On the inventory taken the day of Spinoza's death, next to the signature of Hendrik van der Spyck, appear the Latin forenames-subsequently crossed out-of a witness to the proceedings: "Georgius Hermanius." In a later letter to Leibniz, Tschirnhaus reports that Schuller has written him to say that he was indeed present with "our friend in The Hague" on his last day. "After [Spinoza] gave orders concerning how his posthumous ma.n.u.scripts should be handled" to Schuller, Tschirnhaus recounts, "he died." A subsequent letter from Schuller to Leibniz seems to confirm the story: "before and after [Spinoza's] death (for your ears only) I scrutinized all of his papers thoroughly one by one, and, at the bidding of his friends and himself (while he still lived), I removed any that smelled of erudition [sic] or oddity."

Schuller lived with a fellow Spinoza enthusiast, Pieter van Gent, who harbored a great dislike for his lodger, describing him as a good-for-nothing and scoundrel in his treatment of his fiancee. From Schuller, presumably, van Gent learned something about the circ.u.mstances surrounding Spinoza's death. He later wrote to his friend Tschirnhaus: "G.o.d willing, I shall give you an account in person of what happened when our friend [Spinoza] died, and then I shall tell you more that will astonish and dumbfound you." Unfortunately, van Gent's story never made it into any of the surviving correspondence.

Why did Spinoza call for Schuller? What exactly happened on the day that Spinoza died? Why did Schuller, along with perhaps Tschirnhaus, van Gent, Leibniz, and even Colerus, connive to cover up his role in the affair? The astonishing and dumbfounding questions that linger over Spinoza's death can only be the subject of speculation. Only two facts about the case seem certain and relevant for us: whatever it was that happened on the day that Spinoza died, Schuller was involved; and Leibniz was in the know.

LEIBNIZ GOT THE news within days. In a letter dated February 26, 1677, Schuller informs him of Spinoza's demise, adding: "It seems that death took him so much by surprise that he left no testament to indicate his last will." In his next breath, the Amsterdam doctor makes a startling proposal: news within days. In a letter dated February 26, 1677, Schuller informs him of Spinoza's demise, adding: "It seems that death took him so much by surprise that he left no testament to indicate his last will." In his next breath, the Amsterdam doctor makes a startling proposal: The ma.n.u.script of the Ethics Ethics, in the author's hand-the same one you saw at his house-is being held at a friend's house. It is for sale, provided the price (150 guilders, I believe) corresponds with the dignity of the object. I thought that since no one knows better than you the significance of the work, perhaps you could persuade your prince to buy it at his cost.

Schuller does not explain how he came into control of the ma.n.u.script in question. It is impossible to know whether he refers to the papers locked in the desk van der Spyck was in the process of shipping to Rieuwertsz-which would imply that Spinoza's publisher was the "friend" hoping to cash in on the goods-or to a ma.n.u.script that he acquired by some other means.

If Leibniz had any scruples about the legality of Schuller's offer, he kept them well hidden. He was evidently more than keen to buy the precious doc.u.ment, whose significance, as Schuller rightly points out, he better than anyone understood. Naturally, he intended to take the money from the Duke of Hanover's library budget; but it seems that he preferred not to inform his patron about the potential acquisition for the time being.

Four weeks after making the offer, however, Schuller suddenly changed his tune: I am greatly relieved that you have said nothing to your prince about the purchase of the Ethics Ethics, for I have changed my mind entirely, and I do not want to be responsible for the exchange (even if the seller raised his price). The reason is that I have been able to arrange a consensus among his friends, who were in much disagreement, to publish for the public good not only the Ethics Ethics, but also all the ma.n.u.script fragments (the greatest part of which...in the author's hand has fallen into my hands).

Here Schuller takes credit for one of the greatest adventures in the history of publishing: the publication of Spinoza's posthumous works. Yet it is hard to escape the conclusion that he claims more credit than is properly his due. In the interval between Schuller's two letters to Leibniz, Rieuwertsz had received Spinoza's ma.n.u.scripts in Amsterdam and posted a letter of acknowledgment to van der Spyck. A more likely story is that Schuller lost control of the publication process to Rieuwertsz, but preferred to represent the new development to Leibniz as the fruit of his own effort.

With Spinoza's papers out of his (and presumably Schuller's) hands, Leibniz now became greatly alarmed. In April 1677, Tschirnhaus relayed the news from Schuller that among the dead philosopher's papers was "a writing" from Leibniz. The "writing" in question was most likely one of the letters Leibniz had sent Spinoza. The horrifying prospect for Leibniz was that Spinoza's correspondence might now be published in full. Would the editors include his letters to the reviled atheist? Leibniz's career, if not more, hung in the balance.

WHILE KEEPING A nervous eye on developments in Amsterdam, Leibniz abruptly pulled the trigger on another intellectual front. In a letter that same month in which he introduces himself to a professor of philosophy in a nearby town, Leibniz suddenly steps outside the flow of the discussion in order to fire off a brutal fusillade against the late Descartes. The attack comes out of nowhere, and yet it slams its victim from all sides. Before, Leibniz had little but anodyne praise for the work of the great French philosopher; indeed, just one year previously, he had gone hunting for Cartesian ma.n.u.scripts with his friend Tschirnhaus in the bookshops of Paris. Now, it seems, the Cartesian philosophy is a catalogue of outrageous errors. Leibniz himself characterizes his violent critique as the consequence of a revelation of sorts. "I was vexed to discover such things nervous eye on developments in Amsterdam, Leibniz abruptly pulled the trigger on another intellectual front. In a letter that same month in which he introduces himself to a professor of philosophy in a nearby town, Leibniz suddenly steps outside the flow of the discussion in order to fire off a brutal fusillade against the late Descartes. The attack comes out of nowhere, and yet it slams its victim from all sides. Before, Leibniz had little but anodyne praise for the work of the great French philosopher; indeed, just one year previously, he had gone hunting for Cartesian ma.n.u.scripts with his friend Tschirnhaus in the bookshops of Paris. Now, it seems, the Cartesian philosophy is a catalogue of outrageous errors. Leibniz himself characterizes his violent critique as the consequence of a revelation of sorts. "I was vexed to discover such things chez chez M. des Cartes," he says. "But I could see no way to excuse them." M. des Cartes," he says. "But I could see no way to excuse them."

Leibniz's criticisms of Descartes have a nasty, personal edge. Descartes has "a rather mean spirit," he sneers. He is unduly "arrogant" with respect to other philosophers. His ignorance in chemistry "causes pity" and "one had best forget the beautiful novel of physics he has given us." His skills as a mathematician and geometer are nothing like what they are cracked up to be. And he fabricated his war record. Above all, says Leibniz, the philosophy Descartes propounded is "dangerous."

