In his valise the twenty-six-year-old privy counselor of Mainz brought with him the ultraconfidential Egypt Plan. There, alas, the vaunted plan remained. Perhaps because he never received Leibniz's epic paper, Louis XIV had already opted to invade nearby Holland rather than faraway Egypt, having secured an alliance with the English monarch for the purpose. But Boineburg and Leibniz were not going to let such a dramatic change in political circ.u.mstances get in the way of their manifest destiny. The philosopher revised his paper so as to present the conquest of Egypt not as an alternative to the invasion of Holland, but as the logical next step: Holland was just the appetizer, Leibniz now claimed; only Egypt could satisfy the imperial hunger of France.

For six months Leibniz banged on doors at the Foreign Ministry, hoping to state the case for a crusade against the infidel; but he was rebuffed on all approaches. Determined to get their message to its intended recipient, Leibniz and Boineburg persuaded the Elector of Mainz to intervene with a direct appeal to the French monarch. Louis's response suggests that his claim to the t.i.tle of Sun King was not entirely without merit: "As to the project of Holy War, I have nothing to say. You know that since the days of Louis the Pious, such expeditions have gone out of fashion." Louis the Pious, incidentally, reigned in the ninth century.

Loath to give the last word to the absolute monarch, the philosopher wrote to the Duke of Hanover to enlist his support in making yet another effort to present the plan. In a perhaps typical example of the philosopher's agility in managing the facts, he neglected to mention to the Duke that the proposal had already been quashed twice. The ever obliging duke expressed some interest, but the French remained unmoved, and, for the time being, Egypt was spared. The whole affair was conducted in such secrecy that neither the plan nor Leibniz's involvement in it became public knowledge until Napoleon invaded Egypt, 130 years later, and some agents of the British royal family opened the dusty files of Hanover to investigate the rumors that it was someone there who first gave the feisty Frenchman the idea.

With the collapse of the Egypt Plan, Leibniz's official rationale for remaining in Paris crumbled, too. Instead of returning to Mainz, however, the young diplomat immediately began to cast around for other reasons to justify his stay in the capital of the republic of letters. "I believe I will always be an amphibian," he explained to a colleague, meaning that he hoped to split his time between France and Germany. But, in fact, the young courtier had already decided that he much preferred the fluid terrain on the banks of the Seine to the barren soil of his homeland.

IT WAS ONE of those ages in which the men dressed far better than the women. Men of quality sported feathered hats, long jackets, silk cravats, ornamented vests, culottes or breeches ending at the knee and tied by a ribbon, silk stockings, leather boots, liberal doses of perfume, and elaborate gauntlets truly worthy of being thrown down. In the early 1670s, just as Louis XIV began to lose his hair, wigs came into high fashion, and soon no head of any standing was complete without false curls extending to the shoulders or below. Leibniz delighted in the whole costume. He became recognizable for the exceptionally long, black wig that always warmed his prematurely bald dome. of those ages in which the men dressed far better than the women. Men of quality sported feathered hats, long jackets, silk cravats, ornamented vests, culottes or breeches ending at the knee and tied by a ribbon, silk stockings, leather boots, liberal doses of perfume, and elaborate gauntlets truly worthy of being thrown down. In the early 1670s, just as Louis XIV began to lose his hair, wigs came into high fashion, and soon no head of any standing was complete without false curls extending to the shoulders or below. Leibniz delighted in the whole costume. He became recognizable for the exceptionally long, black wig that always warmed his prematurely bald dome.

In the beguiling but treacherous salons of the city, the young German also learned his manners. Superficiality was prized, lightness in tone was de rigueur de rigueur, and pa.s.sionate disputes were taken as a sure mark of inferiority. Leibniz even adopted a characteristically Parisian tenor in his French. "I speak in Parisian, as you can see," he jokes with one correspondent.

The philosopher's sparkling exterior, sadly, could not entirely mask the fact that his body fell somewhat short of the Olympian ideal. His limbs, we know from Eckhart, gyrated awkwardly whenever he moved. He had a protrusion on his head about the size of a quail's egg, and it may well be that he took to the luxurious coif as a means of hiding this deformity. Baron von Boineburg, who tended to be blunt at times, felt compelled to introduce his protege to the French foreign minister in somewhat apologetic terms: "He is a man who, despite his insignificant outward appearance, is in a position to perform what he promises." Leibniz himself liked to tell a story about the time he visited a Paris bookshop and was received in a hostile way by the shop clerks, who judged from his appearance that he was unworthy of their attentions. Then, a well-known publisher and acquaintance walked in, greeted him, and spoke most favorably to the store owner of his intellectual prowess. The snooty clerks suddenly became very helpful, and the philosopher was left to ponder the fact that human beings attach such inordinate importance to the merely physical properties of individuals.

From the only early portrait (made in 1680, when he was thirty-four) it seems that in this part of his life, at least, the smallish Leibniz was well fed. His second chin spreads generously under and around the first and joins seamlessly with the ruddy cheeks. The rest of his portraits, all dating from his late fifties on, however, indicate a thinning out with age-perhaps the consequence of later digestive troubles that reduced his diet chiefly to milk. Eckhart, who knew him in his last two decades, calls him "more lean than fat."

Aside from noting its effect on others, Leibniz demonstrated remarkably little interest in his own corporeality. To judge from his writings, purely private sensations concerned him very little. He abhorred physical exertion and led a sedentary life. "He never sweats," he once wrote proudly of himself in the third person, blissfully unaware of the price he would have to pay in later years for such neglect. He was content to eat porridge. He took his meals at odd hours and often had them served at his desk among papers and books. He generally avoided wine, but perhaps he had a sweet tooth, for on the rare occasions that he did indulge, he preferred sweet vintages, diluted with water and extra sugar. In Leibniz's mind, it seems, the body was not much more than a rack on which to hang some beautiful clothes; he was always more interested in creating a sensation than in having one.

Leibniz was a hedonist of sorts-a hedonist not of the body, but of the mind. He once described his past reading habits as "being impelled by the instinct of delectatio delectatio [delectation]." The same instinct guided his sampling of the delights offered by the City of Light. At the time, Corneille and Racine ruled the stage. Moliere died in 1673, but Leibniz managed to take in at least one of the great comedian's final performances. He later said he greatly enjoyed the [delectation]." The same instinct guided his sampling of the delights offered by the City of Light. At the time, Corneille and Racine ruled the stage. Moliere died in 1673, but Leibniz managed to take in at least one of the great comedian's final performances. He later said he greatly enjoyed the Ombre de Moliere Ombre de Moliere, a posthumous commemoration, and he once described a promising German actor as "a second Moliere." The new Paris opera house opened in 1672, to the delight of Leibniz and to the horror of a number of churchmen with whom he would later correspond. The philosopher maintained that the opera was a fine and morally edifying entertainment, provided, of course, the stories did not trespa.s.s on the limits of common decency.

