Spinoza sought the kind of fame that accrues to leaders of underground revolutions, Leibniz went in search of a much more aboveground form of prestige. He unabashedly craved all those things that Spinoza disdained: t.i.tles, awards, salaries, tenure. "Great was his desire to shine," as one observer noted. And, indeed, without such trappings of fame, he reasoned, he would never be in a position to contribute to the general good of the human race. In Leibniz's mind, his own "security in the future" was sometimes difficult to distinguish from the general good of the human race.

The moment he had been elevated to privy counselor of justice in the court of Mainz in the summer of 1670, Leibniz launched an aggressive campaign to thrust himself into the limelight of the pan-European intellectual scene. The first phase of this campaign consisted of direct-mail approaches to leading figures in the republic of letters. Although he occupied a political position of some note, the young diplomat had not yet established his reputation in the intellectual world; these early letters were, in essence, cold calls.

Among the first recipients of Leibniz's introductory offerings was Thomas Hobbes, the aging and highly controversial materialist philosopher, then residing in London. "I know of no one who has philosophized more exactly, clearly, and elegantly than you, not even excepting that man of divine genius, Descartes himself," Leibniz tells Hobbes, just before going on to suggest that perhaps the widely reviled materialist might wish to rebut more forcefully those who say he does not believe in the immortality of the soul. The octogenarian Hobbes chose not to respond.

Leibniz next opened up communications with leading intellectuals in Holland, Italy, and France. He devoted special attention to Antoine Arnauld. His letter to the theologian runs to six thousand words and summarizes and refines many of the concepts examined in his earlier epistles to Thomasius.

That same summer of 1670 Leibniz also initiated a lengthy correspondence with Henry Oldenburg. "Pardon that an unknown one writes to one who is not unknown," he begins, with typical baroque flourish. The point of the correspondence soon becomes clear: Leibniz has produced a pair of essays on the philosophy of motion, under the t.i.tle of New Physical Hypothesis New Physical Hypothesis, and he wishes to share his work with the members of the Royal Society.

Leibniz's essays on motion mark a significant stage in his philosophical development. They begin with some of the ideas about motion and activity that the philosopher first developed in the context of his work on the metaphysics of church reunion, and they go on to raise for the first time the problem Leibniz calls "the labyrinth of the continuum": loosely speaking, the problem of explaining how it is that infinitely small points can come together to const.i.tute a line. The essays thus supply a link between Leibniz's earliest theological reflections and his later metaphysics. Intriguingly, they also hint at the study of mathematical infinitesimals that would soon lead him to his epochal discovery of the calculus.

The essays also offer some frankly bizarre speculations in physics. "Bubbles are the seeds of everything," the young scholar confidently maintains. Water is a ma.s.s of countless bubbles, he adds; and air is nothing but rarefied water. And what of the earth? "There can be no doubt that it, too, is made entirely of bubbles, for the basis of earth is gla.s.s, gla.s.s in a thick bubble."

The immediate aim of the essays was to inject its author into controversies raging between some of the major powers of the intellectual world of the time. The philosophy of motion was the site of a battle among such t.i.tans as Christiaan Huygens, Christopher Wren, and the ghost of Descartes. Leibniz's goal in drawing attention to himself in this way, in fact, was to secure membership in either the Royal Society of London, the Royal Academy of Paris, or both. Making little effort to disguise his ambition, he dedicated one essay apiece to each of those august bodies.

For those who had as yet no reason to be interested in Leibniz's personal philosophical development, unfortunately, his essays were mainly a source of bafflement. Leibniz showed some facility in his criticisms of Descartes, but his discussion otherwise suggested that his attempt to throw himself into the deep end of contemporary debates was premature. The English mathematician John Wallis offered a favorable review of the essays, but the cantankerous Robert Hooke was scathing about the "little work." Then as now, the consensus was that the less said about the bubble theory of the world, the better. A later critic described Leibniz's early essays on physics as the product of "proud ignorance." In his eagerness to establish his reputation among the members of the Royal Society, it seems that Leibniz ruffled a few too many feathers, the disastrous consequences of which would unfold several decades later in the dispute with Newton over the calculus.

THE IMMENSE AND variegated tableau of Leibniz's philosophy of philosophy came together in a letter he addressed to his future employer, Duke Johann Friedrich of Hanover, in the autumn of 1671. Johann Friedrich was the runt of the House of Brunswick. According to his mother, he was "horrifyingly fat, and much shorter than the others." Indeed, he was reportedly so obese that he rarely moved, and often preferred to rule his fiefdom from his well-appointed bed. On a journey to Italy that he had taken in the long, slow years before coming to power, he had converted to Catholicism. To the consternation of his family and peers, his conversion seemed to be motivated by a sincere belief in the truth of his new religion. He always had a soft spot for spiritual affairs, for philosophical speculation, and, more to the point, for Leibniz himself. The young philosopher pinned many of his hopes for future success on the pliable duke. variegated tableau of Leibniz's philosophy of philosophy came together in a letter he addressed to his future employer, Duke Johann Friedrich of Hanover, in the autumn of 1671. Johann Friedrich was the runt of the House of Brunswick. According to his mother, he was "horrifyingly fat, and much shorter than the others." Indeed, he was reportedly so obese that he rarely moved, and often preferred to rule his fiefdom from his well-appointed bed. On a journey to Italy that he had taken in the long, slow years before coming to power, he had converted to Catholicism. To the consternation of his family and peers, his conversion seemed to be motivated by a sincere belief in the truth of his new religion. He always had a soft spot for spiritual affairs, for philosophical speculation, and, more to the point, for Leibniz himself. The young philosopher pinned many of his hopes for future success on the pliable duke.

In the first pages of his October letter, Leibniz informed Johann Friedrich of his own princ.i.p.al achievements thus far in life, among which he numbered:

*The universal characteristic. If he is able to realize this idea, he says here, it will be the "mother of all my inventions."

