Part III, Chapter 20: Of the Bad Reasonings which are common in Civil Life and in Ordinary Discourse (first part)
WE have seen some examples of the faults which are most common in reasoning on scientific subjects; but, since the principal use of reason is not in relation to those kind of subjects which enter but little into the conduct of life, and in which there is much less danger of being deceived, it would, without doubt, be much more useful to consider generally what betrays men into the false judgments which they make on every kind of subject, and principally on that of morals, and of other things which are important in civil life, and which constitute the ordinary subject of their conversation. But, inasmuch as this design would require a separate work, which would comprehend almost the whole of morals, we shall content ourselves with indicating here, in general, some of the causes of those false judgments which are so common amongst men.
We do not stay to distinguish false judgments from bad reasonings, and shall inquire indifferently into the causes of each,—both because false judgments are the sources of bad reasonings, and produce them as a necessary consequence, and because in reality there is almost always a concealed and enveloped reasoning in what appears to be a simple judgment, there being always something which operates on the motive and principle of that judgment. For example, when we judge that a stick which appears bent in the water is really so, this judgment is founded on that general and false proposition, that what appears bent to our senses, is so really; and this involves a reasoning, though not developed. In considering them generally, the causes of our errors appear to be reducible to two principles: the one interior—the irregularity of the will, which troubles and disorders the judgment; the other external which lies in the objects of which we judge, and which deceive our minds by false appearances. Now although these causes almost always appear united together, there are, nevertheless, certain errors, in which one prevails more than the other; and hence we shall treat of them separately.
If we examine with care what commonly attaches men rather to one opinion than to another, we shall find that it is not a conviction of the truth, and the force of the reasons, but some bond of self-love, of interest, or of passion. This is the weight which bears down the scale, and which decides us in the greater part of our doubts. It is this which gives the greatest impetus to our judgments, and which holds us to them most forcibly. We judge of things, not by what they are in themselves, but by what they are in relation to us, and truth and utility are to us but one and the same thing.
No other proofs are needed than those which we see every day, to show that the things which are held every where else as doubtful, or even as false, are considered most certain by all of some one nation, or profession, or institution. For, since it cannot be that what is true in Spain should be false in France, nor that the minds of all Spaniards are so differently constituted from those of Frenchmen, as that, judging by the same rules of reasoning, that which appears generally true to the one should appear generally false to the others, it is plain that this diversity of judgment can arise from no other cause except that the one choose to hold as true that which is to their advantage, and that the others, having no interest at stake, judge of it in a different way.
Nevertheless, what can be more unreasonable than to take our interest as the motive for believing a thing? All that it can do, at most, is to lead us to consider with more attention the reasons which may enable us to discover the truth of that which we wish to be true; but it is only the truth which must be found in the thing itself, independently of our desires, which ought to convince us. I am of such a country; therefore, I must believe that such a saint preached the gospel there. I am of such an order; therefore, I must believe that such a privilege is right. These are no reasons. Of whatever order, and of whatever country you may be, you ought to believe only what is true; and what you would have been disposed to believe, though you had been of another country, of another order, and of another profession.
But this illusion is much more evident when any change takes place in the passions; for, though all things remain in their place, it appears, nevertheless, to those who are moved by some new passion, that the change which has taken place in their own heart alone, has changed all external things which have any relation to them. How often do we see persons who are able to recognise no good quality, either natural or acquired, in those against whom they have conceived an aversion, or who have been opposed in something to their feelings, desires, and interests? This is enough to render them at once, in their estimation, rash, proud, ignorant, without faith, without honour, and without conscience. Their affections and desires are not any more just or moderate than their hatred. If they love any one, he is free from every kind of defect. Everything which they desire is just and easy, everything which they do not desire is unjust and impossible, without their being able to assign any other reason for all these judgments than the passion itself which possesses them; so that, though they do not expressly realise to their mind this reasoning—I love him; therefore, he is the cleverest man in the world: I hate him; therefore, he is nobody;—they realise it to a great extent, in their hearts; and therefore, we may call sophisms and delusions of the heart those kinds of errors which consist in transferring our passion to the objects of our passions, and in judging that they are what we will or desire that they may be; which is without doubt very unreasonable, since our desires can effect no change in the existence of that which is without us, and since it is God alone whose will is efficacious enough to render all things what he would have them to be.
