Jorgensen, Larry M. - Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm - Leibniz's Naturalized Philosophy of Mind-Oxford University Press (2019)

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi
Leibniz’s Naturalized Philosophy of Mind

Leibniz’s Naturalized
Philosophy of Mind
Larry M. Jorgensen
1
3
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For Lillian and Evan

Contents
Acknowledgments ix
List of Abbreviations xi
Introduction 1
Part I. Leibniz’s Naturalizing Project

1. Nature and Natures 11
2. Naturalizing Constraints: Equipollence and Continuity 32
3. The Intelligibility of Nature 56
Part II. The Metaphysical Basis of Minds

4. Substance and Force 89
5. Living Mirrors: Expression and Perception 101
6. Perceptual Distinctness and Mental Activity 120
Part III. Mind in the Natural Order

7. Perception, Consciousness, and Continuity 145
8. Looking Back: Memory and Consciousness 172
9. Looking Forward: Appetite and Desire 201
Part IV. The Prerogative of Minds

10. Rational Beings and Animal Souls 225
11. Moral Identity and the Appearance of the Self 244
12. Self-Reflection, Perception, and Conceptual Thought 259
Conclusion—Nature and Grace: Striking a Leibnizian Harmony 283
Bibliography 291
Index 301
Acknowledgments
Karl Barth’s commentary on the book of Romans opens with an acknowledgement

that the book was written against the background of the echoing of guns and
entrenched warfare.¹ This historical moment gave Barth’s work a spirit of urgency,
a sense that theologians needed to read carefully once again and with fresh eyes one
of the foundational works of their discipline. As he said in the preface to the first
edition, “The understanding of history is an uninterrupted conversation between the
wisdom of yesterday and the wisdom of tomorrow.”² I would have liked to produce a
similar sort of book. The sounds of war have been ricocheting in the background of
this book as well—starting when my second year of graduate studies was interrupted
by the 9/11 attacks and ending now with two consecutive summers in the United
States where a sanctuary was violated by mass murder (the Emmanuel AME Church
in Charleston, South Carolina, on June 17, 2015, and the Pulse nightclub in Orlando,
Florida, almost exactly one year later on June 12, 2016), and in mediating years
between 2001 and today, there has been continuous conflict around the world and,
more recently, a major refugee crisis.
This book is an academic book on Leibniz’s philosophy of mind, not directly
connected with the tragic scene I have just mentioned. And yet, I do think that we
often need to look back before we are prepared to move forward. Leibniz was writing
in the midst of a religiously and politically fractured Europe. And his philosophy of
mind is a piece of a much larger vision of the life of a mind oriented towards justice.
While Leibniz’s optimism has met with caricature and derision, he sought to give it a
deep metaphysical grounding, some of which will come out in the course of this book.
Leibniz’s double vision—of a regular and intelligible natural order, which would allow
for scientific and technological progress, and of a value-rich natural order, which
would allow for actions motivated by justice and love here and now—grounded a hope
for reconciliation and peace in Europe. And while I have no fantasies that an academic
book in the history of philosophy will do the same for our fractured world, it is
animated by a similar vision for serious work motivated by the genuine interest,
thoughtfulness, and respect that is a pre-requisite for any real change.
In this, I have been deeply shaped by my relationships with colleagues and
advisors. Michael Della Rocca, Robert Merrihew Adams, and Alison Simmons made
opportunities for long conversations that deepened my thinking on Leibniz in innu-
merable ways. Samuel Newlands, Mark Kulstad, Martha Bolton, Julia Jorati, Jeffrey
MacDonough, Andrew Chignell, Donald Rutherford, Daniel Garber, Christian Barth,
Gregory Brown, Paul Lodge, Maria Rosa Antognazza, Marleen Rozemond, and Markku
Roinila have all enriched my work. Peter Momtchiloff at Oxford University Press
deserves particular thanks for his help in getting this project to completion.
¹ Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Romans, trans. Edwyn C. Hoskyns (London: Oxford University Press,
1933), v. The first edition was printed in 1918.
² Ibid., 1.
x 
I emphasize to my students the need for a strong community of philosophers, and this is
my community.
But my community extends much wider than this. I presented portions of this work
at the X Leibniz Congress in Hannover, Germany; the Second Arctic Circle Seminar in
Early Modern Philosophy in Finland; the “Force Forschung: Modern Philosophical
Conceptions of Force” at Cornell University; the Second and Sixth Biennial Margaret
Dauler Wilson Conferences at UCSD and Dartmouth; the Scottish Seminar in
Early Modern Philosophy in Aberdeen, Scotland; “Early Modern Conceptions of
Consciousness” at Humboldt University, Berlin; the Midwest Seminar in Early Mod-
ern Philosophy at Marquette University; the First Annual Leibniz Society Conference
at Rice University; the Houston Early Modern Group; and the Central Canada Seminar
for the Study of Early Modern Philosophy at the University of Guelph. I am grateful for
the many conversations I had with participants at each of these conferences.
I would like to acknowledge the Department of Philosophy and the administration
of Skidmore College and an NEH Summer Grant for support of this project. The
writing groups at Skidmore College were an invaluable source of encouragement.
Colleagues and students at Skidmore College and Valparaiso University and friends
in Saratoga Springs have been endlessly supportive of my work, and I find it a real
boon to work and live amongst these amazing and wonderful people.
At a more fundamental level, this book took shape around a rich and complicated
life with my family. For Lillian, this book has taken shape around cooperative full-
time childcare, a brief life in London, and concerts ranging from chamber ensembles
to Imagine Dragons. From the beginning of this project—naming a neighborhood cat
“Light Miss” (after Leibniz)—until today, Lily has become a fellow traveler out of The
Cave, full of insight and a passion for justice. For Evan, this book took shape around
trampolines and ADK fire towers. He is the only kid I know who is enticed into
drinking his milk by Zeno’s paradox. Through his unending curiosity and question-
ing, Evan has shown the polymath drive that Leibniz himself had: science, philoso-
phy, math, history, theology, and literature all have a space in Evan’s head (and often
in unexpected ways!). And, finally, Caitlin’s encouragement and grace infuse this
book with meaning. She has been my full partner in exploring with wonder the life of
the mind, and we are together building something that we merely glimpsed twenty
years ago. She is our local superhero (seriously!), and she persists.
* * *
Portions of this book have been published previously, although most of the work has
been revised and reworked for this volume. A part of chapter 2 overlaps with “By
Leaps and Bounds: Leibniz on Transcreation, Motion, and the Generation of Minds,”
The Leibniz Review 23 (2013): 73–98. Chapters 3 and 7 make use of material from
“The Principle of Continuity and Leibniz’s Theory of Consciousness,” Journal of the
History of Philosophy 47 (2009): 223–48. Chapters 5 and 6 make use of material from
“Leibniz on Perceptual Distinctness, Activity, and Sensation,” Journal of the History
of Philosophy 53 (2015): 49–77. Chapters 8 and 9 revisit material from “Leibniz on
Memory and Consciousness,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 19 (2011):
887–916 and “Mind the Gap: Reflection and Consciousness in Leibniz,” Studia
Leibnitiana 43 (2011): 179–95. The conclusion draws in part from “Consciousness
in Western Philosophy” in The Routledge Handbook of Consciousness, ed. Rocco
Gennaro (New York: Routledge, 2018), 24–37.
List of Abbreviations
Abbreviations for Editions of Leibniz’s Works:

A Sämtliche Schriften und Briefe (Darmstadt and Berlin: Berlin Academy,
1923–).
AG Philosophical Essays, trans. Roger Ariew and Daniel Garber (Indian-
apolis, IN: Hackett, 1989).
Arthur The Labyrinth of the Continuum: Writings on the Continuum Problem,
1672–1686, trans. Richard T.W. Arthur (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 2001).
C Opuscules et Fragments Inédits de Leibniz, ed. Louis Couturat
(Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1966).
Child The Early Mathematical Manuscripts of Leibniz; translated from the
Latin texts published by Carl Immanuel Gerhardt with critical and
historical notes, trans. J.M. Child (Chicago; London: The Open Court
Publishing Company, 1920).
CP Confessio Philosophi: Papers Concerning the Problem of Evil,
1671–1678, ed. and trans. Robert C. Sleigh, Jr. (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 2005).
DM Discourse on Metaphysics, A 6.4.1529–88/L 303–30.
DSR De Summa Rerum: Metaphysical Papers, 1675–1676, trans.
G.H.R. Parkinson (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992).
Dutens Opera Omnia, ed. L. Dutens, 6 vols. (Geneva: Fratres de Tournes, 1768).
G Die Philosophischen Schriften, ed. C.I. Gerhardt, 7 vols. (Leipzig:
Lorentz, 1879).
GM Leibnizens Mathematische Schriften, ed. C.I. Gerhardt, 7 vols. (Berlin:
A. Asher, 1849–63).
Grua Textes Inédits, ed. by Gaston Grua (Paris: Presses Universitaires de
France, 1948).
L Philosophical Papers and Letters, trans. Leroy E. Loemker, 2nd ed.
(Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1970).
LA The Leibniz–Arnauld Correspondence, trans. H.T. Mason (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 1967).
LC The Leibniz–Clarke Correspondence, ed. H.G. Alexander (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 1956), cited by author, letter number,
and section number. The correspondence can also be found in
G 7.352–420.
Langley New Essays Concerning Human Understanding, trans. A.G. Langley,
2nd ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1896).
Lodge The Leibniz–De Volder Correspondence, trans. Paul Lodge (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013).
xii   
LR The Leibniz–Des Bosses Correspondence, trans. Brandon C. Look and

Donald Rutherford (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007).
M Monadology, G 6.607–23/L 643–53.
MP Leibniz: Philosophical Writings, trans. Mary Morris and
G.H.R. Parkinson (London: Dent, 1973).
NE New Essays on Human Understanding, trans. Peter Remnant and
Jonathan Francis Bennett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1996).
NS Leibniz’s ‘New System’ and Associated Contemporary Texts, trans.
Roger S. Woolhouse and Richard Francks (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1997).
PG “Extrait d’une Lettre de M.L. sur un Principe Général, Utile à l’Ex-
plication des Loix de la Nature, par loa Consideration de la Sagesse
Divine; pour Servir de Réplique à la Réponse du R.P.M.,”Nouvelles de
la Republique des Lettres (1687); also included in G 3.51–5/L 351–4.
PNG Principles of Nature and Grace, G 6.598–606/L 636–42.
Riley Political Writings, trans. and ed. by Patrick Riley (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1988).
RML Malebranche et Leibniz: Relations Personelles, ed. André Robinet
(Paris: J. Vrin, 1955).
Shorter The Shorter Leibniz Texts, trans. Lloyd Strickland (London:
Continuum, 2006).
T Theodicy, trans. E.M. Huggard (LaSalle, IL: Open Court, 1985).
Wiener Leibniz: Selections, trans. Philip P. Wiener (New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1951).
WF Philosophical Texts, ed. and trans. by R.S. Woolhouse and Richard
Francks (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).
Abbreviations for the Works of Other Seventeenth-Century Figures:

AT René Descartes, Oeuvres de Descartes, ed. C. Adam and P. Tannery,
11 vols. (Paris: J. Vrin, 1973).
CSM René Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, trans. John
Cottingham, et al., 3 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1984).
Search Nicolas Malebranche, The Search after Truth, trans. Thomas
M. Lennon and Paul J. Olscamp (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1997).
Introduction
The moderns have cut the Gordian knot with Alexander’s sword, and have
introduced miracles into a natural thing, like gods in the theatre at the denoue-
ment of an opera.¹
My aim was to explain naturally what they explain by perpetual miracles.²
The celebrated American author Willa Cather (1873–1947) writes in a letter to a

close friend:
It has been very dry down here, and every one has been talking about rain. Mamma told Elsie
that God made the rain. Yesterday Mr. McNitt had his two lawn sprinklers going for the first
time this year. Elsie came running in screaming, “O Willie! come quick and see, there are two
little Gods out in McNitt’s yard just raining away like everything.”³
Elsie made a mistake that Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) thinks is easy to
make. In DM §8, Leibniz says that “it is rather difficult to distinguish the actions of
God from those of creatures; for some believe that God does everything, while
others imagine that he merely conserves the force he has given to creatures.”⁴ And
yet, there is something quite right about Elsie’s claim, since, as Leibniz goes on to
say, the nature of minds is “so noble that it brings them as near to divinity as it is
possible for simple creatures”⁵ and, elsewhere, that “each mind [is] like a little divinity
in its own realm.”⁶
The key to understanding Leibniz’s position, and the mistake of Elsie, is to see that
the expression of the divine is fully grounded in the natural properties of the mind.
Leibniz’s theology generates naturalizing constraints that lead him to a fully natural
theory of mind, where individuals are genuine agents in their own right. Leibniz
sought to show that the actions of creatures can be distinguished from those of God,
carving out a middle ground between Spinoza, for whom all creatures are merely
finite modes of God, and Malebranche, for whom God operates as the sole genuine
cause. Leibniz argues instead that there are individual, causally efficacious substances,
¹ G 3.346/NS 223. ² G 6.595/NS 250.

³ Letter from Willa Cather to Mariel Gere, June 1, 1893 (Willa Cather, The Selected Letters of Willa
Cather (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013), 18).
⁴ DM §8. ⁵ DM §36.
⁶ M §83. For more references to passages in which Leibniz describes minds as little gods, see Gregory
Brown, “Leibniz’s Moral Philosophy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Leibniz, ed. Nicholas Jolley
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 427.
 ’    
even as these minds provide an image of the divine. As stated in the epigraph, what
the others sought to explain by means of an appeal to the divine, Leibniz sought to
explain in a natural way.
The main argument of this book is easy to state: Leibniz offers a fully natural theory
of mind. In today’s philosophical climate, in which much effort has been put into
discovering a naturalized theory of mind, Leibniz’s efforts to reach a similar goal
300 years earlier will provide a critical stance from which we can assess our own
theories. But while the goals might be similar, the content of Leibniz’s theory
significantly diverges from the majority of today’s theories. Many philosophers
today are working towards an account of mind in fully physical terms. In contrast,
the most fundamental elements of Leibniz’s mature theory of mind are indivisible,
unextended substances, which he terms monads to identify them as the true unities of
nature. Despite this stark difference in the basic elements of the system, or perhaps
because of it, Leibniz provides us with a valuable alternative and a possible way
forward amidst otherwise intractable debates. Indeed, it is helpful in at least this
sense: it allows us to distinguish a broad naturalizing project from the more narrowly
conceived physicalist project.
Of course, I recognize that the term “naturalism” is deeply disputed. Leibniz
himself used the term “naturalism” in a negative sense, although, at the same time,
he described his theory as “more natural” than the competitors. Given that, I think
there is something important captured in viewing Leibniz’s theory as a naturalized
theory of mind. Although the term “naturalism” is a slippery one even today, it is
widely regarded as a desirable goal. But it remains unclear just what the goal is.
One way to state the goal of contemporary theorists is this: a naturalized theory
will be one that has no irresolvable “mysteries”—mysteries like those presented by
phenomenal consciousness (i.e., the qualitative aspect of our experience), which
David Chalmers has famously called a “hard problem” because it is fundamentally
mysterious and it is unclear how to resolve the mystery.⁷ Thomas Nagel thinks the
mysteries will remain until we have retooled our conceptual framework.⁸ But natur-
alists of many stripes offer theories that purport to explain consciousness, removing
the mysteries. As Fred Dretske has put it, a naturalized theory may not “remove
all the mysteries [but] it removes enough of them . . . to justify putting one’s money
on the nose of this philosophical horse.”⁹
So, one way to recognize a naturalized theory is that it provides plausible or
satisfactory explanations of all mental states and events in a way that is intelligible
to human beings. Naturalism is about discharging explanatory demands. In this,
Leibniz was extraordinarily prescient, defending an account of the mind that pro-
vides fully natural explanations for mental states and events and providing an
explanatory framework that removes any residual mysteries, or at least “enough of
them,” to echo Dretske.
⁷ David J. Chalmers, “Consciousness and its Place in Nature,” in Philosophy of Mind: Classical and
Contemporary Readings, ed. David J. Chalmers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
⁸ Thomas Nagel, “Conceiving the Impossible and the Mind–Body Problem,” Philosophy 73 (1998).
⁹ Fred Dretske, Naturalizing the Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), xiii.
 
There is also a way in which the historical context of Leibniz’s theory reflects our
own situation. In the seventeenth century, the Scientific Revolution was well under-
way, and numerous previously arcane aspects of nature were being explained in
increasingly mechanical terms. But at the same time there were persistent questions
about how far these mechanical explanations could extend. Some, like Descartes,
limited mechanical explanations to bodies—minds were excluded from that sort of
explanation. Others, like Hobbes, were fully prepared to incorporate minds into the
material machine, causing some anxiety among philosophers and theologians that
important moral and theological categories would be eliminated. Leibniz’s response to
this situation was to carve out a middle ground: minds are fully a part of the natural
system, but they are not merely material machines. His naturalism is one that, he
plausibly thought, is consistent with central moral and theological positions. While this
might be seen as an important historical consequence, it also provides a framework for
evaluating for ourselves how naturalized theories might cohere with moral and reli-
gious philosophical views. This is an issue that has captured popular attention even
today—Leibniz stood at the nexus of many of the important debates then and now.
Additionally, liberal societies have long been committed to the natural sciences
and to religious pluralism. It is a source of much grief that these two positions are
now regarded, by people on both sides, as incompatible. The incompatibility is
having bad effects on our ability to live together in community, to talk civilly, and
to make progress in both science and theology. And so a Leibnizian harmony
between nature and the domain of faith is not merely theoretical.
This book is an effort to see how the Leibnizian harmony holds up from the
perspective of his philosophy of mind. Granted, many of the details of Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind would need to be updated in order to make it a plausible
candidate theory of mind in today’s discussions, a task I don’t intend to do in this
volume, but the overall metaphysic is one that might cast some light on our own
thinking. Indeed, as I have worked through Leibniz’s system, I have seen some ways
in which I might depart from what he has presented (not all of which are noted in this
volume), but this benefit of vision comes only through the hard work of seeing things
through his eyes for a bit.
Of course, by identifying a broader motivation for this project in the introduction,
I open myself to various charges: of taking Leibniz’s metaphysics out of its historical
context, of anachronism, or of pressing Leibniz into my own mold. But, for me, this
intersection of currents—those that motivate Leibniz’s thinking and those that
motivate our own thinking—animates the project all the more. And I suspect that
Leibniz would have welcomed the project. Remember that Leibniz is known for
continuously revisiting key conclusions, trying out new avenues of thought and
revising his thinking in light of the evidence. And it is clear that Leibniz never did
finish his project. And so, even a statement of Leibniz’s views will be of a dynamic
position, one that was still responding to the worries of his time and the challenges of
his own thinking. This dynamics of thought makes Leibniz difficult to interpret, but it
also gives us a picture of a highly intelligent person wrestling with difficult issues, and
it invites us to do the same.
Narrowing in from this broader set of issues, the more specific argument of this
book is that Leibniz’s philosophy of mind meets the standards of what he would
 ’    
regard as a fully natural theory. Leibniz’s commitment to naturalism is clear. In the

New Essays, Leibniz says that:
Whenever we find some quality in a subject, we ought to believe that if we understood the
nature of both the subject and the quality we would conceive how the quality could arise from it.
So within the order of nature (miracles apart) it is not at God’s arbitrary discretion to attach this
or that quality haphazardly to substances. He will never give them any which are not natural to
them, that is, which cannot arise from their nature as explicable modifications.¹⁰
This is a broad claim about methodology in natural philosophy. As we will see, and as
is evident here, Leibniz’s theological commitments yield a thoroughgoing naturaliz-
ing methodology: the properties of an object are explicable in term of the object’s
nature. If we cannot conceive how this could be in any given case, then we have not
yet arrived at the natural explanation. Of course, Leibniz qualifies this claim, allowing
for the possibility of miracles, but as I will argue while Leibniz clearly leaves open this
possibility, on my view the possibility is only very rarely realized. And so Leibniz
concludes this passage:
This distinction between what is natural and explicable and what is miraculous and inexplic-
able removes all the difficulties. To reject it would be to uphold something worse than occult
qualities, and thereby to renounce philosophy and reason, giving refuge to ignorance and
laziness by means of an irrational system.¹¹
These are strong words, which reveal the depth to which Leibniz’s naturalizing
commitments reach. And I will argue that he pursued his philosophy of mind with
this methodology in hand.
If we keep this commitment to a naturalizing project in mind, then we will find in
Leibniz a rich and interesting philosophy of mind. But there are other aspects of
Leibniz’s theory of mind that we will need to emphasize as well. Leibniz was not alone
in arguing for what we today might call a naturalized theory of mind. Plausibly,
Hobbes, Spinoza, and Hume could be seen as engaged in this sort of a project as well.
So, it is not merely that Leibniz’s theory of mind is a natural theory that distinguishes
his theory from the others. There are two other important aspects of Leibniz’s theory
of mind that will be emphasized in this volume. First, Leibniz’s theory of mind
preserves a plurality of genuinely individual substances that are themselves causally
active. That is, the activity of individual substances provides the basic component of
Leibniz’s theory. Second, Leibniz’s theory of mind is a fully representational theory
of mind. Each state of a mental substance provides information on the world around
it, from its own point of view.
The most basic elements of Leibniz’s mature philosophy are simple substances,
which, by their very nature, are representational and active. Thus, we have an early
expression of a dynamic and representationalist philosophy of mind. But, as I have
said, even though his is a naturalized philosophy of mind, he is not a materialist. The
basic elements of nature have these same properties—they are mind-like substances
that, at their essence, are representational and active. And so Leibniz’s philosophy of
¹⁰ A 6.6.66/NE 66. ¹¹ Ibid.

 
mind actually lays claim to explaining more than merely higher-order mental
phenomena. It aims to explain much that goes by in minds entirely unnoticed, and
which explains how it could be that the basic elements of nature are non-extended.
No one (to my knowledge) has brought forward these three commitments—the
commitment to a natural theory and the commitments to substances as essentially
active and as representational—in an adequate way. These will be the three pillars
upon which the theory rests.
The Argument of the Book

Of course, we must be cautious about applying our own trendy positions to historical
figures, and the naturalizing claims that I defend in this book might threaten to do
just that. As I have mentioned, Leibniz’s own use of the term naturalism is largely
negative. When Leibniz uses the term “naturalist” (as opposed to “nature” or
“natural”), it is pejorative, typically identifying what we today might call materialists
or fatalists.¹² He does not explicitly use the term “naturalist” or “naturalized” in
reference to his own theory.
Leibniz’s failure to apply the term to his own theory should not be considered
evidence that the term does not apply. Although he does not explicitly call his theory
a naturalized theory, he does call it a natural theory. The use of terms like “natur-
alized” or “naturalism” today is different than it was in the seventeenth century. In
the seventeenth century, the term “natural” was a more appropriate one to use as a
descriptor of one’s theory, without an “-ism” suffix. So, one could talk about a
“natural science,” a “natural theology,” and a “natural theory of mind.”
What does the suffix do, after all? Typically, when discussing a “naturalized”
epistemology today, for example, the suffix suggests that something has been rooted
out and discarded. The epistemology has been sufficiently brought down to the level
of science and none of the speculative residue is left. Given this, it might be
appropriate to describe Leibniz’s project as a “naturalizing” project. Descartes’s and
Malebranche’s theories of mind still have too much residue—they have not been
brought down to earth, as it were. Leibniz’s theory, by his own account, is more
“natural.”¹³ So, I think we can consider Leibniz’s theory a naturalized account when
considered in reference to Cartesian theories.
Even today, the term “naturalized” is opaque, often making sense only once you
know what sort of theory is being picked out as not natural enough. This easily leads
to a game of philosophical leap-frog, in which each theory tries to better the last. I am
hoping that we can turn this game around a bit and look back at some prior moves,
considering one position visited along the way. This historical distance can give us a
kind of critical distance on our own views. But, for obvious reasons, we cannot
assume that everything that Leibniz said about the mind translates without remain-
der into the terms of today’s debates. In order to get the right sort of critical distance,
we need to appreciate just how far the distance is. And that will require that we
¹² See AG 281. ¹³ To Arnauld, October 9, 1687 (G 2.113/LA 145).

 ’    
consider carefully how the use of terms, the historical context, and the systematic
connections within the theory itself might be distinctive in the seventeenth century.
With that in mind, this book will start by considering what, for Leibniz, it means
for a theory to be a natural theory. How does he use the term “nature” and what does
the division between natural and non-natural amount to? What are Leibniz’s criteria
for a natural theory, and why is it that the Cartesian theories do not pass the test?
Once we grasp Leibniz’s own account of a natural theory, Part I of this book, only
then can we consider how (or whether) his own theory of mind is itself fully natural.
This book is in four parts. The first two parts provide the systematic and historical
context for the philosophy of mind that is developed in the second half of the book.
Readers who are primarily interested in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind may discover
that the second half of the book could stand largely on its own. However, the full
defense for the systematic constraints I apply in defense of the interpretation
developed in the second half of the book is presented in the first half of the book,
and so the full picture emerges only with this background in place.
The structure of the book will follow this story line. In Part I, I will outline
Leibniz’s naturalism. Chapter 1 investigates Leibniz’s concept of “nature,” which
focuses on the demand for explanation. Chapters 2 and 3 outline two principles
that Leibniz believes will aid in our discovery of natural explanations: (1) the
principle of continuity, and (2) the principle of the best. Both of these principles,
according to Leibniz, derive from the nature of God’s activity. Since, according to
Leibniz, God does nothing without a reason, this gives us confidence that there is a
reason or explanation available for any given phenomenon. But beyond a mere
promise of explanation, the principle of continuity and the principle of the best
prove to be useful heuristics in discovering natural explanations. Part I shows that
Leibniz has a clear conception of the requirements of a fully natural theory and that
such a theory does not immediately undermine the sharp species distinctions that he
argues for in his theory of mind.
Part II presents the basic structures of Leibniz’s theory of mind—the things that
minds and simpler substances have in common. In this section, I present a new
interpretation of Leibniz’s theories of perception and mental representation, which
provide the most basic building blocks for his theory of mind. While very good work
has been done on Leibniz’s theory of representation, I argue in Part II that interpret-
ers have not given sufficient attention to two other central concepts for Leibniz’s
theory of perception: (a) activity and (b) mediation. Chapters 5 and 6 develop
Leibniz’s theory of substance, with attention to activity and representation respect-
ively. Chapter 7 supplements Leibniz’s accounts of representation and activity with
an account of the mediation of perceptions via the body. An account of perceptual
distinctness requires all three. The benefit of this new interpretation will be to dispel
some of the oddities (or possible inconsistencies) in Leibniz’s use of the concept of
perceptual distinctness. At the end of Part II, the main underlying structures of the
Leibnizian mind will be in place.
In Part III, I present an account of Leibniz’s theory of what one might call an
animal mind, the aspects of perception, sensation, consciousness, appetite, and desire
that humans share in common with other animals. Here I investigate his theories of
consciousness, memory, and appetite, focusing on how Leibniz explains each of these
 
in fully natural terms. In chapter 7, I argue for a same-order theory of consciousness

grounded in perceptual distinctness against other prominent interpretations of
Leibniz’s theory of consciousness. In chapter 8, I unpack Leibniz’s rich and complex
account of memory, which has important implications for a theory of consciousness
as well as Leibniz’s account of reflection and moral identity. And in chapter 9,
I discuss Leibniz’s theory of appetite and the underlying mental motivations and
resistances that lead to action.
In Part IV, I discuss those aspects of mind that Leibniz thinks are unique to
rational minds. This is the most problematic section from the perspective of a fully
natural theory, since, according to Leibniz, reflection and self-consciousness brings
minds into community with God and gives them a moral identity. There is some
evidence that Leibniz dispenses with the naturalizing constraints at that point, out of
deference to the moral and theological implications. But I argue that even here
Leibniz is prepared to defend a naturalized theory. Departing from many scholars,
I will provide a way of understanding the evidence in light of his natural theory. In
chapter 10, I will dig into some fairly controversial passages (from the perspective of
my argument), where Leibniz seems to concede that the generation of rational minds
would require divine intervention. I provide a way of understanding these passages
in light of Leibniz’s naturalizing commitments that allows him to preserve a natural
distinction between non-rational and rational minds, even as he pragmatically allows
for divine intervention as a way of speaking to his more theologically sensitive
audience. In chapter 11, I discuss what Leibniz describes as the “appearance of the
self,” which gives human beings moral agency. I discuss what the intentional content
of that appearance might be, arguing that there is a complex structure involving a
two-fold representation of the self as both passive and active. Chapter 12 takes up
this suggestion and argues that the two-fold representation of the self grounds
conceptual thought.
Many discussions in philosophy of mind focus on questions of how higher-order
phenomena, such as consciousness, relate to more fundamental aspects of the mind
and brain. Leibniz was one of the first to theorize about the nature of consciousness
in its relation to non-conscious perceptions, and it was consideration of the theor-
etical constraints of a natural theory that led him to this discovery. And he capital-
ized on it in ways that have not yet been fully appreciated. Once his thought is set
against the broader theoretical background, the unusual nature of the system
becomes more intelligible and one can more readily see how it provides a plausible
alternative to contemporary theories.
I want to conclude this introduction with a couple of notes about the scope of my
argument. First, although I have started an argument above that Leibniz’s theory of
mind would be an interesting dialogue partner in today’s discussions, I will not make
the full argument for that conclusion in this volume. What I intend to do here is to
provide a faithful representation of what is going on in Leibniz’s texts, and the further
work of updating it in such a way that it is clear how his view measures up against
today’s positions can come only once we have a clear sense of what he was up to in his
own historical context. I will make a few suggestions in the conclusion about the
direction I think this might take, but it will not be a central concern of the body of
the volume.
 ’    
Second, while there is very good work being done on how Leibniz’s views changed
or developed over time, this volume does not take up that question in a central way.
There are moments where the development of his views is important, especially with
respect to the naturalizing constraints in Part I, and I will address those there. But for
the broader metaphysical views that serve as the backdrop for Leibniz’s philosophy
of mind, I will present here what I take to be views that Leibniz consistently held
(perhaps with minor variations) over the latter half of his career (roughly, from 1686
on), with an emphasis on the metaphysics he was working out from around 1695
(with the publication of the “New System”) through 1716.¹⁴ In those contexts, I will
bring in earlier texts or discuss the development of Leibniz’s views only to the extent
that I think it clarifies or illuminates his more mature views. My own sense is that
while it may be controversial when and to what extent Leibniz was an idealist about
bodies, Leibniz’s theory of mind was more stable from the middle period onwards.
¹⁴ Readers who wish to learn more about the controversies about Leibniz’s fundamental metaphysics
should consult Robert Merrihew Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1994) and Daniel Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
PART I
Leibniz’s Naturalizing Project
1
Nature and Natures
This vulgar opinion, according to which we ought in philosophy to avoid, as much

as possible, what surpasses the natures of creatures; it is a very reasonable opinion.
Otherwise nothing will be easier than to account for anything by bringing in the
deity, Deum ex machina, without minding the natures of things.¹
Some things exist by nature and some things exist from other causes. For example,
animals, plants, earth, air, fire, and water exist naturally, while beds, houses, and coats
exist only because they were caused to exist by something else. Aristotle launches
book two of his Physics with this intuitive distinction between nature and artifice. The
question, then, is what we mean by “nature” (φύσις) when we make such distinctions.
Aristotle argues:
[E]ach of [the things that exist by nature] has within itself a principle of motion and of
stationariness . . . Nature is a principle or cause of being moved and of being at rest in that to
which it belongs primarily, in virtue of itself and not accidentally.²
He goes on to say that “things have a nature which have a principle of this kind. Each
of them is a substance: for it is a subject, and nature is always in a subject.”³
Aristotle’s conception of nature focuses on the internal principles of change, which
are intrinsic to an object, as opposed to the principles of change that are either
accidental or extrinsic to the object.⁴ Aristotle goes on to argue that “form is nature
rather than the matter,”⁵ since the nature of a thing derives more from actuality than
potentiality.
While Aristotelian natural philosophy had hit upon hard times in the late 1600s,
Leibniz sought to restore at least this aspect of Aristotelianism. In his familiar attacks
¹ LC Leibniz 5, §107.
² Aristotle, “Physics,” in The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1984), 192b10–20.
³ Ibid. 192b30.
⁴ There is interpretive disagreement over whether Aristotle’s conception of nature is of a self-moved
thing or of a thing that is moved by something else, since the Greek verb in use could be read as either in the
passive or the middle voice. It seems to me that Aristotle’s appeal to form in his discussion of nature will
favor reading this in the middle voice, although I realize that this is not decisive. I will not attempt to
address this controversy, since it is more important to my argument to see how Leibniz incorporates this
notion of nature into his own system. For Leibniz, individual natures will have principles of motion and
rest intrinsic to them. For discussion of this interpretive controversy in Aristotle, see Helen S. Lang, The
Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 39–54.
⁵ Aristotle, “Physics,” 193b5.
 ’    
on Cartesian natural philosophy, Leibniz was not attempting a mere refinement,

correcting the math, so to speak. He had a broader goal in mind: he claimed that
Cartesian natural philosophy was not sufficiently natural.
Leibniz saw himself as providing a more consistently natural account of physics
and of mind than the Cartesians. For example, in a letter to Arnauld, Leibniz says:
The ordinary Cartesians confess that they cannot account for [the union of mind and body];
the authors of the hypothesis of occasional causes think that it is a “difficulty worthy of a
liberator, for which the intervention of a Deus ex machina is necessary;” for myself, I explain it
in a natural manner.⁶
And again, in a response to René-Joseph Tournemine, Leibniz says:

My intent [with the pre-established harmony] was to explain naturally what [the Cartesians]
explain by perpetual miracles.⁷
Similarly, in his criticisms of Descartes’ theory of motion, Leibniz says that:

Nature, whose most wise Author uses the most perfect geometry, observes the same rule [i.e.
the principle of continuity]; otherwise it could not follow an orderly progress . . . [B]ut the
Cartesian rules of motion present . . . a figure which is absurd [monstrosam] and incoherent.⁸
As a fully natural philosophy, Cartesian philosophy was a failure.

In contrast, Leibniz’s early admiration of Hobbes and his flirtation with Spinozism
is due to the ways that he thought their views promised a fully systematic explan-
ation, and he considered these philosophies seriously as he attempted to discern the
relation of God to world and matter to form. Leibniz ultimately rejected Spinoza’s
and Hobbes’s theories due in large part to their theological implications, but he at
one point or another considered them seriously, provided they were suitably
adjusted. Indeed, in 1670–71, Leibniz made a serious attempt at formulating an
Elements of Mind, which attempted to do for the mind what Hobbes had done for
the body, constructing a theory of mind from geometrical principles and Hobbes’s
concept of conatus.⁹ And this present volume can be read as a way of tracing the
Elements of Mind into Leibniz’s mature philosophy. Similarly, Leibniz appears to
⁶ To Arnauld, October 9, 1687 (A 2.2.242/LA 145), last emphasis mine. A similar point was made in
Leibniz’s letter to Clarke, LC Leibniz 5, §107, which again emphasizes the need to appeal to the natures of
things in our philosophy.
⁷ G 6.595/AG 197, emphasis mine. ⁸ G 4.375–6/L 398.
⁹ It is noteworthy that Leibniz thought his promised Elements of Mind would also provide a defense of
certain theological positions in a natural way, such as the immortality of the soul. In a letter to Arnauld
(A 2.1.279/L 149), he claims that the Elements would shed light on controversies over the trinity, the
incarnation, predestination, and the Eucharist. Leibniz wrote a proposal, which included a reference to the
Elements of Mind, to Duke Johann Friedrich of Hannover on May 21, 1671 (A 2.1.182), and his preliminary
work on the Elements can be found at A 6.2.276–291.
For discussion of the influence of Hobbes on Leibniz, see Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad,
14–22 and Howard R. Bernstein, “Conatus, Hobbes, and the Young Leibniz,” Studies in the History and
Philosophy of Science 11 (1980).
   
have considered a version of monism in 1676, departing from Spinoza in ways that
would preserve God’s moral nature.¹⁰
And so Leibniz, from very early in his career, found himself between the two poles:
Hobbes and Spinoza, on the one hand, whose theories compromise important moral
and religious truths, and Descartes and the Cartesians, on the other hand, whose
natural philosophy is full of holes. It is well known that, in response to these
concerns, Leibniz eventually came to see that a fully natural account of the laws of
motion or of the union of mind and body would require the revival of substantial
forms. And so, while Leibniz departed from Aristotle in many ways, Aristotle’s
emphasis on individual natures, which have their principles of change internal and
intrinsic to them, can be seen as motivating Leibniz’s broader naturalizing project.¹¹
Two aspects of Aristotle’s account are worth emphasizing as we approach Leibniz’s
theory of mind. First, Aristotle’s emphasis is on the natures of individual things
(plural). This will play out in Leibniz’s system as he attempts to avoid charges of
Spinozism—there are individual natures that are substantial and present in the
plurality of things. Interestingly, Aristotle himself did not set out to prove this
claim. Aristotle says:
That nature exists, it would be absurd to try to prove; for it is obvious that there are many
things of this kind, and to prove what is obvious by what is not is the mark of a man who is
unable to distinguish what is self-evident from what is not.¹²
Leibniz will try to provide a fuller argument than this, but at certain points this is
precisely the kind of argument he provides, identifying the clearest example from
within ourselves—our experience of our own minds gives us evidence of an individ-
ual nature.¹³
The second aspect of Aristotle’s discussion of nature worth highlighting is that the
natures themselves provide an account of change. This will also become central to
Leibniz’s theory, and it will be an important part of the discussion in this volume as
he attempts to avoid the two boundaries: this claim will allow Leibniz to avoid
the subsumption of individuals into the whole, and it will allow him to avoid the
problems of a view (like Cartesianism, especially in its Occasionalist forms) that
places the source of activity outside of the subject. These two boundaries define the
¹⁰ For the argument that Leibniz was briefly tempted by monism, see Adams, Leibniz: Determinist,
Theist, Idealist, 123–30 and Mark Kulstad, “Leibniz, Spinoza, Tschirnhaus: Metaphysics à Trois,
1675–1676,” in Spinoza: Metaphysical Themes, ed. Olli I. Koistinen and John I. Biro (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2002). For a thorough discussion of Leibniz’s relation to Spinoza, see Mogens Laerke,
Leibniz Lecteur de Spinoza: La Genèse Opposition Complexe (Paris: Champion, 2008).
¹¹ Commentators have noted this connection with Aristotle (for example, see J.A. Cover and John
O’Leary-Hawthorne, Substance and Individuation in Leibniz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1999), 219), but to my knowledge none have fully developed the naturalizing claim that I will be developing
throughout this book.
¹² Aristotle, “Physics,” 193a1.
¹³ For example, in a letter to Lady Masham in May 1704, Leibniz argues that “the principle of uniformity”
allows him to infer that what we recognize in substances “within our range” extends to “substances beyond
our sight and observation.” Therefore, Leibniz argues, “taking it as now agreed that there is in us a simple
being endowed with action and perception . . . this leads me to think that there are such active beings
everywhere in matter, and that they differ only in the manner of their perception” (G 3.339/NS 204).
 ’    
territory within which Leibniz develops his theory of substance, and these two aspects
of Aristotle’s account of nature, if he can give them a proper development within the
new science of the seventeenth century, will give him a way to tread this line.
In broad outlines, the project of this book is to see how Leibniz develops a natural
theory of the mind. Others have emphasized Leibniz’s natural philosophy, but few
have brought this discussion to bear on Leibniz’s theory of mind. In this first part of
the book, I will unpack more clearly what it is to be a natural theory, according to
Leibniz. In this chapter I will try to formulate Leibniz’s naturalizing claims more
precisely. In the following two chapters, I will emphasize the systematic principles
that help shape his theory—the principle of continuity, the principle of sufficient
reason, and the principle of the best.
There are three things that I will emphasize in this chapter: (a) Leibniz’s focus on
individual natures, (b) Leibniz’s appeal to “rules of the good and beautiful,” and
(c) the representational nature of individual substances, building the “rules of the
good and beautiful” into the individual, active natures. This allows for a robust
natural theory that is informed by the good, and, hence, final causes will form a
part of the overall natural theory. There is a problem, however, in identifying the
scope of Leibniz’s natural theory. It is not clear how Leibniz can avoid either
(1) extending his natural theory to include God’s actions (hence, natural philosophy
extends to theology) or, on the other hand, (2) identifying the boundaries of his
natural philosophy in an ad hoc way. I will argue that Leibniz does avoid these two
landmines. Regardless, we can focus the question more specifically by considering
whether he avoids these problems within his philosophy of mind (even if he didn’t in
the broader scope of his philosophy). That is, even if Leibniz cannot find a principled
way of limiting his natural theory in a global sense, he might nevertheless be able to
avoid such problems in his theory of mind. The working hypothesis of this book is
that Leibniz can and does develop such a theory of mind.
The path to this conclusion may seem a bit digressive at first, since Leibniz
establishes what I will call his naturalizing constraints through considerations of
the relation of the universe to God. In what follows, I will suggest that it is because of
a certain conception of God that Leibniz thinks that the naturalizing constraints hold.
So a bit of patience is cautioned—Part I will be giving something of a theological
argument for naturalism, which will seem unusual in today’s context but is necessary
if we are to see the strength of these constraints for Leibniz.
1. Sophie’s Naturalism: “everything

that happens is natural”
1.1. Naturalism of a sort
In the early 1690s, Duchess Sophie wrote to Leibniz, asking his opinion about a
woman who claimed to prophesy via a special and direct dictation from Christ.¹⁴
¹⁴ I am indebted to Robert Adams for bringing this correspondence to our attention. See Adams,
Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 91–2. The correspondence can be found at A 1.7.29–46 or A 2.2.452ff.
The translation here is Adams’s.
   
In his response to Sophie, Leibniz claimed to be “thoroughly persuaded that there is

nothing but [what is] natural in all that.”¹⁵ But he went on to claim that “the great
Prophets, that is to say, those who can teach us the details of the future, must have
supernatural graces,”¹⁶ due to the infinite complexity of causes that must be under-
stood in order to predict future events.
Sophie follows-up with what Robert Adams describes as a “blunt and sweepingly
naturalistic remark”:¹⁷
I believe that everything that happens is natural, even when we do not know the cause of it.¹⁸
Leibniz responds:
That is very solid, provided it is explained correctly. It is very true, then, that everything that is
done is always natural to the one that does it, or to the one that aids in doing it. Thus what a
human being does with the aid of God, if it is not entirely natural to the human being, will at
least be natural to God, inasmuch as he aids in it; and it cannot surpass the divine nature, nor
consequently all nature in general. But popularly when Nature is spoken of, that of finite substances
is understood, and in this sense it is not impossible for there to be something supernatural, which
surpasses the force of every created being. It is when an event cannot be explained by the laws of
movement of bodies, or by other similar rules that are noticed in finite substances. And I have
shown in an earlier letter that one encounters that every time one finds a succession of true
prophecies that go into detail. It is true that they are rare, like all other supernatural things.¹⁹
Leibniz’s analysis of “natural” here is enlightening, since it focuses on the activity of a
substance—what it is able to do. The ability of a substance to act derives from its
nature, which is consistent with Leibniz’s description of nature in DM §16 and in
“A Specimen of Dynamics.”²⁰ (These texts will be discussed more fully in chapter 4.)
An action is natural if it is a consequence of the natures of the substances involved.
That is, if the action falls within the scope of the things the substance is able to do on
its own (without assistance), then it is a fully natural outcome for that substance. But
if the action falls outside of the scope of what a particular substance is able to do,
but that substance could do it with assistance, then it is a natural outcome of the
combined substances participating in the action. Therefore, all events are natural,
since even those events that might be regarded as miraculous, as being beyond the
power of any combination of finite substances, still include the assistance of God,
which is to say the divine nature.
So, one way to understand Sophie’s claim is this:
(1) Every event follows either from the natures of finite beings (individually or
collectively), from the nature of God, or from the natures of finite beings
assisted by the nature of God.
The editors of the Academy edition note that the prophetess in question is Rosamunde Juliane von der
Asseburg. For more on Leibniz’s attitude towards modern-day prophets, see Daniel J. Cook, “Leibniz on
Enthusiasm,” in Leibniz, Mysticism and Religion, ed. A.P. Coudert, R.H. Popkin, and G.M. Weiner (Dordrecht:
Kluwer, 1998).
¹⁵ A 2.2.452/Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 91. ¹⁶ A 2.2.454/ibid. ¹⁷ Ibid.
¹⁸ A 1.7.44/ibid., 91. ¹⁹ A 1.7.46f; A 2.2.460f/ibid., 91–2, emphasis mine.
²⁰ GM 6.235/AG 118.
 ’    
This is a quick route to naturalism for anyone inclined to join the party. All one needs
to do is to count actions that derive from God’s nature as natural events.
This maneuver would seem strange to most naturalists, and rightly so. It is a
cheater’s naturalism, and Leibniz doesn’t fully endorse it. Under this construal,
Descartes’s and Malebranche’s theories could be considered natural theories.
Leibniz’s resistance to Cartesian theories of mind and motion is evidence that he
did not subscribe to such a broad construal of naturalism. But what makes this
broad form of naturalism coherent and intelligible is a theory of individual natures
that underlies Leibniz’s substance metaphysics. For Leibniz, the claim that an event
is natural involves an implicit reference to the natures of the acting substances that
participate in or cause the event—we must rephrase any statement of the form
“X is natural” to “X is natural for Y ” (where Y might pick out an individual or a set
of individuals).
1.2. Limiting “nature”

When Leibniz says that “popularly when Nature is spoken of, that of finite substances
is understood,” he is advocating a restriction in the domain of the term. But then he
needs to give a principled way of restricting the domain. Restricting the domain to
finite substances and applying it to the formulation of Sophie’s naturalism above
yields a false claim:
(2) Every event follows from the natures of one or more finite beings.
While (2) might be appealing to some, it cannot be attributed to Leibniz. If true, it
entails that no events follow from the nature of an infinite being (or, possibly, that
there is no infinite being).²¹ While it is an open question just how much supernatural
activity Leibniz allows for (more on this later), Leibniz certainly thinks that there is
an infinite being whose acts follow from its nature. It would be false to say that all
events follow from the natures of finite beings.
If the domain restriction implicit in the popular usage of the term is what
ultimately undermines Sophie’s naturalism, then Leibniz has a problem: the domain
restriction seems unmotivated. Leibniz is not against the modification of language (or
the invention of new terms) to provide greater clarity to the theory, provided the
modification is linked properly to popular usage. So, the popular usage of the term
cannot dictate the theory unless it is given a systematic grounding in that theory.
Leibniz claims that Sophie’s usage of the term can be given good sense. That is, it is
translatable into something that would not obscure her meaning.²² But once he does
so, it seems he is left with an unmotivated domain restriction.
In the quoted passage, Leibniz provides a further criterion for a natural act that
may not be as ad hoc as simply ruling out divine activity. He says that a supernatural
event occurs when it “cannot be explained by the laws of movement of bodies, or by
²¹ Note that this would be problematic for Spinoza as well—if this is the way we should contrast natural
and supernatural events, then Spinoza’s philosophy is not a natural philosophy.
²² For discussion of Leibniz’s views about the link between popular usage and the clarity of one’s theory,
see Mogens Laerke, “The Problem of Alloglossia: Leibniz on Spinoza’s Innovative Use of Philosophical
Language,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 17 (2009): §2.
   
other similar rules that are noticed in finite substances.”²³ And so, the characterization
of a natural event, closer to popular usage, might be as follows:
(3) A natural event is an event that can be fully explained by the laws of the
movement of bodies or other laws governing finite substances.
Leibniz is here appealing to the explanatory utility of the laws of nature, which
provides us some access to what makes an event a natural event. Leibniz’s appeal to
individual natures reveals a commitment to the full intelligibility of nature—natural
events are susceptible to a full explanation in terms of finite substances and the laws
governing them.²⁴
While (3) retains the domain restriction of (2), it gives us a principled way of
identifying the distinction. Supernatural acts are not intelligible in terms of the laws
proper to bodily motion (or other such laws).
Although the appeal to the intelligibility of nature might provide a greater motiv-
ation for the restriction of the domain, it is not decisive against Sophie’s naturalism,
formulated in (1), since, if there are supernatural events, then there are events among
finite substances that cannot be explained by appealing to “the laws of the movement
of bodies or other laws governing finite substances.” Thus, in order for nature to be
fully intelligible, we would need to include God’s actions as well—the restriction of
the domain in this way does not inevitably yield naturalism.
This may give us insight into why the popular usage is relevant here. As will
become clear in the next chapter, natural events are intelligible to us. Leibniz’s natural
theory is essentially connected to the explanatory force of the theory. While we could
stretch the term to include even events that are not intelligible to us (such as a
genuine miracle), there is value in preserving the emphasis on explanation.
Now Leibniz is in the position of having to identify just how far “nature” extends.
For Leibniz, the naturalness of a theory will be closely tied to its intelligibility. But this
by itself does not provide the principled way Leibniz needs to identify and define the
scope. What sorts of events are intelligible? Why think any events are fully intelligible
in this way? And if some events are, why aren’t all events intelligible in this way?
Leibniz’s claim that his account of the mind-body relation is “more natural” suggests
that he regarded it as able to explain more. But should we read this as suggesting that
his theory of mind is fully natural?
2. Leibniz’s Middle Way

2.1. Three sects of naturalists
Before trying to answer this last question, I want to look at a text in which Leibniz
distinguishes multiple types of “naturalist.” In an early essay, written some time
²³ Ibid.
²⁴ For more on this “principle of intelligibility,” see Donald Rutherford, “Leibniz’s Principle of
Intelligibility,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 9, no. 1 (1992). I will have more to say about this principle
in subsequent chapters.
 ’    
between 1678 and 1680, Leibniz identified “Two Sects of Naturalists.”²⁵ In this essay,
Leibniz discusses the shortfalls of naturalist theories that entail either necessitarian-
ism or materialism. The clear suggestion by the end of the essay is that there is a
natural theory that navigates clear of these hazards, and so, as I will argue, Leibniz is
not undermining naturalism as such. He is arguing for a third form of naturalism that
succeeds in ways the other two do not.
The first sort of naturalist that Leibniz describes as “fashionable” (en vogue) is the
Epicurean naturalist, who “believes that any substance, including the soul and God
himself, is corporeal, that is to say, composed of extended matter or mass.”²⁶ This
view Leibniz ascribes to Hobbes, and he claims that it has bad consequences for a
clear conception of God—if God is material, then it is impossible for God to be all
powerful or all knowing, and therefore this sect of naturalism denies God’s provi-
dential activity.
The second sort of naturalist is associated with the Stoics in ancient times and with
Spinoza and possibly Descartes in the modern period. According to this version of
naturalism, although there are incorporeal substances, God is the soul of the world,
operating on the basis of a “blind necessity.” “God has neither understanding nor
will,” and so everything happens by a “mechanical necessity.”²⁷ The denial of final
causes follows from this theory, and, Leibniz argues, there is “no justice or benevo-
lence with respect to God.” So, while these naturalists might grant the existence of
providence, it is providence “in name only.”
However, Leibniz does not deny naturalism. He goes on to identify a third sect,²⁸
the sect deriving from Socrates and Plato, which, he says, is more suitable to piety.
Leibniz ends the essay with a long quotation from Plato’s Phaedo,²⁹ in which Socrates
is presented as criticizing Anaxagoras. This criticism, Leibniz says, can be imported
into the modern period, showing the weakness of the naturalisms then in vogue. The
Socratic criticism is that Anaxagoras posits a governing intelligence (νοῦς) over all
things, which, Socrates infers, would lead Anaxagoras to discuss the principle of
perfection. Since everything would be disposed in the most perfect manner by an
intelligent cause, the full account of nature would allow us to show why things are
ordered in this particular way rather than another. But, in fact, Anaxagoras makes no
use of the governing intelligence.
Instead, while Anaxagoras describes certain material causes in the universe, he
never gives an account of why those material causes must be as they are. For example,
he describes the actions of the human body in terms of the relation of flesh, bones,
muscles, etc., as if this gives the full cause of the actions of a human body. These
material components of the human body do help make sense of a particular set of
causal relations. But Anaxagoras’s invocation of Nous suggests that the true cause
²⁵ “Two Sects of Naturalists” is the title given to the essay by Daniel Garber and Roger Ariew (AG 281).
The Gerhardt edition has no title for the essay (G 7.333). The Academy editors have given the title,
“Sentiments de Socrate opposes aux Nouveaux Stoiciens et Epicureens” (A 6.4.1384). As it will become clear,
I much prefer the Academy title.
²⁶ A 6.4.1384/AG 281. ²⁷ A 6.4.1385/AG 282. ²⁸ A 6.4.1386/AG 283.
²⁹ See Plato, “Phaedo,” in Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1997),
97b–9d.
   
would be the intelligent cause that orders the human body in such a way due to its
connection with the perfection of things. Socrates concludes, “Those who only
say . . . that motions of bodies around the earth keep it here, where it is, forget that
divine power disposes everything in the finest way, and do not understand that it is
the good and the beautiful that join, form, and maintain the world.”³⁰
The naturalists following Socrates and Plato would recognize that the mechanical
causes, even if exhaustively demonstrated by the new physics, do not provide the full
cause of things. There is a further, overarching cause that must be considered, and
this cause is a final cause—it tends towards something, namely the forms of the good
and the beautiful. The natural philosophy that Leibniz is pursuing preserves this
moral aspect of nature, recognizing in it a perfection of order and beauty that is due
to a cause that is not explicable in merely mechanical terms.
In sum, the naturalisms of the Stoics and the Epicureans either (a) fail to provide
a fully explanatory account of nature or (b) explain nature in a way that has
undesirable entailments. In the first case, there are global features of nature, its
particular ordering and arrangement, which are not explained in terms of the
particular patterns of causes themselves. And so, as Socrates argued, there must
be some other principle that governs the overarching structure, some explanation
for why it is structured as it is. Of course, the Stoics and Epicureans may simply
reply that it is necessarily so ordered—there is no other possible ordering. But this
is to move to the other horn of the dilemma, since, as Leibniz argues, this would
have undesirable effects, namely in undermining divine providence and principles
of justice.
The argument here arguably paves the way to a particular interpretation of the
principle of sufficient reason and the principle of the best. The principle of sufficient
reason, in one of Leibniz’s later formulations, is the principle that there is no “true or
existent fact . . . without there being a sufficient reason for why it is thus and not
otherwise.”³¹ Either the naturalists can give no such reason for the causal structure of
the world, thus violating the principle of sufficient reason, or the reason that is given
is “blind,” a mere necessity. In fact, to turn the screw a little tighter, Leibniz does not
think that those who appeal to blind necessity are even providing reasons:
For what is necessary is so by its essence, since the opposite implies a contradiction; but a
contingent which exists, owes its existence to the principle of what is best, which is a sufficient
reason for the existence of things . . . Whereas absolute and metaphysical necessity depends
upon the other great principle of our reasonings, viz., that of essences; that is, the principle of
identity or contradiction.³²
And so, the reply that the world is necessarily as it is plays a different game—it does
not supply a reason, it merely recognizes that other orderings are internally contra-
dictory. Leibniz, on the other hand, sides with Socrates and Plato, who provide an
explanation from outside the order of finite things, an explanation that is not “blind”
but is intelligent and acts in a way that tends towards the perfection of things.
³⁰ A 6.4.1388/AG 284. ³¹ M §32.

³² LC Leibniz 5, §§9–10. I will return to this quotation in chapter 3.
 ’    
The Socratic natural theory, then, provides a full explanation of the causes of
nature, leaving no undesirable gaps. But, once again, this sort of theory makes an
appeal to an intelligence that is beyond the realm of finite, dependent things. And so,
as before, it seems to stretch the meaning of the term to call this a “natural” theory.
The Socratic/Platonic naturalist might be closer to Leibniz’s characterization of
Sophie’s full-fledged naturalism: all events are natural, given that even so-called
supernatural events derive from the natures of higher beings.
Nevertheless, the discussion of the Phaedo brings out a difference in the sorts of
explanations that are adequate to an effect. Supposing someone wanted to explain
why Socrates is sitting in his cell. The Anaxagorian (and Hobbesian) explanation is
given in terms of the bones, muscles, and joints, etc. To put it in the language of the
mechanical philosophy of the seventeenth century, Socrates is sitting because of a
long mechanical process that resulted in his bones and muscles being positioned in
just such a way in that particular place. The full explanation, no doubt, would be long
and complex (possibly infinitely long and infinitely complex), but it is provided by
the interactions of matter and mechanical motions that give rise to the particulars of
Socrates’s body and its present placement.
But there is a second order of explanation available, as Socrates points out in the
Phaedo. Socrates is an intelligent person; he considers options and decides on a
course of action that affects the disposition of his body. Socrates is sitting in his cell
because the Athenians decided that it was best to convict him, and he decided that it
would be better to stay and face the charges rather than to flee or to request exile. The
explanation, again, may be long and complex, but in this case it is provided by the
intelligent recognition of the best action.
On the broadest scale, it is appropriate to regard Leibniz as a part of this third sect,
providing what Socrates was looking for in the pages of Anaxagoras. I think this
provides at least three things for Leibniz. First, it provides logical and normative
constraints on metaphysics. Leibniz complains that Descartes allows no room for
justice, since, for Descartes, God’s volition is the source of the principles of justice.
But then, on a fully voluntarist conception of God, there is little room to see why God
would deem certain orderings as just rather than others, and there is little room to
give God credit for doing so. Leibniz’s theology recognizes constraints on the divine
nature—God does not cause or create the principles of justice, but they are grounded
in the divine understanding, and God desires to act in accordance with them. And so
we have a principled way of explaining even God’s choices (if, per impossible, we
could enter into the infinite intuition of the divine intellect and see things as God
does), and the credit owed to God is based on God’s acting in accordance with the
good and the beautiful. As Leibniz frequently asserts, “God does nothing without a
reason.”³³ I will unpack the implications of this more fully in chapter 3—I think the
principle of sufficient reason, as employed by Leibniz, will have to carry with it some
normative weight, connecting it more closely with the principle of the best than
others have recognized.
³³ A 6.4.1388.
   
Secondly, this version of naturalism yields a full and systematic account of the
causes of things. While physics provides a legitimate account of the motions of
bodies, it is nevertheless a limited account. Physics must be grounded in some further
explanation. In the Socratic case, the ruling intelligence, which acts on the basis of the
principles of perfection, complete the account, thus avoiding the “blind” or “mech-
anical necessity” of the Stoic naturalists and the materialism of the Epicurean
naturalists.
These lead to a third benefit. Leibniz argues that the Epicurean and Stoic natur-
alists end up with an ethic of patience. Since all things are connected by mechanical
and blind causes, we must simply be content, since “it is madness to oppose the
torrent of things and to be discontented with what is immutable.”³⁴ Leibniz con-
tinues, “if they knew that all things are ordered for the general good and for the
particular welfare of those who know how to make use of them, they would not
identify happiness with simple patience.”³⁵ While I do not intend to pursue these
particular ethical claims in this volume, the clear implication is that if we get the
metaphysics right we will see our way to an ethic of action rather than of patience or
contentedness. The higher ideal, for Leibniz, is justice, which Leibniz defines in a
novel way: justice is the “charity of the wise,” or “a habit of loving conformed to
wisdom.”³⁶ Leibniz argues that happiness is essentially connected with this notion of
justice rather than an ethic of patience, that is, the happy person will seek to “know
how to make use of ” things for the general good.³⁷
But to get these benefits, it seems that Leibniz will have to extend his explanatory
thesis to include what we would otherwise recognize as non-natural events (like
God’s act of creating a well-ordered cosmos). Why, then, should we think this to be a
fully natural theory at all? It certainly seems to stretch the common usage of the term.
And, if we do grant this sort of naturalism, then it seems that occasionalism will be
natural in the same way. In section 2.2, I will explore how Leibniz thinks he can
separate himself from occasionalism, and then, in section 2.3, I will show how Leibniz
brings this sort of naturalism back down to earth.
2.2. The threat of occasionalism

Since even the occasionalists appeal to God’s acting on the basis of the principle of
perfection, they seem equally capable of exemplifying a Socratic naturalism. Male-
branche, for example, is able to account for regularities in nature by God’s consistent
action in nature, never departing from his eternal decree, and so it seems that
Malebranche’s theory can underwrite a full physical theory even though he regards
³⁴ A 6.4.1385/AG 282. ³⁵ Ibid.

³⁶ See, for example, “Meditation on the Common Concept of Justice” (Riley 45–64) and “Felicity” (Grua
2.579–84/Riley 82–4). For more on Leibniz’s novel definition of justice, see Patrick Riley, Leibniz’ Universal
Jurisprudence: Justice as Charity of the Wise (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996) and Robert
J. Mulvaney, “The Early Development of Leibniz’s Concept of Justice,” Journal of the History of Ideas 29 (1968).
³⁷ In the “Dialogue between Polidore and Theophile,” written around the same time as “Two Sects,”
Leibniz spells this out more fully. Included in his full ethic are a satisfied contentment (rather than mere
patience), the love of God above all things, happiness with our current state, charity towards neighbor, a
striving for perfection (“especially the mind”), and a recognition that no good act will be without its reward
(A 6.4.2238–9/L 219–20).
 ’    
God as the only true cause. And yet Leibniz is insistent that the occasionalist theory is
not a fully natural theory, appealing, as he says, to perpetual miracles.³⁸ For Leibniz,
mere regularity and the law-like actions of God are not sufficient for a fully natural
theory. The difference ultimately rests in Leibniz’s conception of God; his belief in a
fundamental naturalism is grounded in a particular kind of theology.
The essential difference between Leibniz and Malebranche, according to Leibniz, is
a matter of whether God creates natures that could function as genuine causes in
their own right. Arnauld defends Malebranche in his March 4, 1676 letter to
Leibniz,³⁹ insisting that Leibniz and Malebranche are saying essentially the same
thing. Malebranche does not argue that each action, e.g., my decision to raise my arm
and the arm rising, requires a new volition of God. Rather, God exercises a “single act
of eternal will, whereby he has wished to do everything which he has foreseen that it
would be necessary to do, in order that the universe might be what he deemed it was
to be.”⁴⁰ This, Arnauld thinks, is precisely what Leibniz is arguing in his claim that
the mind does not cause motions in the body or vice versa, but rather they are
arranged in a harmony from the beginning by God.
Leibniz rejects this conclusion, and in so doing he clarifies his own thoughts on the
nature of God and his interaction with the world. Leibniz argues that the occasion-
alist position fails to be fully natural because the action of God is not based in the
nature of the finite substance. That is, Leibniz argues that the common usage of
“miracle” appeals to an intrinsic difference—there must be some appeal to what is
within the nature of the substance itself when distinguishing the natural from the
supernatural.⁴¹
The preferable position, according to Leibniz, is one in which
bodily substance has the force to continue its changes according to the laws that God has
placed in its nature and maintains there. And . . . I believe that the actions of minds effect no
changes at all in the nature of bodies, nor bodies in that of minds, and even that God changes
nothing on their occasion, except when he performs a miracle; and in my opinion things are so
prearranged that a mind never effectively desires anything except when the body is prepared to
do it by virtue of its own laws and forces.⁴²
Thus, a fully natural theory will be one in which each thing does what is already in its
nature to do and the force necessary to carry out the effect is resident in the nature of
the thing itself. Anything that exceeds the force of the natures involved in the event
will be miraculous. Occasionalism, Leibniz argues, continuously has such exceptions,
since the force for any action comes from an outside source, namely, God.
³⁸ See, for example, Leibniz’s claims in his correspondence with Arnauld (A 2.2.81/LA 65, A 2.2.179/LA
116), his Letter to Foucher, August 1686 (A 2.2.90/WF 52), and his response to Tournemine (G 6.595/AG
197). This charge wasn’t limited to occasionalists, Leibniz also charges Christiaan Huygens and Isaac
Newton with “perpetual miracles”: A 2.2.514/L 414, A 2.2.582, and G 3.517–18.
³⁹ LA 105f. ⁴⁰ LA 106.
⁴¹ This may not be an entirely fair criticism of Malebranche, given that Malebranche also recognizes the
need to appeal to the natures of things (Search 663; see A 6.4.1933 for evidence that Leibniz gave some
attention on this passage). But as I will discuss below, Leibniz thinks there is a crucial difference in how the
natures of things play into the explanations of natural events.
⁴² LA 115–16.
   
But this is not yet an argument for why Leibniz’s position is preferable to the
occasionalist view. Leibniz goes on to say that:
One cannot disagree that this hypothesis is at least possible and that God is a sufficiently great
workman to be able to carry it out; thereafter one will easily conclude that this hypothesis is the
most probable since it is the simplest and the most intelligible, and at once demolishes all the
problems, to say nothing of the criminal actions in which it seems more reasonable to invoke
God’s assistance merely in the preservation of created forces.⁴³
Leibniz here provides six criteria for favoring his hypothesis: (a) it is possible; (b) God
is capable of creating nature in this way; (c) it is simplest; (d) it is most intelligible;
(e) it solves problems in the natural theory; and (f ) it helps resolve the problem of
evil. We can divide these criteria into two groups—Leibniz says that his hypothesis is
“infinitely more reasonable and worthy of God.”⁴⁴ Logical constraints: (a), (c), (d),
and (e) are matters of reasonableness and theory selection—one should favor the
theory that is simplest, intelligible, resolves existing problems, and is in itself possible.
The second group reflects normative constraints: (b) and (f ) focus on aspects of God’s
nature and moral character. If Leibniz is right that his hypothesis is the more
reasonable (simplest, most intelligible, etc.) and that God is capable of creating such
a world, then it would be a defect on God’s part to have created a world that does not
line up with this hypothesis. Similarly, if God is more closely implicated as the author
of sin (which, it seems, he is in the occasionalist system), this again is a mark against
God’s nature. But, as Leibniz says in DM §3, “God does nothing for which he does not
deserve to be glorified,” and so the occasionalist hypothesis is out.⁴⁵
In order for this argument to be successful, Leibniz will have to show that his own
system is in fact more reasonable—that it is possible, simplest, most intelligible, and
solves all of the problems. And Leibniz does take up this challenge. But the challenge
will be to show that his system appeals ultimately only to the individual natures of
finite beings, that is, to show just how natural his theory is.
2.3. “Traces of God”: A representational theory of substance
One further problem might arise for the Socratic naturalist. The initial suggestion in
this chapter was that Leibniz’s natural theory is broadly Aristotelian, as finding an
explanatory basis in individual natures. However, section 2.1 introduced a different
sort of natural theory, namely one that provides the explanatory basis of nature in an
intelligent cause. On the face of it, this will be in tension with a broadly Aristotelian
reading, since the intelligent cause appealed to by Plato and others is not one that is
immanent in the individual finite natures. That is, for a full explanation of natural
⁴³ LA 118. ⁴⁴ LA 118.
⁴⁵ There is a different sort of argument that could equally apply here, presented in Leibniz’s second letter
to Clarke (LC Leibniz 2, §12):
1. If God must “mend the course of nature,” it must be done naturally or supernaturally.
2. If it is done supernaturally, then we must explain natural things by miracles, which is absurd.
3. If it is done naturally, then God will not be supramundane: he will be the “soul of the world,” which is
undesirable.
4. It is necessary to “mend the course of nature,” on Leibniz’s reading of Clarke and Newton.
5. And so, Clarke’s and Newton’s natural philosophy entails something absurd or undesirable.
 ’    
events, one must appeal to something beyond the finite individual natures. And so, it
seems, we have two competing naturalizing constraints: one that looks to the
individual natures as explanatorily basic and the other that looks to an overarching
intelligent (non-blind) cause as explanatorily basic. In this section, I will argue that
Leibniz believes that he can embrace both of these positions.
Leibniz brings the two theories together by appealing to a fully representational
theory of substance. When we turn to a text from Leibniz’s mature years—“On
Nature Itself ” (1698)—Leibniz says:
[I]f, indeed, the law God laid down [in creating] left some trace of itself on things, if by his
command things were formed in such a way that they were rendered appropriate for fulfilling
the will of the command then already we must admit that a certain efficacy has been placed in
things, a form or a force, something like what we usually call by the name “nature,” something
from which the series of phenomena follow in accordance with the prescript of the first
command.⁴⁶
This argument is again intended to distinguish Leibniz from Malebranche—he
argues that God’s command must have a lasting effect on the substances he creates,
and, if that is the case, then it is a short step to enduring, causally active, individual
substances. But the means of God’s lasting activity on a substance is by preserving the
traces of his command on the finite substances themselves, forming a part of their
nature.
And so the picture that emerges from Leibniz’s theory of substance is that each
substance contains in it everything that is necessary for a full explanation of each of
its states. As Leibniz says in the Discourse on Metaphysics, “every substance is like a
complete world and like a mirror of God or of the whole universe, which each one
expresses in its own way, somewhat as the same city is variously represented
depending upon the different positions from which it is viewed.”⁴⁷ The Leibnizian
extension of internal representations to all substances, not merely minds, allows for a
full explanation of things in terms of the representational states of the substances and
each substance’s tendencies to change in response to its representations.
All of this supports a naturalizing thesis of the following sort:
(4) An event is natural iff it can be fully explained in terms of the natures of finite
substances.
Given that each substance preserves a representation of God’s commands within its
own nature, this opens the door to a version of naturalism: each individual nature
provides the full and sufficient reason for each subsequent state of the substance.
Of course, we will have to look further to see just how many events will count as
natural events on this reading of “natural.” One obvious cause for continuing to limit
the scope will be Leibniz’s commitment to divine activity in the world. With this in
mind, we look at one final argument in which Leibniz argues for a restricted scope
to the term “nature.” In Leibniz’s discussion of miracles in DM §16, he says that
miracles “are always in conformity with the universal law of the general order, even
⁴⁶ G 4.507/AG 158–9, emphasis mine. ⁴⁷ DM §9.

   
though they may be above the subordinate maxims.” He follows this up with another
restriction on the term “nature”: “if we include in our nature everything that it
expresses, nothing is supernatural to it, for our nature extends everywhere.”⁴⁸ Once
again Leibniz gives sense to a full-blown naturalism, quickly followed by a
qualification:
But what our nature expresses more perfectly belongs to it in a particular way, since it is in this
that its power consists. But since it is limited . . . there are many things that surpass the powers
of our nature and even surpass the powers of all limited natures.⁴⁹
So we have yet another way of identifying the limit on nature, namely, in terms of the
power a particular individual has. But, as above, this remains unmotivated, since
Leibniz gives no reason to think that God’s nature (i.e., God’s power) shouldn’t be
included in the domain. For a further motivation, we must read further:
Thus, to speak more clearly, I say that God’s miracles and extraordinary concourse have the
peculiarity that they cannot be foreseen by the reasoning of any created mind, no matter how
enlightened, because the distinct comprehension of the general order surpasses all of them. On
the other hand, everything that we call natural depends on the less general maxims that
creatures can understand.⁵⁰
The domain restriction on the term “nature” corresponds with a restriction in
intelligibility by a finite mind. There are certain things that the finite mind will
never be able to explain. For Leibniz, the scope of intelligibility will mirror the
domain restriction on the use of “nature.” Statement (4) allows for this, and this
could be useful to the natural scientist who has theistic commitments—for example,
physics will explain all events that are explainable in terms of the laws of physics, but
if there are exceptions to those laws (through miracles), these events would in
principle not be explainable in the terms of physics.
With this sense of “natural,” then, we can raise the further question just how
wide of a scope does Leibniz think his naturalism will have? I have suggested here
that the scope of naturalism will be coextensive with intelligibility for Leibniz, but
just how intelligible does Leibniz regard the universe? This question will be taken
up in section 3.
3. A Harmony of Nature and Grace

3.1. Miracles
To determine the full scope of Leibniz’s naturalizing commitments, we will need to
consider just what sorts of exceptions Leibniz is prepared to allow. In his letter to
Sophie, he admits that “a succession of true prophecies that go into detail” would
require a genuine miracle, but, he goes on to say “they are rare, like all other
supernatural things.”⁵¹ It seems, from this letter and other writings, that Leibniz
would allow for genuine miracles. But I think at the same time there is good evidence
⁴⁸ DM §16. ⁴⁹ Ibid. ⁵⁰ Ibid.

⁵¹ A 1.7.46f.; A 2.2.460f./Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 91–2.
 ’    
that Leibniz did not believe there were any genuine miracles, although he would
allow for their possibility.
The question of just how numerous or extensive miracles are comes up towards
the end of Leibniz’s life in his correspondence with Samuel Clarke. In the corres-
pondence, Clarke has argued that a miraculous event is an event conceived as
irregular and not explicable by usual causes.⁵² Leibniz’s response provides one of
his most common accounts of miracles:
Divines will not grant the author’s position against me; viz. that there is no difference with
respect to God between natural and supernatural: and it will be still less approved by most
philosophers. There is a vast difference between these two things . . . That which is supernat-
ural, exceeds all the powers of creatures.⁵³
Leibniz gives a clear definition of supernatural as that which “exceeds all the powers
of creatures.” In response, Clarke objects that, on Leibniz’s account, (a) events we
might think of as miraculous, e.g., walking on water, are not miraculous since they do
not require infinite power; and (b) events that we otherwise would not regard as
miraculous, e.g., the actions of animals, are miraculous, since they are not explicable
by the natural powers of bodies.⁵⁴ Leibniz grants the first and denies the second.
Many events that might be thought of as miraculous are not miracles of the “highest
sort,”⁵⁵ including most of those reported in the Bible. Walking on water, the sun
standing still, the flight of Hezekiah, and the stirring of the waters of the pool of
Bethesda all have an explanation in terms of finite natures. And so, at best, these are
miracles of an “inferior order.”⁵⁶ Additionally, Leibniz resists the claim that the
actions of animals are miraculous, being initially content to state it rhetorically,
“Why should it be impossible to explain the motion of animals by natural forces?”⁵⁷
The clear tenor of Leibniz’s mature writings is that genuinely supernatural events,
miracles of the “highest sort,” are (at least) uncommon, although the uncommonness
of the event is not what makes the event supernatural. The examples of genuine
miracles that Leibniz gives in his correspondence with Clarke are (a) creation,
(b) annihilation, and (c) action at a distance. The latter two Leibniz thinks to be
non-actual. Indeed, it is part of Leibniz’s criticism of the Newtonian system that it
appeals to miracles—action at a distance—as a part of its so-called natural philosophy.
Action at a distance, he argued, cannot be given an explanation in terms of “the natural
powers of creatures,” and so it should be rejected.
I do not wish to get too bogged down in the discussion of miracles here, but
there is good evidence to think that Leibniz severely restricted the number of
genuine miracles. The clearest instances of genuine miracles for Leibniz are
creation, the incarnation, and biblical prophecy.⁵⁸ And even for these three, there
⁵² See LC 24 and 29–30. ⁵³ LC 29–30. ⁵⁴ See LC 35. ⁵⁵ LC 91. See also T 249.
⁵⁶ LC 93. ⁵⁷ LC 43.
⁵⁸ Some Christian readers might be surprised not to see the resurrection of Christ in this list. One of the
benefits Leibniz thought his theory of mind provided was a natural way to account for the immortality of
the soul, which, according to him, is always embodied. Since every mind will survive death naturally, there
is no reason to suppose that Christ’s resurrection requires any further supernatural aids. See the passage at
A 6.3.365, note 5, quoted in Daniel J. Cook, “Leibniz on ‘Prophets,’ Prophecy, and Revelation,” Religious
Studies 45, no. 3 (2009): fn. 44.
   
are suggestions in Leibniz’s writings that a natural account could be given for these
as well.
Leibniz seems to be skeptical about miracles, even if personally witnessed, since the
Bible itself says that miracles will be done by the Antichrist that may deceive even the
elect.⁵⁹ Daniel J. Cook argues that Leibniz viewed biblical prophecy as susceptible of
natural demonstration, namely in its exact fulfillment, thus sidestepping the need to
verify the accompanying miracles. Cook says:
By relying on fulfilled prophecy as corroborating the truth of Christianity, rather than on
miracles (biblical or otherwise), one avoids basing one’s faith on possibly unreliable ancient
testimony or breaches of the laws of nature, but rather on the demonstrated march of history.⁶⁰
Robert Adams lists the following as miracles of the “highest rank”: creation, conser-
vation, incarnation, and annihilation. Again, as far as I know Leibniz nowhere claims
that annihilation is actualized. Further, creation and conservation change nothing in
the natures of the things (see, for example, Leibniz’s discussion of “original imper-
fection” of creatures who are created on the basis of the ideal nature of the creature as
conceived by God),⁶¹ and Leibniz in at least one text suggests that there is no initial
state of the universe.⁶² These suggest that God’s involvement here is simply that of
ontological dependency of finite substances on the infinite.
Further, in a very interesting passage quoted by Adams, Leibniz describes the
incarnation in a way that “would not change the natural laws of the first creature
[Jesus Christ] . . . This union [of God and man] would therefore change nothing in
the phenomena, even though the state of union differs internally from non-union.”⁶³
Thus, it seems that there is good evidence that none of the miracles of the “highest
sort” would affect the natural unfolding of finite beings. If this is right, then Leibniz’s
naturalism is indeed a full-blown naturalism.
If Leibniz is willing to go to great lengths in biblical theology to show that reported
miracles are open to explanation in terms of the natures of finite beings, it is good
evidence that in other domains, such as in the philosophy of mind, Leibniz would
restrict extra-natural explanations severely. Indeed, I think in his philosophy of
mind, he restricts them entirely. But even if the rare miracle were to occur, which
Leibniz never denies, it would not form a part of the natural philosophy of mind.
In his fifth letter to Clarke, Leibniz endorses just such a principle:
In good philosophy, and sound theology, we ought to distinguish between what is explicable by
the natures and powers of creatures, and what is explicable only by the powers of the infinite
substance.⁶⁴
This is a good representation of the naturalizing thread running through Leibniz’s
work. And this is the shape of the theory that I will be developing in this book.
Leibniz’s naturalism is not a blind, mechanical pushing-and-pulling naturalism.
Rather, the internal representations of finite substances cause each subsequent state
of the substance. But, Leibniz will argue, this is intelligible only if each substance has
⁵⁹ See A 6.4.2214. ⁶⁰ Cook, “Prophecy and Revelation,” 281. ⁶¹ T §20.