*The philosophy of motion. "In natural philosophy, I am the first perhaps to have demonstrated completely that...there is a vacuum, not by experiments, but by geometrical demonstrations, for I have proved some propositions on the nature of motion that no one else has thought of before.... A scholar from Italy wrote me that he had neveryet seen any hypotheses that contented him more. From England I have received some quite favorable reviews."

*Mathematics and mechanics. "I have discovered some things that...should be esteemed of no little importance." He refers here to an idea he has for building a calculating machine, one capable of performing basic arithmetical functions. He also proposes a similar calculator for trigonometric functions.

*Optics. He lists three ideas: a "pandochal" lens, a "catadioptric" tube, and a surveying instrument able to measure distances from a single point. All of these, he says, have hitherto been "attempted in vain" by others.

*The problem of longitude. He says he has the idea for a solution to the problem of determining the longitude of ships at sea. If his experiments are not stopped, he warns, his method will shortly prove to be "the most accurate and universal of all those we now have."

*Submarines. He says he has "rest.i.tuted" the idea behind the invention first attributed to Cornelius van Drebbel and described by the priest Marin Mersenne, for a vessel capable of traveling under the surface of the sea.

*Pneumatics. He has designed a machine capable of compressing air to 1,000 atmospheres-levels "for which hitherto there is nothing in the world to compare"-for possible use as an engine in ships or carriages.

*Moral philosophy and jurisprudence. His essay Elementa Iuris Naturalae Elementa Iuris Naturalae (Elements of Natural Justice) is a "brief" work, he concedes, but "of such clarity and pithiness" that it has already exerted a profound influence on contemporary jurisprudence. (Elements of Natural Justice) is a "brief" work, he concedes, but "of such clarity and pithiness" that it has already exerted a profound influence on contemporary jurisprudence.

*Natural theology. He has demonstrated that "there must be an ultimate reason for things or for the universal harmony, which is G.o.d" furthermore, he has adduced proofs that G.o.d is not the cause of sin, that punishment for sins is part of universal harmony, and that the mind is incorporeal; plus, he has solved the mind-body problem.

*Revealed theology. He has defended the "mysteries" of the church-such as transubstantiation-against the "insults of un-believers and atheists."

There can be no doubt that Leibniz was a universal genius-perhaps the last such genius in modern history. "In the same way that the ancients could manage eight horses simultaneously," said Fontenelle in his eulogy for the great thinker, "Leibniz could manage all the sciences simultaneously." Still, it would not be unkind to wonder whether the twenty-five-year-old who wrote this letter had perhaps a few too many horses in the race. Of all the world-beating inventions mentioned in his list, only one-the arithmetical calculating machine-later achieved any degree of physical reality. The rest went the way of most brilliant ideas. The lavish self-praise that characterizes the letter raises a quandary, too. Did Leibniz really believe that the English were head over heels for his allegedly groundbreaking physics? That he was, moreover, on the verge of cracking the centuries-old problem of longitude, not to mention that he already had the mind-body problem in the bag? Or was he just throwing everything he had at the Duke in a desperate hope that something would stick?

Fontenelle, as it turns out, was wrong only in the detail: the number of projects that Leibniz managed simultaneously was almost always an order of magnitude greater than eight. When an idea flared in his kinetic mind, he would grab it like a torch and run until the next bright light caught his eye, and then he would add that one to the bundle in his arms, too, dropping a few others in his haste and so leaving behind a trail of smoldering visions. In the 120 volumes' worth of material in the Leibniz archives, there are without doubt hundreds of sparkling inventions that have yet to be catalogued, let alone realized. He wrote about everything, to everybody, all the time. If Spinoza was the quintessential monomaniac-ruthlessly compressing a lifetime of insights into a single, adamantine volume-then Leibniz may be aptly described as an "omnimaniac."

There was in Leibniz a limitless energy, an enthusiasm for all things, and an almost desperate love of life that can only evoke wonder and admiration; but there was a certain recklessness, too, and maybe even an odd lack of seriousness. Though Leibniz's achievements in life were extraordinary by any measure, they were meager indeed in comparison with his plans. As he confessed to one of his later correspondents, "I can suggest much to others, but cannot alone execute all that occurs to me; and I would gladly give to others the fame of many of my inventions, if only the public welfare, the good of the race and the glory of G.o.d might thereby be promoted."

The epistle to Johann Friedrich does not end with the swollen list of the young Leibniz's intellectual triumphs. After summarizing his real or intended contributions to the sciences, the philosopher-diplomat turns to his work in politics. It is evident that the buildup of French armies will end badly, he tells the Duke. He foresees a "universal war" in which 100,000 men will die. But, praise G.o.d, he continues, he has devised a plan. He presents the essentials of the idea for a new holy war.

He intends to go to Paris to promote the plan, he says, and he is confident that the doors of the French capital will swing wide open before his advance. Louis XIV's all-powerful first minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, has expressed interest in his calculating machine; and he believes he can introduce himself to the Marquis de Pomponne, the secretary of state, on the strength of his ties with Pomponne's uncle, the great Arnauld.

At last, in the closing paragraphs of the letter, Leibniz gets to the point-for, whenever he wrote to the Duke of Hanover about his many achievements, there was always a point. He wants letters of introduction from the Duke to notables in Paris, especially people of the kind who may wish to "encourage through pensions" talented young men of learning-men such as Leibniz himself. For, he sees "no better opportunity" for advancing his scientific work than in journeying to Paris.