We may reduce to the same illusion of self-love, that of those who decide everything by a very general and convenient principle, which is, that they are right, that they know the truth; from which it is not difficult to infer that those who are not of their opinion are deceived,—in fact, the conclusion is necessary.
The error of these persons springs solely from this, that the good opinion which they have of their own insight leads them to consider all their thoughts as so clear and evident, that they imagine the whole world must accept them as soon as they are known. Hence it is that they so rarely trouble themselves to furnish proofs,—they seldom listen to the opinions of others, they wish all to yield to their authority, since they never distinguish their authority from reason. They treat with contempt all those who are not of their opinion, without considering that if others are not of their opinion, so neither are they of the opinion of others, and that it is unjust to assume, without proof, that we are in the right when we attempt to convince others, who are not of our opinion, simply because they are persuaded that we are not in the right.
There are some, again, who have no other ground for rejecting certain opinions than this amusing reasoning:—if this were so, I should not be a clever man; now, I am a clever man; therefore, it is not so. This is the main reason which, for a long time, led to the rejection of some most useful remedies, and most certain discoveries; for those who had not known them previously, fancied that by admitting them, they would have confessed themselves to have been hitherto deceived. “What,” said they, " if the blood circulate, if the food is not carried to the liver by the messaric veins, if the venous artery carry the blood to the heart, if the blood rise by the descending hollow vein, if nature does not abhor a vacuum, if the air be heavy and have a movement below, I have been ignorant of many important things in anatomy and in physics. These things, therefore, cannot be.” But, to remedy this folly, it is also necessary to represent fully to such that there is very little discredit in being mistaken, and that they may be accomplished in other things, though they be not in those which have been recently discovered.
There is, again, nothing more common than to see people mutually reproaching each other, and accusing one another—for example, of obstinacy, passion, and chicanery—when they are of different opinions. There are scarcely any advocates who do not accuse each other of delaying the process, and concealing the truth by artifices of speech; and thus those who are in the right, and those who are in the wrong, with almost the same language, make the same complaints, and attribute to each other the same vices. This is one of the most injurious things possible in the life of men, for it throws truth and error, justice and injustice, into an obscurity so profound, that the world, in general, cannot distinguish between them; and hence it happens, that many attach themselves, by chance and without knowledge, to one of these parties, and that others condemn both as being equally wrong.
All this confusion springs, again, from the same malady which leads each one to take, as a principle, that he is in the right; for, from this, it is not difficult to infer, that all who oppose us are obstinate, since, to be obstinate is not to submit to the right.
But still, although it be true that these reproaches of passion, of blindness, and of quibbling, which are very unjust on the part of those who are mistaken, are just and right on the part of those who are not so; nevertheless, since they assume that truth is on the side of him who makes them, wise and thoughtful persons, who treat of any contested matter, should avoid using them, before they have thoroughly established the truth and justice of the cause which they maintain. They will never then accuse their adversaries of obstinacy, of rashness, of wanting common sense, before they have clearly proved this. They will not say, before they have shown it, that they fall into intolerable absurdities and extravagances; for the others, on their side, will say the same of them, and thus accomplish nothing. And thus they will prefer rather to observe that most equitable rule of St Augustine:—Omittamus ista communia, quae dici ex utraque parte possunt, licet vere dici ex utraque parte non possint.
They will thus be content to defend truth by the weapons which are her own, and which falsehood cannot borrow. These are clear and weighty reasons.