⁶² G 3.581–2/L 664. ⁶³ RML 413, quoted in Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 99.
⁶⁴ LC 92.
 ’    
internal representations of the things surrounding it so that the relations it has to

other substances regulate its internal actions.
To summarize the exchange with Clarke, we can now characterize Leibniz’s
account of miracles in the following way:
(5) An event is supernatural iff the force required for the event exceeds the force
of all finite creatures.
Thus, it seems that as long as the sum total of force is conserved in a change, then
there is no need to appeal to supernatural aids. A natural event will be an event that is
not supernatural, that is, it is an event in which it is not the case that the force
required for the event exceeds the force of all finite creatures. And, as I have
suggested above, the exceptions to this sort of conservation will be exceedingly few
in kind.⁶⁵
This entails the following claim, for Leibniz:
(6) An event is supernatural iff the event cannot be explained in terms of finite
natures alone.
And, again, “natural” can be defined as the converse—a natural event is an event that
can be explained in terms of finite natures alone. That is to say, if there are no forces
beyond those of finite natures grounding the event, then the full explanation will
appeal only to those natures alone, and so intelligibility follows from Leibniz’s
naturalizing claims.
3.2. Nature and grace

The recognition that even God’s causal activity is explicable in terms of the individual
natures of finite substances brings out one further aspect of Leibniz’s natural theory.
Leibniz believed that each domain of explanation, discussed above, is compatible
with and harmonizes with the others. So, for example, the explanation of why
Socrates is sitting in his cell has two parallel forms of explanation: one explanation
in terms of the mechanical effects of the interactions of bones, muscles, and joints,
with surrounding objects, and another in terms of the intellect pursuing what it sees
as the best course of action. Leibniz argues that the explanation for Socrates’s sitting
can be given fully in terms of both mechanical causation and final causation,⁶⁶
although he recognized that in many cases the causes are more intelligible in terms
of efficient causation.
⁶⁵ Of course, Leibniz might also grant a more limited definition:

(5*) An event is supernatural iff the force required for the event exceeds the force of all natures
involved in the event.
This way of characterizing a supernatural event would not require appeal to a global conservation
principle. However, if there is some additional force involved in a local event, above what is contributed by
the finite substances involved in the event, there would also be an increase in the overall quantity of force,
and so (5) should suffice.
⁶⁶ “Any thing in the whole of nature can be demonstrated by final causes and also efficient causes”
(A 6.4.1367 (1667–79?)).
   
Similarly, Leibniz thought that God’s operations of grace were fully consistent with
a natural explanation of the created order.⁶⁷ In his correspondence with the Roman
Catholic Bishop of Meaux, Jacques-Benigne Bossuet, Leibniz makes the following
argument, commenting on the mechanics of nature:
[T]he laws of nature regarding motive force come from superior reasons and an immaterial
cause, which does everything in the most perfect way . . . And all this endless infinite variety is
animated in all its parts by an Architectural Wisdom that is more than infinite. One could say
that there is a harmony of geometry, of metaphysics, and, so to speak, of morality throughout.
And surprisingly, to take things in one sense, each substance acts spontaneously, independent
of all the other creatures, although in another sense all the others are obliged to accommodate
them. So that one could say that all nature is full of miracles, but miracles of reason, and they
become miracles by being reasonable, in a way that astonishes us. For these reasons, there is an
infinite progress, where our mind, although it sees as it should, can be followed by an
understanding of it. Otherwise, nature is admired without being understood . . . [T]he true
temperament for appreciating nature is with knowledge, recognizing that the more we
advance, the more we discover the wonder and beauty and grandeur of those same reasons
that are more surprising and less comprehensible to us.⁶⁸
The benefit of this view, for Leibniz, is that we need not simply settle into a cold,
lifeless naturalism. Leibniz’s view, following Lea Schweitz’s suggestion, may be called
a “sacramental naturalism.”⁶⁹ Just as Leibniz was willing to grant to Sophie a sense in
which all that happens is natural, he is also willing to grant to Bossuet that all that
happens is miraculous. This is the spirit of Leibniz’s natural theory—he does not
decide between a world that is intelligible on its own terms on the one hand and an
account of divine activity on the other. He sees the two as fully harmonious—the one
is an instance of the other. Leibniz is using the method of analogy to provide good
sense to his terms when used in a novel way—he says nature is full of miracles, but
then he provides the analogy. They are miracles of reason, that is, they astonish us by
being reasonable. And so his use of “miracle” here is simply to draw attention to the
amazement we might feel in the presence of a fully intelligible and reasonable domain
every time we investigate more deeply into the system of nature.
Leibniz is articulating a theologically rich naturalism. He is fully committed, at the
basic level, to causally active individual substances. He is equally committed to a God
who acts in a consistent and simple manner, doing always what coheres with the
principles of goodness and beauty. When Leibniz merges these two together, the
latter becomes fully expressed in the former—the rules of beauty and goodness are
intrinsic to the individual natures, and nature becomes intelligible without explicit
reference to the divine source.
⁶⁷ For an excellent discussion of how the aids of grace arise naturally, see Donald Rutherford, “Justice
and Circumstances: Theodicy as Universal Religion,” in New Essays on Leibniz’s Theodicy, ed. Larry
M. Jorgensen and Samuel Newlands (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 71–91.
⁶⁸ Leibniz to Jacques-Benigne Bossuet, April 8/18, 1692 (A 2.2.516–17), emphasis mine.
⁶⁹ See Lea F. Schweitz, “On the Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of Human Life in
G.W. Leibniz,” in The Life Sciences in Early Modern Philosophy, ed. Ohad Nachtomy and Justin
E.H. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), §3, 213–7.
 ’    
4. Conclusion
The scope of naturalism does not get a lot of attention. For example, today some of us
might be committed to the following proposition:
(B1) Anything fully explainable in the terms of biology is a natural event.
But (B1) does not entail the stronger claim:
(B2) All events involving biological organisms are natural events.
Of course something like (B2) likely serves as a methodological assumption of a
research biologist, but the question is just how far the metaphysical assumptions
should extend. There are epistemic limits on the justification for this claim (for
example, there may be a few unobserved exceptions to it), and so it would need to be
supported by other metaphysical principles.
Leibniz not only shows that there are regularities among events that are intelligible
in terms of natural processes and laws alone, but he provides a metaphysical
grounding for these regularities in the natures of the individual substances and in
the moral character of the governing Mind. As he says in the quotation at the start of
this chapter, “nature, whose most wise Author uses the most perfect geometry,
observes the same rule [i.e. the principle of continuity]; otherwise it could not follow
an orderly progress.”⁷⁰ He is making a naturalizing claim—natural events display a
regularity and order according to a law. But he alludes to the grounding for this claim
as well: the author of nature reasons according to geometric principles. Since the
latter is true, one must expect that natural events observe laws analogous to those that
hold in geometry. While this is a common trope in the early modern period, Leibniz
argues that the Cartesians and the occasionalists have not seen the full sense of it. In
sum, I am arguing that Leibniz provides theological grounding for a fully natural
theory of mind.
Whatever his global commitments, I will argue that, at least with respect to his
theory of mind, Leibniz believed that he had offered a fully natural theory. That, at
least, is my interpretive hypothesis. The other true miracles that it seems that Leibniz
would allow—creation, the incarnation, and biblical prophecy—do not impinge on
Leibniz’s theory of mind. Whether or not there are actual miracles, this would not be
a part of his theory. That is, supernatural activity has no place in his fully developed
theory of mind, even if he allows for its possibility or even its actuality. This, Leibniz
thinks, is unlike Malebranche and other Cartesians, for whom the mind is not
intelligible without explicit reference to God’s intervention.
This will all make more sense once we have seen how his theory of mind derives
from broader naturalizing commitments. Indeed, the naturalizing commitments
I have started to outline here all refer to fundamentally mental categories—the
governing intellect guiding the divine will, the intelligibility of nature, and the
internal representation of God and other things in the natures of substances—and
each of these play a role in grounding and guiding Leibniz’s ultimate natural theory.
⁷⁰ G 4.375–6/L 398.
   
And so, while it might seem odd to call Leibniz a naturalist, I think that may be due to
his appeal to mental properties as foundational rather than (what we may be more
accustomed to hearing) physical properties. That is to say, Leibniz’s naturalism is
clearly not a version of physicalism, and for that reason it is of interest in its own right
as articulating an intriguing alternative among competing naturalized theories.
2
Naturalizing Constraints
Equipollence and Continuity
I find these leaps of yours very excruciating

—Charinus¹
In the previous chapter, I introduced Leibniz’s naturalizing project. In this chapter,

I will introduce what I take to be a methodological approach to naturalism—a way of
structuring one’s theory to ensure that the overall naturalizing goal is met. The
particular theoretical constraint I have in mind is the principle of continuity. In the
following sections, I will explore the genesis of the principle in Leibniz’s early work in
physics. Leibniz’s work in 1676 on a theory of motion, we will discover, actually
allowed for certain kinds of leaps. But even before his full endorsement of the
principle of continuity, Leibniz rejects the kinds of leaps that violate the principle
of sufficient reason.
As Leibniz’s thinking develops between 1676 and 1686, Leibniz becomes much
more confident that “nature never makes leaps,” and he develops what he will later
call the principle of continuity. Tracing his thinking in these years will illuminate the
grounds and implications of the principle of continuity. While I will be focusing
primarily on the principle’s application to physics in this chapter—since that is the
context in which Leibniz developed his thinking on continuity—the conclusions will
be broadly applicable to any natural theory. The principle of continuity serves as a
naturalizing constraint for Leibniz, and a clear understanding of this will give us a test
for the various interpretations of Leibniz’s theory of mind later in this book.
The discussion of the principle of continuity, however, will not be complete by the
end of this chapter. In chapter 3, I will consider the metaphysical basis of the
principle of continuity, which will require a digression into two further principles:
the principles of sufficient reason and the principle of the best. The principle of
continuity is grounded on these more basic principles, resulting in a fully systematic
outline for Leibniz’s naturalizing project. The larger thesis I will be arguing for in
these two chapters is this: Leibniz’s theory of mind must be continuous if it is to be
natural. Continuity is a necessary condition for a natural theory.
Of course, one might also wonder whether continuity is also a sufficient condition
for a natural theory. On an initial pass, it seems not. One could imagine a theory of
¹ A 6.3.560/Arthur 197.
  
mind in which the transitions from one mental state to another are continuous but
caused by God. This would be a continuous theory but not a natural theory. As it
happens, Leibniz believes that occasionalist theories will necessarily include discon-
tinuities, and seeing why this is so will illuminate Leibniz’s commitment to continu-
ity. Leibniz believed that any non-natural theory would include irreducible gaps. All
unnatural theories are discontinuous.
Strictly speaking, this is a stronger claim than Leibniz needs. For the purposes of
developing Leibniz’s theory of mind, we need only see the heuristic value afforded to
him in concluding that all discontinuous theories are unnatural.
1. The Rejection of Occasionalism, Part I

Leibniz is well known for his defense of the principle of continuity, which he
formulates with the Aristotelian slogan, “nature never makes leaps,”² and he com-
pares transitions in nature to the continuous transitions of geometry. A pressing
question for anyone defending the principle of continuity, having its basis in geo-
metrical transitions, is why we should assume that geometry is applicable to physics.³
In a 1676 dialogue called Pacidius to Philalethes, Leibniz has one of the characters
express the problem exactly:
If I may be allowed to offer an inexpert opinion on such matters, I would declare that the
transition from Geometry to Physics is difficult, and that we need a science of motion that
would connect matter to forms and speculation to practice.⁴
It is not an empirical matter whether the natural world is continuous, since even if
certain aspects of the natural world are discovered to be continuous, there are also
many apparent discontinuities in nature. (Think, for example, of sudden changes in
the weather.) Why should the instances of continuous transitions be generalized into
a law or principle governing all physical changes? In this section, I will outline some
of Leibniz’s reasons for arguing in favor of the principle of continuity. Despite an
² For a sampling of the wide variety of contexts in which Leibniz appeals to the principle that nature
never acts by a leap, see Specimen Inventorum, 1688? (A 6.3.1638), Letter to Foucher, January 1692
(A 2.2.491), Letter to Huygens, March 10/20, 1693 (A 2.2.683), Letter to Bossuet, April 8/18, 1692
(A 2.2.516), Letter to L’Hospital, January 15, 1696 (A 3.6.624), Letter to Bernoulli, September 20/30,
1698 (A 3.7.912), Letter to De Volder, March 24/April 3,1699 (G 2.168/L 515), Essay de Dynamique,
1698–1700? (GM 6.229), the New Essays on Human Understanding, 1704 (A 6.6.56/NE 56), and “The
Metaphysical Foundations of Mathematics,” after 1714 (GM 7.25/L 671). The more mathematical formu-
lations of the principle can be found in PG and Specimen Dynamicum (1695) (GM 6.249–50/L 447–8). The
term “principle of continuity” or “law of continuity” is used only from 1692 and after.
³ In the history of mathematics, some have regarded Leibniz’s use of the principle of continuity, applied
in such a general way to physical transitions, as a mistake. Continuous transitions in mathematics do not
entail similar continuous transitions in nature. Carl B. Boyer says, “Leibniz felt the justification for his
calculus lay in the ordinary mathematical considerations already known and used, and that is was ‘not
necessary to fall back on metaphysical controversies such as the composition of the continuum.’ Never-
theless, when called upon to explain the transition from finite to infinitesimal magnitudes, he resorted to a
quasi-philosophical principle known as the law of continuity” (Carl. B. Boyer, The Concepts of the Calculus:
A Critical and Historical Discussion of the Derivative and the Integral (Wakefield, MA: Hafner Publishing,
1949), 217).
⁴ A 6.3.531/Arthur 135.
 ’    
early defense of what he calls “transcreation” (a sort of discontinuity), Leibniz

defends the principle of continuity as a heuristic for a natural theory.
1.1. Early discontinuities (1676)
In 1676, Leibniz is much exercised about the question of continuity, and the
conclusions he (reluctantly) comes to are (a) that the link between geometry and
physics must be via mind (whether human or divine), and (b) that in the absence of
mind there would be radical discontinuities in nature. But (c) given the intervention
of mind into the material world, some (less radical) discontinuities remain.
In a series of essays, including “On Motion and Matter” (which the Academy
edition dates somewhere between the 1st and 10th of April 1676), “Infinite Numbers”
(April 10, 1676), and Pacidius to Philalethes (November 1676), Leibniz defends a
certain kind of discontinuity in nature, which he calls by the “new but very beautiful
name transcreation.”⁵ Transcreation is supposed to provide an account of the motion
of bodies that is discontinuous but uniform.
According to the position Leibniz develops in these essays, transcreation involves
an infinite, non-uniform division of space. Imagine a continuous line of motion being
actually divided into infinitely many intervals. Any interval you choose is itself
infinitely divided, all the way down. Leibniz explains:
[T]here is no portion of matter that is not actually divided into further parts, so that there is
no body so small that there is not a world of infinitary creatures in it. Similarly there is no
part of time in which some change or motion does not happen to any part or point of a
body . . . This does not mean, however, either that a body or space is divided into points, or
time into moments, because indivisibles are not parts, but the extrema of parts. And this is
why, even though all things are subdivided, they are still not resolved all the way down into
minima.⁶
Thus, we have a series of divisions that converges on the infinite, and there is no final
resolution of the continuous magnitude into points.
But given this account, Leibniz thinks we can make sense of the movement of
the body by transcreation. Each boundary of an interval is directly proximate to the
boundary of the next interval, without any distance existing between them. (We
might say, colloquially, that they are “touching.”) Transcreation, then, is the move-
ment from the boundary of the interval that is being concluded to the boundary of
the interval that is being initiated. Since there is no distance between these bound-
aries, the leap does not involve a jump over any intermediate magnitudes. But this
motion from one boundary to the next is effected by divine annihilation of the object
at one terminus and a recreation of the object at the next. The resulting motion
can appear continuous since, as Samuel Levey has put it, “the divisions . . . in motion
that produce the pairs of immediately neighboring points are always densely ordered
⁵ A 6.3.567/Arthur 213. See also A 6.3.560/Arthur 197. For a full analysis of the arguments from these
three essays, see Larry M. Jorgensen, “By Leaps and Bounds: Leibniz on Transcreation, Motion, and the
Generation of Minds,” The Leibniz Review 23 (2013): 73–98.
⁶ A 6.3.565–7/Arthur 209–10.
  
in the interval, and any two pairs will always be separated by a subinterval of the
motion.”⁷
This story is complicated, and perhaps not even plausible. But my interest here is
not whether Leibniz provides a plausible theory of motion. Rather, I am interested in
Leibniz’s philosophical motivations to allow for leaps.⁸ Why should motion require
leaps of any sort, much less transcreation? In the dialogue, Pacidius says that:
If one person were simply to say that the thing ceases to be in its earlier state and now begins to
be in another one, someone else might say that it was annihilated in the earlier state and
resuscitated in the later one. Whichever of the two you accept, no distinction can be observed
in the thing itself, but only in the fact that the former way of putting it conceals the cause, and
the latter brings it out. But no cause can be conceived for why a thing that has ceased to exist in
one state should begin to exist in another (inasmuch as the transition has been eliminated),
except a kind of permanent substance that has both destroyed the first state and produced the
new one, since the succeeding state does not necessarily follow from the preceding one.⁹
One key conclusion of the arguments in Pacidius is that bodies by themselves cannot
provide an adequate explanation of their motions.¹⁰ On the definition of motion
provided, there is no state of the body that can explain its change from one place to
another. Change is defined as an aggregate of two moments, and there is nothing in
the body that can unify the moments. Each subsequent state of a body is discrete and
no intrinsic property of the body explains its trajectory, and so motion is fundamen-
tally non-uniform and discontinuous. Thus, the state of change must be explained
from the outside, as it were. And we cannot assign the state of change to some other
body on pain of regress.
⁷ Samuel Levey, “The Interval of Motion in Leibniz’s Pacidius Philalethi,” Noûs 37 (2003): 390.
⁸ Readers who are interested in the plausibility of Leibniz’s proposal as a theory of motion might
consider the objections raised by Michael White and Samuel Levey:
Michael White argues that if there were genuinely no distance between the points at which a body is
destroyed and recreated, then it is hard to see how a body would move at all. See Michael J. White, “The
Foundations of the Calculus and the Conceptual Analysis of Motion: The Case of the Early Leibniz
(1670–1676),” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 73 (1992): 304.
Samuel Levey agrees. He speculates that the theory of motion presented at the end of Pacidius
represents “a tension in Leibniz’s thought between two concepts of motion,” and that “a resolution of
motion into a powder of points (or leaps) seems to be inevitable—for having cut back every finite interval
into finer and finer parts without end, what extended intervals could remain?” See Levey, “The Interval of
Motion in Leibniz’s Pacidius Philalethi,” 402.
François Duchesneau suggests a stronger connection between the theory of motion presented in
Pacidius and the ultimate postulation of “real, but strictly individualized, centres of force whose qualitative
gradual interaction will generate mechanical exchanges at the phenomenal level.” See François
Duchesneau, “Leibniz on the Principle of Continuity,” Revue Internationale de Philosophie 48 (1994):
142–3.
⁹ A 6.3.567/Arthur 213–15, emphasis added.
¹⁰ Richard Arthur also makes this point, although he argues that Leibniz, in Pacidius, may be tacitly
arguing for the “non-material principles of unity,” which Leibniz will later call “monads.” See Richard
T.W. Arthur, “Russell’s Conundrum: On the Relation of Leibniz’s Monads to the Continuum,” in An
Intimate Relation: Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, ed. James Robert Brown and Jürgen
Mittelstrass (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishing, 1986), 190. I am more inclined to read Leibniz as
entertaining an occasionalist line of thought in this text.
 ’    
As it is summarized in the dialogue:

[T]here is no moment of change common to each of two states, and thus no state of change
either, but only an aggregate of two states, old and new; and so there is no state of action in a
body, that is to say, no moment can be assigned at which it acts. For by moving the body would
act . . . If you really cut to the quick and inspect every moment, there is no action.¹¹
Since there is no intrinsic property or state of the body that can explain its move-
ment, strictly speaking, bodies do not (and cannot) act. The interlocutors are not
inclined to eliminate motion, to explain it away, and so the explanation of motion
must be from some other source, a source that can and does act, namely a “perman-
ent substance.”
Thus, they conclude, the motion of bodies is due to the continuous creative
activity of God, acting in the most perfect manner. The resulting picture from these
three early texts is that Leibniz does allow leaps of a kind, although he does not
regard them as miraculous.¹² And, while this position contradicts Leibniz’s later
claims that “nature never acts by leaps,”¹³ ultimately, the more fundamental
argument in Pacidius is for the impossibility of accounting for motion by appealing
to the properties of the bodies themselves. Rather, appeal must be made to an
intelligence. Here Leibniz provides a much more straightforwardly occasionalist
theory of motion. Leibniz’s full commitment to a natural theory of motion and the
principle of continuity will emerge only as he comes out from under the occasion-
alist tent.
1.2. The rejection of occasionalism (1676–86)

In the decade following Pacidius, Leibniz revisited his theory of motion, and the
Cartesian theory of motion became a significant target of criticism. One result of
this revision is that the charge of discontinuity became a primary point against the
Cartesian theory of motion. It is a criticism Leibniz returns to often. While the
theory of motion remains important to this story, the main goal of this section is to
investigate how Leibniz came to believe that mathematical continuities can be
applied to the natural order.
The story of Leibniz’s rejection of the Cartesian theory of motion and of occa-
sionalism is well known.¹⁴ While Leibniz was outlining his theory of transcreation, he
was already developing a physics that involved an essential reference to intrinsic
qualities of the body. But this new theory was to displace motion in favor of force. As
he says in the Discourse on Metaphysics:
¹¹ A 6.3.566/Arthur 211. ¹² On this point, see Jorgensen, “By Leaps and Bounds,” 84.
¹³ See references in fn 2.
¹⁴ See Paul Mouy, Le Développement de la Physique Cartésienne, 1646–1712 (Paris: J. Vrin, 1934), 231–6,
293–302, and RML 243–7. For more on the nature of the disagreement about occasionalism, see Nicholas
Jolley, “Leibniz and Occasionalism,” in Leibniz: Nature and Freedom, ed. Donald Rutherford and
J.A. Cover (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) and Donald Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and
Miracles: The Roots of Leibniz’s Critique of Occasionalism,” in Causation in Early Modern Philosophy:
Cartesianism, Occasionalism, and Pre-Established Harmony, ed. Steven M. Nadler (University Park, PA:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993).
  
[I]f we consider only what motion contains precisely and formally, that is, change of place,
motion is not something entirely real, and when several bodies change position among
themselves, it is not possible to determine, merely from a consideration of these changes, to
which body we should attribute motion or rest.¹⁵
The definition of motion given here is the same as that offered in Pacidius: motion is
a change of place. But, given this definition, motion is relative. If X moves with
reference to Y and Z, there is no property in X itself that would allow us to identify
X as the body in motion rather than Y and Z. But Leibniz continues:
But the force or proximate cause of these changes is something more real, and there is sufficient
basis to attribute it to one body more than to another. Also, it is only in this way that we can
know to which body the motion belongs.¹⁶
The force of a body is the intrinsic quality that grounds all natural changes. He
reiterates this in a letter to Arnauld: “bodily substance has the force to continue its
changes according to the laws that God has placed in its nature and maintains
there.”¹⁷
Thus, the notion of force took a central place in Leibniz’s philosophy, and his view
that each substance has within it the force and law necessary for all of its subsequent
states became prominent. The revival of substantial forms comes along with this,
since force cannot be explained simply in terms of the size, shape, and relative motion
of the bodies involved in the natural change. Leibniz’s Specimen of Dynamics (1695)
outlines the physics of force and his New System of the Nature and the Communi-
cation of Substances, as well as the Union between Soul and Body (1695) shows how
the theory of force can be applied more generally and allows for a new theory of the
union of mind and body.
The theory is clearly anti-occasionalist, and in the years leading up to his publi-
cation of these key texts Leibniz presents his specific objections to the Cartesian
theory of motion and occasionalism.¹⁸ The natural laws are now no longer
grounded by the laws of God’s own nature but in the laws governing the localized
forces in finite substantial forms. Natural changes are explained by reference to the
natures of the individual substances involved, and the miraculous will be any
change that “surpass[es] the powers of our nature and even the powers of all
limited natures.”¹⁹
It is in the context of his movement away from Cartesianism and occasionalism
that Leibniz develops the principle of continuity. Michel Fichant has identified
Leibniz’s 1678 text, De Corporum Concursu, as containing the first formulation of
the principle of continuity, a mere two years after the composition of Pacidius to
Philalethes, and the apparent first use of the principle of continuity in an argument
¹⁵ DM §18. ¹⁶ DM §18. ¹⁷ A 2.2.179/LA 116.

¹⁸ See Mouy, Le Développement de la Physique Cartésienne, 300–2.
¹⁹ DM §16. See also letter to Arnauld, April 30, 1687 (A 2.2.179/LA 116), Leibniz’s fifth letter to Clarke,
§107 (G 7.416/LC 90–1) and T §249 (G 6.265). For more discussion of this view of miracles, see §3 of
chapter 1.
 ’    
against the Cartesian laws of motion and impact were in a letter of June 1679.²⁰ But
the locus classicus of Leibniz’s principle of continuity is his “Letter of Mr. Leibniz on
a General Principle Useful in Explaining the Laws of Nature through a Consider-
ation of the Divine Wisdom: to Serve as a Reply to the Response of the Rev. Father
Malebranche,” which was published in the Nouvelles de la République des Lettres in
July 1687. (I will refer to this text as “PG.”)
I will not here trace the development of the principle of continuity between
Pacidius to Philalethes, written in 1676, to the published letter to Malebranche in
1687. It is clear that Leibniz developed his “general principle” very soon after Pacidius
and made use of it in his arguments against Cartesian laws of motion. However, the
public announcement of this principle was Leibniz’s 1687 letter—that is the formu-
lation of the principle of continuity that Leibniz refers back to again and again—and
so a closer attention to the context and argument of that letter will sufficiently
demonstrate Leibniz’s reasons for adopting the principle of continuity and the utility
that he thought it to have in discovering a fully natural theory.
One of Leibniz’s main avenues of attack against the Cartesian principle of the
conservation of motion was to appeal to a principle of equipollence. The principle of
equipollence says that “the entire effect is equipollent to the full cause.”²¹ Leibniz
was entertaining this principle around the same time as his writing of Pacidius
Philalethi (1676).²² In the earliest writings, Leibniz uses the principle of equipol-
lence to demonstrate plenitude,²³ but he also quickly sees the application to the
theory of impact.²⁴
As is well known, Leibniz employed the principle of equipollence to directly
engage the Cartesian laws of motion, culminating in his 1686 publication, “A Brief
Demonstration of a Notable Error of Descartes,”²⁵ in which Leibniz argues that the
Cartesian conservation principle is false and replaces it with what he regards as the
correct conservation principle (i.e., the conservation of mv²). In that essay, Leibniz
²⁰ Michel Fichant, La Réforme de la Dynamique: De Coporum Concursu (1678) et Autres Textes Inédits,
trans. Michel Fichant (Paris: J. Vrin, 1994), 213 and 216–18. See also Daniel Garber, “Leibniz: Physics and
Philosophy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Leibniz, ed. Nicholas Jolley (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1994), 314–16.
²¹ A 6.3.584/DSR 107, a formulation repeated in many different texts.
²² See “Three Primary Axioms” (summer 1675–autumn 1676?, A 6.3.427), “A Chain of Wonderful
Demonstrations about the Universe” (December 12, 1676, A 6.3.584/DSR 107), “Notes on Metaphysics”
(December 1676, A 6.3.400/DSR 15), and “Concerning the Equipollence of Cause and Effect” (1677–78?,
A 6.4.1963–4).
²³ See especially A 6.3.400/DSR 15, where Leibniz says, “From the principle that the entire effect must be
equipollent to the full cause, it is demonstrated that all things are full.” Leibniz’s argument here is not clear,
and he later argues for plenitude not from the principle of equipollence but from considerations of divine
wisdom and power.
²⁴ For discussion of the function of the principle of equipollence in Leibniz’s early criticisms of the
Cartesian laws of impact, see Fichant, La Réforme de la Dynamique, 277–302 and Garber, Leibniz: Body,
Substance, Monad, 235–50.
²⁵ See “A Brief Demonstration of a Notable Error of Descartes and Others Concerning a Natural Law,
According to Which God is Said Always to Conserve the Same Quantity of Motion; a Law which They Also
Misuse in Mechanics” (Acta Eruditorum March, 1686; GM 6.117–19/A 6.4.2027–30/L 296–301).
  
recognized the equipollence of cause and effect, which, when measured by mv² rather
than by quantity of motion (m|v|), represents the true conservation law.²⁶
In a more lengthy defense of the “Brief Demonstration” in a letter to Foucher,
Leibniz says that “all can be reduced to this principle,” namely the principle of
equipollence,²⁷ and, elsewhere, Leibniz expresses confidence that this principle pro-
vides the bridge between geometry and physics.²⁸ He takes up the principle in his
correspondence with Bossuet,²⁹ and it was one of only two axioms in Leibniz’s 1692
Essay on Dynamics.³⁰ Additionally, scholars have recognized this principle as funda-
mental to Leibniz’s natural science.³¹
In sum, Leibniz fairly early saw the promise of the principle of equipollence.
While it is an enriching study to consider Leibniz’s reasons for endorsing the
principle of equipollence, I refer interested readers to other good studies.³² What
is interesting to me is that in his correspondence with Cartesians and occasionalists,
the principle of equipollence is eventually supplemented with the principle of
continuity. And since this is the context that—I argue—Leibniz develops his
naturalizing constraints, it is worth considering why he needed to introduce add-
itional principles.
My thesis is that both the principle of equipollence and the principle of continuity
ground certain ways of making nature intelligible. Leibniz at one place restates the
principle of equipollence in the following way: “from the mere knowledge of the
effect one may come to the knowledge of the cause, and from the mere knowledge of
²⁶ For more on this controversy and the principle of equipollence, see Carolyn Iltis, “Leibniz and the
Vis Viva Controversy,” Isis 62 (1971) and Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad, 144–55 and 235–50.
In a text as late as 1682–84, Leibniz remained open to the possibility of the conservation of the quantity
of motion, even after stating the principle of equipollence:
the power of the effect and of the cause are equal to each other, for if the effect were greater,
we should have mechanical perpetual motion, while if it were less, we should not have
continuous physical motion. It is worth showing that the same quantity of motion cannot
be conserved but that the same quantity of power is. Yet we must see whether there will not
also be conserved in the universe the same quantity of motion also. (L 279)
At this point, Leibniz seems uncertain. Loemker notes the variations in Leibniz’s views: in the “Brief
Demonstration” Leibniz “rejects the Cartesian principle of the conservation of quantity of motion,” but in
his later comments on Descartes’s Principles of Philosophy, “the conservation of total quantity of motion in
a system is reaffirmed, on condition that directions of motion are treated algebraically” (L 290n9).
²⁷ Letter to Foucher in 1687 (A 2.2.206–7; see also A 2.2.203).
²⁸ See letter to Melchisédech Thévenot, August 24 (Sept 3), 1691 (A 2.2.444).
²⁹ See the letters of October 23, 1693 (A 2.2.747–8) and July 12, 1694 (A 2.2.827).
³⁰ Fichant, La Réforme de la Dynamique, 277–302. The second axiom, Leibniz says, is provable from the
first, and so in fact the principle of equipollence is the only axiom.
³¹ See, for example, Pierre Costabel, Leibniz and Dynamics: The Texts of 1692, trans. R.E.W. Maddison
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1973), 112–13: the key “to a possible conciliation between the
empirical laws of motion and an a priori principle of conservation . . . consisted in the principle of
equivalence between full cause and entire effect. One must find a way of capping the rules of impact
between colliding bodies, empirical generalizations, with theoretical laws by deploying an integrative
system of equations to represent the efficient causes involved.” See also François Duchesneau, “Leibniz’s
Contribution to Natural Philosophy,” in The Continuum Companion to Leibniz, ed. Brandon C. Look
(London: Continuum, 2011), 241–2 and Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad, 144–55 and 235–50.
³² In addition to the texts referred to in the footnotes above, see also Michel Fichant, “Leibniz et les
Machines de la Nature,” Studia Leibnitiana 35 (2003).
 ’    
the cause to the knowledge of the effect.”³³ Since the entire effect is included in the
whole cause, the knowledge of the effect is contained in the knowledge of the cause.³⁴
We can see here in the principle of equipollence seeds for Leibniz’s complete concept
theory of substance and for his frequent claims that “the present is pregnant with
the future.”³⁵
Similarly, the principle of continuity will provide for a certain kind of explanation.
In particular, while the principle of equipollence preserves the full cause in the total
effect, the principle of continuity guarantees a certain kind of structural or functional
ordering, a dependence of the ordering of the effect upon the ordering of the cause.
As we will see, this will ground a heuristic for natural theories and a guide for
reasoning by analogy that will guide discovery.
1.3. Development of the principle of continuity

All of this was developed in dialogue with several Cartesians and, especially, Male-
branche. Malebranche published a paper in the April 1687 Nouvelles de la République
des Lettres, conceding that Leibniz’s critique of his laws of motion “seems quite
fair,”³⁶ admitting that he (Malebranche) should have stopped short at criticizing
Descartes’s rules of motion rather than endorsing others, which are “not quite right.”
Nevertheless, Malebranche does not grant Leibniz’s fundamental point about the
conservation of force. In the Search after Truth, Book 6, Part II, chapter 9, Male-
branche provides an account of the motion of bodies based on divine volition,
arguing that rest is merely the privation of God’s volition that the body move,
given that bodies themselves have no force of their own. So, motion and rest are
fundamentally different in kind. In his reply to Leibniz, Malebranche says that the
motions of objects are “arbitrary and depend on the Creator” and argues that
experience is the way to access God’s will.³⁷ As André Robinet points out, “in
advancing the arbitrariness of God in the explanation of motion, Malebranche
renders physics independent from divine wisdom in its natural course.”³⁸
This highlights a fundamental point of disagreement between Leibniz and Male-
branche. In July 1687, Leibniz published his response in the Nouvelles de la Répub-
lique des Lettres.³⁹ Leibniz proposes a “principle of general order” that would ground
any investigation into natural changes. This principle holds, Leibniz says, because
“the sovereign wisdom, the source of all things, acts as a perfect geometrician,”⁴⁰ and
so our reasoning about the actions of God need not depend primarily on our
experience of the operations of nature. Given that God acts in orderly ways, this
principle of general order will be useful to investigations in physics, and it demon-
strates the weakness of Descartes’s physics prior to any empirical inquiry.⁴¹
³³ “Concerning the Equipollence of Cause and Effect” (A 6.4.1963).

³⁴ Spinoza, of course, held to a similar principle, cf. Ethics Ia4. ³⁵ M §13. ³⁶ RML, 251.
³⁷ RML, 252. ³⁸ RML, 245.
³⁹ PG 351–3. There is also an extended Latin version of the letter at A 6.4.2031–9. ⁴⁰ PG 351.
⁴¹ PG 352. For an example of how the principle of continuity demonstrates the error in Cartesian
physics, see Larry M. Jorgensen, “The Principle of Continuity and Leibniz’s Theory of Consciousness,”
Journal of the History of Philosophy 47 (2009): section 2; Duchesneau, “Leibniz on the Principle of
Continuity,” 158–9; and Garber, “Leibniz: Physics and Philosophy,” 314–16.
  
Now, it may not be entirely fair to Malebranche to regard his theory of motion as
arbitrary. As several commentators have noted, Malebranche regarded the inter-
actions between bodies fully in terms of laws of nature and general volitions of God
rather than in terms of whim and particular volitions as this characterization makes it
seem.⁴² But even so, Leibniz thinks things have gone awry, since God’s laws would be
irregular laws, allowing for disorder and discontinuity in natural transitions. As
Leibniz notes, Malebranche “continues to believe that since the laws of motion
depend on the good pleasure of God, God could therefore have established laws as
irregular as these.”⁴³
In a 1687 letter to Arnauld, Leibniz summarizes what he sees as the status of the
dialectic between himself and Malebranche:
[Malebranche] seems to acknowledge that some of the laws of nature or rules of movement
that he had put forward may be hard to defend. But he thinks the reason to be that he based
them on infinite hardness, which does not exist in nature; whereas I believe that, even if it did
exist, these rules would still be impossible to defend. And it is a weakness of his and
M. Descartes’s arguments that they have not considered that every statement about motion,
inequality and elasticity must also be verified when one assumes that these things are infinite or
infinitely small. In that case motion (infinitely small) becomes rest, inequality (infinitely small)
becomes equality; and elasticity (infinitely rapid) is nothing else but extreme hardness; more or
less as all the proofs of the ellipse undertaken by geometers are verified about a parabola when
it is thought of as an ellipse whose other focal point is infinitely distant. And it is strange to see
that almost all M. Descartes’s rules of movement offend this principle, which I consider to be as
infallible in physics as in geometry, because the author of the world acts as a perfect geometer.
If I answer Father Malebranche, it will be mainly to bring this principle to notice, for it is very
useful and has scarcely yet been considered in its generality, to my knowledge.⁴⁴
There are two particularly interesting aspects of this summary. First, notice that
Leibniz is rejecting Malebranche’s claim that rest and motion are radically different.
Or, more precisely, Malebranche argued that Descartes’s mistake had been to believe
that rest has force. In contrast, Malebranche regarded rest as the mere privation of
force. Leibniz’s position is more nuanced than either: rest can be conceived as an
infinitely small degree of motion. And the rules of motion must apply to infinitely
small motions just as well as to intermediate degrees of motion.
The second thing to notice in this summary is that Leibniz expresses unequivocally
the application of geometry to physics, and he gives a foundation for the claim. The
principle is “as infallible in physics as in geometry because the author of the world
acts as a perfect geometer.” Here Leibniz is providing the bridge between geometry
and physics—the mathematical mindset of the creator (in contrast to arbitrary
volitions). As Leibniz sees it, these are two deep differences between Malebranche
⁴² For more on the relation between Malebranche and Leibniz, see Jolley, “Leibniz and Occasionalism”;
Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and Miracles”; R.C. Sleigh, Jr., Leibniz and Arnauld: A Commentary on their
Correspondence (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990), 161–70; and Sean Greenberg,
“Malebranche and Leibniz,” in The Bloomsbury Companion to Leibniz, ed. Brandon C. Look (London:
Bloomsbury, 2011), 68–85.
⁴³ PG 352. ⁴⁴ Letter to Arnauld, July 22/August 1, 1687 (A 2.2.219–20/LA 130–1).
 ’    
and himself, and they result in significant differences in how physics (and other
empirical sciences) should be approached.
But in order to make his case for this, Leibniz needed to introduce a principle
beyond an equivalence principle. Malebranche’s account of motion allows Male-
branche to appeal to God’s activity in directing motion, and so the equivalence of
force could be preserved even in cases of discontinuous motion. What Leibniz
requires here is a principle that preserves a dependency of ordering of effects on
causes, and this is what he introduces in his 1687 letter.
Leibniz’s reply to Malebranche, “Letter of Mr. Leibniz on a General Principle
Useful in Explaining the Laws of Nature through a Consideration of the Divine
Wisdom: to Serve as a Reply to the Response of the Rev. Father Malebranche,” was
published in the Nouvelles de la République des Lettres in July 1687.⁴⁵ Leibniz refers to
this paper repeatedly in later years as supporting what he then calls “the principle of
continuity” or “the law of continuity.”⁴⁶ At the time of composition, however, the
principle does not appear to have taken shape under this heading. The first reference
to the name, “the law of continuity,” that I have found is in 1692, in Leibniz’s “Critical
Thoughts on the General Part of the Principles of Descartes,” where he says that he
“usually” calls this principle “the law of continuity.”⁴⁷ Since he says this is usual for
him, there may be other references around that time that I have not discovered. But
prior to 1692 (and even, in some cases, later), Leibniz does not give it this name.
Instead, he describes it as an instance of a more “general principle”⁴⁸ that is useful in
physics. Nevertheless, Leibniz’s thinking was clearly guided by the principle of
continuity, and he referred often to the 1687 “General Principle” article as its
source.⁴⁹ (Note: although Leibniz frequently refers to the principle as the “law of
continuity,” he does also call it the “principle of continuity.” Today it is more
commonly referred to as the “principle of continuity,” and I will continue the practice
in this volume.)
In the 1687 essay, Leibniz defines what he calls a “principle of general order”:
Principle of General Order: “As the data are ordered, so the unknowns are
ordered also.”
Under Malebranche’s theory of motion, natural changes would include what Leibniz
regarded as disorder, sudden changes that cannot be explained by the objects in
motion themselves. The principle of general order identifies a dependency of order-
ing of the unknowns on the known.
⁴⁵ PG 351–3.
⁴⁶ See, for example, “A Specimen of Dynamics” (GM 6.249/AG 133); Letter to Bernoulli, July 2 (12),
1697 (A 3.7.479–80); “Reply to . . . ‘Rorarius’ ” (G 4.568/WF 123); and the preface to the New Essays on
Human Understanding (A 4.6.56/NE 56).
⁴⁷ G 4.375/L 397. ⁴⁸ In the Nouvelles letter and in a Letter to Foucher, end of 1688 (A 2.2.284).
⁴⁹ Leibniz even sent a version of the principle of continuity to Paul Pelisson-Fontanier, who passed it
along to be evaluated by the Royal Academy of Sciences in Paris. Pelisson passed the paper along to Claude
Mallement, who called it “very dangerous,” saying that it could be good or bad depending on how it is used
(A 2.2.505–6). Leibniz complains about this response, saying that his claims were not well understood and,
if he had known it was going to be passed along, he would have written it out more fully (A 2.2.509–10 and
A 2.2.524). (It actually seems incredible to me that Leibniz might not have known it was being passed
along.)
  
The principle of general order, by itself, does not guarantee continuity, since the
data may not be ordered in a continuous series. And if the data were not continuously
ordered, neither would the unknowns be ordered. But Leibniz provides another
formulation, which he comes to call the “principle of continuity”:
Principle of Continuity: “When the difference between two instances in a given
series or that which is presupposed can be diminished until it becomes smaller
than any given quantity whatever, the corresponding difference in what is sought
or in their results must of necessity also be diminished or become less than any
given quantity whatever.”
This is a technical way to express the principle, but Leibniz provides a more friendly
version:
Principle of Continuity (friendly): “When two instances or data approach each
other continuously, so that one at last passes over into the other, it is necessary for
their consequences or results (or the unknown) to do so also.”
To put it formally, for any function, f(x), if |x₂–x₁|<d, then |f(x₂)–f(x₁)|<d.
This principle, it will be noticed, does not guarantee that, as Leibniz often repeats,
“nature never makes leaps.” That is, the principle of continuity so stated does not
guarantee continuity in nature. The principle is a conditional claim: if or when the
inputs to a function are continuous, then the outputs will be as well. What basis does
Leibniz have for thinking that the inputs will always be continuous?
In PG, Leibniz proceeds by example and analogy. He begins with a geometrical
example, a case in which it is clear that the inputs are continuous—the conic sections.
Leibniz quickly infers the same continuous relations in physics:
The same principle is found in physics. For example, rest can be considered as an infinitely
small velocity or as an infinite slowness. Therefore, whatever is true of velocity or slowness in
general should be verifiable also of rest taken in this sense, so that the rule for resting bodies
must be considered as a special case of the rule for motion.⁵⁰
Leibniz goes on to show that this principle is violated in Descartes’s theory of
impact.⁵¹ What grounds the antecedent of this conditional, though? How can Leibniz
be certain that the transitions in nature (the inputs) are continuous? I will consider
two possibilities that I think will not work, and then a third possibility that I think is
probably Leibniz’s view.
First, this claim cannot rest on empirical grounds. We do not simply observe that
motion continuously approaches rest. For all we know there may be interruptions or
gaps that we have not observed or that we have forgotten that we observed, a
possibility Leibniz himself entertained in the 1676 paper, “Infinite Numbers.” Our
minds may impose a kind of regularity on the motion of bodies.⁵²
⁵⁰ PG 352.
⁵¹ See Jorgensen, “Continuity and Consciousness,” §2 for a more detailed analysis of the failure of
Cartesian laws of motion and impact.
⁵² A 6.3.499/Arthur 91.
 ’    
Second, Leibniz may simply be reasoning by analogies, as Kepler does in his

discussion of the conic sections. It is because the parabola can be conceived as an
ellipse with the foci infinitely distant from one another that the rules for one can be
applied to the other. Kepler writes:
For geometrical terms ought to be at our service for analogy. I love analogies most of all: they
are my most faithful teachers, aware of all the hidden secrets of nature. In geometry in
particular they are to be taken up, since they restrict the infinity of cases between their
respective extremes and the mean with however many absurd phrases, and place the whole
essence of any subject vividly before the eyes.⁵³
While this method of analogy proves productive for Kepler’s discussion of the conic
sections, he acknowledges that it is speaking loosely and not strictly true. Leibniz also
uses the method of analogy.⁵⁴ Here is a late text in which Leibniz connects continuity
with analogical reasoning: “In nature everything happens by degrees, and nothing by
jumps; and this rule about change is one part of my law of continuity.” He proceeds
to say that there are likely intermediate species between man and animal and then
concludes, “I would add that I strongly favor inquiry into analogies: more and more
of them are going to be yielded by plants, insects, and the comparative anatomy of
animals.”⁵⁵
The problem with the method of analogy, however, is that it is a looser form of
reasoning, and we should not regard all of the results as true in a rigorous sense.
Simply because we can conceive of rest as an infinitely small degree of motion, this
does not entail that rest is an infinitely small degree of motion. As Leibniz says in a
letter to De Volder: “it is not rigorously true that rest is a kind of motion or that
equality is a kind of inequality, any more than it is true that a circle is a kind of
regular polygon.” And so, while the analogies may be useful, they should not be
regarded as true. However, he continues, “it can be said, nevertheless, that rest,
equality, and the circle terminate the motions, the inequalities, and the regular
polygons which arrive at them by a continuous change and vanish in them.”⁵⁶
Thus, the analogies provide us with a way to reason about limit cases and, crucially
for Leibniz, the errors introduced in this method of reasoning will be “less than any
assignable quantity.”⁵⁷
The quotation from the letter to De Volder shows that reasoning by analogies does
not ground Leibniz’s claims of continuity. Rather, it is the reverse: because motion
“vanishes in” rest and arrives at it by a continuous change, we can reason by analogy
without concern for the errors that might be introduced. So, Leibniz needs some
other basis for his claims that the natural world is a continuous world.
⁵³ Johannes Kepler, Optics: Paralipomena to Witelo and Optical Part of Astronomy, trans. William
H. Donahue (Santa Fe, NM: Green Lion Press, 2000), 109.
⁵⁴ Laerke, “The Problem of Alloglossia,” 944–5 also discusses Leibniz’s appeal to analogy when
introducing new terms.
⁵⁵ A 6.6.473/NE 473. ⁵⁶ GM 4.106/L 546.
⁵⁷ For Leibniz’s take on the status of infinitesimal quantities, see Paolo Mancosu, Philosophy of
Mathematics and Mathematical Practice in the Seventeenth Century (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1996), 171–3.
  
Returning to the 1687 essay, let us take a closer look at Leibniz’s argument for
continuity against Malebranche. His central argument is located in a single
paragraph:
The Rev. Father Malebranche admits in a way that there is some difficulty in [the Cartesian
rules of impact] but he continues to believe that since the laws of motion depend on the good
pleasure of God, God could therefore have established laws as irregular as these. But the
good pleasure of God is ruled by his wisdom, and geometricians would be nearly as surprised
to see irregularities of this kind occur in nature as to see a parabola to which the properties of
an ellipse with an infinitely remote focus could not be applied.⁵⁸
The difference between the two of them in how God establishes and upholds the laws
of nature is, according to Leibniz, the crux of the problem. Leibniz sees Male-
branche’s God as acting arbitrarily because he acts against his wisdom. Leibniz
goes on to say, “It is God who is the ultimate reason of things, and the knowledge
of God is no less the beginning of science than his essence and his will are the
beginning of beings.”⁵⁹ The font of continuity is God’s intellect. But this difference
between Leibniz and Malebranche is not obviously entailed by occasionalism. Leibniz
himself flirted with occasionalism in Pacidius while at the same time endorsing the
claim that God acts as a geometrician. And so while this thesis might be decisive
against leaps in nature, it is not decisive against occasionalism as such. And yet
Leibniz describes occasionalism as requiring “perpetual miracles,” and he here
regards Malebranche’s position as entailing disorder. And so we will need to see
more about why Leibniz thinks the divine intellect and will produces a continuous
natural order in which the forces of substances themselves provide the causal power
for each natural transition.
2. Formulations of the Principle of Continuity

The application of the principle of continuity against Cartesian and occasionalist
theories of motion and impact demonstrates a certain kind of utility for the principle
of continuity. The principle of continuity was a methodological principle for Leibniz.
If the principle of continuity is true of the natural order, the number of plausible
scientific theories is reduced, since the theories that violate continuity can be easily
rejected. In this section I provide an account of Leibniz’s principle of continuity and
show how it serves as a methodological principle. However, I do not plan to defend
the principle of continuity or to provide a thorough analysis of the concept of
continuity in Leibniz—I refer the reader to the relevant literature for this.⁶⁰ My
aim is mainly to demonstrate Leibniz’s commitment to the principle and to its
usefulness as a means of evaluating a theory, taking this as a starting point to see
what follows from it.
⁵⁸ PG 352–3. ⁵⁹ PG 353. ⁶⁰ See references in note 94 below.

 ’    
Leibniz published an analysis of the principle of continuity in PG, and, as men-

tioned above, it is this account of the principle that Leibniz himself refers back to
throughout his life:
Continuity of Cases:⁶¹
(a) [The principle of continuity] can be formulated as follows. [i.] When the
difference between two instances in a given series or that which is presupposed
can be diminished until it becomes smaller than any given quantity whatever,
the corresponding difference in what is sought or in their results must of
necessity also be diminished or become less than any given quantity whatever.
Or to put it more commonly, [ii.] when two instances or data approach each
other continuously, so that one at last passes over into the other, it is necessary
for their consequences or results (or the unknown) to do so also. This depends
on a more general principle: that, [iii.] as the data are ordered, so the
unknowns are ordered also.⁶²
The idea here is that of a continuous function, and the paradigm example of this for
Leibniz is the transformation of one conic section into another (see Figure 2.1 below).
In the geometric case, there is a continuous transformation from ellipse to parabola,
and thus, by the principle stated above, the properties that are preserved in the
transformation (e.g., the distance of the foci) will also be continuous.
ellipse
hyperbola
circle
parabola
Figure 2.1. The conic sections

Source: Reprinted from Jorgensen, L., “The Principle of Continuity and Leibniz’s Theory of Conscious-
ness,” Journal of the History of Philosophy, Volume 47, Issue 2, pp. 223–48, Figure 1, Copyright © 2009.
⁶¹ The names of these formulations were first given by Bertrand Russell (see Bertrand Russell, A Critical
Exposition of the Philosophy of Leibniz, 2nd ed. (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1937), 63). Russell’s
discussion of the principle of continuity in its various forms is helpful, although I am more optimistic than
he is that the various forms can be reconciled. Cf. Kepler, Optics, 109. I am also indebted to Dionysios
Anapolitanos’ discussion of these formulations: Dionysios Anapolitanos, Leibniz: Representation,
Continuity, and the Spatiotemporal (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999), chapter 2.
⁶² PG 351.
  
The proximity of the formulations (i) and (ii) in the quotation above provides
some guidance on what Leibniz thought to be a requirement for continuity. “Two
instances . . . approach each other continuously” if “the difference between [the] two
instances . . . can be diminished until it becomes smaller than any given quantity
whatever.” What I think is being suggested here, and made explicit later, is that
density is a sufficient condition for continuity. In support of the sufficiency of density,
Leibniz later says in a letter to Des Bosses, “if points are such that there are not two
without an intermediate, then a continuous extension is given.”⁶³
But, in addition to density being a sufficient condition, it also serves as a necessary
condition of continuity for Leibniz. As evidence of this, Leibniz argues in the
Specimen Dynamicum that atoms would introduce discontinuities:
[I]f we were to imagine that there are atoms, that is, bodies of maximal hardness and therefore
inflexible, it would follow that there would be a change through a leap, that is, an instantaneous
change.⁶⁴
The reason for this, Leibniz says, is because in every collision between two atoms, the
direction of motion will reverse itself (or the atoms will come to rest) instantaneously.
As Leibniz says, it would contain “a change through a leap, an instantaneous change
from motion to rest, without passing through the intermediate steps.”⁶⁵ Here Leibniz
identifies the failure of density (the passing through intermediate steps) with the
introduction of a discontinuity. In order to have continuity, one must have density.
Leibniz generalizes this claim about motion, and says that changes in shape and
location also must pass through all intermediate shapes and locations.⁶⁶ The absence
of density entails a lack of continuity.
Thus, we can operate on the following condition: a series is continuous if and only
if, for any two instances (or points in the series), there is an intermediate instance (or
point in the series).⁶⁷ Further, according to the PG passage above, the density of the
original series and the results will be equal. Call this the density requirement.
Although the continuity of cases is the main form of the principle of continuity
presented by Leibniz, other formulations can be found in his texts, three of which
I want to highlight. Each of these different forms of the principle highlights a
different aspect of density (and, hence, continuity) in the natural order. Having
each of these in mind will help us when we consider how continuity should apply
to Leibniz’s philosophy of mind in the second half of this book.
⁶³ G 2.515, qtd. in Dionysios Anapolitanos, Leibniz: Representation, Continuity, and the Spatiotemporal,
65ff. I follow Timothy Crockett here in defining continuity in terms of density. See Timothy Crockett,
“Continuity in Leibniz’s Mature Metaphysics,” Philosophical Studies 94 (1999): 125.
⁶⁴ GM 6.248/AG 132. ⁶⁵ Ibid. ⁶⁶ GM 6.249/AG 132.
⁶⁷ This may be controversial, since Leibniz sometimes talks as if contiguity or cohesion (where the
boundaries of two things are one) is sufficient for continuity, and it is not obvious what the relation
between contiguity and density would be. But, from these passages in the Specimen Dynamicum, I am
inclined to think that density has priority for Leibniz. For further discussion of these points, see Ezio
Vailati, Leibniz and Clarke: A Study of their Correspondence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 118f.
and Crockett, “Continuity in Leibniz’s Mature Metaphysics,” 127f.
 ’    
Spatiotemporal Continuity:
(b) Any change from small to large, or vice versa, passes through something
which is, in respect of degrees as well as of parts, in between.⁶⁸
Spatiotemporal continuity says that any change in location or time is a continuous
change. According to this principle any change must be a continuous change. This
applies not only to objects, but to their states as well. As Leibniz says in a letter to
DeVolder, “I do not believe that any reason a priori can be given against a leap from
place to place which is not also effective against a leap from state to state.”⁶⁹ And so
any object O changing from state P to P′ will occupy all intermediate states between
P and P′ in the transition. We may call this the requirement of spatiotemporal density.
Continuity of Actual Existents:
(c) [W]hen the essential determinations of a being approach those of another so
that likewise accordingly all the properties of the first must gradually approach
those of the last, it is necessary that all the orders of natural beings form only
one chain, in which the different classes, like so many links, connect so
closely the one to the other, that it is impossible for the senses and the
imagination to fix the precise point where any one begins or ends.⁷⁰
The continuity of actual existents says that between any two existents all compossible
intermediate beings also exist. The compossibility qualification is important, since
Leibniz believes that not all possibles have been actualized. But, for any two existents,
and any two of their essential properties, Leibniz believed that there are beings
that instantiate all possible grades of that property intermediate between the two
existents.⁷¹ We may call this the requirement of ontological density.
What distinguishes ontological density from spatiotemporal density is this: onto-
logical density is a claim about the creatures that exist at any given moment—the
chain of all existing substances will be dense. As Arthur Lovejoy put it, “it is not of
⁶⁸ A 6.6.56/NE 56. ⁶⁹ G 2.169/L 516.

⁷⁰ Letter to Varignon, 1702, Langley, 713–14. Cf. A 6.6.307/NE 307 and A 6.6.473/NE 473.
⁷¹ One reviewer raised the worry that the principle of continuity will conflict with the principle of
compossibility in the following way: “Ontological density is fulfilled in the realm of ideas in Leibniz, but
cannot obtain in the created world without conflicting with the principle of compossibility.” While it is true
that certain possible worlds may entail violations of continuity, Leibniz believed that God’s selection of
the actual world from among the merely possible worlds was guided by a preference for continuity (I say
more about this below). Failure to create a world in which continuity holds would presumably be a failure
of the principle of sufficient reason—why would God create a world in which there are gaps when he could
have filled the gaps? Of course, some beings were incompatible with those that were created, and so those
remained merely possible beings. But the order of beings that were created is continuous. Leibniz is explicit
about this in A 6.6.307/NE 307: “The Law of Continuity states that nature leaves no gaps in the orderings
which she follows, but not every form or species belongs to each ordering.”
An example of this, provided by Leibniz, may be helpful. “Birds,” he says, “which are otherwise so
different from man, approach him by virtue of their speech, but if monkeys could speak as parrots can they
would approach him even more closely” (ibid). Note that this passage suggests that for some essential
property, such as speech, there will be a chain of existents that instantiate the intermediate forms, but for
some other essential property, such as musculoskeletal form, there will be a different chain of existents that
instantiate the intermediate forms. Thus, while we can know a priori that there is such a continuous chain
does not entail that we can know a priori which possible continuous chain was in fact created.
  
mere quantity or numbers that Nature is thus insatiably avid; it is essentially the
maximization of diversity that she seeks, the multiplication of species and sub-species
and differing individuals to the limit of logical possibility.”⁷² Spatiotemporal density,
in contrast, is a claim about changes in the states or properties of a thing—the
changes will occur continuously in that the changing thing will occupy all possible
intermediate states. This distinction will come up in our discussion of consciousness
later in this book. Changes in state, from unconscious to conscious, will be continu-
ous in a given mental substance. (I will sometimes call this state consciousness, when a
given mental state is itself a conscious mental state.) But, additionally, there will be a
continuum among creatures that are conscious and those that are not. (I will
sometimes call this creature consciousness, when a given substance is conscious, by
which I mean it has some conscious mental states.)
Continuity of Existence:
(d) it follows that naturally, and speaking in metaphysical strictness, there is
neither generation nor death, but only development and envelopment of the
same animal. Otherwise there would be too much of a jump, and through
inexplicable changes of essence nature would lose too much of its character
of uniformity.⁷³
The continuity of existence⁷⁴ says that the beginning and end of a certain kind of
existence is an unnatural change and introduces a gap in the natural order. This may
be considered a consequence of the prior formulations since, given the requirements
of density, either (a) existence will come in degrees (which Leibniz does not say, at
least for substances), or (b) changes in existence will introduce gaps in the natural
order. So, a change in existence will not be a natural change. This raises some
interesting questions about the nature of existence for Leibniz, which will become
important when we turn to his philosophy of mind. Objects that are a mere aggregate
of parts could conceivably come into existence and go out of existence by degrees,
and so the generation and destruction of mere aggregates may not entail violations of
continuity. But there are other things that cannot arise or decay gradually, and so
changes in existence for these would be discontinuous—simple substances are the
obvious examples of this for Leibniz, although when we discuss Leibniz’s philosophy
of mind other examples may arise.
There is one final way of talking about continuity that allows for a particularly
fruitful method of discovery for Leibniz.
Conceptual Continuity:
(e) In any supposed transition, ending in any terminus, it is permissible to
institute a general reasoning, in which the final terminus may also be
included.⁷⁵
⁷² Arthur O. Lovejoy, The Great Chain of Being (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1964), 182.
⁷³ Letter to Sophie Charlotte, May 8, 1704, G 3.345/NS 222.
⁷⁴ Cf. Samuel Levey, “Matter and Two Concepts of Continuity in Leibniz,” Philosophical Studies 94
(1999): §2.
⁷⁵ Child 147; cf. Letter to Remond de Montmort, 1715, Wiener 188.
 ’    
Although this quotation says nothing about continuity, it is in the context of a

lengthy explanation and defense of the principle of continuity. Prior to this passage,
Leibniz says, “for I have, beside the mathematical infinitesimal calculus, a method
also for use in Physics, of which an example was given in the Nouvelles de la
République des Lettres; and both of these I include under the Law of Continuity.”⁷⁶
The passage I quoted above is a consequence of this. (Although, unfortunately,
Leibniz does not present it as an entailment. After referring to the principle
of continuity, he says that he “take[s] for granted” this postulate, but it is clear
from the context that the principle of continuity is what warrants his taking it
for granted.)
This is a big payoff for the principle of continuity—the continuity of cases results
in there being a continuity of the reasons one applies to a case and its limits. This is so
because the concepts involved in such reasoning are themselves continuous. For
example, the continuity of the conic projections allows Leibniz to conclude that “all
the geometric theorems which are proved for the ellipse in general can be applied to
the parabola by considering it as an ellipse one of whose foci is infinitely far removed
from the other, or (to avoid the term ‘infinite’) as a figure which differs from some
ellipse by less than any given difference.”⁷⁷
Leibniz generalizes this conclusion and says that any case of continuous change
will result in a simplification of the laws that apply to the cases, since the limits can
be considered as merely special cases. So, for example, Leibniz says that rest can be
conceived as an infinitesimal motion, hardness as an “infinitely prompt elasticity,”
and equality as an infinitely small inequality. The conceptual connection between
natural kinds will ensure nomological simplicity while allowing for diversity of kinds
(or states, properties, etc.). For example, Leibniz says that:
[R]est can be considered as an infinitely small velocity or as an infinite slowness. Therefore
whatever is true of velocity or slowness in general should be verifiable also of rest taken in this
sense, so that the rule for resting bodies must be considered as a special case of the rule for
motion. If this does not work, on the other hand, this will be a certain sign that the laws are
wrongly formulated.⁷⁸
Because motion and rest can be conceived through one another, the laws that apply to
the one must also apply to the other, conceived in the appropriate way. This, I think,
forms the ground for the other forms of the principle of continuity: there is a
conceptual density in God’s mind in creating the natural order (because, as Leibniz
says, God acts as the “perfect geometrician, observing a harmony to which nothing
can be added”).⁷⁹ That is to say, between any two concepts, there is an intermediate
concept. Leibniz describes the ideas of God in this way:
[A]ll the different classes of beings whose union forms the universe, exist in the ideas of God
only as so many ordinates of the same curve, the union of which does not allow the placing of
others between them, because that would indicate disorder and imperfection.⁸⁰
⁷⁶ Child, 146–7. ⁷⁷ PG 352. ⁷⁸ PG 352. ⁷⁹ PG 351.

⁸⁰ Letter to Varignon, 1702, Langley 712.
  
This conceptual density allows us to conceive of limiting cases as merely special

instances, bringing them under the same general reasoning that applies to
paradigm cases.
As a result, we should expect that the “principle of order” is satisfied because it is
satisfied in God’s mind first. Since a supremely rational being, God, sees the full
conceptual connection among the things that he actively sustains in existence, when
we direct our understanding to the natural order we should expect that the more we
investigate the more we will find that satisfies the intellect. The discovery of a gap
would be to discover a conceptual connection that God failed to make.
We see also how the principle of the best could flow out of this. The principle of the
best, as stated in the Discourse on Metaphysics, is a principle that balances simplicity
and plenitude. It seems to me that the continuity will generate both plenitude and
simplicity, and so the principle of the best is a principle based on the conceptual
continuity in God’s mind. Rutherford summarizes the point nicely:
Here, at the deepest level of Leibniz’s theory, we can understand why divine wisdom would
select as the best of all possible worlds a world in which the principle of continuity was
observed. Quite simply, a wisdom whose function was to guide God’s will in its choice of the
world of greatest perfection would recognize in this principle a necessary means to that
end . . . Leibniz implies that in series not governed by the principle of continuity there are not
only gaps that could be filled with further elements but also gaps of intelligibility that hinder
reason’s comprehension of the series’ progression. Again, the suggestion is that certain
orderings are in themselves more pleasing to reason, and that this constitutes at least part
of why divine wisdom favors the principle of continuity as a principle of general order for
the world.⁸¹
On the presupposition that God will maximize when creating, any gaps in nature
would entail gaps in God’s concepts. But if the creative conceptual ordering is
without gaps—and the natural order is similarly full—then the principle of continu-
ity grounds a methodology for natural philosophy that promises to be rich and
fruitful. And this is what I will turn to next.
3. The Methodological Utility of the Principle

of Continuity
All of the formulations of continuity have yielded several density requirements:
conceptual density, spatiotemporal density, and ontological density. The first entails
the second two, and by discovering the continuous ordering of natural changes (in
spatiotemporal density) and of natural things (in ontological density), we get insight
into the conceptual orderings of the divine. As Leibniz says to de Volder, “the more
we analyze things, the more they satisfy our intellect.”⁸² The principle of continuity
provides a constraint on natural theories that proves useful in testing a theory. That
⁸¹ Donald Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1995), 30–1.
⁸² G 2.168/L 516.
 ’    
is, the principle of continuity has heuristic value. It also has productive value in
constructing new natural theories as well.⁸³ In this section, I will outline each of the
uses of the principle of continuity, since they will both prove instructive in testing
possible interpretations of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
First, the heuristic value. In PG, Leibniz says that the principle of continuity “is
absolutely necessary in geometry, but it is effective in physics as well . . . [It] serves as a
test or criterion by which to reveal the error of an ill-conceived opinion at once and
from the outside, even before a penetrating internal examination has begun.”⁸⁴ The
continuity of concepts allows for the sort of methodological principle that Leibniz
desired: if, according to a given theory, limit cases cannot be subsumed under the
reasoning that applies to paradigm cases, then one can with confidence reject that
theory. Leibniz used the principle of continuity in precisely this way against Descar-
tes’s rules of impact.
Descartes was confronted with the divergence of experience from his theory, but
there were ways he could account for this. Descartes argued that his theory is an
idealization, abstracting away other factors. Our experience cannot abstract away
such factors.⁸⁵ Experience provides only a confused sense for what our theory tells us
must be true.⁸⁶ But what Leibniz points out in his objections to the Cartesian theory
of motion is that not only does the theory diverge from experience, but it also diverges
from the “principle of order.” It does not satisfy the intellect. Descartes’s theory
involves a gap that is unfilled and is ultimately mysterious. The only way to fill that
gap is by appealing to something outside the system that would ensure that the
necessary transition is made. Hence, Leibniz concludes, if the Cartesian theory of
motion were correct, God or some other supernatural agent must be actively involved
in ensuring that it works.
This is a feature of any explanation that involves gaps. They are not satisfying
to the intellect, and—as I will discuss more in chapter 3—we must have recourse to
some outside feature to fill in the gap. Any unexplained gaps will require an appeal to
miracle. This violates the principle of order, and we should look for more satisfying,
⁸³ Both the heuristic value and the productive value of Leibniz’s principle of consciousness are spelled
out very nicely in Duchesneau, “Leibniz on the Principle of Continuity.” While I disagree with Duchesneau
on the relation of the principle of continuity to other metaphysical principles, his account of the value of
the principle of continuity for Leibniz’s natural-philosophical investigations seems right to me, and the
discussion below will reflect this engagement with Duchesneau’s arguments.
⁸⁴ PG 351.
⁸⁵ One is reminded of his response to Elisabeth as well: while we can understand the nature of soul and
the nature of body, our understanding is incapable of explaining or conceptualizing the union between soul
and body. This we know only by the senses. Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes, The
Correspondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes, trans. Lisa Shapiro (Chicago, IL:
University of Chicago Press, 2007), 69.
⁸⁶ Principles II.53: “In fact it often happens that experience may appear to conflict with the rules
I have just explained, but the reason for this is evident. Since no bodies in the universe can be so isolated
from all others, and no bodies in our vicinity are normally perfectly hard, the calculation for determin-
ing how much the motion of a given body is altered by collision with another body is much more
difficult than those given above.” That is, we cannot judge the application of the rules from experience
alone since bodies are always surrounded by other bodies and perfect solidity is an idealization that we
don’t often encounter. Thus, Descartes says, we cannot judge from experience whether or not the rules
are correct. AT 9.93/CSM 1.245.
  
natural, explanations. As François Duchesneau has put it, the principle of continuity
“imposes a norm on the geometrico-mechanical models for interpreting the basic
concepts of physical theory.”⁸⁷ That is, the principle of continuity is normative for
natural philosophy and provides a theoretical constraint on any natural theory.
But Leibniz thought the principle of continuity went beyond this as well, providing
a means of discovering or constructing a natural theory and establishing research
projects for natural philosophy. As Leibniz said in a letter to Lady Masham:
As I am all for the principle of uniformity that I believe nature observes in its fundamentals . . . my
whole theory comes down to recognizing in substances beyond our sight and observation
something parallel to what we see in those which are within our range.⁸⁸
Since limit cases can be regarded as special cases of a genus, we can infer from what is
observed within a genus to what is unobserved (or unobservable) at its limits. Once
the first function of the principle of continuity is satisfied, namely, ruling out any
purported natural theories that entail undesirable gaps in explanation or in natural
transitions, then there is a further step that the principle of continuity makes
available. The principle of continuity allows for the construction of theories that do
satisfy the principle of continuity and make them available to guide discovery. As
Leibniz points out in a 1692 letter to Foucher, after the principle of continuity has
“destroyed atoms, quietulas [intervals of rest] . . . and other similar chimeras,” there
remain numerous other theories that could be productively advanced.⁸⁹ That is to
say, against Foucher, the principle of continuity should not be regarded as having
only a negative use, as many skeptical puzzles might aim at. The destruction of
problematic theories is not its only use.
Of particular value is a method of analogy that the principle of continuity opens
up. The quotation above suggests a way forward, a way of “recognizing in substances
beyond our sight and observation something parallel to what we see in those which
are within our range.” Duchesneau describes this possibility well: In the development
of his dynamics, “Leibniz resorts to concepts and arguments derived from the
metaphysics to provide rational grounding to his dynamics, but his main strategy
to this purpose consists in analogically stretching the meaning of the physical
concepts involved by appealing to architectonic principles and infinitesimal
models.”⁹⁰ While there is a lot to say to spell out the method of analogy, I am
particularly interested in what Duchesneau here describes as a kind of analogical
“stretching” of concepts. Duchesneau describes the mathematical modeling involved:
[T]he mathematical models at work in infinite analysis afford symbolic analogues for con-
tinuously developing metric relations in boundary cases representing an essential difference,
though one less than any assignable quantity. There is a protracted analogy here that can be
⁸⁷ Duchesneau, “Leibniz on the Principle of Continuity,” 147.

⁸⁸ Letter to Lady Masham, May 1704, G 3.338/NS 204.
⁸⁹ A 2.2.491 (quoted in Duchesneau, “Leibniz on the Principle of Continuity,” 154.)
⁹⁰ François Duchesneau, “Rule of Continuity and Infinitesimals in Leibniz’s Physics,” in Infinitesimal
Differences: Controversies between Leibniz and his Contemporaries, ed. Ursula Goldenbaum and Douglas
Jesseph (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 244. Duchesneau provides a detailed analysis of this in La
Dynamique de Leibniz, Mathesis, (Paris: J. Vrin, 1994).
 ’    
granted some objective value in the representation of natural phenomena because there seems
to be a parallel analogy involved in the formulation of the general laws of nature presumed to
obey an overarching rule of continuity.⁹¹
What Leibniz describes as the “ideal” domain of mathematics does seem to afford us
a mapping onto the fundamental metaphysical domain provided we acknowledge the
important point here alluded to by Duchesneau: the limit cases, in the metaphysical
case, are essentially different (recall Leibniz’s claim to De Volder that it is not
rigorously true that rest is a kind of motion), but that difference amounts to a matter
of degree when formalized into mathematical regularity or law. Thus, differences in
kind are also differences of degree when expressed or modeled in the domain of
physical theory or mathematics. Thus, the modeling allows for a conceptual stretching—
rest can be conceived as infinitesimal motion without loss or distortion to the natural
theory.
Thus, the positive use of the principle of continuity in constructing a natural
theory is to provide for analogies from the observed to the unobserved, provided the
analogies are sufficiently controlled and developed. The concepts must fit within the
model in a way that does not violate continuity. This will be of particular interest in
developing a naturalized philosophy of mind, since, according to Leibniz, the prin-
ciple of continuity will require that there are many mental states (or quasi-mental
states) that are strictly speaking unobservable. As Leibniz points out in the preface to
the New Essays, “insensible perceptions are as important to pneumatology as cor-
puscles are to physics, and it is just as unreasonable to reject the one as the other on
the pretext that they are beyond the reach of our senses.”⁹² And some time after 1714,
Leibniz writes that “this is the advantage of the continuous . . . Continuity is found in
time, extension, qualities, and movement—in fact, in all natural changes, for these
never take place by leaps.”⁹³ There is clear textual evidence that Leibniz thought the
law of continuity to apply to changes in perceptions, which is problematic for certain
interpretations of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.⁹⁴ And so, the project of this book is
to take Leibniz seriously about his commitment to continuity in accounting for a
natural theory of mind.
⁹¹ Duchesneau, “Rule of Continuity and Infinitesimals in Leibniz’s Physics,” 243.

⁹² A 6.6.56/NE 56, translation altered slightly. ⁹³ GM 7.25/L 671.
⁹⁴ See M §§10, 13, and A 6.6. 56f./NE 56f. There are very interesting avenues of inquiry that one might
pursue on the basis of this general discussion of the law of continuity. In particular, there are questions
about the relations of the concepts of continuity, contiguity, density, and possibility, and the consistency of
Leibniz’s usage of these terms. Connected to this is the problem of Leibniz’s denial of continuity (in some
sense) to the metaphysical ground level—continuity, Leibniz says, is merely ideal and is indeterminate,
whereas reality is fully determinate and discrete (cf. letter to Sophie, October 31, 1705, G 7.558–65). I will
not pursue these inquiries in this context, since it will take us too far afield and into an acknowledged
labyrinth. The resolution of these issues doesn’t bear directly on the present argument. As I said, there is
clear evidence that Leibniz applies the principle of continuity to changes in perception. For full discussion
of these and related issues, see Anapolitanos, Leibniz: Representation, Continuity, and the Spatiotemporal,
65ff.; Crockett, “Continuity in Leibniz’s Mature Metaphysics”; Levey, “Matter and Two Concepts of
Continuity”; and Arthur, “Russell’s Conundrum.”
  