To readers of the time, the dawn raid on Descartes must have seemed reckless and inexplicable, as it in fact did to his first correspondent on the matter. "It seems that Mr. Leibnits wishes to establish his reputation on the ruins of that of Mr. Descartes," laments a horrified reviewer, after the dispute went public. In that initial declaration of war of April 1677, however, Leibniz offers us a very discreet clue as to the genesis of the conflict. In cataloguing some of Descartes's errors, he writes: "nor do I approve of his dangerous idea, that matter a.s.sumes all forms of which it is capable successively." A reader of the time, of course, would have had no way of knowing that the doctrine Leibniz here attributes to Descartes (that matter a.s.sumes all forms of which it is capable) looks suspiciously like the one he attributes to Spinoza (that all possible things exist) in both his personal note of December 12,1676, and his marginalia on Spinoza's letter to Oldenburg.

WHILE LEIBNIZ WAS jousting with the strangely Spinozistic ghost of Descartes in Hanover, a scramble broke out along the ca.n.a.ls of Amsterdam. Rieuwertsz, Jarig Jelles, Schuller himself, and a small band of unsung heroes of the early Enlightenment were making rapid progress in their clandestine effort to publish Spinoza's posthumous works. The material in the philosopher's unmarked crate had to be transcribed into fair copies for use by the printers. Spinoza's Latin required some correction-apparently, he sometimes slipped into Spanish or Portuguese constructions-and letters written in Dutch had to be translated into Latin. For the Dutch edition, conversely, all of the Latin material required translation. Along the way, crucial editorial decisions concerning what to include had to be made. Many of Spinoza's letters were deemed to be of merely personal interest, and, to the unheard groans of future historians, they were destroyed. jousting with the strangely Spinozistic ghost of Descartes in Hanover, a scramble broke out along the ca.n.a.ls of Amsterdam. Rieuwertsz, Jarig Jelles, Schuller himself, and a small band of unsung heroes of the early Enlightenment were making rapid progress in their clandestine effort to publish Spinoza's posthumous works. The material in the philosopher's unmarked crate had to be transcribed into fair copies for use by the printers. Spinoza's Latin required some correction-apparently, he sometimes slipped into Spanish or Portuguese constructions-and letters written in Dutch had to be translated into Latin. For the Dutch edition, conversely, all of the Latin material required translation. Along the way, crucial editorial decisions concerning what to include had to be made. Many of Spinoza's letters were deemed to be of merely personal interest, and, to the unheard groans of future historians, they were destroyed.

The editors carried out their feverish labors in the back rooms of private houses along the ca.n.a.ls of Amsterdam. They were running from the law and they were running from G.o.d, too-or, at least, so the Vatican avowed. Shortly after Spinoza's death, the papal secretary of state, Cardinal Frances...o...b..rberini, got wind of the publication effort and convened an emergency meeting in Rome. The Vatican committee resolved to spare no effort in suppressing the insurgency. They alerted the vicar of the Dutch Catholic Church, who a.s.signed the case to a leading priest in Amsterdam, who in turn called on all the denominations to contribute fellow spiritual detectives to his squad. On the ca.n.a.ls of Amsterdam at the time, it seems, a visitor might well have espied the proverbial boat with a rabbi, a Protestant minister, and a Catholic priest.

At the same time, in Hanover, it seems that Leibniz himself wanted to get in on the fray. With his friend Johann Daniel Crafft, he plotted a secret journey to Amsterdam, in hopes of reviewing Spinoza's posthumous ma.n.u.scripts. No doubt the ma.n.u.scripts that most interested him were the ones in his own handwriting. But his obligations in Hanover prevented him from making the trip, so Leibniz remained in his library, writing panicky letters to his man in Amsterdam, Georg Hermann Schuller.

Meanwhile, in Amsterdam, the priestly sleuths prowled the waterways, stopping in many of the city's hundreds of bookshops and printing houses. After some months without a break in the case, the rabbi picked up the first lead. Possibly tipped off by the philosopher's f.e.c.kless sister Rebecca, the investigators turned up at Rieuwertsz's door.

But the poker-faced publisher professed to have no connection with the author after printing the Tractatus Tractatus of 1670. He feigned surprise that Spinoza should have written any more works. Astonishingly, the ministers fell for it, and thereby lost the opportunity to prevent the publication of the work that one of their colleagues later deemed the vilest book written "since the beginning of the world." of 1670. He feigned surprise that Spinoza should have written any more works. Astonishingly, the ministers fell for it, and thereby lost the opportunity to prevent the publication of the work that one of their colleagues later deemed the vilest book written "since the beginning of the world."

In his infrequent comments on Spinoza to scattered correspondents at this time, Leibniz maintains an air of calm detachment. To his friend Gallois in Paris, for example, he writes: Spinoza died this winter. I saw him when pa.s.sing through Holland, and I spoke with him many times and at great length. He has a strange metaphysics, full of paradoxes.... I noted that some of the pretended demonstrations that he showed me are not exact. It is not as easy as one thinks to give true demonstrations in metaphysics. Still, there are some, and quite beautiful ones, too.

For the benefit of the Duke of Hanover, Leibniz also took the time to a.n.a.lyze the exchange of letters between Spinoza and Albert Burgh, an estranged young friend who converted to Catholicism and accused the philosopher of being in league with the Prince of Darkness. Naturally, Leibniz rejects out of hand Spinoza's critique of revealed theology; but he adopts a surprisingly conciliatory stance with respect to the philosopher's commitment to the guidance of reason. "What Spinoza says about the certainty of philosophy and of demonstrations is good and incontestable," he tells the Duke.

Behind the scenes, however, Leibniz was anything but cool about the Spinoza affair. He could scarcely conceal his impatience to lay hands on Spinoza's writings. Above all, he agonized over the possible publication of his earlier correspondence. He obviously made his feelings clear to Schuller, for in a reply of November 1677, the latter takes pains to calm the sleepless philosopher, a.s.suring him that on the day of Spinoza's death he personally cleaned his files of anything that might offend the living.

It is worth noting that Leibniz at this point was in a position to have put a stop to the publication effort. He knew who the renegade editors were, for he was in direct contact with one of them and had met the rest on his travels through Holland. Furthermore, he now worked alongside Nicholas Steno-one of Spinoza's epistolary antagonists and a zealous Catholic convert who had contacts at the highest levels in Rome. A word to Steno and Spinoza's writings-along with his editors-might very well have gone up in smoke, quite literally. But Leibniz remained silent.