Leibniz was so enchanted with public entertainments, in fact, that he at one point proposed to establish a society to amuse and edify the ma.s.ses with a new kind of spectacle-something like a combination of magic show, science fair, and comic opera. In a very strange piece he wrote in Paris, he justifies the project with a perhaps all too revealing maxim: "It is necessary to snare the world in the trap, to take advantage of its weakness, and to deceive it in order to heal it."

Given Leibniz's efforts to make himself attractive, as well as his attraction to his adopted city, one is ent.i.tled to wonder whether perhaps it was some sort of carnal love that tied him to the French capital. In Paris under Louis XIV, after all, the bodices were made to be ripped, Moliere could provoke laughter by describing a married woman who had no suitors, and the new carriages often doubled as traveling love nests, especially on excursions to the conveniently situated Bois de Boulogne.

Disappointingly, there is no convincing evidence that Leibniz ever shared his bed with any other human being. Among the fifteen thousand epistles in his surviving correspondence, there is not one that would qualify as a love letter. When he was fifty years old, the philosopher reportedly issued a formal and tepid marriage proposal. The recipient requested some time to ponder the offer, however, which gave the suitor's feet more than enough time to freeze over. Later writings suggest that one aspect of Paris life of which Leibniz did not approve was its s.e.xual license. During the crisis of the Spanish Succession, in warning the Iberians of the evils that would follow should they accept a Bourbon on the throne, Leibniz said: "There is in France a great freedom, particularly in respect to s.e.x, and it is to be feared that they will bring this with them to the prejudice of good morals."

There was, however, the strange case of Wilhelm Dillinger. In his last decade of life, Leibniz took on as secretary this young painter, who apparently became quite a favorite of the courtier. The two were seen together at all times, and the younger man entertained hopes of inheriting his master's fortune. But they had a falling-out, and Dillinger left on bad terms, never to speak to Leibniz again. A number of contemporaries remarked that the two men bore an extraordinary resemblance, and in 1730 one writer alleged that Wilhelm was Leibniz's illegitimate son. In 1789, a dest.i.tute descendant made a claim on the Leibniz family fortune on grounds that this was in fact the case. However, Wilhelm was born in Saarmund, Germany, in 1686, which places his mother 160 miles from Leibniz (then in Hanover) at least at the time she gave birth. It cannot be ruled out that Wilhelm may instead have been Leibniz's lover. Such a theory of the courtier's s.e.xual orientation might explain something of his secretiveness and perhaps the permanent sense of loneliness that lurked behind the sociable face he showed the world. However, in the absence of other evidence, further speculation would be baseless.

All the sightseeing notwithstanding, Leibniz in Paris was a man dedicated above all to his studies. He often toiled late into the night and then fell asleep in his chair. One secret of his success was that, like many hyperachievers, he needed little sleep-four to six hours a night were sufficient. He continued the habit formed in his youth of reading and writing while riding in carriages or sitting at inn tables, for he was a man of little inclination to routine. Even the spectacles and delectations around town were really a part of this brainy project: they were his way of both stimulating the mind and securing the recognition and status he would require in order to carry on with his studies.

It may be said that Leibniz in Paris, no less than Spinoza in Rijnsburg, led a life of the mind. Yet their respective ways of being could hardly have been more different. Spinoza recommended a reasonable degree of sensual activity (which in any case it is not clear that he achieved) as a means to nourish the body, so that it in turn might provide a healthy home for the mind. His life of the mind was defined not at all in opposition to a life of the body, but in opposition to the life of other people other people-the dissembling, conventional life dedicated to the pursuit of riches and fame. Leibniz's life of the mind, on the other hand, was indeed somewhat at odds with the life of the body, which in his case always seemed to exhibit a certain degree of unreality. Most important, Leibniz's intellectual life was all all about other people. It was by definition a life of spectacles and delectation, of seeing and being seen. Consequently, it was indeed a respectable subspecies of the pursuit of money and fame. And, when the need arose, it was not at all incompatible with a certain element of dissembling-of deceiving the world "in order to heal it." about other people. It was by definition a life of spectacles and delectation, of seeing and being seen. Consequently, it was indeed a respectable subspecies of the pursuit of money and fame. And, when the need arose, it was not at all incompatible with a certain element of dissembling-of deceiving the world "in order to heal it."

THE OTHER PEOPLE with whom Leibniz was most concerned were a very special breed. His connections with German aristocrats opened the doors to Paris's finest houses, and the well-coiffed courtier did not hesitate to walk through those alluring portals. He formed an a.s.sociation with the Duke of Chevreuse, the son-in-law of Colbert, who in turn gave him access to the palace of the second most powerful man in France. Through Colbert he met still more dignitaries, including the famous scholar Abbe Gallois and Pierre-Daniel Huet, the future Bishop of Avranches-a man of such erudition, it was said, that his Paris apartment collapsed one day under the weight of all his books. Leibniz also exchanged philosophical arguments with the great Cartesian Nicolas Malebranche and, of course, his idol Antoine Arnauld, who in turn introduced him to still more of the leading lights of Paris. The list of people Leibniz met in the French capital further includes a famous doctor, a celebrated architect, an astronomer, a philologist, a publisher, several mathematicians, and several librarians. with whom Leibniz was most concerned were a very special breed. His connections with German aristocrats opened the doors to Paris's finest houses, and the well-coiffed courtier did not hesitate to walk through those alluring portals. He formed an a.s.sociation with the Duke of Chevreuse, the son-in-law of Colbert, who in turn gave him access to the palace of the second most powerful man in France. Through Colbert he met still more dignitaries, including the famous scholar Abbe Gallois and Pierre-Daniel Huet, the future Bishop of Avranches-a man of such erudition, it was said, that his Paris apartment collapsed one day under the weight of all his books. Leibniz also exchanged philosophical arguments with the great Cartesian Nicolas Malebranche and, of course, his idol Antoine Arnauld, who in turn introduced him to still more of the leading lights of Paris. The list of people Leibniz met in the French capital further includes a famous doctor, a celebrated architect, an astronomer, a philologist, a publisher, several mathematicians, and several librarians.