4. Conclusion
The rejection of leaps over an interval was a first stage in Leibniz’s development
towards a more fully naturalized theory. The rejection of leaps of any sort, such as
those represented in Leibniz’s theory of transcreation, is an extension of the same line
of thought. Transcreation drops out of Leibniz’s physics, although it will reappear in
his philosophy of mind, so keep the concept in the back of your mind. (We will
return to it in chapter 10.) And continuity becomes a naturalizing constraint in the
development of Leibniz’s dynamics. The same, I am arguing here, can be said for
Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
But (at least) one thing remains unresolved. The occasionalists could easily
accommodate equipollence and continuity in an account of physical transitions—
God could ensure that each transition retained an equipollence of effect to cause and
a continuous transition from state to state. And yet, Leibniz would continue to charge
occasionalists with “perpetual miracles” given that each transition is an action of God
and not genuinely caused by the finite substances themselves. This entails that there
is a further requirement on a natural theory for Leibniz: finite substances must
themselves be causal actors in their own right. In one way, this is an obvious
requirement for a natural theory: God is not a natural substance, and insofar as
changes are due to God’s activity they are not natural changes. But seeing why this is
a mark against the theory requires a closer look into two other principles: the
principle of sufficient reason and the principle of the best. That is where we will
pick up in chapter 3.
3
The Intelligibility of Nature
The principle of order . . . makes it the case that the more things are analyzed the
more they satisfy the intellect.¹
The developments in physics described in chapter 2 led to an overarching framework

that Leibniz sought to apply systematically, a framework that shapes the natural
theories that Leibniz provides, not only in physics but also in his philosophy of mind.
In response to Cartesian physics and occasionalist metaphysics, Leibniz con-
sciously initiates a naturalizing project. This project takes shape, in particular, in
Leibniz’s responses to Malebranche and other Cartesians. It is in this context that
Leibniz develops his principle of continuity, which becomes a methodological prin-
ciple for the remainder of Leibniz’s life. The principle of continuity, Leibniz argued,
provides a heuristic to natural theories—there is reason enough to dismiss a theory as
non-natural if it includes discontinuities. However, the commitment to continuity
alone is not sufficient to dismiss occasionalism, since it seems at least theoretically
possible that occasional causes and effects could be continuous. And yet Leibniz
regularly claims that occasionalism would require recourse to “perpetual miracles.”
In this chapter, I consider what additional reasons Leibniz has for rejecting
occasionalism as non-natural, which will demonstrate further naturalizing con-
straints on the theory. In support of the claim that naturalism is a thesis about
intelligibility, we shall see that Leibniz requires an explanation in terms of the natures
of finite substances involved. And this will be ultimately grounded in Leibniz’s appeal
to the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of the best.
1. The Rejection of Occasionalism, Part II

In the Pacidius to Philalethes (1676), discussed briefly in the previous chapter,
Leibniz denies the existence of leaps that jump over an interval, but he allows for
transcreation, which is when God annihilates the body in one place and recreates it in
the next contiguous location. In this text, Leibniz has given us one way of modeling a
continuous occasionalist conception of natural transitions, a model that he later
rejects. Transcreation no longer appears in Leibniz’s discussion of physics after 1676,
¹ Letter to De Volder, March 24/April 3, 1699 (G 2.168/Lodge 71).

    
and instead he adopts the Aristotelian slogan, “nature never makes leaps,” and he
conceives this as decisive against occasionalism.
But Leibniz’s later statements about the principle of continuity would—it seems—
still hold under this early, broadly occasionalist, model that he provides in the
Pacidius. Consider this argument from a letter to Varignon, dated 1702:
Since geometry is but the science of the continuous, it is not surprising that that law [i.e., the
principle of continuity] is observed everywhere in it, for geometry by its very nature cannot admit
any sudden break in its subject matter . . . The universality of this principle in geometry soon
informed me that it could not fail to apply also to physics, since I see that in order for there to be
any regularity and order in nature, the physical must be constantly in harmony with the
geometrical, and that the contrary would happen if wherever geometry requires some continu-
ation physics would allow a sudden interruption. To my mind everything is interconnected in the
universe by virtue of metaphysical reasons so that the present is always pregnant with the future,
and no given state is explicable naturally without reference to its immediately preceding state. If
this be denied, the world will have hiatuses which would upset the Principle of Sufficient Reason
and will compel recourse to miracles or to pure chance in the explanation of phenomena.²
The argument for the principle of continuity is predicated on “regularity and order in
nature.” This appears to be an indirect argument for the principle of continuity:
(1) Suppose that the principle of continuity does not apply to the natural order.
(2) From (1), there are physical transitions (modifications of matter from t₁ to t₂)
that are not continuous.
(3) If there are physical transitions that are not continuous, then there will be
physical transitions that cannot be explained from the “immediately preceding
state.”
(4) From (2) and (3), there will be physical transitions that cannot be explained
from the “immediately preceding state.”
(5) Any physical events that cannot be explained from the “immediately preced-
ing state” must be explained by a miracle or by pure chance.
(6) Explanation by miracle or pure chance is a violation of the principle of
sufficient reason, which is absurd.
(7) Therefore, there cannot be physical transitions that are not continuous,
contrary to (2).
(8) Therefore, (1) is false: the principle of continuity applies to the natural order.
In this argument, the inference is from a principle of natural intelligibility to the
principle of continuity. Leibniz here appeals to the principle of sufficient reason as
grounding a kind of intelligibility in terms of the “immediately preceding state.”
A failure of intelligibility is taken to indicate a failure to produce a fully naturalized
philosophy. Premises (5) and (6) rule out the possibility of unintelligible natural
transitions.
Of course, there is one easy way for Leibniz to support his claim that occasionalism
requires “perpetual miracles,” namely if Leibniz defined miracles (as discussed in
² Wiener 185.
 ’    
chapter 2) as that which exceeds the powers of finite substances, since then any
occasionalist theory would be miraculous insofar as it depends on God as providing
the causal power for natural transitions.³ As Robert C. Sleigh puts it, given Leibniz’s
definition of a miracle, for Malebranche “every event in the created world is miracu-
lous by definition.”⁴
However, in this argument, Leibniz argues that there is an explanatory loss that
requires recourse to miracles. Pauline Phemister outlines four logical possibilities for
the relation of intelligibility and natural events, three of which Leibniz denies:⁵
i. Physical transitions are essential and intelligible, and brought about by God
acting by natural means.
ii. Physical transitions are essential and intelligible, but brought about by God
acting miraculously.
iii. Physical transitions are brute and unintelligible, but brought about by God
acting by natural means.
iv. Physical transitions are brute and unintelligible, and brought about by God
acting miraculously.⁶
Leibniz clearly endorses (i) as the only way to go for a naturalized philosophy of
nature. For example, he emphasizes the connection between intelligibility and nature
in a letter to Lady Masham:
[I]t is helpful to think of “God’s ways” as being of two kinds, one natural, the other
extraordinary or miraculous. Those which are natural are always such that a created mind
can understand them given the necessary guidance and opportunity to do so. But miraculous
ways are beyond any created mind.⁷
A change is natural only if it is intelligible, miraculous only if it is unintelligible.

Leibniz argues that occasionalism fails to recognize this distinction, and so that
theory falls into category (iv):
[I]n solving problems it is not sufficient to make use of the general cause and to invoke what is
called a Deus ex machina. For when one does that without giving any other explanation derived
from the order of secondary causes, it is, properly speaking, having recourse to miracle.
In philosophy we must try to give reasons by showing how things are brought about by divine
wisdom, but in conformity with the notion of the subject in question.⁸
³ Nicholas Jolley points this out:

For Leibniz, a miracle is not to be defined in terms of a suspension of a law of nature; it is to
be defined rather as an event that exceeds the power of created things . . . On this definition
it is trivially true that, according to occasionalism, in the universe all events are miraculous,
for if genuine causal powers are at issue, then creatures have no such causal powers.
(“Leibniz and Occasionalism,” 124)
⁴ Sleigh, Leibniz and Arnauld, 162. ⁵ I have modified Phemister’s language slightly.
⁶ Pauline Phemister, “Are Mind–Body Relations Natural and Intelligible? Some Early Modern
Perspectives,” in Causation and Modern Philosophy, ed. Keith Allen and Tom Stoneham (London:
Routledge, 2011), 92–3.
⁷ G 3.353/NS 210. ⁸ G 4.483–4/AG 143.
    
In this passage, a failure to explain natural transitions in terms of the secondary

causes is “properly speaking, having recourse to miracle.” That is, the explanation
would not be properly natural, and neither would it be properly philosophical since it
would fail to offer an explanation “in conformity with the notion of the subject in
question.” So, the charge of perpetual miracle is a charge of shifting the level of
explanation from the natural to the supernatural. A natural explanation would be
given in terms of the subjects involved in the natural change.
There are a couple of arguments that Leibniz must provide to fill out his argument.
First of all, Leibniz has argued that discontinuities in natural transitions entail a
failure of intelligibility. We saw in chapter 2 that he argues such gaps force us to look
outside of the series for the explanation. Further, gaps would entail a violation of
divine wisdom if there were ways that God could have provided for a dense series but
did not. Indeed, given Leibniz’s account of the divine intellect, it would seem that any
ordering could be dense—God’s concepts are as ordinates on a curve.⁹ And so, God’s
generative activity would not leave disconcerting gaps in natural transitions, nor
would they leave gaps in intelligibility.
Second, Leibniz argues that intelligibility is a necessary condition on a natural
theory. If Leibniz is right that the laws of motion proposed by Malebranche entail
discontinuities, then the first argument would be forceful and persuasive. However,
the model Leibniz presents in Pacidius is a continuous model, and it is certainly open
to occasionalists to revisit the laws of motion and develop continuous models along
the same line. (Likewise for other natural sciences besides physics.) The question for
Leibniz is whether a fully continuous occasionalist theory would be a natural theory.
In the quotation above, it seems that Leibniz would resist this conclusion, since he
says, “in philosophy we must try to give reasons by showing how things are brought
about by divine wisdom, but in conformity with the notion of the subject in
question.” That is, the explanations must be in terms of the “secondary causes,” the
natural objects and events themselves. And this, it seems, might be enough to create
trouble for occasionalists.
⁹ This is in response to a possible objection from compossibility: Leibniz only claims that all compossible
substances would exist in a world, and this appears to leave an opening for discontinuity. What confidence
might Leibniz be able to provide that the compossibility relation is dense? In the New Essays, he addresses
this briefly and argues that any spectrum of essential properties in a world would be dense:
I have reasons for believing that not all possible species are compossible in the universe,
great as it is; not only with regard to things existing at the same time, but also with regard to
the whole succession of things . . . But I believe that the universe contains everything that its
perfect harmony could permit. It is agreeable to this harmony that between creatures which
are far removed from one another there should be intermediate creatures . . . and sometimes
a thing is intermediate between two species in some respects and not in others . . . The law of
continuity states that nature leaves no gaps in the orderings which she follows, but not every
form or species belongs to each ordering. (A 6.6.307 / NE 307)
Here, Leibniz endorses continuity while at the same time allowing that not every possible species has
been created, since not all possible species are compossible. I won’t take up this argument further here, but
for more on compossibility, see James Messina and Donald Rutherford, “Leibniz on Compossibility,”
Philosophy Compass 4, no. 6 (2009), 962–77 and Jeffrey K. McDonough, “Leibniz and the Puzzle of
Incompossibility: The Packing Strategy,” Philosophical Review 119, no. 2 (2010): 135–63.
 ’    
Occasionalists have a response, however. Malebranche could easily reply that—for

him—natural explanation is fully in terms of the natural objects and events
themselves. In the following section, I will show that Leibniz’s initial worries
that occasionalism requires appeal to perpetual miracles are not well founded. The
occasionalist response will allow us to see the deeper issues between Leibniz
and occasionalists, which I will take up in section 3.
2. An Occasionalist Reply
According to the argument outlined in section 1, occasional causation makes natural
transitions unintelligible. And this unintelligibility generates the sort of intractable
mystery that leads one to conclude that the transition is miraculous or caused by
“occult qualities.” As such, occasionalism is destructive to natural philosophy if the
goal of natural philosophy is to make natural transitions intelligible in terms of the
finite objects involved in the transitions themselves. In other words, Leibniz’s con-
clusion is that by appealing to God as the only genuine cause, there is a loss of
intelligibility in terms of the natural objects themselves. However, Malebranche can
consistently reject this conclusion. Occasionalism provides for intelligibility in just
the way any naturalizing project might require.
As is well known, Malebranche thought that God was the only genuine cause, and
natural causes are merely occasional causes for God’s activity: “[T]he nature or power
of each thing is nothing but the will of God; [and] all natural causes are not true
causes but only occasional causes.”¹⁰ Malebranche’s reasoning for this is that:
a) A true cause =df a cause that the mind perceives as necessarily connected to its
effect.
b) The only necessary connection between a cause and its effect that a mind can
perceive is that between the will of an infinite being (God) and its effects.
c) Therefore, the only true cause is God’s will.¹¹
The conclusion follows only because Malebranche regards the necessary connec-
tion between cause and effect an incommunicable attribute of God—it is not some-
thing that God could share with creatures without (per impossible) making them gods
in their own right.
Those who are not accustomed to the occasionalist metaphysics might immedi-
ately suppose that Leibniz is right to charge occasionalism with perpetual miracles—
after all, every natural cause is merely an occasional cause, and the only true cause is
divine. However, there is more to be said on behalf of occasionalism that might
mitigate some of these worries. In his Treatise on Nature and Grace, Malebranche
argues that God acts according to general volitions, which operate with law-like
regularity:
I say that God acts by general wills, when he acts in consequence of general laws which he
has established . . . [P]roperly speaking, what is called nature is nothing other than the
general laws which God has established to construct or preserve his work by very simple
¹⁰ Search 448. ¹¹ Summarized from Search 450.

    
means, by an action which is uniform, constant, perfectly worthy of an infinite wisdom and
of a universal cause.¹²
The wisdom of God has a similar consequence for Malebranche as it has for Leibniz.
The means by which God acts will be simple and uniform, and so in God’s general
will the actions accord with uniform general laws that reflect the simplicity of God’s
ways. And “nature” is simply nothing but these laws.
In contrast, there are isolated and very rare cases when God acts according to
particular volitions:
I say on the contrary that God acts by particular wills when the efficacy of his will is not
determined at all by some general law to produce some effect.¹³
Since “nature” refers to the general laws by which God ordinarily operates, and since
particular volitions are not determined by general laws, actions following on
God’s particular volitions will be supernatural. When a miracle occurs, it is via a
particular volition.¹⁴
In the Treatise on Nature and Grace, Malebranche describes the general will of
God in creating a world as reducing to two laws:
I am persuaded that the laws of motion which are necessary to the production and preservation
of the earth . . . are reducible to these two: the first, that moved bodies tend to continue their
motion in a straight line; the second, that when two bodies collide, their motion is distributed
in both in proportion to their size . . . These two laws are the cause of all the motions which
cause the variety of forms which we admire in nature.¹⁵
Notice that Malebranche here describes the laws themselves as the cause. Male-
branche frequently equates general laws with God’s general volitions in such a way
that the laws themselves are active and effective. As Robert Adams says, the laws
“have ‘oomph,’ as we might say colloquially.”¹⁶ But this is not surprising given that
these two laws are expressions of God’s will.¹⁷ Willing via simplest means is an
attribute of a God who acts perfectly. There are ways that God could have set up the
world differently, but to do so requires a multiplicity of the laws, and a multiplicity of
volitions. This point will become important shortly.
Malebranche emphasizes that the two natural laws should not be regarded as
particular volitions,¹⁸ “unless order requires a miracle.”¹⁹ This latter qualification is
in the context where Malebranche moves from “nature” to “grace,” and he adds
additional laws:
I know only two principles which determine, directly and by themselves, the movements of our
love: enlightenment and pleasure—enlightenment which reveals our different goods to us;
pleasure, which gives us a taste for them.²⁰
¹² Treatise, 195–6. ¹³ Ibid.

¹⁴ There is evidence that Malebranche regarded the number of true miracles to be few.
¹⁵ Treatise 117.
¹⁶ Robert Merrihew Adams, “Malebranche’s Causal Concepts,” in The Divine Order, the Human Order,
and the Order of Nature, ed. Eric Watkins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 75.
¹⁷ Treatise, 118. ¹⁸ Treatise, 118. ¹⁹ Treatise, 158. ²⁰ Treatise, 153.
 ’    
Regular operations of will and the laws of mind–body union govern these two
principles. And so, to the “general laws of nature” are joined “general laws of
grace,” where God again operates according to general will rather than particular
wills, “unless order requires a miracle.”
Thus, it is clear that on Malebranche’s view, the laws of nature operate as divine
and necessitating general volitions. This yields a simplicity with respect to God’s
modus operandi that is worthy of a perfect being. The oddity of Malebranche’s
occasionalism begins to be tempered. He is not describing each natural change in
terms of the particular actions of a divine actor. Rather, he is arguing that the divine
actor has willed once and for all what the regular interactions of nature will consist in,
and each successive change follows this divine ordering.²¹
Nothing so far rules out the intelligibility that Leibniz requires of a natural theory.
While Malebranche does claim that God is the only true cause, occasional causes are
contributors to the causal event. As Malebranche says in the Treatise on Nature and
Grace:
[I]n order that the general cause act by general laws or wills, and that his action be lawful,
constant, and uniform, it is absolutely necessary that there be some occasional cause which
determines the efficacy of these laws, and which serves to establish them. If the collision of
bodies, or something similar, did not determine the efficacy of general laws of the communi-
cation of motion, it would be necessary that God move bodies by particular wills.²²
Thus, the occasional causes seem to become particularly relevant to whether God is
acting according to a general volition or a practical volition. Were God to cause a
²¹ There has been some scholarly debate over whether the general volitions have only general content, or
whether general volitions might also have particular content. The upshot of this debate is that it will be
crucial for Malebranche both to show that general volitions are effective in particular cases and to show that
God is not implicated in particular instances of injustice. It is not clear how his account of general volition
can secure both. But since my own project here is to see just how natural Malebranche’s theory is on
Leibniz’s terms, I will not delve any further into the nature of the general volitions.
For the difference between the “general content” and the “particular content” readings, consider a case
when body A impacts body B. The content of God’s will, on the different readings, will be as follows:
(General Content) If a body collides with another body, their motion is distributed in both bodies in
proportion to their size.
(Particular Content) When body A collides with body B, let the motions of bodies A and B be
distributed in (such and such a way), which—it turns out—is in proportion to the sizes of bodies
A and B.
The “general content” position entails that God wills only the laws themselves, which operate uniformly
among particular objects. The “particular content” interpretation entails that God’s will always has a
particular content to it, but that these particular contents form a pattern of general law.
In support of the “general content” reading, see Andrew Black, “Malebranche’s Theodicy,” Journal of the
History of Philosophy 35 (1997) and Russell Wahl, “Occasionalism, Laws and General Will,” British Journal
for the History of Philosophy 19 (2011). In support of the “particular content” reading, see Steven M. Nadler,
“Occasionalism and General Will in Malebranche,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 31 (1993): 43 and
Andrew Pessin, “Malebranche’s Distinction between General and Particular Volitions,” Journal of the History
of Philosophy 39 (2001): 77–99. Sleigh, Leibniz and Arnauld, 153–8 provides a detailed account of the
problems with the “general content” reading (without fully endorsing either view), and Adams, “Male-
branche’s Causal Concepts,” provides a detailed account of some of the problems with the “particular
content” reading.
²² Treatise 139.
    
sensation of pain without any physical occasion for the cause, this would be the act of
a particular practical volition. But when God causes pain on the occasion of a pin
prick, God is acting consistently with general laws and according to general practical
volitions. The laws govern patterns of interactions and relations, and if they were
effective independently of the occasions for those interactions and relations they
would fail to regulate causal interactions at all. Hence, the occasional causes also
“establish” the general laws.²³
The general volitions are determined by particular occasions and thus would be
sensitive to particular causes and relations. But the explanation of a natural event
would essentially involve the particular secondary causes that determine the event.
For any natural event, a complete explanation will involve reference to occasional
causes and general natural laws (as proxy for the “will of God”). That is to say, when
we are doing natural philosophy, we need not appeal to particular volitions of God,
nor do we need to appeal to the will of God at all except as expressed by general laws
of nature. The resulting natural philosophical methodology is one that aims at the
intelligibility of natural events in terms of finite causes and general natural laws.
Malebranche makes precisely this point:
I grant that recourse to God or the universal cause should not be had when the explanation of
particular effects is sought. For we would be ridiculous were we to say, for example, that it is
God who dries the roads or who freezes the water of rivers. We should say that the air dries the
earth because it stirs and raises with it the water that soaks the earth, and that the air or subtle
matter freezes the river because in this season it ceases to communicate enough motion to the
parts of which the water is composed to make it fluid. In a word, we must give, if we can, the
natural and particular cause of the effects in question.²⁴
God’s actions according to general law produces a structure of nature itself into
which we can map all of the interactions, providing an overarching explanatory
framework that, Malebranche can claim, yields intelligibility in just the way Leibniz
demands, the only exceptions being the quite rare miracles, which Leibniz himself
could allow. And so Malebranche seems to have a strong response to Leibniz’s claim
that his system entails a loss of explanation or intelligibility.
In fact, Malebranche himself proposes some naturalizing heuristics, just as we have
seen in Leibniz. For example, in her discussion of Malebranche’s views on preform-
ation, Karen Detlefsen argues that Malebranche enforces a strict division “between
metaphysics and natural philosophy, which shows that he, no less than Descartes,
wishes to preserve a place for the natural explanation of phenomena.”²⁵ She con-
tinues, Malebranche’s “functional holism argument for preformation, grounded in
our empirical knowledge of the way living bodies naturally work and grounded in the
empirical data provided by the microscope, preserves the explanatory naturalism
²³ For further passages and discussion on the efficacy of secondary causes, see Adams, “Malebranche’s
Causal Concepts,” 76–7.
²⁴ Search, 662; qtd. in Wahl, “Occasionalism, Laws and General Will,” 237.
²⁵ Karen Detlefsen, “Supernaturalism, Occasionalism, and Preformation in Malebranche,” Perspectives
on Science 11 (2006): 466.
 ’    
that we find in his predecessor.”²⁶ This seems right to me—both Descartes and
Malebranche had naturalizing projects that, given certain aspects of their metaphys-
ics, might not prime facie be regard as particularly natural. However, the explanatory
richness of their natural philosophy suggests that they took this project seriously.
Just as we saw Leibniz appealing to the principle of continuity as a heuristic for a
natural theory, Malebranche also appeals to simplifying procedures. In his rejection of
the generationist views of Descartes and others, Malebranche argues that “an infinity of
general laws—which would hardly make them general—would be required to be able
to form the organic bodies of plants and animals by following these laws exactly.”²⁷
Detlefsen concludes, “the general laws of motion could never bring an infinitely
complex being into existence,” since then either “an infinite number of general laws
operate—but then they are not general; or . . . the few general laws operate for an
infinite, and hence endless, time.”²⁸ From these considerations, Malebranche rejects
the generation of animals in favor of preformation. One might think that a mere
identification of sufficient occasional causes would provide all that Malebranche needs
to support a generation view of organic bodies, but these passages show that even he
regarded God’s regular and uniform activity to create constraints on natural theories.²⁹
Thus, Malebranche can reject Leibniz’s claim that occasionalism cannot generate a
natural theory in which explanations are in terms of secondary causes.
3. A Leibnizian Response: Laws and Natures

Although Leibniz sometimes seemed to have a tin ear for these sorts of objections—
insisting that occasionalists require God to tinker around in the creation, constantly
correcting nature’s course—there are some passages that suggest a greater awareness
of the potential for occasionalism. In a response to Bayle, Leibniz says:
But let us see whether the system of occasional causes does not in fact imply a perpetual
miracle. Here it is said that it does not, because God would act only through general laws
according to this system. I agree, but in my opinion that does not suffice to remove the
miracles. Even if God should do this continuously, they would not cease being miracles, if we
take this term, not in the popular sense of a rare and wonderful thing, but in the philosophical
sense of that which exceeds the powers of created beings. It is not enough to say that God has
made a general law, for besides the decree there is also a natural means of carrying it out, that
²⁶ Ibid., 471, emphasis added.

²⁷ Nicolas Malebranche, Dialogues on Metaphysics and on Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1997), 190, qtd. in Detlefsen, “Supernaturalism, Occasionalism, and Preformation in Malebranche,” 476.
²⁸ Ibid.
²⁹ And this reasoning mirrors Malebranche’s theodicy as well. Malebranche claims that God could have
created a more perfect world than the actual world, but then he would have “multiplied the laws of the
communication of motion, through which our world exists: and then there would no longer be that
proportion between the action of God and his work, which is necessary in order to determine an infinitely
wise being to act” (Treatise 117). The multiplication of laws, the over-complexity of fundamental natural
principles, is unbecoming an infinitely wise being, and hence when we investigate the natural world
(whether for natural philosophy or for ethics), we are ensured a certain intelligibility of nature due to the
simplicity of God’s ways.
    
is, all that happens must also be explained through the nature which God gives to things. The
laws of nature are not so arbitrary and indifferent as many people imagine.³⁰
Leibniz brings together the explanatory claim, the claims of law-like regularity and
continuity, and the charge that occasionalism entails perpetual miracles. He grants
that occasionalism might allow for general laws, implemented in a continuous way
(although here the continuity may be referring only to temporal continuity). As we
have seen, Malebranche claims that all we intend by the term “nature” is that the
general laws are uniformly applied. That is, Malebranche argues that the occasional
causes plus the general laws will be sufficient for a full natural explanation. Leibniz
objects: even then occasionalism requires perpetual miracles. Why?
The main reason that seems to emerge in this text is that occasionalism lacks the
“natural means” of carrying out the general laws. Leibniz says that “all that happens
must also be explained through the nature which God gives to things.” While others
have noted that the main difference between Malebranche and Leibniz on this point
is that the source of force is in God for Malebranche and it is in finite substances
themselves for Leibniz, Leibniz himself sees this as a very telling point. If the causal
force of natural transitions is in the divine will, then (a) not all that happens can be
explained by “the nature” of things, and (b) the laws of nature would be arbitrary and
indifferent.
Now, the latter claim might not be a good charge against Malebranche, since we
have already seen that he regards God’s volitions as sourced in God’s nature. In the
Dialogues passage quoted above, Malebranche claims that God will act according to
whichever attributes is most valuable in connection with the action. For example,
parsimony may give way to justice, as it did in the creation of the world. A more
perfect world is possible, but it would involve multiplying God’s volitions in a way
that is unworthy of an infinitely wise being. And when miracles occur, it is because
there is another attribute or general law (unknown to us) that demands it. And so, it
seems that with regard to divine action, Malebranche could appeal to the principle
that God does nothing without a reason, as Leibniz does.³¹
That said, the first claim is a significant charge against Malebranche. If the general
laws are not grounded in individual natures, then there is a loss of intelligibility. Why
might Leibniz believe this? In our earlier discussions of occasionalism, the argument
seemed to be something like this:
A1. In order for any event, E, to be natural, E must be explicable in terms of
secondary causes conjoined with the laws of nature.
³⁰ “Clarification of the Difficulties which Mr. Bayle has found in the New System of the Union of Soul
and Body,” G 4.520/L 494. Elsewhere Leibniz talks about a continuous occasionalism as yielding miracles:
“although this action of God, of moving the soul on the occasion of the body . . . will be continual and
normal, it will not therefore be any the less miraculous, since it will always be something incomprehensible
to any created mind” (NS 212). However, in this latter passage, Leibniz seems open to explanations
in terms of natural laws, for he continues, “by contrast with this, what is comprehensible is what conforms
to the natural laws of things, and should be explained only by them” (NS 212). And so it appears that
Leibniz there equates continuous occasionalism with a failure of natural law, in the same way that
Malebranche might since it would involve multiplying divine volitions.
³¹ See also Malebranche’s rejection of the creation of eternal truths: Search 586 and 615–18.
 ’    
B1. Occasionalism cannot provide an explanation of E solely in terms of second-

ary causes conjoined with the laws of nature.
C1. Therefore, under occasionalism, E is not a natural event.
D1. And since (C1) applies to any event, the conclusion can be generalized:
occasionalism cannot provide natural explanations for any event.
However, we saw above that Malebranche can deny (B1). Occasionalism can
provide full explanations of an ordinary event in terms of secondary causes conjoined
with the laws of nature, and therefore occasionalism can provide a naturalized theory
(with rare miraculous exceptions).
In response, Leibniz shifts the argument:
A2. In order for any general law, GL, to be a natural law, GL must be explicable
solely in terms of the natures of finite substances.
B2. Occasionalism cannot provide an explanation of GL solely in terms of the
natures of finite substances.
C2. Therefore, under occasionalism, GL is not a natural law.
D2. And, since (C2) applies to any law, the conclusion can be generalized:
occasionalism cannot provide natural explanations for any law.
The important premise here is A2—in order for a theory to be a fully natural
theory, it must provide an intelligible basis for the laws themselves in terms of the
natures of finite things. And Malebranche does appear to need a principled way of
distinguishing general laws of nature from other general principles if I am right that
even miracles are subordinate to some principle of order or reason for Malebranche.
Without a distinguishing mark, we might conclude either that all general laws are
natural laws or that no general laws are natural laws. Malebranche would not be
attracted to either claim.³²
One possibility for Malebranche is to distinguish the general laws by their objects.
The laws of nature do appear to apply to the motions of bodies in the Treatise, and
certain psychological effects are governed by general laws of grace. This appears to be
a distinction simply in terms of the objects of the laws. However, Malebranche defines
“nature” as the “general laws which God has established,”³³ which, so stated, would
include general laws of grace. So things may not be so simple as this. The burden may
have shifted back to the occasionalist to provide a natural explanation of the laws
themselves. Absent this, the laws of nature are intelligible only via God’s decree that
such laws hold. (Leibniz thinks that the occasionalist will have to say that the divine
decree is arbitrary and indifferent, but, as mentioned above, I am less certain of that.)
The important question here is whether natural law is intelligible. If not, then nature
is not fully intelligible either.
One way that Leibniz sought to support this objection against occasionalism is by
arguing that the laws of nature are disturbed by occasionalism. However, even here it
³² Sleigh points out that Leibniz “claimed that since God acts in accord with general principles whenever
he acts, Malebranche’s definition (as understood by Leibniz) would preclude miraculous events,” but he
concludes that “the most subtle version of Malebranche’s theory may escape this criticism” (Sleigh, Leibniz
and Arnauld, 163).
³³ Treatise 196.
    
is difficult to see how Leibniz’s position would undermine a carefully articulated

occasionalism. Leibniz presents his argument that occasionalism disturbs the laws of
nature in a May 1704 letter to Lady Masham:
The defenders of the occasional causes hold that God continually adjusts the soul to the body,
and the body to the soul. But since that would mean that God had to keep disturbing the
natural laws of bodies, it could only involve miracles, and so is not very suitable for philosophy,
which has to explain the ordinary course of nature.³⁴
But when we look further to discover just why the laws must be disturbed, we see
Leibniz’s appeal to an explanatory failure between the material and the mental:
[W]e cannot explain, by the example of any machine whatever, how material relationships—
that is to say, mechanical laws—could produce a perception, or how perception could produce
a change in the velocity or direction of animal spirits or other bodies.³⁵
And Leibniz concludes that “the soul and body perfectly follow their own laws—each
its own separate ones—without corporeal laws being disrupted by the soul’s actions,
and without bodies finding windows through which to exert their influence over
souls.”³⁶ The implication here is that occasionalism does allow for mind–body
interaction—events in the mind are occasional causes of events in the body. But
Leibniz sketches an argument that there is no intelligible connection between the
laws governing bodies and those governing the mind—each “follow their own
laws”—and so any system that allows for cross-over will be unintelligible.
We could raise questions about Leibniz’s claims about the nomological isolation of
mind and body, but even if we grant him this claim it does not seem to entail a
principled argument against occasionalism. If an occasionalist became persuaded by
Leibniz that there was no intelligible way of connecting mind and body via occasional
causes, the occasionalist could still retain the system of occasional causes. There is no
principled reason why an occasionalist could not allow that occasional causes operate
according to parallel domains—mental events acting as occasional causes for mental
events, physical events acting as occasional causes for physical events—yielding an
occasionalist mind-body parallelism. And so even this argument does not seem to get
at the core of the objection against occasionalism.³⁷
However, we might ask what would prevent the occasionalist from endorsing
Leibniz’s position. It seems to me that, as Leibniz understood it, if the laws of nature
are not based in the natures of the finite objects involved, then the laws of nature would
ignore the barriers of intelligibility between the laws governing mind and body. As we
have seen, for Malebranche what grounds the laws of nature are principles of
parsimony and uniformity in the divine nature. Since there is nothing in the objects
themselves that provide genuine causal power, there is no principled barrier to
connecting the action of one finite object to another of a different nature. Although
if the resulting system were too complex or disordered, Malebranche would reject it
³⁴ G 3.341/NS 206. ³⁵ Ibid. ³⁶ Ibid.

³⁷ For more on Leibniz’s claim that occasionalism entails disturbances in the laws of nature, see Sleigh,
Leibniz and Arnauld, 164–8 and Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and Miracles: The Roots of Leibniz’s Critique
of Occasionalism,” 146.
 ’    
on those grounds, but it is not clear how mind-body interaction would generate this
sort of complexity. The failure in intelligibility is a failure of being able to connect the
essential properties and actions of one kind of substance (mind) with the essential
properties and actions of another kind of substance (body) in an intelligible way, and so,
Leibniz argues, the intelligibility of nature must involve reference to the natures of
individual objects and kinds. As he says in a letter to Basnage:
[I]nstead of saying with [the occasionalists] that God has made for himself a law always to
produce changes in one substance in conformity with those in another, which interferes with
their natural laws at every moment, I say that God gave each one of them from the outset a
nature whose own laws produce these changes.³⁸
Leibniz’s response to the occasionalist is to appeal to finite natures that ground the
laws of nature and make them intelligible in terms of the objects themselves.
While Malebranche certainly does have a place for secondary causes in the explan-
ation of natural events, it does not involve the individual natures of the secondary
causes that would make the natural event intelligible in terms of the secondary causes
themselves. Leibniz makes similar complaints against Locke and Newton. Against
Locke, he says that
whenever we find some quality in a subject, we ought to believe that if we understood the
nature of both the subject and the quality we would conceive of how the quality could arise
from it. So within the order of nature (miracles apart) it is not at God’s arbitrary discretion to
attach this or that quality haphazardly to substances. He will never give them any which are not
natural to them, that is, which cannot arise from their nature as explicable modifications.³⁹
The order of explanation, for Leibniz, requires that there be a conceptual connection
available between the properties of the substances involved and the resulting effects.
Leibniz raises this objection against Newton as well:
If you allege only the will of God for [motion], you have recourse to a miracle, and even to a
perpetual miracle; for the will of God works through a miracle, whenever we are not able to
account for that will and its effects from the nature of the objects. For example, if anyone
should say, it is God’s will that a planet should move round in its orbit, without any other cause
of its motion, I maintain, that it would be a perpetual miracle: for by the nature of things, the
planet going round tends to remove from its orbit through the tangent, if nothing hinders it;
and God must continually prevent it, if no natural cause does it.⁴⁰
The appeal here to “the nature of things” is an appeal to intelligibility—there is
nothing in the planet itself that could explain its orbital motion, given that bodies
tend to move in a rectilinear motion. Newton replies that it is gravity itself that is the
cause of motion, but Leibniz is pressing for more—he wants to know what it is in the
natures of the objects involved that produces gravitational attraction. The appeal to
“gravity itself ” likely has the same distaste to Leibniz as the occasionalist appeal
to laws of nature. Without something more fundamental to explain the operations of
³⁸ G 3.122/NS 65, qtd. in Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and Miracles,” 146. ³⁹ A 6.6.66/NE 66.
⁴⁰ G 3.517–18/Isaac Newton, Philosophical Writings, trans. Andrew Janiak (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2014), 146.
    
gravity or the laws of nature, Leibniz thinks we are only masking a reference to divine
action rather than providing a natural explanation.
At bottom here, I think Leibniz is appealing to a violation of the principle that God
does everything for a reason. Malebranche, Locke, and Newton all appear to be
providing an account of the natural order in terms of divine will. However, given that
there is nothing in the objects that would require one effect rather than another, it
looks to be a case of liberty of indifference. Let us imagine, for example, the kind of
“disturbance” of laws that Leibniz thought was damning to occasionalism. Imagine
the following scenario: (a) Sherry wants a sip of coffee and so (b) she grasps her coffee
mug in her left hand and lifts it to her lips and takes a sip. Of course, at the same time
as (a), there are underlying physical events (let’s distinguish them as “mental-a” and
“physical-a”) occurring in Sherry’s brain and digestive system that are parallel to
Sherry’s desire and volition. Now, when we are doing natural philosophy, seeking out
the underlying principles governing natural interactions, which events should we
regard as nomologically connected? Does (mental-a) cause (b), does (physical-a)
cause (b), or does (mental-a)+(physical-a) cause (b)? (The relevant notion of “cause”
would need to be determined of course—in the occasionalist system, we mean here to
refer to secondary or occasional causes.) I think it is Leibniz’s belief that appeal only
to parsimony and uniformity—as Malebranche does—will leave this choice under-
determined. For God to choose to act uniformly according to one rather than the
other is an arbitrary choice unless there was something in the natures of the objects
involved that would determine God’s selection of one over the other.
Since Leibniz thinks that cross-over from mental events to physical events is
unintelligible in terms of the natures of the objects involved, this would determine
the choice to the second: (physical-a) causes (b) because the other options cannot be
grounded in the natures of the objects involved. (The relevant notion of cause would
again need to be spelled out, since Leibniz does not intend to refer to occasional
causes but, like Malebranche, he does not think there is a genuine causal interaction
between (physical-a) and (b).) The upshot is that the laws of nature cannot be given a
full grounding solely in terms of the nature of God alone. Since God acts on reasons,
we must also ground the laws of nature in the natures of the objects. As Donald
Rutherford argues:
The debate between Leibniz and the occasionalists thus comes down to the question of what it
is to be a genuine law of nature (and, conversely, what it is to be a miracle or an exception to
such a law). According to the occasionalists, a law of nature exists just in case God wills, in a
manner consistent with his nature, that a certain regularity should occur. According to Leibniz,
for a generalization to qualify as a law of nature it must, in addition, be possible to conceive of
the effects it describes as “explicable modifications” of the nature of their subject.⁴¹
An additional constraint on a natural theory for Leibniz is that the theory be
intelligible on its own terms—there should be intelligible connections between
the properties of objects and their effects. As Leibniz concludes, “for my own
⁴¹ Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and Miracles,” 145.

 ’    
part I reject such natural laws, whose execution is absolutely inexplicable by the
nature of things.”⁴²
This provides a window into Leibniz’s claim that natural events are intelligible.
Since God operates according to reasons, and since those reasons on the natural
order essentially involve the natures of the objects involved, all of the materials for
natural explanations are imminent in the natural order itself. This includes not only
the modifications of substances but also the laws governing changes in modifica-
tions—the laws themselves can be given a natural explanation.
Leibniz aims to provide a theological basis for a fully natural philosophy. Nicholas
Jolley has summarized it well:
Leibniz’s debate with occasionalism has traditionally been seen as a rather quaint and outdated
controversy over God’s relationship with the created world. It is true of course that the debate
is often couched in theological terms . . . But despite the theological language, the issues that
divide Leibniz and Malebranche [and we could add Locke and Newton] are anything but quaint
or outdated; in fact they are surprisingly modern ones. For what is really in question is the
nature of the scientific enterprise and its metaphysical foundation.⁴³
In chapter 4, I will take up the question about the natures of objects that are supposed
to ground the natural enterprise. We will there see the connection between this long
discussion of Cartesian physics, occasionalist metaphysics, and Leibniz’s naturalized
theory of mind, since the same principles that Leibniz has applied to early modern
physics he applies in his philosophy of mind as well, and the fundamental meta-
physical elements of Leibniz’s system are minds and mind-like substances. But before
turning to that topic, I want to say more about one final set of metaphysical principles
and their relation to the principle of continuity: the principle of contradiction, the
principle of sufficient reason, and the principle of intelligibility.
4. The PSR and the Principle of Intelligibility

As a way of rounding out Leibniz’s commitment to naturalism, I want to put forward
three claims:
(a) Leibniz’s primary appeal to the PSR is related to final causes, i.e., reasons for
acting.
(b) The normative weight of the PSR results in the selection of the optimal world.
(c) The optimal world will be self-governing and continuous, and hence the PSR
entails naturalism.
In chapter 1 and again at the end of the previous section, I argued that Leibniz’s
naturalism was closely connected to his normative and theological claims. In this
chapter, I want to reveal the underpinnings of that argument in the fundamental
principles that, Leibniz believes, govern all of our reasoning. The “two great prin-
ciples,” are the principle of contradiction and the principle of sufficient reason (PSR).
Since the popular representations of the latter principle appeal to facts or states of
⁴² G 4.535/NS 97. ⁴³ Jolley, “Leibniz and Occasionalism,” 133.

    
affairs (“there is no true or existent fact . . . without there being a sufficient reason why
it is thus and not otherwise”),⁴⁴ it is often easy to miss the normative weight of the
PSR in Leibniz. While I will not be arguing that Leibniz uses the PSR exclusively with
respect to final causes, I do want to suggest that a greater part of Leibniz’s commit-
ment to the PSR arises from its normative use.
In the following, I will argue for each of the claims set out above. The end result,
I hope, will be to fill in some of the details of Leibniz’s commitment to naturalism
generally and begin to connect it with some aspects of his theory of mind.
4.1. The normative weight of the PSR

Despite the clarity with which Leibniz announces that “our reasonings are based on
two great principles,”⁴⁵ scholars have been divided about how to understand these
basic principles. C.D. Broad suggests that the PSR can be multiplied into four
separate principles.⁴⁶ Nicholas Rescher argues that there are actually three basic
principles: the PSR, the principle of identity, and the principle of perfection,⁴⁷ and
Bertrand Russell and G.H.R. Parkinson both think that the PSR must be disambigu-
ated into a logical principle and a principle that explains the existence of contingent
things.⁴⁸ R.C. Sleigh has gone even further, showing that the principle of contradiction
is formulated by Leibniz in five different ways and the PSR in four different ways, and
he provides textual evidence in which the PSR is supplanted by the principle of
perfection and “experimenta” (i.e., first-person, present-tense, immediate experi-
ence).⁴⁹ Donald Rutherford has argued that there is a more restricted version of the
PSR, to which Leibniz also subscribes, which he calls the principle of intelligibility.⁵⁰ In
addition to all of this, there is disagreement among scholars about whether Leibniz
regarded the PSR as necessary or contingent.⁵¹
This widespread disagreement among scholars suggests a deep ambiguity in
Leibniz’s discussion of the “two great principles,” which is quite surprising given
how central these principles are to his philosophical system and the frequency with
which he appeals to them. But I do think these attempts at sorting out the texts can
⁴⁴ M §32. ⁴⁵ M §31.
⁴⁶ C.D. Broad, Leibniz: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 10–12. In
addition to the PSR, Broad adds the “principle of grounded connexion,” the “predicate-in-notion prin-
ciple,” and the “principle of pre-determinate individual history.”
⁴⁷ Nicholas Rescher, The Philosophy of Leibniz (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1967), 25–31.
Rescher notes that “most commentators,” including Erdmann, Latta, and Russell, have misunderstood the
relation among these three principles (34).
⁴⁸ G.H.R. Parkinson, Logic and Reality in Leibniz’s Metaphysics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), 62–9
and 105–6; Russell, A Critical Exposition of the Philosophy of Leibniz, 35–9.
⁴⁹ R.C. Sleigh, Jr., “Leibniz on the Two Great Principles of All our Reasonings,” Midwest Studies in
Philosophy 8 (1983): 194 and 196–7. Bertrand Russell claims that there is one version of the PSR that is
metaphysically necessary and another that is contingent (Russell, A Critical Exposition of the Philosophy of
Leibniz, 36–7).
⁵⁰ Rutherford, “Leibniz’s Principle of Intelligibility.”
⁵¹ For a straightforward claim of the contingency of the PSR, see Christopher Shields, “Leibniz’s
Doctrine of Striving Possibles,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 24 (1986): 353, where Shields argues
that it is “God’s free choice to subscribe to the principle of sufficient reason.” In contrast, Rutherford
regards the PSR as necessary, but the principle of intelligibility as contingent (Rutherford, “Leibniz’s
Principle of Intelligibility,” 42–4).
 ’    
help us see more clearly just what Leibniz was doing, and my goal in this section is to
suggest that there is a core distinction that is meaningful and will yield the kind of
naturalizing project that we see in Leibniz.
The way the PSR is often described—the principle that “every true proposition is a
priori provable”⁵² or “every true proposition is analytic”⁵³—suggests a close connec-
tion between the PSR and the principle of contradiction, if not an entailment of the
PSR from the principle of contradiction, since it is customary to regard a priori
analytic truths as necessary, and Leibniz is clear that the principle of contradiction
grounds necessary truths.⁵⁴ But Leibniz frequently says that while the principle of
contradiction governs necessary truths, the principle of sufficient reason is needed
for contingent truths,⁵⁵ and he denies that the PSR is entailed by the principle of
contradiction.
There are a number of texts that endorse the summaries of the PSR as regarding a
priori analytic propositions while also being a ground for contingent propositions.
“Primary Truths” (1686?) is quite explicit that the PSR is about a priori analysis. First,
Leibniz argues for a conceptual-containment theory of truth:
The connection and inclusion of the predicate in the subject is explicit in identities, but in all
other propositions it is implicit and must be shown through the analysis of notions; a priori
demonstrations rest on this . . . [T]his is true for every affirmative truth, universal or particular,
necessary or contingent, and in both an intrinsic and extrinsic denomination.⁵⁶
The truth of a proposition consists in the inherence of a predicate in the subject term,
and this is spelled out later in terms of the complete individual concept for each
substance.⁵⁷ It follows “from these considerations” that “nothing is without a reason,”
otherwise there would be a truth which could not be proved a priori, that is, a truth
which could not be resolved into identities, contrary to the nature of truth, which is
always an explicit or implicit identity.”⁵⁸ Thus, in this text, the PSR is directly linked
to the a priori analysis of any true proposition.
There are several strategies that Leibniz then might use to distinguish neces-
sary from contingent truths. The difference, according to this text, is not in terms
of a priori analysis as such—all true affirmative propositions are analytic. One
way that Leibniz tried to work out the distinction between necessary truths and
contingent truths is by appealing to properties of the demonstration itself. If a
demonstration is reducible to identities in a finite proof, then the proposition
is necessary. If not, then the proposition is contingent.⁵⁹ The success of this
proof-theoretic strategy is vexed,⁶⁰ but Leibniz needs some such strategy to avoid
⁵² Parkinson, Logic and Reality in Leibniz’s Metaphysics, 64.

⁵³ Rescher, The Philosophy of Leibniz, 25. ⁵⁴ See, for example M §§31 and 33.
⁵⁵ See M §§32 and 36. ⁵⁶ “Primary Truths,” A 6.4.1645/AG 31. ⁵⁷ A 6.4.1646/AG 32–3.
⁵⁸ A 6.4.1645/AG 31.
⁵⁹ See, for example, “On Freedom” (AG 96) and “The Source of Contingent Truths” (AG 98).
⁶⁰ See Robert Merrihew Adams, “Leibniz’s Theories of Contingency,” in Leibniz: Critical and Interpretive
Essays, ed. Michael Hooker (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); Adams, Leibniz:
Determinist, Theist, Idealist, chapter 1; Sleigh, Leibniz and Arnauld, chapter 4; and Samuel Newlands, “The
Harmony of Spinoza and Leibniz,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 81 (2010).
    
the system collapsing into Spinozistic necessitarianism, which Leibniz tried very
hard to avoid.⁶¹
Where, then, does the principle of contradiction come in? It is not mentioned in
“Primary Truths” at all. In later texts, Leibniz introduces the principles in the
following way in the Monadology:
31. Our reasonings are based on two great principles, that of contradiction, in virtue of which
we judge that which involves a contradiction to be false, and that which is opposed or
contradictory to the false to be true.
32. And that of sufficient reason, by virtue of which we consider that we can find no true or
existent fact, no true assertion, without there being a sufficient reason why it is thus and not
otherwise, although most of the time these reasons cannot be known to us.
33. There are also two kinds of truths, those of reasoning and those of fact. The truths of
reasoning are necessary and their opposite is impossible; the truths of fact are contingent, and
their opposite is possible. When a truth is necessary, its reason can be found by analysis.⁶²
Leibniz concludes that the truths of fact would never resolve into identities—“the
resolution into particular reasons could proceed into unlimited detail because of
the immense variety of things in nature and because of the division of bodies into
infinity.”⁶³ Here, Leibniz still appeals to the analysis of truths into identities in a way
that is similar to his discussion in “Primary Truths.” However, what in “Primary
Truths” Leibniz treated as one principle, namely the principle that “nothing is without
reason,” he here treats as two, and the principle of sufficient reason is given a
narrower scope.
This may well be the source of some of the confusion in interpreting Leibniz’s
account of the PSR. At times, he gives the PSR broad scope, to include the principle of
contradiction and applying to both truths of reason and to truths of fact, and at other
times, he gives the PSR narrow scope, as a principle governing truths of fact, which
are contingent.⁶⁴ It is the narrow conception of the PSR that interests me in this
section, and so from here on when I refer to the PSR I intend to refer to the narrow
⁶¹ Michael V. Griffin has recently argued that Leibniz did not try to avoid necessitarianism. Rather,
according to Griffin, Leibniz held that “everything actual is metaphysically necessary and everything
metaphysically possible is actual” (Michael V. Griffin, Leibniz, God and Necessity (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2013), 58). While there are a number of earlier texts that seem to support this claim, I don’t
think Leibniz endorsed it in the end. Rather, I think Leibniz tried very hard to avoid necessitarianism.
Whether he succeeded, of course, is a further question. See Larry M. Jorgensen, “Review of Michael
V. Griffin’s Leibniz, God and Necessity,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 74 (2013).
⁶² M §§31–33. ⁶³ Ibid.
⁶⁴ There is at least one passage that suggests that the PSR could be separated into four different
principles, addressing each of the four Aristotelian causes:
Nothing is without a reason is understood concerning efficient, material, formal, and final
causes. The formal cause is the very essence of the thing, i.e., the reason why something
exists or is such and such is in the thing itself. It holds for the material cause and the
efficient cause so that anything that begins in motion always continues in the same way
unless there is a reason for change either in the thing itself or in another acting on it. It
holds in the case of a final cause, so that there must be a true or apparent reason for
choosing this one from among two things.
(“Conversation with Steno Concerning Freedom” (1677), A6.4.1375/CP 113)
 ’    
scope. Leibniz frequently uses the PSR as specifically governing contingent truths,
truths of fact.⁶⁵ Consider, for example, a parallel passage in the Discourse on
Metaphysics, which brings together the notion of analysis and the distinction between
truths of reason and truths of fact:
[A]ll contingent propositions have reasons for being thus rather than otherwise, or (what is the
same thing) that they have a priori proofs of their truth which make them certain, and which
show that the connection between the subject and the predicate of these propositions has its basis
in the nature of the one and of the other. But these proofs are not necessary demonstrations, for
these reasons are based only on the principle of contingency or of the existence of things—that is,
on that which is or appears the best among several things which are equally possible—whereas
necessary truths are based on the principle of contradiction and on the possibility or impossi-
bility of essences themselves, with no relation to the free will of God or of creatures.⁶⁶
The “principle of contingency or of the existence of things” maps onto the Mon-
adology use of the PSR. And this appears in later texts as well. Here is a passage from
Leibniz’s fifth letter to Samuel Clarke (dated August 16, 1716):
9. But to say, that God can only choose what is best; and to infer from thence, that what he
does not choose, is impossible; this, I say, is confounding of terms: ’tis blending power and will,
metaphysical necessity and moral necessity, essences and existences. For, what is necessary,
is so by its essence, since the opposite implies a contradiction; but a contingent which exists,
owes its existence to the principle of what is best, which is a sufficient reason for the existence
of things . . .
10. And I have sufficiently shown in my Theodicy, that this moral necessity is a good thing,
agreeable to the divine perfection; agreeable to the great principle or ground of existences,
which is that of the want of a sufficient reason: whereas absolute and metaphysical necessity,
depends upon the other great principle of our reasonings, viz., that of essences; that is, the
principle of identity or contradiction: for what is absolutely necessary, is the only possible way,
and its contrary implies a contradiction.⁶⁷
Here again Leibniz aligns the PSR with a “principle . . . of existences,” and he distin-
guishes this principle, which yields contingent truths, from the principle of contra-
diction, which yields necessary truths. That is to say, the principle of contradiction
will provide a means to determine whether a proposition is possible or necessary. The
principle of sufficient reason will provide a way to determine which of the merely
possible propositions are actual, and here he makes it clear that this supervenes on
the kinds of reasons God might have for actualizing some of the set of possibles.
I will not try to incorporate all of Leibniz’s uses of the PSR, since the narrow-scope account is what I wish
to focus on, but as we shall see, the narrow-scope account of the PSR may line up with the final-cause
account here while the principle of contradiction may parallel the formal cause.
⁶⁵ This narrower scope of the PSR would differ in important ways from the way Michael Della Rocca
thinks that the PSR operates in Spinoza, which he says “quickly leads to his commitment to his
naturalism.” (See Michael Della Rocca, Spinoza (New York: Routledge, 2008), 4–12. For a criticism of
this reading of the PSR in Spinoza, see Yitzhak Y. Melamed, Spinoza’s Metaphysics: Substance and Thought
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 92–4.)
⁶⁶ DM 13/MP 25. ⁶⁷ G 7.390–1/LC 57.
    
(In this narrower sense of “reason,” a necessary being has no reason for its exist-
ence—it simply “is so by its essence.”)
The other aspect of the PSR that emerges here is that the narrower-scope PSR
entails the principle of the best (PB). Leibniz argues that finite substances require a
sufficient reason for their existence (the PSR),⁶⁸ and since the reason cannot be given
from their own natures or any sequence (even an infinite sequence) of other finite
substances, the sufficient reason must be in a necessary being. Skipping over a few
steps (since it is not my purpose here to defend Leibniz’s argument for the existence
of God), Leibniz concludes that this necessary being is God and the reason for the
existence of possibles must rest in the operation of God’s will. Since God is a perfect
being, God’s will is directed towards perfection, towards the best of all of the possibles
that God could actualize. And so the sufficient reason for the existence of finite beings
rests in the good-directed will of a necessary being. That is, the reasons are final
causes and they are oriented towards a normative end, an end that is a good end, at
least for the world as a whole.⁶⁹
In response to Clarke, Leibniz argues that to infer from PB that what is not actual
is impossible would be a “confounding of terms.” Leibniz thinks he has provided a
sufficient way to distinguish power from will, essence from existence, metaphysical
necessity (necessity determined from the principle of contradiction) from moral neces-
sity (necessity determined by PB). Leibniz is threading a needle here, and, as I have
mentioned above, it is a vexed question whether Leibniz succeeds in providing full
grounding for each of these distinctions. But notice that he is caught among three
unattractive positions: (a) the occasionalist view that God is the only genuine cause,
which is one significant factor that has prompted the need to return to metaphysical
principles; (b) the view that the sufficient reason for existing things can be arbitrary:
God’s will as such (without any further account of why God wills one thing or
another); and (c) Spinoza’s contention that there is only one possible world and that
God’s will reduces to God’s intellect and so the principle governing necessity and the
principle governing existence are one and the same. In contrast, Leibniz is providing
a metaphysics where justice grounds existence.⁷⁰ That is, normative reasons (not
merely logical reasons) provide the sufficient reasons for the existence of things. In an
arbitrary or necessitarian metaphysical picture, justice is replaced by power. It is an
impoverished metaphysics. Absent any demonstration to the contrary, Leibniz will
stake his claim with justice.⁷¹
4.2. The PSR and naturalism
The first thesis—that the PSR, as used by Leibniz, appeals primarily to the reasons
governing action—does not obviously entail the sort of naturalism that I have been
⁶⁸ See M §§36–39. ⁶⁹ See T §§1–8 for one of Leibniz’s arguments for this claim.
⁷⁰ A defense of the implications of divine justice for Leibniz’s metaphysics and his theory of nature is the
focus of Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature. It will be clear in this and the following sub-
section that I am indebted to the arguments Rutherford has made on these points.
⁷¹ Note: Leibniz’s definition of justice as the “charity of the wise person” mirrors God’s creative activity.
The wisdom of God, God’s intellect, provides knowledge of the possibles plus a normative ranking of
fittingness, and the “charity” is the disposition of God to act on what God knows (see “The Common
Concept of Justice,” Riley 59–60).
 ’    
recommending as a reading of Leibniz. In this section, I will focus on the third thesis
presented earlier in this section, namely:
(c). The optimal world will be self-governing and continuous, and hence the PSR
entails naturalism.
Since, as we have just noted, the narrow-scope PSR yields the principle of the best
(PB), and so, Leibniz argues, the PSR requires that the actual world be the best of all
of the possible worlds (thesis (b) above), a thesis that met with infamy among the
eighteenth-century philosophes.⁷² As Leibniz says in the Theodicy:
[T]his supreme wisdom, united to a goodness that is no less infinite, cannot but have chosen
the best. For as a lesser evil is a kind of good, even so a lesser good is a kind of evil if it stands in
the way of a greater good; and there would be something to correct in the actions of God if it
were possible to do better . . . [T]here is an infinitude of possible worlds among which God
must needs have chosen the best [optimum], since he does nothing without acting in accord-
ance with supreme reason.⁷³
We see again that Leibniz connects the selection of the best possible world with the
PSR, since God acts only “in accordance with supreme reason.” Had God chosen a
lesser world, God would have acted contrary to his infinite wisdom, he would have
acted against what reason inclines him towards. Could God have created a lesser
world? Leibniz answers, “yes,” speaking absolutely,⁷⁴ which is to say that, considering
God’s power alone, God has the power to create any world God chooses. But
considering God’s wisdom and goodness, God will never choose anything sub-
optimal and so God’s power will never be exercised in that direction. Hence, given
that God does nothing without a reason, God will create only the best.
The task of the remainder of this section is to see why the optimality thesis entails
naturalism, as I contend. I will first look at Leibniz’s conception of optimality to see
how he thinks the world would be generally structured. I will then argue that this is
precisely the naturalizing thesis he has been presenting in response to Cartesians and
occasionalists.
Briefly, I want to point to two conclusions that are yielded by the PSR. First, given
that God is motivated by wisdom and goodness, God will consider all types of goods
that might be present in each possible world. If we take Leibniz’s taxonomy of evils as
a guide to possible goods, God would consider metaphysical goods (essence, exist-
ence, power), physical goods (pleasure, happiness), and moral goods (justice, virtue,
joy). Of course, Leibniz often describes the optimal world in terms of metaphysical
goods, as he does in the heading to §5 of the Discourse on Metaphysics: “Of what the
rules of the perfection of the divine action consist; and that the simplicity of the
means is in balance with the richness of the effects.” And if this is the only perfection
that God sets his sights on, then it is not clear whether the world so produced would
also include moral goods. But Leibniz also sometimes includes the other goods in the
⁷² For a quick overview of some of the ridicule this thesis received, see the “Introduction” in Larry
M. Jorgensen and Samuel Newlands, eds., New Essays on Leibniz’s Theodicy (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2014).
⁷³ T §8. ⁷⁴ See letter to Des Bosses, April 29, 1715 (G 2.496/LR 339).
    
divine motive: “God wills what is good per se, at least antecedently. He wills in general
the perfection of all things and particularly the happiness and virtue of all intelligent
substances; and he wills each good according to its degree of goodness.”⁷⁵ But if there
are multiple goods being weighed in the divine motive of creation, we need some
further reasons to suppose that the goods are commensurable and that one good will
not exclude the other.
I will not rehearse the full argument here, but Rutherford has argued that for
Leibniz the goods are indeed commensurable and that God has produced a world
with both metaphysical and moral perfection. His argument for this is that (a) the
greatest perfection will include many minds with “the greatest potential for happiness
and virtue”; but (b) the potential for happiness and virtue requires metaphysical
goods—a world of simplicity and diversity—since the perfection of a “reasoning
substance” consists in its ability to contemplate perfection and order; and so (c) the
greatest perfection will include a community of minds inhabiting a maximally
harmonious and plentiful universe.⁷⁶ That is, the metaphysical perfection of the
universe is the “objective condition” for the realization of an intelligent creature’s
potential for perfection, and so intelligent creatures would not be able to fully realize
this potential unless they were also inhabitants of a maximally diverse and harmo-
nious world.⁷⁷
The presence of rational beings in the world is what makes this world particularly
excellent. As Leibniz says in the Discourse on Metaphysics:
[M]inds are the most perfectible substances, and their perfections are peculiar in that they
interfere with each other the least, or rather they aid one another the most, for only the most
virtuous can be the most perfect friends. Whence it follows that God, who always aims for the
greatest perfection in general, will pay the greatest attention to minds and will give them the
greatest perfection that universal harmony can allow, not only in general, but to each of them
in particular.⁷⁸
As Robert Adams has argued, the concept of the “city of God” or “republic of
minds” is just as central to Leibniz’s philosophy as any notion of metaphysical
perfection.⁷⁹ Adams emphasizes the “essential relationships among love, perfection,
and happiness” as grounding Leibniz’s account of the perfection of minds⁸⁰—the
⁷⁵ Causa Dei §33, qtd. in Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, 47.
⁷⁶ Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, 49.
⁷⁷ It is clear that there may be some trade offs necessary to bring this about. In the Theodicy, Leibniz says
that God would trade one human for a whole species of lions (T §118). And it is also clear that there will be
some worlds that are ruled out simply on moral grounds, no matter how metaphysically perfect. For
example, Leibniz says that God would never create a world in which the innocent are damned (A 6.4.1453,
qtd. in Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 28). And so it may be tricky spelling out precisely how
all of these factors might be weighed in choosing the best world. Interested readers should consult
Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, chapter 3; Robert Merrihew Adams, “Justice,
Happiness, and Perfection in Leibniz’s City of God,” in New Essays on Leibniz’s Theodicy, ed. Larry
M. Jorgensen and Samuel Newlands (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); David Blumenfeld,
“Perfection and Happiness in the Best Possible World,” in The Cambridge Companion to Leibniz, ed.
Nicholas Jolley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); and Gregory Brown, “Leibniz’s Theodicy
and the Confluence of Worldly Goods,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 26 (1988).
⁷⁸ DM §36. ⁷⁹ Adams, “Justice, Happiness, and Perfection,” 201. ⁸⁰ Ibid., 203.
 ’    
means towards love and virtue is by taking pleasure in the perfection of another,
and the perfections of God, as expressed in nature, will provide material for the
contemplation of the rich and meaningful effects of God’s activity. And so, like
Rutherford, Adams emphasizes the fact that the perfection of intelligent persons
depends on the object of the intellect as providing material for contemplation of
perfection and for actions of love, which is to say to pursue the greater perfections
of the other.⁸¹
And so the first conclusion to draw from Leibniz’s application of the PSR is that
minds are given a certain focus of the creation, but that the creation itself must be
metaphysically rich in order to provide objects of thought for intelligent beings,
which will actualize their perfections and their virtues. Hence, the created order will
be known by its plenitude and simplicity, which will help ground the natural
heuristics we have been discussing up until now. The created order will be continu-
ous and full, which will enable a basis for natural explanations in terms of the natural
order itself.
But this leads us to the other consequence of the PSR: the created order will be
available to created intelligences. That is, if there were discontinuities or gaps that
cannot be explained, then the natural order would actually fail in one of its good-
making features: it would fail to provide objective grounds for the actualization of the
perfections of minds.
This is one reason to think that Leibniz held to a “principle of intelligibility” (PInt),
as Donald Rutherford has argued.⁸² PInt, according to Rutherford, is as follows:
[PInt]: Within the order of nature, for any entity a and any property F that is truly predicable
of a, (i) there is a reason why a is F, and (ii) this reason explains a’s being F in terms of F’s being
an “explicable modification” of the nature of a.⁸³
Rutherford bases this principle on some of the passages we considered above. One
such text is the following passage from the New Essays:
Whenever we find some quality in a subject, we ought to believe that if we understood the
nature of both the subject and the quality we would conceive how the quality could arise from it.
So, within the order of nature (miracles apart) it is not at God’s arbitrary discretion to attach this
or that quality haphazardly to substances. He will never give them any that are not natural to
them, that is, that cannot arise from their nature as explicable modifications.⁸⁴
And, in the quotation at the start of this chapter, Leibniz says to De Volder, “The
principle of order . . . makes it the case that the more things are analyzed the more they
satisfy the intellect.”⁸⁵ That is, the natural world has an explanatory richness to it.
And this follows from God’s goodness in creating the best possible world. Absent
normative considerations, there is no guarantee that metaphysical perfection should
yield intelligibility to finite minds.
⁸¹ Adams actually emphasizes Leibniz’s claims that God himself is the most perfect substance and
therefore proper objects of contemplation of intelligent beings (PNG 16). However, Leibniz more fre-
quently mentions the perfections in the created order as proper objects of intelligent reflection.
⁸² Rutherford, “Leibniz’s Principle of Intelligibility.” ⁸³ Ibid., 36. ⁸⁴ A 6.6.66/NE 66.
⁸⁵ Letter to De Volder, March 24/April 3, 1699 (G 2.168/Lodge 71).
    
Thus, the world that results from God’s acting in a way that is consistent with the
PSR generates the continuity and explanatory power that Leibniz’s naturalism
requires.⁸⁶ In Thomas Wren’s evocative phrase, “the great gamble of Leibniz is that
reality is totally intelligible.”⁸⁷
5. Leibniz’s Naturalism
At the conclusion of Part I of this book, I would like to respond to some objections
and defend what I take to be Leibniz’s naturalizing project. Earlier, I noted that there
are problems with applying the term “naturalism” to a seventeenth-century thinker.
Critics might charge that at worst my use of naturalism here is a confusing anachron-
ism; at best it could be misleading. I want to consider some of these objections to
acknowledge their force, but then I will argue that these first three chapters have
marshaled sufficient evidence that Leibniz did indeed consider himself as articulating
a naturalizing project in response to Descartes, occasionalists, Spinoza, and others.
5.1. Against naturalism
The objections I want to consider against labeling Leibniz’s philosophy of mind as a
naturalist philosophy of mind will focus in particular on the use of the term “nature”
and “naturalism” in the seventeenth century.⁸⁸ Just as the term might be regarded as
slippery and ambiguous in today’s context, there were similar ambiguities present in
the seventeenth century. We have already seen differences in the use of the term in
Leibniz’s correspondence with Sophie. And I will give further evidence here that
usage was not entirely stable among seventeenth-century philosophers. However, as
I will argue in the next section, I do think that Leibniz is hopeful that a stable usage
can be retrieved, one that makes good sense of Aristotle’s definition of nature in
Physics II without returning to Scholasticism.
There were several rival interpretations of nature in the seventeenth century,
including a conception of nature in terms of law rather than in terms of a principle
of action. But there were others who argued that the term is useless at best and
harmful at worst. Robert Boyle famously railed against certain uses of the term
“nature.” In his Free Enquiry into the Vulgarly Received Notion of Nature, Boyle
argued that an uncritical use of the term “nature” was harmful to religion, and so he
sought a clear and harmless account of it. Finding none, he thought it should be
⁸⁶ A question arises at this point about just the precise modal status of the principle of continuity. In
chapter 2, I argued for a conceptual density in God’s mind, which is independent of God’s will and
therefore cannot be grounded in the principle of the best or God’s wisdom. But in this chapter I have
argued that the created order is entailed by the Principle of the Best, which depends on God’s volitions.
I actually think that for these reasons the precise modal status of the principle of continuity is difficult to
pin down, although my discussion here is closer to the claim that the principle of continuity is a contingent
principle. Ultimately, I do not think my argument is affected significantly by taking the other view, since in
either case the principle of continuity will provide the sort of systematic constraints on a natural theory that
I am arguing for here.
⁸⁷ Thomas E. Wrenn, “Leibniz’s Theory of Essences,” Studia Leibnitiana 4 (1972).
⁸⁸ My knowledge of the historical context outlined in this section was greatly informed by Loemker,
Struggle for Synthesis, chapter 9 and Catherine Wilson, “De Ipsa Natura: Sources of Leibniz’s Doctrines of
Force, Activity and Natural Law,” Studia Leibnitiana 19 (1987).
 ’    
rejected.⁸⁹ As Catherine Wilson concludes, for Boyle, “ ‘nature’ is, in the end, a non-
referring expression,” and it should be dispensed with in favor of the language of
mechanism.⁹⁰ And, importantly for our purposes, Boyle thought that an appeal to
nature does not yield an explanation of events—it only masks ignorance:
To give the nature of a thing for the cause of this or that particular quality or operation of it, is
to leave men as ignorant as they were before; or, at least, is to acknowledge that a philosopher
can, in such cases, assign no better particular and immediate causes of things than a shepherd
or a tradesman that never learned natural philosophy can assign of the same things, and of a
thousand others . . . And so this indefinite notion of nature, which is equally applicable to the
resolving of all difficulties, is not useful to disclose the thing, but to delude the maker of the
question or hide the ignorance of the answerer.⁹¹
Since there are alternative concepts available that could yield illuminating explan-
ations, it would be better to make use of those concepts and dispense altogether with
the ambiguous terminology of “nature.”
On the other side of the spectrum, some philosophers redefined nature in a way
that became totalizing, eliminating the distinctions between nature and artifice or
between nature and the supernatural. An example of the first is Descartes, who,
conceiving the universe as a grand machine, declared: “I do not recognize any
difference between artefacts and natural bodies except that the operations of artefacts
are for the most part performed by mechanisms which are large enough to be easily
perceivable by the senses.”⁹² And, as we have seen, Malebranche and other occasion-
alists, recognizing God as the only causal power, blurs the line between natural and
supernatural. Indeed, the possibility of miracles becomes a significant question in the
seventeenth century.
Against this backdrop, it becomes somewhat confusing to label any particular
seventeenth-century philosopher a “naturalist.” But there are deeper problems. In her
paper, “Epicureanism and Early Modern Naturalism,” Antonia LoLordo argues that
“applying the category of naturalism to early modern philosophy is not useful,” and
that “there is another category that does most of the work we want the category of
⁸⁹ Loemker summarizes nine different sense of the term Boyle identified:

1. Nature as being, and therefore as God: Natura Naturans.
2. Nature as the essence or quiddity of a thing.
3. Nature as signifying qualities not acquired accidentally or artificially.
4. Nature as internal principle of motion, or as spontaneous motion.
5. Nature as the established order or course of corporeal things.
6. Nature as the aggregate of powers of a body.
7. Nature as the system of the world or universe.
8. Nature as divine, as a goddess.
9. Nature as the law of things received from the Creator.
Loemker, Struggle for Synthesis, 209. See also Robert Boyle, A Free Enquiry into the Vulgarly Received
Notion of Nature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 22–3 and Wilson, “De Ipsa Natura,”
156–7.
⁹⁰ Wilson, “De Ipsa Natura,” 157.
⁹¹ Boyle, A Free Enquiry into the Vulgarly Received Notion of Nature, 60.
⁹² Principles of Philosophy 4.203 (CSM 1.288).
    
naturalism to do—one that, unlike naturalism, was actually used by early moderns.”⁹³
The core of her argument is that (a) there is no clear conception of “naturalism” that
provides a useful categorization of early modern philosophers, and (b) Epicureanism
does provide a useful categorization of early modern philosophers and has the
advantages of being (1) a label applied by the early moderns themselves and
(2) close enough to what we are reaching for when we characterize a philosopher
as naturalist. If LoLordo is right, then the more useful question is whether Leibniz is
an Epicurean.
To make her argument, LoLordo distinguishes eleven different claims that we
might be making when we refer to an early modern philosopher as naturalist—five
in the category of “methodological naturalism,” and six in the category of “onto-
logical naturalism.” LoLordo adopts the terms “methodological naturalism” and
“ontological naturalism” from today’s discussions of naturalism: methodological
naturalism is the view that philosophy is continuous with science, and ontological
naturalism is the view that there are no supernatural entities. Since she claims that
naturalism is not a category early modern philosophers used (or at least not with
sufficient regularity or consistency), it makes sense for her to question what we
might be intending when we project the term backwards. LoLordo does not assume
that philosophers are unnecessarily anachronistic in making use of these terms,
provided the result is productive in some way. She argues that none of these
conceptions yields something that is useful in categorizing early modern philo-
sophers—they yield counterintuitive categorizations of early modern philosophers
or yield counterintuitive results such as those we saw in chapter 1, where God
himself is counted as a natural object. I will not dispute this point here—it does
seem that most of the formulations of naturalism are problematic when applied to
early modern philosophers, and one has the sense that LoLordo is reviving Boyle’s
polemic against the use of useless terms. However, I will address this claim in the
next section, since I do think one of LoLordo’s characterizations comes close to
what Leibniz is aiming for.
The second half of LoLordo’s argument is that, absent any utility in applying the
term “naturalism” to early modern philosophers, there is a nearby concept that the
early modern philosophers used themselves to characterize their own philosophies
(or, in some cases, to insult others’ philosophies). That concept is Epicureanism.
Early modern Epicureanism, as LoLordo characterizes it, involves seven key claims:
(1) All that exists is material (with the possible exception of God), (2) since the mind
is material, it can be explained in terms of material interactions, (3) all causation is
efficient causation, (4) there is no providence and no divine intervention in the
material world, (5) the world came into existence through material processes,
(6) physics is first philosophy, and (7) radical empiricism.⁹⁴
⁹³ Antonia LoLordo, “Epicureanism and Early Modern Philosophy,” British Journal for the History of
Philosophy 19 (2011): 647–8.
⁹⁴ Ibid., 662–3. I have modified these a bit so that there is no reference to “nature” in the propositions,
which I view as somewhat problematic given the historical context and the context of LoLordo’s own
argument. Rather, Epicureanism is focused primarily on materialism.
 ’    
If we look at the early modern period and ask which philosophers adhere to some
sufficient set of these claims (if not all of them), LoLordo proposes that Hobbes,
Locke, Gassendi, and Spinoza would be counted as Epicureans.⁹⁵ And since this list of
philosophers maps nicely onto those that LoLordo earlier claimed to be the pre-
theoretic categorization of philosophers as naturalistic, it turns out that “Epicurean-
ism” does the sort of work we had hoped for from “naturalism,” and it is a view that
“many contemporary naturalists would be sympathetic to.”⁹⁶
If LoLordo is right, then the project of discerning a version of naturalism in Leibniz
is doomed—there would be no useful sense in which he can be characterized as a
naturalist, and the relevant question is whether or not he is Epicurean. Given the list
of propositions above, Leibniz is clearly not Epicurean. There is not one of the
propositions that Leibniz would endorse in an unqualified way. But, further, LoLordo
claims that Epicureanism is where today’s naturalism is at! That is, today’s natural-
ism and historical materialism are bosom buddies. And so to call Leibniz (or any
other non-materialist) a naturalist would simply be misdirected from today’s use of
the term.
In the following sub-section, I will dispute all of these claims. That is, I will argue
that there is a useful sense in which Leibniz can be characterized as a naturalist, even
though he is clearly not an Epicurean. And, further, I think one of the most
interesting conclusions that we can draw from this discussion is that not all natur-
alists are materialists. One of the goals of this project is to attempt a divorce of these
two notions: naturalism does not immediately entail materialism. This was so in the
seventeenth century, and there is a real sense in which it can still be the case today.
Obviously, I cannot argue for this last claim in full, but I will sketch an outline of it in
the conclusion.
5.2. A Leibnizian naturalism
In order to characterize Leibniz’s naturalism, I will start by responding to the claims
made by Antonia LoLordo outlined above. I will provide an account of a Leibnizian
naturalism that is useful and that does not entail materialism. I will then connect the
arguments made in chapters 1 through 3, showing how they form a big picture that
will guide the remainder of our investigation of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
In response to LoLordo, it is rather telling that the usage of the term “nature” that
she consciously omits is that in which “the nature of something is its essence,” which
she takes to ground Boyle’s uses of nature as “internal principle of motion, . . . an
aggregate of powers of a thing, and . . . as essence or quiddity.”⁹⁷ This is a central use
of the term for Leibniz—as will become even more clear as we investigate the positive
content of Leibniz’s theory of substance in Part II—and an account of Leibnizian
naturalism will need to make reference to it.
To LoLordo’s claim that naturalism was not used by the seventeenth-century
philosophers to categorize philosophical views, we must recall Leibniz’s account of
the various “sects” of naturalism discussed in chapter 1. In his essay, “Sentiments
⁹⁵ Ibid., 663. Qualifications would need to be made for some of the philosophers in the list; not all fit the
description well.
⁹⁶ Ibid., 664. ⁹⁷ Ibid., 651n20.
    
of Socrates opposed to New Stoics and Epicureans,”⁹⁸ Leibniz does identify “two sects
of naturalists,” which he aligns with Stoics and Epicureans. The Epicurean naturalism,
he describes in terms of materialism, and he identifies Hobbes as a representative of
this sect. The Stoic naturalism allows for “incorporeal substances,” and argues that
God is the soul of the world while denying any providence—God acts by blind
necessity. Spinoza and Descartes are identified with Stoic naturalism. In contrast to
these two forms of naturalism, Leibniz presents “the sect of Socrates and Plato,”
which, unlike the Epicureans, allows for immaterial substances, and, unlike the
Stoics, allows for final causes as explanatory of natural events. And so, if we were
to adopt LoLordo’s guidance in dismissing with the use of “naturalism,” then there
are more categories of interest besides Epicureanism. The question to ask is whether a
philosopher fits into the Epicurean, Stoic, or Socratic/Platonic category.
But Leibniz does regard each of these as a kind of naturalism, or so it seems to me.
And so it is worth asking what it is about each of these that yield a variety of
naturalism. What is naturalism in this sense? As I argued in chapter 1, naturalism
here is about explanation and intelligibility. Leibniz says that Plato “maintains that
final causes are the principles in physics and that we must seek them in order to
account for things.”⁹⁹ As he uses the term in this essay, naturalism purports to give a
fully explanatory account of things in terms of fundamental and intelligible prin-
ciples of causation. What divides the three forms is whether the fundamental causal
basis is (a) material only, involving only efficient causation, (b) allows immaterial
causes, involving only efficient causation, or (c) allows immaterial causes and allows
for both efficient and final causation.
As Leibniz developed his system, he regarded the immaterial principles of final
causation to be his revised substantial forms. That is, immanent causation in simple
substances—internal principles of change—provides the metaphysical grounding for
all natural events. As such, there would be no need for an appeal to God in the
explanation of natural events, although natural philosophical explanations would
find their ultimate metaphysical basis in immaterial principles of change. But since
there is no reference to God (except in the case of a miracle, a supernatural event),
this philosophy would still be a naturalized philosophy.
Leibniz does seem to think that there is utility in applying the label “naturalist” to
philosophical views, and we can see which views are immediately ruled out. Leibniz
thought that occasionalism was clearly not a naturalized philosophy, since the causal
principles are in God rather than in nature. Likewise, he seemed to think that
Newtonian mechanics failed to be naturalized, since although the laws of gravity
encapsulated the regular motions of natural objects, Newton provided no natural
explanation for how the laws of gravity operate. And so Leibniz thought gravity as
theorized by Newton would require a “perpetual miracle.”¹⁰⁰ But he would willingly
⁹⁸ A 6.4.1384–8/AG 281–4. Ariew and Garber titled this essay, “Two Sects of Naturalists,” but as
I argued in chapter 1, Leibniz is here actually identifying three sects of naturalists, not two.
⁹⁹ A 6.4.1386/AG 283.
¹⁰⁰ Reactions to the legacy of the Leibniz/Newton dispute about gravity vary. According to Catherine
Wilson, Leibniz paid the “price . . . of a thoroughly obsolete theory of celestial mechanics” (Wilson, “De Ipsa
Natura,” 172). Loemker, on the other hand, seemed to think that Leibniz was quite prescient: “The recent
 ’    
count Hobbes and Spinoza (and perhaps Descartes) as naturalists, although he

thought in each case the naturalism was unsatisfying. Gassendi might well be in
the group as well, provided we set aside his views about atoms and the vacuum.¹⁰¹
But Leibniz thought Locke had failed, especially in claiming that God could
give matter the power of thought, since “then matter would think only by a
perpetual miracle.”¹⁰²
And so, contrary to LoLordo’s conclusion, it does seem that at least one philoso-
pher of the early modern period categorized philosophers using the language of
naturalism. Hobbes, Spinoza, Leibniz, maybe Descartes, maybe Gassendi are natur-
alists. Malebranche, Sturm, Newton, and Locke are not. But what is particularly
interesting is that even among those that Leibniz regarded as naturalists, he saw
further subdivisions available. While one variety of naturalism is materialist, there are
two additional varieties that are not materialist. And so, for Leibniz, naturalism and
materialism come apart.
In response to the problems outlined in the previous sub-section, Leibniz provides
very clear replies. Against the ambiguities of the term “nature” in the seventeenth
century, Leibniz offers an account of individual natures that “would render them
intelligible.”¹⁰³ He acknowledges the ambiguities and abuses of the term, but that is
no reason to dispense with the term if it is needed for a complete metaphysic. Boyle
failed to see this need. And against those who would blur the distinction between
nature and artifice, Leibniz responds: “the difference is not simply a difference of
degree, but a difference of kind.”¹⁰⁴ Natural machines have “an infinite number of
organs,” and “it is not possible to destroy them.” Artificial machines, by contrast, are
finitely structured and can be destroyed. Finally, we have seen at length Leibniz’s
response to those who attempt to blur the lines between nature and the supernatural.
Occasionalists, in particular, were a regular focus of Leibniz’s attention, as he
provides what he calls a “more natural” account that allows for the independence
and existence of finite causes.
And so, I do think that there is strong reason to regard Leibniz a naturalist, on his
own terms. To be more precise, while there is evidence that Leibniz allows at least the
possibility of miracles—supernatural acts—a natural theory would not involve any
reference to these exceptions. And so, the natural philosophy that Leibniz develops
will be a theory that is fully naturalized. The extent that the naturalized theory holds
of the actual world will depend on the extent to which God intervenes in the actual
world, and there is good reason to think that Leibniz regards this as minimal.
Leibniz’s philosophy of mind, in particular, is a fully naturalized theory of mind,
and he emphasizes this in his responses to Descartes and Malebranche, whom he
charges with gaps in their natural explanation that require recourse to miracles.
Leibniz says that he gives a more natural explanation. And he emphasizes this point
in one of his letters to Clarke:
physics, with its changing theories of energy-particles active within dynamic fields . . . already has great
similarities to the outlines of Leibniz’s monadology” (Loemker, Struggle for Synthesis, 211).
¹⁰¹ See G 7.343/AG 318–19. ¹⁰² Letter to Lady Masham, June 30, 1704 (G 3.355/AG 290).
¹⁰³ G 4.479/AG 139. ¹⁰⁴ G 4.482/AG 142.
    