In the final days of 1677, the Opera Posthuma of BDS Opera Posthuma of BDS at last careened forth from the secret presses of Amsterdam. The work immediately reignited the firestorm of denunciation and censorship that was left smoldering after the publication of at last careened forth from the secret presses of Amsterdam. The work immediately reignited the firestorm of denunciation and censorship that was left smoldering after the publication of Tractatus Tractatus in 1670. It is "a book which...surpa.s.ses all others in G.o.dlessness and which endeavors to do away with all religion and set G.o.dlessness on the throne," said a typical reviewer of the time. in 1670. It is "a book which...surpa.s.ses all others in G.o.dlessness and which endeavors to do away with all religion and set G.o.dlessness on the throne," said a typical reviewer of the time.

On January 25, 1678, Schuller hastily arranged to deliver a copy of the Opera Posthuma Opera Posthuma to Leibniz by means of secret courier, referred to only as "the Jew." Upon receipt of the unmarked package, Leibniz locked himself in the Duke's library and feverishly scanned the seven hundred pages of Spinoza's posthumous work. to Leibniz by means of secret courier, referred to only as "the Jew." Upon receipt of the unmarked package, Leibniz locked himself in the Duke's library and feverishly scanned the seven hundred pages of Spinoza's posthumous work.

He soon experienced the kind of anguish known only to those who have seen their own words in print in a most unbecoming context. There in black and off-white was his 1671 letter to the "celebrated and profound philosopher." Next to it was Spinoza's courteous reply, offering Leibniz a copy of his Tractatus Tractatus and inviting clandestine correspondence. Flipping a few pages further, the horrified reader came upon Schuller's 1675 letter to Spinoza, in which Tschirnhaus describes Leibniz as "free from the usual theological prejudices" and "ready to receive" the rest of Spinoza's writings. and inviting clandestine correspondence. Flipping a few pages further, the horrified reader came upon Schuller's 1675 letter to Spinoza, in which Tschirnhaus describes Leibniz as "free from the usual theological prejudices" and "ready to receive" the rest of Spinoza's writings.

Leibniz was beside himself. He fired off a furious reprimand (since lost) to Schuller. The Amsterdam alchemist, true to character, groveled. In his reply, he pleads that he had no prior knowledge of the inclusion of Leibniz's first letter to Spinoza, and that in any case "the letter is no danger to you, for it concerns only mathematics." (Actually, as we know, it was about optics.) Schuller had a point, though: he knew that Leibniz had to count himself lucky that his other presumed letters, such as the one in which he reportedly praised the Tractatus Tractatus, did not make it into the book.

By February 4-ten days after Schuller sent him his copy and presumably less than a week after having received it-Leibniz had devoured the Opera Posthuma Opera Posthuma. On that date, he offered his judgment to Henri Justel, a friend from Paris who had already made known his view that Spinoza was a diabolical atheist. With Justel, Leibniz is measured but firm in his verdict: "The Posthumous Works of the late M. Spinosa have at last been published.... I find there a number of beautiful thoughts in agreement with my own, as some of my friends who were also friends of Spinoza know. But there are also paradoxes that I find neither true nor even plausible." He goes on to list the princ.i.p.al doctrines with which he does not agree, including: that G.o.d alone is substance; that all creatures are but modes of substance; that G.o.d has no will or intellect; that immortality entails no personal memory; and that happiness is the patient acceptance of the inevitable. In other words, Spinoza is wrong on every point, beginning with the very notion that fifteen months earlier Leibniz had intimated was "easily demonstrated": that G.o.d alone is substance. In a contemporaneous letter to another correspondent, Leibniz repeats the same list of unacceptable doctrines and exclaims: "How much better and more true are the Christian ones?!" To Justel he concludes: "This book is dangerous for those who would take the trouble to read it profoundly. The rest will not be able to understand it at all."

To judge from the extensive notes he made on his personal copy of Opera Posthuma, Opera Posthuma, Leibniz would have been compelled to number himself among those for whom the book was dangerous. His comments on the Leibniz would have been compelled to number himself among those for whom the book was dangerous. His comments on the Ethics Ethics extend for fifteen pages. The largest share of his notes refers to Part I, "On G.o.d," where he registers his responses to almost every definition and proposition. But these are not the casual remarks of a curious reader; they are the notes of a man who is determined to disagree with what he is reading. extend for fifteen pages. The largest share of his notes refers to Part I, "On G.o.d," where he registers his responses to almost every definition and proposition. But these are not the casual remarks of a curious reader; they are the notes of a man who is determined to disagree with what he is reading.

The a.s.sault begins on the second line of Spinoza's text and does not let up through the entire first part of the Ethics Ethics. Leibniz takes no prisoners: Spinoza is wrong on just about every point. Although the criticisms range far and wide, Leibniz returns reliably to the claim that he first made on December 12, 1676: that Spinoza's belief that all possible things exist is incompatible with the existence of a G.o.d "of the kind in whom the pious believe."

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of Leibniz's commentary is its pointedly personal tone. He derides Spinoza's proof of Proposition 20 as an "empty, pretentious device to twist the whole into the form of a demonstration." On the next proposition, he scrawls: "He demonstrates this obscurely and at length, though it is easy." Then, on the subsequent proofs: "this demonstration is fallacious" "this proof carries no weight" "this demonstration is obscure and abrupt, being carried through by the abrupt, obscure, and questionable propositions that have preceded it" "he proves this in an obscure, questionable, and devious way, as is his wont." By the time he reaches Proposition 30, Leibniz is fuming: "It seems that our author's mind was most tortuous: he rarely proceeds in a natural and clear way, but always advances in abrupt and circuitous steps." As these notes were never intended to be read by any one other than Leibniz himself, they must count as about as sincere as anything he ever wrote. And they make clear that the honeymoon, such as it was, is over.

Indeed, Leibniz's disagreements with Spinoza are by now so emphatic that one may even be inclined to doubt whether there ever had been a honeymoon. But, at around the same time that he recorded his reactions to the Ethics Ethics, Leibniz himself provided the evidence to remove any such doubts. In "On Freedom," an unpublished essay dating from 1678 or 1679, he confesses: When I considered that nothing occurs by chance...and that nothing exists unless certain conditions are fulfilled from all of which together its existence at once follows, I found myself very close to the opinions of those who hold everything to be absolutely necessary.... But I was pulled back from this precipice by considering those possible things which neither are nor will be nor have been.

"Those who hold everything to be absolutely necessary," of course, just means "Spinoza." Leibniz here confirms that his earlier rapprochement with Spinoza was quite real.

Perhaps most revealing is Leibniz's choice of metaphor to describe his earlier lapse into Spinozism. A "precipice" is the kind of peril that one may encounter unexpectedly in the midst of a journey and that may be averted in an instant, by simply pulling back. Most important, it evokes the fear of a "fall" in more than just a physical sense.