The Egypt Plan, as it turns out, is a brilliant means with which to further Leibniz's philosophical career. Paris, Leibniz gushes, "is the most knowledgeable and powerful city in the universe." It is the capital of the international republic of letters, home to the likes of Antoine Arnauld, Christiaan Huygens, and Nicolas Malebranche. Paris will provide the young courtier the opportunity to meet with and work alongside the great scientists and philosophers of his time. Just as important, it will allow him the opportunity to acquire t.i.tles, awards, and society memberships; it will thrust him on to the brightly lit stage of world history. If the feeling of vanitas vanitas that Spinoza describes in his earliest treatise has an opposite, it would have to be the sense of fervid antic.i.p.ation with which the young Leibniz beheld the distant, tantalizing glitter of the City of Light. that Spinoza describes in his earliest treatise has an opposite, it would have to be the sense of fervid antic.i.p.ation with which the young Leibniz beheld the distant, tantalizing glitter of the City of Light.

Of course, it may seem strange that one of the two greatest thinkers of the seventeenth century should have made use of a proposal for a new holy war as a means to advance his philosophical career. But this rather unlikely circ.u.mstance may also serve as testimony to Leibniz's heroic skills as a universal mediator. In the eyes of William the Peacemaker, the Egypt Plan solved all the world's problems at a stroke: it solved the problem of German security, the problem of Europe's future as a Christian republic, the problem of Egypt (inasmuch as those Egyptians who weren't killed in the process would become Christians), and, mirabile dictu mirabile dictu, it solved the problem of Leibniz, too. This would be far from the last time that the philosopher discovered, to his delight, such an unexpected but highly convenient concordance between the general good and his personal ambition. There is no reason to doubt, furthermore, that, as he labored to enact his bold plan to remake the Middle East and conquer the world of learning in one fell swoop, Leibniz remained convinced that the whole, multifarious operation was just one more proof of the "elegance and harmony of the world."

LEIBNIZ'S PHILOSOPHY WAS not yet fully formed; but his philosophy of philosophy-the att.i.tude and approach he took to philosophy-was all in place by the time he turned twenty-five. The primary goal of contributing to the general good; the commitment to the chief good of defending the theocratic status quo (or, better, in view of the reunion project: the status quo not yet fully formed; but his philosophy of philosophy-the att.i.tude and approach he took to philosophy-was all in place by the time he turned twenty-five. The primary goal of contributing to the general good; the commitment to the chief good of defending the theocratic status quo (or, better, in view of the reunion project: the status quo ante ante); the altruism or other-orientation of his work, in both form and content; the perception of philosophy as a scene; the aspiration to thrust oneself on to center stage, to become the great conciliator of all thought; the emphasis on the utility of philosophical doctrines over and above their truth; the deconstructive approach to modern philosophy; the identification of philosophical merit with the rewards and recognition offered by the established authorities of the intellectual world; and the omnimania-all of this was present in Leibniz's earliest philosophical exercises, and all would remain with him throughout his long career.

Already evident, too, was the unexpectedly modern cast of Leibniz's mind. Notwithstanding the medievalism inherent in his ecclesiastical project, the young philosopher had already signaled the commitments to a form of humanism, the welfare state, and the primacy of reason that would link his thought to modernity. Even more telling, perhaps, the pragmatism-perhaps one may even call it relativism-that seems to underlie his approach to philosophy renders him more a figure of the present than of the past. "We must always adapt ourselves to the world," Leibniz once said, "for the world will not adapt itself to us." In the political ideal that he advocated, reason may have been the basis for empire; but in the real world in which he lived and acted, as Leibniz amply demonstrated in his practice, reason was just one more expression of power, and "the good" was just another name for "the useful."

Shadowing Leibniz from the start, too, were some of the question marks that inevitably arise over one who adopts such a quasi-modern approach to philosophy: the concern that in his relentless pursuit of the good, he perhaps lost sight of the truth; and the suspicion that in his failure to distinguish clearly between the general good and his personal interests, he perhaps confused the two.

The contrast with Spinoza, as always, seems definitive. There can be little doubt about the firmness of the convictions that motivated Spinoza's monomaniacal quest. In his case, the enigma lies rather in their source. How could he be so sure? Leibniz, on the other hand, presents us with a very different puzzle. In attempting to synthesize irreconcilable positions, in cavalierly defending doctrines to which he himself most likely did not adhere, and in spreading his attentions on all things so thinly as to seem superficial, he begs the question that troubled the villagers and n.o.bles of Hanover alike: Did he believe in anything at all?

And so it is all the more curious that, at the very time that he was polishing up the Egypt Plan and burnishing his credentials as the in-house philosopher for a reunited Christian church-indeed, in the same month that he produced his lengthy self-a.n.a.lysis for the benefit of the Duke of Hanover-Leibniz made his first, secret contact with the philosopher of The Hague. But in order to make sense of his bewildering behavior in that regard and its many implications and ramifications, it is necessary first to catch up with Spinoza and the storm he had just unleashed on the republic of letters-a tempest of ideas that was to transform forever the landscape of the same world that the young man from Leipzig intended to conquer.

6.

The Hero of the People Tommaso Aniello, an Amalfi fisherman, left this earth at the age of twenty-six in a strange and violent blaze of glory over ten hot days in the summer of 1647. Naples at the time was a dominion of the Spanish crown, which ruled the city with its customary blend of avarice, brutality, and incompetence. That spring the Spaniards had imposed a new tax on fruit, thus adding to the citizens' long list of grievances. On July 7, the fruit vendors rioted, the police fled under a hail of oranges, and the people arose in rebellion.

Masaniello, as the young fisherman came to be known, rowed his boat ash.o.r.e and a.s.sumed leadership of the uprising. With his fishing net strung over his shoulder, he marched the rabble into the town palace and put their demands before the Spanish viceroy. For six days in that steamy July, Masaniello and his people's liberation army ruled the streets of Naples. From a wooden pavilion outside his home, the rebel fisherman held court, issuing edicts on behalf of the oppressed people of the city and dispensing justice to the friends and enemies of the revolution. On the seventh day, through the mediation of the Vatican, the captive viceroy signed a truce, according to which Masaniello would a.s.sume the magnificent t.i.tle of Captain-General and his followers would get the tax relief they sought.