This vulgar opinion, according to which we ought in philosophy to avoid, as much as possible,
what surpasses the natures of creatures; it is a very reasonable opinion. Otherwise nothing will be
easier than to account for anything by bringing in the deity, Deum ex machina, without minding
the natures of things.¹⁰⁵
Leibniz’s philosophy of mind concentrates on the “nature of things,” which Leibniz
regards as central to the task of the philosopher.¹⁰⁶
6. Conclusion
We have seen here that Leibniz’s objections against the occasionalists and others
yield a naturalizing project for Leibniz. This project includes the following claims:
natural transitions are continuous, intelligible, and fully grounded in the individual
natures of finite substances. Miraculous events would be discontinuous, unintelli-
gible, and appeal to powers beyond the powers of finite substances.
Recalling Leibniz’s arguments in the “Two Sects of Naturalists” essay, the intelli-
gible relations among natural objects will not necessarily involve only physical or
efficient causes. Rather, causes among mind-like entities, which operate also accord-
ing to desires and other sorts of final causes, can also be given a natural grounding.
And this is what we will see more fully in the remainder of the book.
Leibniz’s naturalism is motivated by theological considerations, but what it yields
is a regular, orderly, intelligible natural world (with very rare exceptions for mir-
acles). In particular, Leibniz aimed to provide a fully natural account of mental
properties and events, and he saw this as grounding a science of “pneumatology,”¹⁰⁷
which he expected to be just as fruitful as physics.
¹⁰⁵ G 7.416/LC Leibniz 5, §107.

¹⁰⁶ In On Nature Itself, Leibniz says that occasionalists “set aside the role of the philosopher altogether”
by thrusting “force back into a command of God” (G 4.508/AG 159). The philosopher must be attentive to
an explanation in terms of the nature. And in another example of Leibniz’s appeal to natural explanation is
given in the Specimen of Dynamics:
I believe that there is no natural truth in things whose explanations ought to be sought
directly from divine action or will, but that God has always endowed things themselves with
something from which all of their predicates are to be explained.
(GM 6.242/AG 125, emphasis added)
Natural truth is discovered by explanations in terms of the things themselves.
¹⁰⁷ A 6.6.56/NE 56.
PART II
The Metaphysical Basis
of Minds
4
Substance and Force
Nature cannot be so impoverished that it lacks a principle of action.¹
Leibniz is well known for his “monadology,” the view that the ultimate elements of
reality are simple mind-like substances. While there has been some controversy over
just when Leibniz adopted this position, there is little question that it is the dominant
view that emerges from Leibniz’s lifetime of work on the nature of substance.
This view will be particularly relevant to our purposes, since it is basic to Leibniz’s
naturalizing project. As we have seen, Leibniz put considerable effort into distancing
himself from occasionalism, and he gave no less effort to distancing himself from
Spinozism. On the one hand, Leibniz rejected occasionalism because, he argued, it
results in gaps in explanation and was ultimately unintelligible. He also thought that
the occasionalist conclusion that the only truly causally active substance was God
inevitably collapsed into Spinozism. He thought that not only was occasionalism
unintelligible, it was also undesirable. And so even though I argued in previous
chapters that occasionalists had responses available against the charge of unintelli-
gibility, these responses have taken us to a deeper objection, one that brings us to
Leibniz’s theory of substance.
Leibniz tries to steer a course between what he viewed as too supernaturalistic—
Malebranchian occasionalism—and what he viewed as too reductive—Spinoza’s
identification of God with nature. Both extremes have the same solution. Both
Malebranche and Spinoza failed to see that there is an intrinsic nature persisting in
finite substances which (pace Malebranche) is genuinely causally active and (pace
Spinoza) is truly individual and singular, not reducible to the nature of a more
encompassing substance.²
In Part I of this book, we have seen Leibniz argue for theoretical and normative
constraints on a natural theory. Malebranche fails some of these tests. In particular,
he fails the principle of order and continuity, resulting in an unintelligible and hence
unnatural order. Spinoza also fails, according to Leibniz. Although Spinoza arguably
would pass the test for continuity and order, Spinoza’s system does not preserve a full
account of personality and as such he fails to provide an account of a natural order
¹ Letter to De Volder, June 20, 1703, G 2.249/AG 174.

² While there may be readings of Spinoza that avoid this charge, Leibniz at least argued that this was
problematic for Spinoza’s theory of substance. But for discussion of the ways Leibniz and Spinoza might
come together, see Newlands, “The Harmony of Spinoza and Leibniz.”
 ’    
that is sufficiently rich to be choice-worthy of a divine mind. Even if one were to

grant that a Spinozistic metaphysic is intelligible as far as it goes, it doesn’t go far
enough. Spinoza delivers an impoverished nature—“red in tooth and claw,” perhaps,
but blind; at best “an infant crying for the light.”³
And so in order to position himself between the two views, Leibniz needs to
provide a naturalized account of causally active finite substances. That is, within
the theoretical constraints Leibniz has argued for, he needs to show us that there is a
clear and coherent metaphysic that involves created natures that have powers in their
own right. Leibniz’s naturalism is about natures (plural) as much as it is about nature
as a whole.
This focus will be rather important to Leibniz’s philosophy of mind, since minds,
for Leibniz, are special cases of the simple substances that permeate all of nature.
There is a continuity (no surprise!) between human minds, animal minds, and even
simpler mind-like substances that constitute other animate and inanimate objects. As
such, it will be crucial to get a clear picture of Leibniz’s theory of substance. There are
two aspects of substance that will take center stage: substances are active and
representational. Force and activity derive ultimately from simple substances, and
substances bear meaningful relations with their histories, their futures, and all other
substances. (To use one of Leibniz’s rather evocative metaphors, simple substances
are always pregnant—quite a telling image of a meaningful, powerful, and active state
of affairs!)
This chapter will summarize some of the important elements of Leibniz’s theory of
substance. I will not be making any particularly novel arguments here. Rather, I will
identify how Leibniz conceived of his theory of substance as providing a foundation
for a fully natural theory, distinguishing him from occasionalism and Spinozism. The
principal maneuver made by Leibniz is to revive Aristotelian substantial forms in a
modified fashion, which, he thinks, will provide an intelligible account of the
individual, causally active natures of things.
1. “All true predication has a basis in the nature

of things”
Johann Christopher Sturm was an experimentalist, mathematician, and natural
philosopher. It seems clear from the concluding section of On Nature Itself that
Leibniz held Sturm in some regard and hoped for a meeting of minds. However,
Sturm’s Idolum Naturae argued that natural philosophies that locate agency within
finite beings make an idol of nature, detracting from the power and glory of God. In
contrast, Leibniz argues that:
[Sturm’s] view is so far from increasing the glory of God by removing the idol of nature that,
quite the contrary, it seems with Spinoza to make of God the very nature of things, while
created things disappear into mere modifications of the one divine substance, since that which
³ “In Memoriam A.H.H.,” §§54–5, Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam,
2nd ed. (New York: W.W. Norton, 2004), 40–1).
   
does not act, which lacks active force, which is robbed of discriminability, robbed finally of all
reason and basis for existing, can in no way be a substance.⁴
This conclusion demonstrates some of the things that are at stake for Leibniz.
A theory of substance should provide a way of distinguishing created things from
God (as not mere modes of God), and the primary way of doing this is by locating
force—distinct from divine force—within created things themselves. Absent this,
finite things (res) are absorbed into the divine essence and cannot properly be
regarded as things as such.
Leibniz countered this with a notion of substance in which activity is essential: “the
very substance of things consists in a force for acting and being acted upon.”⁵ And
one of his intuitive appeals is to the human mind—everyone has first-hand access to
a simple substance of this sort:
For who would call into doubt that the mind thinks and wills, that we elicit in ourselves many
thoughts and volitions, and that there is a spontaneity that belongs to us? If this were called
into doubt, then not only would human liberty be denied and the cause of evil things be thrust
into God, but it would also fly in the face of the testimony of our innermost experience and
consciousness, testimony by which we ourselves sense that the things by opponents have
transferred to God, without even a pretense of reason, are ours.⁶
Here Leibniz is calling out the ways in which he regards the occasionalist and
Spinozist metaphysics as diminished. We could grant, of course, that each of us
has an experience of thought, volition, and spontaneity. Leibniz regards this as
evidence in favor of active powers resident in finite beings. What Sturm and others
must do is provide strong reasons against this evidence (which, of course, they do
attempt). Leibniz frequently argues in this way, and we see a kind of cogito argument
that grounds his further metaphysical claims.⁷ But he also appeals to some of the
unattractive consequences of the opposing view: if you are inclined to deny that
the human mind is active in itself, then you also must deny human freedom and
make God the cause of evil. Again, some might be willing to bite these bullets, but
they are strong marks against the theory.
If we grant Leibniz this basic position, that human minds, at least, are causally
active, then it is a quick inference to other mind-like substances:
[I]f we . . . attribute an inherent force to our mind, a force for producing immanent actions, or
to put it another way, a force for acting immanently, then nothing forbids, in fact, it is
reasonable to suppose that the same force would be found in other souls or forms, or, if you
prefer, in the natures of substances.⁸
⁴ G 4.515/AG 166. ⁵ G 4.508/AG 159. ⁶ G 4.510/AG 161.

⁷ See, for example, Letter to Lady Masham, May 1704 (G 3.339/NS 204), where Leibniz says that this
inference is based on the “principle of uniformity.” For more on the principle of uniformity, see Pauline
Phemister, “ ‘All the Time and Everywhere Everything’s the Same as Here’: The Principle of Uniformity in
the Correspondence between Leibniz and Lady Masham,” in Leibniz and his Correspondents, ed. Paul
Lodge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).
⁸ G 4.510/AG 161.
 ’    
This argument depends only on one’s experience of immanent actions of the mind—
that would be enough to demonstrate active powers in finite substances. If we grant
that the mind is active in its own domain (bracketing for now whether it is causally
related to any other thing), then the opposing view would need to provide further
evidence that would block the inference to other such substances.⁹
Again we see Leibniz’s appeal to active natures as grounding a fully natural
philosophy, based on a reasoning by analogy from the active natures we have
immediate access to—our own minds. The contours of Leibniz’s naturalism emerge,
in which natural changes are determined by individual finite natures and a robust
account of human nature plays an important role.
This argument is supplemented with other arguments in On Nature Itself, where
Leibniz mounts a significant attack against the occasionalist theory of substance. In
this work, he claims that occasionalism (a) collapses into Spinozism, (b) provides no
intelligible way to understand motion, (c) provides no means of individuating one
finite substance from another, (d) provides no intelligible account of natural transi-
tions or the persistence of things, and (e) ultimately provides no reason for the
existence of individual finite substances at all. In contrast, Leibniz describes his own
theory of substance as a theory that has a full and coherent response to each of these.
For Leibniz, “actions pertain to supposita,” which is to say that actions are proper
only to individual substances.¹⁰ This Scholastic slogan appears here in On Nature
Itself as well as the earlier Discourse on Metaphysics. In the Discourse, Leibniz
translates the phrase, “actions pertain to supposita,” into his predicate-in-subject
principle: “every true predication has some basis in the nature of things, and when a
proposition is not an identity, that is to say, when it is not expressly contained in the
subject, it must be included in it virtually.”¹¹ That is to say, for all true predications,
the predicate is contained in the subject. To spell out the translation, if the subject is a
“supposita” (individual substance) and actions are predicated of the subject, then, as
Michel Fichant points out, all actions will always be internal to the substance.¹²
Leibniz quickly moves from the predicate-in-subject principle to the thesis that all
causation is immanent causation.
The action of substance, as we saw in the comparison with human minds, is internal
to the substance. Leibniz says that “transeunt actions of created things . . . arise not
⁹ Such a view might be a personalism of the sort Bordon Parker Bowne advocated, based on his reading
of George Berkeley and Immanuel Kant, where the fundamental elements of reality are persons:
A world of persons with a Supreme Person at the head is the conception to which we come
as the result of our critical reflections. The world of space objects which we call nature is no
substantial existence by itself, and still less a self-running system apart from intelligence, but
only the flowing expression and means of communication of those personal beings.
(Bordon Parker Bowne, Personalism
(Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1908), 278)
¹⁰ For a good study of Leibniz’s reinterpretation of this Scholastic slogan and its connection to Leibniz’s
theory of substance, dynamics, and his criticisms of Spinoza, see Michel Fichant, “Actiones Sunt
Suppositorum: l’Ontologie Leibnizienne de l’Action,” Philosophie 53 (1997). For an account of the context
and history of the disputes about natural law to which On Nature Itself is responding, see Wilson, “De Ipsa
Natura,” 163.
¹¹ DM §8. ¹² Fichant, “Actiones Sunt Suppositorum,” 141.
   
from an influx, but through an agreement derived from divine preformation,

accommodating each thing to things outside of itself while each follows the inherent
force and laws of its own nature.”¹³ And even at the level of bodies, the action of a body
upon the impact of another body is due to “its very own force, namely by elastic
force.”¹⁴ The agency of finite substances will always be due to the immanent devel-
opment of the substance’s own properties, an internal unfolding of properties over
time according to inherent laws. And so the “nature” that Leibniz is here advocating
the causal power of individual substances to modify their own states over time
according to laws proper to them.
I will not here try to draw the bridge between Leibniz’s physics and the theory of
substance, since my interest is in how this picture provides the basis for Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind. I will say simply that Leibniz’s naturalizing project will develop
in several parallel lines. Given Leibniz’s pre-established harmony (which I will
discuss more in the final section of this chapter), the internal development of a
simple substance harmonizes with physical interactions, and physical interactions
express underlying forces in simple substances. The physical interactions will be well-
founded phenomena, which derive from the natural occurrences in simple sub-
stances, and, as we have seen, Leibniz applies the naturalizing constraints to physical
theories just as much as he will to the underlying development of states within a
simple substance.¹⁵
2. Substance, Force, and Living Mirrors

Leibniz’s theory of substance entails a plurality of mind-like simple substances
(which he calls “monads”), each of which has an internal activity that operates
according to a law inhering in it. Against the occasionalists, he argues for genuine
created powers. Against Spinoza, he argues that the mind is not a mere collection of
ideas, but a genuine subject that produces ideas.¹⁶ As Stefano Di Bella puts it,
“whereas in Spinoza ‘our’ nature is only a fragment of the ‘Nature’ as a whole causal
system, Leibniz uses that notion to give a stable and autonomous principle of action
¹³ G 4.510/AG 161. ¹⁴ G 4.515/AG 165.

¹⁵ Catherine Wilson describes the levels nicely, although she thinks that “nature” in the sense that
Leibniz is describing it in On Nature Itself will fall out at the physical level:
We may summarize this discussion by noting that Leibniz’s theory of activity and natural law
is expressed in his philosophy at three different levels. It is in the first instance at the monadic
level, the level of individual substance, that the notion of natural law as the command of God
finds its first application . . . At the second level, the world of physical objects which exist as
phenomena bene fundata, is governed by what are described as “subordinate rules,” which,
unlike the laws of the “general order,” are fully understandable by creatures. This general
order is expressed in individual substances; it stands in explicit contrast to “nature,” which is
the object of our investigations . . . Finally, activity and lawlikeness are displayed in the
organization of living things and in the organization of the world out of living things. Here
the Aristotelian distinction between art and nature reappears in Leibniz’s theory of the infinite
divine organic machine. (“De Ipsa Natura,” 167–8)
I will say more about levels of explanation in the final section of this chapter.
¹⁶ See Fichant, “Actiones Sunt Suppositorum,” 148.
 ’    
to each particular thing.”¹⁷ In this section, I want to give an outline of the nature of
these simple substances, the monads, and I will draw on two texts in particular: the
New System of Nature (1695) and the Monadology (1714). These texts play out the
implications of Leibniz’s claim that he is resuscitating substantial forms. I will
particularly focus on the nature of the finite simple substances and their relations
to one another.
First, in the New System of Nature, Leibniz provides a bit of intellectual biography:
In the beginning, when I had freed myself of the yoke of Aristotle, I accepted the void and
atoms, for they best satisfy the imagination. But on recovering from that, after much reflection,
I perceived that it is impossible to find the principles of a true unity in matter alone, or in what
is only passive, since everything in it is only a collection or aggregation of parts to infinity.
Now, a multitude can derive its reality only from true unities.
We have seen some of this intellectual development in earlier chapters. The emphasis
here is on a search for unity, that which will unify the various actions of substance.
Matter, being only passive, cannot provide this unity, the implication being that a
true unity is more than mere aggregation: it requires an activity that binds the parts
together in a way that is not only aggregated. And, Leibniz argues, any effort to derive
unity from the parts would lead to an infinite regress unless there were some
grounding unity, a “true unity.”¹⁸
Leibniz continues:
Therefore, in order to find these real unities I was forced to have recourse to a formal atom,
since a material thing cannot be both material and, at the same time, perfectly indivisible,
that is, endowed with a true unity. Hence, it was necessary to restore, and, as it were, to
rehabilitate the substantial forms which are in such disrepute today, but in a way that would
render them intelligible, and separate the use one should make of them from the abuse that
has been made of them.¹⁹
The “formal atom,” or substantial form that Leibniz reintroduces must be a true
unity. In a later version of this text, Leibniz elaborates: “I was forced to have recourse
to a real and animated point, so to speak, or to an atom of substance which must
include something of form or activity to make a complete being.” The true unities
could not be merely material, since matter is passive and therefore is not active in a
way that would provide for a complete being. A key ingredient of the formal atoms of
nature, then, is that they are not merely passive, as matter is—it is what will provide
unity to nature and make up the lack in Sturm’s theory (its failure to account for
motion, persistence, identity, change, existence). And so the first step in Leibniz’s
argument for the existence and nature of simple substances is a criticism of the
theories of matter that predominated in seventeenth-century Europe. Matter alone
¹⁷ Stefano Di Bella, The Science of the Individual: Leibniz’s Ontology of Individual Substance (Dordrecht:
Springer, 2005), 115.
¹⁸ See, for example, Leibniz’s letter to Arnauld, April 30, 1687 (A 2.2.184–8/AG 85–7). For an analysis of
Leibniz’s arguments, see Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 241–55.
¹⁹ G 4.478–9/AG 139.
   
will not provide the unity and activity that would ground a full and coherent natural
philosophy.²⁰
The return to Aristotle and a conception of substantial forms was controversial in
the early modern context. But the mechanist project could not survive without such a
metaphysical grounding, according to Leibniz, since the concept of matter was too
impoverished to account for the activity and interaction among material things that
were being observed, measured, and theorized. And yet substantial forms were
dismissed in the seventeenth century because they were thought to be unilluminat-
ing. Explanation in terms of matter in motion provided for greater advances in
physics and other areas of natural philosophy than did the supposition of substantial
forms. And so Leibniz needs to show that the substantial forms he advocates do not
return us to an ultimately unintelligible account of nature. And so, he promises to
“render them intelligible.” What is it that makes Leibniz’s substantial forms intelli-
gible in a way that Aristotle’s (or the Scholastic use of Aristotle’s concept) was
thought not to be?
Leibniz continues:
I found that their nature consists in force, and that from this there follows something
analogous to sensation and appetite, so that we must conceive of them on the model of the
notion we have of souls.²¹
As I understand this, Leibniz provides two things that will render the substantial
forms intelligible: (a) an account of their internal nature, and (b) an account of their
internal structure. Substantial forms had been “abused” by appealing to formal
properties as a mode of explanation that in the end were “mere verbalized redun-
dancies, interpretations of the unknown through the more unknown.”²² Leibniz, on
the other hand, sought to provide a common grounding for substantial form, a
ground that is common to all substantial forms, namely force, the key element lacking
in matter. Forces are throughout nature, and the substantial forms that account for
this are simple, unified, and active.
So far, this seems to be required by Leibniz’s critique of the theory of matter. But
he takes the argument one step further: given that force is dynamic, it has an internal
structure analogous to sensation (later he will say perception) and appetite. That is,
the internal structure of substances has complex momentary states and a continuous
tendency to change. It is not clear from this short passage just why the internal nature
of the substance has to have this structure. For one, why should it have an internal
complexity analogous to sensation rather than being fully homogenous? Leibniz gives
a very brief argument for this in Monadology §9: “It is . . . necessary that each monad
be different from each other. For there are never two beings in nature that are
²⁰ For more on Leibniz’s criticisms of mechanism, see Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist;
Stewart Duncan, “Leibniz on Hobbes’s Materialism,” Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science
41 (2010); Garber, “Leibniz: Physics and Philosophy”; Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad; Samuel
Levey, “On Unity and Simple Substance in Leibniz,” The Leibniz Review 17 (2007); and Margaret Dauler
Wilson, “Leibniz and Materialism,” in Ideas and Mechanism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1999).
²¹ G 4.479 /AG 139. ²² Loemker, Struggle for Synthesis, 96.
 ’    
perfectly alike, two beings in which it is not possible to discover an internal differ-
ence, that is one founded on an intrinsic denomination.” If there are a plurality of
substantial forms, all of which have the same nature (force), then there must some
internal variation that distinguishes one from another. This appeal to the Principle of
the Identity of Indiscernibles entails that there is variation and difference. And since
the substantial forms have the nature of force, which Leibniz says is not merely
potential but always active, then the complex inner state of each substance is also
constantly changing. As such, the substantial forms, while simple, have a complex
inner structure that is dynamic and active, constantly changing.
But, even if that is so, why would he describe this inner structure as analogous to
sensation and appetite, and substantial forms as analogous to souls? While we earlier
saw Leibniz arguing from analogy of the immanent causation we experience in our
own minds to the rest of the natural order, that argument is not sufficiently strong to
show that the internal structure of all substantial forms is like sensation, since the
argument entails only that there is an immanent causation among internal states. It
says nothing about what the states themselves must be like, and it would seem a
stretch to say that they are like sensations. Leibniz will ultimately argue that this
analogy is grounded in the pre-established harmony, according to which there is no
causation between substantial forms—there is only the immanent causation in each
form—but that God has regulated the changes in one form to correspond to the
changes in others. Each substantial form is expressive of a certain immanent force in
nature, and this is expressed in its relation to other forms. As the force of one
substantial form increases, the force of others will decrease, and this coordination of
forces creates a kind of harmony and agreement among all of the substantial forms.
Of course, if there is a plurality of substantial forms and each substantial form must
be unique in its internal structure, and since the nature of substantial forms entails
that it is constantly changing, there must be some sort of coordination among the
forms to ensure continued uniqueness. This initial conclusion already requires that
the internal structures of each substantial form entails a mapping from its internal
states to all other substantial forms, since each internal state is sensitive at each
moment to what is occurring in all other forms. In God’s creative act, according to
Leibniz, God ensured that each state of any substantial form is unique and that the
principles governing the internal development and change of these internal states is
coordinated with all of the others. There is a relation from one form to all of the others
built into each state and in the formula by which it generates subsequent states. In this
sense, each substantial form is an image of all others, a “living mirror of the uni-
verse.”²³ Note that I am not arguing that God has to do something to guarantee the
truth of the principle of the identity of indiscernibles. Rather, God has coordinated the
internal changes of individual substances such that they preserve uniqueness across all
changes. As Leibniz says, “God originally created the soul (and any other real unity) in
such a way that everything must arise for it from its own depths, through a perfect
spontaneity relative to itself, and yet with a perfect conformity to external things.”²⁴
This, initially, is why Leibniz describes the internal states of a substantial form as being
²³ M §56. ²⁴ G 4.484/AG 143.

   
analogous to sensation—the internal states are expressive or representative of external

things. And in the Monadology, Leibniz describes the nature of the monad as
representative, and as such “nothing can limit it to represent only a part of things,”
a point that will become important in developing Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.²⁵
Presumably, there are many ways the forms could have been coordinated—there is
no apparent inconsistency with a rather haphazard distribution of the correlating
substances. But the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of the best,
discussed in chapter 3, require that God select the distribution that would ensure
simplicity, variety, and intelligibility. In the New System, Leibniz argues that one
aspect of this ordering is that the mind is always in a close mutual relation with its
body. Leibniz says that “it is this mutual relation, regulated in advance in each
substance of the universe, which produces what we call [the] communication [of
soul and body], and which alone brings about the union of soul and body.”²⁶ The
harmony of the internal changes of the mind with changes in its body establishes a
“point of view” on the universe—the distribution of the representational relations
will always be via the body, and all substantial forms are embodied. Thus, all created
substantial forms will have a point of view on the universe via their body.
One radical upshot of Leibniz’s rehabilitation of substantial forms is that the
diversity of nature is grounded in continuous differences in substance. All of the
orders of substance, from bare substances up to minds, share the same nature and
differ only in their internal qualities, which can be continuously arranged. Bare
monads are “always in a stupor,” with “nothing distinct or, so to speak, in relief
and stronger in flavor.”²⁷ Leibniz uses the word “soul” to refer to animals, the simple
substances that have “heightened perceptions,” involving sensation and memory.
And he uses the word “mind” to refer to rational souls, which, he says “have
incomparably greater perfection than the forms thrust into matter.”²⁸ The notion
of a “distinct” internal state (what he will call a “distinct perception”) thus allows for
the differentiation of bare monads from souls from minds, and Leibniz’s naturalizing
project seems to entail that these differences in kind are also differences in degree.
One of the goals of this book is to see just how to spell this out, honoring both
Leibniz’s naturalizing commitments and the privileged position he gives to minds.
The basic materials are few: simple substances that have force as their nature and
have a complex internal structure that is actively changing and is coordinated with all
other substances. From this small set, Leibniz thinks he can get everything we might
want out of a philosophy of mind (and, for that matter, for all other aspects of natural
philosophy).
3. Active and Passive Force

In his correspondence with De Volder, Leibniz provides a full recipe for an organic
substance:
If you take mass to be an aggregate containing many substances, you can nonetheless conceive
of one substance that is preeminent in it, if indeed that mass constitutes an organic body
²⁵ M §60. ²⁶ G 4.484–5/AG 144. ²⁷ M §24. ²⁸ G 4.479/AG 140.

 ’    
animated by its primary entelechy. For the rest, in the monad, i.e., the complete simple
substance, I do not unite anything with the entelechy except a primitive passive force related
to the whole mass of the organic body. Indeed, the remaining subordinate monads placed in
the organs do not make up a part of the organic body, although they are immediately required
for it, and they come together with the primary monad for the organic corporeal substance, i.e.,
the animal or plant. I therefore distinguish: (1) the primitive entelechy, i.e., the soul; (2) matter,
namely, primary matter, i.e., primitive passive power; (3) the monad completed by these two
things; (4) the mass, i.e., the secondary matter, i.e., the organic machine, for which innumer-
able subordinate monads come together; and (5) the animal, i.e., the corporeal substance,
which the monad dominating the machine makes one.²⁹
In the context of these letters, Leibniz adopts a more restricted definition of soul, as
equivalent to the “entelechy,”³⁰ while the monad as a whole is constituted by both
the soul or entelechy and primary matter. I will say more in a moment about what the
“entelechy” is for Leibniz, but first I want to note a couple of other relations that come
out in this passage. First, note that organic bodies are secondary to the “subordinate
monads” that are “immediately required” for the body. That is, the matter of an
organic body is derivative on the primary matter within the monads. Secondly, the
animal as a whole is composed of the secondary matter (which presumes subordinate
monads) plus a dominating monad that has a primary function of unifying the
organic body. One aspect of the dominance of a monad, then, is its function in
unifying secondary matter, and this connects with Leibniz’s arguments in the New
System and On Nature Itself that an organic body cannot account for its own
individuation and unity in terms of the matter itself. I will not explore the nature
of corporeal substance much further here, since my primary interest is in the
function of the monads required for the organic body.³¹
²⁹ Lodge 265. There is a parallel passage in the Specimen Dynamicum:

Active force, which may well be called power . . . is of two kinds. The first is primitive
force . . . Primitive force, which is nothing but the first entelechy, corresponds to the soul
or substantial form, but for this very reason it relates only to general causes which cannot
suffice to explain the phenomena . . . Passive force is likewise of two kinds—primitive and
derivative. The primitive force of suffering or of resisting constitutes the very thing which the
Scholastics call material prima, if rightly interpreted.
(GM 6.236 / L 436–7, see also G 4.395 / AG 252)
³⁰ C.D. Broad explains this apparent equivocation on the word “soul”:
[T]he phrase “is the soul of ” has different implications [in the two contexts]. When we say
that an entelechy is the soul of an individual monad, we are speaking in terms of the
Aristotelian theory that soul and body are not two substances but are the form-factor and
the stuff-factor in a single substance. When we say that a dominant monad is the soul of a
man or a cat or any other living creature we are speaking in terms of the Platonic or
Cartesian theory that a soul is a substance and that the body which it animates is another
substance or collection of substances. In the end Leibniz has accepted both views, one for
the internal structure of the individual monad, and the other for the relation of soul and
body in a living creature. (Broad, Leibniz: An Introduction, 89–90)
For a useful outline of Leibniz’s use of the term “entelechy” in the De Volder correspondence, see Lodge
lxxxvi–lxxxix.
³¹ I am generally persuaded by Robert Adams’s account of Leibniz’s views on corporeal substance and
matter; see Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, Part 3. For an alternative interpretation, see
Garber, Leibniz: Body, Substance, Monad.
   
One interesting aspect of the taxonomy Leibniz provides here is that it gives us a
different principle of structure for the monad. In the previous section, we saw that for
Leibniz simple substances have force as their nature, and they have an internal
structure that mirrors the universe. But here Leibniz divides force between the
primitive entelechy and primary matter. De Volder confesses confusion on this
point, and Leibniz elaborates: “You think that the resistance in a substance can
bring about nothing other than the fact that the substance opposes its own active
power. But this should not seem absurd to you . . . Certainly there must be a principle
of limitation in limited things, just as there must be a principle of action in acting
things.”³² The division between entelechy and primary matter in a simple substance
is the division between a principle of action and a principle of limitation. Elsewhere,
Leibniz calls these two aspects of monads the primitive active force and the primitive
passive force—each simple substance has a primitive force that is active and another
that is passive. In his short essay, “On Body and Force, against the Cartesians,”
Leibniz explains it this way:
Active force . . . should not be thought of as the simple and common potential or receptivity to
action of the schools. Rather, active force involves an effort [conatus] or striving [tendentia]
toward action, so that, unless something else impedes it, action results. And properly speaking,
entelechy, which is insufficiently understood in the schools, consists in this.³³
The primitive active force is the “effort or striving” toward action, which will
succeed unless impeded. But the impediments are also built into the substance as
well in the form of the primitive passive force. And so the Aristotelian notion of
form and matter are both built into the simple substance: the primitive substantial
form, on this account, is nothing other than the primitive active force of the
substance, and prime matter is the primitive passive force in the substance. And
so we have a further modification of the Aristotelian system. In the previous
section, we noted that Leibniz modified the concept of substantial form by describ-
ing its nature (force) and its structure (internally complex states expressive of the
universe). In these passages, Leibniz is again drawing on Aristotelian terminology
(entelechy and prime matter), but he is recasting them as two attributes of a single
substance.³⁴ And in this sense, substantial form and soul refer primarily to the
active force in a substance.
How should we understand these two primitive forces in light of the basic
materials discussed above? The monad, as described in the Monadology and in the
letter to De Volder, is the simple substance that has both a primitive active power and
a primitive passive power. If the active power is what drives the action of a monad,
then the passive power is that which inhibits an action in a monad. In a passage that
we will revisit in later chapters, Leibniz says that “monads are limited, not as to their
objects, but with respect to the modifications of their knowledge of them. Monads all
go confusedly to infinity, or to the whole; but they are limited and differentiated by
the degrees of their distinct perceptions.”³⁵ The limitations of a monad are here
³² Lodge 277. ³³ G 4.395/AG 252.

³⁴ See RML 439–40/AG 259–60, where Leibniz describes active force, life, and antitypy as attributes
of a substance.
³⁵ M §60.
 ’    
described as limitations of knowledge—a lack of the distinctness of a perception,

which, he goes on to say, is due to the ways in which a monad’s body is affected by
other objects in the universe. Of course, this explanation shifts from primary matter
to secondary matter—if we were to remain on a constant level, then we would have to
say that there is an aspect of the substance that represents its own body in such a way
that generates limitations, hindrances to the development of other internal states.
And so, even the action of the primitive forces, both active and passive, will need to
be developed in terms of the representational aspect of the substance. We will return
to this in chapters 5 and 6.
4. Conclusion
This chapter has provided a sketch of Leibniz’s theory of substance. While I did not
analyze every aspect of his theory of substance in a brief chapter, my aim was to
provide a sufficient metaphysical background for Leibniz’s philosophy of mind. As
such, I have focused more attention on the internal nature and essence of substance
and the expressive relation each substance has of all others. I did not give as much
attention to the nature of matter or how matter is thought to be ultimately consti-
tuted by mind-like substances. I will discuss the nature of matter only as it becomes
important to understanding some aspect of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
What we have seen, though, is that Leibniz’s theory of simple substances estab-
lishes a few basic materials out of which the whole edifice of his philosophy of mind
will be constructed: active substances that are “living mirrors of the universe.” The
materials for this are primitive active and passive force, immanent causation, com-
plex internal structures that are also expressive relations, and coordinated qualitative
differences among substances. Everything in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind will
involve these in some form or another. In the next chapter, we will go deeper into
the nature of expression and perception in Leibniz.
5
Living Mirrors
Expression and Perception
Every substance is like an entire world and like a mirror of God or of the whole
universe, which each one expresses in its own way, somewhat as the same city is
variously represented depending on the different positions from which it is viewed.¹
As we saw in chapter 4, Leibniz believes that there is a plurality of substances (and so

he is not a substance monist), each of which has their own force, both active and
passive. Each substance is causally isolated but is continuously active, and so the
internal forces result in constant and continuous internal changes of state of each
substance. Leibniz at one point says that:
The nature of things is uniform and our nature cannot differ infinitely from the other simple
substances of which the whole universe consists. Indeed, considering the matter carefully, it
should be said that there is nothing in things except simple substances and in them perception
and appetite.²
And we also saw that the changes of each substance must be coordinated with the
changes of all other substances such that no two substances have at any time identical
internal states. This coordination and harmony of the internal activity of infinitely
many finite substances is metaphysical bedrock for Leibniz’s system—he argues that
these “monads” or simple substances are necessary for a full metaphysics of nature.
But since monads are simple, and therefore have no parts, the internal activity of
the substance cannot be accounted for in terms of the modification of parts. Rather,
he argues that “there must be diversity in that which changes,” and:
This diversity must involve a multitude in the unity or in the simple. For, since all natural
change is produced by degrees, something changes and something remains. As a result,
there must be a plurality of properties and relations in the simple substance, although it has
no parts.³
Note the emphasis on continuity of natural changes, which must apply internally to
the monad just as it is applied externally in Leibniz’s account of physics. The internal
diversity of changes is an internal quality of the monad that changes in a way that is
¹ DM §9. ² Letter to De Volder, June 30, 1704 (G 2.270/Lodge 307). ³ M §§12–13.

 ’    
coordinated with all of the other monads. Since they are coordinated, they bear an
expressive relation to all other monads, as I argued in chapter 4.
This internal state that represents other monads is what Leibniz calls “perception.”
In his words:
The passing state which involves and represents a multitude in the unity or in the simple
substance is nothing other than what one calls perception . . . The action of the internal
principle which brings about the change or passage from one perception to another can be
called appetition.⁴
And so, the statement quoted above that, strictly speaking, there is nothing but
“substances, and in them, perception and appetite,” is a summary of the monads and
the activity of the internal principles of change, which unfold according to their
own intrinsic “laws of the series,” but in a way that is coordinated with all of the rest
of the monads.
In this chapter, I will give a fuller analysis of perception, building on the theory of
substance outlined in chapter 4. I will begin by discussing two avenues that Leibniz
uses to argue for the existence of expressive relations among substances—he offers a
top-down argument (from our experience to the properties of all simple substances)
and a bottom-up argument (from a basic theory of substance to the interrelation of
all substances). Each argument has some difficulties, but I will in the end follow the
bottom-up argument.
I will then, in section 2, outline Leibniz’s general account of expression. In
section 3, I will apply this account of expression to simple substances, arguing
that there are two fundamental bases for expression in Leibniz: causation and
relations of structure. In section 4, I will consider Leibniz’s arguments for universal
expression and point of view. Finally, I will briefly consider the differences between
the two bases for expression in the simple substances and how this unfolds in
Leibniz’s account of substance.
1. Substance, Force, and Perception

Leibniz’s standard introduction of “perception” is as the “passing state which
involves and represents a multitude in the unity.” Elsewhere, he describes perception
as the “expression of many in one,” by which he means that the simple substance has
states that express all others. Before considering Leibniz’s account of expression,
there is an initial question to tackle: why should we regard the states of all simple
substances as perceptive states? That is, what is the nature of the internal state that,
Leibniz claims, bears an expression relation to other substances? Leibniz tells Clarke
that “the mere presence of a substance, even an animated one, is not sufficient for
perception. A blind man, and even a man whose thoughts are wandering, does not
see. The author must explain how the soul perceives what is without itself.”⁵ What is
needed in a substance to regard that substance as perceptive?
⁴ M §§14–15. ⁵ Third letter to Clarke, LC 28/L 683. See also LC 17/L 678.
  
We are given a couple of suggestions in the quotations above from the Monadology:
(a) the internal states are qualitative states rather than parts of a substance; (b) the
states are “passing,” which is to say, they are ephemeral, not lasting states of a
substance; (c) the internal states result from the continuous tendency of the internal
forces of the substance that he calls appetition; (d) they are not to be identified only
with the content of conscious perceptions, since many of the perceptions are not
present to mind in the same way; and (e) perceptive states are nevertheless analogous
to our own experiences of sensation and thought.⁶ We will unpack some of these in
due course.
There seem to be two directions of argument that Leibniz gives us for concluding
that there are such internal states of a non-extended substance, states that have the
above qualities. First, Leibniz sometimes gives a top-down argument. Since we have
experience of a non-extended substance that has complex and varied internal states,
there is nothing preventing us from attributing the same sorts of internal states to
other substances. As Leibniz says in a letter to Lady Masham:
As I am all for the principle of uniformity that I believe nature observes in its fundamentals,
even though it varies in its ways, degrees, and perfections, my whole theory comes down to
recognizing in substances beyond our sight and observation something parallel to what we see
in those which are within our range. So, taking it as now agreed that there is in us a simple
being endowed with action and perception, I think that nature would show little consistency if
this particle of matter which makes up the human body were the only thing endowed with
something which make it infinitely different from everything else . . . This leads me to think that
there are such active beings everywhere in matter, and that they differ only in the manner of
their perception.⁷
This argument is based on a number of additional claims. It depends on the claim

that what we experience first-hand cannot be explained via mechanism and
therefore is not extended. It depends on a uniformity thesis, that what we experi-
ence in our own case can be extended to other cases.⁸ It also depends on the
principle of continuity discussed in previous chapters in order to license the claim
that the analogy between our minds and other simple substances is not somehow
exhausted by conscious or rational beings. Given all of these dependencies, this is a
complicated argument, one that I myself have some reservations about. (Although
Leibniz himself seemed quite confident about the argument! I will raise some of my
reservations below.) What the argument does give us is an exemplar. In our own
case, we can introspect a substance like what Leibniz is describing. And so when we
ask about what such a substance might be, he can always gesture towards our own
first-personal experience as an example.
⁶ See, for example, M §§8, 14, 15, and G 4.478–9/AG 139.

⁷ Letter to Lady Masham, beginning of May 1704 (G 3.339/NS 204). See also Leibniz’s letter to Sophie
Charlotte, May 8, 1704, G 3.343/NS 221: “nature is fundamentally uniform, although there are differences
of degree and different levels of perfection. This produces a philosophy more pleasing and more intelligible
than any in the world.”
⁸ For discussion of the Principle of Uniformity, see Phemister, “All the Time and Everywhere Every-
thing’s the Same as Here.”
 ’    
Second, Leibniz also gives us a bottom-up argument. From his arguments

against Cartesian physics, he has concluded that mechanism cannot account for
the phenomena. In order to complete physics, we need to postulate a non-extended
qualitative aspect of bodies, namely force. This results in Leibniz’s rehabilitation of
Aristotelian substantial forms, which are necessary for a complete account of
nature but are not invoked in any physical theory. As noted in chapter 4, one
advance that Leibniz makes on the Aristotelian picture is that he gives an account-
ing of the internal structure of the substantial forms, which is supposed to make
them less mysterious. This internal structure is what will bear a harmonized
perceptive relation to all other substances, and so here he gives us an account of
the perceptive states of substance that does not rely on introspection and analogy
with human minds.⁹
Which of the two sets of arguments will give us a better sense for the metaphysical
nature of perception? The first argument, the top-down argument from first-person
experience, is open to a number of potential pitfalls. In particular, the analogy
between human experience and the internal states of all other substances is unclear.
Pauline Phemister raises an objection along these lines, arguing that since in the first-
personal case, our perceptual states are “sometimes accompanied by reflection, and
sometimes not,”¹⁰ we would expect Leibniz to conclude from the principle of
uniformity that “there are other beings who are similarly sometimes capable of
reflection everywhere in matter.”¹¹ But, of course, Leibniz limits reflection to rational
minds—he does not think that all perceptive beings are capable of reflection.¹²
Similarly, when introspecting our own experience, we may be tempted to empha-
size the factors of sensation and thought that make them available to us. That is, we
might be tempted by the conclusion that all substances have a similarly rich internal
experience of their perceptions. But Leibniz thinks this also is not the case, and he
says that Descartes and the Cartesians have fallen into this trap, taking “no account of
the perceptions that we do not apperceive.”¹³ (I will say more about Leibniz’s concept
of “apperception” below—for now, we can understand the failure of the Cartesians to
be a failure to acknowledge perceptions of which we are not aware.) And so to specify
the analogy between human experience and the internal states of all other substances,
we would first have to acknowledge that there are internal mental states in our own
minds of which we are unaware, and this acknowledgement cannot be based on first-
personal experience. Since the perceptions of which we are not aware are by defin-
ition outside of the scope of our present experience, any conclusion about them
would be by way of inference rather than acquaintance, and so the starting point for
the top-down argument in first-personal experience is already problematic. Perhaps
⁹ For an example of this argument, see the opening paragraphs of Leibniz’s “New System of Nature,”
(G 4.477–9/AG 138–9).
¹⁰ G 3.339/NS 205.
¹¹ Phemister, “All the Time and Everywhere Everything’s the Same as Here,” 210.
¹² Phemister explains Leibniz’s apparent insensitivity to this objection to his argumentative strategy
against Locke: “his hidden agenda meant that the presentation of his thoughts in a format that Locke would
find agreeable was at the forefront of his mind” (ibid., 211).
¹³ M §14.
  
we can conclude that there are other simple substances with complex inner states
analogous to our own sensation and thinking, but just what the internal states of
those simple substances might be is not immediately clear from this starting point.
(Leibniz does give us one additional comparison point: when we faint or are in a
deep, dreamless sleep, that is what it is like for the more basic simple substances.¹⁴
But, of course, this is not so illuminating!)
The bottom-up argument is more promising, I think, although it also has its
difficulties. The force internal to a finite simple substance is always limited—while
it has a kind of influence on all other substances, it is also influenced by the others.
That is, substances have both an active and a passive force. The limitations simply are
the modifications of substance. As Leibniz says in a letter to De Volder, “in modi-
fication there is only a variation of limits,” and so “modes only limit things and do
not increase them.”¹⁵ Since there are complex ways in which one substance is limited
by all of the other substances, the force will be modified in a complex way. As a result,
the internal force has a set of limits that relate it to all other substances, a point
I made in chapter 4. This does not occur through direct influence, according to
Leibniz. Rather, internal to each finite substance is a “law of the series” that deter-
mines each subsequent state of the substance, and this internal law is such that the
individual substance will always be coordinated with all other substances. To put it
another way, the passive resistance to a substance’s active force does not come from
the outside—it is built in to the substance’s nature itself in such a way that it limits
itself in a regulated way that coordinates with the changes occurring in all other
substances. (I will not rehearse Leibniz’s arguments for the pre-established harmony
here, since my aim is to show that from the pre-established harmony, Leibniz can
draw the conclusions that he needs.) The result is that the internal force of a
substance has a complex and changing set of internal limits that relate it to all
other substances, without causal influence from those other substances.
For an image of how force might be limited in a way that relates the substance to all
of the others, imagine a balloon packed tightly into a box with other balloons such
that they all end up squeezed into convoluted shapes. Each shape expresses a
complex relation that balloon has to all of the other balloons in the box, since the
balloon’s shape is the result of its having to accommodate the others. The main
difference is that, for Leibnizian substances, the shape is generated by the balloon
itself such that it is a natural fit for the other balloons. By observing the complex
shape of the balloon, we might be able to see how it might be related to the others.
The difficulty with the bottom-up argument, the limitations of internal active force
as the starting point for a theory of perception, is that it is then difficult to see just
how a set of limits of force will yield the rich inner experience described in the
starting point of the top-down argument. Why regard these limits as perceptual in a
way that is analogous to mental experience? Answering this question will be part of
the project for the remainder of the book. Since Leibniz describes perception as the
¹⁴ A 6.6.113/NE 113; M §20.

¹⁵ Letter to De Volder, November 19, 1703, G 2.257/Lodge 277. Robert McRae also notes the equiva-
lence of mode and limitation in Leibniz, citing GM 6.102/AG 254 and G 2.270/Lodge 307 (Robert McRae,
Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1976), 58).
 ’    
“expression of many in one,” I will next explore Leibniz’s notion of expression and
see how it relates to the modifications of force.
2. Leibniz’s Concept of Expression

The literature on Leibniz’s concept of expression has advanced a fairly subtle and
sophisticated development of Leibniz’s theory. The two main proposals I wish to
consider here are those advanced by Mark Kulstad and Chris Swoyer. I will begin by
summarizing Kulstad’s earlier account and then considering Swoyer’s development
and Kulstad’s later response. In the end, I will suggest that we haven’t quite gotten to
the bottom of matters, particularly as they relate to monadic expression.
Both Kulstad and Swoyer quote the following three passages as Leibniz’s defin-
itions of the concept of expression (presented here in chronological order):
1. That is said to express a thing in which there are relations that correspond to
the relations of the thing expressed.¹⁶
2. One thing expresses another (in my language), when there exists a constant and
fixed relationship between what can be said of one and of the other.¹⁷
3. It is sufficient for the expression of one thing in another that there should be a
certain constant relational law, by which particulars in the one can be referred
to corresponding particulars in the other.¹⁸
In these texts, Leibniz has established a fairly stable definition and usage of the
term ‘expression.’ There are small variations among the definitions, but they are
always accompanied by the same example: that of the projection of a circle onto a
regular plane, suggesting that the variations were not intended to signify departures
in definition.¹⁹
Along with these definitions, Leibniz provided many examples of the expression
relation. In his essay, “What is an Idea?,” Leibniz lists examples of “various kinds of
expression”: the model of a machine expresses the machine itself, the projective
delineation on a plane expresses a solid, speech expresses thoughts and truths,
characters express numbers, and algebraic equations express figures.²⁰ And, of
course, we know the oft-repeated example of each substance expressing the entire
universe.²¹ The examples are widely varied, and we might wonder whether there
could be a single general theory that captures what is common to all of these
examples. But, given Leibniz’s claim that these are “various kinds of expression,”
and given the stability of the definitions, we should expect that Leibniz had in mind a
general and univocal account of expression.
¹⁶ A 6.4.1625. Cf. A 6.1.286/L 91 n16, A 6.4.1508, and A 6.4.1093. ¹⁷ G 2.112/LA 144.

¹⁸ C 15/MP 176f.
¹⁹ For the variations among the definitions, see Mark Kulstad, “Leibniz’s Conception of Expression,”
Studia Leibnitiana 9 (1977): 58f. Kulstad favors the third passage as the canonical one, given the clarity
with which it captures the geometric examples.
²⁰ For a more complete catalogue of examples, see Kulstad, “Leibniz’s Conception of Expression,” 57
and Chris Swoyer, “Leibnizian Expression,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 33 (1995): 66f.
²¹ A 6.4.1541f./L 308.
  
Mark Kulstad goes some distance towards providing a general account. Starting
with the geometrical examples, Kulstad presents an account of expression that treats
it as a relation that holds between sets. Here is Kulstad’s initial attempt at stating
what Leibniz had in mind (for reference purposes, I label the formulations with the
letter Kulstad used in his article):
(A) X expresses* Y if and only if (R) (Rx is a function from X into Y).²²
Let me first briefly introduce the technical vocabulary that will be needed to spell out
the account. It is important to Kulstad’s account that R be functional, by which he
means that “it is a binary relation whose extension contains no two ordered pairs
with the same first element and different second elements.”²³ Kulstad’s use of
‘expresses*’ refers to the species of expression that is particular to sets. X and Y are
sets that are related by a particular function, R. Rx refers to the extension of the
function R. A function f from one set, X, is said to be into another, Y, if for every
element u of X there is a corresponding element v in Y such that f(u)=v. And, finally,
a function f from one set, X, is said to be onto another, Y, if for every element v of Y
there is a corresponding element u in X such that f(u)=v.
(A) is claiming that the set X expresses the set Y just in case there is some relation
that serves as a function from X into Y. Kulstad worries that this account, while
capturing something of what Leibniz was after, fails to be sufficiently informative. All
it tells us is that X and Y are sets. It tells us nothing about the nature of the relation
between them.²⁴
In response to this objection, Kulstad clarifies his model, suggesting that
“expresses” is elliptical in the same way that “similar” is. When someone says that
Jim is similar to Bob, she includes in that claim an implicit statement—she is
claiming that Jim is similar to Bob in a certain respect. Thus, Kulstad says, it is best
to treat “similar to” as elliptical. Everything is similar to everything else in some
respect. It is only an interesting claim when the respect in which they are similar is
understood (whether explicitly or implicitly by contextual clues, etc.). The same is
true, Kulstad argues, for Leibniz’s account of expression. When we say that X
expresses Y, we are referring (explicitly or implicitly) to some particular relation
that holds between them. Thus, Kulstad’s follow-up formulation is this:
(D) X expresses* Y according to R if and only if Rx is a function which maps X
into Y.²⁵
²² Kulstad, “Leibniz’s Conception of Expression,” 63.

²³ Ibid., 64n14. The geometrical examples certainly suggest a functional account, as Kulstad has
presented it, but I would hesitate to carry this over into the fully general account of expression for reasons
that I will present below.
²⁴ Cf. Ibid., 64 and Kulstad, “Leibniz on Expression: Reflections after Three Decades,” 2–4.
²⁵ I have skipped the intervening formulations, which were simply intermediate steps on the way to (D).
See “Leibniz’s Conception of Expression,” 65–6 for these intermediate steps as well as for the notes on the
transition to the language of ‘mapping’. The difference is this: To say that f is a function from X into Y is to
say that “the domain of f is X and the range of f is a subset of Y.” To say that f maps X into Y is simply to say
that “X is a subset of the domain of f and for every member x of X, f(x) is a member of Y.” The terminology
of mapping leaves open the possibility that there be multiple expressing sets.
 ’    
This new formulation adds to the prior one an explicit reference to the relation that
establishes the expression relation between X and Y. Thus, for example, if the set X were
[1,2] and the set Y were [–1,–2,–3, . . . ] and the relation R were multiplication by –1, the
resulting extension of R would be [(1,–1), (2,–2)], which is a map of X into Y. Kulstad’s
initial formulation of expression, (A), tells us only that X expresses Y by some relation.
This, Kulstad worries, is vacuous—so vacuous that it could not have been Leibniz’s
intention. But the modification, (D), gives us some very useful information and, import-
antly, disambiguates the claim that X expresses Y. Now we have clarity on precisely how
X expresses Y and precisely what the relation between the two sets is thought to be.
This modification requires one further step before Kulstad is comfortable attrib-
uting it to Leibniz. The analysis so far has been limited to expression between sets.
But, as is clear from many of Leibniz’s examples, not all expression relations are
relations between sets. Most clearly, the expression in a simple substance and the
expression of God are not expression relations that are between sets. So, to fully
generalize the view, Kulstad introduces an additional condition to the model: the
expression relation will either be between sets themselves or between sets associated
with one of the terms. Here is Kulstad’s revised analysis:
(E) x expresses y according to relation R if and only if (w)(z)(w is a set
associated with x and z is a set associated with y and Rx is a function
which maps w into z).²⁶
Thus, for example, a monad can express a body if there is some associated set (say, a
set of the monad’s properties) that stands in the right relation to the set associated
with the body (say, an aggregation of its parts). This is a fully general account, which
will allow for the expression of one thing by another, as long as there are associated
sets that stand in the right relation to one another.
Although this fully general account is complex, it can make sense of the various
examples of expression that Leibniz provides. The list of various kinds of expression
above is sufficient to show that the different kinds of expression must specify some
relation particular to the example (e.g., the expression of a machine by a model will
depend on a different kind of relation than the expression of a number by a
character). Kulstad’s analysis makes this shift in relation perspicuous.²⁷ This will
²⁶ Ibid., 74. Kulstad offers one further analysis, which he thinks may have some advantages over (E):
(F) x expresses y, in virtue of sets w and z, and according to relation R if and only if w and z are sets
associated with x and y respectively, and Rx is a function which maps w into z.
The advantage of this formulation is that it is explicit about which associated sets we have in mind.
(E) merely claims that there are two sets; (F) is more informative by specifying the two sets. Kulstad does
not choose between these two options, and for my own analysis the difference will not be important.
²⁷ I worry, however, that the example has retained a residual aspect of the expression of one set by
another: the requirement that the relation R be a function of one into the other. I think this will be too strict
to capture Leibniz’s most general account, for he would allow for a many-to-one relation in expression. For
example, just as a map expresses a country, so might a country express the map. Also, just as certain
characters express numbers, so might one character (or set of characters) express multiple concepts. To use
an example from Russell, ‘xRy’ is an accurate expression of the proposition expressed by “Brutus killed
Ceasar” and the proposition expressed by “Plato loved Socrates” (Bertrand Russell, “Vagueness,” in
Vagueness: A Reader, ed. Rosanna Keefe and Peter Smith (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 66). But,
if expression requires the relation to be functional, ‘xRy’ is not an expression of either. The texts that led
  
become very important in the analysis to come, since we will have to consider
whether all cases of monadic expression make use of the same relation. If so, then
we can use the term expression fairly freely, without fearing equivocation. If not,
however, then we must be cautious in our use of the term.
Swoyer believes that Kulstad missed the essential aspect of Leibniz’s theory of
expression—that it is the preservation of structure that is essential to expression.
“Kulstad’s account,” Swoyer says, “omits the feature that is central to mine, namely,
the claim that the correlating relation must preserve structure.”²⁸ Without this aspect,
Swoyer says, Kulstad’s account is incomplete.
The motivation for considering structure preservation as essential to Leibniz’s
theory of expression comes from two sources: First, the paradigm cases of expression,
the conic projections, are cases of structure preservation, and it is this aspect of the
projections to which Leibniz draws our attention. Second, and perhaps more import-
antly for Swoyer, it comes from a consideration of the role expression plays in
Leibniz’s philosophy. Expression, according to Leibniz, allows us to reason about
the thing being expressed, and it is the preservation of structure that enables this. As
Leibniz says:
What is common to all these expressions is that we can pass from a consideration of the
relations in the expression to knowledge of the corresponding properties of the thing
expressed.²⁹
Because the relations preserved in the expression mirror (to some extent) the
relations among the properties of the thing expressed, by a consideration of the
expression we can know something about the object of the expression. Swoyer calls
this surrogative reasoning—the ability to reason about an object by reasoning about
its surrogate expression. Surrogative reasoning requires structure preservation, since
the structure of the relations is what enables us to know something about the
structure of the object. If surrogative reasoning is the central role for expression to
play in Leibniz’s philosophy, then it seems that structure preservation will be
essential to expression.
Structure preservation, for Swoyer, will come down to a preservation of a relation
of the thing expressed in a correlating relation in the expression. To make this
preservation precise, Swoyer says that a relation is preserved under a correlating
relation just in case a group of things (taken in some particular order) stand in that
relation if and only if their images under the correlating relation (taken in the
corresponding order) stand in the surrogate of that relation. This can be put more
concisely with a bit of notation:
A function, *, from the constituents of one thing, O, to those of a second, E, preserves the
n-place relation RO of O just in case, for each n-tuple of constituents X₁, . . . ,Xn of O:
Kulstad to the conclusion that Leibniz’s theory of expression depended on functional relations were
geometric examples, where functional relations make most sense. But I think it is a mistake to import
that requirement into a fully general account of expression for Leibniz. Swoyer criticizes Kulstad on this
point as well (Swoyer, “Leibnizian Expression,” 85).
²⁸ Swoyer, “Leibnizian Expression,” 85. ²⁹ A 6.4.1370/L 207.
 ’    
(PR) ROx₁ . . . xn if and only if REx₁* . . . x*n,

where RE is the surrogate for the original relation RO.³⁰
If this preservation is one-to-one and onto, preserving all the relations of O, then the
structure of E is isomorphic to the structure of O. So, an isomorphic expression is one
that preserves all the structural relations from one to the other. However, Swoyer
thinks this is too strong to require of Leibniz’s general account of expression. All that
is required for surrogative reasoning is that the structures we are reasoning about
be preserved in the expression.³¹ And Leibniz’s examples seem to bear this out—
there will be many features of a machine that are not preserved in its model, just
as there will be many features of a city that are not preserved in a map of the city. But,
in each case, certain structures are preserved, making the model and the map useful
surrogates for reasoning about the machine and the city.
Swoyer’s analysis of Leibniz’s concept of expression entails that one thing
expresses another “just in case there is a structure-preserving mapping from either
to the other.”³² But given this weak claim, we find Swoyer sharing in Kulstad’s
anxieties about his interpretation being too liberal. If relations are easy to come by,
then “almost anything would count as an expression of anything else.”³³ He does
not believe that “Leibniz had such a liberal view of relations,” and so perhaps this is
not a worry.
This possibility, it seems to me, should not worry Swoyer or Kulstad. Could we not
simply grant that, for Leibniz, expression comes easy, but then add that not all
expressions are equally useful or informative? It is by specifying the relation (for
Kulstad) or the relevant preserved structure (for Swoyer) by which one thing
expresses another that the expression relation becomes illuminating. Thus, I think
the details of both analyses are sufficient to mitigate this worry—we need simply to
restrict our discussion of expression (in a certain context) to the relevant relational
details of the expression and the thing being expressed. And it seems that Swoyer’s
account has a very useful way of identifying which of the preserved structures will be
useful and informative—they will be the ones that allow us to reason usefully about
the thing being expressed.³⁴
³⁰ Swoyer, “Leibnizian Expression,” 80. (PR) stands for a preservation relation.

³¹ As Swoyer says, “Leibniz’s geometrical examples suggest that one thing is expressed by a second just
in case there is a function from the first to the second that preserves some, but not necessarily all, of the first
thing’s relations, and it is best to simply say this” (ibid., 81).
³² Ibid., 82. ³³ Ibid.
³⁴ Timothy Williamson raises this exact worry about any representation system that depends on
structure-preservation. He says, contra Russell, that construing representation as structure-preserving
will prove too much. Such a definition will allow virtually anything to be a representation of anything
else, provided we discover the appropriate relations in the one that fix the relations in the other.
I personally don’t see the weight of this objection. The claim seems to be that representation comes too
cheaply. Should we not include such things as intentions and require that the structure-preserving relations
be non-accidental? Perhaps so, if we wish to narrow representation to those that are more reliable in some
sense. But that is to get the cart before the horse. The real work in Leibniz’s (and Russell’s) system seems
not to be in discovering representations, but in determining what makes a representation a good one. To
say that a representation is accidental simply shows that one might not gain useful information from the
representation, not that it fails qua representation. Cf. Timothy Williamson, Vagueness (London: Routledge,
1994), 61–4.
  
Kulstad’s account differs from Swoyers’ in emphasizing the mapping of one thing
onto another, while Swoyer emphasizes the structural relations, regardless if there is a
precise mapping in Kulstad’s technical sense. Provided that the preserved relations
allow for reasoning about the relations in the object expressed, that will be sufficient.
Let me now consider one further step in the dialectic—Kulstad’s response to
Swoyer’s structural analysis. Kulstad grants that “preservation of structure is an
important feature of a great many cases of Leibnizian expression,”³⁵ but he does
not think Swoyer’s account is sufficiently general to capture all of the cases. Instead,
he thinks that his own functional analysis and Swoyer’s structural analysis could be
brought together, resulting in a richer account. This new analysis, he thinks, should
capture Benson Mates’ concise formula for expression:
the relation is more general than [some sort of structural isomorphism], requiring only that
from features of the expression it should be possible to derive, by some sort of calculation based
on a law, features of the thing expressed, as in the case of the algebraic equation and the circle it
characterizes. Still another example would be an encoded or enciphered text, and the plain text
it represents.³⁶
The richer analysis Kulstad has in mind would include Swoyer’s structure-preserving
relation as a subcategory, but it need not be essential to all cases of expression.
An example might help clarify what is at issue. What sorts of cases would be
captured by Kulstad’s envisioned analysis but would be difficult to fit into Swoyer’s
requirement of structure-preservation? Here is one example that comes to mind:
x² + y² = 1 expresses a particular circle, which can be easily represented on the Carte-
sian coordinate plane with its center at (0,0) and its circumference passing through the
points (0,1), (1,0), (0,–1), (–1,0). Other than the very trivial structure relations that
Kulstad and Swoyer worry about, what useful structures do the equation and the circle
have in common? Not any.
Swoyer worries about just this problem:
This raises a problem for my account, since geometrical figures do not have parts that stand in
relationships that correspond to the relationships among the parts (on any natural construal of
this notion) of an equation.³⁷
To avoid this problem, Swoyer offers reasons to think that when Leibniz talks
about equations expressing figures, he really means to say that the solution set for
the equation (the ordered pairs of numbers that satisfy the equation) expresses the
figure. This is similar to Kulstad’s discussion of “associated sets” in his 1977 article.
If expression is a relation of structure or of sets, then the example of an equation
expressing a figure is problematic—for both Kulstad and Swoyer—unless we appeal
to the solution set for the equation.
However, in the spirit of Kulstad’s more general account, we might say that this
is an example of one thing (the equation) expressing another (the circle) without
³⁵ Kulstad, “Leibniz on Expression: Reflections after Three Decades,” 6.

³⁶ Benson Mates, The Philosophy of Leibniz: Metaphysics and Language (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1986), 38, qtd. in Kulstad, “Leibniz on Expression: Reflections after Three Decades,” 6.
³⁷ Swoyer, “Leibnizian Expression,” 90.
 ’    
sharing any interesting structural relations. The parts of the equation simply do not
map onto the parts of the circle in any significant way. (Similarly, there is no
significant mapping between the relations between parts of the equation and the
relations between parts of the circle.) So, on Kulstad’s and Swoyer’s accounts, the
equation does not express the circle, unless one first passes through an intermediate
stage (inferring the solution set from the equation) that gets us to something that does
express the circle. However, the fact that both Kulstad and Swoyer ultimately appeal
to the solution set of the equation is instructive (indeed, it is the natural step to take).
There is something preserved in the equation that expresses the circle, but it isn’t
structure. Here is one possibility: the salient feature of equations is that they preserve
information—information that allows us to construct the expressed figure.³⁸ (I take
Swoyer’s and Kulstad’s appeals to the solution set to be an implicit reference to the
information-preserving aspect of the formula.) If we can come up with an analysis
of expression in which information is preserved, then we will have an analysis that
captures this somewhat anomalous case. Further, we would have a way of captur-
ing what is important about the structure-preserving cases discussed by Swoyer,
since preservation of structure is one very useful way to preserve information.
Further, it is by means of this information preservation that analytic geometry is
useful at all—it is useful in the surrogative ways that Swoyer proposes because the
equations preserve information about the figures they express in a way that makes
it easy to reason about them.³⁹
One might worry about whether an appeal to information counts as an advance—
perhaps I am merely explaining the obscure by means of the obscure. I have not given
anything by way of a theory of information here. I will say a bit more about this
below, but in general this is right. One thing that might help fill in the account is a
theory of symbols or signs, which encode information. That is to say, Leibniz might
need to supplement this very syntactical account of expression with a semantics of
representation, which Leibniz does seem to think operates at the level of reason. The
equation expresses the circle because it can be interpreted under a proper grammar as
expressing the circle. Thus, we might say that Leibniz’s most general account of
expression is an account in which information is preserved. Perhaps more clearly,
Leibniz’s account of expression seems to include an account of semantic information:
how certain symbols or properties are informative independently of the particular
relational or structural properties they exhibit. What Kulstad’s and Swoyer’s accounts
assume is that the semantics can be derived from syntax, that the particular relations
and structures of a system yield the semantic content of the particular relata.
I don’t want to put too much of a formal point on this claim. However, it may
be helpful to characterize the expression relation in the following way, recognizing
it to be incomplete. Let’s say that information is preserved according to a certain
model, M. (For example, in the case of the equation of the circle, the model
³⁸ I am indebted to Robert Adams for discussion on this point.

³⁹ We might associate this information-preserving character of expressions with what Leibniz calls
“expression by consequence” (exprimitur per consequentiam), which at A 6.4.1525 he says is how bodies
express past and future events. He contrasts this with “representation per se” (per se repraesentatur), which
is how souls represent past and future events. Cf. A 6.4.917.
  
presupposed is that of Euclidean geometry and the Cartesian coordinate plane.) Now
we can define the expression relation as follows:
(I) x expresses y according to model M iff, given M, some set of properties, P,
of y are inferable from x.
When x expresses y by preserving certain aspects of its structure, then M will be a
fairly straightforward specification of the relations in y and the correlating relations
in x, much as Swoyer proposes. But when x expresses y by preserving information
that yields or encapsulates y, then the model by which y can be discovered must be
spelled out. This sits well with Mates’ description of the information-preserving
cipher—this is best thought of as a preservation of information, not of structure.
But, in order to get at the information, one must also have available the method of
deciphering the text, which will be spelled out in M.⁴⁰ (Of course, the expressive
information may be distinct from the presentation in the mind (i.e., the phenomenal
quality of the expression). This will come out more fully in the discussion of
perceptual distinctness.)
One worry immediately arises. Given Leibniz’s frequent references to structural
similarity, one might worry that we have encountered a philosophical problem for
Leibniz rather than uncovering a philosophical assumption that Leibniz is making.
I will not take a hard line on this. However, it does seem open to interpret the passage
quoted above in this way. I repeat it here:
One thing expresses another (in my language), when there exists a constant and fixed
relationship between what can be said of one and of the other.⁴¹
Not enough attention has been given to Leibniz’s claims about the “constant and
fixed relationship” by which the one can be referred to the other. This relationship, in
the texts quoted above, is called a “law of relations” and a “certain constant law,”
which may put us in mind again of the relations of the parts of the expressed thing
and the expression. However, Leibniz had something else in mind: a law according to
which what is contained in one can be inferred from the other. The law will vary
depending on the kind of expression under consideration, but it is the law that will
determine how one thing expresses another. Swoyer’s analysis tries to reduce this
“law of relations” to a single principle, that of structure-preservation. But, given the
generality with which Leibniz applies the concept, this seems too stringent. Rather,
what is needed to understand how one thing expresses another is to understand what
particular law relates the two to one another, and this will differ depending on the
kind of expression involved.
⁴⁰ For discussion of semantic concepts of information, see Yehoshua Bar-Hillel and Rudolf Carnap,
“Semantic Information,” The British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 4 (1953): 147–57, discussed in
Manuel Bremer and Daniel Cohnitz, Information and Information Flow: An Introduction (Berlin: Walter
de Gruyter, 2004), chapter 2, and Luciano Floridi, “Outline of a Theory of Strongly Semantic Information,”
Minds and Machines 14 (2004): 197–221. I don’t intend to attribute anything quite like this to Leibniz, but
these will provide a sense for one direction the discussion could take once one notices a need for semantic
content that is not derivable from the structural relations of a thing.
⁴¹ G 2.112/LA 144.
 ’    
The model, M, in the schema above will encapsulate this “law of relations,”
providing the necessary rules for determining how the expression relates to the
expressed. Thus, for an equation, the model will be the axiomatic system of analytic
geometry, specifying how the symbols correlate to a solution set, which allows for the
construction of the expressed circle. But, given some other model, the same equation
will express something entirely different.⁴²
3. Natural Expression, Causation,

and Relations of Structure
One result of this information-theoretic way of understanding Leibniz’s concept of
expression is that there are multiple ways that one thing can express another, and the
laws relating them will differ. This way of understanding expression will open up the
theory to interesting applications when we apply it to the particulars of mental
representation. In particular, the preservation of structure will work well in develop-
ing an account of the ways perception is due to the passive force of the simple
substance, since the complex effects of the passive force will map onto the substances
in the universe in a structural way. Similarly, the non-structural information-
theoretic reading of expression will allow us to see the ways the internal laws of the
series will provide a model for the generation of active expressions, including
unifying underlying perceptions and in drawing rational inferences and producing
abstract concepts. This active aspect of expression in the mind has not been
adequately appreciated in the literature.
Strictly, Kulstad’s functional account and Swoyer’s structural account are passive,
which is why they become concerned that their accounts are too liberal. One thing
doesn’t have to be intended or actively employed as an expression of another thing in
order to have functional or structural relations with that other thing. I did not
appreciate this distinction in passive and active modes of expression prior to writing
this chapter. Someone who does recognize this distinction is Martha Bolton:
Perceptions express in virtue of structure that precludes their representing anything without
parts . . . Ideas, which are capable of representing [explanatory connections and validity] have
expressive structure entirely different from that of perceptions . . . The metaphor [of the shape
of Hercules in the rough marble] alludes to an active tendency. The point is that our forming
thoughts from time to time would have no natural explanation, if we lacked the ability, for
Leibniz an active tendency, to do such things.⁴³
⁴² The full details of this information-theoretic approach still need to be spelled out. Dretske, Knowledge
and the Flow of Information provides a fairly detailed analysis of information that would in many ways fit
nicely with the model I’ve suggested Leibniz follows. Dretske’s definition of information is designed to
meet three conditions: (a) a no-noise condition—x’s expression of y should not be obscured by other
information; (b) a no-equivocation condition—x’s expression of y should be sufficient to pick out the
properties of y and not some other object; and (c) a success condition—the properties of y must be as they
are represented to be (in order not to be a misrepresentation). It is an interesting question just how well
Leibniz’s model fits these three conditions, but I will not pursue this any further here.
⁴³ Martha Brandt Bolton, “Leibniz’s Theory of Cognition,” in The Continuum Companion to Leibniz,
ed. Brandon C. Look (London: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2011), 152.
  
As I understand her point here, Bolton is arguing that there are two distinct forms of
expression (which she calls perception and idea), which result from different internal
tendencies in the simple substance. But this will apply to a more general account of
expression as well, since a token of the word “horse” can express a horse, although
one might wish to count this as derivative on the mind’s ability to derive one from the
other. What distinguishes expressions that are foundational to the nature of things
from those that derive from convention?
In an early essay called “What Is an Idea?,” Leibniz raises this very point: “some
expressions have a basis in nature, while others are arbitrary, at least in part, such as
the expressions which consist of words or characters.”⁴⁴ Natural expressions “either
require some similarity, such as that between a large and a small circle . . . or require
some connection such as that between a circle and the ellipse which represents it
optically, since any point whatever on the ellipse corresponds to some point on the
circle according to a definite law.”⁴⁵ Natural expressions, according to this statement,
reduce either to similarity or connections. Even if A is not similar to B, provided there
is a law by which A can continuously become B (as in the transformation of the circle
into an ellipse), then B is a natural expression of A.
This will allow us to make sense of Leibniz’s claim that “every entire effect
represents the whole cause, for I can always pass from the knowledge of such an
effect to a knowledge of its cause.”⁴⁶ If X causes Y, then there is a “definite law” that
connects Y to X, and so there is a regular relation of connection between any total
cause and its whole effect. Leibniz applies this to two cases: “the deeds of each one
represent his own mind, and in a way the world itself represents God.”⁴⁷ Since what
passes in one’s mind, according to Leibniz, is caused by the mind itself, then the effect
will express the cause—the perceptions in the mind will express the mind. Similarly,
the world expresses God.
It might be thought that this causal account of expression will provide the general
account of expression, since expression is here explained in terms of causes. However,
we must remember that for Leibniz genuine causation is limited to two domains:
(a) God is the cause of the world (and, in causing the world, God is the cause of each
individual substance in the world), and (b) each individual substance is the cause of
its own passing states. So, there are only two kinds of things that can act as genuine
causes: infinite divine substance and finite simple substance. Since one finite substance
has no genuine causal influence on another finite substance, causation cannot ground
expression relations among finite substances. And yet Leibniz does think that sub-
stances do express one another. So, although causes ground one sort of expression, it
does not ground all forms expression. This is why Leibniz appeals to two forms of
natural expression: resemblance and connection. Causation is a relation of connection,
but other forms of expression can be due to a natural resemblance.
The way Leibniz describes resemblance is relatively loose—there is a resemblance
between two circles, just as there is a resemblance between a geographic region and
the map of the same region. But we can spell this out in terms of the structural
account offered by Swoyer that we discussed above. Provided there is sufficient
⁴⁴ “What is an Idea?” A 6.4.1371/L 208. ⁴⁵ Ibid. ⁴⁶ Ibid. ⁴⁷ Ibid.