Not for another twenty-five years did Leibniz feel ready to make a similar confession about his youthful affair with Spinozism. Yet, crucially, in his famous comment in the unpublished New Essays on Human Understanding New Essays on Human Understanding, he expresses almost exactly the same thought: that he had once "leaned to the side of the Spinozists," whom he specifically accuses of holding everything to be absolutely necessary. In that celebrated pa.s.sage, he goes on to say that "these new lights have healed me, and since that time I have sometimes taken the name of Theophile." Clearly, the story of Leibniz's fateful bite of the Spinozist apple and his subsequent recovery from such a hideous lapse marks a pivotal moment in his own narrative of his life. The tone of both confessions is something like that of a repentant sinner or recovering alcoholic. If (per impossibile) there were more people like Leibniz in the world, one could imagine them circling together in a kind of Spinozists Anonymous to trade qualifications, share lessons about their illness, and discuss the twelve steps to healing.

Leibniz's claim that he settled on the name Theophile only after curing himself of the affliction of Spinozism is intriguing, and seems to refer to an important step on his road to recovery. Sure enough, a dialogue in his unpublished notes from 1678, the year in which he received Spinoza's posthumous works, features a fictional character bearing Leibniz's new pseudonym. (In the dialogue on motion he wrote just days before visiting Spinoza, incidentally, Leibniz also names one of the partic.i.p.ants Theophile; but he does not in that instance identify himself with the character in question.) Theophile, says Leibniz now, "had a certain self-effacement and simplicity which gave ample evidence of great resources and an enlightened and tranquil soul." He is clearly everything Leibniz wants to be.

Theophile's debating partner is a man named Polidore, who is pretty much what Leibniz does not want to be. Polidore suffers from a kind of vanitas vanitas not at all unlike that of the author of not at all unlike that of the author of The Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect The Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect: "Now that I have attained the things I wanted," he says, "I have come to recognize their vanity." He dismisses the "presumptuous" doctrine of personal immortality, and he dabbles in the theory of a world-soul. G.o.d, he seems to think, is nothing but nature, and nature is cruel: A wretched sheep is torn apart by a wolf, a pigeon falls prey to some vulture, the poor flies are exposed to the malice of spiders, and men themselves-what a tyranny they exercise over other animals, and even among themselves...[we] must say that [G.o.d] cares not at all for what we call justice and that he takes pleasure in destruction.... Individuals must give way; there is room only for the species.

Polidore, in other words, is Spinoza without the aura of metaphysical enchantment.

Naturally, Theophile gets the better of the argument. He eventually brings Polidore around to the recognition that G.o.d has a will and intellect, that he actively plans everything for the best, that the individual soul is immortal, and that there is no such thing as a world-soul. In other words: that Spinoza is wrong about everything. The dialogue concludes with a spectacular pa.s.sage in which Leibniz announces the creed that served to guide his entire life: I see that virtue and honor are not chimeras. I recognize that the general lament about the misery of life poisons our satisfaction and strangely deceives us. Instead we must remember that we are the most perfect and happiest of all known creatures, or at least that it takes only us to become so. Most blessed are those who know their own good. Hereafter let us no longer complain of nature; let us love this G.o.d who so loved us, and know, once and for all, the knowledge of great truths, the exercise of divine love and charity, and the efforts which one can make for the general good-by a.s.suaging the ills of men, contributing to the happiness of life, advancing the sciences and arts and everything that serves to acquire true glory and immortalize oneself through good deeds-all these are pathways to this felicity, which lead us as far as we are capable of going toward G.o.d and which we may take as a kind of apotheosis.

Among the thousands of pages that fill the Leibniz Archive, this one offers perhaps the most heartfelt declaration of the great philosopher's ambition to serve the human race princ.i.p.ally in advancing the arts and sciences and always according to the maxim "Justice is the charity of the wise." According to the editors of this ma.n.u.script, his handwriting grows larger and rounder as the pa.s.sage progresses, overflowing the margins of the paper. He was clearly in a state of deep exultation as he made this statement of what he took to be his most n.o.ble aspiration.

But it should not be overlooked that the character in whose voice this final, breathless profession of faith emerges is not the serene Theophile, but the recovering Spinozist Polidore. Leibniz, it seems, was the latter as much as he was the former. Theophile is perhaps best interpreted as Leibniz's idea idea of himself-the idea with which he was ever so much in love. But Polidore should be counted as his other, more real self-the multiplicitous one who desperately needed affirmation, who perhaps secretly still doubted that the world had enough love to go around. of himself-the idea with which he was ever so much in love. But Polidore should be counted as his other, more real self-the multiplicitous one who desperately needed affirmation, who perhaps secretly still doubted that the world had enough love to go around.

In other writings from this time, Leibniz's a.s.sault on Descartes takes on a highly revealing character. Though the attack remains fierce and scattered, it is no longer inexplicable. Leibniz returns time and again to the critique of the "dangerous" Cartesian doctrine he first attacked in April 1677: the belief that "matter receives all forms possible successively." It is a curious nit to pick with Descartes, since other commentators would not necessarily have regarded this as one of the French philosopher's central doctrines. Why pick on this particular nit, then? By early 1680, Leibniz allows himself to be explicit: If matter a.s.sumes all forms possible successively, then it follows that one cannot imagine anything so absurd nor so bizarre nor contrary to that which we call justice, that has not happened or will not happen one day. These are precisely the thoughts that Spinoza explained more clearly, to know that justice, beauty, and order are naught but things that are relative to us, that the perfection of G.o.d consists in the amplitude of his work, that nothing is possible or conceivable that he does not actually produce....This is, in my view, the proton pseudos proton pseudos [first lie] and foundation of the atheistic philosophy. [first lie] and foundation of the atheistic philosophy.

The problem with Descartes, in a word, is Spinoza. And the problem with Spinoza is that he is an atheist. Indeed, he is the world's first and foremost atheist, the one who best articulates the "first lie and foundation of the atheistic philosophy." Thus Leibniz announces his definitive response to the single most important question that can be raised about Spinoza's philosophy: Is his G.o.d really a G.o.d?

Leibniz's use of the term "atheism" here marks a pivotal moment in European culture. Unlike almost all his contemporaries, Leibniz did not use the label of atheism in order to suggest that Spinoza led a debauched life. Quite to the contrary, Leibniz would go out of his way to acknowledge that the philosopher of The Hague was irreproachable in his manner of living. Rather, perhaps for the first time, Leibniz understood that atheism stood for a new and very different kind of problem, a latent, philosophical potentiality of modernity, a condition afflicting especially those who, like Spinoza, did little but meditate on the existence and nature of G.o.d.