The mind of man is not only in love with itself, but it is also naturally jealous, envious of, and ill-disposed towards, others. It can scarcely bear that they should have any advantage, but desires it all for itself; and as it is an advantage to know the truth, and furnish men with new views, a secret desire arises to rob those who do this of the glory, which often leads men to combat, without reason, the opinions and inventions of others.
Thus, as self-love often leads us to make these ridiculous reasonings: It is an opinion which I discovered, it is that of my order, it is an opinion which is convenient, it is, therefore, true; natural ill-will leads us often to make these others, which are equally absurd: Some one else said such a thing; it is, therefore, false: I did not write that book; it is, therefore, a bad one.
This is the source of the spirit of contradiction so common amongst men, and which leads them, when they hear or read anything of another, to pay but little attention to the reasons which might have persuaded them, and to think only of those which they think may be offered against it; they are always on their guard against truth, and think only of the means by which it may be repressed and obscured—in which they are almost invariably successful, the fertility of the human mind in false reasons being inexhaustible.
When this vice is in excess, it constitutes one of the leading characteristics of the spirit of pedantry, which finds its greatest pleasure in quibbling with others on the pettiest things, and in contradicting everything with a pure malignity. But it is often more imperceptible and more concealed; and we may say, indeed, that no one is altogether free from it, since it has its root in self-love, which always lives in men.
The knowledge of this malignant and envious disposition, which dwells deep in the heart of men, shows us that one of the most important rules which we can observe, in order to win those to whom we speak from error, and bring them over to the truth of which we would persuade them, is to excite their envy and jealousy as little as possible by speaking of ourselves, and by presenting to them objects which may engage their attention.
For, since men love scarcely any but themselves, they cannot bear that another should intrude himself upon them, and thus throw into shade the main object of their regard. All that does not refer to themselves is odious and impertinent, and they commonly pass from the hatred of the man to the hatred of his opinions and reasons. Hence, wise persons avoid as much as possible revealing to others the advantages which they have, they avoid attracting attention to themselves in particular, and seek rather, by hiding themselves in the crowd, to escape observation, in order that only the truth which they propose may be seen in their discourse.
The late M. Pascal, who knew as much of true rhetoric as any one ever did, carried this rule so far as to maintain that a well-bred man ought to avoid mentioning himself, and even to avoid using the words I and me; and he was accustomed to say, on this subject, that Christian piety annihilated the human me, and that human civility concealed and suppressed it. This rule, however, is not to be observed too rigidly, for there are many occasions in which it would uselessly embarrass us to avoid these words; but it is always good to keep it in view, to preserve us from the wretched custom of some individuals, who speak only of themselves, and who quote themselves continually, when their opinion is not asked for. This leads those who hear them to suspect that this constant recurrence to themselves arises only from a secret pleasure, which leads them continually to that object of their love, and thus excites in them, by a natural consequence, a secret aversion to these people, and towards all that they say. This shows us that one of the characteristics most unworthy of a sensible man is that which Montaigne has affected in entertaining his readers with all his humours, his inclinations, his fancies, his maladies, his virtues, and his vices, which could arise only from a weakness of judgment, as well as a violent love for himself. It is true that he attempted as far as possible to remove from himself the suspicion of a low and vulgar vanity, by speaking freely of his defects, as well as of his good qualities, which has something amiable in it, from the appearance of sincerity; but it is easy to see that all that is only a trick and artifice, which should only render it still more odious. He speaks of his vices in order that they may be known, not that they may be detested; he does not think for a moment that he ought to be held in less esteem; he regards them as things very indifferent, and rather as creditable than disgraceful; if he reveals them it gives him no concern, and he believes that he will not be, on that account, at all more vile or contemptible. But when he apprehends that anything will degrade him at all, he is as careful as any one to conceal it;
hence, a celebrated author of the present day pleasantly remarks, that though he takes great pains, without any occasion, to inform us, in two places of his book, that he had a page, who was an officer of very little use in the house of a gentleman of six thousand livres a year, he has not taken the same pains to inform us that he had also a clerk, having been himself counsellor of the parliament of Bordeaux. This employment, though very honourable in itself, did not satisfy the vanity he had of appearing always with the air of a gentleman and of a cavalier, and as one unconnected with the brief and gown.