One of Leibniz's most important contacts in his first year in Paris was Christiaan Huygens. The scion of a n.o.ble family from The Hague, Huygens was the leader of the prestigious Royal Academy of Sciences. By grace of the King himself, he resided in a splendid garden apartment at the Royal Library. At the time that Leibniz came to call on him, Huygens was in his forties, a little too plump, quite weak in the chin, and already suffering from respiratory ailments that would force him to retreat from Paris to the family castle in The Hague. Leibniz presented Huygens with his design for an arithmetical calculating machine, which he was just then in the process of building. He also described some of his recent work in mathematics.

Huygens was impressed. He sensed that, despite the lack of formal training, his youthful visitor was an exceptional talent. He suggested avenues of research that later proved quite fruitful for Leibniz. He might very well have had a few words to say on the subject of Spinoza, too. Though he tended to refer to the philosopher dismissively as "our Jew," Huygens had read the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus and reportedly thought highly of it. and reportedly thought highly of it.

In early 1673, Melchior von Schonborn, Boineburg's son-in-law and the heir to the Elector of Mainz, invited Leibniz to join him on a diplomatic mission to the court of Charles II. Eager to expand his network in London, the other great capital of European letters, Leibniz seized the opportunity. In his bags he packed his arithmetical calculating machine, which now existed in the form of a prototype.

After a stormy crossing of the Channel, Leibniz raced to Gresham College and the door of Spinoza's old friend, Henry Oldenburg, with whom he had been in correspondence for three years. Oldenburg welcomed his younger compatriot warmly and arranged for him to present his calculating machine to the members of the Royal Society. A few days later, the representatives of the Royal Society a.s.sembled to view the machine and meet the inventor. According to Leibniz's report to the Duke of Hanover, the panel of Britain's most celebrated scientists greeted him with "great applause" and acknowledged the calculating device as "one of the most considerable inventions of the time."

The records of the Royal Society, on the other hand, paint a somewhat different picture of the event. The machine was not yet finished and suffered from mechanical breakdowns. Robert Hooke was openly contemptuous of the device, and even more unpleasant in his comments about the young German behind his back. At the end of the show, Oldenburg secured a promise from Leibniz that he would make good on the defects of the machine by sending a finished version within the year.

On his return to Paris, Leibniz received notice from Oldenburg that his application for membership in the Royal Society had been accepted on the strength of that promise to supply a finished version of the calculating machine. In an effort to rea.s.sure his new a.s.sociate, Oldenburg pointed out that Hooke was just as nasty with everyone else. (In fact, Oldenburg and Hooke were at each other's throats at the time.) Leibniz, apparently unaware that, according to Society custom, the invitation to membership called for a ceremonial reply detailing his scientific aims, sent back a perfunctory thank-you letter. Irked by this breach in protocol, Oldenburg prodded his new a.s.sociate to produce a more substantial acceptance letter, which Leibniz, somewhat grudgingly, soon did.

Both Leibniz and Spinoza were about the same age when they first met Oldenburg in person: Spinoza was twenty-eight, Leibniz twenty-six. But Oldenburg's communications with Leibniz seem intended for a much younger man. In his letters to his fellow German, Oldenburg adopts a fatherly tone, sometimes encouraging the young scholar, sometimes scolding him. He seems to have taken an interest in Leibniz partly in the spirit of national solidarity. There is no sign of the intimacy, awe, or incomprehension with which he beheld Spinoza, nor is there any indication that he expected great things from Leibniz until the matter of calculus came up. There is, however, some sign of irritation. When, more than a year after his visit to London, Leibniz had still failed to send an improved version of the calculating machine, Oldenburg could not disguise his exasperation: Please allow me to advise you that you are obligated to send to the Royal Society your arithmetical machine as I promised on your behalf. I certainly wish that you, as a German and member of the Society, would keep your word, the sooner the better to relieve me of this anxiety for the reputation of a fellow-citizen, which has caused me no little distress. For the rest, farewell, and pardon my taking this liberty.

Another two years pa.s.sed before Leibniz presented his machine to the members of the Royal Society, however, and even then the device remained unfinished.

Leibniz had a way with people. Like Spinoza, he made friends easily, and indeed the two philosophers shared many of the same friends. Leibniz, too, believed that nothing is so useful to the human being as another human being-that "man is a G.o.d to man," as Spinoza said. But Leibniz manifestly did not believe, as Spinoza did, that one's friends had to be "men of reason." On the contrary, Leibniz expected his friends to be able to do do something for the world (and perhaps for himself, too). Power-whether the brute political power of the many dukes and princes with whom he mingled, or the intellectual power of his friends in the academies and churches-was the attribute most likely to win Leibniz's affection. something for the world (and perhaps for himself, too). Power-whether the brute political power of the many dukes and princes with whom he mingled, or the intellectual power of his friends in the academies and churches-was the attribute most likely to win Leibniz's affection.

For the sake of humanity, in fact, it could have been no other way. Leibniz explains why to his beloved Duke of Hanover: "As it is from grand princes that one may await remedies to public evils and as they are the most powerful instruments of divine benevolence, they are necessarily loved by all those who have disinterested sentiments, who do not look for their own happiness but in the public."

The name best suited for the kind of people Leibniz wished to meet is the one he gave them himself: "excellent people." Excellent people included those who are made so by birth and those who become so in virtue of their gifts and accomplishments. The most excellent of all, in Leibniz's eyes, tended to be those who combined a n.o.ble pedigree with a great intellect-men such as Antoine Arnauld, Christiaan Huygens, and, soon, Walther Ehrenfried von Tschirnhaus.

BY HIS OWN account, Leibniz's performance in Paris was outstanding. "Never has a foreigner...had a more favorable reception from the people of merit," he says of himself. In a letter of January 1675 to the Duke of Hanover, he provides a characteristically ecstatic self-a.s.sessment: account, Leibniz's performance in Paris was outstanding. "Never has a foreigner...had a more favorable reception from the people of merit," he says of himself. In a letter of January 1675 to the Duke of Hanover, he provides a characteristically ecstatic self-a.s.sessment: Paris is a place where it is difficult to distinguish oneself. One finds here the most able men of the time, in all the sciences, and much work as well as a certain solidity is required in order to establish a reputation. In sum, I don't know how it is that I managed to succeed and to be recognized as one who is capable of doing something extraordinary.