It is equally important to note that although Descartes preceded Spinoza, chronologically speaking, it is the later philosopher who has logical priority over the earlier one in Leibniz's mind. Descartes's theory of G.o.d, according to Leibniz, "is nothing but a chimera and consequently it would be necessary to conceive of G.o.d in the manner of Spinoza, as a being who has no intellect or will." And again: "Descartes thinks in a whisper what Spinoza says at the top of his voice."

In fact, Leibniz is so sure that Descartes is just a feeble pseudonym for Spinoza that he goes ahead and criticizes the former for views that are more properly attributed to the latter. For example, he blasts Descartes for his concept of immortality-an "immortality without memory" that "cannot console us in any way" and that "destroys all reward and punishment." But the doctrine in question properly belongs to Spinoza; Descartes, in fact, explicitly rejects it.

It was far from the last time that Leibniz engaged in proxy warfare against Spinoza's stand-ins. But it was one of the last times he was so explicit about his aims. Descartes by now was the marquee name of a new brand of orthodoxy in the universities of Europe. As word of Leibniz's dawn raid spread, the Cartesians rounded on him for having dared to a.s.sociate their master's good name with that of the apostate Jew. "One hopes that [Leibniz] will return to mathematics, in which he excels, and not get mixed up in philosophy, where he does not have the same advantage," mutters a seething Cartesian in the Parisian Journal des Scavans Journal des Scavans. Chastised, Leibniz acknowledged his error. "I would never have mentioned Spinoza," he replies, "if I had thought that one would publish what I was writing."

LEIBNIZ HAD DISCOVERED what he was against, philosophically speaking. But he was not yet entirely clear on what he was for. While he labored on his own spectacular and inimitable response to the philosophical problems of his age and ours, the great courtier of Hanover went underground-quite literally. what he was against, philosophically speaking. But he was not yet entirely clear on what he was for. While he labored on his own spectacular and inimitable response to the philosophical problems of his age and ours, the great courtier of Hanover went underground-quite literally.

In October 1679, Leibniz's lengthy negotiations with Duke Johann Friedrich concerning the Harz mines came to fruition in the form of a contract. The doc.u.ment specifies that if, after a one-year trial period, the windmill invention works as planned, Leibniz is to be paid an annual pension of 1,200 thalers for the rest of his life. Although the original rationale for the project had been to secure funding for a proposed Academy of the Sciences, the sole beneficiary of the new contract, it seems, was to be Leibniz himself. The philosopher was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with satisfaction: "I have the affair of the windmill at such a state of perfection that I am certain that it will please the world marvelously," he told the Duke.

One month after signing the contract, sadly, Leibniz's great champion, Duke Johann Friedrich, died. The new duke, Ernst August, shared few of the spiritual and cultural interests of his brother and predecessor. He was a trim figure, known among his peers chiefly for his skills as a huntsman. Although he appreciated Leibniz's unique intellectual gifts, he was less than inspired by the courtier's philosophical projects. Nonetheless, the two evidently were able to talk about money. The philosopher promised Ernst August that his mining project would generate 400,000 thalers of additional income for the duchy over ten years at almost no cost, and the Duke reaffirmed his predecessor's commitment to the venture.

The greatest German philosopher of the time promptly became something like a management consultant avant la lettre avant la lettre. From 1680 to 1686, he made thirty-one journeys to and spent half of his days and nights-a total of 165 weeks-in the Harz Mountains. Hundreds of pages of his collected works are taken up with correspondence on the subject of the Harz mines-far more than the number devoted to any of his philosophical or scientific projects during the period.

By 1683, the project was two years behind schedule and 800 percent over budget. There was no windmill, and among the locals in the Harz Mountains Leibniz was about as popular as black lung. The complaints of the mining engineers will sound eerily familiar to any who have had experience with management consultants in the present day. First, they said, their self-appointed adviser had little actual knowledge of the business in which they were engaged. Second, he seemed to suffer from the illusion "that in this business all mathematical speculations whatsoever can be applied in practice." Third, his compensation was entirely out of proportion to the service he supplied. Finally, not coincidentally, he sought only his "own interest, and not that of the mines" and he "cared only about making money for himself."

The surviving evidence suggests that the aggrieved miners may have had a point. Leibniz's plan, for example, involved the creation of ancillary structures to handle the new operations, and the required investment was great enough to call into question the commercial value of the windmill project as a whole. But the courtier argued, infuriatingly, that those expenses were not specified as part of his project in his contract with the Duke, and so were no concern of his.

Leibniz also failed conspicuously to win points with the miners for honesty. Although he presented the windmill plan as his own brainchild, in fact a version of the idea had first been suggested by a mining engineer who had died before the philosopher began the project. The deceased engineer had also proposed that the water pumped out by the windmills should be stored in reservoirs, to be run through water-powered pumps as the need arose. Earlier, when the engineer's plans were revived as an alternative to Leibniz's scheme, the philosopher scoffed, arguing that the other system would never work. As he became more familiar with the realities of mining life, however, Leibniz turned around and presented the dead man's scheme as his own. The miners, perhaps understandably, judged that the bewigged courtier from Hanover was "a dangerous man and evil to deal with."

AS HE BURROWED in search of silver in the Harz Mountains, Leibniz, true to his word, only rarely allowed the name of Spinoza to slip from his plume. And yet, even as his explicit references to his rival dwindled to almost nothing, they grew all the more revealing. A case in point is his letter to Count Ernst von Hessen-Rheinfels of August 14, 1683, which expresses in the clearest terms the extraordinary and complex transformation in Leibniz's att.i.tude toward Spinoza that took place in the months and years immediately following his return from The Hague. in search of silver in the Harz Mountains, Leibniz, true to his word, only rarely allowed the name of Spinoza to slip from his plume. And yet, even as his explicit references to his rival dwindled to almost nothing, they grew all the more revealing. A case in point is his letter to Count Ernst von Hessen-Rheinfels of August 14, 1683, which expresses in the clearest terms the extraordinary and complex transformation in Leibniz's att.i.tude toward Spinoza that took place in the months and years immediately following his return from The Hague.

Ernst was a Catholic convert who was very keen on Leibniz's project of church reunion and even more enthusiastic about the prospect of winning Leibniz and his employers to the true faith. In his letter to the count of 1683, Leibniz turns to the subject of corporal punishment by religious authorities-a topic of considerable concern to Protestants, who had seen what the Catholic inquisitors were capable of doing with kindling wood and metal implements. Leibniz begins, mercifully, by taking a stand against the methods of "fire and iron." Corporal punishment, he says, should be reserved only for those heretics whose actions are themselves against natural right-e.g., those who attempt to foment insurrection or to poison a bishop.