 ’    
preservation of structure that would allow one to recognize one in the other and
reason about one by means of the other, then it seems that the resemblance relation
will hold.
These two forms of natural expression—resemblance and connection—seem to
suggest that for Leibniz the natural expressions do in fact reduce to functional or
structural considerations, as argued by Kulstad and Swoyer. However, Leibniz talks
about one additional relation in this essay, and it is not clear just how he thinks it
relates to resemblance or connection: “Although . . . the idea of a circle is not similar
to the circle, truths can be derived from it which would be confirmed beyond doubt
by investigating the real circle.”⁴⁸ Here we have a failure of resemblance—the circle
does not resemble an idea—and we have a failure of connection—the circle is not the
cause of the idea (since the idea is had prior to “investigating the real circle”). What
sort of expression is this, then?
Leibniz argues that this sort of expression derives from a particular cause:
That the ideas of things are in us means . . . nothing but that God the creator alike of the things
and of the mind, has impressed a power of thinking upon the mind so that it can by its own
operations derive what corresponds perfectly to the nature of things.⁴⁹
One consequence of Leibniz’s causal account of expression is that “effects which arise
from the same cause express each other mutually.” And so there is a connection, just
not a direct connection—it is mediated by a common connection with the divine
cause. But importantly, Leibniz describes the effect as not generating a resemblance
(and hence, I think, it does not require either a functional account or a structural
account of expression). Rather, Leibniz says that the mind “can by its own operations
derive” information about “the nature of things.” That is, God has impressed in the
mind an active force that allows it to generate information out of its own depths. But
the information is not arbitrary in the way that “words or characters” would be—it
has a natural basis in the mind due to the fact that it expresses the divine mind, which
is the source of all things.
And so, we find that Leibniz’s account of natural expression tracks the distinctions
developed in his theory of expression more generally. There are two fundamental
kinds of relations, resemblance and connection, and these can be a result of a passive
relation or an active generation of the expression.
4. Corporeal and Mental Expression

This theory of expression will be general, applying not only to mental representations
but to corporeal expression as well. Leibniz uses expression to define perception,
but the general formulations of information preservation would equally apply to
what I will call corporeal expression. A machine is expressed by a model, and the
U.S. Highway System is expressed by the map in my car (or, not to be too dated: by
the map images generated by mapping software on my phone). These are expressions
in a real sense for Leibniz. However, since bodies are not active in the same way as
⁴⁸ Ibid. ⁴⁹ Ibid.
  
minds are, natural corporeal expressions will reduce to resemblance and connection,
and so I do think that Kulstad’s functional account or Swoyer’s structure-preserving
account would provide a fair representation of natural corporeal expression for
Leibniz.
Likewise, we are now in a position to see how perception (in its more passive
sense) is treated as a species of expression. As mentioned above, Leibniz defines
perception as “the expression of many in one.” There I claimed that the “many in
one” was referring (minimally) to the expression of external things in a simple
substance, which is exactly what Leibniz says in PNG §2. But Leibniz also often
claims that all simple substances express the entire universe, and this raises a number
of questions about how the expression relation is supposed to be understood when
applied to simple substances.
If mental expression⁵⁰ is a full preservation of structure (isomorphism), then it is
trivially transitive, although not all expression relations are isomorphic and some
will fail to be transitive. Consider the following example of corporeal expression: a
mirror expresses a book (by reflecting an image of it), and the book expresses the
Battle of Gettysburg (by including an account of it). The mirror expresses some, but
not all, of the structure of the book (its color, relative size, and position, etc.)—
enough for it to count as an expression of the book, but not enough to express the
contents of the book. And so, the mirror does not express the Battle of Gettysburg,
and transitivity fails.
But the universal expression thesis (UE) entails that mental expressions will be
symmetric and transitive. UE says that “each singular substance expresses the whole
universe in its own way.”⁵¹ Given the definition of perception, we can rephrase
universal expression in this way: every singular substance perceives the whole uni-
verse in its own way—each state of the world (past, present, and future) is expressed
by some perception or set of perceptions in a given substance. The universal extent of
perception in a substance entails that mental expression will be straightforwardly
symmetric and transitive, neither of which are necessarily true of expression in
general.
Leibniz may not need something as strong as isomorphism, and yet whatever
relation is preserved in monadic expression will need to be symmetric and transitive
in the way that isomorphic relations are (and it is hard to see what other relation
would do until we add the activity of mind that can generate some of the information
from a more minimal expression). But, at this point, it seems that a number of
strategies are open: Kulstad’s schema for expression above allows for multiple
relations R that map one thing onto another, and it is certainly possible that some
of those relations (or some combination of those relations) will have the necessary
properties to yield universal expression.
⁵⁰ I use the term “mental” here to refer to those expressions that are specific to true unities. Leibniz calls
them perceptions, but his use of this term differs from the standard usage today. For one thing, Leibniz uses
the term to refer to the internal representations of wholly unconscious substances, a fact that will become
important to the argument of this chapter. So, when I refer to “mental” expressions or “perceptions,”
I don’t intend to limit myself to what occurs in minds.
⁵¹ DM §9.
 ’    
Additionally, the particular structure of expression in a substance must support an

account of that substance’s point of view on the world, which Leibniz often spells out
in terms of perceptual distinctness. While UE requires only that each substance have
an internal structure that preserves the correlating structure of the universe, the
notion of point of view requires that there be differences in how such structures are
preserved. Otherwise, there would be no way, appealing to these intrinsic properties
of substances alone, to individuate the substances from one another. This is precisely
Leibniz’s conclusion in M §8—the identity of indiscernibles requires some further
qualitative difference that would allow for the individuation of substances. Leibniz
calls this way of individuating a monad its point of view, since through the qualitative
aspect of perceptions monads are located within the structure of the universe. As an
example, he often refers to the representation of a city drawn from various points of
perspective. Further, the qualitative aspects that allow for variations in perspective
Leibniz refers to as the degrees of distinctness of the relevant perceptions.⁵² But
perceptual distinctness is not merely a difference in phenomenology, for Leibniz.
The qualitative aspects of perception are real differences in how things are expressed
by the substance and so they provide a metaphysical basis for the individuation of
substances. Perceptual distinctness is crucial to Leibniz’s theory of mind.
Leibniz regularly describes the point of view of a substance in terms of the bodily
mediation of expression in the substance. It is a consistent and stable view of
Leibniz’s that every finite substance has a body (and will always have a body). And,
in a passage I will discuss more in later chapters, Leibniz claims that “since the nature
of the monad is representative, nothing can limit it to represent only a part of things.”
Rather, “this representation is only confused as to the detail of the whole universe,
and can only be distinct for a small portion of things, that is, either for those that are
closest, or for those that are greatest with respect to the monad.”⁵³ For Leibniz, the
expression of the universe in a simple substance will always be by means of the most
immediate representational (not causal) limits, which are characterized by Leibniz in
terms of body.
5. Conclusion
There are a number of moving parts in this chapter, so allow me to summarize here.
First, Leibniz provides two ways of arguing for the perceptive quality of simple
substances, a top-down argument from our own experience to the perceptive prop-
erties of all other substances and a bottom-up argument from the necessity of force
and the theory of substance to perception and experience. One problem with the
bottom-up argument is that it is difficult to see why we should regard the properties
of simple substances as perceptions rather than merely variations in force. We can get
at Leibniz’s argument here by understanding more fully what Leibniz means when he
says that simple substances have perceptions.
Leibniz defines perception as the “expression of many in one,” and we saw that
Leibniz’s general account of expression is an information-preserving relation.
⁵² See M §60, quoted below. ⁵³ M §60.

  
Natural expressions will take one of three forms: resemblance, connection, or

generative. The paradigm cases of these three will be structural, causal, and product-
ive relations respectively. That is, in the more passive cases of natural expression, it
will be enough that there be a relation of resemblance or structure that maps one onto
the other. (The Kulstad and Swoyer accounts are helpful here, and this captures
natural corporeal expressions well.) Causal connections also ground natural expres-
sions in two ways. In the first way, an effect bears a natural connection to its cause and
again this can be accounted for in functional terms. In the second way, the active
principle in minds that will allow them to generate information according to a regular
law derives from having a divine common cause for all things. And so, natural
expressions range on a spectrum from fairly passive expressions (as in corporeal
expression) to more active expressions (like deriving the properties of the circle
through geometrical proof).
In simple substances, the more passive instances of expression result from modi-
fications of force—it is the way that the individual substance expresses the limits of
its force by other things. Leibniz often uses the term “perception” in this way, as an
expression of the individual substance’s relation to the manifold of other substances.
In other cases, Leibniz is more liberal with the term “perception” to include the more
active instances when the simple substance either unifies a set of underlying percep-
tions or when the mind is engaged in rational thought (which he sometimes calls
“thought” or “idea” rather than “perception”).
In chapter 6, I will provide an account of the activity of the substance in unifying
certain perceptions, which generates what Leibniz calls distinct perceptions. Later
I will return to the activity of substance in conceptual thought.
6
Perceptual Distinctness
and Mental Activity
Monads are limited, not as to their objects, but with respect to the modifications of
their knowledge of them. Monads all go confusedly to infinity, to the whole; but
they are limited and differentiated by the degrees of their distinct perceptions.¹
Leibniz explains both activity and sensation in terms of the relative distinctness of
perception. There is some worry that by applying distinctness in this way, Leibniz
fails to articulate a univocal and coherent account of the distinctness of perception. In
this chapter, I argue that the systematic connection between activity and sensation is
actually illuminated by Leibniz’s use of distinctness. In fact, by exploring this
connection, we will see more clearly how Leibniz uses perceptual distinctness as a
way of connecting the internal qualitative distinctions among a substance’s percep-
tions with the external structure of reasons in the mind of God.
Building on the account of perception and expression of chapter 5, in section 1,
I survey several accounts of perceptual distinctness, and I argue that none of the
existing accounts has provided the full story. On the one extreme are interpretations
that connect perceptual distinctness with sensation, and at the other extreme are
those that more closely align it with Leibniz’s account of activity. In section 2,
I attempt to bridge these two extremes by arguing that sensation involves activity.
The solution is to take seriously Leibniz’s claims about mind–body parallelism and
the mediation of perceptions via the body. In the final section, I identify one
additional way Leibniz’s theory of expression will need to be expanded in order to
account for his theory of perceptual distinctness. By supplementing Leibniz’s account
of expression with a mediation relation, the systematic nature of his thought is
brought out more fully.
1. Perceptual Distinctness
Given the importance of perceptual distinctness for Leibniz’s metaphysics, we might
expect a carefully worked-out theory. However, the account Leibniz gives us has
puzzled many scholars. In this section, I will raise some of the problems that have
been noted, since, to my mind, they actually help us zero in on Leibniz’s target. But
¹ M §60.
     
before looking at perceptual distinctness, we must be careful to distinguish it from

distinctness as it applies to concepts.
1.1. Varieties of distinctness

Leibniz provides a precise account of distinctness as it relates to concepts: someone
has a distinct concept if it is clear (i.e., he is able to recognize instances of it) and he is
able to enumerate the marks by which one may distinguish it from other concepts. If
a concept is clear and not distinct, then it is confused. If one is able to enumerate all
of a concept’s distinguishing marks, then one has an adequate idea or concept.
Hence, distinctness comes in degrees, even when discussing concepts, since one
might be able to identify some but not all of the constituent marks of the concept.²
In addition to “distinct concepts,” Leibniz frequently makes use of these same criteria
in reference to “distinct attributes,” “distinct knowledge,” “distinct thought,” and,
only occasionally, to “distinct ideas.” ³
However, we should not too quickly assimilate references to perceptual distinct-
ness to Leibniz’s account of the distinctness of a concept. Leibniz is careful to avoid use
of the term “distinct perception” when discussing knowledge, understanding, the use
of reason, or even human freedom. In contexts where these are under consideration,
Leibniz almost always uses other terms (e.g., “distinct knowledge,” “distinct attribute,”
“distinct thought”).⁴
For conceptual distinctness, sensation is a paradigm case of confusion. In contexts
in which intellection, freedom, or the distinctness of a concept is the central focus,
sensation is always closely aligned with confused perceptions. One brief example will
demonstrate this difference:
The soul is free in its voluntary actions, when it has distinct thoughts [pensées distinctes] and
shows reason; but since confused perceptions [perceptions confuses] are dependent on the
² Cf. “Meditations on Knowledge, Truth, and Ideas” (A 6.4.585–92/AG 23–7) and DM §24.
³ For distinctness related to “concepts” or “notions,” see A 2.1.545/L 178; A 6.4.528–9/MP 6–7;
A 6.4.570; A 6.4.586–7/AG 24–5; A 6.4.1500/L 363; G 6.499–502/AG 186–8; and NE 219. For references
to distinct “attributes,” see A 6.4.560; A 6.4.1981–2; and A 6.4.2006/L 285–6. “Distinct knowledge” is used
in A 6.4.585ff/AG 23ff; A 6.4.1427; DM §24; NE 84; and T §289. For references to distinct “thought,” see
G 4.574–5/NS 140–1; G 4.591/NS 166; NE 173; and T §66.
Leibniz does not often use the term “distinct idea,” and when he does it is usually in reference to others’
use of the term (e.g., the Cartesian “clear and distinct idea,” for example, in his comments on Male-
branche’s Search after Truth, or in response to Locke’s theory of ideas, NE 109 and NE 254–63). But he
does occasionally use it himself: see, for example, A 6.4.1424; A 2.2.252/L 344; and G 4.577/NS 142.
There is an earlier note (1677/1678?), which has been give the title “De Distincta Perceptione” (A 6.4.58),
where Leibniz says that we perceive distinctly when we perceive parts or attributes as if they belonged to a
single thing (i.e., as if attributes of a single substance), and then he concludes by describing thought as a
“distinct imagination.” I think this was a precursor of the view he later held––see, for example, his letter to
Queen Sophie Charlotte, where he describes the imagination as containing both “notions of the particular
senses, which are clear but confused, and the notions of the common sense, which are clear and distinct” (G
6.501/AG 187). I haven’t here tried to show the development of Leibniz’s thought on this topic, but I do
think his views were fairly stable by the time he writes the “Meditations on Knowledge, Thought, and
Ideas” in 1684.
⁴ I say “almost always” because there are one or two passages that might be controversial, where Leibniz
does use the term “distinct perception.” For example, C 12/MP 173 and G 3.347/NS 224–5 are ambiguous
cases, but I think the context helps clarify the use of distinctness and sense can be made of these texts in the
account I provide here.
 ’    
body, they arise from preceding confused perceptions, without the soul’s necessarily wanting
them, or foreseeing them. So, although pains do not come to the soul because it wants them,
this does not mean that they therefore come to it without cause or without reason, for the
sequence of confused perceptions is representative of the motions of the body, the great
number and small size of which do not allow them to be perceived distinctly [ne permet pas
qu’on s’en puisse appercevoir distinctement].⁵
Note that in this passage, Leibniz refers both to distinct thoughts and to perceiving
distinctly. My suggestion, at least as a means to sorting out what Leibniz is doing
here, is that we should be careful not to conflate these two uses. When Leibniz is
discussing distinct perceptions, he is not necessarily referring to distinct thought. For
distinct thought, sensation is the paradigm contrast case of confusion, since in
sensation the representations are unavoidably confused.
But for perceptual distinctness, sensation is a paradigm case of distinctness.
Compare the following passage with the previous one:
If we wish to call soul everything that has perception and appetites in the general sense I have
just explained, then all simple substances or created monads can be called souls. But, since
sensation is something more than a simple perception, I think that the general name of monad
and entelechy is sufficient for simple substances which only have perceptions, and that we
should only call those substances souls where perception is more distinct (la perception est plus
distincte) and accompanied by memory.⁶
Leibniz goes on in the following paragraphs to provide examples of the contrasting
case when no perception is distinct (as when we are in a deep and dreamless sleep
or when we are dizzy from spinning). These are states that do “not allow us to
distinguish anything.”⁷ But when we can distinguish objects in our phenomenal field,
this is a case where a perception is “more distinct.”⁸ There is no suggestion in these
passages that this recognition comes along with an ability to identify distinguishing
⁵ G 4.591/NS 166.
⁶ M §19; for other examples, see A 6.4.1625–6/MP 84–5 (discussed below); A 6.4.1656/AG 96; and NE 53–4.
⁷ M §21. One further note on terminology: some editions of Leibniz’s texts will translate distingué, as
“distinct.” For example, PNG §4 reads as follows:
Mais quand la Monade a des organs si ajustés, que par leur moyen il y a du relief et du
distingue dans les impressions qu’ils reçoivent, et par consequent dans les perceptions qui les
represent . . . cela peut aller jusqu’au sentiment. (G 6.599)
The Woolhouse and Francks edition of Leibniz’s texts translates:
But when the organs of a monad are set up in such a way that by means of them the
impressions which they receive, and consequently the perceptions which represent them,
stand out more clearly and are more distinct . . . this can amount to a feeling. (WF 260)
Now, I do think that Leibniz frequently uses this language of distinguishing, heightening, or amplifica-
tion to characterize what is going on in sensation. There are texts where he explicitly connects distingué
with distinct (e.g., NE 117), likewise for relevé and distinct (PNG §13). But if we are tracking his use of the
term “distinct” as a technical term, then I wanted at least to note this variation. (Leibniz’s use of distingué is
particularly prevalent in the New Essays Cf. NE 162, 173, 176–7, and 211. In that text he also uses relevé
(NE 112), notable (NE 118) and remarquable (NE 56–7).)
⁸ The ability to distinguish an object in one’s phenomenal field is used here as an example of a distinct
perception. As I argue below, there are perceptions that have some degree of distinctness even though one
is wholly unaware of aware of the objects of those perceptions.
     
marks, unlike in the case of distinct concepts. Sensation aligns more closely with the
clarity of a concept rather than the distinctness of a concept.
I believe that these two uses of distinctness, as applied to concepts and perceptions,
are actually consistent and continuous with one another, as Leibniz claims that they
are. At a future point, it will be worthwhile to try to spell this connection out more
clearly, but for now I want to restrict our attention to perceptual distinctness and see
how it is supposed to function in Leibniz’s system.
1.2. Degrees of distinct perceptions

As already mentioned in section 1, perceptual distinctness must allow for qualitative
variation among perceptions (something over and above the mere mirroring of
structure). There I referred to Leibniz’s arguments in Monadology §§7–9, where
Leibniz argues that simple substances are not limited in the objective content of
their perceptions and so they do not differ quantitatively from one another—the
extension of their perceptions is identical (i.e., they represent the same things).
However, since they must differ from one another in some respect, they must differ
qualitatively; they differ in the relative distinctness of a perception.
Leibniz emphasizes the central role of perceptual distinctness for individuation in
Monadology §60:
[S]ince the nature of the monad is representative, nothing can limit it to represent only a part
of things. However, it is true that this representation is only confused as to the detail of the
whole universe, and can only be distinct [distincte] for a small portion of things, that is, either
for those that are closest, or for those that are greatest with respect to each monad, otherwise
each monad would be a divinity. Monads are limited, not as to their objects, but with respect to
the modifications of their knowledge [connoissance] of them. Monads all go confusedly to
infinity, to the whole; but they are limited and differentiated by the degrees of their distinct
perceptions [les degrés des perceptions distinctes].
One important consequence of the role of perceptual distinctness in individuation is

that it is a concept that must apply to all simple substances, not simply those with
sensation or those with reason. All monads are distinguished by the degrees of
distinct perceptions, which entails that all monads have perceptions with some
degree of distinctness.
However, and I think this is worth emphasizing, the claim that all monads have
perceptions with some degree of distinctness does not entail the claim that all
monads have distinct perceptions. Compare: all test questions have some degree of
difficulty, but not all test questions are difficult. Or: all persons have some degree
of intelligence, but not all persons are intelligent. Likewise, all perceptions have some
degree of distinctness, but not all perceptions are distinct. This is a subtle point and
I would hesitate to put too much weight on it, were it not for the fact that I think it
will be necessary for Leibniz’s account of perceptual distinctness to extend to all
substances.⁹ Further, I believe that this difference has led to some ambiguities in
⁹ An anonymous reviewer helped me to see the usefulness of this difference.

 ’    
interpreting Leibniz’s texts, as a discussion of the literature will show.¹⁰ From now on,
when I refer to Leibniz’s concept of perceptual distinctness, I intend it to include
the possibility that some perceptions will have a degree of distinctness without
being distinct.
One further result of M §60 is that this use of distinctness is not simply a matter of
phenomena, and it would be mistake to equate it too closely with today’s discussions
of the qualitative aspects of consciousness. Even lower beings, which are either fully
unconscious or conscious only in a dizzying or stupefied way, have perceptions that
vary in their degrees of distinctness, and this is the sense of perceptual distinctness
that I am trying to articulate here.
1.3. Analyses of perceptual distinctness

Margaret Wilson’s paper, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception in Leibniz,” provides a
helpful survey of several attempts at analyzing Leibniz’s account of perceptual
distinctness.¹¹ She criticizes the previous attempts primarily on the issue of general-
izability—each account fails in some way to extend to all substances, as required by
M §60. In this section, I will briefly summarize her criticisms and present her own
analysis of perceptual distinctness. I will end on a note of compromise: Wilson is on
the right track, but at the same time she needs elements of the views she criticizes in
order to complete her account.
Some scholars (e.g., Robert McRae, G.H.R. Parkinson, and Montgomery Furth)
connect Leibniz’s notion of perceptual distinctness with sensation or consciousness.
I will focus on Parkinson, but Wilson’s criticisms are intended to cover all such
accounts of perceptual distinctness. Parkinson argues that “having distinct percep-
tions is not just a necessary condition of having sensations, but is both necessary and
sufficient.”¹² Later, after surveying different possibilities for Leibniz’s account of
perceptual distinctness, Parkinson concludes that “it appears to be Leibniz’s view
that to have a sensation is to notice confused perceptions . . . A distinct perception is a
noticing, not what is or can be noticed.”¹³ And there is good evidence for this claim.
Leibniz frequently describes sensation as a distinct perception. For example, Leibniz
says very explicitly in “A Specimen of Discoveries” that “if the perception is more
distinct, it makes a sensation.”¹⁴
While Wilson grants that Leibniz closely associates perceptual distinctness and
sensation, she argues that this cannot be the full account of perceptual distinctness.
She cites M §60, quoted above, as evidence that this cannot be the right analysis, since
lower monads also have perceptions that are distinct to some degree and yet do not
engage in “noticing” or have conscious perceptions. If “a distinct perception is a
¹⁰ Of course, it is possible that Leibniz’s texts simply are ambiguous, but on the principle of charity,
I will proceed as if Leibniz saw this difference. If he did not, then view this argument as a friendly attempt to
disambiguate Leibniz’s claims.
¹¹ Margaret Dauler Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception in Leibniz: Consciousness, Representation,
and God’s Mind,” in Ideas and Mechanism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999) 336–52.
¹² G.H.R. Parkinson, “The ‘Intellectualization of Appearances,’ ” in Leibniz: Critical and Interpretive
Essays, ed. Michael Hooker (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1982), 8.
¹³ Parkinson, “Intellectualization of Appearances,” 10.
¹⁴ A 6.4.1625/MP 85. Other passages will be cited below in section 2.
     
noticing,” then simple substances cannot have distinct perceptions and perceptual
distinctness will fail to individuate substances at that level.¹⁵
The disagreement here, however, may be due to the ambiguity I highlighted
above. Parkinson (and Furth and McRae) are interested in an account of distinct
perception, while Wilson is interested in the notion of degrees of distinctness,
degrees which do not always rise to distinctness. None of these authors note this
possibility, but one could see how the ambiguity confuses the discussion. Of course,
if Leibniz allows for degrees of distinctness of a perception that is not distinct, then
we would need an analysis both of (a) the degrees of distinctness of a perception,
and (b) the threshold at which the degrees of distinctness are sufficient to make the
perception distinct. Wilson is pursuing the former; Parkinson et al. are focused on
the latter.
Robert Brandom’s analysis seems more promising to Wilson, since it is one that
more explicitly allows for degrees of distinctness. According to Brandom, a percep-
tion is more distinct insofar as its expressive range is more comprehensive. As he puts
it, “two perceptions differ in perceptual or expressive degree just in case the expres-
sive range or content of one of them properly includes the range or content of the
other.”¹⁶ Such a proposal, if successful, would apply to all substances, regardless of
whether these differences in expressive range are noticeable. And so he avoids the
problems of Parkinson et al.
However, Brandom touts one of the main benefits of this account as allowing for
a greater range of inferences from some perceptions rather than others, which, he
claims, will allow for “an intensional reading of expression”¹⁷—it is an account of
expression from which certain attributes of things can be properly inferred:
A perception provides its monad with information about the rest of the world only insofar as
the preestablished harmony provides principles (laws of Nature) which permit inferences from
the occurrence of this particular perception, rather than any other possible one, to conclusions
about facts outside of the monad . . . It is accordingly facts couched in the phenomenal terms of
¹⁵ See Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception,” 338–40. Robert McRae’s account is similar to
Parkinson’s in emphasizing the connection between distinctness and sensation. He says “distinctness enters
into the very definition of sensation. Sensations are heightened and distinguished perceptions” (see McRae,
Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought, 36–42). Montgomery Furth, on the other hand, argues that
distinctness will refer to “differences in the clearness or degree of consciousness with which [monads]
experience various portions of their universe(s)” (Montgomery Furth, “Monadology,” Philosophical Review
76(1967): 195). I have included a discussion of Furth’s view, especially as it relates to consciousness, in
chapter 7. Wilson’s criticisms of Parkinson’s account would weigh against McRae and Furth as well, since
their accounts depend essentially on sensation or consciousness.
A similar objection might be raised against Alison Simmons’ description of perceptual distinctness.
According to Simmons, “to say that a perception is distinct is to say that it is distinctive, that it stands out
against the sea of perceptions co-present with it in the soul . . . To say that sensations are distinct
perceptions is therefore not to say that they are noticed, nor that they are noticings, but that they are
noticeable or apt to be noticed” (Alison Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind: Leibniz on Sensation,
Representation and Consciousness,” Philosophical Review 101(2001): 57–8). While this comes closer to an
account that is generally applicable to all substances, it leaves open the question how, for a monad that is
wholly unconscious, certain perceptions can even be apt to be noticed.
¹⁶ Robert B. Brandom, “Leibniz and Degrees of Perception,” Journal of the History of Philosophy
19(1981): 463.
¹⁷ Ibid., 460.
 ’    
this world that are the informational contents of perceptions as experienced by the monads
those perceptions modify.¹⁸
Since monads that have perceptions of a higher degree of distinctness will, according
to Brandom, have perceptions with a greater expressive range, those substances will
be in a better position to make inferences about the things outside of them. Hence,
the more perfect substances will be the ones with perceptions of a higher degree of
distinctness.
Wilson thinks the emphasis on intensionality places Brandom’s account back in the
same category as Parkinson’s—it fails to provide a fully general account. As she puts it:
[Brandom’s] idea is that principles based on the harmony preestablished among the monads,
by making possible inference from one monad’s perception to the accidents of others, provide
content internally accessible to any given monad . . . Brandom speaks of monads as having
experiences, and being provided information, without explaining how such characterizations
are appropriate for wholly unconscious substances.¹⁹
Wilson thinks that Brandom is right to stress an “external deducibility” condition:
properties of external things can be deduced from the distribution of the degrees of
distinctness in a substance. However, these deductions need not be “internally
accessible.” Indeed, Leibniz often limits the deductions to a sufficiently expansive
mind: God at least could infer the properties of external things from the state of a
given monad.²⁰ So, Wilson concludes, Brandom overreaches when he attempts to
combine “external deducibility” and “internally accessible content.”²¹
Wilson would prefer an account that preserves the “external deducibility” condi-
tion of Brandom’s account, without requiring “internally accessible content.” Her
own proposal is this:
A perceptual state p of monad M is more distinct than perceptual state q of monad N, insofar as
M’s being p provides God’s reason for creating N with q, rather than the other way around.²²
This schema establishes the “external deducibility”—inferences from the states of one
substance to its relations with other substances—without assuming that all sub-
stances have internally accessible content, since presumably the reasons in the
mind of God are properly connected via inferential patterns that are not necessarily
accessible to a given monad.
The advantages of Wilson’s account are that (a) it connects perceptual distinctness
with Leibniz’s account of activity, and (b) it generalizes to all substances. For Leibniz,
a substance is active when an increase in the distinctness of perceptions in M is
correlated with a decrease in the distinctness of perceptions in N.²³ Wilson’s
¹⁸ Ibid., 462. ¹⁹ Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception,” 341. ²⁰ e.g., M §61.
²¹ Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception,” 341. ²² Ibid., 343–4.
²³ As Leibniz says in the Monadology:
The creature is said to act externally insofar as it is perfect, and to be acted upon by another,
insofar as it is imperfect. Thus we attribute action to a monad insofar as it has distinct
perceptions, and passion, insofar as it has confused perceptions. And one creature is more
perfect than another insofar as one finds in it that which provides an a priori reason for what
happens in the other; and this is why we say that it acts on the other. (§§49–50; cf. DM §15)
     
formulation preserves this relation, since the acting substance will be the one that
provides God’s reasons for adjusting the properties of other substances. Further,
since this account does not depend on internally accessible content, it is fully general,
applying equally to conscious and non-conscious substances alike.
However, this proposal leaves the connection of perceptual distinctness with
sensation and consciousness mysterious, as Wilson herself acknowledges:
[T]his account . . . remains on the most schematic level . . . It is difficult . . . to see how coherently
to combine this account with those passages that seem to indicate a strong association (at least)
between “distinctness” of perceptions and consciousness.²⁴
While her account preserves the “external deducibility” requirement, it doesn’t say
anything about the nature of what is more or less distinct about the perceptions
within the monad. When Leibniz describes activity in terms of correlations among
distinct and confused perceptions, he says that God adjusts each substance to the
others²⁵—it is not merely that there are reasons for the correlations, but the correl-
ations themselves require an analysis in terms of the natures of the substances, as
their perceptions unfold in a way that mirrors the structure of the universe.
And so, this survey of the literature starts with perceptual distinctness being
strongly connected to sensation and therefore not generalizable, and it ends with
perceptual distinctness fully generalizable but not easily connected with sensation.
I would like to try to tie these two extremes together. In what follows, I will provide
an account that I think is consistent with Wilson’s account, but which enables the
link to sensation and consciousness. And so in the end, I will be trying to bridge
Wilson’s account with Parkinson’s (and others).
2. Perceptual Distinctness and Bodily Mediation

From the discussion so far, it seems that there are (at least) three things we want from
a theory of perceptual distinctness:
a. Individuation: the degrees of perceptual distinctness provide a qualitative
distinction among substances that, in terms of the content of their perceptions,
differ only numerically.
b. Activity: correlations among increases and decreases in the degrees of perceptual
distinctness should provide a systematic grounding for Leibniz’s account of
inter-substantial activity.
c. Sensation: perceptual distinctness should also provide a systematic grounding
for Leibniz’s account of sensation.
The survey above showed that Wilson’s (and, to an extent, Brandom’s) proposal
might align well with (a) and (b), while Parkinson’s is most suited for (c). In this
section, I will try to show how sensation can be characterized as a certain kind of
activity, bridging the two accounts.
²⁴ Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct Perception,” 344–5. ²⁵ M §52.

 ’    
2.1. Perceptual distinctness in activity and sensation

We have already seen a text that supports Leibniz’s use of perceptual distinctness in
individuation (M §60), and so now let us look at two others that support the role of
perceptual distinctness in activity and sensation. Both of the passages below are taken
from a single text entitled “A Specimen of Discoveries about Marvelous Secrets of
Nature in General” (1688?), although there are many other places where similar
claims are made.²⁶
1. From the notion of an individual substance it . . . follows in metaphysical rigor
that all the operations of substances, both actions and passions, are spontan-
eous, and that with the exception of the dependence of creatures on God, no
real influx from one to the other is intelligible. For whatever happens to each
one of them would flow from its nature and its notion even if the rest were
supposed to be absent, for each one expresses the entire universe. However, that
whose expression is the more distinct [expressio distinctior] is judged to act, and
that whose expression is the more confused is judged to be passive, since to act
is a perfection and to be passive is an imperfection.²⁷
2. [S]ince all things have a connection with others, either mediately or immediately,
the consequence is that it is the nature of every substance to express the whole
universe by its power of acting and being acted on, that is, by the series of its own
immanent operations. It [i.e., an individual substance] is also truly one being,
otherwise it would not be a substance, but several substances. This principle of
actions, or primitive active force, from which a series of various states follows, is
the form of the substance. Also evident is the nature of the perception which
belongs to all forms, namely the expression of many things in one, which differs
widely from expression in a mirror or in a corporeal organ, which is not truly one.
If the perception is more distinct [distinctior], it makes a sensation.²⁸
I must first acknowledge that Leibniz does not use the phrase “distinct perception”
in both passages. In the first passage, he uses the term “distinct expression” rather
than “distinct perception.” Recalling the discussion of expression in chapter 5, this
could apply equally to corporeal expressions. But considering his later definition in
the same text of perception as the “expression of many things in one,” this account of
activity would apply equally to perceptions as a species of expression. Couple this
with other texts in which Leibniz does define the activity of substance explicitly in
terms of distinct perceptions (or degrees of distinct perceptions), and it seems
consistent with reading this as a standard statement of Leibniz’s theory of inter-
substantial activity.²⁹ And so, Leibniz uses this notion of a “more distinct perception”
²⁶ For other texts describing activity in terms of variations in the degrees of distinct perceptions, see DM
§15, A 2.2.89–90/NS 52, A 2.2.112/LA 84, NE 210, T §§64–6, M §§49–51. For passages describing sensation
in terms of the distinctness of a perception, see A 6.4.1656/AG 96, M §19, PNG §13, NE 55, and NE 164–5;
cf. the passages listed in footnote 3.
²⁷ A 6.4.1620/MP 79. ²⁸ A 6.4.1625/MP 84f.
²⁹ Garber thinks the shift from “expression” to “perception” is significant, since the language of
expression would be more consistent with a commitment to corporeal substances (see Garber, Leibniz:
Body, Substance, 223). I intend my claims here to be neutral with respect to the question of Leibniz’s
commitment to corporeal substances.
     
or “expression,” within this single text, to ground both the relative activity of a
substance as well as sensation.
Note also that in this passage “expressio distinctior” (“more distinct expression”) is
a relative term. But what is it relative to? The discussion of action and passion will
help clarify this. As I understand Leibniz here, he is saying that if we take two
substances, A and C, and we try to give a reason for the correlating changes in A and
C, the reason will be given by the distinctness of the perceptions in each, relative to
the other:
[A1] A acts on C iff A’s expression of C is more distinct than C’s expression of A.
Or, if we wish to describe the event in which A is acting on C, it might be better to put
it this way:
[A2] A acts on C iff an increase in the distinctness of A’s expression of
C corresponds with a decrease in the distinctness of C’s expression of A.
And, since the notion of distinctness employed here is relative to a particular
substance, a substance that is considered active in one case might be passive in
another. If A is compared to a further substance, D, that has more distinct expres-
sions of A than A has of D, then A would be considered passive.³⁰
A mere five pages after the original passage, Leibniz goes on to use distinctior in a
different way. He says that when a perception is “more distinct” [distinctior], it is a
sensation.³¹ “More distinct,” again, is a relative term, and it is not clear here whether
the distinctness of the perception is relative to other substance’s perceptions (A’s
perception of C is more distinct than C’s perception of A), or whether the distinctness
of the perception is relative to the distinctness of other perceptions in the same
substance (A’s perception of C is more distinct than A’s perception of D). But in this
context, Leibniz is discussing the expression of “all things” in a “series of [the
substance’s] own immanent operations,” and I take this to be signaling the latter
interpretation—the perception in this case is more distinct than other co-occurrent
perceptions.
So, sensation can be characterized in terms of the relative distinctness of a
perception within a substance, in contrast to activity, which is characterized in
terms of the relative distinctness of perceptions across substances. We might formu-
late the sensation relation in this way:
[S1] A senses C iff A’s perception of C is more distinct than A’s perceptions of
other things.
³⁰ R.C. Sleigh, Jr. provides a helpful and much more thorough discussion of the grounding and
implications of this theory of activity in chapter 7 of his book, Leibniz and Arnauld. See also Fichant,
“Actiones Sunt Suppositorum.”
³¹ Leibniz says that “If the perception is more distinct, it makes a sensation” [Quodsi perceptio sit
distinctior, sensum facit]. I take the language of “making” [ facio] to refer to constitution—a sensation is
constituted by a sufficiently distinct perception. Of course, one could read this causally instead—a
sufficiently distinct perception causes a sensation. This reading would be preferred by those who think
reflection or memory is necessary for sensation. I argue against this interpretation in chapter 8. But for
those inclined towards the causal view, simply change the “iff ” in the formulas above to “only if,” and the
rest of the argument should follow.
 ’    
This claim requires some refinement. If A expresses C more distinctly than

A expresses D, then A senses C. But then, suppose A expresses D more distinctly
than A expresses E. Does A sense D also? A regress is lurking. And so more needs to
be said to capture the full account of sensation. I think the charitable interpretation
here would be to identify a degree of distinctness, relative to a substance’s
co-occurrent perceptions, which is sufficient for sensation. As I argue below, Leibniz
did not spell out the expression relations particular to sensation in much detail, and
as a result the standard of sufficiency will be difficult to pin down. But Leibniz does
make references to such standards of sufficiency, for example in his short essay “On
Freedom” (1689?), Leibniz says that “two ways remain for us to know contingent
truths, one through experience, and the other through reason—by experience when
we perceive a thing sufficiently distinctly through the senses.”³² Once such a standard
is characterized (if not fully specified), then instead of “more distinct,” we might
instead refer simply to “distinct perceptions.” We could rephrase the sensation
relation in the following way:
[S2] A senses C iff A’s perception of C is distinct.
Thus, we might align the language of “degrees of distinct perception” closely with
activity (since fully generalizable), and use “distinct perception” to refer to sensation.
With S2, we return to Parkinson’s (and others’) view that sensation simply is a
distinct perception. The benefit of this is that it makes sense of the passages in
which Leibniz strongly correlates sensation and distinct perceptions, while at the
same time allowing Leibniz to appeal to degrees of distinctness in lower substances.
Perceptions in lower substances have degrees of distinctness, but no perception is
distinct. And so Leibniz can make use of the notion of degrees of distinctness in his
accounts of activity and individuation, applying it to all substances, not merely
sentient substances.
We should be cautious about these uses of the terms, however, since Leibniz is not
always consistent, but I do think it represents the main structure of the theory well.
For example, in his description of the relative activity of a substance in Monadology
§49, Leibniz says that “we attribute action to a monad insofar as it has distinct
perceptions, and passion, insofar as it has confused perceptions,” in contrast to other
passages, Leibniz appeals to changes in the degrees of distinctness or development of
the perception in describing the activity of a substance.³³ Here he refers simply to
distinct perceptions, something that I have argued applies more readily to his account
of sensation. Similarly, Leibniz sometimes refers to sensation in a way that is
synonymous with non-conscious perception, allowing for sensations that are not
themselves noticed (or, better, noticings). For example, in NE 119, Leibniz says that
we are “never without sensation,” and in NE 54, he says that we “never sleep so
soundly that we do not have some feeble and confused sensation.”³⁴ Leibniz seems to
³² A 6.4.1656/AG 96; cf. the NE passages noted in footnote 3—Leibniz uses sufficiency language
throughout the New Essays.
³³ e.g., DM §15 and NE 211.
³⁴ For a more restricted use of “sensation,” see Leibniz’s 1711 letter to Desmaizeaux, where he says that
“if there are living organic bodies in nature other than those of animals (and there certainly appear to be,
     
shift between wider and narrower uses of the term “sensation,” which might raise
problems for the precise reading I’ve given it in [S2] above. However, the texts in
which he brings sensation and distinct perceptions together suggest this reading, and,
at the end of the day, I think Leibniz has more at stake with his account of perceptual
distinctness than he does in a precise account of sensation.
I am inclined to believe that the important conceptual distinctions for Leibniz were
those between (a) perception, the expression of many in a one; (b) distinct percep-
tion, which gives rise to memories and apparent connections between perceptions;
and (c) distinct thought, which results in self-knowledge, the knowledge of necessary
truths, and freedom. Leibniz might not consistently apply other terms to these
distinctions, but these three were clearly the conceptual resources to which Leibniz
consistently returned in explaining sensation, activity, consciousness, individuation,
moral identity, and the like.
2.2. The bridge from activity to sensation

Since Leibniz appeals to perceptual distinctness in reference both to activity and
sensation, it is natural to consider what connection there might be between the two
theories. As I have argued, Parkinson’s analysis of distinctness aligns Leibniz’s use of
the term more closely with sensation; Wilson’s connects it more closely with activity.
In this section, I will try to bridge these accounts.
Briefly, Leibniz’s theory of perceptual distinctness brings together both internal
and external aspects: for Leibniz, the degrees of perceptual distinctness refer to the
qualitative differences among the perceptions of a substance (internal) that mirror the
structure of reasons in God’s mind (external). Thus, we can start from God’s reasons
(as Wilson does), but then we will need to see how these reasons are reflected in the
degrees of distinctness of the perceptions within created substances. If we can see
how God’s reasons are reflected in the distribution of distinctness among a given
substance’s perceptions, then we can have confidence in reversing the direction as
well—the distinctness of a perception within our own mind reflects something about
the structure of God’s reasons in creating and conserving the natural order. And this,
I think, is what Leibniz does when he describes the relative activity of a substance in
terms of the degrees of its distinct perceptions. While the claim above might not seem
novel, the differences between Wilson, Parkinson, and others suggest that its impli-
cations have not been fully appreciated. What is novel here is the interpretation of
perceptual distinctness that I provide, which fills out the picture, providing a bridge
from activity to sensation that shows how the internal and external are connected.
I will start by taking the acting-on relation as basic and argue that sensation
involves activity. The project is to see whether sensation can be spelled out in
terms of the acting-on relation. In order to do this, I think, we will need to bring in
one final aspect of Leibniz’s theory, namely, the bodily mediation of perception—the
bridge from activity to sensation will be via the bodily mediation of sensation. I will
for plants seem to provide an example), these bodies too will have their simple substances, or monads,
which give them life—that is to say, perception and appetite, although that perception certainly does not
have to be sensation” (NS 239).
 ’    
argue for this conclusion here, and in the next section I will say more about the
mediation relation itself in connection with Leibniz’s theory of expression.
First, let me provide some textual evidence in favor of the claim that sensation
involves activity. Leibniz makes this explicit in at least one passage. In the New Essays,
Leibniz responds to Locke, who claims that the “power to receive ideas” is passive.
Leibniz replies, “I should have thought that sensations also involve action, in as much
as they present us with perceptions which stand out more [perceptions plus distin-
guées], and thus with opportunities for observation and for self-development, so to
speak.”³⁵ Earlier in the same passage, Leibniz described what he means by the term
“action” in the following way:
[I]f we take “action” to be an endeavor towards perfection, and “passion” to be the opposite,
then genuine substances are active only when their perceptions . . . are becoming better devel-
oped and more distinct [plus distincte], just as they are passive only when their perceptions are
becoming more confused . . . [W]e can take to be [a true substance’s] ‘action,’ and attribute it to
the substance itself, any change through which it comes closer to its own perfection.³⁶
Given this description of action, it is telling to see Leibniz applying this directly to
sensation. Sensation, he says, “involves action” in this sense: it allows one to see better
and opens the path for self-development, bringing oneself closer to perfection. But
the part of the description I would like to highlight even more is the sense in which
such actions can be attributed “to the substance itself.” How, exactly, is this supposed
to work in the case of sensation?
To see how an activity is involved in perception, consider the following thought
experiment. In the spirit of Leibniz’s discussion of subconscious perceptions in the
New Essays,³⁷ consider a person walking on the seashore, acted on by infinitely many
small sound waves coming from the sea crashing onto the beach. Applying Leibniz’s
theory of activity, this activity of the sea on the person can be understood in terms of
distinct expressions (and, of course, in this case the expressions would be corporeal
expressions as the waves interact with that person’s body). Leibniz says that the smaller
wave sounds are combined into a single, larger sound that we sense, and we hear the
roar of the ocean. But now, modify the example: consider the case where there are two
people walking along the shore—one is deaf and the other is not. Both are acted on by
the sea in the same way. But one has an auditory sensation of the sea and the other does
not. What makes the difference? The obvious candidate is the difference in the activity
of the sensory organs. One person is able to sense the sounds because that person’s body
has the characteristic function that enables auditory sensations.
Leibniz frequently appeals to the function of the sensory organs in just this way.
For example, in the Monadology, Leibniz says:
We also see that nature has given heightened perceptions to animals, from the care she has
taken to furnish them organs that collect several rays of light or several waves of air, in order to
³⁵ A 6.6.211/NE 211. ³⁶ A 6.6.210–11/NE 210–11.

³⁷ The example of the sound of the ocean is one that Leibniz returns to again and again. See A 6.6.54/NE 54;
one of the earliest references to this kind of example that I can find is in a note written some time between
October 1677 and December 1678(?), A 6.4.58.
     
make them more effectual by bringing them together. There is something similar to this in
odor, taste, and touch, and perhaps in many other senses which are unknown to us.³⁸
As I understand this claim, in sensation we have a two-tiered structure of activity—the

sea acts on a person’s body, and the body is active in combining together the various
small impressions into larger, more noticeable ones. The body is active in sensation, for
Leibniz, and this activity will be described in terms of distinct expressions.³⁹
This two-tiered structure of activity can be understood first in terms of corporeal
expression. The waves act on the body, resulting in a sensation of sound. If we are to
take seriously Leibniz’s account of activity in terms of correlating increasing and
decreasing degrees of distinctness, then as the wave motions act on the body, the
degree of distinctness of the expression in the water increases as the degree of
distinctness of expression in the body decreases (i.e., the water acts on the body).
But there is also a second level of activity going on here: the body’s sensory organs are
combining the input from the wave motions of the water. This is an activity in the
body. And this activity is analyzed as an increase in the distinctness of the bodily
expression of the water. (No doubt to tell the whole story we would want to include a
description of the effect of the sensory organs on brain activity, etc., as part of the
bodily expression of the wave movements.)
There is a technical worry that might arise here: according to [A2], if the sense organ
is acting on the smaller wave motions, then it seems that there is both an increase in the
distinctness of the sense organ’s expression of the smaller wave motions and a decrease
in the distinctness of the smaller wave motions’ expression of the sense organ. That is,
any body-to-body activity will result in a decrease in the distinctness of the smaller wave
motions. In response, I would say that while it seems odd that there is this correspond-
ing decrease in distinctness, it does seem to fit Leibniz’s overall picture. Notice that in
this description, what has increased is an expression of the wave motions. And this is
correlated with a decrease in the expression of the sense organs (by the wave motions
themselves). This fits Leibniz’s discussion of causation nicely—there are simultaneous
increases and decreases in force in all objects, and “causes are assumed, not from a real
influx, but from the need to give a reason.”⁴⁰ And, once we bring the mind into the
picture, it also fits the phenomena nicely—we are more aware of the sound of the waves
than we are of the means, the sensory processing.
But the question now is how to bring the mind into the picture—how does the
mind register this activity of the body as a sensation? As Leibniz often claims, mind
and body are best understood as operating in parallel—the distinct perceptions in the
mind correspond to the distinct expressions in the body. As Leibniz says, “the soul
³⁸ For other texts in which Leibniz appeals to the function of the organs in animals, see PNG §4,
G 3.465/NS 176–7, C 16/MP 177, and A 6.6.155/NE 155.
³⁹ Anne-Lise Rey suggests such a connection, deriving from Leibniz’s dynamics. She sees action in a
dual sense as (1) organization and complexity among the organs, which correlates to the capacity for
perception, and (2) as perception or expression of this order, which “permits us to differentiate more and
less distinct perceptions” (Anne-Lise Rey, “Action, Perception, Organisation,” in Machines of Nature and
Corporeal Substances in Leibniz, ed. Justin E.H. Smith and Ohad Nachtomy (Dordrecht: Springer, 2011),
160). See also Anne-Lise Rey, “L’Ambivalence de la Notion d’Action dans la Dynamique de Leibniz,”
Studia Leibnitiana 41(2009).
⁴⁰ A 6.4.1620/MP 79.
 ’    
and the body correspond to one another most, and their intimate union consists in
the most perfect agreement.”⁴¹ In a series of texts Leibniz says that the more distinct
expressions of the soul correspond to the more distinct expressions of the body: “The
nature of the soul bears more particularly a more distinct expression of what is
happening now that concerns its body.”⁴² Leibniz is explicit about this (and clarifies
this harmony thesis) up through the New Essays.
So, given mind–body parallelism, simultaneously and in parallel with the body’s
expression of the wave sounds, the mind’s expression of the water is increasing and
decreasing in distinctness. The expression decreases insofar as the mind is considered
as being acted on by the waves, and it increases insofar as the mind is considered as
active in combining the perceptions into a unified, more forceful impression, in
parallel with the body. And so it is due to the characteristic activity of the body, which
is expressed in the substance that dominates the body, which results in sensation.
This strong parallel between the mind and body may at first seem to make it
impossible for the body ever to act on the mind or vice versa. However, if parallelism
requires that when the distinctness of the body’s perception of X is increasing, the
distinctness of the mind’s perception of X is simultaneously increasing, and similarly
for decreasing, then when the body acts on the mind, the distinctness of both the
body’s perception of the mind and of the mind’s perception of the mind are
increasing. For example, supposing my mind acted on my body by deciding to
move my arm. The action can be characterized by an increase in the mind’s
expression of the body and a corresponding decrease in the body’s expression of
the mind. But, since they are in parallel, there is also an increase in the body’s
expression of the body and a decrease in the mind’s expression of the mind. While
this is a complex account of the relation, there doesn’t seem to be an incompatibility.
To take it one step further, we can add to this account Leibniz’s view that there is
no genuine interaction between mind and body—the sensory interactions are already
present and unfolding in the mind, governed by its own laws for the development of
its perceptions. As Leibniz says in NE 195:
[I]n metaphysical strictness the origin of each of them [i.e., sensations, passions, pleasures,
pains] is in the soul, but . . . nevertheless one is justified in saying that confused thoughts come
from the body, since it is by considering the body and not by considering the mind that we can
discern something distinct and intelligible concerning them.
So, the characteristic functions of the organs of sense will give us a way of under-
standing what sorts of activities are occurring in the mind as its perceptions unfold,
but, properly speaking, it is the mind that produces the perceptions. Leibniz scoops
Kant in arguing that the mind is active in sensation.
This two-tiered account of activity may be considered somewhat conjectural,
since Leibniz does not explicitly describe it in the way that I just have, although the
language of M §25 is strongly suggestive of this view.⁴³ Leibniz regularly refers to
⁴¹ A 6.4.1621/MP 80.
⁴² A 2.2.118/LA 92. Cf. DM §33, A 2.2.175–6/LA 113, A 2.2.187–8/LA 123, A 2.2.240–3/LA 143–6.
⁴³ There are other texts as well that would support it. In “Reflections on the Doctrine of a Single
Universal Spirit,” Leibniz says that “when an animal is deprived of organs capable of giving it sufficiently
     
the mediation of the organs, and I have characterized this role as an activity of the
organs.⁴⁴ However, Leibniz’s claims about the activity involved in sensation in
the New Essays persuade me that he had something like the active functioning of
the organs in mind here. At the very least, it is clear that Leibniz believed that
certain sorts of mediation relations increase the strength of a representation.
Leibniz appeals again to the relative forcefulness of perceptions, which is a result
of a “combining” of smaller perceptions in his discussion of non-conscious per-
ceptions in NE 53–4. And so perhaps this is the most important feature of the
mediation relation: it concentrates or amplifies the constitutive expressions in such
a way that the result is more forceful.
2.3. The force of reason

When Leibniz appeals to the degrees of distinctness of a perception in activity, he is
emphasizing the relation of the internal structures of the substance with the internal
structures in God’s mind, his reasons in regulating the whole. In the “Specimen of
Discoveries,” Leibniz says that “causes are assumed, not from a real influx, but from
the need to give a reason.”⁴⁵ This language returns us to Margaret Wilson’s initial
suggestion that the degrees of perceptual distinctness reduce to the reasons in God’s
mind for creating a monad so that it would occupy a given state. Wilson gives us an
illuminating account of the “external inferrability” that seems to be entailed by
Leibniz’s account of the degrees of perceptual distinctness, but it is deeply mysterious
to me how God’s reasons should constitute the variations present in the nature of a
substance, which is what Wilson’s account comes to. Wilson’s analysis is too austere.
But, at the same time, I do think there is a connection for Leibniz between the
internal variations among perceptions in a substance and the reasons in the mind of
God, and so we should follow those reasons where they lead.
The reasons an individual senses the motions of the waves are not exhausted by the
relative activity of the waves—we need to supplement them with an account of the
function of the bodily organs. If we ask, “what reason can be given for A’s occurrent
perceptual state when A hears the sound of the waves?” here are a few elements that
would need to be included in a full answer:
• A has a perception of the waves because the waves (or each of the individual
wavelets) act on A. Leibniz often appeals to mutual action as a way of grounding
distinct perceptions, it does not follow that the animal has left no smaller and more uniform perceptions”
(G 6.534–5/L 557). Cf. L 285, where Leibniz says that “the senses do not show us by what mechanism the
state of a body is produced which brings about the sensation of warmth in us, yet the mind properly
perceives that warmth is not something absolute which is understood in itself but that it will only then be
adequately understood when we explain of what it consists or distinctly describe its proximate cause.”
⁴⁴ For more on the importance of bodily mediation, see Michel Fichant, “Leibniz et les Machines de la
Nature,” Studia Leibnitiana 35(2003); Rey, “Action, Perception, Organisation”; and François Duchesneau,
“Leibniz et le Concept d’Organisme,” in Les Modèles du Vivant de Descartes à Leibniz (Paris: J. Vrin, 1998),
315–72. These articles provide a rich discussion of the complexity of the organs and the relation of the
simple substance to its organic body, a fuller account than I have room to give here.
⁴⁵ A 6.4.1620/MP 79; Cf. NE 177 and T §66.
 ’    
his universal expression thesis: A represents everything in the universe because

everything in the universe is acting on A, at least to some small degree.⁴⁶
• A’s perception of the waves might also be due to A’s own activity. For example,
when A decides to attend to the sound of the ocean (perhaps because a friend has
just mentioned how pleasant the sound is)⁴⁷ or when A decides to incline his ear
to the water. There could be times, when A is attending to something else, that
the same sound of the waves will not be sensed in the same way. For example,
when A is diligently constructing logic proofs by the seaside, focusing on the
proofs with sufficient intensity that A doesn’t notice the sound of the ocean. And
so A’s activity and prior states would have to be included in the explanation of
the auditory sensation.
But even once we account for the relative activity of A and the objects surrounding
A, we don’t have the full reason for A’s current perceptual state. Why is it that A’s
perception of the sound of the waves stands out and is sensed in the way that it does?
Here, I’m arguing, we must appeal to a further layer of activity to provide the full
explanation:
• A’s perception of the sound of the waves stands out the way that it does because
A’s auditory system functions in a way that combines the effects of the smaller
waves on A.
The structure of reasons would include the combinatory function of the sensory
organs, and given that the attribution of activity or causation arises from “the need
to give reasons,” this level of activity would need to form an essential part of the
model.
I believe that Leibniz saw the need to supplement the account with the function of
the organs and that his account would make essential reference to this.⁴⁸ Ideally, we
should be able to model this account of sensation in the way that Wilson attempts to
do for perceptual distinctness, and perhaps we could do so schematically. But the
factors involved are quite complicated, since it involves activity in many layers and
of an infinite complexity. (This, after all, is why sensations are also a paradigm case of
confusion.) Leibniz certainly never gave anything like a fully specified account of
sensation, and in the New Essays, he says that:
[W]hen the organ and the intervening medium are properly constituted, the internal bodily
motions and the ideas which represent them to the soul resemble the motions of the object
which cause the color, the warmth, the pain, etc.; or—what is the same thing—they express the
object through some rather precise relationship; though this relation does not appear distinctly
⁴⁶ See, for example, M §61. In his June 20, 1703 letter to De Volder, Leibniz says that “every body
whatsoever expresses everything else, and . . . every soul or entelechy whatsoever expresses both its body
and, through it, everything else . . . [A]s soon as you have pondered the force of my view, you will see that
I have said nothing that does not derive from it” (G 2.253/AG 178).
⁴⁷ NE 54.
⁴⁸ As Leibniz notes at the end of M §25, “I will soon explain how what occurs in the soul represents what
occurs in the organs” (emphasis mine). See footnote 38 for other references where Leibniz discusses the
importance of the organs.
     
to us, because we cannot disentangle this multitude of minute impressions, whether in our soul
or in our body or in what lies outside us.⁴⁹
Notice the three-fold distinction—“in our soul, in our body, or in what lies outside
us.” This again confirms the multiple-tiered expression relation I have been arguing
for. He stresses here that while the expression is precise, the relation that grounds
the expression is not readily available to us, and so, while he saw the need for an
account for the activity in sensation, he also recognized that he did not have a full
account of it.
Leibniz would recognize these causal accounts, the “need to give reasons,” as
reflecting a further, more foundational, metaphysical view. The bridge between
these reasons and the qualitative variety in a particular substance is that the force
of a perception mirrors the structure of reasons. This, I think, is what is needed to
complete Margaret Wilson’s account. But, of course, it is not just any structure of
reasons that is expressed in the full perceptual state of a substance; rather, it is the
structure of reasons from a point of view, which, I take it, the bodily mediation of
perceptions is supposed to give us a way of understanding. The relative distinctness
of a perception will reflect that substance’s place, at that moment, in the structure of
reasons. This will differ for each substance, and so the distribution of degrees of
distinctness across perceptions will differ for each substance.
2.4. Degrees of perceptual distinctness

Bringing several of the threads together, I would like to propose the following
account of perceptual distinctness, activity, and sensation. I believe that Leibniz is
using the term “degree of perceptual distinctness” to refer to the relative force,
strength, or heightening of a perception. This relative strength need not be noticeable;
indeed, Leibniz thinks even the smallest perceptions will have some consequence for
the unfolding states of the substance, and so it is plausible that each perception has
some degree of force, however small.⁵⁰ His comparison of the smaller perceptions to
unobservable physical particles (or, as he calls them, “insensible corpuscles”) in the
New Essays preface is instructive—the way we know that they are there is by their
consequences, the results that they help bring about.
The challenge has been to discover how something internal to a substance, such
as the distribution of force or strength over its set of perceptions, should have any
⁴⁹ A 6.6.132–3/NE 132–3, emphasis added. Similarly, Leibniz says in A 6.6.403/NE 403 that the
“ ‘sensory ideas’ depend on detail in the shapes and motions, which they precisely express, though the
mechanical processes which act on our senses are too small and too great in number for us to sort out this
detail within the confusion.” Along with these sorts of claims, Leibniz repeatedly stresses that, among
mental phenomena, sensible qualities are understood the least (cf. G 6.500/AG 186f.).
⁵⁰ e.g., A 6.6.112 and 134/NE 112 and 134. One thing I should note: Leibniz often speaks of the strength
of a perception in this way without giving clear guidance on how to individuate perceptions. I think a more
precise formulation would appeal to the overall total perceptual state of a finite substance, which is
infinitely analyzable into smaller perceptual “parts” (for the “parts” of perception, see Leibniz’s letter to
Samuel Masson, G 6.627/AG 228). The analysis could take several forms, but in any case the analysis would
inevitably include parts of the total perceptual state that are not very strong relative to other parts. For
example, the sensation of the sound of the waves can be analyzed into smaller subsets that are not
themselves sensed, which is consistent with the way Leibniz gives the example in A 6.6.54/NE 54.
 ’    
connection with the external claims Leibniz also appeals to, such as the structure
of God’s reasons in creating the individual substance. Margaret Wilson criticized
Brandom for illicitly smuggling internal accessibility into his account of the
degrees of distinctness, and her account dispenses with this in favor of a solitary
“external inferrability” condition. The account I am arguing for will provide the
external inferrability Wilson favors while at the same time providing an internal
reflection of the inference structures within each monad. But, at the same time,
this account will avoid her criticisms of Brandom’s internal accessibility condition
and Parkinson’s account, since, on my view, the internal variations need not be
accessible to a substance. Rather, Leibniz’s appeal to degrees of distinctness is
simply a recognition that every substance, whether or not sentient, has some
variation of strength among their perceptions. Building on this account of degrees
of distinctness, Leibniz goes on to describe certain substances as having bodies
that perform a characteristic function that results in stronger, more forceful
perceptions, and once these perceptions are strong enough (against some standard
of sufficiency) to stand out from other co-occurring perceptions, the result is a
distinct perception, a sensation.
It is still unclear how the variations in the strength of a perception arise, since the
relations are complex, and so there is no formula for the degrees of distinctness of a
perception available to us. But I think we have gleaned enough from Leibniz’s works
above to conclude that the degrees of the distinctness of a perception will be a
function of at least four factors:
(1) Proximity: Monad A’s proximity to object C,
(2) Intensity: the strength of C’s action on A or A’s action on C,
(3) History: the history of the perceptual state of A, including the immediate
context for the action (since if A is asleep or if A’s attention is divided, a
perception will require more force in order to stand out),⁵¹
(4) Bodily Mediation: the tendency of intervening bodies to concentrate or amplify
the motions caused by C, a special case of which is the combining and
concentrating effect of A’s sensory organs.⁵²
Since these four factors apply to all substances, without relying on accessibility or
inferences available to a substance, the resulting distribution of degrees of perceptual
distinctness will allow for a fully general account of individuation and activity. At the
same time, the bodily mediation of perceptions, in particular, will allow for an
account of distinct perceptions, those perceptions that stand out sufficiently from
other co-occurring perceptions as to be noticed by the substance.
⁵¹ I have not said much about the role of memory in heightening perceptions, but it would certainly be
included under this heading. Leibniz talks about memory (habituation, etc.) in this way. (See, for example,
M §§26–7.) I discuss the function of memory more extensively in chapter 8.
⁵² I have been emphasizing the function of sensory organs, since that is what Leibniz most often appeals
to in his account of why animals have perceptions that are distinct enough to be noticed, but obviously
other bodies might similarly intensify the effect, e.g., a microscope’s magnifying function.
     
3. Expression and Bodily Mediation

I think it was Leibniz’s view that the bodily mediation of perceptions makes certain
perceptions more forceful than others and that a finite substance’s perceptions reflect
the structure of reasons in the mind of God. This is due to the way the universe is
expressed in an embodied substance.
In this final section, I would like to consider the affect bodily mediation will have
on Leibniz’s theory of expression, extending the discussion from chapter 5. I will not
try to solve all of these issues, but I do at least want to fill out the picture of how
the bodily mediation of expressions results in heightened perceptions that reflect the
structures of reasons in God’s mind, and to flag some potential problems for the
theory of expression that result from it.
The definitions of expression discussed in chapter 5 do not explicitly account for
the possibility of mediated expressions, although there are ways that this could be
worked into the accounts. For example, the relation R in Kulstad’s account could
be spelled out recursively in terms of another (mediated) expression relation. And
Swoyer’s formulation is open to amendment on this front as well, since the mediated
expressions are presumably structure-preserving expressions.
The structure preservation entailed by Leibniz’s theory of expression allows for the
kind of bridge between the internal and the external that I have outlined above—the
body mediates the expression of the universe in a way that provides a substance with
a particular point of view, a perspective, on the whole, while preserving the relations
and structures of the whole. And so certain things may appear to be heightened or
closer from my point of view in contrast to yours, but in both cases the total structure
is intact (if not fully accessible) for each of us. The systematic unity of Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind is very nicely exhibited here—the Cartesian skeptical worries do
not appear to get a foothold since the theory of expression and bodily mediation
ensures that what any substance perceives, even confusedly, reflects the underlying
metaphysical structures of the whole.
However, the introduction of Descartes here raises a difficult question for Leibniz’s
theory of expression. Descartes’s discussion of error in the Sixth Meditation high-
lights the fact that the functions of the body are designed to provide accurate and
useful data under normal conditions but often give false results in sub-optimal
conditions.⁵³ Couple this with Leibniz’s claims that this “relation does not appear
distinctly to us,”⁵⁴ and we have reason to doubt that the bodily mediation of
expression is structure preserving, or at least not always or for all things.
In response to this worry, Leibniz frequently appeals to the interconnection of all
things, which ensures that each part of matter has a relation with and expresses all
other parts of matter.⁵⁵ And so, the bodily organs, even when they are functioning
poorly, do express everything else in the universe. Since a simple substance expresses
⁵³ Descartes gives the following example: “dryness of the throat may sometimes arise not, as it normally
does, from the fact that a drink is necessary to the health of the body, but form the quite opposite cause, as
happens in the case of the man with dropsy. Yet it is much better that it should mislead on this occasion
than that it should always mislead when the body is in good health” (AT 7.89/CSM 2.61).
⁵⁴ A 6.6.133/NE 133.
⁵⁵ Cf. A 6.6.132–3/NE 132–3 and the discussion of variations in taste at A 6.6.200–1/NE 200–1.
 ’    
the universe by representing its body, and since each part of the body expresses the
universe, then, assuming the expression relation is transitive, each finite substance
will express the universe. Following this line of argument, we end up with a very
strong expression relation, one that allows for the full preservation of structure in
a substance.
But this strong account of structure preservation raises further problems for
Leibniz. Once we make the mediation relation so strong as to be isomorphic, the
mediation relation simply becomes redundant, a needless theoretical accessory.
Leibniz assumes an account of expression of the following structure: x expresses z
by means of expressing y. If all monadic expressions is isomorphic, as several
passages suggest, then the mediation itself threatens to collapse into a single level
of expression, since if x is isomorphic to y, and y is isomorphic to z, then x is
isomorphic to z. x expresses z immediately, without need of the intervening,
mediating, expression of y. Thus, the strength of the isomorphism will result in a
collapse of the mediation relation.
As an initial response to this worry, we should note that not all isomorphisms
are qualitatively identical—there are many ways to preserve total structure. For
example, in the conic projection of the circle, there are infinitely many isomorphic
expressions of the circle, each of which, to draw the analogy as tightly as possible, is
mediated by the cone segment onto which it is projected. So, simply because x is
isomorphic to y and y to z, the relations themselves would have significant differ-
ences in the resulting expression of the original. It is these differences, I think, that
bodily mediation provides us.
I will not continue with further refinements, since this sketch will be sufficient to
demonstrate the general direction Leibniz could go. The basic point I want to
emphasize is that Leibniz’s theory of expression will underwrite the account of
perceptual distinctness, providing both the internal variations in degrees of distinct-
ness of a perception and the preservation of the external structures. More will need to
be said to spell out how Leibniz’s theory of expression will account for perceptual
distinctness. The full account will specify more precisely what in an expression
corresponds to the strength or force of an expression and how the body of a finite
substance is individuated in a way that would allow for the mediation of expressions.
It is unclear to me whether Leibniz had a worked-out response to all of these issues,
but, given the role he gives to the bodily mediation of perceptions, it is worth
considering what resources he might have drawn on in his response.⁵⁶
⁵⁶ Dionysios Anapolitanos has given us a start on this project, analyzing of the degrees of distinctness in
terms of the relative directness of a perception (Anapolitanos, Leibniz: Representation, Continuity, and the
Spatiotemporal, 21). One advantage of this account is that it brings in bodily mediation pretty easily, since
the most direct perceptions of a substance will be of its body. Of course, this does not entail that all
perceptions of the body are direct perceptions; some may be more direct than others. But the monad’s most
direct perceptions will be perceptions of its own body.
However, this will only be a start, since this account makes no appeal to cognitive capabilities unique to
animal souls or rational animals. Distinctness would be merely a function of the ordering of perceptions,
and it is hard to see how this can be parlayed into an account of sensation. Anapolitanos does say more
about sensation (see Anapolitanos 35), but it isn’t fully developed. That said, Anapolitanos has gone farther
than anyone else on this front.
     
4. Conclusion
The central claims of my interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of perceptual distinct-
ness are (a) that distinctness comes in degrees and need not be noticed; (b) that
once distinctness is of a sufficiently high degree, the perception is sensed; and
(c) the connection between activity and sensation is via the active functioning of a
substance’s body, mediating the expression of all things. The resulting account of
perceptual distinctness is one that bridges the qualitative variations of the internal
force of a perception with the structure of reasons in God’s mind. One of the
advantages that I have not yet highlighted here is that this brings out the continuity
of Leibniz’s views. Sensations are different in kind from non-conscious perceptions,
but they are also different in degree. (On my reading, any natural difference in kind
simply is a difference in degree for Leibniz.) And so by emphasizing the role of
perceptual distinctness in Leibniz, I can further support the claim that sensation or
consciousness arises by degrees. As Leibniz says in the New Essays, “noticeable
perceptions arise by degrees from ones which are too minute to be noticed.”⁵⁷ At
the same time this connection shows another kind of continuity as well, a con-
tinuity of “subjective,” internal mental states with the structures of reasons in the
mind of God. For Leibniz, even confused perceptions provide insight into the mind
of the divine.
⁵⁷ A 6.6.57/NE 57.
PART III
Mind in the Natural Order
7
Perception, Consciousness,
and Continuity
Insensible perceptions are as important to pneumatology [the study of the mind] as

insensible corpuscles are to natural science . . . Noticeable perceptions arise by
degrees from ones which are too minute to be noticed. To think otherwise is to
be ignorant of the immeasurable fineness of things, which always and everywhere
involves an actual infinity.¹
Part I of this book surveyed some of the basic naturalizing principles of Leibniz’s
philosophy while Part II outlined some of the metaphysical concepts that will enter
into Leibniz’s philosophy of mind. Parts III and IV will bring these two strands
together to argue that Leibniz had a fully naturalized philosophy of mind.
In the epigram for this chapter, Leibniz claims that “insensible perceptions” are
useful to the study of the mind, just as bodies that are too small to sense are useful to
natural science, and his reasoning for this is that “nothing takes place suddenly . . .
nature never makes leaps.”² Here, in Leibniz’s response to Locke, Leibniz appeals
explicitly to the naturalizing constraints in developing a philosophy of mind, making
particular use of the principle of continuity. Although Leibniz uses the principle of
continuity to quickly identify problems in the physics of his time, he intended it to
reach well beyond physics, and it formed a basic principle in his metaphysics as well.
What I hope to show in the remainder of this book is that these architectonic
principles will provide a guide to Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
In this chapter, I will look at a vexed issue in Leibnizian interpretation—the
question of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness. The phenomena of consciousness are
apparently discontinuous, and, Leibniz argues, the failure to resolve these apparent
discontinuities may lead one astray. I will show that the principle of continuity
provides reasons to doubt that some of the main interpretations of Leibniz’s theory
of consciousness are correct, and I will propose an interpretation that adheres more
closely to this principle.
1. The Problem of Consciousness

I now want to suggest that the principle of continuity raises a particular puzzle for
Leibniz’s theory of consciousness. In this section, I will present the puzzle and, in
later sections, I will consider various solutions. It will become clear that one of the
¹ A 6.6.56–7/NE 56–7. ² Ibid.

 ’    
dominant interpretations of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness faces real problems

because it has not sufficiently accounted for the principle of continuity. I will suggest
an alternative that I think fares better.
The problem arises when we try to determine what distinction Leibniz is drawing
between unconscious and conscious mental states. In a characteristic passage, Leibniz
describes the difference in this way:
The passing state which enfolds and represents a multitude in unity or in the simple substance
is merely what is called perception. This must be distinguished from apperception or from
consciousness . . . . It is in this that the Cartesians made a great mistake, for they disregarded
perceptions which are not perceived.³
Included in this passage is a criterion that might serve to individuate mere percep-
tions from those that are conscious perceptions: the conscious perceptions are the
“perceptions that are perceived.”
This criterion is stated without qualification, and as such one might be led to the
intuition that, since perception appears to be all or nothing, so consciousness must be
all or nothing (i.e., S is conscious of O or S is not conscious of O; consciousness does
not admit of degrees). Indeed, some interpreters have said just this about Leibniz’s
theory of consciousness. Alison Simmons says, “a perception can be more or less
distinct, but, given Leibniz’s analysis of consciousness, a perception cannot be more
or less conscious.”⁴ The details of this analysis of consciousness, and Simmons’
particular interpretation of it, will be considered below. But for now, all we need to
see is how this intuition might be gleaned naturally from a consideration of the
phenomena of consciousness as Leibniz understands them.
In his discussions of consciousness, Leibniz sometimes talks about the presence of
lower-order perceptions, for example, when one is hungry but is unaware of it.
However, “when one thinks about [the feeling of hunger], one is aware of it.”⁵
Similarly, when one lives next to a mill or a waterfall, the conscious perception of
the sound of the mill or the waterfall goes away after some time because it “ceases to
attract our attention or memory.”⁶ On an initial pass, it looks as if Leibniz is saying
that consciousness comes (immediately) when attention, memory, or thought is
directed at a set of lower-order perceptions. The phenomena of consciousness
include sudden shifts of attention from one thing to another, the sudden presence
to consciousness of things that were wholly unconscious a moment before, and the
sudden disappearance from consciousness of sounds and other qualities when they
are no longer the objects of our attention. And so, from the point of view of the
phenomena of consciousness, consciousness does have built-in leaps and jumps from
one thing to another, and it comes and goes not by degrees but suddenly.
Despite the naturalness of this interpretation of some of Leibniz’s texts, it is
problematic when considered against the background of the principle of continuity.
To put it briefly, the principle of continuity requires that there be no gaps in the
³ M §14.
⁴ Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 57. There are other interpretations that do not draw this
conclusion, which will be considered later in this chapter and in chapter 8.
⁵ A 6.6.118/NE 118. ⁶ A 6.6.54/NE 54.
, ,   
natural order, but consciousness, understood as an all-or-nothing phenomenon,

appears to introduce just these kinds of gaps.
More specifically, we can formulate the problem using two different forms of the
principle of continuity developed in chapter 2, spatiotemporal continuity and the
continuity of actual existents.
First, using the principle of spatiotemporal continuity, we know that for any
change in state, from P1 to P2, of a given substance S, S must occupy all intermediate
states between P1 and P2. So, when a substance S goes from an unconscious state to a
conscious state, S must occupy all intermediate states between these two states. But,
as has been suggested, there are no intermediate states in the case of consciousness
and so the transition from an unconscious mental state to a conscious mental state
will be discontinuous.
Secondly, using the principle of the continuity of actual existents: For any two
substances, S1 and S2, and for any property of S1 and S2, there are forms that
instantiate all possible intermediate instances of that property. More properly,
Leibniz says that this applies to kinds and their essential determinations. So, if S1
is of kind K1 that has an essential determination of being a conscious being, and if
S2 is of kind K2 that has an essential determination of being wholly unconscious,
then there is a continuous chain of kinds (with their instantiations) that are intermediate
between S1 and S2 with respect to the property of being conscious. But, if there are
unconscious substances, then they are wholly unconscious on this interpretation of
consciousness, since there are no intermediate degrees. So, between conscious and
unconscious substances there would be no intermediate chain of substances.
So, if consciousness is all-or-nothing, then it appears that there are problems with
the principle of continuity in at least two of its forms. These violations are analogous
to the problem for Cartesian physics: an infinitesimal change in the data produces
large differences in the results. If there are no intermediate states between conscious-
ness and unconsciousness (or if consciousness itself does not admit of degrees), then
Leibniz is stuck with a discontinuity in his own system. If Leibniz wishes to maintain
a fully natural theory of consciousness, which respects the naturalizing constraints
discussed in Part I of this book, then this is clearly an undesirable result.
Before looking at some ways of resolving this problem, I should note that in this
part of the book, I will be focusing on the forms of consciousness that animals and
humans have in common, the paradigm case being sensation (although Leibniz
sometimes talks as if there can be unconscious sensations).⁷ There are many passages
in which Leibniz discusses a form of consciousness that he clearly thinks is unique to
rational beings.⁸ We will have to be cautious in our interpretations of the texts to
avoid confusion.
⁷ For example, at A 6.6.55/NE 55, Leibniz says that there is “faint sensing” even in a deep sleep.
⁸ Alison Simmons uses the terms “external world consciousness,” as when an animal or human is aware
of the world surrounding it via sensation, and “reflective self-consciousness,” when a rational mind is not
merely conscious of the external world but also self-aware. Leibniz does not use these terms, although his
explanations of sensation and consciousness do map interestingly onto this distinction. However, as
Simmons points out, sometimes Leibniz’s texts are ambiguous between which of the two he intends to
describe. (Alison Simmons, “Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered,” Studia Leibnitiana 43 (2011): 201).
 ’    
2. Solution 1: Universal Consciousness

Perhaps the cleanest way to address this problem is to allow that consciousness
comes in degrees and that consciousness extends to all perceptions and to all
substances. That is to say, if all substances are conscious to some degree or another,
and if all perceptions of a substance are conscious to some degree or another, then
there would be a way of avoiding problems with the principle of continuity, since all
intermediate states in a given substance would themselves be conscious states, and
all intermediate substances between any two substances would be conscious sub-
stances, to the appropriate degree.
2.1. Furth: Perceptual distinctness as distribution of consciousness

Something like this account is proposed by Montgomery Furth in his article, “Mon-
adology.” Furth argues that Leibniz preserved a Cartesian core to his theory of
monads, that the res cogitans of the First and Second Meditations is largely preserved,
with the following three (non-trivial) modifications:⁹
(1) It is not the case that every mental event in the res cogitans is a conscious
event.
(2) The res cogitans (i.e., the monad) represents an entire world but is explicitly
conscious of a small part of it (or none of it).
(3) Objects are individuated by their qualities, and so “distinct monads must differ
in point of some feature of their perceptions.”¹⁰
These modifications, Furth argues, are essential to avoiding the well-known
problems of the later Meditations, and so he concludes that any interpretation of
Leibniz’s theory of monads must make a central place for these three features.
It seems from the first two of these modifications that Furth will allow for
unconscious perceptions, since not all mental states will be conscious mental states,
and since some monads may not be conscious of any part of the world that is
presented to them in their perceptions. However, the details of Furth’s interpretation
weaken these two claims. In his discussion of the first of these modifications, Furth,
almost as an aside, says that he understands “ ‘being conscious of ’ as admitting of
degrees,”¹¹ and in support of this claim, he offers (in a footnote) the following
observation:
Like Leibniz, I take “(relatively) minute perception” as synonymous with “(relatively) uncon-
scious perception,” and I take “confused perception” to mean the same as “perception such
that not all of its parts are separately consciously perceived.”¹²
In the spirit of the solution to the continuity problem, we can understand this to
mean that all monads have some (relatively) unconscious perceptions, which are,
at the same time, (relatively) conscious perceptions. That is to say, what it is to be
relatively unconscious is simply to have a smaller degree of consciousness.
⁹ Furth, “Monadology,” 170–3. ¹⁰ Ibid., 173. ¹¹ Ibid., 171. ¹² Ibid.