The events of the next three days were lost in the haze of revolution. Some said that the young fisherman, overwhelmed by his sudden rise to prominence, succ.u.mbed to his own megalomaniacal fantasies; others said that the viceroy poisoned his drink; others that he was betrayed by his own followers. Whatever the case, on July 16, nine days after the winds of fortune swept him from his fishing boat to the people's pavilion, Masaniello was murdered in front of a church. The rougher elements of the mob hacked off his head, affixed it to the end of a lance, and presented it to the viceroy as a trophy.

A few days later, the people of the city suffered remorse for the foul deed. They put the slain hero's body parts back together again and interred him with great pomp.

The liberation of Naples was as brief as it was confused, but Masaniello ascended above the fog of history to claim a kind of immortality. "It wo'd stumble any one's belief," wrote a breathless commentator of the time, "that a young fellow, a petty poor barefooted fisherman a petty poor barefooted fisherman, shold draw after him...above forty thousand armed men forty thousand armed men, and shaking of his linen flop linen flop, blue waistcoat blue waistcoat, and red bonnet red bonnet, shold...command all of Naples Naples...as absolutely as ever Monark Monark did." The legend of Masaniello inspired poets, playwrights, and composers across the continent. The icon that seized the progressive imagination was that of a freedom fighter-a man who made the ultimate sacrifice for the liberation of his people from the cruel and corrupt theocratic order so ably embodied by the Catholic monarchy of Spain. Among radical painters, Masaniello became a stock figure, always represented in a fisherman's shirt, with a net strung over his shoulder and his eyes smoldering with fervor to save the oppressed people of the world. did." The legend of Masaniello inspired poets, playwrights, and composers across the continent. The icon that seized the progressive imagination was that of a freedom fighter-a man who made the ultimate sacrifice for the liberation of his people from the cruel and corrupt theocratic order so ably embodied by the Catholic monarchy of Spain. Among radical painters, Masaniello became a stock figure, always represented in a fisherman's shirt, with a net strung over his shoulder and his eyes smoldering with fervor to save the oppressed people of the world.

AMONG THE PAINTERS Masaniello inspired was Baruch de Spinoza. Masaniello inspired was Baruch de Spinoza.

That the philosopher should have taken up painting as a pastime is perhaps not so surprising. The Dutch, after all, were in the throes of their art madness, and in the final fourteen years of his life Spinoza lodged with two artists-Daniel Tydeman in Voorburg and Hendrik van der Spyck in The Hague. His biographer Colerus, who had the opportunity to view a portfolio of charcoal and ink sketches left with van der Spyck, avowed that Spinoza was a fine draughtsman. Most of his drawings were portraits of individuals, presumably his friends, who included many prominent personages of The Hague.

The Masaniello sketch, according to Colerus, made use of the traditional iconography: the shirt, the net, and, one presumes, the fiery eyes. Obviously, the philosopher was among those caught up in the romance of the revolutionary fisherman. But the most astonishing thing about the work, according to Colerus, was that the face of the revolutionary hero did not look like that of a Neapolitan fisherman. It looked more like that of a Portuguese Jew. In fact, says Colerus, the man in the painting "bore a striking resemblance" to Spinoza himself. Hendrik van der Spyck-who himself produced several portraits of his lodger-insisted that the philosopher intended to depict himself in the role of rebel fisherman.

The Masaniello (self-)portrait marks a subtle yet decisive transformation in the self-image as well as the public image of the man whose journey toward personal salvation began in the safety of isolated cottages in remote villages. To be sure, the pa.s.sion for freedom and the longing for glory had always been there; but those impulses had hitherto been well sublimated in his solitary meditations. With the publication of the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus in 1670, the humble raisin eater of The Hague made stunningly clear that he was an essentially political thinker. With his pen as well as his brush, he had appointed himself the spiritual leader of a global revolution. in 1670, the humble raisin eater of The Hague made stunningly clear that he was an essentially political thinker. With his pen as well as his brush, he had appointed himself the spiritual leader of a global revolution.

THE FIRST SIGN of Spinoza's impending metamorphosis appeared in 1665, when the village of Voorburg stumbled into a typically vicious dispute over the selection of the next pastor for the town church. Pet.i.tioners in favor of the more conservative candidate enhanced their case by pointing out that among the progressives was Daniel Tydeman, in whose house lodged "a certain...Spinosa, born of Jewish parents, who is now (so it is said) an atheist, that is, a man who mocks all religions and is thus a pernicious element in this republic." Spinoza was, as always, deeply offended by the accusation of atheism; yet it seems that he was powerless to stop that word from consuming his reputation. of Spinoza's impending metamorphosis appeared in 1665, when the village of Voorburg stumbled into a typically vicious dispute over the selection of the next pastor for the town church. Pet.i.tioners in favor of the more conservative candidate enhanced their case by pointing out that among the progressives was Daniel Tydeman, in whose house lodged "a certain...Spinosa, born of Jewish parents, who is now (so it is said) an atheist, that is, a man who mocks all religions and is thus a pernicious element in this republic." Spinoza was, as always, deeply offended by the accusation of atheism; yet it seems that he was powerless to stop that word from consuming his reputation.

The ruckus in Voorburg may have prompted Spinoza to devote his energies to a new project. In October of that year he announced to Oldenburg his intention to publish a "treatise on my views regarding scripture." Three factors motivate him to go ahead with the plan, he explains: 1. The prejudices of the theologians. For I know that these are the main obstacles which prevent men from giving their minds to philosophy....

2. The opinion of me held by the common people, who constantly accuse me of atheism. I am driven to avert this accusation, too, as far as I can.

3. The freedom to philosophize and to say what we think. This I want to vindicate completely, for here it is in every way suppressed by the excessive authority and egotism of the preachers.