But the philosophermanagement consultant abruptly has a second thought. "As for those atheists who concern themselves with developing sect-followers like Vanini and Spinosa, there is a little more cause for doubt" about whether to refrain from corporal punishment, Leibniz says. "It's another thing; for, having no conscience, what need do they have to teach?" The Italian philosopher Lucilio Vanini, incidentally, was burned at the stake in 1619 in Toulouse for being an "atheist." A similar application of corrective justice, Leibniz seems to suggest, might not have been such a bad thing in the case of Spinoza.

Having built a figurative woodpile under the feet of the man he visited seven years earlier, Leibniz is suddenly not sure whether to throw the match. He has a third thought: Nonetheless, when I consider the natural right one has to say what one believes to be the truth, and that they [people like Spinoza] believe in the manner of Epicurus that they are providing a great service to the human race in delivering it from ill-founded superst.i.tions, I do not yet dare to decide if one has the right to sentence them to the ultimate punishment.

Leibniz is now well and truly divided against himself. On the one hand, Spinoza has no conscience; he ought to burn. On the other hand, Spinoza says what he believes is true-that is, he does have a conscience-so perhaps he should be spared. Leibniz knows what he should do and he hardly doubts what the count wants him to do; but he cannot erase from his mind the image of the man he met in The Hague: a rare philosopher, sincere, honest, inspired by n.o.ble goals, and incapable of doing anything unworthy of himself.

But he steels himself for the inevitable. Perhaps striving to make a harsh verdict more bearable, he lashes out: Regarding Spinosa, whom M. Arnauld has called the most impious and most dangerous man of this century, he was truly Atheist, which is to say, that he allowed absolutely no Providence dispensing rewards and punishments according to justice.... The G.o.d he puts on parade is not like ours; he has no intellect or will. He had a pleasant concept of immortality of the soul: he thought that the platonic idea of our being, which is without doubt as eternal as that of a circle or triangle, const.i.tuted our true immortality.... He fell well short of mastering the art of demonstration; and he had only a mediocre knowledge of a.n.a.lysis and geometry; what he knew best was to make lenses for microscopes. I conversed with him for a few hours while pa.s.sing through The Hague, and I learned the rest from a few of his sect-followers, whom I happen to know familiarly. One a.s.sures me that also in 1672 when the French had taken Utrecht, some very considerable persons caused Spinoza to come visit them.

If we were to focus only on the literal meaning of Leibniz's words, we would naturally conclude that Spinoza at this point is of about as much philosophical interest to him as sawdust. Spinoza's G.o.d is just a charade, and his philosophy as a whole is so transparently bad as to be hardly worth refuting. Worse, he was a deviant-a political agitator bent on achieving a specious form of honor by cultivating a sect-following. To top it all, he was of mediocre intelligence. With his pretended proofs he demonstrated nothing more than his twisted will to power.

But the tone of Leibniz's comments seems to hint at a different story behind the dismissive arguments. The raillery ("the G.o.d he puts on parade"), the gratuitous sarcasm ("a pleasant concept of immortality"), the insults ("what he knew best was how to make lenses"), and the fact that the digression flares up in the context of an a.n.a.lysis of the merits of incinerating atheists-everything points to a very deep, personal, and abiding anxiety concerning his late colleague, an anxiety that expresses itself mostly in the form of loathing, sometimes as a grudging admiration, and always with a degree of obsession that may serve as a vital clue that the problem of Spinoza remains very much alive in Leibniz's mind.

The letter to Ernst also makes clear that Leibniz's continuing conflict with Spinoza will henceforth take place deep underground. The philosopher-courtier's strategy now goes beyond merely avoiding the mention of his rival's name. He intends to avoid the facts as well, at least insofar as they concern his own, earlier entanglements with Spinoza.

The visit with Spinoza, he now maintains, lasted merely "a few hours"-although in the earlier letter to Gallois he says that they met "many times and at great length." He happened to see his fellow philosopher "in pa.s.sing," Leibniz now avers-although his hurried visits to London and Amsterdam, where he collected a fistful of Spinoza's correspondence, suggest that the primary purpose of his trip to Holland was in fact to call on its most famous philosopher. He "learned the rest" of Spinoza's philosophy from mutual friends, he claims-although, in fact, as we know, in the privacy of his library he had studied his rival's works a.s.siduously. Leibniz's allusion to the fact that the great Conde invited Spinoza to Utrecht in 1673 is perhaps his most desperate attempt to minimize the significance of his own journey to The Hague: Even famous aristocrats, he means to say, occasionally take the time to chat with notorious atheists.

Leibniz was even less forthcoming about his other little secret concerning Spinoza-his knowledge of the circ.u.mstances surrounding the philosopher's death. Georg Hermann Schuller died two years after the event at the age of twenty-nine, and Leibniz held his silence on the matter for the remaining forty years of his life. In the Theodicy Theodicy of 1710, he goes out of his way to mention that he has received a copy of Colerus's recently issued biography, in which Spinoza's doctor is identified as L.M. He even takes the trouble to improve on Colerus's account in one place: he clarifies that the woman the biographer identifies as Spinoza's possible love interest also happened to be the daughter of the notorious Frans van den Enden-who, he reminds us, was executed in Paris in 1674. But Leibniz apparently did not think it worth his while to correct Colerus's misimpressions concerning the ident.i.ty of the last man to see Spinoza alive. of 1710, he goes out of his way to mention that he has received a copy of Colerus's recently issued biography, in which Spinoza's doctor is identified as L.M. He even takes the trouble to improve on Colerus's account in one place: he clarifies that the woman the biographer identifies as Spinoza's possible love interest also happened to be the daughter of the notorious Frans van den Enden-who, he reminds us, was executed in Paris in 1674. But Leibniz apparently did not think it worth his while to correct Colerus's misimpressions concerning the ident.i.ty of the last man to see Spinoza alive.

At this point, the evidence concerning Leibniz's possible partic.i.p.ation in a cover-up of the ident.i.ty of Spinoza's deathbed physician runs out. But it is worth noting that in his very brief life Georg Hermann Schuller established only one claim to fame. As would have been plain to any reader of Spinoza's Opera Posthuma Opera Posthuma of 1678, Schuller was the man who organized the introduction of Leibniz to Spinoza. And it is safe to say that Leibniz, the last survivor of the three, would have been content not to draw attention to the fact that the man who attended the infamous atheist in his last hours also happened to be his own factotum in Holland. of 1678, Schuller was the man who organized the introduction of Leibniz to Spinoza. And it is safe to say that Leibniz, the last survivor of the three, would have been content not to draw attention to the fact that the man who attended the infamous atheist in his last hours also happened to be his own factotum in Holland.