It is, nevertheless, probable, however, that he would not have concealed this circumstance of his life if he could have found some marshal of France who had been counsellor of Bordeaux, as he has chosen to inform us that he had been mayor of that town, but only, after having informed us that he had succeeded Marshal de Brion in that office, and had been succeeded by Marshal de Matignon.
But the greatest vice of this author is not that of vanity, for he is filled with such a multitude of shameful scandals, and of epicurean and impious maxims, that it is wonderful that he has been endured so long by every body, and that there are even men of mind who have not discovered the poison.
No other proofs are necessary, in order to judge of his libertinism, than the manner in which he speaks even of his vices; for allowing, in many places, that he had been guilty of a great number of criminal excesses, he declares, nevertheless, that he did not repent of them at all, and that if he had to live over again he would live as he had done. " As for me,” says he, " I cannot desire in general to be other than I am. I cannot condemn my universal form, though I may be displeased with it, and pray God for my entire reformation, and for the pardon of my natural weakness; but this I ought not to call repentance any more than the dissatisfaction I may feel at not being an angel, or Cato; my actions are regulated and conformed to my state and condition; I cannot be better, and repentance does not properly refer to things which are not in our power. I never expected incongruously to affix the tail of a philosopher to the head and body of an abandoned man, or that the meagre end of my life was to disavow and deny the most beautiful, complete, and largest portion of the whole. If I had to live over again I would live as I have done; I do not lament over the past; I do not fear for the future.” Awful words, which denote the entire extinction of all religious feeling, but which are worthy of him who said, also, in another place: " I plunge myself headlong blindly into death, as into a dark and silent abyss, full of a mighty sleep, full of unconsciousness and lethargy, which engulphs me at once, and overwhelms me in a moment.” And in another place: " Death, which is only a quarter of an hour’s passion, without consequence, and without injury, does not deserve any special precepts.” Although this digression appears widely removed from this subject, it belongs to it nevertheless, for this reason—that there is no book which more fosters that bad custom of speaking of one’s self, being occupied with one’s self, and wishing all others to be so too. This wonderfully corrupts reason, both in ourselves, through the vanity which always accompanies these discourses, and in others, by the contempt and aversion which they conceive for us. Those only may be allowed to speak of themselves who are men of eminent virtue, and who bear witness by what means they have become so, so that if they make known their good actions, it is only to excite others to praise God for these, or to instruct them;
and if they publish their faults, it is only to humble themselves before men, and to deter them from committing these. But, for ordinary persons, it is a ridiculous vanity to wish to inform others of their petty advantages; and it is insufferable effrontery to reveal their excesses to the world without expressing their sorrow for them, since the last degree of abandonment in vice is, not to blush for it, and to have no concern or repentance on account of it, but to speak of it indifferently as of anything else; in which mainly lies the wit of Montaigne.
We may distinguish to some extent, from malignant and envious contradiction, another kind of disposition not so bad, but which produces the same faults of reasoning; this is the spirit of debate, which is, however, a vice very injurious to the mind.
It is not that discussions, generally, can be censured. We may say, on the contrary, that provided they be rightly used, there is nothing which contributes more towards giving us different hints, both for finding the truth, or for recommending it to others. The movement of the mind, when it works alone, in the examination of any subject, is commonly too cold and languid. It needs a certain warmth to inspire it, and awaken its ideas, and it is commonly through the various obstacles which we meet with that we discover wherein the obscurity and the difficulties of conviction consist, which leads us to endeavour to overcome them.