In these first statements of his political manifesto, one may already detect glimmers of the radical politics of liberation to which the philosopher would shortly commit himself. But there is also a sense that his primary aim remains, as in his early Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect, to safeguard his philosophical quest for salvation from possible political interference-rather than to promote philosophical interference in politics.

Three years pa.s.sed, however, with no news on Spinoza's promised treatise. In 1668, the tragic fate of a pair of Spinoza's friends, the Koerbagh brothers, very likely prodded the reluctant revolutionary to apply himself to the project with renewed vigor. Adriaen Koerbagh and his younger brother Johannes were caught up in the whirl of ideas revolving around the figure of Spinoza. After a number of runins with the local theocrats, Adriaen published a work t.i.tled A Garden of All Kinds of Loveliness Without Sorrow A Garden of All Kinds of Loveliness Without Sorrow. He wanted to enlighten the people of Holland; he wanted to free them from the oppressive rule of the theologians; and he claimed to prove that G.o.d is but one thing, an eternal being with infinite attributes that cannot be separated from its creation. Without question, Adriaen had spent too much time reading Spinoza's ma.n.u.script The Short Treatise on G.o.d, Man, and His Well-Being The Short Treatise on G.o.d, Man, and His Well-Being, which had been circulating underground for some time.

The theocrats saw little that was lovely and much that was sorrowful in Adriaen's garden. They accused him of blasphemy. The young heretic went into hiding, so the authorities arrested Johannes, who had been caught proselytizing on his brother's behalf. While Johannes languished in jail, the unrepentant Adriaen chose to multiply his sacrilege. From an undisclosed location, he issued another book, A Light Shining in Dark Places A Light Shining in Dark Places. The dark places in question were mainly to be found in the Catholic Church and the (insufficiently) Reformed Church, whose irrational doctrines, Adriaen argues, are deceptions deployed by the clergy to keep the people in abject submission.

With the help of a 1,500-guilder reward, the authorities learned that the author of A Light A Light might be found wearing a dark wig and making a nuisance of himself on the streets of Leiden. They promptly located the poorly disguised iconoclast and brought him to justice. In a trial that was as short on facts as it was long on righteous indignation, the prosecutors pressed the young Koerbaghs to reveal the extent of their relations with Spinoza. But the Koerbaghs confessed only that they had met with the reviled atheist a few times, and that they had never talked philosophy with him. The magistrates didn't buy it, but in the absence of further evidence, they let the Spinoza connection drop. In the end, Adriaen was sentenced to ten years in the pestilent Rasphuis Prison, and to ten more years of exile-"should he survive." might be found wearing a dark wig and making a nuisance of himself on the streets of Leiden. They promptly located the poorly disguised iconoclast and brought him to justice. In a trial that was as short on facts as it was long on righteous indignation, the prosecutors pressed the young Koerbaghs to reveal the extent of their relations with Spinoza. But the Koerbaghs confessed only that they had met with the reviled atheist a few times, and that they had never talked philosophy with him. The magistrates didn't buy it, but in the absence of further evidence, they let the Spinoza connection drop. In the end, Adriaen was sentenced to ten years in the pestilent Rasphuis Prison, and to ten more years of exile-"should he survive."

He did not.

In the unforgiving autumn of 1669, after a few weeks in an unheated prison cell, Adriaen died of illness. Johannes was released, but his fate was no happier. He pa.s.sed away three years later, ill, dest.i.tute, and alone.

Perhaps moved by the tragic fate of his fellow travelers, Spinoza finally released his Tractatus Tractatus in 1670. In the subt.i.tle he gives away the central concern of the treatise: in 1670. In the subt.i.tle he gives away the central concern of the treatise: In which it is shown not only that the freedom of philosophizing may be granted without harm to piety and civil peace, but also that such freedom is not possible except when accompanied by piety and civil peace In which it is shown not only that the freedom of philosophizing may be granted without harm to piety and civil peace, but also that such freedom is not possible except when accompanied by piety and civil peace. The words seem innocent enough to us now; but at the time they were shocking. Looming behind Spinoza's arguments was the vision of an entirely new political order, a recognizably modern one founded on the principle of toleration, according to which individuals have the inalienable right to express their own opinions about matters of conscience.

The bulk of the Tractatus Tractatus is devoted to an a.n.a.lysis of the Bible. Spinoza sets out to demonstrate, among other things, that the Bible is full of obscurities and contradicts itself with abandon; that the Pentateuch manifestly did not come from the pen of G.o.d, Moses, or any other single author, but rather was the work of several very human writers over a long span of time; that the Jews were not G.o.d's "chosen people," except in the sense that they thrived in a specific place and time long ago; that the miracles reported in the Bible are always imaginary and often ill informed (how could Joshua say that the sun stopped one day, for example, when it is the earth that moves?); and that the prophets had no special powers to see into the future, but rather had only a talent for elaborating moral insights in a colorful language adapted to the preconceptions and the prejudices of the common people. In short, Spinoza presents a thoroughly secular and historicist reading of the scriptures-entirely unexceptional by modern standards-according to which the Bible is clearly the work of human hands, and the truths it relays are, in the main, not is devoted to an a.n.a.lysis of the Bible. Spinoza sets out to demonstrate, among other things, that the Bible is full of obscurities and contradicts itself with abandon; that the Pentateuch manifestly did not come from the pen of G.o.d, Moses, or any other single author, but rather was the work of several very human writers over a long span of time; that the Jews were not G.o.d's "chosen people," except in the sense that they thrived in a specific place and time long ago; that the miracles reported in the Bible are always imaginary and often ill informed (how could Joshua say that the sun stopped one day, for example, when it is the earth that moves?); and that the prophets had no special powers to see into the future, but rather had only a talent for elaborating moral insights in a colorful language adapted to the preconceptions and the prejudices of the common people. In short, Spinoza presents a thoroughly secular and historicist reading of the scriptures-entirely unexceptional by modern standards-according to which the Bible is clearly the work of human hands, and the truths it relays are, in the main, not factual factual but but moral moral.