Leibniz needed no excuses to blow his own horn; but in this case, as always with the amply endowed Johann Friedrich, he had an agenda. He wanted financial support for continuing his life in Paris. His awe-inspiring reception notwithstanding, Leibniz's struggle to remain in the most learned and powerful city in the universe was not going well.

During his first year in Paris, Leibniz had the good fortune to have at his back Baron von Boineburg, a man who understood him well and shared his interests. Boineburg a.s.signed his protege to pursue the matter of his endangered real estate interests, and so gave Leibniz ample cover for remaining in Paris. The baron, however, died in late 1672, leaving the philosopher bereft of one of his greatest patrons. As something of a parting gift, the dying Boineburg sent Leibniz his sixteen-year-old son as a pupil.

Leibniz seized upon his pedagogical mission, devising a vigorous schedule of learning that would keep the distinguished teenager occupied from 6:00 A.M. A.M. to 10:00 to 10:00 P.M. P.M. every day and insisting that they live under the same roof. The younger Boineburg, unfortunately, soon rebelled against his tutor's extreme demands, preferring instead to cultivate his manhood in the company of his peers on nights out in the city. The aristocratic pupil and his hard-driving teacher grew to detest each other. The boy's mother protested on her son's behalf. Leibniz responded by complaining that he had not received proper compensation from the House of Boineburg for past and present work. After a long, cold war involving little instruction and no money, Frau von Boineburg fired the family tutor in the fall of 1674. every day and insisting that they live under the same roof. The younger Boineburg, unfortunately, soon rebelled against his tutor's extreme demands, preferring instead to cultivate his manhood in the company of his peers on nights out in the city. The aristocratic pupil and his hard-driving teacher grew to detest each other. The boy's mother protested on her son's behalf. Leibniz responded by complaining that he had not received proper compensation from the House of Boineburg for past and present work. After a long, cold war involving little instruction and no money, Frau von Boineburg fired the family tutor in the fall of 1674.

On his return from London, Leibniz had also pleaded with the Elector of Mainz to allow him to remain in Paris while still drawing his salary from Mainz. The Elector granted permission for him to "stay awhile" in France, but he declined to pay Leibniz for the favor. The Elector simply had no use for a mathematical diplomat in a foreign city, and, as his son eventually had to explain to Leibniz, "the liberality of princes does not extend so far as the ruin of their states."

Leibniz next turned his hand to jurisprudence. The nature of his law practice is evident in the example set by his most important client, the powerful Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. Some fifteen years previously, the Duke had married one of his cousins-princ.i.p.ally in order to add her lands to his realm. There was little love in the Duke's heart, however, and he began to beat his wife. She fled the country, and, when his subjects rebelled against his misrule, he in turn took refuge in the court of Louis XIV. From the safety of his apartments at Versailles, the Duke converted to Catholicism and eloped with a French lady. This time it was love-or else she was very persuasive-for, after his first wife died, the Duke took the trouble to remarry his French consort in a more formal way. But when the bloom of love faded from his French rose, this miniature Henry VIII decided to divorce her, too. Concerned to ensure the legality of the proceeding, he hired Leibniz to research the relevant church and state laws.

The able young jurist proved that the Duke's marriage to his first wife had never been properly ended in divorce; thus the second marriage was not valid, and so could be annulled without divorce. Things were looking good for the Duke when it was pointed out that Leibniz's impeccable logic, lamentably, applied only to the first first wedding to the second wife, not to the second one that took place after the first wife's death. Leibniz declared himself satisfied with the result, but the Duke was most displeased, for he was now apparently saddled with his French wife for life. The Duke, presumably figuring that his lawyer was only half right, paid him only half the agreed-upon fee, whereupon Leibniz protested indignantly but without effect. wedding to the second wife, not to the second one that took place after the first wife's death. Leibniz declared himself satisfied with the result, but the Duke was most displeased, for he was now apparently saddled with his French wife for life. The Duke, presumably figuring that his lawyer was only half right, paid him only half the agreed-upon fee, whereupon Leibniz protested indignantly but without effect.

Still short of spending money, Leibniz now counted on his calculating machine to solve his material problems. By 1675, he was in possession of an improved, though not yet complete version of the device. However, rather than send it to the Royal Society, as he had promised Oldenburg he would, he chose to send it to Colbert, in hopes of making a sale. The first minister, who was at the time trying to balance Louis XIV's horrendous spending on Versailles with plans to reform the Paris government, clearly needed any help he could get in his accounting department. He made available to Leibniz the services of some of his craftsmen. Unfortunately, although the statesman very much approved of the idea behind the invention, he gathered that its physical embodiment was not quite ready to perform useful work, and so he declined to purchase it.

Leibniz entrusted his fondest hopes for career security with Paris's Royal Academy of Sciences. The Academy was the seventeenth century's version of intellectual nirvana. Its sixteen members enjoyed lifelong pensions, no teaching responsibilities whatsoever, and the satisfaction of knowing that there was no more prestigious inst.i.tution of learning in the world. Leibniz's prospects for achieving such a blissful state of being brightened considerably at the end of 1675, when one of the ill.u.s.trious academicians expired. Things looked even better when his candidacy received the endors.e.m.e.nt of his friend the Abbe Gallois. But then, in another one of those inexplicable outbursts of hostility that would suddenly intrude on Leibniz's life, Gallois loudly dropped his support, and the application was rejected.

The philosopher later suggested that the Academy denied him a position because its members felt that, with the Dutchman Huygens and the Italian astronomer Jean-Dominique Ca.s.sini already signed up, there were already too many immigrants on the roster. Another story, however, has it that Gallois was getting even. Apparently, when the Abbe presented a scholarly discourse one day, Leibniz couldn't help let slip a smile. The hypersensitive Gallois saw it as a smirk and decided to exact the appropriate level of vengeance.

Leibniz's desperation to achieve material security is evident in the euphoria with which he entertained what must count as the least likely of his financial schemes. In a letter of October 1675 to his relatives in Germany, he asks for money for a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity: Having by my labor and the grace of G.o.d ama.s.sed some little money, I have found an opportunity to invest it so as to yield a certain and permanent income.... Several distinguished persons of rank, who are especially favorably disposed toward me, have proposed to me to purchase a certain office, or charge, the proceeds of which would, in the course of time, suffice to discharge the small debt necessary to be contracted at the outset. These persons, on whom the matter depends in part, retain the office for me, and prevent others, who are willing to give a larger sum for it, from antic.i.p.ating me.... For myself, I cannot but think that the circ.u.mstances are a divine dispensation and calling from G.o.d, who makes all things so wonderfully harmonize together.