BY 1683, WHEN he contemplated the merits of burning his erstwhile host at the stake, Leibniz's att.i.tude toward Spinoza had undoubtedly undergone a radical transformation since the time seven years earlier when he so eagerly approached the philosopher of The Hague. But the same change of heart is already evident in 1679, when he writes in the past tense of his lapse into Spinozism, and before that in 1678, in his acid commentary on the he contemplated the merits of burning his erstwhile host at the stake, Leibniz's att.i.tude toward Spinoza had undoubtedly undergone a radical transformation since the time seven years earlier when he so eagerly approached the philosopher of The Hague. But the same change of heart is already evident in 1679, when he writes in the past tense of his lapse into Spinozism, and before that in 1678, in his acid commentary on the Opera Posthuma Opera Posthuma. And the central criticism he levels at Spinoza is already evident in his sudden a.s.sault on Descartes in early April 1677, just over four months after his voyage to The Hague. Most telling of all, the idea that runs through all of his subsequent refutations of Spinoza-the claim that Spinoza's belief in a necessary aspect in all things is incompatible with the existence of an orthodox deity-is first tied to a stake in the ground in the note dated December 12, 1676.

The conclusion that best fits the evidence available, then, is that Leibniz changed his mind about Spinoza at the very same time that he met Spinoza. Evidently, something happened when the two greatest philosophers of the seventeenth century sat down in the house on the Paviljoensgracht-something possibly unpleasant; something capable, in any case, of dramatically altering the course of Leibniz's life and the subsequent history of philosophy.

14.

The Antidote to Spinozism On a sunny hillside in the Harz Mountains, as the spring of 1684 arrived in lively shades of green, the long awaited prototype windmill blossomed at last. After supervising the final construction of his vaunted invention, Leibniz returned to Hanover to await results of its first trials.

There was no wind.

Amazingly, the inventor of the calculus had failed to observe that the mountainous region where he planned the project simply didn't offer the kind of winds required to power windmills. The hills of Saxony were nothing like the lowlands of Holland. Eventually, a gust blew up in the middle of one night, and, according to a somewhat confused report from a night watchman, the machines creaked into action. There was little chance of striking silver anytime soon.

Leibniz responded to the setback by inventing a new kind of windmill-nothing like the ones that populate the Dutch countryside. According to his new design, a set of flat panels would rotate around a vertical axis, like a merry-go-round. In the summer of 1684, he returned to the mountains and oversaw the construction of his latest invention. The results, however, were not promising; and in any case there still wasn't much wind.

The mining engineers had by now become quite strident in their views that the philosopher-consultant's project amounted to an epic waste of money and time. They proposed that Leibniz conduct an experiment to determine whether his windmills were any more efficient than the preexisting water pumps. The courtier responded with a five-thousand-word essay that shows off his legal training at its finest. His contract, he insists, says nothing about showing that the windmills were more more efficient than the existing water pumps, only that they would get the water out. He may have been legally correct; but it was not a very effective way to demonstrate that his interests were very well aligned with those of the Duke, his mines, or the rest of the human race, for that matter. efficient than the existing water pumps, only that they would get the water out. He may have been legally correct; but it was not a very effective way to demonstrate that his interests were very well aligned with those of the Duke, his mines, or the rest of the human race, for that matter.

In April 1685, Duke Ernst August finally understood where all this was going and ordered an immediate cessation to work on the windmill project. But with the schadenfreude schadenfreude dripping off tongues in Hanover and the general good of humankind still unserved, Leibniz could not bear to pull himself from the mines. Through much of 1685 and 1686, he remained in the mountains, devising still more inventions for the miners. He proposed, for example, installing a circular chain of containers, such that rocks from the surface could be used to pull up loads from the pits. But the miners paid no heed. To a fellow courtier Leibniz complained that the engineers would listen politely to his proposals one day, then suffer memory loss on the next day. dripping off tongues in Hanover and the general good of humankind still unserved, Leibniz could not bear to pull himself from the mines. Through much of 1685 and 1686, he remained in the mountains, devising still more inventions for the miners. He proposed, for example, installing a circular chain of containers, such that rocks from the surface could be used to pull up loads from the pits. But the miners paid no heed. To a fellow courtier Leibniz complained that the engineers would listen politely to his proposals one day, then suffer memory loss on the next day.

Leibniz's stint in the mines, as with so many of his other adventures, ended with questions about the altruism (or not) of his deepest motivations lingering unanswered. The trouble was not just that his labors in the Harz Mountains produced no benefit to the miners, the Duke, the German economy, or the prospective Academy of the Sciences; it was that the philosopher's behavior throughout the project left radically unclear whether in his own mind the interests of any of these potential beneficiaries could ever have trumped his overwhelming need to ensure his own financial security. But perhaps the doubts can be resolved by considering the adventure from the most global perspective. In the grand plan of the history of philosophy, it sometimes happens that philosophy progresses underground. Like a mine complex flooded with water, its advance may depend on the slow clearing of inundated pa.s.sageways, one by one, in a seemingly random and invisible way, until at last all the chambers connect and the enterprise breathes with life.

For reasons that lie buried forever in the Harz Mountains, the years Leibniz spent jousting with windmills were the ones in which he at last fulfilled the ambition he had announced in February 1676, to synthesize "a secret philosophy of the whole of things." With the benefit of hindsight, of course, one can scour Leibniz's notes from those years and construct a narrative about how all the connections opened up-and thereby lend the illusion of predictability to the whole process. But in prospect, philosophy is far less susceptible to programming than such narratives tend to suggest.

In the particularly frigid February of 1686, a blizzard swept across central Germany. For two whole weeks, the kinetic courtier was frozen in place. With the drifts piling up outside, he at last found the time to set down his answers to the eternal questions. In the resulting Discourse on Metaphysics Discourse on Metaphysics Leibniz laid out all of the core tenets of his mature metaphysics. He later said it was only from this time that he was satisfied with his metaphysics. His subsequent efforts to refine and reexpress his thoughts offer some interesting changes in tone and emphasis but none in substance. Leibniz laid out all of the core tenets of his mature metaphysics. He later said it was only from this time that he was satisfied with his metaphysics. His subsequent efforts to refine and reexpress his thoughts offer some interesting changes in tone and emphasis but none in substance.