What sounds unexceptional in the world Spinoza built, of course, was sacrilege at the moment of creation, and Spinoza knew it. At the heart of the philosopher's cool exegesis of the ancient texts lies a fiery political pa.s.sion-the same one that fueled Bento's conflict with the rabbis at the synagogue. In the preface to his Tractatus Tractatus, Spinoza barely conceals his revolutionary agenda: "the supreme mystery of despotism, its prop and stay, is to keep men in a state of deception, and with the specious t.i.tle of religion to cloak the fear by which they must be held in check, so that they will fight for their servitude as if for salvation." Ultimately, Spinoza's aim in robbing the Bible of mystery is to destroy the theocratic order of his time. The established religion, Spinoza says, amounts to "the relics of man's ancient bondage" and it is used by many "with an impudence quite shameless" to usurp the legitimate rights of civil authorities and to oppress the people. In his later Ethics Ethics, the philosopher repeats the charge: the theocrats denounce those who deny miracles, as he does, because "the dispelling of ignorance would entail the disappearance of that astonishment, which is the one and only support...for safeguarding their authority."

Here and in some of his private letters, Spinoza makes plain his view that organized religion-especially but not exclusively in the form of the Catholic Church-is really an organized fraud. It is deception on a ma.s.sive scale, exploiting ignorance and fear in order to prey on the superst.i.tious ma.s.ses. Spinoza is no longer merely rising to the defense of the special interests of philosophers, nor does he limit his demands to the guarantee of certain individual rights by the existing state. Although he is careful to take a stand against violent revolution-which in his view causes more problems than it solves-he is in fact calling for the overthrow of an unjust and tyrannical system of oppression.

In the closing sections of his Tractatus Tractatus, Spinoza sketches the outlines of a radical and quintessentially modern political theory. His fundamental aim is to replace the reigning, theocratic conception of the state with one founded on secular principles. According to the theocrats, the state is the temporal representative of a divine order. The purpose of the state, in other words, is to serve G.o.d; and the role of the ecclesiastics is to tell the people just what it is that G.o.d wants. Spinoza says, in a nutsh.e.l.l, that the purpose of the state is to serve humankind; and it is up to the people to tell the state what they want.

Spinoza, like most modern theorists, grounds the legitimacy of political authority in the self-interest of individuals. He argues not only that everyone, and every thing, for that matter, is driven by self-interest but that they ought to be as well. "The more every man endeavors and is able to seek his own advantage, the more he is endowed with virtue," he says in the Ethics Ethics. "To act in absolute conformity with virtue is nothing else in us but to act, to live, to preserve one's own being (these three mean the same) under the guidance of reason on the basis of seeking one's own advantage."

It turns out, of course, that self-interested human beings have much to gain from cooperation. Spinoza stresses that human beings in the absence of an ordered society live in miserable circ.u.mstances. Like Thomas Hobbes before him, he envisions something like a "social contract," according to which individuals cede their rights to a sovereign collective in order to acquire the benefits of living under the rule of law. The function of the state, in this view, is to provide the peace and security that enable naturally free individuals to cooperate with one another and thereby fulfill themselves. Spinoza, with the pithiness so characteristic of his work, condenses it all into a lapidary formula: "the purpose of the state is freedom."

Unlike Hobbes, however, Spinoza does not present this social contract as a one-off, absolutely binding surrender of all rights by the individual to the state. Rather, Spinoza says, the contract is constantly up for renewal; and should the state fail to live up to its end of the bargain, the citizenry has a right to revoke the agreement. Furthermore, he maintains, there are some rights that no one is able to cede-such as the right to think and hold one's own opinions, or what he calls "the freedom of conscience." Finally, whereas Hobbes concludes that the terms of the original contract are best realized in an absolute monarchy, Spinoza concludes (albeit with a number of caveats) that justice is most fully realized in a democracy, for a democracy is most apt to express the collective will that legitimizes the state in the first place.

Spinoza's advocacy of democracy on the basis of individual rights was extraordinarily bold for its time, and it qualifies him as the first truly modern political philosopher. He was indisputably the forerunner of the theorists who would later underwrite the Const.i.tution of the United States, the French Revolution, and the rest of the secular, liberal, and democratic order of today.

Spinoza did not invent the idea of a secular state founded on self-interest; rather, he observed it clearly for the first time. In the late seventeenth century, the bewildering diversity of religious creeds that grew out of the Reformation, the variety of human experience on display in public life brought about by economic development and urbanization, and the manifestly secular quality of allegedly divine rulers who emerged at the top of national administrations-in other words, the same combination of developments that made Spinoza's own life as a double exile possible-had already rendered the old theocratic ideals de facto de facto obsolete. The "problem of authority"-that is, the source of the legitimacy of political power-had already become the subject of intense concern among thinkers such as Hobbes and Machiavelli. The defining move of Spinoza's political philosophy was to affirm this new world of secular self-interest. He embraced modernity as the foundation of a new kind of ideal-the ideal of a free republic. The very features of modernity that were then and are still regarded by many as its signature evils-the social fragmentation, the secularity, and the triumph of self-interest-he enshrined as the founding virtues of the new world order. His political philosophy was, in essence, an active response to the challenges of modernity. obsolete. The "problem of authority"-that is, the source of the legitimacy of political power-had already become the subject of intense concern among thinkers such as Hobbes and Machiavelli. The defining move of Spinoza's political philosophy was to affirm this new world of secular self-interest. He embraced modernity as the foundation of a new kind of ideal-the ideal of a free republic. The very features of modernity that were then and are still regarded by many as its signature evils-the social fragmentation, the secularity, and the triumph of self-interest-he enshrined as the founding virtues of the new world order. His political philosophy was, in essence, an active response to the challenges of modernity.