The get-rich-quick office G.o.d so thoughtfully reserved for Leibniz must have been essentially a tax-collecting position, possibly of the sort that Louis XIV was in the habit of selling to aspiring members of the bourgeoisie as a means of raising funds for his costly military adventures. It would have ent.i.tled Leibniz to receive, by his own estimates, 800 thalers per year in the first years, rising to 1,000 thalers, and "even this sum may be increased."

The 1,000 or so thalers annually that Leibniz antic.i.p.ated from his ideal job in Paris turns out to be about half the level of income he ultimately achieved in Hanover after strenuous efforts to improve his financial condition. According to the currency exchange rates of the time, 2,000 thalers was equivalent to approximately 3,300 Dutch guilders. Spinoza, by way of contrast, was content to live on roughly 300 guilders per year (in Holland, one might add, where prices were significantly higher than elsewhere on the continent). If we define a Philosopher's Unit as the amount a given philosopher feels is required to sustain himself in good philosophical spirits, then we may deduce:

1 Leibniz Unit = 11 Spinoza Units

That is, you could feed, house, and clothe roughly eleven Spinozas for the price of one Leibniz.

It is also interesting to note that Leibniz indicates in the letter to his relatives that he has already "ama.s.sed some little money." His savings fell short of the amount required for his investment, but were not so small as to be irrelevant. It seems likely therefore that the young courtier was already in the possession of several hundred thalers-or several Spinoza Units. In other words, had he been content to live in the manner to which Spinoza was accustomed-say, renting a cottage on the outskirts of Paris, eating raisins for lunch and milk gruel for dinner, and dressing like the local pharmacist-Leibniz very likely already had the means to stay in Paris. But such an option was clearly unthinkable. Leibniz took for granted that the life of the mind is a life of status, too. He intended to leave his mark not in some future community of reason, but in the glittering society of the actual world, with its scarce supply of honors, offices, and riches.

G.o.d's plan for Leibniz's financial well-being, however, turns out to have been different from what the philosopher antic.i.p.ated. His relatives, not having heard from Gottfried for some time, and still in the dark about the plans that brought him to Paris in the first place, declined to partic.i.p.ate in the office-investment scheme. Instead, they dusted up the usual cloud of suspicions about his patriotism, his religion, and his personal behavior.

In his none too subtle message of 1675 to the Duke of Hanover, Leibniz sighs: "A man like me has no choice but to seek a Grand Prince." He yearns for the day "when I shall have at length brought my ship into port, and be no longer compelled to run after people." He is certain that a modest sum of money and a t.i.tle appropriate to his worth are all he requires in order to fulfill his destiny: "For experience has taught me that one will be first eagerly sought after by the world, when one no longer needs to seek after it."

But enough was never enough. Leibniz's ship never came into port. Even as he acc.u.mulated offices, t.i.tles, and savings enough to count as a very wealthy man, he never stopped running after people in search of still more money and more security. Life with Leibniz was a constant struggle against the depredations of the material world, a never-ending complaint against the precariousness of existence itself-a fact that stands in curious juxtaposition to the optimistic metaphysics he later revealed to the public, according to which all things happen for the best and the immaterial soul remains immune to all outside forces.

Leibniz never saw it as greed; he saw it as part of his plan to advance the sciences and serve G.o.d. Over and over, as he wrangled with one employer after another to claim monies he believed he was owed, he evinced genuine dismay, as though witnessing not merely an injury to himself but an injustice to humanity, which would suffer needlessly should one of its best philosophers fail to secure the funds he required to free himself from material worries. Among his contemporaries, however, there seems to have been little doubt about the matter. The generally upbeat Eckhart says: "Leibniz had a love for money that was almost sordid."

For most of his stay in Paris, in any case, Leibniz had a fall-back plan, though the prospect of falling back on it gave him no pleasure. As early as 1673, the Duke of Hanover had offered him a post in his court-in Hanover. The proposal hung over Leibniz's future with all the gloom of a dark home to which a child knows he must return sometime before nightfall. For three years, Leibniz finessed the offer, striving to keep it alive without accepting it. His letter of 1675 to the Duke would prove to be his last, valiant effort to keep the game going for a while longer.

THE POINT OF the struggle, of course, was work. Notwithstanding the financial worries and other distractions, Leibniz in his Paris years pursued scientific knowledge with the vigor of an entire university. He was a learning machine. His capacity for study and writing would seem terrifying were it not so spectacular. The 150,000 sheets of writing in his archives must surely put him at or very near the top of the list of history's most productive intellectuals, whether measured in terms of wpm (words per minute of life), imp (ideas per minute), or any other metric. the struggle, of course, was work. Notwithstanding the financial worries and other distractions, Leibniz in his Paris years pursued scientific knowledge with the vigor of an entire university. He was a learning machine. His capacity for study and writing would seem terrifying were it not so spectacular. The 150,000 sheets of writing in his archives must surely put him at or very near the top of the list of history's most productive intellectuals, whether measured in terms of wpm (words per minute of life), imp (ideas per minute), or any other metric.

On the surface, Leibniz's investigations in Paris show all the telltale signs of the omnimania that characterized his earlier activities in Germany. To the list of brilliant ideas he mentioned to the Duke of Hanover in 1671 must now be added a design for a new kind of watch, new insights into a variety of historical questions, and a project to translate certain ancient texts. He took particular interest in the mechanical arts. He visited many craftsmen in their workshops, noting that "there is here [in Paris] an infinity of curiosities, in gold-smithy, enameling, gla.s.s-making, watch-making, tannery, and the manufacture of pewter."

He also had an irrepressible fascination with believe-it-or-not-type mysteries. His far-flung network of intelligence operatives kept him informed of the latest oddities, such as a man who could eat fire (apparently by coating his tongue with some kind of resin); a seven-foot-tall giant; various inexplicable natural disasters, such as a mountain that mysteriously collapsed on itself; and, of course, the latest advances in alchemy. Once, later in life, hearing about a talking dog, he made a special journey to visit the supernatural beast. (He came away impressed, but not convinced that the case warranted any change in his philosophical views concerning the souls of animals.) Not surprisingly, Leibniz frequently complained that he had no time to get anything done.