The Discourse Discourse came to life with the explicit purpose of furthering the project of church reunion. In the came to life with the explicit purpose of furthering the project of church reunion. In the Catholic Demonstrations Catholic Demonstrations he had mapped out as early as 1671, Leibniz had announced his plan to supply the philosophical foundations for the religion of a unified church. With the he had mapped out as early as 1671, Leibniz had announced his plan to supply the philosophical foundations for the religion of a unified church. With the Discourse Discourse, he hoped, he would finally deliver on his promise. As he labored over his precious ma.n.u.script in his snowy retreat, the philosopher had one particular reader consciously in mind: Antoine Arnauld, the doyen of Parisian theology. Leibniz was sure that if he could win Arnauld's approval for his new philosophy, then it would be accepted by Catholics and Protestants alike as the basis for a glorious reunification of the Christian church of the west.

But a close reading shows that Leibniz had another, perhaps deeper agenda-and maybe even an additional reader-in mind as he wrote his Discourse Discourse. In the version of the text that he eventually sent to Arnauld, and which has since become the standard draft, Leibniz describes his new philosophy in the second paragraph of the text as the antidote for the view "that seems to me extremely dangerous and comes very near to that of the latest innovators whose opinion it is that the beauty of the universe and the goodness we ascribe to the works of G.o.d are nothing but the chimeras of men who think of him in terms of themselves." But in the earlier draft, in which his internal censors perhaps suffered a momentary relapse, the phrase "the latest innovators" reads simply "the Spinozists." Leibniz's metaphysical system, it seems, was like a new set of windmills-nothing at all like the Dutch kind. With the same spirit and energy with which he set about emptying the Harz mines of water, he now took upon himself the task of clearing the ground of European thought of the seemingly ubiquitous Substance of Spinoza.

G.o.d Modernity reduces G.o.d's creation to a silent, colorless, odorless world of weights and measures-a pointless machine-or so it has seemed to many observers. Spinoza embraces this new world-indeed, with his doctrine that G.o.d is Nature, he attempts to deify it. But Leibniz does not believe in Spinoza's new deity. And it is this rejection of Spinoza's G.o.d that represents the first principle of Leibniz's mature philosophy and the starting point of his own, unique response to modernity.

Any G.o.d worthy of the name, says Leibniz, must be able to make choices. That is, G.o.d must have an intellect with which to contemplate his options, and a will with which to affirm his decisions. G.o.d must have a choice, according to Leibniz's way of thinking, because otherwise he would not have a chance to be good. That is, G.o.d must make his choices with the idea that he is doing something that deserves praise. But Spinoza's G.o.d makes no choices. It has no will or intellect, at least as we understand those terms. In Spinoza's world, furthermore, "good" is just a term relative to human needs and limitations, no more applicable to G.o.d than, say, "delicious," "orange," or, for that matter, "bad." The G.o.d of Spinoza, Leibniz concludes, is not a G.o.d at all. Spinoza was, as he puts it to the Count von Hessen-Rheinfels, "truly Atheist."

The questions Leibniz raises here concerning Spinoza's doctrine of G.o.d are valid ones, and must be contemplated by all those who wish to penetrate to the core of either philosopher's thought. According to Spinoza, G.o.d or Nature causes the things of the world in the same way that the nature of a coffee, for example, causes it to be black. But we do not usually say that that the nature of coffee is divine, so why should we say that Nature is G.o.d? In the Ethics Ethics, as a matter of fact, one can subst.i.tute the word "Nature" (or "Substance," or even simply an X X) for G.o.d throughout, and the logic of the argument changes little, if at all. So, why use the term "G.o.d" at all? What does the name of G.o.d add-except, perhaps, some of the crusty and, for Spinoza, impermissible connotations about a divine decision maker who, say, chooses to make coffee black rather than pink? The intuition that motivates Leibniz's position here might be stated this way: what is divine must be in some way beyond or before what is natural, or else it is not divine at all.

In arguing that G.o.d must be good, Leibniz puts his finger on a related paradox in Spinoza's thinking. To say that nature is divine is in some way to judge the world-usually, to imply that the world as a whole is good. Nietzsche-whose qualifications as a Spinozist have been insufficiently acknowledged, even by himself-suggests as much when he says that Spinoza "deified the All" in order to "affirm" the world. Spinoza himself says that the world is "perfect." But, according to Spinoza's own logic, the totality of things lies beyond all human judgment. It is neither good nor bad. Now, says Leibniz, if Spinoza cannot say that the world is good, he certainly cannot say that it is perfect, except in the most abstract sense meaning "complete" or "all that there is." He cannot judge or "affirm" the world in the way that one must if one says that it is divine. Therefore, he has no license to give Nature the name of G.o.d, as he claims to do.

Even as he rejects Spinoza's concept of G.o.d, however, Leibniz retains his deep commitment to the guidance of reason. No less than Spinoza, he finds intolerable the idea of a G.o.d without reason, that is, a G.o.d who makes up reasons as he goes along, who has the arbitrary power to declare that two plus two is four on one day and then change his mind the next. Like Spinoza, Leibniz now faces one of the defining problems of modernity, namely, how to manage the potentially destructive conflict between G.o.d and Nature, or between belief in divinity and the ever expanding power circle of scientific knowledge. Unlike his more orthodox contemporaries, Leibniz is too honest to ignore the claims of reason. Unlike Spinoza, however, he cannot find it in himself to deify the object of the new sciences. His problem, then, is to discover a G.o.d of reason-that is, one who answers to philosophical proofs and whose existence is compatible with the findings of science-who nonetheless avoids the Spinozistic pitfall of losing his divinity altogether.

In the Discourse Discourse, Leibniz first formulates his answer to this problem in a clear and perspicuous way. "G.o.d has chosen that world which is most perfect," he writes. That is to say, G.o.d is that being which chooses the "the best of all possible worlds."

In his later writings, in which he allows himself the poetic license that accrues to well-ripened visions, Leibniz presents a more vivid representation of this idea of G.o.d. In the final pages of his Theodicy, Theodicy, a character named Theodorus (Leibniz's alter ego in this instance) falls asleep in a temple and begins to dream. In his reverie, he visits "a palace of unimaginable splendor and prodigious size"-an edifice that, as it happens, belongs to G.o.d. The halls in the palace represent possible worlds. As Theodorus wanders through this magnificent construction, he tours a variety of worlds in which things happened very differently than in our own: worlds in which Adam did not eat the apple, for instance, and worlds in which Judas kept his mouth shut. a character named Theodorus (Leibniz's alter ego in this instance) falls asleep in a temple and begins to dream. In his reverie, he visits "a palace of unimaginable splendor and prodigious size"-an edifice that, as it happens, belongs to G.o.d. The halls in the palace represent possible worlds. As Theodorus wanders through this magnificent construction, he tours a variety of worlds in which things happened very differently than in our own: worlds in which Adam did not eat the apple, for instance, and worlds in which Judas kept his mouth shut.