One aspect of Spinoza's free republic, however, sits a little uneasily with many modern conceptions of the secular state. According to Spinoza, getting the mult.i.tudes to behave rationally is no easy task, given the sway that religion has on the popular mind. One way to keep the ma.s.ses in line is to allow them to divert their religious energies in commerce-so that they are too busy making money, in other words, to get caught up in theocratic shenanigans. The other way to ensure universal discipline is to develop and propound a popular religion that is consistent with the requirements of the state. In fact, says Spinoza, a "good" popular religion is very salutary for a well-functioning society. But this popular religion, he insists, must be under the strict control of civil (and not ecclesiastical) authorities. Its doctrines are to be supplied and its offices filled by the state, and not by priests or prophets.

In the eyes of the philosophers, it should be noted, this state religion will always have the character of a lie (or, at best, a half-truth). Indeed, says Spinoza, it is wiser to keep the whole truth from the man on the street: "If he knew that [the doctrines of faith] were false, he would necessarily be a rebel, for how could it be that one who seeks to love justice and obey G.o.d should worship as divine what he knows to be alien to the divine nature?"

Spinoza implicitly distinguishes between the exoteric and esoteric faces of philosophy. The exoteric message of philosophy is intended for public consumption. Its style is adapted to the popular understanding, and its contents are those deemed most suited to bring about desirable political results. The esoteric message, on the other hand, is aimed for the exclusive fellowship of reason. It reveals the truth.

THE TRACTATUS THEOLOGICO-POLITICUS TRACTATUS THEOLOGICO-POLITICUS, needless to say, did little to improve Spinoza's reputation. Rather, it ignited a conflagration of denunciations the likes of which would not be seen again perhaps until Darwin released On the Origin of Species On the Origin of Species two centuries later. At first the rage was concentrated on the book itself, for the philosopher had taken the precaution of publishing his work anonymously-and of gracing the t.i.tle page with a false city of publication (Hamburg). But it was not long before the ident.i.ty of the author became an open secret, and the attacks soon took a personal turn. two centuries later. At first the rage was concentrated on the book itself, for the philosopher had taken the precaution of publishing his work anonymously-and of gracing the t.i.tle page with a false city of publication (Hamburg). But it was not long before the ident.i.ty of the author became an open secret, and the attacks soon took a personal turn.

The theologians of the Netherlands were the first off the mark. Weeks after publication, the spiritual sheriffs of Leiden decried the "enormities, or rather obscenities" of the book and earnestly requested that "the same be seized and suppressed." In July 1670, one synod declared that the Tractatus Tractatus was "the most vile and sacrilegious book the world has ever seen." Another a.s.sembly of Dutch preachers promptly resolved "to seek together the most suitable means to prevent the named Spinoza from continuing to disseminate his impiety and his atheism through these provinces." Their brethren in the southern Netherlands likewise urged the need for "remedies capable of stopping and extirpating this corrosive gangrene." Dozens of similar decrees rolled like thunder across the parishes of the lowlands. was "the most vile and sacrilegious book the world has ever seen." Another a.s.sembly of Dutch preachers promptly resolved "to seek together the most suitable means to prevent the named Spinoza from continuing to disseminate his impiety and his atheism through these provinces." Their brethren in the southern Netherlands likewise urged the need for "remedies capable of stopping and extirpating this corrosive gangrene." Dozens of similar decrees rolled like thunder across the parishes of the lowlands.

Around the rest of Europe, too, defenders of the faith-of all faiths-were soon vying to outdo one another with condemnations of Spinoza and his book. s.a.d.i.s.tic impulses often found release in the fulminations of the orthodox. In Paris, for example, Bishop PierreDaniel Huet-tutor to the Dauphin and friend of Leibniz-suggested that Spinoza "would deserve to be covered with chains and whipped with a rod." Scatological expletives flowed fast and furious-Philip Limborch (later Spinoza's dinner companion) lambasted Spinoza for his "defecated erudition and masticated critique." Other critics tended to come out the front end of the digestive tract: Spinoza is "the most impious, the most infamous, and at the same time the most subtle Atheist that h.e.l.l has vomited on the earth" said one. The English philosopher Henry More, perhaps at a loss for evocative metaphors, simply stomped his feet and fumed: "you the most impudent of mortals...you most impudent imposter and hypocrite."

At the same time, naturally, an embarra.s.singly large number of people took the trouble to read Spinoza's satanic tract. Though it could be sold only under the counter and at some risk to both seller and purchaser, the book ran through several printings and was soon widely distributed across Europe. The English prelate Edward Stillingfleet (who later trained his theological guns on the nefarious John Locke) lamented that Spinoza's work was "mightily in vogue among many." Bayle wrote, with sarcasm intended, "All the strong spirits [esprits forts] flocked to him from all over." Although overt declarations of sympathy are scarcely to be found in writings of the period, the mere mention of Spinoza's influence could serve to fan the flames of his underground fame. The practice of the time, in fact, was to praise with faint d.a.m.nation. Typical is the comment by Saint-evremond, a man who visited Spinoza and who was thought to be "soft" on Spinozism: "In the humble and pensive solitary of [Rijnsburg]...French libertinism, which until now has been no more than a vague desire to be free, an impatience of rule, and a revolt against dogma...thinks it has found the required apologist for its unbelief, the right man to give a logical basis and formal expression to the aims it has most at heart."