, ,   
Consciousness, in this sense, will be something intrinsic to the perception, and all
perceptions will have some degree of it, although some will have so little consciousness
that we may more naturally refer to them as unconscious perceptions.
Similarly, when discussing the second modification above, that monads are (at
best) conscious of only a small part of the world that is presented in its perceptions,
Furth qualifies this claim by saying that a monad is “a mind which typically is
explicitly conscious of (or ‘apperceives’) only a minute fraction of this presented
universe or even none of it.”¹³ Furth never provides an explanation of the phrase,
“explicitly conscious.” Is that the same as conscious to some high degree? To the
highest degree? To some degree or other? It seems he cannot opt for the latter, since,
as mentioned above, it seems that all perceptions will be relatively conscious, and so
he cannot say that some monads are not conscious of any of the presented universe if
he means by this that there are not some relatively conscious perceptions of its
universe. Indeed, this will become important to the defense of his thesis later in his
paper. So, by “explicitly conscious” here he must be referring to some high degree of
consciousness, and it would help to know what that is.
Thus, the first two modifications are less straightforward than initially stated. If
consciousness comes in degrees and extends to all perceptions (if only to some small
degree in most of them), then the difference from the Cartesian res cogitans is smaller
than we might have thought. Indeed, for both Leibniz and Descartes, according to
this interpretation, any mental state will be a conscious mental state. The substantive
difference on these two points comes only to this: for Leibniz some conscious states
will be less conscious than others and some monads will have at most minimally
conscious states.
Thus, we are left with what Furth calls the third major departure from the
Cartesian concept of res cogitans, that “what differentiates a given monad from any
other is the particular set of experiences, conscious and unconscious, that go to make
it up.”¹⁴ From this Furth develops the following argument:
(i) A monad has as its intentional object a full world (whether or not the monad
is explicitly conscious of any of this world).
(ii) Given the harmony among monads, the intentional object of a monad’s
perceptual state is identical to the intentional object of every other monad’s
perceptual state.
(iii) But by the Identity of Indiscernibles, there must be some difference among
monads’ perceptual states.
(iv) Since this difference cannot be a difference in the intentional content of the
monads’ perceptions, it must be by means of some other “introspectible
difference,” which Leibniz calls a monad’s point of view.
(v) The candidate interpretations for the concept of point of view are:
a. Viewing from an angle, a phenomenal perspectival distribution; or
b. The distribution of the degrees of consciousness.
(vi) It cannot be (a), therefore it must be (b), the distribution of consciousness,
which accounts for a monad’s point of view.
¹³ Ibid., emphasis mine. ¹⁴ Ibid., 172f.

 ’    
This argument, up through (iv), is similar in structure to an argument Leibniz

gives in the Monadology. Leibniz summarizes his conclusion in M §60:
Monads are limited, not as to their objects, but with respect to the modifications of their
knowledge of [the objects]. Monads all go confusedly to infinity, to the whole, but they are
limited and differentiated by the degrees of their distinct perceptions.
The final two steps of Furth’s argument, as presented above, represent his effort to
interpret the “degrees of . . . distinct perceptions” and the concept of a point of view.
The first option that Furth presents is that of viewing the world from an angle, or
what he calls a “phenomenal perspectival distribution.” This idea can be captured
intuitively by considering the same represented state of affairs from different
perspectival angles. Leibniz’s most frequent example of this is the viewing of a
city from various points surrounding it—all are true representations of the city, but
the angle of sight will represent the city in a different way; certain things that were
once clear are now obscured from the new angle, and things that were once
obscured become clear. Furth rejects this interpretation because it fails to be
informative. As he says:
What is omitted by the account . . . is the fact that once we regard each monad as perceiving a
certain universe in its entirety, by admitting unconscious as well as conscious perceptions, the
occurrence of “phenomenal perspectival distribution” ceases to be capable of counting as
simply an introspected fact of whose nature each of us can remind himself by looking within,
and comes to require an accounting of its own.¹⁵
According to Furth, what we are really capturing in the intuitive case, as when
viewing a city from various angles, is that the distribution of our conscious awareness
of certain facts of the city is shifting. Things are becoming clearer or more obscure as
our perspective shifts, but only because we are becoming more and less conscious of
those things as our perspective shifts.
Thus, since the perspectival distribution is explicable in terms of the distribution of
degrees of consciousness, it is the latter that determines one’s point of view. And so
Furth analyzes the Leibnizian concept of point-of-view in terms of degrees of
consciousness. The cause, Furth says, of a monad’s
seeming to behold [its universe] from a place, perspectivally, is that the distribution of degrees
of consciousness over our perceptions is not uniform; it is the differentiation between the
relatively unconsciously perceived remainder, that we interpret as the centricity of our experi-
ence in the sense that we attempted to invoke as a reading for “point of view.”¹⁶
Furth goes on to say that “the numerical diversity of harmonious monads can reside
only in differences in the clearness or degree of consciousness with which they
experience various portions of their universe(s).”¹⁷ The degree of consciousness,
Furth says, is nothing more than the clarity or intensity of perception, invoking the
slogan, “the clearer the nearer.” Thus, he says, he takes “ ‘(relatively) minute percep-
tion’ [to be] synonymous with ‘(relatively) unconscious perception,’ and . . . ‘confused
¹⁵ Ibid., 192. ¹⁶ Ibid., 193. ¹⁷ Ibid., 195.

, ,   
perception’ to mean the same as ‘perception such that not all of its parts are
separately consciously perceived.’ ”¹⁸ Connecting this thesis with Leibniz’s claim in
M §60 that monads are “limited and differentiated by the degrees of their distinct
perceptions,” consciousness reduces to the distinctness of a perception, which is
greater or less as what is represented is “closer” or “greater” with respect to the
monad.¹⁹ Thus, we can retain the Leibnizian thesis that all monads represent the
same world (in its entirety) without running up against the Identity of Indiscernibles.
Monads are distinguished by the distribution of the degrees of consciousness over
their perceptions of the world. And this, it seems, is a significant departure from the
Cartesian res cogitans.
According to this analysis, perceptual distinctness just is a function of conscious-
ness. Thus, Furth derives a principled way, on the basis of the distribution of
consciousness over a monad’s perceptions, to individuate monads by their degrees
of perceptual distinctness. Along with this conclusion, Furth takes seriously Leibniz’s
claim that the worlds would be maximally rich, with every degree of consciousness
instantiated by some monad. In fact, he takes this to be one mark against Leibniz’s
theory since, he says, he is “disinclined to think that every possible degree-of-
consciousness assignment is represented among the monads.”²⁰
Thus, according to Furth’s analysis of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness, con-
sciousness does come in degrees and every degree of consciousness is represented
by some monad. This analysis give us a clear and neat resolution to the problems
presented above: any changes in consciousness will be changes in the degrees of
the clarity of a monad’s perceptions, and there is nothing that would require that this
change be discontinuous. Indeed, it seems that Furth’s account nicely allows for
continuity in both of the forms described above.
However, while this appears to be an excellent resolution to the problem of
consciousness, it is not clearly Leibniz’s resolution. Furth’s analysis works only if
(a) all substances are conscious and if (b) conscious substances are always con-
scious.²¹ But Leibniz does not believe either of these claims. Consider the following:
[I]t is well to make a distinction between perception, which is the inner state of the monad
representing external things, and apperception, which is consciousness or the reflective know-
ledge of this inner state itself and which is not given to all souls or to any soul all the time.²²
¹⁸ Ibid., 171n3.
¹⁹ Cf. M §60. Furth notes that “closer” and “greater” can only refer to “apparent situation or size,” Furth,
“Monadology,” 196n41. It should be clear from chapter 6 that my own accounting of perceptual distinct-
ness will differ in a number of ways from Furth’s, not least in that Furth’s interpretation explains
distinctness in terms of relative consciousness, while in the end my own account will explain consciousness
in terms of distinctness.
²⁰ Ibid., 200.
²¹ Although I take the formulation in the text to express Furth’s account, there is one other possibility.
Strictly speaking, the account could allow at most one substance that is wholly unconscious, since if there
were more than one wholly unconscious monad, there would be no means of individuating them according
to this interpretation. Similarly, if monads move in and out of consciousness, there could be at most one
monad wholly unconscious at a time.
²² PNG §13, emphasis added.
 ’    
The last clause of this quotation denies both (a) and (b). And this passage is not
alone—Leibniz frequently denied these two claims. For example, Leibniz says:
We are never without perceptions, but necessarily we are often without awareness [apperception],
namely when none of our perceptions stand out.²³
The moments “when none of our perceptions stand out” are moments akin to a deep,
dreamless sleep, or a fainting spell, and Leibniz suggests that these states are
analogous to the states of the simple monads and of animal souls after they have died:
For we experience within ourselves a state in which we remember nothing and have no distinct
perception; this is similar to when we faint or when we are overwhelmed by a deep, dreamless
sleep. In this state the soul does not differ sensibly from a simple monad; but since this state
does not last, and since the soul emerges from it, our soul is something more.²⁴
Elsewhere, in a passage making a similar point, Leibniz goes on to clarify what
characterizes the state in which “we remember nothing and have no distinct
perception”:
It is that a large number of small perceptions which are equal and balanced among themselves,
with nothing to give them relief or distinguish them from one another, are not noticed at all
and cannot be remembered.²⁵
Here, as elsewhere, Leibniz refers to a state in which none of the perceptions are
distinguished against the larger perceptual field—this is a state in which the percep-
tions “are not noticed at all.” And yet, Furth is right in pointing out that for Leibniz
substances are individuated by their degrees of perceptual distinctness. As Leibniz
says, “they all [i.e., all the monads] move confusedly toward the infinite, toward the
whole, but they are limited and distinguished from each other by the degrees of their
distinct perceptions.”²⁶ Thus, it seems, for Leibniz perceptual distinctness and con-
sciousness come apart. Perceptual distinctness cannot be conceived of as the degrees
of consciousness ranging over a substance’s perceptions since some (many) sub-
stances are not conscious at all.²⁷
2.2. De Gaudemar: Consciousness and unconsciousness

as correlative notions
Martine de Gaudemar also forwards an interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of con-
sciousness that would fit in this section. According to de Gaudemar, consciousness,
for Leibniz, extends to all perceptions:
²³ A 6.6.162/NE 162. ²⁴ M §20.

²⁵ G 6.534/L 557. Cf. DM §35; PNG §4; G 3.521; and G 6.515. Contrast this with Malebranche’s
description of the same phenomenon, Search 203.
²⁶ M §60.
²⁷ In addition to Furth, others have argued that for Leibniz degrees of consciousness correspond directly
to degrees of perceptual distinctness (although they do not at the same time endorse the view that
consciousness extends to all perceptions). Cf. McRae, Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought,
36; Parkinson, “Intellectualization of Appearances,” 6ff. For additional discussion of this line of interpret-
ation, see Brandom, “Leibniz and Degrees of Perception,” 450–3; Wilson, “Confused vs. Distinct
Perception,” 338f; and Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 56f.
, ,   
For Leibniz, consciousness is not opposed to some unconsciousness, because they are correlative
terms as action and passion: all activity of the soul is always more or less conscious and more or
less unconscious.²⁸
However, unlike what I have suggested as a way to understand Furth’s proposal, de
Gaudemar tries to preserve the sense of the passages I quoted above that suggest that
not all perceptions are conscious perceptions. As I understand her, de Gaudemar
separates what she calls “three successive moments” of consciousness: (1) the passage
from insensible to sensible perceptions, (2) the passage from non-reflective to virtual
reflection, and (3) moral consciousness, which adds the reflective act.²⁹ By thus
separating these moments, de Gaudemar can argue that the passages above speak
of relatively insensible and/or non-reflective perceptions, and thus some mental
states (and some substances) are unconscious (in the relevant sense). But no mental
state is unconscious in all senses for de Gaudemar, and so she clearly sides with this
first family of interpretations.
Further, given de Gaudemar’s claim that consciousness and unconsciousness are
correlative notions, the force of these passages is weakened. There are mental states
(and substances) that are relatively unconscious, but none that are unconscious full
stop. For reasons that will become clear in the following chapters, I think this
implication fails to preserve part of what Leibniz thought to be important about the
principle of continuity, viz., the preservation of real natural distinctions. I know of
no place where Leibniz says that consciousness and unconsciousness are comple-
mentary and that all perceptions are conscious to some degree. In fact, it seems
that the textual evidence is against this interpretation. Leibniz’s arguments for
insensible perceptions are always stated categorically: “there is in us an infinity of
perceptions, unaccompanied by awareness or reflection.”³⁰ One might expect
Leibniz to be more forthcoming about this point if he had a different view in
mind, particularly given the usefulness of his claims about consciousness in his
arguments against Locke and the Cartesians, who claimed that there was nothing
in the soul of which it is unaware. Given de Gaudemar’s conclusion that all
perceptions are conscious to some degree, Leibniz’s denial of this latter point
would, strictly speaking, be false.
Despite the appeal of the view that consciousness comes in degrees and extends to
all perceptions to some degree or other, especially as a solution to problems with
continuity, it does not seem to me that it can be attributed to Leibniz. Leibniz’s
commitment to wholly unconscious substances and, in a given substance, percep-
tions that are not conscious at all rules it out. It may be interesting to consider why
Leibniz did not consider this option seriously, since it presents a nice example of
continuity, and I will have more to say about this later. But as an interpretation of
Leibniz, it seems safe to move on to other interpretations.
²⁸ Martine de Gaudemar, “Leibniz: La Notion de Conscience,” in L’Experience et la Conscience (Arles:

Actes Sud, 2004), 208.
²⁹ Ibid., 191, 197, 199, and 216f. ³⁰ A 6.6.52/NE 52.
 ’    
3. Solution 2: Higher-Order Theory of Consciousness

One of the main lines of interpretation among current Leibniz scholars is that Leibniz
holds to a higher-order thought (HOT) theory of consciousness.³¹ According to the
higher-order theory of consciousness:
(HO) “The best explanation for what makes a mental state conscious is that it is
accompanied by a thought (or awareness) that one is in that state.”³²
The separate thought, or, more accurately for Leibniz’s theory, the separate percep-
tual act, is taken to be an explanatory condition for consciousness. Unlike for
Descartes, for whom consciousness is intrinsic to the perceptual act itself, Leibniz
views consciousness as something that is open to a deeper explanation, and, accord-
ing to the higher-order view, the best explanation is supplied by a higher-order
perception. That just is what makes a perception a conscious perception, the presence
of a second-order perception that takes the first-order perception as its object. For a
mental state to be conscious, according to (HO), it must be accompanied by an
occurrent higher-order thought,³³ but the higher-order thought need not itself be
conscious, on pain of an infinite regress.
³¹ For those advocating some form of higher-order theory of consciousness, see Rocco J. Gennaro,
“Leibniz on Consciousness and Self-Consciousness,” in New Essays on the Rationalists, ed. Rocco
J. Gennaro and Charles Huenemann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Mark Kulstad, Leibniz on
Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection (Munich: Philosophia Verlag, 1991); Simmons, “Changing the
Cartesian Mind”; and Udo Thiel, The Early Modern Subject: Self-Consciousness and Personal Identity from
Descartes to Hume (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 295–301. Bolton, “Leibniz’s Theory of
Cognition” also advocates a higher-order reading, but since her reading is presented primarily in terms
of memory, I will consider her arguments in chapter 8.
³² Gennaro, “Leibniz on Consciousness and Self-Consciousness,” 353.
³³ The import of the parenthetical addition in (HO), “or awareness,” is not clear to me. In fact, if all that
is required of HOT is that there be an awareness that one is in a particular state, it is not obvious that this
also requires that there be a second-order thought that constitutes such an awareness. It seems to me that
the most neutral statement of the HOT theory would be to appeal only to higher-order mental states
without specifying their nature; perhaps this is what Gennaro intends with the parenthetical clarification.
In contemporary discussions of higher-order theories, there is a family quarrel over the nature of these
higher-order states: David Rosenthal has argued that the higher-order mental state must be a “distinct,
occurrent higher-order thought” (David M. Rosenthal, “Varieties of Higher-Order Theory” in Higher-
Order Theories of Consciousness: An Anthology, ed. Rocco J. Gennaro (Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamins
Publishing Company, 2004) and “Two Concepts of Consciousness,” Philosophical Studies 49 (1986)).
William Lycan argues that the higher-order mental state is best characterized as a perception (William
G. Lycan, “The Superiority of HOP to HOT,” in Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness, ed. Rocco
J. Gennaro (Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2004)), while Peter Carruthers argues
that the higher-order mental state is a dispositional higher-order thought (Peter Carruthers, Phenomenal
Consciousness: A Naturalistic Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000)). Gennaro himself
argues in favor of an occurrent higher-order thought, although the thought need not be distinct—it is
sufficient only that there be a self-referential component to the complex mental state (Rocco J. Gennaro,
Consciousness and Self-Consciousness (Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1996);
“Higher-Order Thoughts, Animal Consciousness, and Misrepresentation: A Reply to Carruthers and
Levine,” in Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness: An Anthology, ed. Rocco J. Gennaro (Philadelphia,
PA: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2004)).
These are important distinctions to make when defending and developing a HOT theory of conscious-
ness, but I do not wish to import them into a discussion of Leibniz’s philosophy. For present purposes,
I will treat (HO) in its weakest interpretation, which is to say, as being committed only to the claim that the
, ,   
I should note an important ambiguity in the formulation of (HO). In saying that a

higher-order thought “makes a mental state conscious,” (HO) can be read as refer-
ring to a cause of consciousness, or it can be read as referring to what constitutes
consciousness. There are three obvious options here: (1) higher-order thoughts may
merely play a causal role in consciousness but do not constitute consciousness;
(2) higher-order thoughts may constitute consciousness but do not (alone) cause it;
or (3) higher-order thoughts may both cause and constitute consciousness. In order
to distinguish the various theories, this ambiguity between cause and constitution
will be important. I am most interested in what constitutes consciousness (although,
as will become clear, I do not believe that there will be a sharp division between what
causes and what constitutes consciousness). I will be primarily arguing against (HO)
as a thesis about what constitutes consciousness.³⁴
3.1. The textual case for HOT

The main reason to conclude that Leibniz has a higher-order theory of consciousness
is that the texts seem to imply it. In this section, I will consider some of the stronger
passages that suggest a reflective, higher-order reading, but I will argue that they are
open to alternative interpretations. Since, as I will argue, the texts do not determine
the interpretation, systematic considerations will need to be brought forward, which
I will do in the next section. One important note, however: I will leave aside a set of
passages in which the relevant higher-order perception is a memory, since I will take
up those passages in chapter 8. I do think there is a more subtle higher-order
interpretation available that invokes memory rather than reflection. But I will first,
here, consider the higher-order view that suggests that consciousness requires an
occurrent perceptive act, and this will lead us to the more nuanced reading based
on memory.
The New Essays includes several representative passages, which seem to argue that
apperception involves a higher-order perceptive act. However, the New Essays also
includes (often in the same breath) passages that suggest that consciousness is due to
features of lower-level perceptions. As one example, consider this passage:
There are hundreds of indications leading us to conclude that at every moment there is in us an
infinity of perceptions, unaccompanied by awareness [apperception] or reflection.³⁵
This passage seems to lead naturally to a higher-order interpretation, if it is taken to
imply that what would make us aware of the perception is if that perception were
best explanation of what makes a mental state a conscious state is that there is a co-occurrent higher-order
mental state. The particular views attributed to Leibniz will suggest further refinements to this position.
³⁴ As I understand the position presented by Gennaro, he would say that the higher-order perception
both causes and constitutes consciousness. On the other hand, Alison Simmons (to be discussed below)
might argue for a distinction between these two, that the cause of consciousness may be described in terms
of the number, size, variation, etc., of a lower-order perception, but the conscious state itself is constituted
by a lower-order perception combined with a higher-order perception. But then we might want to
distinguish two senses in which consciousness is explained: are we seeking an account of the cause of a
particular mental state? Or are we inquiring into the nature of the mental state itself and what constitutes
it? I will try to note this distinction where it will make a difference.
³⁵ A 6.6.53/NE 53.
 ’    
accompanied by an occurrent mental state, call it apperception or reflection. However,

if we continue in the same passage, the story becomes more complicated:
[T]hat is, of alterations in the soul itself, of which we are unaware because these impressions
are either too minute and too numerous, or else too unvarying, so that they are not sufficiently
distinctive on their own. But when they are combined with others they do nevertheless have
their effect and make themselves felt, at least confusedly, within the whole.³⁶
It seems here that what explains the lack of consciousness is a lack of distinctness of
the first-order perceptions. The explanatory basis of the lack of awareness is the
relative size, number, and variation of the first-order perceptions. But, once the first-
order perceptions are sufficiently distinct, this passage appears to say that they will
have their effect and make themselves felt. No mention of a higher-order perception.
Perhaps the most obvious text to which one might turn in support of the higher-
order interpretation is PNG §4, where Leibniz says that:
It is good to make a distinction between perception, which is the internal state of the monad
representing external things, and apperception, which is consciousness, or the reflective know-
ledge of this internal state, which is not given to all souls, nor always to the same soul.
Leibniz appears here to identify consciousness with reflective knowledge of the inner
state of the substance. If this identification is correct, then the higher-order interpret-
ation has some evidence in its favor, since consciousness would then best be under-
stood as involving reflection, which, plausibly, requires a higher-order perception.³⁷
As most readers of Leibniz will know, the term used here, apperception, is a
nominalization of the French verb for “to be aware,” s’apercevoir de. Leibniz coined
this term first in the New Essays, and then continues to use it in his French writings to
refer to mental states of which one is aware. But it has been widely debated what
apperception, in its use as a technical term, refers to.³⁸ And here, in this passage,
Leibniz explicitly equates it with a kind of consciousness. What is much more
controversial is whether the term is intended to suggest, by itself, a higher-order
perceptual act, as claimed by Gennaro:
Since Leibniz had the noun for (first-order) perception, it would have been unnecessary
for him to create another term for it . . . This suggests that apperception is designed to cover
³⁶ Ibid.
³⁷ Alison Simmons endorses this interpretation of PNG §4: “[I]n order to be conscious of the tree
outside my window, on Leibniz’s view, I have to have not only a perception of the tree, but also a reflective
second-order perception of that perception . . . Consciousness enters the mind with a second-order per-
ception of my perception of the tree” (Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 54–5).
³⁸ Robert McRae and Émilienne Naert argue that apperception is equivalent to reflection (McRae,
Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought, 32f. and Émilienne Naert, Mémoire et Conscience de Soi
selon Leibniz (Paris: J. Vrin, 1961), 37f.). Mark Kulstad groups apperception along with other cognates like
sensation, memory, consciousness, and reflection, saying that they “all refer to the mind’s second-level mental
activity” (Kulstad, Leibniz on Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection, 39). Gennaro distinguishes three
types of apperception: non-conscious higher-order perceptions, momentary focused introspection, and
deliberate introspection (reflection) (Gennaro, “Leibniz on Consciousness and Self-Consciousness,” 359).
Nicholas Rescher claims that apperception refers instead to self-consciousness (Rescher, The Philosophy of
Leibniz, 126).
, ,   
higher-order perception, and just as first-order perceptions can be both unconscious and
conscious, it is reasonable to suppose that Leibniz allowed for both unconscious and conscious
apperceptions.³⁹
There are two controversial claims here. First, the claim that apperception (as a
technical term) is supposed to refer to higher-order perceptions, and second, that
apperceptions can themselves be unconscious. The linguistic usage alone does not
give us or suggest either of these claims. Just as we have the verb/noun pair, ‘to
perceive’/‘perception,’ so we also have the verb/noun pair, ‘to be aware’/’awareness.’
The French language of Leibniz’s day did not have the nominalized version of ‘to be
aware,’ and so Leibniz introduced it. But this is not to suggest—as our own usage of
‘awareness’ does not suggest, any particular theory of what an awareness is. Further, it
seems to stretch the usage of the term to suppose that there can be an unconscious
awareness. The fact that the newly introduced nominalization parallels the usage of
the verb/noun pair ‘to perceive’/‘perception’ does not entail that apperception refers
to a distinct perceptual act.⁴⁰
Aside from this, PNG §4 is ambiguous—it can be interpreted in at least two other
ways. First, we could speculate that Leibniz is not referring to one, but two examples
of apperception that should not be confused with perception simpliciter. Under this
reading, consciousness and reflection are not being identified, but rather grouped
together as two instances of a general phenomenon, as I suggested in my discussion
of NE 53 above, where Leibniz says that “at every moment there is in us an infinity of
perceptions unaccompanied by awareness [apperception] and reflection.”
Alternatively, one might say that Leibniz is here distinguishing the perception of
what is external to the substance from the perception of what is internal to the
substance. That is, we might read the passage not as identifying apperception with
consciousness full stop, but with consciousness of the internal state of the monad.
Nicholas Rescher endorses this reading, saying, on the basis of PNG §4, that
“apperception . . . is not consciousness as such (which is present in souls as well as
spirits, in animals as well as man), but self-consciousness or self-perception generally,
based on the capacity for reflexive self-revealing perception of the workings of one’s
own mind.”⁴¹
This last reading appears to me a bit forced, since there are other similar passages
in which Leibniz identifies apperception with consciousness generally.⁴² Further,
the immediate context of this passage is drawing a distinction between animal souls
and the lower monads. From the claim that “animals are sometimes in the condi-
tion of simple living beings, and their souls in the condition of simple monads,”
Leibniz concludes that it is good to make the distinction between perception and
appetition—this distinction is to apply to animal souls as well as to minds. Thus, if
consciousness is thought to be identified with reflection here, it must be a reflection
that animals also have.
³⁹ Gennaro, “Leibniz on Consciousness and Self-Consciousness,” 358.

⁴⁰ For a careful treatment of the linguistic issues, see Kulstad, Leibniz on Apperception, Consciousness,
and Reflection, 21ff.
⁴¹ Rescher, The Philosophy of Leibniz, 126. ⁴² e.g., M §14 and A 6.6.134/NE 134.
 ’    
The best conclusion to draw from this passage, it seems to me, is that it is
ambiguous, and we should consider how it fits against other texts. Perhaps, as the
higher-order interpretation would have it, Leibniz is identifying consciousness and
reflection, in which case it is problematic—this text would appear to commit Leibniz
to attributing reflection to animals despite clear texts to the contrary.⁴³ For this
reason, many defending the higher-order interpretation have distinguished several
types of reflection. I will return to this proposal in chapter 10.
However, this passage remains open to a same-order theory of consciousness. In
the preceding passage, Leibniz defines sensation as “a perception accompanied by
memory.”⁴⁴ The account given there for why memory accompanies such perceptions
is a physiological account: in the case of a visual perception, the sensory organs
gather the rays of light and concentrate them so that they “act with greater force,” an
activity that recalls the theory of perceptual distinctness I developed in chapter 6. It is
this action of the lower-order perceptions that explains why there is an “echo” of
memory. Similarly, when we get to the passage quoted above, it is natural to conclude
that there is a similar explanation to account for the accompanying apperception.
Indeed, the initial drafts of PNG make this connection more clear than does the final
draft. Here is the draft version of PNG §4 (Leibniz’s addition in italics):
It is true that animals are sometimes in the condition of simple living things, and their souls in
the condition of simple monads, namely when their perceptions are not sufficiently distinct to
be remembered, as happens in a deep, dreamless sleep or in a fainting spell, and it is these
perceptions that are not apperceived.
It is somewhat of a puzzle why Leibniz decided to strike the final clause from the text.
But its inclusion in a draft is suggestive. Had it been included in the final draft, it
would help decide on a reading of the later passage, since it draws a strong connec-
tion between sensation (perceptions that are “sufficiently distinct to be remem-
bered”) and consciousness. In this draft, it is clear that Leibniz thought animals
also have apperception, and, given what he says following this passage, animals
would not have reflection. So, while reflection may be one example of apperception,
so also (given this draft) would sensation, which does not clearly involve reflection.⁴⁵
And when we look at one additional parallel passage, we find that Leibniz does not
appeal to reflection or higher-order thinking in his account of apperception:
I would prefer to distinguish between perception and being aware [s’appercevoir]. For instance,
a perception of light or color of which we are aware [nous nous appercevons] is made up of
many petites perceptions of which we are unaware [nous ne nous appercevons pas]; and a noise
which we perceive but of which do not take heed to becomes apperceptible [devient
⁴³ In the very next section, PNG §5, Leibniz says that only rational souls are capable of performing “acts
of reflection,” which presents a real problem for those who want to qualify Leibniz’s use of the term in PNG
§4. Cf. M §30.
⁴⁴ PNG §4.
⁴⁵ Mark Kulstad provides the information on the draft version of PNG and offers his own interpretation
for the revision. See Kulstad, Leibniz on Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection, 35f. and Chapter 5.
, ,   
apperceptible] by a small addition or augmentation. For if the previous noise had no effect on
the soul, this small addition would have none either, nor would the whole.⁴⁶
This passage starts with a similar goal of distinguishing perception and apperception,
but the account of the distinction differs from the PNG text. Here there is no mention
of reflexive acts that enable awareness. Rather, the explanation is in terms of the
constitution of a conscious perception by many unconscious perceptions. And the
way a perception becomes conscious is by means of increments in the underlying
perceptions, making the whole more forceful.
Of course, the higher-order interpretation has a response: the increments in the
underlying perceptions only make the whole “apperceptible,” not apperceived. What
accounts for the difference between a perception that is apperceptible and a percep-
tion that is apperceived? The higher-order interpretation would argue that the
perception becomes available to consciousness when sufficiently strong. But, given
that the constitution of a conscious perception makes no appeal to higher-order
perception in this passage, this can be doubted. I will say more about this in what
follows. My main point here is that the texts underdetermine the interpretation, and
more systematic considerations will need to be applied. My own view is that once the
systematic naturalizing constraints are brought into the picture more fully, the
higher-order interpretation loses some of its initial appeal as a consistent interpret-
ation of Leibniz. Considering only the passages that treat specifically of conscious-
ness, the debate will always be a bit murky. But when considered against the
background of the principle of continuity, I think we will find the higher-order
interpretation lacking.
3.2. HOT and the threat of discontinuity

The main problem with the higher-order interpretation in the form that depends
on an occurrent higher-order perception, is that it introduces a discontinuity into
Leibniz’s system. What best accounts for a mental state being a conscious state, as the
thesis stated above, is the presence of a higher-order perception that one is in that
state. As will become clear, according to this view consciousness does not come in
degrees—the explanation of consciousness is the (sudden) appearance of a higher-
order perception.
Alison Simmons, in defending a higher-order interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of
consciousness, has addressed the demands of continuity very directly. She argues that
the principle of continuity is satisfied as long as a discontinuous change is grounded
by a continuous change. I will argue in this section that this grounding thesis is not to
be found in Leibniz’s texts, and, if it were, it would provide an obvious response of the
Cartesians to Leibniz’s criticisms. If this grounding thesis is false, then Simmons’
attempt to ground a discontinuous change from non-conscious to conscious percep-
tions on the continuous change in perceptual distinctness will fail. The higher-order
interpretation depends on a discontinuous transition that Leibniz could not accept.
At question here is the relation of apparent discontinuity to the continuous changes
that are supposed to underlie it. Specifically, what, according to the higher-order
⁴⁶ A 6.6.134/NE 134, translation altered.

 ’    
interpretation, legitimates the discontinuous change from non-conscious to conscious

perception? Simmons has an answer to this question:
The point of the principle of continuity is not that all change is continuous, but that all change
is grounded in or occurs through some continuous change.⁴⁷
So, one possibility is that discontinuity is legitimate as long as it is grounded in
something continuous. Call this the Grounding Thesis (GT). In appealing to a
grounding thesis, Simmons is saying that the principle of continuity does not require
continuity at all levels. There are cases of discontinuity (and, according to Simmons,
consciousness is one of them), but these are permitted as long as there is a grounding
relation to something continuous.
The grounding thesis can be formulated in the following way:
(GT) Any change, C, either (a) is continuous itself, or (b) is grounded in some
continuous change, C0 .
The first half of the thesis is clear enough, and indeed we find Leibniz saying just this:
“all natural change is produced by degrees.”⁴⁸ The second half, however, requires
some explication—what is the grounding relation that allows a discontinuous change
to be regarded as legitimate?
In the case of this version of the higher-order theory of consciousness, it seems
clear that the change is strongly discontinuous—one moment there is no relevant
higher-order perception, the next moment there is. According to this view, con-
sciousness does not come in degrees—it is either all or nothing. So, in order for this,
on Simmons’ view, to meet the standards of the principle of continuity, conscious-
ness must bear some grounding relation to a continuous change. As Simmons puts it:
I now want to suggest that the discontinuous change from unconscious to conscious percep-
tion is grounded in a continuous change in perceptual distinctness . . . [A]t a certain point
perceptions are distinct enough that they attract a second-order perception and thereby
become conscious perceptions.⁴⁹
So, what is the grounding relation that consciousness bears to perceptual distinct-
ness? It is the relation of attraction, or, as Simmons says later, the lower-order
perceptions capture a second-order perception.
It is critical that more be said about this grounding relation in order to avoid some
obvious objections. For example, (GT) as it stands can be used by the Cartesians to
respond to Leibniz’s criticisms of Descartes’ laws of motion. The Cartesians could
reply by saying that the Cartesian laws of motion are not problematic, since, although
there is a genuine discontinuity as Leibniz points out, it is a discontinuity that is
grounded in a continuous change. Consider the case where bodies B and C are of
equal mass but unequal velocity, C having greater velocity than B. Then gradually
and continuously change the velocity of C until it is equal to that of B. At the point of
equality, B changes suddenly from having a progressive motion to a regressive
⁴⁷ Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 45.

⁴⁸ “[T]out changement naturel se faisant par degrés,” M §13.
⁴⁹ Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 57.
, ,   
motion, and this is the discontinuity that Leibniz finds disturbing. But, the Cartesians
could say, Leibniz need not be disturbed by this, since he allows for (GT). The
continuous change in velocity is what grounds the discontinuous change, since it
approaches continuously until it “attracts” a regressive motion.
But now apply the same principle to the higher-order interpretation of Leibniz’s
theory of consciousness. According to this interpretation, an infinitesimal change
could result in a very large difference, viz., the transition from a non-conscious to a
conscious perception. Since consciousness does not admit of degrees, according to
this higher-order interpretation, and since transitions are supposed to be grounded
in continuous changes in perceptual distinctness, there will be some point in the
distinctness continuum at which a higher-order thought is attracted. Make an
infinitesimally small change in distinctness and the higher-order thought is no longer
attracted. The effect does not correspond with the cause and, were we to graph the
results of this transition, the graph would include gaps similar to Leibniz’s discon-
tinuous graph of the Cartesian laws of motion.⁵⁰
Thus, if Leibniz is committed to a higher-order theory of consciousness, as it has
been defended in the literature, the Cartesians have a ready response. In order to
account for the discontinuity, Leibniz would have to appeal to (GT). However, if
Leibniz can appeal to (GT), then so can the Cartesians. Leibniz must either give up
his criticism of the Cartesians or give up (GT). He is not going to give up his
criticisms of the Cartesian laws of motion, so, it seems, (GT) has got to go.
I would argue that the second half of (GT) is what is problematic. If Leibniz allows
for discontinuous changes that are grounded in continuous changes, then the
Cartesians have their opening. Remove this clause and Leibniz’s criticisms of the
Cartesians stand. The textual evidence seems very clear that, for Leibniz, all change is
continuous change and there are no actual discontinuities in the natural world.
Continuity among the transitions of perceptions is supported by Leibniz’s state-
ments about the continuity of natural changes. In M §§10 and 13, quoted above,
Leibniz says that all the natural internal changes of a substance must be continuous
changes, which, he says, is to say that they proceed by degrees—“something changes
and something remains.” Similarly, in the New Essays preface, Leibniz says that the
principle of continuity implies that
any change from small to large, or vice versa, passes through something which is, in respect of
degrees as well as of parts, in between . . . . [This] supports the judgment that noticeable
perceptions arise by degrees from ones which are too minute to be noticed. To think otherwise
is to be ignorant of the immeasurable fineness of things, which always and everywhere involves
an actual infinity.⁵¹
Leibniz is here endorsing the science of pneumatology, or a science of the mind, that
will proceed in a way similar to the physics of motion. In the context of this passage,
Leibniz explicitly raises the example of the Cartesian laws of motion as an example of
the application of the principle of continuity, and he proposes an analogy with the
⁵⁰ G 4.382/L 412. See Jorgensen, “Continuity and Consciousness,” 229–31 for a modern depiction of the
graph and discussion of Descartes’s theory of motion in relation to the principle of continuity.
⁵¹ A 6.6.56/NE 56.
 ’    
science of the mind. Just as “no motion ever springs immediately from a state of rest,”
so also no noticeable perception ever springs immediately from obscurity.
These are problematic texts for the higher-order interpretation, since they propose
a more direct application of the law of continuity to transitions in perceptions. If
consciousness is thought to be explained by a higher-order perception, one needs to
say more about how these higher-order perceptions arise by degrees. It seems that
consciousness, and higher-order perception, is an all-or-nothing matter; either a
lower-order perception has an accompanying higher-order perception or it doesn’t.
There does not appear to be any mediation of degrees or parts.
3.3. Fixing up HOT

There are ways in which one might fix up this version of the higher-order interpret-
ation so that it does not violate the principle of continuity. The main thrust of my
objection in the section above is this: to the extent that the higher-order theory
depends on the existence or non-existence of an occurrent higher-order perception,
the theory would entail a discontinuity. As I mentioned above, the continuity of
existence requires that the beginning and end of the existence of a simple is unnatural
and introduces a gap in the natural order, which ensures that all substances naturally
have infinite existence (that is, the creation and annihilation of substances would be a
supernatural event). I suggested there that this is because of the nature of the
existence of simples, which does not admit of degrees for Leibniz.
Thus, it is no surprise that the higher-order interpretation, which depends on the
presence or absence of a higher-order perception (or, one might also say, the
existence or non-existence of an occurrent higher-order perception), also does not
admit of degrees. Consciousness will be all-or-nothing just as existence of simples is
all-or-nothing. But then any change in consciousness will be a discontinuous change,
just as a change in the existence of a simple, since it does not admit of degrees, would
be a discontinuous change for Leibniz.
There are ways to resolve this and still preserve some essential characteristics of the
higher-order interpretation. For example, suppose one were to posit that the higher-
order thought(s) were always present (and thus do not come into and out of existence
discontinuously). The details of this view could vary, but one main possibility comes
to mind: there could be a series of higher-order thoughts corresponding to lower-
order thoughts and co-occurrent with the lower-order thoughts. On this interpret-
ation, one could maintain that consciousness is the limit of some continuous change
in the relevant higher-order thoughts that are already present. For example, one
might suppose that certain higher-order thoughts themselves become more or less
distinct, and that consciousness arises only when the higher-order perception itself
becomes sufficiently distinct. This would resolve the discontinuity of the existence
predication while preserving the basic thought that a conscious mental state is
partially constituted by a higher-order perception of a lower-order mental state.
While I grant that this would avoid the problem of discontinuity, the interpret-
ation would also lose any advantage it had over other interpretations. If conscious-
ness is explained by variations in perceptual distinctness at the higher-order, why not
explain consciousness by variations in perceptual distinctness at the lower-order level
, ,   
instead? This modification of the higher-order interpretation would simply repeat

the problems of the lower-order, resulting in a loss of simplicity.⁵²
One other way of preserving the continuity of higher-order thought would be to
hold something like a “spotlight view” of consciousness. Suppose there was a single
higher-order thought continuously present, which shifted its intentional object from
one lower-order perception to another. It would be as if the spotlight is moving
among the lower-order perceptions, first shining on one and then another. This
would preserve continuity at the higher-order level and account for consciousness in
terms of an occurrent higher-order perception. What it is for a perceiver to be
conscious of the tree outside the window is for the higher-order perception to shift
its attention to the lower-order perception of the tree. That is, the lower-order
perception of the tree becomes the object of the higher-order perception. Provided
that the shifting of attention is also accounted for continuously, this would also be a
higher-order theory of consciousness that respects the principle of continuity. The
main objection I have to this view is that it seems clear to me that for Leibniz there
are many, many higher-order perceptions in perceiving substances. This higher-
order theory of consciousness would have to give an account of the “single spotlight,”
which is suggested by Leibniz’s use of the language of attention, but which otherwise
I do not see in Leibniz’s texts. Rather, it seems to me that for Leibniz attention is a
property of the perceiver, not of the higher-order perception itself.
While these fixed-up versions of the higher-order interpretation may be desirable,
given that they help make sense of some of the more problematic texts, it seems to me
that the most promising version of this revised higher-order interpretation will
appeal not to an occurrent perception but to memory, and I will take up this
suggestion in chapter 8. In the meantime, I will offer one additional way of under-
standing Leibniz’s theory of consciousness.
4. Solution 3: The Threshold View

Leibniz’s writings are open to a same-order theory of consciousness. In particular,
I will argue that for Leibniz, a conscious perception is a distinct perception. As
I argued in chapter 6, we can distinguish the relative distinctness of perceptions from
distinct perceptions. All perceiving substances have perceptions that have some
degree of distinctness, but not all perceiving substances have distinct perceptions.
Rather, it requires some threshold degree of distinctness (relative to context) for a
perception to be distinct. (For the purposes of the exposition of this account, I will
restrict myself to sensation. As discussed in chapter 6, distinct ideas or concepts
present a different set of issues, which I will address in chapter 12.)
⁵² There is an additional modification to the higher-order interpretation that might be considered,

although in the end it collapses into the first alternative proposed in section 2: The necessary higher-order
perception(s) are continuously present, and, as such, all perceptions are conscious to some degree or other
(and all substances are conscious substances). Once again we would need some way to allow for degrees of
consciousness, and the primary candidate would be perceptual distinctness. This would result in a higher-
order version of Furth’s original suggestion.
 ’    
Some of the passages I have presented elsewhere support this interpretation, but
allow me to present them together here. First, the frequently repeated example of the
sound of the waves supports this interpretation:
[T]he roaring noise of the sea . . . impresses itself on us when we are standing on the shore.
To hear this noise as we do, we must hear the parts which make up this whole, that is the
noise of each wave, although each of these little noises makes itself known only when
combined confusedly with all the others, and would not be noticed if the wave which
made it were by itself.⁵³
The clear implication here is that the aggregation of smaller “noises” results in a
“roaring noise.” He says that the petites perceptions “constitute that je ne sais quoi,
those flavors, those images of sensible qualities, vivid in the aggregate but confused as
to the parts.”⁵⁴ The aggregation of the smaller perceptions correlates with an analysis
of our more vivid sensations. And this aggregation of smaller into larger perceptions
is what Leibniz says follows the principle of continuity.⁵⁵
To compare this with the previous interpretations, let me provide a contrasting
analogy. I described one version of the HOT theory as the “spotlight” view: it is as if
for a lower-order perception to be noticed, it needs a higher-order spotlight to shine
on it. This is like a billboard in the nighttime—it needs the spotlights in order to be
seen. Montgomery Furth’s interpretation, in contrast, is as if the billboard were made
out of lights, each one dimly lit and each one (if faintly) conscious in itself. The view
I am describing here would be like Montgomery Furth’s view—the billboard is made
out of lights—but the individual lights are too faint or too close to others to be
individually noticed. Rather, the conscious effect is of the whole sign. The sign
requires that there be individual bulbs that are perceived but not noticed. But collect
together enough of these individual bulbs that are perceived and not noticed and you
have a noticeable perception. (Whether the perception is distinct, whether it will be
noticed, depends on several factors, as discussed in chapter 6. On a dark rural road,
the sign will be noticed; in Times Square, possibly not.)
Leibniz refers to the aggregation of perceptions in many other passages. In one
contested passage—PNG §4—Leibniz leads with an account that sounds very much
like the account I am describing here. Leibniz says:
[W]hen a monad has organs that are adjusted in such a way that, through them, there is
contrast and distinction among the impressions they receive, and consequently contrast and
distinction in the perceptions that represent them [in the monad] . . . then this may amount to
sensation, that is to a perception accompanied by memory—a perception of which there
remains an echo long enough to make itself heard on occasion.
Here, Leibniz accounts for sensation in terms of the “contrast and distinction” among
perceptions. The higher-order theorists will, of course, read this causally: the contrast
and distinction plays a causal role in drawing a higher-order perception to the lower-
order perception. The interpretation I am recommending is constitutive: sensation is
constituted by a sufficiently distinct perception, which does have an effect (namely, in
⁵³ A 6.6.54/NE 54. ⁵⁴ A 6.6.54–5/NE 54–5; final emphasis mine. ⁵⁵ A 6.6.56/NE 56.

, ,   
producing an echo). And again, the fact that the contrast and distinction “may amount
to sensation” is due to the fact that the amount of contrast sufficient for consciousness
is sensitive to a variety of factors. But this passage is open to an interpretation such that
it is the contrast and distinction that constitutes consciousness.
This is supported by the parallel passage in the Monadology:
[I]f, in our perceptions, we had nothing distinct or, so to speak, in relief and stronger in flavor,
we would always be in a stupor . . . We also see that nature has given heightened perceptions to
animals, from the care she has taken to furnish them organs that collect several rays of light or
several waves of air, in order to make them more effectual by bringing them together.⁵⁶
Here again, it is the relief and contrast that accounts for the distinction between
substances that are “in a stupor” and those that have sensation.
And in a passage that seems most directly to state the interpretation I am defend-
ing, Leibniz says:
Also evident is the nature of the perception which belongs to all forms, namely the expression
of many things in one, which differs widely from expression in a mirror or in a corporeal
organ, which is not truly one. If the perception is more distinct, it makes a sensation. But in the
mind there is found, besides the expression of objects, consciousness or reflexion.⁵⁷
This passage very plainly endorses the view that the more distinct perceptions just are
sensations. While Leibniz goes on in this passage to describe “consciousness,” it is
clear there that he has in mind reflective acts that are unique to rational beings, and
so he is no longer talking about mere sensation.
The above passages suggest a threshold interpretation of consciousness. One way to
read Leibniz is as saying that a conscious perception just is a distinct perception, a
perception that has passed a sufficient threshold of contrast against the background
of perceptions such that it stands out. What accounts for its consciousness is the
underlying unconscious perceptions. This account of consciousness will allow for a
number of features: (a) consciousness comes in degrees; (b) at a particular threshold
consciousness arises; (c) the threshold and degrees of distinctness can be sensitive to
context and so might vary from situation to situation; and (d) it bears a strong
analogy to what is going on in Leibniz’s dynamics: the same underlying forces may or
may not have their effect depending on other variables.
Thus, on this interpretation, monads are not conscious of all of their perceptions—
indeed many of the arguments in the New Essays seem to be directed at one basic fact:
conscious perceptions are constituted by a multitude of lower-order (unconscious)
perceptions. In many of these passages, there is no appeal to a higher-order percep-
tion. It is also a consequence of this interpretation that many monads will have
infinitely many perceptions that vary in the degrees of distinctness none of which
stand out sufficiently from the rest, and so these monads are wholly unconscious.
And, since the standing out of a figure from its background is a matter of degree
(some may stand out more than others), consciousness may also be a matter of
⁵⁶ M §§24–5.
⁵⁷ “A Specimen of Discoveries about Marvellous Secrets” (1688?), A 6.4.1625/MP 85. The relevant
sentence in the original is “Quodsi perception sit distinctior, sensum facit.”
 ’    
degree, once the threshold of distinctness has been crossed. That is, there may be
substances that are more fully conscious of aspects of the world than others, and
within a substance there may be perceptions that are more strongly conscious than
others.
The threshold interpretation fits nicely with Leibniz’s claim that “noticeable
perceptions arise by degrees from ones which are too minute to be noticed,”⁵⁸
allowing for continuity between conscious and unconscious mental states. That is,
I take the threshold view to be consistent with Leibniz’s broader systematic concerns.
4.1. Transformations and continuous transitions

In this section, I want to address one concern one might have about consciousness
arising by degrees. That is, this objection might lead one to reject my claim that
consciousness should satisfy the principle of continuity. If the principle of continuity
could not—even in principle—be satisfied by a theory of consciousness, then these
systematic constraints can be shed and one of my central objections to the higher-
order theory would be dissolved. Of course, I will give reasons to think that this
objection will not hold.
If consciousness comes in degrees, one might argue, then there is nothing pre-
venting it from extending to all perceptions, to some degree or other. This objection
is raised briefly in Simmons’ article. Commenting on the New Essays passage
mentioned above, where Leibniz says that conscious perceptions must arise “by
degrees from [perceptions] that are too minute to be noticed,” Simmons says this:
A word of caution is in order here. Leibniz is not arguing that consciousness comes in degrees,
that is, that more conscious perceptions come from less conscious ones. If that were the case,
then all perceptions would turn out to be conscious to some degree, which is precisely what
Leibniz is denying. The point of the principle of continuity is not that all change is continuous,
but that all change is grounded in or occurs through some continuous change. Thus, the
discontinuous change from unconscious to conscious perception is grounded in a continuous
change in some other feature of perception, here described as their size.⁵⁹
There is a valid objection here, which must be taken seriously. If (1) the transition
from non-conscious to conscious states is continuous, as I have been arguing it is,
and (2) if this transition is to be analyzed in terms of perceptual distinctness, and
(3) if all mental states have some degree of perceptual distinctness, then it follows that
(4) all perceptions are conscious perceptions. This—by my lights—would be an
un-Leibnizian result as we concluded in section 2 above, since in the texts we are
discussing Leibniz’s main point is that there are an infinite number of perceptions in
the mind that go unnoticed. For him to then introduce the continuity thesis,
understood in the way I have been suggesting, would be fatal to his argument, and
his theory of consciousness would not be as distinct from Descartes’ and Locke’s as
he had thought. With this motivation, one can understand the desire to introduce
some sort of grounding relation to allow Leibniz to maintain both his theses about
continuity and unconscious perceptions.
⁵⁸ A 6.6.57/NE 57. ⁵⁹ Simmons, “Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 45.

, ,   
I grant the force of this argument, and it is clear that (4) follows from (1) through
(3). However, I deny premise (2). In what follows I will argue that the transition from
non-conscious to conscious perceptions is not to be analyzed in terms of perceptual
distinctness simpliciter, in a way that would make all perceptions conscious to some
degree. Rather, I think Leibniz provides sufficient reason to think that transitions in
kind can occur from continuous transitions. That is, I will provide further reason to
think that the threshold view will provide the transitions in kind that Leibniz
requires. As such, this view preserves what is desirable from both of the prior
solutions. Like Furth’s solution and unlike the higher-order interpretation, con-
sciousness does come in degrees and any change in consciousness would be a
continuous change in consciousness. But, unlike Furth’s solution and like the
higher-order interpretation, there are perceptions that are not conscious at all and
there are wholly unconscious substances.
I will now present some reasons to believe that Leibniz could endorse both (a) the
continuity of consciousness and (b) the existence of wholly unconscious perceptions.
By continuity of consciousness I mean that the transition from non-conscious
perception to conscious perception is one that is continuous and proceeds by degrees.
As a result, consciousness will itself be a matter of degree. However, what I will argue
here is that this does not itself entail that consciousness extends to all perceptions.
The main proposal I wish to make is this: the law of continuity does not prevent
transitions in kind; rather it merely requires that any transitions in kind are con-
tinuous. If my understanding of the principle of continuity is correct, then when
applied to Leibniz’s theory of consciousness it entails only that the transition between
non-conscious and conscious perceptions be a continuous one. This is precisely what
the higher-order interpretation does not hold and so for that reason we must reject it.
Consider again Leibniz’s objections to the Cartesian laws of impact. Leibniz there
argues that a transition in kind, from rest to motion, is to be analyzed in a continuous
way—the motion arises by degrees. The principle grounding this claim says that a
slight change in the cause should result in a like change in the effect. Applying this
principle to the mental, we must conclude that slight changes in perceptual distinct-
ness will result in slight changes in consciousness. A surprising result, to say the least,
since it entails that, for Leibniz, consciousness comes in degrees.
Although this may be a non-standard interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of con-
sciousness, it does not immediately entail that all perceptions are conscious percep-
tions any more than the requirement that the transition from rest to motion be
continuous entails that all bodies are in motion. All that is required by the principle
of continuity is that the transition be continuous. And, as I have argued above,
consciousness for Leibniz occurs when a perception becomes distinct. Rather than
being analyzed in terms of perceptual distinctness simpliciter, my suggestion is that a
perception becomes distinct when it crosses some sufficient threshold of distinctness.
What the principle of continuity requires of a theory of consciousness is a principled
way of analyzing the transition from unconsciousness to consciousness. Wherever
the transition occurs, it must be a continuous transition, and plausibly Leibniz could
provide a continuous analysis of when a perception becomes distinct.
That said, there still seems to be a pressing question for my interpretation of
Leibniz’s theory of consciousness. If consciousness comes in degrees, and if Leibniz
 ’    
believes the natural order to be a continuous one, why did he not opt for a uniform
and smooth transition all the way down? Certainly all perceptions have some power;
why is it not also the case that they all have some consciousness?
4.2. The force of the principle of continuity

In response to these questions, we can gain some insight from what Leibniz says in
other apparently discontinuous cases; we have already mentioned a couple of
examples. In his discussions of continuity in other domains, Leibniz refers to a
shift in kind as the terminus of a continuous transformation. For example, the
transformation from an ellipse to a parabola, being a continuous transformation,
allows Leibniz to call the parabola the terminus of the transformation, which makes it
possible for him to treat parabolas simply as special cases of ellipses. A parabola is an
ellipse with infinitely distant foci. Similarly, Leibniz says that rest is an infinitesimal
motion; equality an infinitesimal inequality, and so on.
These claims help us to see what is at stake if we were to deny the principle of
continuity. Why would it be helpful, for example, to consider a parabola a special
kind of ellipse? Well, for one, all the properties of the ellipse would then apply to the
parabola, and, as is sometimes the case, it may be easier to prove a theorem about an
ellipse than it is to prove the corollary of the parabola. If we can prove also that the
two are continuous and merely special cases of the other, then the theorems that
apply to the one will apply to the other, conceived in the appropriate way. Intelligi-
bility, proof, and simplicity of properties and laws result from the principle of
continuity. Leibniz puts it this way:
The same principle [i.e., the principle of continuity] is found in physics. For example, rest can
be considered as an infinitely small velocity . . . Therefore, whatever is true of velocity or
slowness in general should be verifiable also of rest taken in this sense, so that the rule for
resting bodies must be considered as a special case of the rule for motion. If this does not work,
on the other hand, this will be a certain sign that the laws are wrongly formulated.⁶⁰
Leibniz is here proposing a methodological and architectonic principle:

(M1) For any change in kind, from K₁ to K₂, that results from a continuous
transformation, any laws that apply to K₁ must also be true of K₂, as a special case
of K₁.
M1 asserts that for any changes in kind that result from continuous transformation
(and, according to Leibniz, all natural changes in kind result from continuous
transformations), instances of the terminus kind must be regarded as special cases
of the original kind. (So, in the case of rest and motion, rest may be regarded as a
special case of motion, and the laws that apply to motion will also apply to rest,
conceived in this way.)
The immediate payoff of this methodological principle is that the multiplicity of
kinds of things, states, or relations does not result in a similar multiplicity of laws
regulating those things, states, and relations. There is a nomological simplicity to the
⁶⁰ PG 352.
, ,   
natural order. Indeed, this very pairing of plenitude (not only of things, but also of
kinds of things and their states and relations) and nomological simplicity is part of
what characterizes the best of all possible worlds for Leibniz. Violations of the law
of continuity in the natural order are also violations of the principle of the best.
Thus, the principle of continuity has three important results for Leibniz’s theory of
consciousness.
1. The principle of continuity does not by itself provide reasons to think that all
perceptual states are conscious states. Indeed, if we bring in considerations of
plenitude, we may think that there is a benefit to variety in the mental domain, just
as there is in the domain of body.
2. If we consider the transition among mental states on analogy with the transi-
tion among bodily states (e.g., from rest to motion), then we can consider non-
conscious states as a special case of conscious states. So, perhaps we can conceive of all
perceptions as having some degree of consciousness, but not in a strict sense. But, at
the same time we can observe a conceptual connection between unconscious and
conscious perceptions and remain faithful to the principle of continuity.
This raises the question of which is the true analysis—our common way of
understanding the state or the conceptually continuous characterization? For
example, it may be that, strictly speaking, rest is an infinitely small degree of velocity,
although we can commonly refer to it as rest. Or it may be the other way around, rest
not truly being a special case of motion. The following text persuades me that our
conceptions based on the principle of continuity are mere abstractions, and not
strictly true:
Although it is not rigorously true that rest is a kind of motion or that equality is a kind of
inequality, any more than it is true that a circle is a kind of regular polygon, it can be said,
nevertheless, that rest, equality, and the circle terminate the motions, the inequalities, and the
regular polygons which arrive at them by a continuous change and vanish in them. And
although these terminations are excluded, that is, are not included in any rigorous sense in the
variables which they limit, they nevertheless have the same properties as if they were included
in the series, in accordance with the language of infinites and infinitesimals, which takes the
circle, for example, as a regular polygon with an infinite number of sides. Otherwise the law of
continuity would be violated, namely, that since we can move from polygons to a circle by a
continuous change and without making a leap, it is also necessary not to make a leap in passing
from the properties of polygons to those of a circle.⁶¹
Thus, although limit cases can be conceived as instances of the paradigm, this does
not entail that they are instances of the paradigm. And so, differences in degree can
also produce differences in kind—conscious and unconscious perceptions are genuinely
different.
3. In terms of developing a science of the mind, it is only conscious perceptions
that are accessible to us. However, given the methodological principle specified
above, the psychological laws that we discover that apply to conscious mental states
must also apply to non-conscious mental states, appropriately conceived. So,
⁶¹ GM 4.106/L 546.
 ’    
although there are an infinite number of mental states that are, by definition,
inaccessible, Leibniz opens the door to a psychological science, and he remains
optimistic that such a scientific project could be carried out.
Based on the above considerations, a change in kind among mental states is not
inconsistent with Leibniz’s philosophical system. That is to say, in answer to the
question, “Why aren’t all perceptions conscious perceptions?” I have merely said that
this is not a legitimate question for Leibniz. The principle of continuity does not have
this kind of theoretical force in Leibniz’s system—it does not require him to raise this
question. In fact when considered along with the kind of plenitude that is charac-
teristic of the best world, one would expect a plurality of kinds of mental states in the
natural order, as long as the transformation from one kind to another can be
regarded as continuous.
In fact, in the New Essays Leibniz argues for the existence of unconscious percep-
tions from the principle of continuity. He says, his explanation of the principle of
continuity “supports the judgment that noticeable perceptions arise by degrees from
ones which are too minute to be noticed. To think otherwise is to be ignorant of the
immeasurable fineness of things, which always and everywhere involves an actual
infinity.”⁶² The intent of this passage is to press the reader to grant the existence of
unnoticeable perceptions. The presence of conscious perceptions is taken for granted,
and yet, Leibniz argues, conscious perceptions do not arise from nowhere. There
must be a number of unnoticeable perceptions from which the noticeable ones arise.
I argued above that this continuity is not to be understood in terms of a grounding
relation. Rather, there is some way in which conscious and non-conscious percep-
tions are continuous. And for Leibniz this continuity reduces to a continuity of the
distinctness of a perception. All perceptions have some level of distinctness, but,
when some perceptions are sufficiently distinct they have their effect. This effect in
the mental world is a noticing—the perceptions, at some level of distinctness (relative
to the relevant contextual matters), become conscious. If this is right, then con-
sciousness is not reducible to perceptual distinctness simpliciter, but to some suffi-
cient level of perceptual distinctness. In this way, there is a true transformation in
kind, although the transformation is a continuous one and proceeds by degrees.
5. Conclusion
My argument thus far is not complete. I have provided some textual reasons for
thinking that Leibniz may have had a threshold view in mind, and I have outlined the
basic ways the view could be worked out such that it is consistent with Leibniz’s more
systematic concerns, in particular with the principle of continuity. However, there is
a deep objection that I will need to address before concluding that Leibniz likely had
this view in mind.
The objection is a textual objection. I have argued that the texts underdetermine
the interpretation and that in order to see what Leibniz is arguing for we will have to
bring in systematic concerns. However, some have thought the texts speak more
⁶² A 6.6.56–7/NE 56–7.
, ,   
loudly on this subject than I have allowed. In Leibniz’s discussions of sensation, he

usually describes sensation as “a perception accompanied by memory.” ⁶³ And in
other contexts in which he is discussing consciousness, he talks about attention,
memory, and reflection. So, even if we are careful to distinguish contexts in which
Leibniz is talking about animal consciousness (which would include sensation but
not reflection) from contexts in which Leibniz is talking about the consciousness of
rational beings (where reflection is crucial), there is still strong textual evidence that
Leibniz has a kind of higher-order view in mind, one involving memory.⁶⁴
This is perhaps the most common objection I encounter when discussing my
interpretation of Leibniz. Udo Thiel has said in response to my interpretation that
the texts “speak overwhelmingly in favor of a higher-order interpretation.” ⁶⁵ And
Christian Barth (who is not an advocate of the higher-order interpretation) has said
that although my interpretation “has strong merits, it also faces a major problem: it
does not cohere well with the texts,” arguing that it is “obvious” that Leibniz views
memory and attention as constitutive of conscious sensation.⁶⁶ In order to address
these concerns more directly, I will need to take a closer look at Leibniz’s theory of
memory, which is what I will do in chapter 8.
⁶³ PNG §4.
⁶⁴ Some might also take the infinite regress argument of A 6.6.118/NE 118 to be decisive evidence that
Leibniz holds to a higher-order theory of consciousness. (Udo Thiel makes this claim: Thiel, The Early
Modern Subject, 113.) However, that argument is deeply problematic on its own terms. See Mark Kulstad,
“Two Arguments on Petites Perceptions,” The Rice University Studies 63 (1977) for some discussion of the
regress argument.
I have three thoughts about the regress argument, independent of its internal problems. First, I view this
as an artifact of Leibniz’s reading of Locke—Leibniz thought that Locke held a higher-order theory of
consciousness (which is not implausible, since many others seemed to think so as well; see Shelley
Weinberg, Consciousness in Locke (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 26–7, 29–31), and so his
arguments built that into the premises to generate a reductio (e.g., the infinite regress argument). Further,
Leibniz had two important objectives in his discussion with Locke: (1) to show that unconscious
perceptions are necessary for a natural theory of mind, and these will solve many of the epistemic and
metaphysical problems Locke considers in his Essay, and (2) to show that reflection/attention provide a
means by which to uncover innate ideas. And so his polemical situation led him to emphasize certain
features of his theory of mind together that might lead one to think that he is advocating a higher-order
theory of consciousness. But I think there is sufficient evidence in the text against the higher-order theory.
Finally, the regress argument appears to be a stock argument in seventeenth-century discussions of
consciousness, beginning with the Seventh Objections to the Meditations (AT 7.559/CSM 2.382), and
Leibniz may well have been simply drawing on these prior arguments in support of his own claims. (For
further discussion of the regress argument in the seventeenth century, see §2.2.2 of Larry M. Jorgensen,
“Seventeenth-Century Theories of Consciousness,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2014), http://
plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2014/entries/consciousness-17th/.)
⁶⁵ Udo Thiel, “Leibniz and the Concept of Apperception,” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie
76 (1994): 301.
⁶⁶ Christian Barth, “Leibniz on Phenomenal Consciousness,” Vivarium 52 (2014): 343.
8
Looking Back
Memory and Consciousness
Something must make us revive one rather than another of the multitude items
of knowledge, since it is impossible to think distinctly, all at once, about everything
we know.¹
In chapter 7, I argued that a naturalized theory of consciousness, for Leibniz, will be

one that takes the systematic naturalizing principles seriously—in particular, the
principle of continuity. Leibniz is explicit in his discussions of consciousness and
apperception that the principle of continuity holds in the domain of the mind just as
it does in the domain of body. Applying this principle to a variety of views leads me
to conclude (so far) that there are two plausible ways to formulate Leibniz’s theory
of consciousness: either consciousness admits of degrees and is universal (as in
Montgomery Furth’s interpretation) or consciousness admits of degrees and arises
at some level of perceptual distinction (on my suggested interpretation). The prob-
lem with Furth’s view is that it seems to contradict Leibniz’s explicit claims that not
all perceptions are conscious perceptions, that there are “insensible perceptions” in
the philosophy of mind just as there are insensible bodies in our best interpretations
of physics.²
I also argued that, contrary to a fairly standard interpretation, Leibniz is not
committed to a higher-order theory of consciousness. According to the higher-
order theory, a mental state becomes conscious when an occurrent higher-order
mental state takes it as its object. Put another way, when one has an occurrent
perception of a perception, then one becomes consciously aware of the intentional
content of the lower-order perception. The details of the interpretations vary, but,
I believe, these basic formulations capture the essence of the higher-order interpret-
ation of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness. And, if this interpretation is correct,
Leibniz’s philosophy will have enduring interest to those currently working on
higher-order theories of consciousness.
In chapter 7, I argued that the higher-order interpretation, as it has been developed so
far, runs afoul of some of Leibniz’s naturalizing principles. While this criticism weighs
against the higher-order theory that requires an occurrent higher-order perception, my
argument so far has not addressed other forms of the higher-order thesis. In particular,
¹ A 6.6.77/NE 77. ² A 6.6.56/NE 56 and PNG §4.

  
those who have responded to my criticisms have further developed their accounts to rely
on memory rather than an occurrent mental act.³ That is, they argue that the relevant
higher-order perception is a memory, and so, simply put, consciousness involves a
perception of a temporally prior perception. As we shall see, however, once this view is
developed more fully, it is no longer a higher-order interpretation. Nevertheless, it does
present an alternative interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness that must be
taken seriously.
In this chapter, I will consider the role of memory in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind
and, in particular, in his theory of consciousness. In section 1, I will present the
arguments in favor of what I will call a “memory theory of consciousness” to
distinguish it from the higher-order theory that relies on an occurrent perception.
In section 2, I will consider Leibniz’s theory of memory to see just how the memory
theory of consciousness could be developed. I will argue that a simple memory theory
of consciousness will fall prey to similar systematic worries as the occurrent higher-
order theory. I will then suggest some refinements to the memory theory to articulate
a theory that does not violate Leibniz’s more basic metaphysical commitments. The
result is a more robust memory interpretation that cannot be easily dismissed.
However, in the end, I still believe that even this memory-based higher-order account
does not have a clear advantage. I will argue that the modifications needed in order to
strengthen the memory theory open the door again to the competing interpretation
that relies only on lower-order features of perceptions. Finally, I will argue that
Leibniz’s claims about memory and consciousness are not intended to identify a
constitutive relation between memory and consciousness. Rather, they identify
a conceptual relation between memory and consciousness.
1. The Challenge
There are two main lines of objection to which any higher-order interpretation must
be sensitive. The first I shall call the Continuity Problem. If the higher-order
perceptions that constitute a conscious mental state arise and depart discontinuously
(as, arguably, they would in the versions of the higher-order theory discussed in
chapter 7), then the interpretation would entail a discontinuity that Leibniz could not
accept—we should favor an interpretation that does not entail such discontinuities.
The second line of objection I shall call the Extension Problem. Leibniz’s ontology
is replete with higher-order perceptions—even the lowest of the bare monads has
higher-order perceptions.⁴ And so, if consciousness is explained and constituted
by the presence of a higher-order perception, then all mental states will be conscious
mental states and all substances will be conscious substances. This is a clearly
³ For responses to my earlier argument, see Bolton, “Leibniz’s Theory of Cognition,” 146–51; Simmons,
“Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered.”
⁴ I will not take the time here to defend this claim, although it seems to me that it follows fairly
straightforwardly from Leibniz’s Universal Expression thesis—if all substances express the universe, then
presumably they also express themselves and their mental states. One response to my objection may be to
find a way to limit Universal Expression in some relevant way, but I don’t view this as a promising
response.
 ’    
un-Leibnizian result and is undesirable for any interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of

consciousness. We might conclude that higher-order perceptions cannot fully
explain consciousness.
But the memory theorists have a ready reply to this last objection: it is not just any
higher-order perception that results in consciousness; it is a higher-order perception
of the relevant sort. And in the responses to my earlier arguments along these
lines, one main suggestion has been proposed for the relevant kind of higher-order
perception, namely, the relevant higher-order perception is a memory.⁵ If the
defenders of the higher-order interpretation are able to give an account of memory
that is localized in the way that consciousness is thought to be for Leibniz (i.e.,
limited to certain kinds of substances, and, in them, only to some perceptions), then
my second objection will lose its force. Further, if the memory theory also satisfies
the principle of continuity, then my first line of objection will fail. And so, it is
necessary to consider these two possibilities and determine whether there remains a
satisfactory account of the higher-order interpretation. In the present chapter, I will
consider whether Leibniz had a memory-based theory of consciousness that will
answer these objections.
One very clear statement of the memory response is given by Martha Bolton:
Given that apperception and consciousness are expressions of past perceptions, they do not
come in degrees. A monadic expression may represent something more or less well, but it
cannot represent it more or less. For this reason, it might seem that ascribing a higher-order
theory of apperception to Leibniz conflicts with the principle of continuity . . . The transition
from cognition to cognition of this cognition might seem to be just as much of a leap as that
from sleeping to waking. In fact, there is no particular difficulty in this regard. After all, first-
order perceptions are composed of parts; they arise by gradual aggregation of their parts. The
memory of a perception is a perception which expresses the prior perception. It is not a weird
double-decker modification, but just a modification with structure in all respects like that of a
previous perception.⁶
In this quotation, Bolton acknowledges that if a higher-order theory required leaps,
then it would present a problem for Leibniz’s account. But the way Bolton avoids
leaps is still a bit unclear to me. Bolton first says that first-order perceptions are
aggregates and therefore can come about gradually and by degrees. But she then says
that memory has an internal structure “in all respects like that of a previous
perception.” It may be that she is saying that the memory can also come about by
degrees, given that it is also an aggregation of parts, structurally identical to the prior
perception. (Note: one might be wary of speaking of perceptions as having “parts,” given
that perceptions are modes of a simple substance, which has no parts. But Leibniz
allows this, saying that “since thoughts (though in a soul not composed of parts)
⁵ As I mentioned in the conclusion of chapter 7, one other response to my argument has been that the
texts “speak overwhelmingly in favor of a higher-order interpretation” (Thiel, The Early Modern Subject,
301). This is the response I get most often in conversation with others as well. I hope that the argument in
this chapter will allay that concern as well.
⁶ Bolton, “Leibniz’s Theory of Cognition,” 148.
  
represent things composed of parts, it is only in this sense that these perceptions are
called composite.”⁷)
It seems to me that there are three options for interpreting the relation Bolton
describes: (1) either memory repeats the prior perception continuously (without
the cessation of the prior perception), in which case it is not a repetition of the
prior perception as much as it is a continuation of the prior perception, (2) the
prior perception ceases and the subsequent memory appears all at once (non-
continuously), or (3) the memory arises by degrees, aggregating smaller perceptions
to produce a composite perception that matches precisely the structure of the prior
perception. It seems that we can rule out (2) right away, since this would violate the
continuity condition. (1), on a first pass, does not seem like a higher-order theory since
the continuation of the perception is not the same thing as an expression of a distinct
perception. (Something like (1) is what Alison Simmons defends in her article,
“Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered,” and she says that she no longer regards it
as a higher-order account. I will discuss Simmons’s article in section 3 below.)
And so I am inclined to think that (3) is what Bolton would prefer.
But if that is right—if memory comes about by degrees—then Bolton’s view seems
to be open to a regress of a new sort. Suppose a subject, S, has a perception, P, which
aggregates the underlying perceptions p₁ . . . pn. For the memory of P to have an
internal structure “in all respects like that of ” P, it would arise by aggregation of
expressions of the underlying perceptions p₁ . . . pn. Suppose it first aggregates p₅ and
p₉ (acknowledging, of course, that p₅ and p₉ are themselves aggregates of further
underlying perceptions). This, then, is a memory of a part of P. Should we say that
S is partially conscious of P? Or that S is conscious of p₅ and p₉, but is not yet
conscious of P? If we say that S is partially conscious of P, then it does seem that
consciousness allows for degrees. But Bolton does not seem to be inclined towards
this view (“apperception and consciousness . . . do not come in degrees”). So, instead
we might say that S is conscious of two of the underlying perceptions without yet
being conscious of P, given that S has a structurally similar memory of p₅ and p₉
which is what is required for consciousness. To put the conclusion generally, if
consciousness arises with memory and if memory arises by degrees, then it follows
that we will be conscious of the underlying perceptions before becoming conscious of
the aggregate. And this would apply to each perception, generating a regress of
consciousness to each of the parts that are aggregating into a full memory of P.
Nevertheless, it does seem that memory has a unique role to play in sensation,
attention, and consciousness. Leibniz’s frequent description of sensation as “a
perception accompanied by memory” is the most obvious evidence. In the New
Essays, Leibniz says that “memory is needed for attention: when we are not alerted,
so to speak, to pay heed to certain of our own present perceptions, we allow them
to slip by unconsidered and even unnoticed.”⁸ There are even stronger versions of
this claim when Leibniz speaks specifically about moral agents, who preserve “not
only [their] substance, but also [their] person, that is, the memory and knowledge
⁷ G 6.627/AG 228.
⁸ A 6.6.54/NE 54. The “even unnoticed ” is significant to me, as will become clear later. It seems to leave
open the possibility of noticings that do not involve memory.
 ’    
of what [they] are.”⁹ Memory is clearly a central feature of Leibniz’s philosophy of

mind, independent of its role in consciousness.
Given these passages and others, it does seem that the memory theorist may have a
strong case. But before we can draw this conclusion, we need to see more clearly how
Leibniz characterizes memory.
One advantage of pursuing this line of inquiry is an investigation of Leibniz’s
theory of memory. Memory plays a significant role in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind
and in his account of personal identity. For example, in his Theory of Abstract
Motions, Leibniz distinguishes body from mind by appealing to memory: body, he
says, is a “momentary mind” (mens moentanea), lacking memory.¹⁰ Likewise, when
Leibniz discusses immortality and moral agency, he appeals to memory again: it is
“memory or the knowledge of this ‘I’ which makes it capable of punishment or
reward.”¹¹ Given these and similar passages, Leibniz’s theory of memory is interest-
ing in its own right. All of this is generally acknowledged.¹² However, there has not
been much attention in the recent literature to a systematic account of Leibniz’s
theory of memory.
With that in mind, I will first provide a fairly detailed account of Leibniz’s theory
of memory. Leibniz has a fairly complex account of memory, and any reconstruction
must be sensitive to the technical distinctions that he makes. After providing an
interpretation of Leibniz’s concept of memory, I will consider how a memory-based
theory of consciousness might work, giving attention to a recent proposal by Alison
Simmons. In the final sections, I will argue that, while there may be a plausible
memory theory available to Leibniz, it is not clear that it is preferable to the threshold
interpretation, since developing the relevant memories will also be a function of
perceptual distinctness.
2. Leibniz’s Concept of Memory

When we look at Leibniz’s definitions of memory, we discover that all is not as neat
and clean as one would hope. The various definitions that Leibniz provides, in early
⁹ DM §35.
¹⁰ §17, A 6.2.266. See also the November 1671 letter to Arnauld, A 2.1(2nd ed.) 279: “All bodies can be
understood as a momentary mind, but without recollection [recordatione].”
¹¹ DM §34. Nicholas Jolley argues that Leibniz does not intend a strong memory condition for personal
identity. Rather, he argues, Leibniz has the weaker claim in mind that any substance will have “some sense
of its past” (Nicholas Jolley, Leibniz and Locke: A Study of the New Essays on Human Understanding
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 138–9). I will consider some aspects of Leibniz’s view of personal identity
in chapter 11.
¹² For further discussions of the role that memory plays in Leibniz’s philosophy, see Nicholas Jolley,
Leibniz (New York: Routledge, 2005), 98–9; Jolley, Leibniz and Locke, chapter 7; Christia Mercer, Leibniz’s
Metaphysics: Its Origins and Development (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 157–66 and
419–27; and Di Bella, The Science of the Individual, 119–25. Of these, Mercer probably comes nearest to
making one of the distinctions I will make below, when she distinguishes the memories of “particular states
or modifications” of a substance from memories of “ourselves as the persistent thinking things that we are”
(420). However, none of these texts gives a full reconstruction of Leibniz’s theory of memory. Naert,
Mémoire et Conscience de Soi selon Leibniz; McRae, Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought, and
Kulstad, Leibniz on Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection, give the most careful attention to Leibniz’s
theory of memory, and I will discuss aspects of their interpretations below.
  
and later periods, are all over the map. They range from definitions that could be
applied to all substances to definitions that would restrict memory to certain types of
substances (in some cases restricting it to souls and above, in other cases restricting it
to minds). And these various uses of the concept of memory show up in all periods.
I will consider each main possibility below, and then I will suggest a way to make sense
of the texts. To get a little ahead of myself, I do believe that Leibniz distinguishes three
different types of memory, and I will present evidence to support this view.
2.1. Memory in all substances?
Leibniz frequently describes memory in terms of the representation of a prior
perception. Consider the following texts:
M1. [B]ody lacks memory; it lacks the perception of its own actions and pas-
sions; it lacks thought.¹³
M2. Memory is the perception of one’s own perceptions.¹⁴
The concept of memory in use in these passages is sufficiently broad to entail that all
perceiving substances would have memories. Of course, this is not straightforwardly
so, since these definitions are early (1671 and 1678–80/1, respectively) and it is an
open question to what extent Leibniz had his theory of substance worked out in his
earlier period. But these definitions do demonstrate a sort of higher-order thought
theory of memory: a memory is simply the perception of a perception. But, given the
breadth of these definitions, and the objections raised in the section above, one might
worry whether these are adequate definitions of memory. For one, notice that there is
no distinction between a memory and any other sort of higher-order thought,
something that Leibniz will later distinguish. For example, what distinguishes mem-
ory from reflection, based on these definitions?
One might be tempted to dismiss these as anomalous. However, there are similar
definitions given in later periods that correlate with these definitions. Consider the
following passage from a letter to Arnauld:
M3. There is no stronger demonstration, not only that our souls are indestruct-
ible, but also that it preserves always within its nature the traces of all its preceding
conditions with a virtual memory [souvenir virtuel] which can always be awakened
because the soul has consciousness of, or knows within itself, that which each one
calls “myself ”. It is this that makes it capable of moral qualities and of punishment
and reward, even after this life. For without memory immortality would be
worthless.¹⁵
Here Leibniz refers to the “traces of all [of a substance’s] preceding conditions” as a
“virtual memory.” If all substances express all of their previous states, as Leibniz
believes that they do, then all substances have, minimally, a virtual memory. Now this
may not be committing to much, since this may simply be a façon de parler, and
Leibniz’s theory of memory would not count a mere disposition as a memory.
¹³ “Studies in Physics and the Nature of Body,” 1671; G 4.230/L 141.