Yet, in his Paris years Leibniz exhibited a degree of concentration in his studies that was exceptional in his long career. The focus of his intellectual pa.s.sion now was mathematics. Despite the inadequate training he had received in Germany, the audacious autodidact soon caught up with the leading mathematicians of Paris and began making seminal contributions in his own right.

Leibniz's mathematical investigations initially centered on the summation of infinite series. The concern with indivisibility and the infinitely small was linked in his mind to some fundamental, metaphysical truths about the nature of substance, matter, and mind. His intuition told him that the problem of how to make sense of the infinity of points on a line was an instance of the problem of how to make sense of the relation between indivisible, pointlike souls and the continuum of the material world. For roughly the same reason that no number of points could ever be strung together to make up a line, he believed that purely physical or material principles could not account for everything in the material world, and that therefore an incorporeal or "mental" principle-"substance"-was required to explain the unity and activity of phenomena. He called this complex of ideas "the labyrinth of the continuum." Pursuing these premises through one end of the labyrinth, he would discover calculus; off in the opposite direction, he would envision a world comprised of nothing but an infinite number of pointlike, immortal souls. All of Leibniz's mathematical achievements in later life, and much of his metaphysics as well, had their origin in the ideas conceived in Paris before he turned thirty.

IF THE QUADRENNIUM in Paris was his time of glory, then Leibniz's thirtieth year and his last in the City of Light was his in Paris was his time of glory, then Leibniz's thirtieth year and his last in the City of Light was his annus mirabilis annus mirabilis. This was the year he invented calculus and this was the year in which his philosophical ideas were in their most fluid and chaotically productive state. It was also the year he faced Spinoza, first as an idea, then in person. If ever the errant courtier had an opportunity to make the case that his frantic efforts to find a secure position in life were in fact in the general interest of humankind, then this was that moment.

The year of miracles began in late August 1675 with the arrival of Walther Ehrenfried von Tschirnhaus. Fresh from his sojourn in London, Tschirnhaus appeared at Leibniz's door in the Hotel des Romains with a letter of introduction from Henry Oldenburg. The two young Germans abroad became instant best friends, achieving a degree of intimacy rarely matched in the course of Leibniz's life. Leibniz was so pleased with his new friend that he immediately wrote back to Oldenburg: "Sending Tschirnhaus to us was a true act of friendship. I take great delight in his company, and I recognize in him excellent abilities, notwithstanding his youth." (At the time of writing, Tschirnhaus was twenty-five years old, and Leibniz was twenty-nine.) In a fictional dialogue written the following year, Leibniz gives Tschirnhaus a starring role in the semi-anagrammatic character of Charinus. "There arrived a young man from a distinguished family," he writes, "who was nonetheless inquisitive and keen to learn, who had enlisted in the army at a tender age, and had become famous for his outstanding successes." (In that dialogue, to be sure, Charinus has much to learn from the wise Pacidius, Leibniz's Peacemaking alter ego.) Their friendship was close enough that it admitted quarrels, too. Walther has a "habit of stealing things," Gottfried fumed some years later in connection with the calculus dispute, and the two refused to speak to each other for many years before finally making peace.

In the Hotel des Romains, the two expatriates promptly engaged in heated mathematical parleys. Their exchanges reached such a pitch that the papers preserved in Leibniz's files are crisscrossed with the scribbled handwriting of both men. It was around this time that Leibniz pa.s.sed the threshold of the calculus. In a note from October 29, 1675, two months after Tschirnhaus's arrival, Leibniz for the first time used the symbol? to stand for integration, replacing the earlier "omn" (for "omnes"). Two weeks later, on November 11, he used dx dx for the first time to represent the "differential of for the first time to represent the "differential of x x." Leibniz now believed himself to be in sole possession of the general method we call calculus. At some point he shuffled his new equations over to Tschirnhaus. But the youthful warrior-ultimately no match for the eagle-eyed man on the other side of the table-dismissed it all as mere playing with symbols.

Through the autumn of 1675, the winter, and into the spring of 1676 Leibniz organized his thoughts on the calculus. Not until he had it all down on paper would he learn through Oldenburg that a reclusive Cambridge don named Isaac Newton had arrived at substantially the same discovery ten years earlier.

But more than just mathematics filled the chambers of the Hotel des Romains in those crucial days in which Leibniz discovered the calculus. Tschirnhaus could hardly avoid raising the specter of his favorite living philosopher: Spinoza. Shortly after Tschirnhaus arrived in Paris, Leibniz dove back into the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. His notebooks suddenly teem with excerpts from the notorious atheist's book-sixteen pages' worth, followed by brief annotations that, on the whole, add to rather than subtract from the author's claims. Spinoza's criticisms of the scriptures-just as one might have expected-meet little resistance from the young German. One of Leibniz's Paris notes on the Tractatus Tractatus, however, cautions against any direct rapprochement. Where Spinoza hints at his doctrine that G.o.d is Nature, Leibniz writes bluntly: "I do not agree with this."

The tete-a-tetes with Tschirnhaus and the renewed readings of the Tractatus Tractatus reawoke Leibniz's urge to make personal contact with the great thinker of The Hague. In the same week in November in which he put the reawoke Leibniz's urge to make personal contact with the great thinker of The Hague. In the same week in November in which he put the dx dx in calculus, Leibniz reinitiated, in strangely indirect form, the exchange with Spinoza that had begun in 1671. in calculus, Leibniz reinitiated, in strangely indirect form, the exchange with Spinoza that had begun in 1671.

On November 18, 1675, Georg Hermann Schuller posted a letter to Spinoza, purportedly on behalf of his friend Tschirnhaus in Paris. Schuller starts by pa.s.sing on Tschirnhaus's thanks for providing him with an introduction to Christiaan Huygens, who has proved quite helpful in finding him a job as tutor to the son of Colbert. After discussion of a philosophical difficulty occasioned mainly by a flaw in Tschirnhaus's copy of the propositions of the Ethics Ethics, Schuller turns to the main purpose of the letter. He relates that in Paris Tschirnhaus has met a man named Leibniz and "established a close friendship with him."