It is true, however, that just in proportion as this exercise is useful, when we employ it aright, and without any mixture of passion, so, in that proportion, is it dangerous when we abuse it, and pride ourselves on maintaining our opinion at whatever cost, and in contradicting that of others. Nothing can separate us more widely from the truth, and plunge us into error, than this kind of disposition. We become accustomed, unconsciously, to find reasons for everything, and to place ourselves above reason by never yielding to it, which leads us by degrees to hold nothing as certain, and to confound truth with error, in regarding both as equally probable. This is why it is so rare a thing for a question to be determined by discussion; and why it scarcely ever happens that two philosophers agree. They always find replies and rejoinders, since their aim is not to avoid error but silence, and since they think it less disgraceful to remain always in error than to avow that they were mistaken.
Thus, unless at least we have been accustomed by long discipline to retain the perfect mastery over ourselves, it is very difficult not to lose sight of truth in debates, since there are scarcely any exercises which so much arouse our passions. What vices have they not excited, says a celebrated author, being almost always governed by anger? We pass first to a hatred of the reasons, and then of the persons. We learn to dispute only to contradict; and each contradicting and being contradicted, it comes to pass that the result of the debate is the annihilation of truth. One goes to the east and another to the west—one loses the principle in dispute, and another wanders amidst a crowd of details—and after an hour’s storm, they know not what they were discussing. One is above, another below, and another at the side—one seizes on a word or similitude—another neither listens to, nor still less understands, what his opponent says, and is so engaged with his own course that he only thinks of following himself, not you.
There are some, again, who, conscious of their weakness, fear everything, refuse everything, confuse the discussion at the onset, or, in the midst of it, become obstinate and are silent, affecting a proud contempt, or a stupid modesty of avoiding contention. One, provided only that he is effective, cares not how he exposes himself—another counts his words and weighs his reasons—a third relies on his voice and lungs alone. We see some who conclude against themselves, and others who weary and bewilder every one with prefaces and useless digressions. Finally, there are some who arm themselves with abuse, and make a german quarrel in order to finish the dispute, when they have been worsted in argument. These are the common vices of our debates, which are ingeniously enough represented by this writer, who, without ever having known the true grandeur of man, has sufficiently canvassed his defects.
We may hence judge how liable these kinds of conferences are to disorder the mind, at least unless we take great care not only not to fall ourselves first into these errors, but also not to follow those who do, and so to govern ourselves that we may see them wander without wandering ourselves, and without losing the end which we ought to seek, which is the elucidation of the truth which is under discussion.
We find some persons, again, principally amongst those who attend at court, who, knowing very well how inconvenient and disagreeable these controversial dispositions are, adopt an immediately opposite course, which is that of contradicting nothing, but of praising and approving everything indifferently. This is what is called complaisance, which is a disposition more convenient indeed for our fortune, but very injurious to our judgment, for as the controversial hold as true the contrary of what is said to them, the complaisant appear to take as true everything which is said to them, and this habit corrupts, in the first place their discourse, and then their minds.
Hence it is that praises are become so common, and are given so indifferently to every one, that we know not what to conclude from them. There is not a single preacher in the ' Gazette,’ who is not most eloquent, and who does not ravish his hearers by the profundity of his knowledge. All who die are illustrious for piety; and the pettiest authors might make books of praises which they receive from their friends; so that, amidst this profusion of praises, which are made with such little discernment, it is matter of wonder that some are found so eager for them, and who treasure so carefully those which are given to them.
It is quite impossible that this confusion in the language should not produce some confusion in the mind, for those who adopt the habit of praising everything, become accustomed also to approve of everything. But though the falsehood were only in the words, and not in the mind, this would be sufficient to lead those who sincerely love the truth, to avoid it. It is not necessary to reprove everything which may be bad, but it is necessary to praise only what is truly praiseworthy, otherwise we lead those whom we praise in this way into error. We help to deceive those who judge of these persons by these praises; and we commit a wrong against those who truly deserve praises, by giving them equally to those who do not deserve them. Finally, we destroy all the trustworthiness of language, and confuse all ideas and words, by causing them to be no longer signs of our judgments and thoughts, but simply an outward civility which we give to those whom we praise as we might do a bow, for this is all that we ought to infer from ordinary praises and compliments.