¹⁴ “Definitiones Cogitationesque Metaphysicae,” 1678–80/81; A 6.4.1394.
¹⁵ To Arnauld July 4/14, 1686; G 2.57/L 337, emphasis mine.
 ’    
According to this letter, it seems, the actualization of the potential to have a memory
itself requires reflection, since it requires the reflective knowledge of the self. But any
substance that does not have reflection would still have traces of all its preceding
states, and in this sense would have a virtual memory.¹⁶ And this virtual memory is
arguably a higher-order state: retaining occurrent representations of all prior per-
ceptual states.
Further evidence of this fundamental form of memory can be found in the New
Essays:
M4. I am surprised that it has not occurred to you that we know an infinity of
things which we are not aware of all the time, even when we need them; it is the
function of memory (mémoire) to store them, and of recollection (réminiscence) to
put them before us again.¹⁷
This passage suggests that memory, in one sense, is simply the storage of the traces of
prior perceptions. It is a different act, here referred to as recollection (réminiscence)
that brings the stored perceptions back to a level of awareness. Given the context of
this argument—Leibniz is using memory as an example of the many ideas we may
have, though not be aware of, in support of his argument for innate ideas—we must
grant that the faculty of memory may store perceptions that are never brought back
to awareness. Leibniz argues that this is so of some innate ideas—some are innate in
us, although we may never bring them to mind.¹⁸ This does not entail that we don’t
have the ideas. The possession of innate ideas does not depend on one’s ability to
bring them to mind. Similarly, mutatis mutandis, for memory. The having of a
memory does not require the ability to bring it to mind, and, as Leibniz suggests in
this passage, the pre-established harmony entails that we do in fact have memories
that are not brought to awareness.
If it is sufficient for memory that we can remember some things though we never
bring them to mind, it seems that there is nothing preventing us from saying that a
substance may have stored memories, none of which are ever brought to mind. In this
sense, then, all substances have memories, and this sense of memory correlates
roughly with the definitions Leibniz gave of memory in the 1670s—it is a perception
of a prior perception.
2.2. Memory restricted to rational substances

During a period in the 1680s, Leibniz clearly restricted memory to rational substances
alone, believing that memory requires or is identical with reflection (a possibility we
¹⁶ Of course, one might ask in what sense it is thought to be virtual or potential if there is no way for the
substance to actualize it. But the argument for virtual memory does not depend on the ability for the soul to
bring the memory to mind; rather it depends on the universal expression thesis. In the immediately prior
paragraph in the letter to Arnauld, Leibniz says that “the concept of an individual substance includes all its
events and all its denominations, even those which are commonly called extrinsic . . . from the fact that it
expresses the whole universe in its own way” (Ibid). This is what provides the “strong demonstration” that
the soul preserves the traces of all of its prior states. This would apply equally to rational and non-rational
substances.
¹⁷ A 6.6.77f/NE 77f, Cf. 106–7, 1705. ¹⁸ Cf. A 6.6.79/NE 79.
  
noted in the earliest definitions, M1 and M2, above). The following passage presents
this very clearly:
M5. It is memory or knowledge of this “I” which makes it capable of punishment
and reward. Likewise, the immortality which is demanded in morals and religion
does not consist merely in this perpetual subsistence which is common to all
substances, for without a memory of what one has been, there would be nothing
desirable about it.¹⁹
This identification of memory with the knowledge of the self leaves very little room
for dispute, and the moral consequences he derives from it would clearly not apply to
animals or lower substances. But, as we noted in our discussion of the July 4/14, 1686
letter to Arnauld (quoted as M3 above), Leibniz backs off from this claim a little bit.
In his letter to Arnauld, Leibniz says that the traces of prior perceptual states
constitute a virtual memory, but the realization of the memory depends on reflection.
The virtual memory, Leibniz says, “can always be awakened because the soul has
consciousness of, or knows within itself, that which each one calls ‘myself.’ ” It is not
clear from these passages what connection Leibniz thought the knowledge of the self
had to the actualization of memory.
One possibility that has been presented in the literature is the thought that
memory requires a knowledge that the prior perception was one’s own. The following
passage, from the same period, might support this view:
M6. . . . to perceive that one perceived, or to remember.²⁰
Remembrance here is not just a perception of a prior perception—it is an attitude
towards prior perceptions as one’s own.²¹ Thus, on this view, the mere storage of
perceptions is not sufficient for memory, and, further, the mere repetition of a
perception without the knowledge that one has had it before would also be insuffi-
cient for memory.
There is some plausibility to this view, particularly in connection with Leibniz’s
moral philosophy. The persistence of the moral identity requires a robust notion of
memory if one is to view it as licensing praise and blame, for the individual must not
only have a recurrence of perceptions but be able to own the perception and thereby
take responsibility for what is represented in the memory. I will discuss the connec-
tion of memory with moral identity in more detail in chapter 11. For now, it is
sufficient to see Leibniz’s motivation for this strand of definitions.
We have considered a more general definition of memory, in which memory
would be attributed to all substances, and a more restricted definition, in which
memory would be specific to rational substances. In the next section, I will consider
one more strand of texts in which Leibniz tries to work out a middle ground.
¹⁹ DM §34, 1686. ²⁰ “De Natura Mentis et Corporis”, 1683–85/6?; A 6.4.1490.

²¹ Kulstad, commenting on a similar passage from “De Affectibus,” “to remember is to believe that one
has perceived” (A 6.4.1413), says that “clearly this involves a second-level mental activity, namely a belief
about one’s perception. And this would seem to be a matter of reflection” (Kulstad, Leibniz on
Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection, 38).
 ’    
2.3. Memory restricted to souls and higher substances

Most frequently, Leibniz says that memory is associated with sensation, and thus is
restricted to sentient souls and higher substances. Here are two characteristic
passages:
M7. [W]hen a monad has organs that are adjusted in such a way that, through
them, there is contrast and distinction among the impressions they receive, and
consequently contrast and distinction in the perceptions that represent them [in
the monad . . . ] then this may amount to sensation, that is, to a perception
accompanied by memory—a perception of which there remains an echo long
enough to make itself heard on occasion . . . It is true that animals are sometimes
in the condition of simple living things, and their souls in the condition of simple
monads, namely when their perceptions are not sufficiently distinct to be remem-
bered, as happens in a deep, dreamless sleep or in a fainting spell.²²
M8. Memory provides a kind of sequence in souls, which imitates reason, but
which must be distinguished from it. We observe that when animals have the
perception of something which strikes them, and when they previously had a
similar perception of that thing, then, through a representation in their memory,
they expect that which was attached to the thing in the preceding perception, and
are led to have sensations similar to those they had before.²³
These passages clearly attribute memory to animals, but they make no claims about
reflection in animals. In fact, it seems clear that there is no requirement for reflection
in these cases—Leibniz goes on in the Monadology to say that reflection is what
distinguishes humans from the animals.²⁴ All that appears to be entailed by these
passages is that the prior perceptions are (actually) brought back to awareness.
Leibniz does provide some analysis of why some perceptions are recalled rather
than others—it is because these perceptions are “sufficiently distinct”; they are
impressions that were strong enough to return an echo on future occasions. So it
seems that memory is crucially related to perceptual distinctness—at some level of
distinctness, there is a strong enough trace for it to stand out against the field of prior
perceptions. Leibniz says this in Monadology §27: “the strong imagination that strikes
and moves [animals] comes from the magnitude or the multitude of the preceding
perceptions. For often a strong impression produces, all at once, the effect produced
by a long habit or by many lesser, reiterated perceptions.”²⁵
2.4. Bringing the strands together

The previous three sections explored three strands of texts in Leibniz, each providing
a different extension to the term ‘memory.’²⁶ There are a number of interpretive
²² PNG §4. ²³ M §26. ²⁴ See M §§29–30.

²⁵ It may be thought that I am taking some license in saying this passage refers to the distinctness of
perceptions, but this passage is parallel to PNG §4 (M7 above), which does refer to the distinctness
of perceptions.
²⁶ There is one earlier text that doesn’t fit neatly into any of these categories. Leibniz says that “to
remember is to believe that one has perceived” (“De Affectibus,” 1679; A 6.4.1413). This text is clearly of a
piece with the theory that memory requires self-knowledge, but it is much weaker than the texts adduced in
  
strategies available at this point. We may say (a) that Leibniz equivocated on the
term; (b) that Leibniz’s views changed over time; or (c) that Leibniz held all three in
conjunction with one another, subsuming them under a more general term. Strategy
(a) is, of course, not desirable—to be charitable to Leibniz, we should not charge
him with equivocation unless other strategies fail. There is some evidence that
might lead one to favor (b), particularly given the fact that the close connection of
memory and reflection is isolated to a particular period. However, there is one
additional text that I would like to consider that will lead us, I think, to affirm
(c). In this one text, Leibniz brings two of the three views together. This text,
coupled with other later texts, will show that Leibniz made use of all three concepts
of memory in his mature philosophy.
The key text I would like to consider is from the New Essays. This passage
distinguishes the uses of the concept of memory and provides some technical
vocabulary that will help differentiate the three main uses of the concept:
M9. I shall say then that it is sensation when one is aware of an outer object
(s’aperçoit d’un objet externe), and that remembrance (réminiscence) is the recur-
rence of it [i.e., the sensation] without the return of the object; but when one knows
that one has had it [the sensation] before, this is memory (souvenir).²⁷
When we take this text, along with the text quoted above as M4, we will be able to
draw the necessary distinctions. I will quote M4 here again:
M4. I am surprised that it has not occurred to you that we know an infinity of
things which we are not aware of all the time, even when we need them; it is the
function of memory (mémoire) to store them, and of recollection to put them
before us again.²⁸
that section. Notice that this definition allows for memories that are strictly false. It seems to be enough that
I believe that I once perceived the Battle of Waterloo (say from Wellington’s perspective) for that to count
as a memory of the Battle of Waterloo, even if I was not in fact present for the Battle of Waterloo.
But this is an extreme case. Surely we need to allow some ground for mis-rememberings. For example,
suppose that I remember some of the details of an occasion, but not all of them. I remember having an
engaging conversation about American politics while on a walk in Cambridge. The fact of the matter is
that we had this conversation while in a pub—I merely conflated two experiences. This, it seems, is still a
memory of my having an engaging conversation about politics, even though wrong on some of the
details. Stating it in terms of belief provides room for error. In several of his other definitions, Leibniz
says that memory is the recurrence of a perception and the knowledge that we have had it before, which
seems too strong. Leibniz does say, however, that “we can be deceived by a memory across an interval—
one often experiences this and one can conceive of a natural cause of such an error” (A 6.6.238/NE 238).
The nature of the error theory is an interesting problem for Leibniz’s theory of memory that I will not
discuss further here.
²⁷ “que c’est Sensation lorsqu’on s’apperçoit d’un objet externe, que la Réminiscence en est la répétition
sans que l’objet revienne, mais quand on sçait qu’on l’a eue, c’est souvenir” (A 6.6.161/NE 161). Remnant
and Bennett say in a footnote that réminiscence is the recurrence of the perception that is involved in
sensation, without the recurrence of the object. However, as I have noted in the text above, it seems to me
that the better reading is that réminiscence is the recurrence of the sensation without the return of the object
of sensation. On the Remnant and Bennett reading réminiscence will not necessarily be conscious. But,
on my reading, since sensation is here described as an awareness of the outer object, réminiscence will also
be conscious.
²⁸ A 6.6.77/NE 77; immediately following this passage, Leibniz equates “recollection” with souvenir.
 ’    
Here are what I will consider three technical terms that we can use to sort out
Leibniz’s uses of the concept of memory.²⁹ La mémoire is the “storage” of percep-
tions, which Leibniz often describes using the “traces” metaphor. Leibniz elsewhere
makes it clear that by “traces” he means nothing more than “relations, expressions,
representations; that is, the effects by means of which some past cause can be
known.”³⁰ Thus, mémoire will be a general category, applying to any representation
of a prior state of the substance. Even bare monads have mémoire for Leibniz,
since all monads have representations of all prior perceptions, whether or not any
of those representations are conscious representations. As we have seen, Leibniz
sometimes calls this form of memory “virtual memory”³¹ or a disposition to recall
prior states.³²
La réminiscence is the conscious repetition of a prior perception. This is the
form of memory that comes with sensation. Given the connection with sensation,
we may say that the repetition of the prior state is a conscious repetition, since
consciousness, in my view, comes along with sensation. Although I have not
provided full textual evidence for the connection between sensation and con-
sciousness—and it is certainly controversial³³—I think that it is sufficient for my
purposes in distinguishing three kinds of memory to separate the mere repetition
of a prior thought from a conscious repetition of a prior thought. If one is not
willing to grant the connection of sensation and consciousness, then we could
easily adjust the terms such that réminiscence does not require consciousness, but
then réminiscence will itself admit of a division into those repetitions that are
conscious and those that are not. Instead, I prefer to allow the technical terms to
track the divisions.
What is clear, however, is that réminiscence does not require reflection or
knowledge of the self. The repetition of the perception is an impersonal repetition,
so to speak—not entailing the knowledge by the subject that it has had the
²⁹ I follow Robert McRae on this point. Cf. McRae, Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and Thought, 45f.
³⁰ Cf. G 4.551–2/WF 106. ³¹ G 2.57/Mason, 64. ³² A 6.6.140/NE 140.
³³ e.g., Alison Simmons denies that sensation and consciousness go together, citing passages like NE 188,
where Leibniz refers to an uneasiness that we “sense without taking cognizance of it,” and NE 55 where
Leibniz says that there is “faint sensing” even in a deep sleep. Thus, Simmons says, “insofar as there is sensing
going on, there is distinct perception going on, and yet there seems to be no consciousness” (Simmons,
“Changing the Cartesian Mind,” 56). Kulstad, on the other hand, argues that sensation and consciousness go
together (as well as reflection, although I will not take this up here). He argues for this most explicitly in
Kulstad, Leibniz on Apperception, Consciousness, and Reflection, chapter 1, §D, where he says:
We have already indicated that they [i.e., several parallel passages] reveal significant and
perhaps unsuspected similarities between the perception–apperception and perception–
sensation contrasts. That is a cautious conclusion and, accordingly, relatively certain. But a
markedly more interesting, albeit less certain, conclusion is also suggested by the passages
we have considered, namely, that sensation involves just the same event as apperception.
More precisely, the thesis is that sensation involves just the same event as apperception with
“apperception” taken in the reflective sense, that is, as entailing reflection as part of the
apperceptive act. (Kulstad, 36)
I will not attempt to adjudicate this disagreement here, although I am inclined to agree with Kulstad in
saying that sensation and apperception go together, although I deny that apperception is to be explained in
terms of reflection.
  
perception before. Indeed, réminiscence does not appear to require a higher-order

interpretation at all. All that is required is a repetition of the perception, with its
original intentional content, without the intentional object itself being present. As
Leibniz says in passage M9 above, “remembrance (réminiscence) is the recurrence
of [the sensation] without the return of the object.”³⁴ I will return to this point in
the discussion below.
Souvenir, finally, involves the reflective knowledge of oneself in the memory,
recognizing the memory as one’s own. This form of memory necessarily involves
self-reference, and thus, as with the definition from the Discourse on Metaphysics, it
entails a moral identity.
These three technical terms, introduced by Leibniz in response to Locke’s
definitions, provide a way of supporting the thesis that Leibniz allowed memory
of a sort to all substances. That is not to say that Leibniz was consistent in his use of
the terms in texts other than the New Essays—we cannot use the terms themselves
as guides to sort out the other texts. But, insofar as the concepts match up with
the technical definitions Leibniz provides, we can use them to make sense of
Leibniz’s theory.
Simple substances have mémoire and nothing else. Substances that have sensation
also have réminiscence, and rational substances alone have souvenir. So, although all
substances have memory, we can still make rigorous distinctions about the type of
memory any given substance might have, and this may help us determine whether
memory of some sort is constitutive of consciousness.³⁵
³⁴ A 6.6.161/NE 161.
³⁵ It was actually common in the seventeenth century to divide memory into three different species,
although there are important differences in the ways they were divided. Marin Cureau de La Chambre
argued for a three-fold division of memory, using the same technical vocabulary as Leibniz (Marin Cureau
de La Chambre, Le Systeme de l’Ame (Paris: Iacques d’Allin, 1665), 259, 292, and 350). Unlike Leibniz, he is
willing to grant souvenir to animals, but this is consistent with La Chambre’s argument that animals are
capable of reason (although only reasoning about particulars). Cf. Marin Cureau de La Chambre, Traité de
la Connoissance des Animaux (Paris: P. Ricolet, 1647).
The Cartesians also made use of technical distinctions in their discussions of memory. For example,
Louis de La Forge also has a three-fold division of memory, which does not correlate quite as well with the
divisions I have argued for here:
Corporeal memory: By the term ‘corporeal memory’ (mémoire corporelle) here I understand
only a certain facility to re-open which remains in those pores of the brain’s ventricles
which have already been opened by the spirits and in the fibres through which the spirits
passed, whatever the cause which had made the opening.
(La Forge, Oeuvres Philosophiques, ed. P. Clair (Paris: Presses Universitaires
de France, 1974), 280f. / La Forge Treatise on the Human Mind, trans.
D.M. Clark (Boston: Kluwer, 1997), 178)
Remembering: [I]n order to remember (réminiscence) it is not enough simply to perceive a
species which comes back again, if one does not also know that this is a re-appearance and
that it is not the first time one has had this thought.
(La Forge Oeuvres, 284 / La Forge Treatise, 182)
Spiritual Memory: [J]ust as the pores of the brain when they have once been opened have a
greater facility to re-open a second time, likewise [for spiritual memory (mémoire spiritu-
elle)] when the mind has once had an idea, there remains in it a greater facility to conceive
the same idea again. (La Forge Oeuvres, 290 / La Forge Treatise, 186)
 ’    
3. The Memory Theory

In this section, I will consider how Leibniz’s account of memory illuminates his
theory of consciousness. I will first consider how memory might serve as a higher-
order perception in a higher-order theory of consciousness. I will then turn to an
account defended by Alison Simmons, which is a memory theory of consciousness
but is not a higher-order theory. I will conclude this section by arguing that the
memory interpretation of Leibniz’s account of consciousness does not have an
obvious advantage over the threshold interpretation.
3.1. Memory and higher-order perception

Returning to the higher-order theory of consciousness, we can now ask, which form
of memory will suffice for consciousness, if any?
...   ?

In defense of the higher-order interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness,
Rocco Gennaro appeals to the following passage:
We can be deceived by a memory across an interval—one often experiences this and one can
conceive of a natural cause of such an error. But a present or immediate memory, the memory
of what was taking place immediately before—or in other words, the consciousness or
reflection which accompanies inner activity—cannot naturally deceive us.³⁶
Memories, Gennaro claims, will serve as the relevant higher-order thought that
explains consciousness. Not just any memory, of course, since memories can be
false. But an immediate memory, Leibniz says, cannot be false and it is this that he
here describes as consciousness. Gennaro summarizes:
La Forge later also calls this form of memory “intellectual memory” (mémoire intellectuelle) (La Forge
Oeuvres, 291/La Forge Treatise, 187).
Summarizing the three, La Forge says:
Apart from these two faculties, namely corporeal memory, which stores the traces of species
which were imprinted on the gland and the spirits, and remembering, which is conscious of
their re-appearance, it is very probable that the mind also has a spiritual memory, not
simply to store the traces of ideas which it had once perceived but to provide an occasion for
the mind [ . . . ] to recognize if the thought which occupies it, either voluntarily or otherwise,
is a novel object or if it knew it before. (La Forge Oeuvres, 290 / La Forge Treatise, 186)
There are important differences between Leibniz’s and La Forge’s distinctions, in that corporeal memory
is for La Forge only corporeal and in that remembering for La Forge requires an act of the intellect and thus
would not be attributed by him to animals. But the consciousness condition on réminiscence, I have argued,
does not require a separate act of reflection for Leibniz, and thus he freely attributes it to animals,
preserving souvenir for rational substances alone. Leibniz would reject the Cartesian distinction between
corporeal and intellectual memory, but he does preserve a sense in which some memories require reflection
and others do not.
For further discussion of Leibniz’s distinctions in kinds of memory, see Naert, Mémoire et Conscience de
Soi selon Leibniz, 51ff. Naert argues that Leibniz divides memory into intellectual memory and corporeal
memory, which would correspond to what I have here called souvenir and reminiscence. She compares
these with Descartes’ distinction between intellectual and corporeal memory, although for the reasons
I have just stated I do not believe these distinctions will fully correspond to one another.
³⁶ A 6.6.238/NE 238.
  
Leibniz is saying that what makes the perception conscious is a memory of it, which clearly
entails that there is a higher-order state directed at the perception. If a perception occurs
without the accompanying memory or higher-order state, then it will be one of our many
nonconscious perceptions. On the other hand, the second-order state is a memory or “record” of
a first-order state that has occurred immediately prior to it. Thus, “the immediate memory of
a perception” sounds very much like “the apperception of a perception” and thus a kind of self-
consciousness that makes the lower-order perception conscious.³⁷
The strategic advantage of this move is obvious. In order to avoid the Extension
Problem, Gennaro may appeal to the fact that not just any higher-order perception
will do—it must be an immediate memory of the prior perception. Provided that
there are no unconscious perceptions that are the objects of an immediate memory
and provided that immediate memory does not generalize in some way that leads us
back into the Extension Problem, this clarification will allow Gennaro to provide a
principled way of identifying the relevant higher-order thoughts that are considered
explanatory (or constitutive) of consciousness.
Recall what must be true of the relevant higher-order thought in order for it to
avoid the extension problem:
(A) The relevant kind of higher-order thoughts must occur only in conscious
substances.
(B) The relevant kind of higher-order thought must be restricted within the
(finite) conscious substance, explaining the localization of consciousness.
(That is, it should not result in all (or even too large a number of ) percep-
tions being conscious perceptions.)
It seems on a first pass that these two conditions may be met by memory. In support of
(A), we might cite the passages that define sensation as a “perception accompanied by
memory.”³⁸ This is thought to be the defining feature of sentient beings, which are also
those that are thought to be conscious. Since bare monads do not have sensation, they
also do not have memory. Likewise, in support of (B) we could appeal to the same
passages and to the preface of the New Essays, where Leibniz argues that sensation
arises from the confusion of smaller perceptions of which we are not aware. Since
these smaller perceptions are not sensed in the way that, say, the sound of the wave is
sensed, the appeal to memory can account for the localization of consciousness.
However, while Gennaro’s interpretation of the “immediate memory” passage has
some initial plausibility, as I have just sketched, it also has significant problems.
According to Gennaro, “Leibniz is saying that what makes the perception conscious
is a memory of it, which clearly entails that there is a higher-order state directed at
the perception.” It may be true that if what makes a perception conscious is a
memory of it, then that perception will have a higher-order state directed at it
(provided we allow for higher-order states that are not co-occurrent with the
lower-order state). But this cannot be the salient detail.
Consider Leibniz’s frequent claims that each monad expresses all that has
happened to it and all that will ever happen to it—“the present is pregnant with
³⁷ Gennaro, “Leibniz on Consciousess and Self-Consciousness,” 356f. ³⁸ PNG §4.

 ’    
the future; the future can be read in the past; the distant is expressed in the
proximate.”³⁹ This is true of all monads, not only the monads that are thought
to be conscious monads. Thus, if the perception of a prior perception is sufficient
for a higher-order thought of that perception, then it follows that all prior
perceptions are the objects of higher-order thoughts. But it clearly does not follow
from this for Leibniz that all prior perceptions are conscious perceptions.
To read Gennaro’s thesis most charitably, we must say that not just any higher-
order perception will be sufficient for consciousness—on his own terms we must
restrict the relevant higher-order perceptions to those of a certain type. And there
may still be room in Leibniz’s theory of mind to distinguish memories of a prior
mental state from mere perceptions of a prior mental state. Both will involve higher-
order perceptions, in Gennaro’s sense, but (perhaps) only memories are constitutive
of consciousness. In order to develop this possibility (something Gennaro does not
do), we will have to consider the distinctions introduced in the previous section and
see whether they allow for the localization of consciousness in the way that the
higher-order interpretation requires, and, if so, whether Leibniz believed memory
constitutive of consciousness.
Turning now to the question, which form of memory will suffice for consciousness,
let’s quickly set aside mémoire. It is clear that this will not do, since all substances have
mémoire and all prior perceptions are objects of mémoire. To suppose that mémoire
would serve as the relevant higher-order thought for consciousness would be to
commit to the view that consciousness extends to all perceptions and to all substances,
which is clearly not Leibniz’s view.⁴⁰ Insofar as the perception of all of a substance’s
prior states follows formally from Leibniz’s theory, it follows that all substances have
memory of a sort, but it should not follow from this fact alone that all substances are
conscious. This would be to fall headlong into the Extension Problem.
It seems we can also set aside souvenir, although not as quickly. Initially, it seems
that souvenir will be too restrictive, entailing that only rational substances are
conscious substances, since only rational substances have souvenir. However, there
are two qualifications to be made here: Firstly, the text that Gennaro appeals to in
support of his interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness uses the term
souvenir, and this is in the book in which Leibniz took pains to distinguish souvenir
from réminiscence. The English translation of the key passage is this:
M10. [A] present or immediate memory, the memory of what was taking place
immediately before—or in other words, the consciousness or reflection which
accompanies inner activity—cannot naturally deceive us.⁴¹
³⁹ PNG §13. Cf. A 6.6.239/NE 239: “An immaterial being or spirit cannot ‘be stripped of all’ perception
of its past experience. It retains impressions of everything which has previously happened to it, and it even
has presentiments of everything which will happen to it; but these states of mind are mostly too minute to
be distinguishable and for one to be aware of them, although they may perhaps grow some day.”
⁴⁰ As Leibniz says in PNG §13, “[I]t is well to make a distinction between perception, which is the
inner state of the monad representing external things, and apperception, which is consciousness or the
reflective knowledge of this inner state itself and which is not given to all souls or to any soul all the time”
(emphasis added).
⁴¹ A 6.6.238/NE 238.
  
Gennaro takes this text to be analyzing consciousness in terms of memory—a mental

state is conscious because it is the object of an immediate memory. However, here is
the text in French:
[L]e souvenir present ou immediat, ou le souvenir de ce qui se passoit immediatement aupar-
avant, c’est à dire la conscience ou la reflexion, qui accompagne l’action interne, ne sauroit
tromper naturellement.
Notice two things about this passage: 1) as I have already mentioned, the term used
here is souvenir, which Leibniz earlier in the same text restricts to rational individ-
uals, those substances that have reflective knowledge; and 2) Leibniz here uses the
term conscience rather than the other term that he coined in this book, apperception.
This is the only section of the New Essays where he uses the term conscience rather
than apperception. One page prior to this passage, Leibniz defines consciousness
(conscienciosité) as “the sense of I [that] proves a moral or personal identity.”⁴² Once
again, as in the Discourse on Metaphysics passages quoted above, Leibniz is here
concerned with the consciousness and memory that preserves the moral identity, and
this is unique to rational substances. Thus, at best, the identification in this passage is
an identification of a kind of consciousness (one that is identical with reflection) with
a kind of memory. If Leibniz is here identifying conscienciosité with an immediate
souvenir in rational subjects, would he do the same with apperception and réminis-
cence in lower substances?⁴³
There are some passages that are open to an interpretation that extends Leibniz’s
statements about immediate souvenir to immediate réminiscence and apperception,
but I have not seen a text that makes this parallel explicit.⁴⁴ However, insofar as
consciousness is explained in terms of réminiscence, it is not obvious that this would
be a higher-order interpretation. As I mentioned when I introduced the term,
réminiscence is not necessarily a higher-order perception. In M9 above, réminiscence
is described as the repetition of a sensation without the object of sensation being
present. And in the definition in M11, memory is described as “the repetition of
⁴² “[C]onscienciosité ou le sentiment du moy prouve une identité morale ou personnelle” (A 6.6.236).

⁴³ As one anonymous reviewer pointed out, the immediacy of the memory [souvenir] might be thought
to preclude reflective self-knowledge. But the context of Leibniz’s remarks here shows that reflective self-
knowledge is in fact necessary to this form of memory. In response to Locke’s account of personal identity,
Leibniz argues for a distinction between “real, physical identity” and “moral identity which is apparent to us
ourselves” (A 6.6.236/NE 236, emphasis added). The moral identity, “which is apparent to the person
concerned—one who senses himself to be the same—presupposes a real identity obtaining through each
subsequent transition [passage prochain] accompanied by reflection, or by the sense of I; because an
intimate and immediate perception cannot naturally deceive [tromper naturellement]” (ibid., translation
revised). Further, he claims, “to discover one’s own moral identity unaided, it is sufficient that between one
state and a neighboring (or just a nearby) one there be a mediating bond of consciousness.” It is this
consciousness, which requires self-knowledge, to which Leibniz is appealing when he refers to an
“immediate memory” that “cannot naturally deceive [tromper naturellement].” If self-consciousness were
absent in such a perception of one’s prior states, then the memory would not provide the evidence
necessary to prove moral identity. I will say more in section 4 about what I take the relation of
consciousness and “immediate memory” to be.
⁴⁴ See C 491, 495. For further discussion of this passage, see Larry M. Jorgensen, “Leibniz on Memory
and Consciousness,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 19 (2011): 903–4.
 ’    
thought arising from prior thought.” If mere repetition is all that is needed, it is not
clear that it is a higher-order state. In the Monadology, it is clear that this sort of
repetition in memory is the imagination at work⁴⁵—it is simply a recurring percep-
tual state and does not introduce the sort of structuring of perceptions that the
higher-order theory requires.
Of course, the recurrence of the perception counts as an expression of the original
perception, but given the rejection of memoire as accounting for consciousness, it
seems to me that it is more than mere expression that will be required of the higher-
order interpretation. One way to remedy this is to appeal to some further feature of
the memory besides mere expression. In several passages, including the Monadology
and the Couturat passages noted above, Leibniz appeals to a multiplicity of memor-
ies, which accumulate and become more forceful or distinct. And so, what Leibniz
may be saying is that when a perception expresses a prior perception (immediately)
in a distinct way, then we have an apperception. This proposal would avoid both of
the problems raised earlier. It avoids the Extension Problem, since we now have a
principled way of explaining the localization of consciousness (i.e., it is when a
memory—réminiscence or souvenir—is distinct); and it also avoids the Continuity
Problem, since the distinctness of a memory can arise by degrees. Also, this view
would avoid the regress problem raised in response to Bolton’s argument, since only
a distinct memory could constitute consciousness, and distinctness can arise by
degrees. Thus, on this interpretation, the higher-order thought (=memory) does
not alone explain consciousness. Rather, it is the distinctness of the higher-order
thought that is relevant to an explanation of consciousness.
...   

My main criticism against this view is that it merely repeats at the higher-order
level the account that I have proposed in the threshold view as operating at the
lower-order level. If variations of distinctness can explain consciousness on the
higher-order level (as I have argued it must for an adequate memory-based higher-
order account), then why couldn’t variations of distinctness on the lower-order level
explain consciousness? I do not see much motivation for an appeal to distinctness
on the higher-order level rather than the lower-order level. This higher-order
interpretation has simply repeated the problems on the second-order that were
already present on the first order, and Occam’s razor would weigh in favor of a first-
order account. Of course, these considerations do not show that Leibniz would in
fact favor a first-order account, but it does put some philosophical pressure on those
defending a higher-order interpretation to tell us why he would not.
One possible response to this objection, though, is that the memory-based higher-
order interpretation allows us a more principled way of identifying the threshold of
consciousness. Leibniz’s principle of continuity entails that differences in kind are
differences in degree, with the transition at the infinite or the infinitesimal.⁴⁶ But, as
I described a possible lower-order account of consciousness, I said that at some level
⁴⁵ M §§26–7. ⁴⁶ Cf. PG 352.

  
of distinctness a perception would become conscious. But at what level? Many of

Leibniz’s examples, such as being awakened from a deep sleep, suggest that the level
of transition is at some non-zero, mid-level threshold. This gives us a disanalogy with
other transitions in kind, since Leibniz says that transitions in kind occur at the point
of the infinite or the infinitesimal. While there may be some things that could be said
in defense of a first-order account here, let’s set that aside for now to see how the
memory-based higher-order account of consciousness would respond to the same
sets of worries. Prima facie, there does not appear to be the same sort of pressure
against this revised higher-order theory, at least not until we have some sense for
what explains the distinctness of a memory. At least intuitively, it seems possible for
the distinctness of the lower-order perception and the distinctness of the memory to
come apart. Perhaps the transition in kind, from unconscious to conscious percep-
tion, occurs at the point of the infinitesimal—when a memory becomes distinct to
any degree.
The model, then, is this: there are a number of indistinct memories (distinctness
value of zero, although they are present in the mind representing prior percep-
tions), but when the object of some memory becomes sufficiently distinct the
memory itself becomes distinct. At this point, at the point of the infinitesimal,
consciousness arises and is constituted by a distinct perception conjoined with a
distinct memory (or, to use the technical vocabulary introduced earlier, a réminis-
cence). This nicely fits the model of continuous transitions in Leibniz, and, given
the fact that we are not postulating the coming into existence of a new memory
where there was none before, this model does not appear to violate the principle of
continuity and the Continuity Problem is avoided. Consciousness would arise by
degrees because the distinctness of a memory would arise by degrees. We could
make sense of degrees of consciousness now in terms of the degrees of distinctness
of the memory.
As a result, the intuitive examples Leibniz provides us, in which consciousness
arises at some mid-level, are still explained by a continuous transition at the point of
the infinitesimal. And so, the revised higher-order theory I have proposed alleviates a
set of worries that might arise on a first-order account of consciousness.
Nevertheless, I still have my reservations about this account, although now
they are not fully decisive. Here is where I believe more must be said to fully
defend the view: it seems to me that this model introduces an unusual lack of
parallelism between a perception and its immediate memory. Without this lack
of parallelism, the point of transition still remains only partially explained—why
should the “present or immediate” memory become distinct only at some level of
distinctness of the lower-order perceptions? Why shouldn’t it become distinct as
soon as the lower-level perception it represents becomes distinct? In fact, it seems to
me, since we are referring to immediate memories as constitutive of consciousness,
the two should not come apart. Leibniz identifies a number of factors that enter into
the distinctness of a lower-order perception, including such lower-level features as
size, number, and variation. A similar account, it seems, should apply to the higher
orders as well. Let’s take one of these factors, the number of perceptions, as an
example and see if there is a way to explain the lack of parallelism between the
distinctness of the lower-order and higher-order perceptions.
 ’    
In one of Leibniz’s many lists of definitions, Leibniz defines experientia as “many

of the same memories,”⁴⁷ a clear reference to the aggregation of similar perceptions.
But memoria there was defined simply as the “repetition of thought arising from
prior thoughts.” Thus, what would account for the similarity among memories?
It would be the similarities of the prior perceptions. But the similarity of the
prior perceptions is precisely what enters into the distinctness of those prior percep-
tions. Thus, if a number of perceptions are similar, they will be conjoined and
become distinct. And, the memories of those prior perceptions would also be similar
(because the prior perceptions were similar) and so they would be conjoined and
become distinct as well. Whatever it is about the first-order perceptions that account
for their distinctness will also account for the distinctness of the immediate memories
of those perceptions.⁴⁸ This argument would apply similarly to other first-order
factors such as size and variation. Thus, the distinctness of immediate memories
and the distinctness of the prior perceptions would not come apart.
Given this, then, the higher-order interpretation is on no better footing when it
comes to explaining the transition from non-conscious to conscious thought. While
I concede that this interpretation would honor the principle of continuity, it fails to
sufficiently distinguish itself from the lower-order interpretation. If distinctness will
do the job at the higher-order level, there is no reason it could not do the job at the
lower-order level.
3.2. A memory theory, but not higher-order

Alison Simmons picks up on this account and tries to develop a more nuanced
account of the memory theory of consciousness. Although Simmons was initially
inclined towards a higher-order theory of consciousness, she eventually revised
her view:
I no longer think the external world consciousness of sensation involves higher-order percep-
tion. Nor, however, do [I] think it reduces to perceptual distinctness. I will continue to argue
that (a sufficient amount of) perceptual distinctness grounds a sensation’s consciousness, and
that something more is needed to elevate a perception from unconscious to conscious
perception. That something more is memory.⁴⁹
Note that Simmons does not take the memory view to be a version of the higher-
order theory, unlike Gennaro and Bolton. Rather, she argues that a kind of “working
memory” performs a unifying function that accounts for apperception.
The substantial point that Simmons makes in this quotation is that the perceptual
distinctness of a first-order perception will not be sufficient for consciousness—it
requires the addition of a memory. Simmons is sensitive to the Continuity and
⁴⁷ C 491.
⁴⁸ Note that this argument may not apply to memories of perceptions that are temporally distant from
the memory. There may be distinct memories that arise as a result of the repetition of indistinct lower-
order perceptions (cf. M §27). Thus, one might have a (distinct) memory of perceptions that themselves
were never sufficiently distinct to be conscious perceptions, and so in these cases the distinctness of
memories would not be parallel to the distinctness of the original perceptions. But, since consciousness is
thought to be a function of “present or immediate” memories, this additive function would not apply.
⁴⁹ Simmons, “Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered,” 206.
  
Extension Problems, discussed above, and so she argues for a revised account of the
memory theory.
The main passage to which Simmons appeals is PNG §4:
It is true that animals are sometimes in the condition of simple living things, and their souls in
the condition of simple monads, namely when their perceptions are not sufficiently distinct to
be remembered, as happens in a deep, dreamless sleep or in a fainting spell.
There are many similar passages, which identify sensation with a distinct perception
and memory. For example, M §19 says:
Since sensation is something more than a simple perception, I think that the general name of
monad and entelechy is sufficient for simple substances which only have perceptions, and that
we should only call those substances souls where perception is more distinct and accompanied
by memory.
Sensation, it seems, requires a distinct perception and an accompanying memory.
But, as we have seen, it is not obvious just how this should be understood. Simmons
proposes three options:
Option A: “a sufficient echo of the perception in working memory renders the
perception more distinct, and a sufficient amount of distinctness constitutes its
being conscious.”
Option B: “only sufficiently distinct perceptions create an echo in memory long
enough to be heard, and that echo in memory constitutes consciousness.”
Option C: “a perception’s being sufficiently distinct constitutes its being con-
scious and that makes it likely to be remembered in a quite ordinary sense of the
term, viz., it is more likely to be consciously recalled later on.”⁵⁰
Each of these represents a different way of accounting for the relation among
distinctness, memory, and consciousness:
Option A: memory → (sufficient distinctness = consciousness)
Option B: sufficient distinctness → (memory = consciousness)
Option C: (sufficient distinctness = consciousness) → memory
In the above schemas, read the arrows as causal and the equal sign as constitution. So,
option A says that memory causes an increase in distinctness, which (at some
sufficient level) just is a conscious perception. Option B says that some sufficient
level of distinctness causes an echo in memory, which just is a conscious perception.
Option C says that a sufficient level of distinctness, which just is a conscious
perception, causes the echo in memory. Since the view I argued for in chapter 7
regarded a sufficient level of distinctness (relative to a variety of factors) to constitute
consciousness, options A and C seem amenable to the threshold interpretation.
Option B, however, is an instance of the memory theory.
Simmons argues for Option B. According to Simmons, “a perception’s being suffi-
ciently distinct explains why it lingers in memory, but it is the lingering sufficiently in
⁵⁰ Ibid., 210.
 ’    
memory that constitutes its external world consciousness.”⁵¹ (I will set aside for the
moment what “lingering sufficiently” will entail, although note that it does suggest some
sort of threshold view as well.) So, as I understand her view, when a perception is
sufficiently distinct, it has a longer temporal duration. Leibniz calls this an “echo”;
Simmons calls it “working memory.” And it is this temporal duration that constitutes
consciousness. So, as before, Simmons acknowledges a causal role for perceptual dis-
tinctness, but she thinks that memory (of the right sort) is constitutive of consciousness.
Simmons’s argument for option B relies on the passage from PNG §4 quoted
above. In the early part of that passage, Leibniz describes sensation as “a perception
of which there remains an echo long enough to make itself heard on [the] occasion.”
This suggests that the echo in memory is constitutive of sensation, and seems to
support option B. Option C, on the other hand, seems to get the order wrong: Leibniz
does not say that animals have a conscious sensation which then causes the echo in
memory. (Although, to my mind, the passage does not rule this out.) Later in the
same section, Leibniz says that “animals are sometimes in the condition of simple
living things . . . namely when their perceptions are not sufficiently distinct to be
remembered.” Here option C can make sense of the text—since distinctness makes
it more likely for a perception to be held in memory—but it is also compatible with
option B. Only option B, Simmons argues, can make sense of the whole passage. And
she thinks that if we compare other similar texts, such as the mill passage in NE 53–4,
only B gets the relations among distinctness, memory, and consciousness right.
Simmons’s argument against option A is also textual. As we have already seen,
Leibniz identifies a number of factors that contribute to the distinctness of a percep-
tion, including size, proximity, and novelty. Insofar as option A entails that only
memory contributes to the increase in distinctness, it seems to be easily ruled out.
I am inclined to defend option C, although I do think option A gets one thing right
as well. First, let me say what I think option A gets right and then I will defend option
C against Simmons’s objections. As I just said, insofar as option A entails that only
memory contributes to an increase in distinctness, it cannot be right. However, I do
think memory can play a role in increasing the distinctness of a perception. In
M §§26–8, Leibniz talks about the habituation of animals. And here he includes
many of the factors that can increase the distinctness of a perception: the size, number,
and strength of prior perceptions can play a role in making a present perception
distinct. And so, while memory is not the only contributing factor, it is one of the
factors. This will become important in my defense of option C against option B.
I have two points to make in defense of option C. First, since memory is a factor
that increases the distinctness of a perception, it is a difficult matter to distinguish
cause from constitution. The passages that seem to support memory as constitutive
of consciousness can be read as doing so in virtue of the fact that memory often plays
a central role in increasing the distinctness of a perception. The passage from the New
Essays preface can be read in this way:
[T]here are hundreds of indications leading us to conclude that at every moment there is in us
an infinity of perceptions, unaccompanied by apperception or reflection; that is, of alterations
⁵¹ Ibid.
  
in the soul itself, of which we are unaware because these impressions are either too minute and
too numerous, or else too unvarying, so that they are not sufficiently distinctive on their own.
But when they are combined with others they do nevertheless have their effect and make
themselves felt, at least confusedly, within the whole . . . Memory is needed for attention: when
we are not alerted, so to speak, to pay heed to certain of our own present perceptions, we allow
them to slip by unconsidered and even unnoticed. But if someone alerts us to them straight
away, and makes us take note, for instance, of some noise which we have just heard, then we
remember it and are aware of just having had some sense of it. Thus we were not straight away
aware of these perceptions, and we became aware of them only because we were alerted to
them after an interval, however brief.⁵²
This passage has been taken as a clear indication that memory and attention are
required for consciousness. However, if we ask what is going on in the analysis, it
becomes less clear just what Leibniz intends for us to take away from this passage.
What, exactly, is the role of memory and attention in this account? One answer is
the one that Alison Simmons gives: “it is being sustained long enough in working
memory that constitutes consciousness.”⁵³ As an aside, even this explanation does
not sit well with the passage above, since the initial perception did not “linger” in
memory. Rather, it was the repetition of it in memory after the fact that accounted for
attention to the original perception. This can be accommodated by the account,
though, provided the later memory is what holds the perception present long enough
for it to be noticed.
But there is an alternative way of explaining this phenomenon: when we are asked,
“did you hear that?” and we remember the initial impression, memory provides a way
of strengthening the initial perception such that we are now conscious of it. By
repeating an impression, the impression becomes stronger.⁵⁴ And so if memory
plays a role in consciousness it is by way of strengthening some initial perceptions
such that they become even more distinct. This fits well with Leibniz’s discussion of
sensation in terms of the distinctness of perceptions. Alison Simmons’s description of
working memory as performing a unifying function, “stitching [perceptions] together
into a unified conscious experience of the world”⁵⁵ is just the sort of unifying function
that is at play in perceptual distinctness (as analyzed in chapter 6), and so I am
inclined to think that this is the central role for consciousness. Memory provides a
further way of unifying perceptions such that they stand out as a unified whole in a
particular way.
⁵² A 6.6.53–4/NE 53–4 (translation altered slightly).

⁵³ Simmons, “Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered,” 210.
⁵⁴ I am not sure how much to make of Leibniz’s wording in this passage: we “are aware of just having
had some sense of it.” This does not get the phenomenology correct for typical conscious sensations. When
I sense the warmth of my coffee, I would not describe it as an awareness of just having had a sensation of its
warmth. Leibniz has just described the habituation to the sound of the mill in terms of the loss of novelty of
the sensation such that it loses its forcefulness and therefore does not “attract” attention and memory.
Again, this could be read in terms of the role of memory in making the sound of the mill sufficiently
distinct or it can be describing the particular phenomenon of attention. The following description of the
sound of the waves makes no mention of attention or memory.
⁵⁵ Simmons, “Leibnizian Consciousness Reconsidered,” 213.
 ’    
The second thing I would like to say in defense of option C is that the differences
between the two views has become rather small. (Perhaps smaller than any measur-
able difference!) The difference between the memory theory and the threshold theory
that I am arguing for comes down to the question whether a perception that is
momentarily perceptually distinct can be conscious. According to the memory
theory, only a distinct perception that ties in with memory in some way will be a
conscious perception. According to the same-order theory, there can be cases when a
perception is itself (independent of the history of perceptions in the substance)
sufficiently distinct (given contextual factors, etc.) to be conscious. Of course, a
perception that is distinct in this way will inevitably become available for memory,
and so the line between the two interpretations at this point might be somewhat thin.
We may well have come to a point in interpretation where the passages will not give
us enough to decide between the two points, since Leibniz seems never to have
answered this specific question. Leibniz does say that “if the perception is more
distinct, it makes a sensation.”⁵⁶ Likewise, in M9, quoted above, Leibniz says:
I shall say then that it is sensation when one is aware [s’apperçoit de] of an outer object, and that
remembrance (réminiscence) is the recurrence of it [i.e., the sensation] without the return of the
object; but when one knows that one has had it [the sensation] before, this is memory
(souvenir).⁵⁷
Here Leibniz clearly distinguishes sensation from memory, something that the
memory interpretation should have trouble with. This passage and the previous
one suggest that there is a way for conscious sensation and memory to come apart,
at least conceptually if not in fact. But those defending the memory interpretation
will respond with quotations on the other side, which seem to entail that memory is
constitutive of sensation. And so there is not likely to be a smoking-gun passage that
decides the case between the two interpretations.
Similarly, the systematic considerations I have been outlining throughout this
book appear to be satisfied by both the threshold view and the memory view (for
example, neither seem to violate the principle of continuity). And so the decision
about which view Leibniz might have endorsed must appeal to other considerations.
My own sense is that perceptual distinctness is the fundamental variable in Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind, and all other mental categories become particular functions of
perceptual distinctness. Memory (réminiscence) functions in a way that develops the
distinctness of a prior perception and makes it salient to present concerns. As such, it
seems to me that the memory theory is also appealing to perceptual distinctness in its
account of consciousness. If perceptual distinctness performs the explanatory role,
then it seems metaphysically possible that a single occurrent perception could be
strong enough to be conscious. Perhaps for less forceful perceptions the unifying
function of memory is necessary to consciousness, but there is nothing that I can see in
Leibniz’s account of consciousness that would rule out the metaphysical possibility.
Thus, I favor the threshold view.⁵⁸
⁵⁶ A 6.4.1625/MP 85. ⁵⁷ A 6.6.161/NE 161.

⁵⁸ Christian Barth argues for a variation on the memory theory, which he calls the “attention account.”
His view is similar to the view that Simmons describes in that attention (which, for Barth, is a
  
4. Continuity and Immediate Memory

In the previous sections I have presented evidence that might favor a memory theory
of consciousness. But I have also argued that the memory theory does not have a clear
advantage over the threshold interpretation. But one thing that the memory theory
does have in its favor is an account for why memory is so often discussed in
connection with consciousness. In this section, however, I provide one additional
consideration: memory is connected with consciousness by Leibniz because he
believes them to be conceptually related. We are able to see the full force of this
conclusion only after seeing the central place of the principle of continuity in
Leibniz’s thinking and the role continuity has in identifying conceptual relations.
There are two main texts, both late texts, that seem to define consciousness in
terms of memory—the passages included above as M10 and M12. I will include these
passages again here for our consideration:
M10. [A] present or immediate memory, the memory of what was taking place
immediately before—or in other words, the consciousness or reflection which
accompanies inner activity—cannot naturally deceive us.⁵⁹
M12. Consciousness [conscientia] is reflection on action, or memory of our
action, in order that we think it to be ours. This involves true substance itself
or the I.⁶⁰
As I have already mentioned, both of these passages are clear instances of conscious-
ness applied to rational substances, and so they cannot be appealed to in support of a
general theory of consciousness without further argument. In both cases, not only are
the concepts of memory and consciousness involved, but the concept of reflection is
involved as well. The best candidate for the connection of ordinary animal con-
sciousness with memory is the description of sensation as a distinct perception
accompanied by memory, which I have discussed above. But the sensation passages
are less clearly intended as definitions of consciousness or apperception, and so it is
not clear that memory plays the same definitional role of consciousness. And so, at
best, one might claim that consciousness is constituted by a form of memory specific
to rational animals. This raises questions about whether the nature of consciousness
is the same for rational animals as for non-rational animals. Indeed, if there is a
discontinuity in Leibniz’s system, this is where we should expect it, given the privilege
given to moral creatures as capable of citizenship in the divine republic. But an
non-reflective cognitive appetition) requires that the original distinct perception be held present “as an
object for cognitive operations” (Barth, “Leibniz on Phenomenal Consciousness,” 349). He continues:
[I]n order for there to be a content present that can be operated on, the content needs to
remain present, even if only for a short time span. This requirement cannot be fulfilled by
the original distinct perception, because it immediately changes into another perception.
Holding the content present is achieved by the act of immediate content-repetition. (349)
Thus, while Barth’s interpretation is not a higher-order theory, it does require that the original
perception be held in memory so that attention can “operate on” the content of the perception. I am
dubious about the view that a perception that “immediately changes into another perception” is unavail-
able to appetition. I will say more about this view in chapter 9, where I address appetition more directly.
⁵⁹ A 6.6.238/NE 238. ⁶⁰ C 495.
 ’    
answer to this question will require us to say much more about reflection and
rationality, which will be the subject of chapter 10.
However, even for rational substances the identification of consciousness and
memory is not so clear. Is Leibniz in these passages saying that memory is constitutive
of consciousness? I think not. Rather, what Leibniz is highlighting is the conceptual
connection between consciousness and memory. I will focus first on quotation M10,
from the New Essays, and what I will say about this passage will then have application
to M12 and other similar passages.
The intent of the larger context in which we find quotation M10 is to provide a
basis for personal identity over time. Locke’s much-discussed account of personal
identity in terms of continuity of consciousness is what is being considered. In the
passage at issue, Leibniz is providing a criterion for the continuity of personal
experience. As he says a page later, “it is [the] continuity and interconnection of
perceptions which make someone really the same individual; but our awareness
[apperceptions]—i.e., when we are aware of past states of mind—proves a moral
identity as well, and makes the real identity appear.”⁶¹ Thus, at stake here is the
continuity of moral identity (notably, something that animals lack).
I will leave aside for now the question of what Leibniz thinks constitutes the moral
identity of an individual—I will take that question up in chapter 11. What I want to
focus on here is the dependence of moral identity on the continuity of consciousness
(although not the same sort of continuity that Locke argued for). As I have argued,
Leibniz’s principle of continuity is grounded by a conceptual density in God’s mind in
creating the natural order (because, as Leibniz says, God acts as the “perfect geom-
etrician, observing a harmony to which nothing can be added”).⁶² In God’s mind,
between any two concepts, there is an intermediate concept:
[A]ll the different classes of beings whose union forms the universe, exist in the ideas of God
only as so many ordinates of the same curve, the union of which does not allow the placing of
others between them, because that would indicate disorder and imperfection.⁶³
This conceptual density allows us to conceive limiting cases as merely special
instances of bordering species. And so Leibniz says that:
[R]est can be considered as an infinitely small velocity or as an infinite slowness. Therefore
whatever is true of velocity or slowness in general should be verifiable also of rest taken in this
sense, so that the rule for resting bodies must be considered as a special case of the rule for
motion. If this does not work, on the other hand, this will be a certain sign that the laws are
wrongly formulated.⁶⁴
And this will be true of other distinctions as well—a parabola can be conceived as an
ellipse with infinitely distant foci, equality as an infinitesimal degree of inequality,
and so on. Likewise, the laws that apply to motion can be applied to rest, considered
⁶¹ “Cette continuation et liaison de perceptions fait le même individu reellement, mais les apperceptions
(c’est à dire lorsqu’on s’apperçoit des sentimens passés) prouvent encor une identité morale, et font paroistre
l’identité reelle” (A 6.6.239/NE 239).
⁶² PG 351. ⁶³ Letter to Varignon, Langley 712. ⁶⁴ PG 352.
  
as a special limit case of motion. Such conceptual connections, I have already noted,
arise at the points of infinity and the infinitesimal.
Here, in the passage of the New Essays we have been considering, I believe that this
principle is at work in Leibniz’s definition of consciousness. Consciousness (or the
consciousness that accompanies inner activity) can be conceived as a memory with an
infinitesimal distance between the occurrent perception and its memory. By using the
term “immediate memory,” Leibniz is saying that consciousness can be conceived as
a limit case of memory, at the point of the infinitesimal, and whatever laws apply to
memory will also apply to consciousness as a special case. But note also that this is
not to say something that is rigorously true—consciousness is not here being reduced
to memory.⁶⁵ Rather, he is pointing out the conceptual connection between the two.
This same distinction can be found in an earlier text:
M13. Consciousness is a memory of our actions.⁶⁶
This appears to be a bold identification of the sort that we had hoped to avoid.
However, the initial drafting of this line provides some evidence that what Leibniz
meant by this was not an identification, but rather the conceptual connection of the
two. Here is the first draft of this sentence:
M14. Consciousness holds to the present as memory holds to the past, or
consciousness is memory.⁶⁷
Of course, we cannot know why Leibniz decided to revise the sentence to its more
concise formulation, although the final clause of the initial sentence suggests that he
did not view them as saying different things. The apparent definition of conscious-
ness as memory is merely a concise way of saying that consciousness and memory are
bordering species of the same kind of thing—consciousness applying to the present
moment, memory to the past.
Thus, when we arrive at M12, “consciousness is [ . . . ] memory of our action,” we
can hear the echo of the earlier passage, quoted as M13. And this interpretation
coheres well with the results of viewing one as continuous with the other, as in the
New Essays passage.
If this is right, then we cannot appeal to memory as being constitutive of con-
sciousness—that is to miss Leibniz’s point. Leibniz is saying instead that conscious-
ness and memory are continuous with one another and, as such, can be conceived in
terms of one another. Thus, what I have argued for consciousness will have some
bearing on an account of memory, and similarly Leibniz’s account of memory will
⁶⁵ As Leibniz says in a letter to Varignon (February 2, 1702),

Although it is not at all rigorously true that rest is a kind of motion or that equality is a kind
of inequality, any more than it is true that a circle is a kind of regular polygon, it can be said,
nevertheless, that rest, equality, and the circle terminate the motions, the inequalities, and
the regular polygons which arrive at them by a continuous change and vanish in them.
(GM 4.106/L 546)
⁶⁶ “Concientia est nostrarum actionum memoria.” (“De Conscientia Memoriaque,” 1683–85?,
A 6.4.1473).
⁶⁷ “Conscientia se habet ad praesentia ut memoria ad praeterita; seu conscientia est memoria” (A 6.4.1473,
note 13).
 ’    
have some bearing on his account of consciousness. There is no conceptual gap

between the two. And the point of difference I noted above between the threshold
view and the memory view comes down to this precise point: consciousness as the
limit case of memory.
5. Memory and Perceptual Distinctness

It remains, then, to elaborate on Leibniz’s account of memory, as it relates to
consciousness. I have argued that Leibniz’s concept of memory is best understood
as a tri-fold distinction: from mémoire to réminiscence to souvenir. I think this tri-fold
distinction maps nicely onto the kinds of substances: bare monads have mémoire
alone; animal souls also have réminiscence, and only minds have souvenir. Unfortu-
nately, Leibniz is not always careful to distinguish his uses of the concept, and only
rarely uses this technical vocabulary himself, but these distinctions make the most
sense of the various definitions Leibniz does provide.
The summary version of my interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of memory is this:
memory is a function of trans-temporal perceptual distinctness in a substance.⁶⁸ Let
me unpack this. In the preface of the New Essays, Leibniz describes the conscious
perception of the sound of the ocean as many contemporaneous small wave-sounds
joined together to produce a larger effect, the effect being that they become more
distinctive against the backdrop of the larger perceptual field.⁶⁹ Now, whether or not
we interpret the transition to consciousness in terms of a first-order or second-order
activity, it is clear that there is such a variation in distinctness at the first-order level.
The number, magnitude, and variation of contemporaneous petites perceptions result
in a confusion or combination of perceptions that presents to the mind what is salient
at a given moment.
Memory is like this, except that it is not limited to contemporaneous petites
perceptions. Over time, given a repetition of like perceptions, some past perceptions
become more distinctive against the total perceptual history of the substance than
others, given their number, magnitude, and variation. This distinctiveness is what
accounts for the transition in types of memory. All prior perceptions are retained in
mémoire, but the number, magnitude, and variation of trans-temporal petites per-
ceptions present to the mind what is salient in its history, resulting in a réminscence or
souvenir, depending on whether reflection is involved in the memory.
We find Leibniz describing memory exactly in this way:
26. Memory provides a kind of consecutiveness to souls which simulates reason
but which must be distinguished from it. Thus we see that when animals have
perceptions of something which strikes them and of which they have had a similar
perception previously, they are led by the representation of their memory to expect
whatever was connected with it in this earlier perception and so come to have
⁶⁸ To be more precise, memory is a function of the distinctness of perceptions prior to a given state. It is
certainly possible, given Leibniz’s system, that there be distinct perceptions of what is yet to come. These,
I suppose, would count as instances of trans-temporal distinctness, but forward-looking. Call this “pres-
cience” (cf. A 6.6.51, 161/NE 51, 161).
⁶⁹ A 6.6.54/NE 54.
  
feelings like those which they had before. When one shows a stick to dogs, for
example, they remember the pain it has caused them and whine or run away.
27. The strong imagination which strikes and moves them comes either from the
magnitude or from the number of the perceptions which preceded it. For often one
single strong impression produces at once the effect of a long-formed habit or of
many frequently repeated ordinary perceptions.⁷⁰
In this passage, Leibniz explains the behavior of dogs, when shown a stick, by
appealing to the magnitude and number of certain perceptions in its perceptual
history. Habit, he says, is formed by a frequent repetition of ordinary perceptions
(which, by their number, increases their distinctiveness), or by a single very strong
perception (which, by its magnitude, increases its distinctiveness). In some places,
Leibniz calls this an “echo” of the previous perceptions—the distinctness of a given
set of perceptions is magnified by a cumulative effect of similar perceptions over
time, and these perceptions function as a trigger for bringing the previous percep-
tions forward so that they have a present effect.
This interpretation of memory leaves open the possibility I raised earlier. If
memory and consciousness are merely continuous kinds, then it seems that con-
sciousness could also be accounted for in a similar way, simply by appealing to
variations in distinctness at the first-order level. But it was only by way of clarifying
and developing a memory theory of consciousness that this possibility became more
prominent. The memory theories certainly have their merits, as I have described
above, and versions of them remain viable options. However, a first-order account
could make sense of all the same phenomena in a simpler way. Both memory and
consciousness would be functions of the distinctness of a perception, and the
distinctness of a perception is a function of several factors, including number,
magnitude, and variation. In this way, the two general concepts could be thought
of as continuous with one another without entailing a higher-order theory of
consciousness or a memory theory of consciousness.
6. Conclusion
It seems that there are several interpretations of Leibniz’s theory of consciousness
that could satisfy the naturalizing constraints that I have pressed in this volume. Here
is a brief summary of some of the views:
1. Occurrent higher-order thought theory of consciousness: given that occurrent
higher-order thoughts are already present in all substances, we would have to
adopt the revision of the interpretation I presented in chapter 7 such that it isn’t
merely the presence of an occurrent higher-order thought but rather the
distinctness of an occurrent higher-order thought.
2. Memory higher-order theory of consciousness: on this interpretation, an
immediate memory that takes a prior perception as its object, rendering it
conscious. Again, the mere expression of prior perceptions would not suffice
⁷⁰ M §§26–7.
 ’    
(since in every substance, the past is represented in the present state), and so we
would need to supplement this view with an account of the distinctness of the
memory of the prior perception.
3. Simple memory theory of consciousness (non-higher-order): according to
this interpretation, continuous working memory serves a unifying function,
constituting a unified experience of a substance’s immediately preceding states.
4. The threshold theory of consciousness: on the first-order level, variations of
perceptual distinctness suffices (at some contextually determined threshold) to
make a perception stand out against the ground, and it becomes conscious.
Deciding among these (especially the third and fourth) requires some fairly
fine-grained distinctions, and so the texts may not sufficiently determine the
interpretation. However, the systematic naturalizing considerations have forced a
reassessment of the landscape, moving interpreters from higher-order interpretations
to the more nuanced memory theory. And, although my own favored threshold
interpretation is not decisively established, it is a contender. Each of the other views
require appeal to perceptual distinctness at the crucial explanatory moment, and to
my mind the simpler account of ordinary phenomenal consciousness will acknowledge
the explanatory power of perceptual distinctness at the first order.
This does not entail that perceptual distinctness does not also have explanatory
roles to play in memory, reflection, imagination, and appetite. But it seems to me that
when Leibniz speaks in the most basic ways about sensation or ordinary animal
consciousness, he appeals primarily to the aggregation of smaller perceptions rather
than to higher-order thoughts or to memories.
9
Looking Forward
Appetite and Desire
If nothing is active from its own nature, then nothing at all will be active.
After all, what reason is there for activity if it is not in a thing’s nature?¹
So far, we have been focusing most of our attention on the nature of perception in
Leibniz—conscious and non-conscious representations of the things around us as
well as representations of the past in memory. But, as is well known, for Leibniz there
are two aspects to the internal states of a simple substance: “a monad, in itself and at a
moment, can be distinguished from another only by its internal qualities and actions,
which can be nothing but its perceptions (that is, the representation of the composite,
or what is external, in the simple) and its appetitions (that is, its tendencies to go from
one perception to another) which are the principles of change.”² An account of
perception alone does not provide a complete account of the mind or soul. We must
also describe the dynamics of perception.
The most general term for the “principle of change” in a monad is appetite. As
Leibniz describes it in the passage above, appetitions are the “tendencies to go from
one perception to another.” And although Leibniz describes these as mere “tenden-
cies” here, given Leibniz’s denial of inter-substantial causation, appetitions are the
only genuine principles of change in a finite substance. When these tendencies are
aggregated, they cause a new perceptual state for the substance. And so appetites are
the internal causal impetus for changes in perception.
So much seems pretty clear from Leibniz’s texts. But when we dig into the details
about appetite, things can get a bit murky. There are four main concerns that have
arisen in the literature. First, it is not clear just how appetites perform their causal
role. Leibniz says both that perceptual change is due to appetites, and yet he also says
that the strivings of any given appetite are not always successful and therefore are not
causally efficacious.³ And so there is some question about whether appetites are fully
causal for Leibniz. Call this the problem of unsuccessful striving. Second, Leibniz
describes appetite as a teleological function, often saying that it aims at the apparent
good. However, not every state of a substance is desirable, even to the substance itself.
(As a mundane example, no one would desire to experience the pain of a toothache.)
¹ January 21, 1704 letter to De Volder (G 2.263/Lodge 289). ² PNG §1.

³ See Sukjae Lee, “Toward a New Reading of Leibnizian Appetites: Appetites as Uneasiness,” Res
Philosopica 91 (2014) on this point.
 ’    
And so there seems to be a tension here: all internal changes of a substance are
explained by the substance’s striving for ends that appear good to the substance, but
the actual changes are not always desirable. Call this the problem of the apparent
good. Third, Leibniz explains the relative activity and passivity of a substance, as well
as the relative perfection of a substance, in terms of variations in the distinctness of
its perceptions. While all substances are imminently causally active in terms of their
appetites, they are regarded as more or less passive in terms of their perceptions. This
raises questions about how best to understand the role of appetite in Leibniz’s
account of activity and passivity. Call this the problem of the change for the
worse. Fourth and finally, Leibniz’s account raises questions about how appetite
helps establish ontological diversity. Each of the previous tensions—causal/non-
causal appetites, desirable/undesirable ends, and relative activity/passivity—grounds
variations among substances as well as among substance kinds. If there are gaps in
how the teleology plays out, then there will be similar gaps among substance kinds.
Call this the problem of discontinuous kinds. And so the details of Leibniz’s theory
of appetite become important to spelling out the underlying continuity and natur-
alness of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind. The dynamics of mind will be continuous and
immanent to each substance.
I will argue that Leibniz has resources to resolve these four problems within a
naturalized dynamics of perception. In this chapter, I will begin by outlining Leibniz’s
naturalized theory of appetite. In section 2, I will look at the nature of causation and
teleology in appetite, and there I will discuss two of the problems identified: the
problem of the unsuccessful striving and the problem of the apparent good. Section 3
will take up the problem of the change for the worse, in connection with Leibniz’s
accounts of action and passion. Section 4 will address the problem of discontinuous
kinds, which raises the question of the relation of appetite to rationality and moral
agency to be discussed in the fourth part of the book.
1. A Naturalized Theory of Appetite

In this section, I would like to do two main things. First, I would like to provide
evidence that Leibniz’s account of appetite would be constrained by Leibniz’s natur-
alizing principles just as well as any other area of his philosophy of mind (section 1.1).
And, second, I would like to present an interpretation of what Leibniz is referring to
when he discusses primitive active and passive powers and their relations to percep-
tions and appetite. This will provide us with a preliminary account of appetite that will
be refined in the following sections.
1.1. Naturalism and the dynamics of mind
As discussed in earlier chapters, Leibniz believed that there must be force in simple
substances in order to avoid the unnatural theories of Descartes and occasionalists.
He criticized Cartesian physics as unnatural because there was nothing in body that
would provide the force to account for natural changes. Cartesian bodies are,
according to Leibniz, inert and essentially passive. If no source of force is found in
the bodies, then there is no other recourse than to say that natural changes are either
miraculous or deeply mysterious.
  