He goes on to describe this new acquaintance in terms bound to appeal to Spinoza. According to Tschirnhaus, says Schuller, Leibniz is a man of remarkable learning, most skilled in the various sciences and free from the common theological prejudices.... In Ethics...Leibniz is most practiced, and speaks solely from the dictates of reason.... [I]n physics and especially in metaphysical studies of G.o.d and the Soul he is most skilled.... This same Leibniz thinkshighly of the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, on which subject he once wrote you a letter, if you remember.

Leibniz, then, is a Spinozist in embryo. And he "thinks highly" of the work he described to Antoine Arnauld as "horrible" and "terrifying." Next comes the point of all these good words: Tschirnhaus believes that Leibniz is "ready to receive" Spinoza's writings. Schuller hastens to add that if Spinoza should decline to allow Tschirnhaus to share the secret gospel, the philosopher should have no doubt that Tschirnhaus would "honorably keep them secret in accordance with his promise, just as in fact he has not made the slightest mention of them."

What Tschirnhaus may have understood by "slightest mention" here is open to question. Schuller's reference to an earlier letter from Leibniz to Spinoza strongly suggests that Leibniz himself was involved in drafting this communication with Spinoza. How else would Schuller and Tschirnhaus have known about a letter that Leibniz sent to Spinoza several years before either had met Spinoza? And if Leibniz was involved in this particular exercise in persuasion, then he must have had some inkling about the hidden treasure in Tschirnhaus's possession. In fact, it was widely known that Spinoza had produced a comprehensive statement of his philosophy: Oldenburg was in the know, as were many of Spinoza's other friends, not to mention some extremely irate Dutch theologians. The most likely scenario is that Leibniz was well aware of the existence of Tschirnhaus's stash of secret wisdom, and that he was frantic to get his hands on it. Schuller's communication from Tschirnhaus was, in effect, a plea from Leibniz to Spinoza.

Spinoza evidently considered the request a very important matter, for he replied on the same day that he received Schuller's letter. But the answer must have landed with a humiliating thud in Paris: I believe I know Leibniz, of whom he writes, through correspondence, but I do not understand why he, a Counselor of Frankfurt, has gone to France. As far as I can judge from his letters, he seemed to me a person of liberal mind and well versed in every science. Still, I think it imprudent to entrust my writings to him so hastily. I should first like to know what he is doing in France, and to hear our friend Tschirnhaus's opinion of him after a longer acquaintance and a closer knowledge of his character.

Why did Spinoza spurn the overture from Leibniz? Most likely, as we know, recent developments-van den Enden's execution in Paris and the threat of mob violence against Spinoza in The Hague-made him exceptionally wary of contacts with Paris. His question for Tschirnhaus was, in effect: Is Leibniz a spy?

While Leibniz struggled to penetrate Spinoza's defenses, he suffered a grievous blow to his plans to remain in Paris. On January 11, 1676, at the very moment he was composing his customary New Year's greeting for Johann Friedrich, he received a formal notification of his appointment as librarian at the Duke's court. The meaning was clear: take it or leave it. With no other honorable occupation in sight, Leibniz concluded his New Year's salutation to the Duke by saying he was overjoyed to accept the position. On the very same day, evidently dreading the prospect of returning to the hinterlands, he sent off a letter to Jean-Baptiste Colbert, pleading one more time for help in getting a position in the French Academy. There followed another flurry of letters to other notables of Paris, all asking for help in securing a position that might save him from the horror of life in Hanover.

Even as he juggled his job prospects and the calculus, however, Leibniz did not relent in his pursuit of the truth about Spinoza. The rejection of his request for admission into the Spinoza fan club, it seems, did little to diminish his desire to uncover the secret wisdom of the mysterious philosopher to the north. There is no record that Spinoza ever gave express consent to Tschirnhaus's request to share his writings with Leibniz. Possibly, the Schuller/Tschirnhaus/Leibniz trio rushed another plea to the philosopher of The Hague over the winter holidays, received a prompt and favorable response, and then destroyed the evidence. But that doesn't seem likely. There is a clear record, however, that, some weeks after being denied permission to do so, Tschirnhaus did indeed share with Leibniz what he knew about the contents of Spinoza's masterwork.

On a piece of notepaper that dates from early February 1676, Leibniz wrote the first words in the story that came to dominate the rest of his life: "Tschirnhaus has told me many things about the book of M. de Spinosa."

10.

A Secret Philosophy of the Whole of Things "Spinosa's book will be about G.o.d, the mind, and blessedness, or the idea of the perfect man," Leibniz announces in his notes on his discussion with Tschirnhaus. He then attributes to Spinoza a series of claims that must seem opaque to the uninitiated: "G.o.d alone is substance" "all creatures are nothing but modes" "mind is the very idea of the body" and "man is in no way free-even if he partic.i.p.ates in freedom more than other bodies do." Within the confines of a single sheet of paper, as it turns out, Leibniz traces the signature doctrines of Spinoza's philosophy.

It is a rare event in the history of philosophy when an abstruse system of metaphysics manages to summarize everything that matters about an age; and rarer still when it portends a worldwide revolution. Such was the nature of the system that Leibniz now beheld, and whose implications he was, arguably, the first to understand.

"The vulgar begin philosophy with created things, Descartes began with the mind, [Spinoza] begins with G.o.d," Leibniz continues. No truer statement about Spinoza's philosophy can be made-save possibly the claim that "Spinoza begins and ends and ends with G.o.d." Part I of the with G.o.d." Part I of the Ethics Ethics is t.i.tled "Of G.o.d" but in fact all of Spinoza's philosophy is all about G.o.d, the subject to which we now turn. is t.i.tled "Of G.o.d" but in fact all of Spinoza's philosophy is all about G.o.d, the subject to which we now turn.

G.o.d G.o.d became the name of a problem in the seventeenth century. No doubt many historical factors contributed to this unexpected development. The bewildering diversity of religious faiths arising out of the Reformation, for example, produced a crowd of new conceptions of the deity, none of which seemed to get along particularly well with the others; and this fact in turn stimulated much theorizing concerning their similarities and differences. The increasingly secular tone of public and economic life, too, eroded some of the evidence on which belief naturally rested. Among a small elite of educated Europeans, however, it was modern science that threw the most troubling spotlight on the Almighty. Learned individuals could not overlook the fact that recent advances in human knowledge rendered the biblically sanctioned stories on the genesis and structure of the cosmos untenable. Eppur si muove Eppur si muove-"and yet it moves"-Galileo's alleged words concerning the earth after his trial-had become the secret rallying cry of humankind's newest pioneers.