IN THE AFTERMATH of his debut as a global revolutionary, Spinoza faced a very real threat of persecution. Indeed, one of his Dutch critics, a professor at Utrecht, all but demanded his blood-"for it is not for nothing that [the state] carries the sword in its hands." The fate of the Koerbagh brothers now hung like a glum signpost over Spinoza's own future. Lucas reports that the philosopher henceforth "could not live in security because he had discovered the key to the sanctuary." ("The key to the sanctuary" was the t.i.tle of the French translation of the of his debut as a global revolutionary, Spinoza faced a very real threat of persecution. Indeed, one of his Dutch critics, a professor at Utrecht, all but demanded his blood-"for it is not for nothing that [the state] carries the sword in its hands." The fate of the Koerbagh brothers now hung like a glum signpost over Spinoza's own future. Lucas reports that the philosopher henceforth "could not live in security because he had discovered the key to the sanctuary." ("The key to the sanctuary" was the t.i.tle of the French translation of the Tractatus Tractatus.) In his correspondence, Spinoza made use of a signet ring engraved with the image of a th.o.r.n.y rose and a single-word motto: Caute Caute, or "Caution." "The virtue of a free man," he explains in the Ethics Ethics, "is as great in avoiding dangers as in overcoming them." At times, at least, he seemed to live in accordance with this maxim. When he learned of an effort to publish a Dutch translation of the Tractatus Tractatus, for example, he stopped it in hopes of avoiding charges of spreading impiety among the non-Latinate ma.s.ses. The same abundance of caution seems to have guided him in later withdrawing the Ethics Ethics from publication. from publication.

Taking a broader view of his behavior, however, it is evident that Spinoza's motto of "Caution" had the character of a prescription rather than a description of his actual practice. He was like a downhill skier who reminds himself that breaking a leg is no virtue; it never occurred to him to get off the slopes. The brute fact is that it took astonishing courage to publish such a work as the Tractatus Tractatus in 1670. To appreciate the boldness of Spinoza's actions today, one would perhaps have to imagine a Jew propounding a skepticism such as his concerning the relevant sacred texts from within one of the modern world's existing theocracies-and then also imagine that there was no outside world in which he might seek asylum. in 1670. To appreciate the boldness of Spinoza's actions today, one would perhaps have to imagine a Jew propounding a skepticism such as his concerning the relevant sacred texts from within one of the modern world's existing theocracies-and then also imagine that there was no outside world in which he might seek asylum.

There was a kind of innocence, too, in Spinoza's political persona. In retrospect, the reaction to the Tractatus Tractatus was eminently foreseeable. Yet, incredibly, Spinoza imagined that by publishing a book in which he debunks the prophets, denies the existence of miracles, and literally desacralizes the Word of G.o.d, he could somehow "avert [the] accusation" of atheism. The same hint of naivete is evident in his presentation of the "esoteric" truth about popular religion in the "exoteric" form of a widely disseminated book. Despite his subtle a.n.a.lyses of the foibles of the human intellect, and notwithstanding his contemptuous a.s.sessment of the ma.s.ses' capacity for rational thought, Spinoza seems to have harbored the conviction that no one could find fault with him if he limited his writings to statements of reason and fact. In his responses to warnings from friends concerning the risks of his course of action, Spinoza repeatedly evinced a kind of bafflement, like that of a child who says, "But I am only telling the truth." He could not shake the conviction that the truth would win out; and in this he proved that he was no exception to the rule which says that in the breast of every good revolutionary beats the heart of an idealist. was eminently foreseeable. Yet, incredibly, Spinoza imagined that by publishing a book in which he debunks the prophets, denies the existence of miracles, and literally desacralizes the Word of G.o.d, he could somehow "avert [the] accusation" of atheism. The same hint of naivete is evident in his presentation of the "esoteric" truth about popular religion in the "exoteric" form of a widely disseminated book. Despite his subtle a.n.a.lyses of the foibles of the human intellect, and notwithstanding his contemptuous a.s.sessment of the ma.s.ses' capacity for rational thought, Spinoza seems to have harbored the conviction that no one could find fault with him if he limited his writings to statements of reason and fact. In his responses to warnings from friends concerning the risks of his course of action, Spinoza repeatedly evinced a kind of bafflement, like that of a child who says, "But I am only telling the truth." He could not shake the conviction that the truth would win out; and in this he proved that he was no exception to the rule which says that in the breast of every good revolutionary beats the heart of an idealist.

Spinoza was also no exception to the rule which says that in the throbbing thorax of every good revolutionary there is a certain longing for glory. In his earliest treatise, as we know, the philosopher averred that honor is a thing of value only among men who live by the guidance of reason. But in the revolution he sought to bring about, he implicated the fates of many more individuals than a few fellow philosophers. With his ideal of a free republic, he flew his flag in the name of all the people. He had inserted himself into a grand, world-historical narrative. He had become, in his own mind at least, the Masaniello of a civilization-wide struggle for freedom.

And therein lies a still deeper version of the familiar paradox about Spinoza. According to the author of the Ethics Ethics, self-interest is virtue itself. The political order he intended to establish is one in which all social goals are secular, and so none may transcend the self-realization of the individual. In his magnum opus he baldly avowed that "no virtue can be conceived prior to this one, namely, the drive to preserve oneself." Any yet, there can be little doubt that when he sallied forth from his lodgings in Voorburg with the Tractatus Tractatus in hand, Spinoza brazenly crossed the line that divides self-interest from the common good. Like his Neapolitan idol, he was prepared to sacrifice his own survival for the sake of bringing freedom to his people, in exchange for which he hoped to acquire the kind of glory that accrues to rebel heroes, whose lives tend to end with their decapitated heads being paraded around on a stick. in hand, Spinoza brazenly crossed the line that divides self-interest from the common good. Like his Neapolitan idol, he was prepared to sacrifice his own survival for the sake of bringing freedom to his people, in exchange for which he hoped to acquire the kind of glory that accrues to rebel heroes, whose lives tend to end with their decapitated heads being paraded around on a stick.

The questions that arise from Spinoza's inexplicably charitable actions offer a challenge for modern political theorists. More to the point, they would represent a particularly acute dilemma for Leibniz, who claimed a monopoly on the principle of charity for his own political theory. Can one who advocates a secular political order commit to a political goal that transcends his or her survival? Can one who believes only in the virtue of self-interest act from seemingly altruistic motives? In sum: Can a liberal be a hero?