In retrospect, of course, we know that science still had a long way to go. But even at the time, at least two farsighted philosophers could see where it was headed. The scientific investigation of nature, our heroes suspected, might one day unravel the mysteries of the world into a series of efficient causes. Miracles would dissolve into ignorance, and the cosmos in all its splendor would stand revealed as a grand but ultimately self-sufficient machine. In that event, what would be left for G.o.d to do? In more recent times, the physicist Richard Feynman has framed the problem in a laconic way: when you understand the laws of physics, he pointed out, "the theory that it is all arranged as a stage for G.o.d to watch man's struggle for good and evil seems inadequate." Or, as the physicist Steven Weinberg put it: the more we know about the origins of the universe, the more pointless it seems.

The question for seventeenth-century philosophers was not yet about the existence existence of G.o.d-for no writer of the time, not even Spinoza, explicitly doubted that-but rather about the of G.o.d-for no writer of the time, not even Spinoza, explicitly doubted that-but rather about the function function of G.o.d. If science did eventually manage to explain all of nature in terms of mechanical principles, it seemed, then the providential, miracle-working G.o.d of old would be out of a job. Science and religion-or G.o.d and Nature-seemed locked in irreconcilable conflict, or so the seventeenth-century philosophers sensed. of G.o.d. If science did eventually manage to explain all of nature in terms of mechanical principles, it seemed, then the providential, miracle-working G.o.d of old would be out of a job. Science and religion-or G.o.d and Nature-seemed locked in irreconcilable conflict, or so the seventeenth-century philosophers sensed.

In his Ethics Ethics Spinoza presents his bold solution to the apparent conflict between G.o.d and Nature, a solution whose essentials had been undoubtedly already clear in his mind when he faced expulsion from the Jewish community in his twenty-fourth year. In Spinoza's view, to put it simply, G.o.d and Nature are not and never will be in conflict for the simple reason that G.o.d Spinoza presents his bold solution to the apparent conflict between G.o.d and Nature, a solution whose essentials had been undoubtedly already clear in his mind when he faced expulsion from the Jewish community in his twenty-fourth year. In Spinoza's view, to put it simply, G.o.d and Nature are not and never will be in conflict for the simple reason that G.o.d is is Nature. "I do not differentiate between G.o.d and Nature in the way that all those known to me have done," Spinoza explains to Oldenburg. In Part IV of the Nature. "I do not differentiate between G.o.d and Nature in the way that all those known to me have done," Spinoza explains to Oldenburg. In Part IV of the Ethics Ethics he tosses off an enigmatic phrase that has since come to stand for the whole of his philosophy: "G.o.d, or Nature"-which really means: "G.o.d, or what amounts to the same thing, Nature." On the basis of this daring intuition, Spinoza constructs something that looks very much like a new form of religion-what should perhaps count as the first religion of the modern era (although it would also be true to say that in some sense it was the revival of an ancient and long forgotten one). he tosses off an enigmatic phrase that has since come to stand for the whole of his philosophy: "G.o.d, or Nature"-which really means: "G.o.d, or what amounts to the same thing, Nature." On the basis of this daring intuition, Spinoza constructs something that looks very much like a new form of religion-what should perhaps count as the first religion of the modern era (although it would also be true to say that in some sense it was the revival of an ancient and long forgotten one).

The "Nature" in question here is not of the blooming and buzzing kind (though it would include that, too). It is closer to the "nature" in "the nature of light" or "the nature of man"-that is, the "nature" that is the subject of rational inquiry. Inasmuch as Spinoza speaks of "Nature" with a capital N N, he refers to a generalization over all these other "natures." It is the "Nature" of everything, or that which makes all the other natures what they are. One may also think of "nature" as an "essence" Nature, in this sense, is the essence of the world, or that which makes the world what it is.

The most important feature of Spinoza's Nature-and, in a sense, the very point of his philosophy-is that it is in principle intelligible or comprehensible. His philosophy is at a deep level a declaration of confidence that there is nothing ultimately mysterious in the world; there are no inscrutable deities making arbitrary decisions, and no phenomena that will not submit to reasoned inquiry-even if that inquiry is inherently without end; in short, that there is nothing that cannot be known-even if we do not necessarily know everything.

Spinoza's concept of G.o.d, or Nature has this in common with the more pedestrian notions of divinity: G.o.d is the cause of all things. However, Spinoza hastens to add, G.o.d "is the immanent cause of things, and not the transitive cause." A "transitive" cause lies "outside" its effect. A watchmaker, for example, is the transitive cause of his watch. An "immanent" cause is in some sense "inside" or "together with" that which it causes. The nature of a circle, for example, is the immanent cause of its roundness. Spinoza's claim is that G.o.d does not stand outside the world and create it; rather, G.o.d exists in in the world and subsists together with what it creates: "All things, I say, are in G.o.d and move in G.o.d." In simple code: Spinoza's G.o.d is an the world and subsists together with what it creates: "All things, I say, are in G.o.d and move in G.o.d." In simple code: Spinoza's G.o.d is an immanent immanent one. one.

Spinoza also refers to his "G.o.d, or Nature" as "Substance." Substance is, very generally speaking, that stuff in which "attributes"-the properties that make something what it is-inhere. By way of skirting the arcana of Aristotelian and medieval metaphysics, one may think of substance as that which is "really real," or the ultimate const.i.tuent(s) of reality. The most important thing about substance is that no substance can be reduced to the attribute of some other substance (which would then, of course, const.i.tute the "real" substance). Substance is where the digging stops-where all investigations come to an end.

Before Spinoza, it was generally taken for granted that there are many such substances in the world. With a chain of definitions, axioms, and proofs, however, Spinoza claims to demonstrate once and for all that there can in fact be only one Substance in the world. This one Substance has "infinite attributes" and is, as a matter of fact, G.o.d. Leibniz accurately sums it up: According to Spinoza, he notes, "G.o.d alone is substance, or a being subsisting through itself, or, that which can be conceived through itself."

According to Spinoza, furthermore, everything in the world is merely a "mode" of an attribute of this Substance, or G.o.d. "Mode" is just Latin for "way," and the modes of G.o.d are simply the ways in which Substance (i.e., G.o.d, or Nature) manifests its eternal essence. Leibniz once again hits the nail on the head in his note on the discussion with Tshirnhaus: "All creatures are nothing but modes."