Leibniz instead argued that if there is force in composite things, then it must be
grounded in some more fundamental reality within nature itself. A reading of
Leibniz’s correspondence with De Volder supports this claim that he is motivated
by naturalizing constraints. Burchard De Volder was a professor of philosophy at
Leiden, largely sympathetic to Cartesianism but drawn also to the natural philosophy
of Newton. In their correspondence, Leibniz sought to show that, among other
things, Cartesian physics required a different metaphysics in order to provide a
secure foundation for its claims. While it is clear that De Volder was sympathetic
with the need for revisions in the Cartesian metaphysic, he and Leibniz did not
ultimately connect, and De Volder eventually became less interested in the meta-
physical grounds for natural science.⁴ Nevertheless, the correspondence allowed
Leibniz a forum to articulate his metaphysical positions during his mature period,
since the correspondence spanned the period from 1698 to 1706.
As Leibniz summarizes to Bernoulli towards the end of his correspondence with
De Volder, Leibniz has pressed three main arguments: “that all the reality of
aggregates consists in simple things; that extension is something relative, i.e., the
extension, or diffusion, of something; that force and action cannot be modifications
of a thing that is intrinsically merely passive.”⁵ He is arguing from the derivative and
relative nature of extended things to the need for something more basic from which
extension derives. And since force cannot be a modification of a passive thing, any
observed force must be grounded in something more fundamental. De Volder finally
recognizes the need for a “foundation of force,” which Leibniz explains “by analogy
with the principle of activity that we experience in ourselves, namely, as that which
contains nothing other than perception and appetite.”⁶ On the basis of these argu-
ments, Leibniz says to De Volder that if this foundation of force “were not acknow-
ledged, there would be no natural principle of change at all, and so no natural change
would occur. For if the principle of change were external to everything and internal to
nothing, it would exist nowhere, and, along with the occasionalists, we would have to
have recourse to God as the only agent.”⁷ Leibniz emphasizes the naturalizing force of
his arguments. Any inference to a fundamental immanent force assumes that relying
on a supernatural force would be illicit in a natural philosophy. And, second, the
inference by analogy that Leibniz employs to explain the fundamental force in terms
of perception and appetite is grounded in the principle of continuity. If there is no
continuity among foundational substances, then the inference by analogy is not
warranted.⁸ So, we can see that Leibniz’s naturalizing project shapes the way he has
been arguing his case with De Volder. Leibniz concludes the above argument with the
claim that force “is, in fact, internal to all simple substances, since there is no reason
why it would be in one rather than another. And it consists in the progress of the
⁴ For a fuller description of this evolution and the correspondence between Leibniz and De Volder, see
Paul Lodge’s introduction to Leibniz, De Volder Correspondence, xxiii–xxvii.
⁵ Leibniz to Bernoulli, July 1, 1704 (GM 3.756/Lodge 311), emphasis Leibniz’s. ⁶ Ibid.
⁷ Leibniz to De Volder, June 30, 1704 (G 2.271/Lodge 309).
⁸ See, for example, Leibniz to De Volder, June 30, 1704 (G 2.270/Lodge 307): “this principle of action is
most intelligible because there is something in it that is analogous to that which is in us, namely, perception
and appetite. For the nature of things is uniform and our nature cannot differ infinitely from the other
simple substances of which the whole universe consists.”
 ’    
perceptions of any monad, and the whole nature of things contains nothing beyond
this.”⁹ The structure of the argument aims at articulating the “nature of things” in a
way that grounds all change in individual finite substances. This is what has already
been discussed in earlier chapters as the naturalizing import of Leibniz’s arguments.
In this chapter I want to say more about how this plays out in Leibniz’s theory of
mind—rather than merely a theory of force, which grounds observable physical
changes, Leibniz leads us to the internal states and dynamics of individual substances,
which are modeled on what we experience in our own minds. Leibniz’s overarching
natural theory is grounded in a natural theory of mind.
The force of nature, then, is grounded in individual natures, for Leibniz, the
internal dynamics of perceptions and appetites. And it is a consequence of this
claim that there is no inter-substantial causation—all changes of a substance arise
out of its own internal resources. To use Leibniz’s picturesque metaphor, monads are
windowless.
This account of causation requires a significant departure from Aristotelian
substantial forms. Both active and passive forces are internal to the substance—any
resistance is not due to an interaction with other substances, but due to an internal
“sluggishness” built into the substance itself. As Leibniz says to De Volder:
[Y]ou ask for a necessary connection between matter (i.e., resistance) and active force, so that
they are not joined together gratuitously. But the cause of the connection is the fact that every
substance is active and every finite substance is passive, and passivity is connected to resistance.
Therefore, the nature of things demands such a conjunction.¹⁰
But De Volder remains confused on this point:
I do not really understand why you require a passive power in a substance. For since the
substance cannot be affected by anything else, this resistance will serve no other function than
resisting its own active force.¹¹
Leibniz, after all, did not give him much of a reason aside from the claim that the
nature of things demands it. De Volder is right to probe deeper on this point—
what, exactly, is it within a substance that could resist its own activity? But Leibniz
brings De Volder’s attention back to derivative forces, arguing that this odd result
is precisely what must be concluded in a well-developed account of physical
interaction:
You think that the resistance in a substance can bring about nothing other than the fact that
the substance opposes its own active power. But this should not seem absurd to you, since it is
also the case in quasi-substances, i.e., bodies, that the bulk restricts the speed that another tries
to impress. Certainly there must be a principle of limitation in limited things, just as there must
be a principle of action in acting things.¹²
At this point, it seems that Leibniz and De Volder are talking past one another, since
surely the question is how to conceive of a self-limiting simple substance. De Volder
presumably still believes that he has conceptual resources to account for the “bulk” of
⁹ Ibid. ¹⁰ G 2.248–9/Lodge 257. ¹¹ G 2.255/Lodge 273. ¹² G 2.257/Lodge 277.

  
bodies, which limits their actions. What he does not yet see is how a non-extended
substance can be self-limiting, and Leibniz’s answers in these passages are not
particularly illuminating.
On the question whether De Volder has the conceptual resources to account for
bulk, Leibniz has already presented some arguments against this. In the letter of April 3,
1699, Leibniz has argued that extension is an incomplete concept, and therefore
concepts that depend on extension, like bulk, will be similarly incomplete.¹³ Exten-
sion is “a resolvable and relative notion . . . resolved into plurality, continuity, and
coexistence.”¹⁴ Each of these requires some individual things that are related in such a
way (via plurality, continuity, and coexistence) that yields extension. And so body
and bodily interactions cannot be accounted for in terms of extension alone. It is an
impoverished concept. But Leibniz provides an alternative concept:
I believe that our thinking is completed and terminated more in the notion of dynamism than
in that of extension, and no other notion of power or force should be sought than that it is an
attribute from which change follows whose subject is substance itself.¹⁵
Dynamics provides the more fundamental conceptual basis for understanding
nature. Force is more basic than extension, and the modifications of force in a simple
substance, namely in perception and appetite, will provide a more intelligible explan-
ation of nature than would extension.¹⁶ And since we have experience of perception
and appetite in our own minds, “this principle of action is most intelligible . . . for the
nature of things is uniform.” This final appeal to continuity grounds Leibniz’s claims
about the nature of substance on analogy with our own minds.¹⁷ We have experience
of something dynamically arranged that is not constituted of divisible parts, and this
sort of substance, on analogy with our own minds, is what would ground the reality
of all other natural forces.
This line of argument could be pressed in several places—I don’t offer it as an
uncritical acceptance of the argument Leibniz is making to De Volder. Rather,
I believe it gives strong evidence that in defending his account of the dynamics of
the mind, Leibniz is relying on his naturalizing principles and requires that the same
gap-free and intelligible account be given of appetite as he requires of perception.
This will be important as we consider different ways one might develop Leibniz’s
theory of appetite, recognizing that the naturalizing constraints hold in the dynamics
of perceptual change just as well as in any other area of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
¹³ See also Leibniz’s letter to Bernoulli, September 1, 1698: “Matter itself, intrinsically, i.e., bulk, which
you call primary matter, is not a substance; indeed, it is not an aggregate of substances but something
incomplete” (GM 3.537/Lodge 9; cf. G 2.225/Lodge 209).
¹⁴ A 2.3.546/Lodge 73. ¹⁵ Ibid.
¹⁶ It seems that Leibniz is helping himself to some assumptions about what De Volder might believe
about extension and the nature of bodies. It is not entirely clear just how committed De Volder is to the
claim that extension exhausts the nature of body, and therefore it is not clear just how deep Leibniz’s
criticisms go for De Volder here. For more on this see Paul Lodge’s introduction in Leibniz, De Volder
Correspondence, §8.
¹⁷ For explicit appeals to the principle of continuity in the correspondence, see Letter to Bernoulli, GM
3.544/Lodge 11 and Letter to De Volder, A 2.3.545/Lodge 69–71.
 ’    
1.2. Active and passive power

De Volder was puzzled by Leibniz’s insistence that there is a passive power in
substances, which resists its own active force. In this section, I would like to consider
what the nature of this passive power is and how it might be understood in Leibniz’s
theory. The presence of a passive power is a clear consequence of some of Leibniz’s
other views. In particular, if substances are causally isolated from other substances,
and if no substance can be completely active (since a purely active substance would
be indistinguishable from God), then each substance must contain something that
limits it. Leibniz introduces this notion in the correspondence with De Volder by
ascribing the Aristotelian notion of “primary matter” to this internal limitation. And
he describes the simple substance as a combination of active and primitive forces: “It
follows . . . that there is a primary active, i.e., substantial, thing, which is modified by
the added disposition of matter, i.e., that which is passive.”¹⁸ Activity is what confers
substantiality on an individual substance, but all individual substances are modified
by a passive disposition.
Each individual substance contains a persistent force towards action as well as
contrary force towards resistance or inaction. And somehow the interplay of the
momentary modifications of these contrary forces yields a change from one state to
the next. These modes of force Leibniz calls perception and appetite. The momentary
structure of the dynamic system within a monad represents or expresses its relation
to all other monads, as we have discussed already. This is perception. The momentary
movement or direction of this expressive structure towards a new expressive state of
the monad is what Leibniz calls appetite.
The question is what accounts for the self-limiting nature of each individual
monad? Why, and in what way, would it hold itself back? There are several ways
one could work out the distinction between active and passive forces in the Leibnizian
simple substance. One possibility we can rule out right away: as we have already
discussed, Leibniz argues that each individual substance is related to every other
substance and expresses its relation to each other substance. So, the limitations
inherent in a substance cannot be due to a lack of scope in what it represents.
There are two other possibilities that immediately present themselves. The first
comes from a helpful passage from the Monadology that suggests that the limitations
are perceptual:
Monads are limited, not as to their objects, but with respect to the modifications of their
knowledge of them. Monads all go confusedly to infinity, to the whole; but they are limited and
differentiated by the degrees of their distinct perceptions.¹⁹
This clearly entails that the limitations of a monad are due to some aspect of the
distinctness of a perception. But a similar claim could be made about appetite. In the
New Essays, Leibniz describes indistinct perceptions that are discomfiting—they are
“semi-sufferings” that we are unaware of but that move us towards one option rather
than another through what Leibniz calls “insensible inclinations”:²⁰
¹⁸ A 2.2.548/Lodge 77. ¹⁹ M §60. ²⁰ A 6.6.164–5 and 188/NE 164–5 and 188.

  
What usually drives us are those minute insensible perceptions which could be called sufferings
that we cannot become aware of . . . These minute impulses consist in our continually overcom-
ing small obstacles—our nature labours at this without our thinking about it.²¹
Again, the relative distinctness of a perception plays a key role in determining the
direction of our appetite. The smaller impulses aggregate into an efficacious move-
ment towards a new state. But we are often unaware of what is moving us in a
particular direction since both the perceptions and the appetites are indistinct. But
even if we could make some of the perceptions more distinct and come to better
knowledge of things, would that increase our power? Not necessarily, since some-
times we do not have the strength of will to pursue it. As Leibniz says later in the
New Essays:
[W]here the great matter of happiness and virtue is concerned one needs more firmness and
regularity of conduct if one is always to make good resolves and to abide by them. In short, true
happiness requires less knowledge but greater strength and goodness of will, so that the dullest
idiot can achieve it just as easily as can the cleverest and most educated person.²²
This passage suggests that in addition to the distinctness of perceptions, the strength
of a particular appetite can yield a certain kind of increase or decrease in the force
with which we are able to pursue genuine happiness. That is, we could be limited by
the relative strength of our appetites as much as by the relative distinctness of our
perceptions. But we may ask whether one is more fundamental than the other.
We might find an answer to this question by considering finite substances in
comparison with the infinite. Imagine a perfectly active substance (i.e., the divine
substance). In one sense, for a perfectly active substance, no action is limited. That is,
whatever a perfectly active substance forms a will to do, nothing (internal or external)
prevents it from carrying out the action. All of the divine perceptions are perfectly
distinct—Leibniz sometimes describes God as having all points of view. And God is
presumably aware of all of God’s appetites, for what could limit God’s self-
knowledge? And so there is a radical difference both in perception and appetite
between finite and infinite minds, provided we can talk in the same terms of the
divine mind. There is, however, one similarity: God does desire some things that he
does not do. One key example from Leibniz’s context was that God desired that all
should be saved. And God, in some sense, desires that there be no evil in the world.
However, these are what Leibniz calls antecedent wills, the optimal combination of
which yields God’s consequent will.²³ Finite minds also have a complex appetite that
contains within it many contrary tendencies, and they aggregate into a total tendency
that is causally efficacious within the substance. Leibniz identifies two differences:
(a) what appears to be the optimal end in God maps onto the actual good, while in
finite substances desires do not necessarily map onto the actual good, and so there is a
condition on perception—a finite substance is more perfect the more distinctly it
perceives actual goods; and (b) God’s antecedent desires will yield to the optimal set
of desires, whereas in finite substances some combination of lesser appetites can
overwhelm the set of appetites that are perceived to be good. And so, there is also a
²¹ A 6.6.188/NE 188. ²² A 6.6.207/NE 207. ²³ See G 6.115–16/Theodicy §§22–3.

 ’    
condition on appetite—a finite substance is more perfect the more forcefully it can
pursue what it sees as the best. I will not say much more about Leibniz’s views about
akrasia here, but it does seem to depend both on looking for the right reasons for
action and in strengthen our will through habits to follow the right reasons. Com-
bining these two conditions, we can say that for Leibniz a finite substance is more
perfect the more distinctly it perceives actual goods and pursues them. As Leibniz
says in the New Essays, we should set this rule for ourselves: “wait till you have the
findings of reason and from then on follow them.”²⁴ Of course, this makes more
sense for rational finite substances; it is difficult to see how this maxim would apply
to non-rational substances. I will say more about this in the following sections.
Robert Adams makes an intriguing suggestion that illuminates some of what
I have said in the above paragraph:
Primitive passive force will . . . be a substance’s tendency not to perceive distinctly. It can be
considered an antiperceptual principle, though at the same time it is an aspect of the sub-
stance’s perceptual life. This way of putting it suggests a real opposition and struggle between a
force of distinctness and a force of confusion in the substance . . . But this language may be too
vivid, as Leibniz also suggests that perfection and imperfection are related not as positive and
negative magnitudes, but as unity and zero, and that imperfection is merely limitation or
privation of perfection (Gr 126). On this account a substance’s tendency to confused percep-
tion, its primitive passive force, would simply be a weakness of its primitive active force, a
limitation on its tendency to perceive distinctly.²⁵
If Leibniz has a privative account of imperfection, then the passive force may well
simply be a lack of a certain kind of force rather than a positive force in its own right.
And so viewing the active and passive forces as somehow engaged in a competition,
one opposing the other, may not be the best way to understand what Leibniz is
saying. Rather, active force consists in an ability to heighten or distinguish a set of
perceptions, and the passive force may simply refer to the limits of this ability. (For
example, I am able to imagine the color spectrum down to red but no further. That is
not because I have something in my mind actively restraining me from imagining
deeper colors. Rather, the inability expresses the limits of my active abilities.) But for
an account of the differing limits, we should look to perception. Some perceptions are
too confused to be unraveled, while others are disposed to development under the
right perceptual conditions.²⁶ And this account fits neatly within a naturalized theory
and is nicely analogous to Leibniz’s dynamics.
In the following sections, this account will be refined by raising some well-known
problems with Leibniz’s theory of appetite. I will say something about each of these
problems, but one reason I am raising the problems is that each one entails a kind
of threat to a naturalized picture of perceptual dynamics. I will argue that Leibniz
has resources to address each of the problems by appealing to the natures of the
individual substances.
²⁴ A 6.6.188/NE 188. ²⁵ Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 393–4.

²⁶ Leibniz frequently speaks of the limits of perception and appetition in dispositional terms. See, for
example, A 2.3.548/Lodge 77.
  
2. Causation and Teleology

In this section, I want to consider a problem that Sukjae Lee has recently discussed,
which I will call the problem of the unsuccessful striving. Scholars have been divided
about how to understand just how appetites perform their causal role. Sukjae Lee has
identified the following two tensions in what he calls the “standard account” of
Leibnizian appetite.²⁷ First, given that appetite is the only principle of change in a
monad, appetites must be causal. However, Leibniz also says that the striving of an
appetite is not always successful, and therefore is not causally efficacious. So, the first
tension is that Leibnizian appetite must be causal but not always successful. Second,
Leibniz describes appetite as a teleological function, aiming at the apparent good.
However, each subsequent state of a substance is not always desirable, even to the
substance itself. (For example, no one would desire a toothache.) And so the second
tension that Lee identifies is that all internal changes of a substance are explained by
the substance’s striving for ends that appear good to the substance, but the actual
changes are not always desirable. I will discuss the first issue in this section, and I will
consider teleology and the apparent good in the following section.
Lee is not alone in seeing deep tensions in Leibniz’s account of appetite.²⁸ This is in
part because the passages themselves are not always clear. Consider these represen-
tative passages (one of which has already been quoted above):
[N]atural changes in monads come from an internal principle . . . The passing state which
enfolds and represents a multitude in unity . . . is called perception. The action of the internal
principle which brings about change or the passage from one perception to another can be
called appetition.²⁹
[A] monad, in itself and at a moment, can be distinguished from another only by its internal
qualities and actions, which can be nothing but its perceptions (that is, the representation of the
composite, or what is external, in the simple) and its appetitions (that is, its [i.e., the monad’s]
tendencies to go from one perception to another) which are the principles of change.³⁰
Notice particularly the difference made in the PNG quotation between qualities and
actions. Leibniz here says that a monad is individuated by a combination of qualities
and actions, and so we would expect an account of the momentary qualities of a
monad and its actions. And yet when we get to the definition of appetition, we are
given a dispositional property of the substance—its tendencies to change—and some
of these dispositions will never be fully realized (as is often the case with dispositional
properties). In contrast, the Monadology passage describes appetition as the action
itself—much more than merely a disposition to act. A number of questions arise at
²⁷ Lee, “Appetites as Uneasiness.”

²⁸ See also Julia Jorati, “Monadic Teleology without Goodness and without God,” The Leibniz Review
23 (2013); Julia Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in Leibniz,” Journal of the History of
Philosophy 53 (2015); Jeffrey K. McDonough, “Leibniz on Monadic Agency and Optimal Form,” Studia
Leibnitiana Sonderhaft: Leibniz and Experience (2016); Donald Rutherford, “Leibniz on Spontaneity,” in
Leibniz: Nature and Freedom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); and John Carriero, “Substance and
Ends in Leibniz,” in Contemporary Perspectives on Early Modern Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Vere
Chappell, ed. Paul Hofffman, David Owen, and Gideon Yaffe (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2008).
²⁹ M §§11, 15. ³⁰ PNG §2.
 ’    
this point. Is appetite a disposition or an action? How are appetitions individuated?

Does each perception have an appetite distinct to it? Or, rather, does appetite operate
at the level of the whole, as a dispositional property or action of the substance?
Lee quotes the following passage as helpful in determining whether appetite is
dispositional:
Active force, which one usually calls force in the absolute sense, should not be thought of as a
simple and common potential [potentia] or receptivity to action [actio] of the schools. Rather,
active force involves an effort [conatus] or striving [tendentia] towards action [actio], so that,
unless something else impedes it, action results. And properly speaking, entelechy, which is
insufficiently understood by the schools, consists in this. For such a potency involves act
[actus] and does not persist in a mere faculty, even if it does not always fully attain the action
[actio] towards which it strives, as of course happens whenever a hindrance is imposed.³¹
This passage helps resolve the first question—is appetite a disposition or an action?
Here Leibniz argues that “potency involves act,” which is to say that any dispositions
of a substance are grounded in action. And so active force should be understood not
as a potential but as an action.
But this still leaves many questions about how appetites relate to the general force
of the substance. One possibility, presented by Robert Adams and discussed by Lee, is
that “the derivative force [appetite] is the primitive force itself, just insofar as the
primitive force is, or involves, a tendency to do now, and in the present circum-
stances, what ‘the law of the series’ determines that the substance will do now and in
those circumstances.”³² That is, the force just is the primitive force determined by a
specific moment and context. But Lee sees this position as problematic for Leibniz’s
view: “If appetitive force is tantamount to the primitive force as the law of the series,
which [is] by its very nature exceptionless, how could the appetite fail to bring about
the subsequent perception?”³³ Lee has in mind Leibniz’s claim in the above passage
that force “does not always attain the action,” which Leibniz repeats in the context of
his discussions about appetite:
It is true that appetite cannot always completely reach the whole perception toward which it
tends, but it always obtains something of it, and reaches new perceptions.³⁴
This claim appears to entail that there are some unsuccessful appetites in a monad.
But no appetite could be unsuccessful if it simply is the momentary modification of
primitive force as determined by the law of the series. (I will say more about the law
of the series below. It will suffice for now to say that the law of the series is the
internal law of the substance that fully determines how its perceptual states unfold.)
And so there appears to be a problem with Leibniz’s account of causation. Lee
summarizes his objection:
On the standard interpretation . . . appetites cause subsequent states in that they tend toward
them. Thus, given that the “whole perception” is that which the appetite tends toward, it seems
³¹ “On Body and Force, Against the Cartesians,” May 1702 (G 4.395/AG 252).
³² Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 379. ³³ Lee, “Appetites as Uneasiness,” 132.
³⁴ M §15.
  
as though the “whole perception” would be the subsequent, future state of the simple substance
in question. But here the appetite is described as not being able to “always completely reach it.”
If the appetite does not reach the “whole perception,” then this strongly suggests that there is
some failure of causation.³⁵
Lee does not make this explicit, but if there is a failure of causation internal to the simple
substance, then there is a failure in Leibniz’s natural theory. There would be some
inexplicable and unintelligible difference in the subsequent states of the substance. For
how would a failure of causation arise if not from the internal strivings of the substance
(given that there is no inter-substantial interaction)? As Lee succinctly states: “Failure is
not an option . . . if appetites are supposed to cause the perceptual states in the series.”³⁶
Lee’s response to this problem is to distinguish “two distinct . . . strands of appe-
titive activity within a simple substance.”³⁷ One strand is the fully causal determin-
ation of primitive forces, and the other is the not-fully causal striving towards “the
desirable state of being more completely at ease.”³⁸ But while this second strand of
appetite is non-causal, it is nevertheless efficacious to at least some degree or other.
And so, Lee summarizes, “we can think of ‘appetites’ as a technical term referring to
the non-causally efficacious striving of the present state, tending towards the desir-
able state of being more at ease.”³⁹
There is a lot to like about this interpretation—it makes sense of how a single
individual could have a causally efficacious primitive force alongside a contrary-
leaning appetite. However, I do not think that we need to deny that the second strand
of appetites is causal in order to get this result.⁴⁰
Returning to the Monadology text quoted above, I think there is a fundamental
ambiguity that might trip us up. Quoting again:
The action of the internal principle which brings about the change or passage from one
perception to another can be called appetition; it is true that the appetite cannot always
completely reach the whole perception toward which it tends, but it always obtains something
of it, and reaches new perceptions.⁴¹
If we read “whole perception” as referring to the total perceptual state of the monad
and “appetite” as the total striving of the monad from total perceptual state A to total
perceptual state B, then the problem Lee raises is a real problem. There is no way the
striving of the monad could fail to accomplish its goal of transitioning from A to B,
given that it is the only causal principle that brings about change in the monad.
However, we need not read this passage in this way. Leibniz says that the appetite
does not always reach a whole perception but “reaches new perceptions” (plural).
This suggests that Leibniz has in mind a complex appetite consisting of many
contrary tendencies. From the perspective of some subset of the perceptual state,
³⁵ Lee, “Appetites as Uneasiness,” 132. ³⁶ Ibid., 133.

³⁷ Ibid., 143. ³⁸ Ibid. ³⁹ Ibid., 144.
⁴⁰ In the end, it seems that Lee is also uncomfortable with this conclusion, gesturing towards bringing
appetite “under some time of causal rubric, where it is in fact doing some causal work.” He does not
develop this idea fully, but he does make some suggestions that develop this idea in a different direction
than I do here. See ibid., 148.
⁴¹ M §15.
 ’    
there is an appetite for C. But the total perceptual state may strive towards D instead.
But even when the monad moves towards D, there will nevertheless be some internal
representation of the sub-appetite towards C. That is, the sub-appetite will not always
reach its aim, but “it always obtains something of it.”
This way of reading M §15 coheres nicely with Leibniz’s discussion in the New
Essays where he says:
Various perceptions and inclinations combine to produce a complete volition: it is the result of
the conflict amongst them. There are some, imperceptible in themselves, which add up to a
disquiet which impels us without our seeing why. There are some which join forces to carry us
towards or away from some object . . . Finally, there are some impulses which are accompanied
by actual pleasure or suffering . . . The eventual result of all these impulses is the prevailing
effort, which makes a full volition.⁴²
Within this context, Leibniz is discussing volition rather than appetite, but the
“impulses” that he describes here are what he calls in other contexts “appetites.”
The point is that the prevailing force that moves a monad from A to B is made up of a
variety of sub-forces, some of which are aiming towards B and others which are not.
(For example, I may choose to continue this writing session even if there is some
small part of me that would prefer to check my Facebook page right now.)
And so the ambiguity arises when Leibniz uses “appetite” to refer both to the
prevailing effort and to the complex of impulses that constitute the prevailing effort.
And so, like Lee, I do think we need a distinction among appetites. But the distinction
is not between primitive force and derivative forces, as Lee would have it. Rather, the
distinction is between the total force and the sub-forces that constitute it. Does that
require us to regard the sub-forces as non-causal? I think not. As Leibniz emphasizes
in the Monadology and elsewhere, the sub-forces do always have some effect. In
particular, they have an effect by partially constituting the total force. If the total force
aims towards D, while it contains some impulses towards C, the prevailing effort towards
D will not be as strong as it would have been if there had not been contrary impulses.
And so the contrary impulses towards C are efficacious in some small way, even if they
do not succeed at reaching the “whole perception” towards which they strive. (That is,
they do not actually succeed in moving the monad towards C rather than D.)
This way of accounting for appetition can help make sense of the passive force in
appetition as well. The movement towards perceptual state D, involving some of C,
results in a kind of confusion. That is, the smaller impulses having their effect prevent
the total force from being as effective as it might otherwise be. And so this supports
Robert Adams’s description of passive force as being a lack of force rather than a
positive force in its own right—the force towards D will be less strong and so the
perception of D will be less distinct.
And so, in response to the problem of unsuccessful striving, we can deny that the
strivings are unsuccessful. Each sub-force does have an effect, and this is a fully causal
account. But since in many cases the effect is not fully successful, we can speak about
appetites as a kind of disposition towards some end, as Leibniz does. But the
⁴² A 6.6.192/NE 192.
  
disposition or potential is grounded in an act, as Leibniz emphasized in “On Body

and Force, Against the Cartesians,” quoted above.
3. Teleology, Action, and Passion

The conclusion of the previous section was that appetite is a causal process. However,
several scholars have noted problems with how Leibniz describes the nature of
causation in appetite. Leibniz argues that appetite is governed by final causes:
problems arise when we consider the following claim, labeled “TEL” for teleology:
(TEL) All natural changes of a substance arise teleologically, that is, according to
laws of final causation.
This claim appears to be grounded in the texts. Consider the following:
Souls act according to laws of final causes, through appetitions, ends, and means. Bodies act
according to the laws of efficient causes or of motions. And these two kingdoms, that of
efficient and that of final causes, are in harmony with each other.⁴³
This nice division of the causal realms has recently been challenged,⁴⁴ but Leibniz
frequently repeats this division. And so, scholars have tried to work out just how
appetite would work as a teleological process. Here is one representative gloss on
Leibniz’s theory of appetite:
Appetite or appetition is the dynamic principle by means of which a monad moves from one
perceptual state to its successor . . . [I]t is by virtue of having appetition that simple substances
are sources of activity, like God; further appetition is always directed toward the apparent
good, and thus resembles the divine activity of creation.⁴⁵
This passage suggests a second principle, labeled “AG” for apparent good:
(AG) All natural changes of a substance are directed toward the apparent good.
From this additional principle, two problems immediately arise:
1. The problem of the apparent good: There are problems with an account that
allows for the operation of appetite on the level of bare monads if appetite is “always
directed toward the apparent good.” Consider the following three levels, and how we
might spell out the claim that some action “appears good”:
Human: S1 perceives that A appears good.
Animal: S2 perceives that A appears pleasant.
Bare substance: S3 perceives that A ???
⁴³ M §79.
⁴⁴ See Marleen Rozemond, “Leibniz on Final Causation,” in Metaphysics and the Good: Themes from the
Philosophy of Robert Merrihew Adams, ed. Samuel Newlands and Larry M. Jorgensen (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2009) and Lawrence Carlin, “Leibniz on Final Causes,” Journal of the History of Philosophy
44 (2006). Another rejection of a strong divide here is provided in Jeffrey K. McDonough, “Leibniz’s Two
Realms Revisited,: Noûs 42 (2008): 673–96. I will return to the suggestion of this paper in the discussion below.
⁴⁵ Jolley, Leibniz, 68.
 ’    
How does something appear good to a bare monad? (Even more problematic, how
does a bare monad represent something as good for it? I take it the self-reference
would be necessary for an account of how something appears good.)
Consider how a subject might be inclined to action. In the human case, suppose
someone is presented with the opportunity to eat a juicy steak. The person could
pause, consider the ways that this would be good and the ways that it would not be—
the smells might attract the subject to the steak, but on the other side they may
consider certain moral or religious commitments that give priority to humane
treatment of animals, etc. After this deliberation, suppose the subject perceives
that, on balance, it would be wrong for them to eat the steak and the overall appeal
of the steak loses out. We can make sense of the way this individual does what
appears good to her.
In the case of animals, it is not clear that they would be able to deliberate in such an
elaborate fashion. When a lion sees a vulnerable antelope, it springs into action.
Why? Because it sees something that would satisfy its hunger. And so the lion does
what appears to it as pleasant, let’s say. The full account would no doubt be more
complicated than this, to include instinct, associations of ideas, and the habituation
of an animal. But the main point here is that we can grasp an intuitive sense of how
something might be perceived as good (in non-moral sense) to a higher animal.
But in the case of a lower being, it is not clear how it would represent some action
as good, or even pleasant. How does an amoeba decide to take in a particle of food?
Does the food appear good to an amoeba?
And so, we can make better sense of this account of appetite on the level of minds,
which are capable of self-reflection and deliberating over alternative actions. We
might even be able to make sense of this account of appetite, in an attenuated sense,
for animals, as when they pursue pleasure or avoid pain. But what, even in an
analogous sense would be the function of appetite for a substance that is not self-
reflective and has no sensations of pleasure or pain? This is the first problem for
Leibniz’s theory of appetite.
2. The problem of a change for the worse: Even if we can make sense of appetite
as directed toward the apparent good, how are we to make sense of a change for the
worse? How could a substance ever move from a state that is clearly good (for it) to
one that is clearly bad (for it)?
This is a problem that Bayle initially raised against Leibniz’s theory of pre-
established harmony, and Rutherford considers this example in detail in his paper
on Leibniz’s account of spontaneity.⁴⁶ Recall Bayle’s question: how is it that a dog,
engaged in the pleasurable act of eating its dinner, spontaneously feels pain when (at
the bodily level) it is struck by a stick? To put this in the language of perceptions, why
would a dog that is currently having a pleasurable sensation of satisfaction (as when
eating its dinner) move from that sensation to a sensation of pain (as when struck by
a stick) if the law guiding the development of its perceptions is always directed at the
apparent good? Why, all things considered, would a sensation of pain appear good to
⁴⁶ Rutherford, “Leibniz on Spontaneity.”

  
the dog? And if it does not appear good to the dog, then how do we explain the
development of the perceptual state from within the dog itself? In the following two
sub-sections, I will briefly explore two ways that this form of teleology has been
interpreted, each of which is problematic. Then, in section 3.3, I will look at Julia
Jorati’s interpretation, which I think is largely right. In section 3.4, I will show
that Jorati’s interpretation fits nicely with the naturalizing thesis I have been urging
in this book.
3.1. Response #1: Restricted teleology

Notice that both of these problems arise because of (AG)—if there is a requirement
that all natural changes of a substance are directed by the apparent good, then we will
have difficulty with bare monads and with changes to what is clearly worse (that is,
changes that would be clearly worse from the individual’s point of view). (TEL) is a
necessary condition for (AG), although (AG) is not entailed by (TEL). If (TEL) were
false, then (AG) might not be as problematic. And so one might deny (TEL): not all
natural changes in a substance arise teleologically.
The denial of (TEL) does not entail that no natural changes in a substance arise
teleologically. Rather, it is simply that not all natural changes in a substance arise
teleologically. And if none of the teleological transitions are (1) in lower substances,
or (2) changes for the worse, then we can avoid these problems. Consider the
following passage:
[T]he present state of body is born from the preceding state through the laws of efficient
causes, the present state of the soul is born from its preceding state through the laws of final
causes. The one is the place of the series of motion, the other of the series of appetites; the one is
passed from cause to effect, the other from end to means. And in fact, it may be said that the
representation of the end in the soul is the efficient cause of the representation in the same soul of
the means.⁴⁷
Marleen Rozemond uses this text and others to argue that Leibniz does not exclude
efficient causation from substances; rather, the point Leibniz is making is that
mechanical causation is excluded from substances. And so she denies (TEL). In the
end, however, she sees this as compatible with the second response that I will talk
about next.
The difficulty with denying (TEL) is that it becomes unclear just what would
account for the difference in changes that are efficiently caused and those that are
caused by ends. Of course, once a mind is capable of reasoning and forming ends
for herself, that person is able to set intentions and follow them. But why should
even this not be accounted for via efficient causation, since the proximate cause
of the forming of rational ends was (on this account) efficiently caused itself?
And how does final causation wrest the reins from efficient causation when it
decides to do the work? Final causation seems to be threatened by the takeover of
efficient causation.
⁴⁷ Dutens 2.2.134, qtd. in Rozemond, “Leibniz on Final Causation,” 291, emphasis added.
 ’    
3.2. Response #2: Natural teleology

Another way to resolve these problems is to affirm (TEL), but to deny (AG), deny
that all teleology aims at an apparent good. Donald Rutherford and Julia Jorati both
take this approach.⁴⁸ I will discuss Rutherford’s response in this sub-section and
Jorati’s proposal in section 3.3.
Rutherford distinguishes two forms of teleology: desire teleology and natural
teleology. The difference between the two is this: the law of desire teleology functions
as our discussion about appetite above suggested: the substance strives for what it
perceives to be best for it. In desire teleology, the action of a substance is determined
by a subjective perception of what is good, and this subjective perception may or may
not align with what is genuinely good for the substance. Natural teleology, in contrast,
is sensitive to objective goods, what is, objectively speaking, the best state for the
substance to be in, even if the objectively good state may not be represented by the
substance as good for it. (I will raise some concerns about this last point below.)
This distinction will allow us to answer the first question I raised above: how
should we apply the notion of appetite at the level of bare substances? Bare sub-
stances have no desires, they don’t represent subsequent states as good states (relative
to themselves), and they don’t have awareness of what is the objectively good
outcome. Desire teleology, as defined, would not apply to bare monads, and there is
some question about just how far it would extend even in animals or humans.
Humans often incline towards something without consciously entertaining any
thoughts of that thing being good relative to them. And when animals act according
to what we call instinct, it is not clear that there is any subjective representation of a
good. So, desire teleology, as defined, is a rather limited species of final causation by
comparison to natural teleology.
We can see how this distinction in the varieties of teleology will resolve the initial
worry. Desire teleology will operate at the level of conscious appraisals of one’s
actions, and it provides an informative explanation for why someone acts as they
do. Natural teleology will ground all other transitions in perceptual states—they are
explained by appealing to what is objectively good, given God’s choice of the best.
Rutherford rightly points out that these two notions are not entirely disconnected.
Desire teleology will also be susceptible to explanation in terms of natural teleology.
God regulated the substances in such a way that the perceived good that they pursue
will harmonize with the objective organization of the best possible sequence of
events. But, the reverse does not hold—for the reasons we have just been discussing,
not all natural teleological transitions are open to explanation in terms of desire
teleology.
One problem with this account is that natural teleology has too wide of a scope to
make sense of Leibniz’s account of final causation in simple substances. We can make
the same claims about efficient causation that we have just made for desire teleology:
all instances of efficient causation are open to a natural teleological explanation, but
not all natural teleological transitions are open to explanation in terms of efficient
⁴⁸ Rutherford, “Leibniz on Spontaneity” and Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in
Leibniz.”
  
causation. We have not picked out something unique to simple substances—when

Leibniz says that bodies operate according to laws of efficient causation, and simple
substances operate according to laws of final causation, he cannot have natural
teleology in mind. Natural teleology would apply both to bodies and to minds.
But, as it turns out, this is a happy result when we turn to Rutherford’s resolution
of the second problem. The second problem was this: if appetite is directed at the
apparent good, then how can we explain instances when the transition in states
results in an obvious bad? The paradigm case of this was raised by Bayle: a dog is
happily eating its meal when it is struck from behind by a stick. How, according to
Leibniz’s principle of spontaneity, are we to make sense of this internal transition
from pleasure to pain? There is no sense in which the pain would appear good from
the dog’s perspective, and so we cannot explain this in terms of a law of appetite that is
directed toward the apparent good. (Not to mention the fact that the dog was
ignorant of the impending slap.) On the basis of desire teleology, we have no way
of resolving this apparent dilemma.
According to Rutherford, what is going on in this case is a privileging of the laws
governing physical interactions. What the dog represents in the moment prior to the
strike does not include a striving toward pain. Rather, it represents a full history of
physical interactions leading up to this moment, along with a representation of the
mechanical laws governing those physical interactions. What is entailed by these
representations is a sensation of pain, and so the dog feels pain. The explanation of
the transition from a sensation of pleasure to a sensation of pain is not fundamentally
teleological. The dog represents and—absent any desires to the contrary—it privil-
eges the mechanical laws guiding the causal sequence of events at the bodily level.
And so, according to Rutherford, absent any desires, transitions in perceptual states
operate according to laws of mechanical/efficient causation.
To summarize his account, Rutherford says:
On the reading defended here, there is no general account of a monad’s appetitions as
endeavors toward what it represents as goods, that is, desirable ends or objects. Rather,
explanatory priority is given to the lawful evolution of the physical universe, and monadic
perceptions tend toward representations of whatever the next best state of the universe is.⁴⁹
However, one objection that I have raised is that it is not clear that natural teleology is
unique to monadic perceptions. Why should explanatory priority be given to “the
lawful evolution of the physical universe” in the monadic perceptions? Why not give
explanatory priority to what God perceives as the next best state of the universe,
which both physical and perceptual transitions are derivative on? In this case, the
explanatory priority in all cases would be given to natural teleology, even if we need
to appeal to mechanical or psychological laws in particular instances since we cannot
comprehend the scope of God’s purposes. Indeed, insofar as God’s purposes can be
⁴⁹ Rutherford, “Leibniz on Spontaneity,” 173. Rozemond agrees: “For voluntary action, full-blown
final causality applies to the monads themselves in virtue of their knowledge of ends. But elsewhere only
‘natural teleology’ applies where God’s knowledge of ends is part of the account” (Rozemond, “Leibniz on
Final Causation,” 293).
 ’    
conceived as a result of God’s own desires, the account collapses into a kind of divine
desire teleology.
And so, it is not clear to me what work the concept of natural teleology is doing in
this theory. It seems that the most elegant causal structure for Rutherford would be to
say that teleology functions at the level of desires, and that any other transitions
operate according to the laws of efficient or mechanical causation. This makes it even
clearer that there is a privileging of the mechanical laws governing physical inter-
actions. But it would also reduce the domain of teleology to those beings that are
capable of forming the appropriate desires.
3.3. Response #3: Distinguishing types of teleology

Julia Jorati proposes a different taxonomy of spontaneous and teleologically oriented
changes, which she argues better illuminates the fundamental metaphysical differ-
ences among monad types. Jorati argues that Leibniz has three categories of spon-
taneity and three corresponding types of teleology. Metaphysical spontaneity is the
basic fact that monads are causally isolated and so all of their changes arise from
within them, and metaphysical teleology is when “the agent is acting according with
its natural strivings.”⁵⁰ Agent spontaneity is when the actions of the monad are free
from metaphysical or ideal influences, and agent teleology is when the strivings
accord with perfections of the agent’s nature. And, finally, rational spontaneity is
when the agent is free from non-rational influences as well, and rational teleology
is when the agent acts according to its rational strivings.
The differences among these kinds of spontaneities depend on three further
distinctions: (a) causal/non-causal, (b) action/passion, and (c) rational/non-rational.
Metaphysical spontaneity identifies a source of genuine causation in the substance,
whether the change is for good or bad for the individual. The main emphasis is that
the only causal sources for any changes to a simple substance are internal to the
substance itself. The second distinction, action/passion, is not a causal distinction
for Leibniz. Rather, it is a matter of what Jorati calls an “ideal” influence, recalling
Leibniz’s claim:
[I]n simple substances the influence of one monad over another can only be ideal . . . It is in this
way that actions and passions among creatures are mutual . . . active insofar as what is known
distinctly in one serves to explain what happens in another; and passive insofar as the reason
for what happens in one is found in what is known distinctly in another.⁵¹
Finally, the rational/non-rational distinction identifies those actions that are deter-
mined by an agent’s own rational judgments about what is best. The types of
teleology correspond to the spontaneity according to these distinctions. One
immediate worry I have is that Jorati distinguishes types of teleology based on
these distinctions, as if all were causal in the same way. We might rather distin-
guish the types of teleology in terms of their explanatory force rather than their
causal force, and that would help clarify just what is going on in Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind.
⁵⁰ Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in Leibniz,” 691. ⁵¹ M §§51–2.

  
In terms of the causal story, though, the causes are the determinations of the
internal changes by appetite, one for the worse (metaphysical spontaneity) and one in
accord with the agent’s perfections, a change for the better (agent spontaneity and
rational spontaneity). Whether a change for the better counts as agent or rational
spontaneity depends on the role an agent’s intellect plays in producing the striving
that results in change. And so Jorati addresses the problem of a change for the worse
by separating it from agent and rational spontaneity, which are more appropriate to
the contexts in which Leibniz is describing the activity of a monad. But do these
distinctions address the problem of the apparent good? It seems so, since not all
teleological changes are determined by what appears good. Indeed only a subset of
appetitive changes would aim at an apparent good, according to Jorati.
What, then, determines the aims of the other appetites, those for which there is no
apparent good or those that involve a change for the worse? Jorati argues that “all
monadic actions are teleological because they are the outcomes of the agent’s natural
strivings . . . An agent strives for these states not because they seem good, nor because
of God, but simply because that is the agent’s nature.”⁵² I think Jorati has gotten this
right (with some qualifications to follow below), and this was the conclusion I arrived
at in the first draft of this chapter, prior to engaging with Jorati’s work. It coheres very
nicely with the naturalizing emphasis of my book, showing that the ends directedness
of monadic change is not an odd feature of Leibniz’s philosophy but a consequence of
his naturalized account. All of a monad’s states are explained by its nature.
3.4. Essences and natures

And so the main response I would recommend to the problem laid out above is to
accept both (TEL) and (AG), understood in the appropriate way. We will need to
revise (AG) to (AG*):
(AG*) All natural changes within a substance are directed toward the ends
expressed by its nature, (by what it is (τὸ ὅτι)).
Leibniz argues that there is nothing intrinsic to the perceptual state of a substance
that inclines the substance one way or another. An acorn naturally develops into an
oak sapling. But there is no contradiction in supposing that an acorn spontaneously
grows into a rutabaga (or into a goose egg, for that matter). There is nothing in the
initial state alone that determines the outcome.
What determines the development from one state to the next is the nature of the
substance itself, what it is, τὸ ὅτι. An acorn will develop into an oak sapling because a
sapling expresses the nature of the acorn in a way that a rutabaga does not. But one
must bring in these considerations in order to understand why it develops in this way
rather than in another way.
This is why perceptual states incline without necessitating:
[L]eaving out of the question this supposition of the futurition of the thing and of God’s
foresight or determination, a supposition requiring the thing to happen . . . there is nothing in
⁵² Jorati, “Monadic Teleology without Goodness and without God,” 56.

 ’    
the event itself, rendering it necessary and precluding the idea that anything else could happen
in its place. And as for the connection between causes and effects, as I have explained, that
would only incline the free agent without necessitating him. So it does not create even a
hypothetical necessity without the addition of something external, namely, that very maxim
that the strongest inclination always reaches the goal.⁵³
In this passage, Leibniz is saying that there is nothing intrinsic to the states of an
object that determines an outcome, even if we include some account of tendencies. In
addition to particular tendencies of a particular state, we must also build in the
maxim that the strongest wins. But notice also that this is supposed to be separate
from God’s designs for the thing (something that is brought together in Rutherford’s
account). Each individual thing has such inclinations, and it is built into their nature
that the strongest will reach the goal. This is what Leibniz elsewhere calls the “law of
the series.”
This is corroborated by other texts. For example, in his letter to De Volder of
January 19, 1706, Leibniz expresses his views about the fundamental nature of reality:
[T]here can be nothing real in nature except simple substances and the aggregates resulting
from them. However, in these simple substances, we know nothing other than perceptions or
reasons for perceptions . . . I consider it to have been demonstrated . . . that it is essential to a
substance that its present state involves its future states, and vice versa, and that force, or the
reason for the transition to new perceptions, cannot be derived from any other source.⁵⁴
The difference in this text from the former text is that here the term “appetite” is
replaced with “the reasons for the perceptions.” Appetite gives a reason for the
development of the perceptions in a certain way. Each substance has an expression
of what it is, which determines the natural development of its perceptions.⁵⁵
So, now we can return to the problems I raised for Leibniz’s theory. First, consider
the problem of the apparent good. Now, since we have revised (AG), we no longer
require that each individual substance represent certain outcomes as good. What is
required, however, is that each individual substance express its own nature:
Human: S1 perceives that A appears good.
Animal: S2 perceives that A appears pleasant.
Bare substance: S3 perceives that A expresses its nature.
Each of these can be given a relative weight, what is best, or most pleasant, or best
expresses an individual nature, and built into each individual substance is the
regulative principle that the strongest wins.
Jorati disagrees with my characterization here. She argues, “Jorgensen requires that
in order for a bare monad to strive for some action A, it must perceive that
A expresses its nature. I disagree with him: I do not think it is necessary to perceive
this. In fact, I consider it no more plausible to claim that the lowest monads can
perceive something expresses their nature than to claim that they can perceive
⁵³ G 6.131–2/T §53, Warren and Mulvaney translation. ⁵⁴ G 2.282/Lodge 333.

⁵⁵ Note: this could also be said of composite substances, but only in a derivative way.
  
something as good.”⁵⁶ This is a fair point. I must say more about what it is to perceive
that something expresses its nature.
Leibniz says that each simple substance has an internal “law of the series” that
governs the changes in state for each individual substance. That is, each individual
substance contains its own internal law that governs its change of states:
I recognize primitive entelechy in the active force exercising itself in various ways through
motion and, in a word, something analogous to the soul, whose nature consists in a certain
perpetual law of the same series of changes, which it runs through unhindered step by step.⁵⁷
The language here and elsewhere show that Leibniz regards this law of the series as
expressing the nature of the substance, just as an equation might express a certain law
governing a curve, describing the nature of the curve. This is what is expressed in
each substance and insofar as this is expressed in each substance, it is perceived. (It
need not be conscious to be perceived; it is merely represented.) And this basic nature
of the substance affects what it strives for—in bare monads in ways that they are
wholly unaware of. The monad does not regard its nature as good for it. Rather, it
merely expresses its nature and strives for that which would fulfill it. Nevertheless it is a
normative element—some sense for what an appropriate development of the substance
will be. And this is a teleological account, since there is no way to determine from the
perceptual states alone what the subsequent state of the substance will be.
Briefly, we can see how this could resolve the problem of the change for the worse
as well. Each change is one that expresses a substance’s nature, given its perceptual
state. In the case of the dog eating its meal, included in its complete perceptual state
are unconscious representations of a stick swiftly heading in its direction. It is an
appropriate development of its perceptual state to feel pain rather than pleasure at
the moment when it is struck, because this expresses its nature as a sentient being.
But, what’s more, it expresses something that is appropriate for the dog, all things
considered. The pain is instructive to the dog in identifying the ways its inclinations
are furthered or hindered. Given the pain, the dog can take measures to avoid further
hindrance of its pleasures.
Each individual substance develops according to its nature, and this is an account of
appetite that can be applied at all levels of substances. What differs in animals is the
memory of what has worked in the past to ensure that it can achieve its ends, and what
differs in humans is the capacity for self-reflection and judgment about what the best
means towards an end might be. This passage from the New Essays is instructive:
Appetitions are like a stone’s endeavour to follow the shortest but not always the best route to
the centre of the earth; it cannot foresee that it will collide with rocks on which it will shatter,
whereas it would have got closer to its goal if it had had the wit and the means to swerve aside.
In the same way, by rushing straight at a present pleasure we sometimes fall into the abyss of
misery. That is why reason opposes appetition with images of greater goods or evils to come,
and with a firm policy and practice of thinking before acting and then standing by whatever is
found to be best, even when the sensible grounds which lead to it are no longer present to the
⁵⁶ Jorati, “Monadic Teleology without Goodness and without God,” 66n2.

⁵⁷ A 2.3.547/Lodge 75.
 ’    
mind, and consist in little but faint images . . . So it is all a matter of ‘Think about it carefully’
and ‘Remember’—by the first to make laws, and by the second to follow them even when we do
not remember the reasons from which they sprang.⁵⁸
In this passage, Leibniz does not question whether the lower beings have ends; what
they lack is an ability to determine whether the way they are pursuing those ends is
effective. And so what will differ among the different classes of substances is the
ability to be aware of one’s ends and the effectiveness of the means towards those
ends. Lower substances merely follow the shortest path prescribed by their natures;
animals can remember; you and I can ‘think about it carefully’ and thus establish
within ourselves moral laws that determine the best path to “rational joy and
enlightened pleasure.”
4. Appetite and Continuity

Some might worry that introducing these distinctions among appetite types would
introduce discontinuities in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.⁵⁹ It seems to me that the
metaphysical account of appetite, whether a change for the worse or a change for the
better (as when an agent is active) does not entail any problematic gaps. The principal
difference between bare monads and non-human animals is a difference in aware-
ness—animals are able to become aware of things and, as a result, respond more
forcefully to those experiences. I have argued in earlier chapters that the differences
in awareness are fully continuous.
The principal concern is whether there is a gap in the way appetite functions for
non-human animals and how it functions when a rational being acts according to
their judgment. In one sense, there may well be a continuous line to draw in that a
rational judgment does involve an expression of what is good for the agent, which
would involve an expression of that agent’s nature. (Otherwise, there could be no
judgment of what would be good for that person.) And insofar as all types of teleology
therefore involve an expression of the individual nature, there may be a continuous
series in how this is expressed in each of the monad types.
However, there is more involved in rationality that this, involving capacities that
Leibniz is very clear are unavailable to other animals, such as the ability to know
necessary truths. This seems like a radical shift in ability, which would have to be
grounded in a certain kind of appetite that would allow for the relevant kinds of
intellectual activities. But since we will have to spell this out more fully, I will leave
open the question whether this entails a failure of continuity.Part 4 of this book
considers more carefully the capacities of minds, and we will be in a better position to
consider potential continuity problems there.
⁵⁸ A 6.6.189/NE 189.
⁵⁹ Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in Leibniz,” 693–5 addresses this question directly,
arguing that in fact her distinctions do not entail a violation of the principle of continuity.
PART IV
The Prerogative of Minds
10
Rational Beings and Animal Souls
[Minds] are capable of performing reflective acts, and capable of considering what
is called “I,” substance, soul, mind––in brief, immaterial things and immaterial
truths.¹
I have been arguing that Leibniz provides a fully natural account of the mind. In this
part, I will focus on one area where it might be thought that Leibniz does not offer a
natural account, namely, in his theory of reflection and reason. As Donald Rutherford
has argued:
The capacity for rationality is intended to establish minds as a separate class of created beings
altogether: creatures who alone are able to understand the principles of divine justice and who
alone merit citizenship in the City of God. The problem is that this appears to imply an infinite
gap between rational and nonrational creatures, one that is unbridgeable by any continuous
ordering of degrees of perfection. Leibniz never provides a satisfactory account of how this
problem might be resolved.²
If Rutherford is right about this, then Leibniz’s naturalism, as I have outlined it, will
encounter an unbridgeable chasm when we approach the subjects of reflection,
reason, moral identity, and rational thought. Indeed, in a letter to Arnauld, Leibniz
says that “Intelligences or souls capable of reflection and of knowing the eternal
truths and God have many privileges which exempt them from the upheavals of
bodies. For them moral laws must be joined with the physical.”³ The “privileges” of
minds “exempt” them from physical laws, it seems. Moral laws take over where the
physical laws fall short with respect to rational beings, and so we should expect
Leibniz’s account of rational beings to be discontinuous with the rest of nature.
However, there is a strong sense that Leibniz (at least) considered himself as
offering a naturalized theory for even rational beings. Lea Schweitz has argued that
this is so (although not in quite the way I have been arguing, something I will discuss
below), and she quotes Leibniz in support of her thesis: “This harmony [between the
physical kingdom of nature and the moral kingdom of grace] leads things to grace
through the very paths of nature.”⁴ Throughout even his writings on theology and
moral theory, Leibniz repeatedly insists that the order of grace is grounded in and
¹ PNG §5. ² Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, 165.
³ A 2.2.312/L 360.
⁴ M §88, emphasis added. Quoted in Schweitz, “On the Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of
Human Life in G.W. Leibniz,” 219.
 ’    
harmonizes with the order of nature, and even the biblical stories of miraculous
events are given natural interpretations. It would be quite strange to highlight the
“city of minds” as an exception to his naturalizing project when Leibniz himself
insists that they be held together. And so my own view is that Leibniz sought to hold
these in tension, and while it may be unclear in some instances just how the gap
between rational and non-rational creatures might be understood in a naturalized
way, it does seem consistent with Leibniz’s own intentions.
In this final part, I will focus on three particular places where the tension between a
naturalized and a non-naturalized account of the mind might emerge. I will focus in
this chapter on Leibniz’s account of the infinite distance between rational beings and
other animals; in chapter 11 I will analyze Leibniz’s account of moral identity and
how it is grounded in the “appearance of the self”; and, finally, in chapter 12, I will
discuss Leibniz’s claims that reflection and knowledge of the self allows rational
agents to know necessary truths. In the end, I will not provide a complete account of
rationality in Leibniz, although I hope that by addressing these three areas it will
become clear how Leibniz might think that the moral agent is continuous with the
rest of the natural order. That is, against Rutherford, I will hope to open up ways that
the gap between rational and non-rational creatures is in fact bridgeable, and
therefore the distance between rational and non-rational creatures should not be
regarded as an exception to Leibniz’s naturalism.
1. Mind the Gap: Evidence of the Gappiness

of Leibniz’s Theory of Reason
As the discussion above notes, there is textual evidence against continuity between
humans, beings capable of reason and reflection, and the other animals, for which
I will have to account. Leibniz makes several remarks about the generation of the
rational soul that are particularly problematic for my claim that Leibniz is offering a
natural theory of mind. Here are a few representative samples:
(a) I believe that the souls that will one day be human souls, like those of other
species, have been in the seeds and in the ancestors all the way back to Adam,
and have consequently existed since the beginning of things, always in a kind
of organic body . . . But it also seems to me likely for several reasons that they
existed then only as sensitive or animal souls, endowed with perception and
sensation, and lacking reason; and that they remained in this state up until the
time of the generation of the man to whom they would belong, but that they
then received reason; whether there is a natural way of elevating a sensitive
soul to the degree of a rational soul (which I find hard to conceive), or whether
God gave reason to this soul by a particular operation, or, if you will, by a
species of transcreation. The latter is much easier to admit.⁵
(b) Experiments in our own time lead us to believe that souls, and even animals,
have always existed, although in minute size, and that generation is but a kind
⁵ G 6.153/T “Discours Preliminaire,” §91.

     
of augmentation. In this way all the difficulties connected with the generation
of souls and forms disappear. We do not deny God the right to create new
souls, however, or to give a higher degree of perfection to those already in
nature. We are rather speaking only of what is ordinary in nature without
entering into God’s particular economy with respect to human souls, which
may be privileged because they are infinitely above those of animals.⁶
(c) [I]t is possible for God may create new monads. Nevertheless, I still do not
state definitively that new monads are created by God. Indeed, I think the
contrary can be defended and that it is more probable, and that to this extent
also the preexistence of monads can be defended. In place of the absolute
creation of a rational soul, there could be defended the transcreation of a non-
rational soul into a rational soul, which would occur through the miraculous
addition of an essential degree of perfection.⁷
In these texts and others like them, Leibniz claims that human minds have a
certain privilege that follows from essential differences between minds and the souls
of animals.⁸ There are two particular concerns raised here. First, there is the question
of the generation of rational beings. Second, there is the question about the continuity
among beings. Both of these are problematic given that Leibniz says rational beings
are “infinitely above” other animals; they have an “essential degree of perfection” that
(seemingly) could not be attained by the gradual, continuous addition of other
perfections. And so the generation of rational beings would involve a significant
jump in perfection beyond whatever is already present in the spermatic form.
Similarly, given the infinite distance between rational beings and other animals,
there would be a gap in the ontological “chain of being,” unfilled and incapable of
being filled by any other beings. Both the generation of rational beings and the
infinite distance in the chain of being would violate the principle of continuity
defended in chapters 2 and 3. And although Leibniz does hedge his bets in some
texts—e.g., in (a) above, he leaves open the possibility for the natural development of
reason—these are strong textual reasons to think that the naturalizing project is
foundering on the rocks when we get to rational beings.
In the following sections, I will consider each of these problems in turn. In section
2, I will consider the problem of the generation of rational beings. In section 3, I will
look at the “chain of being” and the infinite distance between rational agents and
non-rational animals. In these two sections, I will argue that neither of these
problems requires Leibniz to give up on the naturalizing project.
2. Bridging the Gap, Stage 1: Generation

and the Transcreation of Rational Beings
In the passages quoted above, Leibniz suggests that the generation of rational beings
might involve some sort of “transcreation.” We have already encountered the
⁶ “Reflections on the Doctrine of a Single Universal Spirit,” G 6.532/L 556.

⁷ Letter to Des Bosses, April 30, 1709, G 2.371/LR 127.
⁸ For other paradigm examples, see DM §§12, 34; PNG §4; and M §§13–14, §§65ff.
 ’    
language of transcreation in connection with Leibniz’s early development of a theory

of motion in response to Descartes’s physics. The clear implication is that the
generation of rational beings would require miraculous intervention. In this section,
I want to consider whether transcreation is required (I think it is not), and in order to
do so we will first need to see how the generation of rational beings by transcreation
fits into Leibniz’s general account of generation. Once we deepen the problem, I will
then provide textual and systematic reasons for thinking that Leibniz’s considered
view is not that rational minds are transcreated at the moment of their conception.
2.1. Generation and transcreation

Before discussing the “transcreation” of rational beings, we should first say a few
words about Leibniz’s general account of the generation of animals and other living
things. Leibniz, like Malebranche, and drawing from the empirical research of
Leeuwenhoek and Malpighi, subscribed to a preformation theory of generation.⁹
Leibniz argued that there was such a significant difference between artificial
machines and the “natural machines” of organisms that there was no natural way
to construct an organism. As such, any animals or other organisms that exist must
have existed from the very beginning. Leibniz says:
Animals never having been formed naturally from an inorganic mass, mechanism is incapable
of producing these infinitely varied organs anew, though it can take them by means of
development and transformation from a preexisting organic body.¹⁰
While Descartes appears to allow for the mechanical generation of life from non-life,
Leibniz and many others in the seventeenth century regarded mere mechanics
insufficient to account for the generation of life. And yet they still sought natural
sources to account for generation. Absent a satisfying supplement to mechanics,
Leibniz argued that (a) all forms of life are already present, fully embodied in seed
form, and (b) the generation of animals is merely the unfolding and augmenting of
this latent life form, similar in kind to the transformation of a caterpillar to a
butterfly. Whatever one thinks about preformation, Leibniz commits to it on the
basis of naturalizing constraints. Since organisms, the “natural machines,” which are
infinitely complex, cannot be composed out of finite bits of matter via mechanical
principles, they must preexist in their natural seed forms until given the opportunity
to unfold and develop. In a very real sense, the present is pregnant with the future.¹¹
This is a naturalized picture given that the transformation occurs by natural pro-
cesses, needing only a dependence on the divine for the production of the initial
embodied forms of all living organisms.¹²
⁹ The argument of this section is indebted to the account of Leibniz’s theory of divine preformation in
Justin E.H. Smith, Divine Machines: Leibniz and the Sciences of Life (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 2011), chapter 5.
¹⁰ G 6.544, quoted in Smith, Divine Machines, 168.
¹¹ Smith provides the historical background in Augustine and Anaxagoras for this claim; see ibid.,
174–5.
¹² This last bit may seem particularly non-natural, and it is, although one might concede that the origin
of nature is problematic even for today’s theories.
     
Leibniz holds to a preformation theory for human beings as well, with some
qualifications. As he writes in the Principles of Nature and Grace:
There are small animals in the seeds of large ones, which, through conception, assume new
vestments that they appropriate for themselves, which give them the means to nourish themselves
and grow in order to pass to a larger stage [théatre] and to bring about the propagation of the large
animal. It is true that the souls of human spermatic animals are not rational and do not become
rational until conception settles that these animals will have a human nature.¹³
Leibniz here refers to “human spermatic animals” that preexist the human being, and
which become rational beings after conception.¹⁴ The same transformation that
occurs for all other organisms, from seed form to the “larger stage” occurs for
human beings as well. And so the souls of all human beings exist, embodied, from
the beginning of time, awaiting the moment of conception. Again, this is a natural-
ized picture given that the transformation occurs by natural processes.
However, Leibniz’s claim that the human spermatic animals “become rational”
after “conception settles that these animals will have a human nature” generates a
deep tension between Leibniz’s naturalism and his claim that rational beings are set
apart from the natural order. This is where the texts quoted in the previous section
become salient. Leibniz there describes a “transcreation” process, a process by which
one substance (a perceiving, sensate substance) is destroyed and a new, rational,
substance is recreated and put in its place. These passages suggest that the raising of a
human spermatic animal to reason is a disruption of the natural processes.
As the discussion of chapter 2 shows, although Leibniz’s account of transcreation
does allow for a kind of leap, in those earlier texts he is already heading for a model of
continuity. Leibniz allowed for a kind of “leap” over contiguous points, but not a leap
that jumps over intermediate states or points. And so this kind of a leap would not be
as problematic as it would initially seem. In those earlier texts, transcreation arose as
a way to make sense of the motion of bodies. We now need to become clear just how
transcreation is functioning in the passages about the generation of rational beings.
Transcreation might be problematic for a naturalized theory, since “to say that a thing
ceases to exist here, but begins to exist there, with the transition or intermediate state
eliminated, is the same thing as saying that it is there annihilated, there resuscitated.”¹⁵
In the earlier texts, Leibniz may not have regarded transcreation as miraculous
(although he does say it is “near enough” to a miracle). But as his theory of motion
developed into his mature theory, transcreation drops out of the picture. He mentions it
again in his discussions with De Volder in 1699. The Pacidius text is written in 1676;
Leibniz’s first written formulation of what he would call the principle of continuity is
dated 1687. In 1699, Leibniz writes to De Volder using the example of transcreation:
[S]ince all things happen by the perpetual production of God, or, as they say, by continuous
creation, why could he not have transcreated a body, so to speak, from one place to another
¹³ PNG §6.
¹⁴ For more on Leibniz’s early hesitations about the preformation of human beings, see Smith, Divine
Machines, 186–7.
¹⁵ A 6.3.567/Arthur 213–15.
 ’    
distant place, leaving behind a gap either in time or in space; producing a body at A, for
example, and then forthwith at B, etc.? Experience teaches us that this does not happen, but the
principle of order proves it too, according to which, the more we analyze things, the more they
satisfy our intellect. This is not true of leaps, for here our analysis leads us to mysteries.¹⁶
This passage is not perfectly clear about what counts as a violation of the principle of
continuity or the “principle of order.” Here he speaks of transcreation from one place
to “another distant place,” which would be the problematic leaps rejected even in the
earlier essays of 1676.¹⁷ Similarly, in a later letter to De Volder, Leibniz says:
I added the hypothesis of transcreation for the sake of illustration, speaking philosophically
and particularly like the Cartesians, who say, with some ground, that God creates all things
continuously. For them, therefore, moving a body is nothing but reproducing it in successively
different places, and it would have to be shown that this reproduction cannot take place in
leaps. Rather, this could not be shown without returning to the reason which I have proposed
for the universal law of continuity.¹⁸
Once again, this is not an unambiguous rejection of transcreation, even in the theory
of motion, since his principal claim is that “reproduction cannot take place in leaps.”
His theory seems open to reproduction that does not involve any discontinuity, and
so as with Leibniz’s earlier claims in Pacidius, he is here rejecting reproduction over a
distance, which he thinks is entailed by the Cartesian laws of motion. He is not
explicitly rejecting transcreation as such, only transcreation that involves leaps over a
distance.
Nevertheless, the examples from the De Volder correspondence suggest that
Leibniz took transcreation to entail reproduction over a distance, and in his mature
texts on physics Leibniz does not use the term transcreation to describe continuous
transitions. Transcreation has now become an identifying mark of a theory that
includes discontinuity (in contrast to some of his earlier uses of the term). And in the
passages above, Leibniz is explicit that “the transcreation of a non-rational soul into a
rational soul . . . would occur through the miraculous addition of an essential degree
of perfection.”¹⁹
Leibniz’s use of the term “transcreation” in favor of his own account of minds is
rather significant, then. Leibniz seems to be saying that minds can arise only by
means of a discontinuous change from one state (the initial state of the non-rational
sensitive soul) to the next (the resulting state of a new rational soul) without any
intermediate states being occupied. And this is a divine operation, a miracle, not a
natural generation.
The upshot of all this would be that the generation of minds does not follow the
natural order, and thus requires a miracle. But, given Leibniz’s insistence on the
principle of continuity as an architectonic principle, why does Leibniz dispense with
¹⁶ Letter to De Volder, March 24/April 3, 1699 (G 2.168/L 515–16).

¹⁷ See Jorgensen, “By Leaps and Bounds,” §1 for more discussion of the earlier texts and the rejection of
leaps over a magnitude.
¹⁸ Letter to De Volder, 1699 (G 2.193/L 521).
¹⁹ Letter to Des Bosses, April 30, 1709, G 2.371/LR 127, emphasis added.
     
it now? What is it about rational souls that prevent their properties from being
continuous with sensitive souls?
2.2. Systematic considerations against transcreation

Before looking further at the textual evidence for the transcreation of human beings
at generation, let’s consider some systematic reasons for thinking that Leibniz would
reject the possibility of discontinuity even in the generation of rational minds. In this
section, I want to present an indirect argument for this conclusion. Supposing that
Leibniz would allow for discontinuities in this case, what would follow?
...      

To state the first systematic consideration briefly, it seems that Leibniz cannot
consistently criticize occasionalism for its multiplication of miracles if he allows for
a similar multiplication of miracles in the elevation of a rational being. As discussed
in earlier chapters, Leibniz raises a sharp criticism against occasionalism on this
point:
[I]n solving problems it is not sufficient to make use of the general cause and to invoke what is
called a Deus ex machina. For when one does that without giving any other explanation derived
from the order of secondary causes, it is, properly speaking, having recourse to miracle. In
philosophy we must try to give reasons by showing how things are brought about by divine
wisdom, but in conformity with the notion of the subject in question.²⁰
The upshot of Leibniz’s criticisms against occasionalism—whether or not he is fair to
occasionalism—is that failing to account for changes somehow impugns God’s
wisdom. Suppose now that rational beings are transcreated, that God intervenes in
the natural order to elevate a spermatic animal to the level of reason. If God were to
intervene in this way, it would be a change in the created order. The spermatic animal
would have developed naturally in some other way, remaining at the level of its own
kind. Adopting Leibniz’s own strategy against the occasionalists, we could argue that
such an adjustment in order to elevate a soul to reason also impugns the wisdom of
God. Since, according to Leibniz, this is telling against the occasionalist thesis, the
same claim casts a dim shadow on the initial hypothesis. Tu quoque, Leibniz!²¹
...     ’ 

One might respond to this objection in the following way: Leibniz’s criticisms against
the occasionalists were not based on the possibility of miracles simpliciter. Leibniz
himself allowed for miracles. Rather, it was the need for perpetual miracles that
bothered Leibniz—each interaction in the created order called for yet another
²⁰ “New System,” G 4.483–4/AG 143. He raises similar objections to Newton’s theory of gravitation,
arguing that it requires appeal to “perpetual miracles.”
²¹ This argument is also recognized in Daniel C. Fouke, “Spontaneity and the Generation of Rational
Beings in Leibniz’s Theory of Biological Reproduction,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 29 (1991):
33–45, which I came across only after developing the arguments of this section. For more on Leibniz’s
criticisms of occasionalism, see Jolley, “Leibniz and Occasionalism” and Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and
Miracles: The Roots of Leibniz’s Critique of Occasionalism.”
 ’    
miracle! If we were to attribute to Leibniz the view that the generation of rational
minds requires a miracle, the number of miracles would still be limited. At current
birth rates, that’s only about 378,000 miracles per day.²² (Still a rather large number,
but not enough to require perpetual miracles!) And so, the criticism does not apply to
Leibniz in quite the same way that it does to the occasionalists.
This response does not hold water either—Leibniz’s system is vulnerable here. At
the conception of each rational substance, there would be a miracle, not only
affecting the created rational substance, but, given pre-established harmony and
the interconnection of all substances, every other substance as well. God would
have to adjust the entire universe to account for the presence of a new rational
creature. Since each monad represents the natural unfolding of the universe around
it, each monad would require a fine-tuning so that it represents a non-natural
adjustment to nature. So, rather than a mere 378,000 miracles, God would have to
adjust infinitely many substances about 378,000 times each day. It is starting to sound
a lot closer to perpetual miracles and a more radically non-natural system.
This systematic reason supports the conclusion that Leibniz would not opt for the
supernatural intervention in the elevation of rational beings. His hedging notwith-
standing, Leibniz’s fundamental naturalizing commitments run deeper.
However, there is one further way that we could acknowledge Leibniz’s right to
criticize occasionalism while still allowing for miraculous transitions in the elevation
of a soul to reason. God’s wisdom is impugned only if there is a natural way the
architect could have built the modification into the system in the first place. If there is
no way to set up the system so that it will naturally adjust for the needed changes,
then it seems that there is no defect in the architect to intervene and correct for it. So,
one possible way of allowing gaps in Leibniz’s system, consistently with his criticisms
of occasionalism, is this: Leibniz thinks, contra the system of occasional causes, that
he has found a good natural explanation for the same phenomena, namely, pre-
established harmony. So, where there is a good natural explanation, it should be
preferred. However, in the generation of rational beings, it is not clear that Leibniz
thinks that there is a good natural alternative. Absent a natural alternative, he could
allow for a miraculous intervention instead. This is consistent with how tentative he
is in his claims about the generation of rational beings.
And so, while Leibniz’s criticisms against occasionalism are telling against tran-
screation, they are not decisive. But there is textual evidence that, in conjunction with
his criticisms of occasionalism, would support the conclusion that Leibniz is not
required to allow for a non-natural transition in the generation of rational beings.
2.3. Reconciling the texts
I will now turn to some additional texts to see whether Leibniz is any clearer in
defending or rejecting the transcreation of rational beings. First, though, I want to
identify three possibilities based on Leibniz’s defense of a theory of preformation.
According to preformation theory, the embodied existence of all living beings is
²² According to the UN “World Population Prospects: The 2008 Revision Population Database,” http://
esa.un.org/unpp (accessed January 21, 2011), the 2010–15 projected birth rate is 137,920,000 births
per year.
     
already present in seed form, and has been since the beginning of time. Generation is
not the creation of a new living being; rather, generation is a mere passing onto a
“larger stage.” As Leibniz says in the Monadology:
[T]here is never total generation . . . What we call generations are developments and growths . . .
[O]rganic bodies in nature are never produced from chaos or putrefaction, but always through
seeds in which there is, no doubt, some preformation . . . Not only the organic body was already
there before conception, but there was also a soul in this body; in brief, the animal itself was there,
and through conception this animal was merely prepared for a great transformation, in order to
become an animal of another kind.²³
I will not go any further into Leibniz’s reasons for adopting a preformation theory,
but it was a contender among biologists and philosophers of the period.²⁴ What is
clear is that Leibniz believed that all animals are already fully present (body and soul)
in the spermatic animal, and that what occurs at generation is a transformation akin
to the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly. Of course, the question at issue
is whether this applies to human beings as with all other animals.
There are three possibilities with respect to the generation of human beings:
(a) all human spermatic animals have what it takes to develop (naturally) into
rational beings once conceived;
(b) some human spermatic animals have what it takes to develop (naturally) into
rational beings once conceived; or
(c) no human spermatic animals have what it takes to develop (naturally) into
rational beings once conceived.
The transcreation texts suggest (c). None of the human spermatic animals can
become rational beings naturally, and so their elevation to reason requires miracu-
lous intervention.
Justin Smith points out that Leibniz is forced to (c) and preformation theory
because he was committed “specifically to preexistence in an organically embodied
form.”²⁵ If Leibniz had regarded the rationality of humans as a function of the
ensoulment of a body, then he could have appealed to what Smith calls a “baby
heaven,” where the souls of human beings reside until the moment the fetus is ready
to be animated by a rational soul. But this is not Leibniz’s view. Leibniz is funda-
mentally committed to the embodiment of all monads, souls, and minds. And all
preformed animals already have their souls with them, as the Monadology passage
²³ M §§73–4.
²⁴ For more on the theory of preformation, see Smith, Divine Machines, chapter 5; Catherine Wilson,
The Invisible World: Early Modern Philosophy and the Invention of the Microscope (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1995), chapter 4; Peter J. Bowler, “Preformation and Pre-Existence in the
Seventeenth Century: A Brief Analysis,” Journal of the History of Biology 4, no. 2 (1971); and Catherine
Wilson, “Leibniz and the Animalcula,” in Studies in Seventeenth-Century European Philosophy, ed.
M.A. Stewart (New York: Clarendon Press, 1997). For an illuminating discussion of how seventeenth-
century embryology intersected with issues of identity and gender, see Eve Keller, “Embryonic Individuals:
The Rhetoric of Seventeenth-Century Embryology and the Construction of Early Modern Identity,”
Eighteenth-Century Studies 33 (2000).
²⁵ Smith, Divine Machines, 187.
 ’    
above says. The functions of the soul and mind harmonize with the functions of the
body, and so a rational being is essentially different—body and soul—from a non-
rational being. Smith concludes that “in order for humans to be so generated, it must
be conceded that their generation violates this ordinary course [of nature]. A high
price to pay for theological correctness.”²⁶ The problem that faces Leibniz is to
explain how rationality could arise in a natural way. But to do so would be to commit
himself to a mechanical means of developing from a non-rational to a rational being,
which might threaten theological claims of the distinctiveness of human beings.
While I do think that this might represent well Leibniz’s reasoning for favoring (c)
and for committing to the transcreation of human beings after conception, the
passages above are somewhat non-committal. A closer look at some other passages
might open up (b). In fact, I do think there is textual evidence for (b)—some human
spermatic animals have what it takes to develop (naturally) into rational beings once
conceived. Similarly, I think there is good textual evidence for the rejection of (a), the
view that all human spermatic animals have what it takes to develop (naturally) into
rational beings once conceived.
Let’s take a closer look at the texts. The first thing to note is that each of the
problematic passages quoted in the previous section is presented in a particular
theological context. Each passage derives from a text in which Leibniz has concili-
atory and irenic goals. And, importantly, in each text he presents transcreation as one
among several options. Leibniz does not give a full defense of the transcreation claim
in any of the passages, and he presents it as only “probable” or “easier to admit.” In
the absence of a clear demonstration, Leibniz will appeal to pragmatic considerations.
He adopts this same strategy for other theological views.²⁷
In his discussion of these issues with Des Bosses, Leibniz offers a hint at the
direction his own views might be developed. In their correspondence, Des Bosses
tries to understand what, specifically, Leibniz has in mind by his use of the term
“transcreation.” After some attempts at clarification, Leibniz says this:
If you think it paradoxical that a human being cannot be generated without a miracle, then the
teaching of all your schools concerning the creation of a rational soul also will be paradoxical,
and we shall have to fall back on their preexistence. For if rational souls are concealed in
spermata, such a traduction is in fact preexistence. But if you prefer this to God’s making
rational souls out of irrational ones, I certainly do not object, as I am more inclined to it.
Indeed, I have sometimes thought that there are, in fact, innumerable sensitive souls in human
spermata, just as in the spermata of all animals, but that those alone have rationality (although
it does not yet reveal itself ) whose organic bodies are destined at some time to be human, a fact
that could already be perceived in them by a sufficiently perspicuous mind. Thus, there will be
no need for transcreation.²⁸
Of course, the admission here is still tentative. In a later exchange he puts it even
more directly: “If rationality is not added miraculously to a preexisting sensitive soul,
²⁶ Ibid.
²⁷ For Leibniz’s theological pragmatism, see Robert Merrihew Adams, “Leibniz’s Examination of the
Christian Religion,” Faith and Philosophy 11 (1994).
²⁸ Leibniz to Des Bosses, September 8, 1709, G 2.389–390/LR 151, emphasis added.
     
then it follows automatically from this that it appears by virtue of a natural

evolution.”²⁹
This correspondence with Des Bosses supports (b)—the rational souls preexist in
some human spermatic animals. Indeed, here Leibniz says that he is more inclined
towards this view, and it would allow him to avoid the thesis of transcreation. Note,
though, that he does not opt for the unrestricted claim that all human spermatic
animals are rational. Rather, only those “whose organic bodies are destined at some
time to be human” would preexist as rational beings. And so Leibniz appears to be
distinguishing among preexistent forms. Some preexistent forms already contain in
their organic body—in a way “that could already be perceived in them by a suffi-
ciently perspicuous mind”—what is necessary to develop into a larger, fully rational
being. Other preexistent forms are merely “sensitive,” which is to say that their
organic bodies enable them to perceive and to sense their surroundings but do not
enable them to reason. And, while all human spermatic animals are sensitive, not all
are rational. When the rational human spermatic animals have the opportunity, they
will emerge onto the larger stage as fully human rational agents. This is a rejection of
(a) above and an endorsement of (b).
This interpretation fits with Leibniz’s description of animals more generally in
Monadology §75:
Those animals, some of which are raised by conception to the level of the larger animals, can be
called spermatic. But those of them that remain among those of their kind, that is, the majority,
are born, multiply, and are destroyed, just like the larger animals. There are but a small number
of Elect that pass onto a larger stage.
Here again, there is a difference between the majority of spermatic animals and the
“elect” that will develop into the larger animals, rational or otherwise. That is, not all
spermatic animals will develop into larger animals. Nevertheless, even the spermatic
level is dynamic and changing—generation and destruction apply even at the level of
unobservable organisms. And so the non-elect among the spermatic animals are
engaged in the processes of life, just at a level that leaves them on the small stages,
mostly unobserved. (Presumably this would require ever smaller stages of life.)
In an early text (summer 1683–winter 1684/5?), Leibniz provides an argument for
the miraculous intervention in the generation of rational beings. The argument is
worth quoting in full:
It must be said that souls are either created every day by God or that they pre-existed from the
beginning of the world having been created once, and they lay hidden in seeds until, when the
organs have been formed, the power was given to reveal themselves. It seems that it is not
sufficiently agreeable to reason to say the former about the souls of beasts and the latter about
the human soul. For if the souls of beasts are created and infused by God, everything will be full
of miracles, or special operations, which I think is not sufficiently probable. But if we suggest
that human souls are likewise created in the beginning by God to lie hidden in seeds and await
conception, we fall into another paradox, because evidently innumerable human souls may
²⁹ Leibniz to Des Bosses, May 2, 1710, G 2.403/LR 167.

 ’    
remain unused in seeds and never come to use reason. But if someone were to say that the soul
which lies hidden even in the seeds of man is irrational, and eventually is made rational when
the organs have been formed, he will be compelled to say that the irrational and rational soul
differ not in kind but by organs, which is even more intolerable. But if someone were to say that
only human souls are created at the time of conception, he makes human seeds inferior to the
seeds of beasts, for who would believe that souls are rather inside the seeds or eggs of animals,
but no souls are in humans alone? Shall we therefore say that there is in man a kind of
irrational or sensitive soul, which is in the seed, but the rational soul is infused by God upon
conception? But this is thought contrary to the definition of a certain council, and in fact there
is only one form of one body. But if, therefore, it is not to be admitted that there are two souls,
one which is the mind, the other which is sensitive, because the council has defined the rational
soul to be the form of the body, it remains that we say that the mind or rational soul is made
from the sensitive soul at the moment of the infusion by God of a new perfection by an
additional creation, or transmuted by the supernatural.³⁰
This note, written against the background of the Council of Vienne and the Fifth
Lateran Council, provides one of Leibniz’s clearest rejections of option (a) listed
above. Leibniz presents a dilemma:
1. Either souls are created daily or they are created once at the beginning of time.
2. If souls are created daily, then everything will be full of miracles, which is
improbable.
3. If souls are created once at the beginning of time, then many human souls never
come to use reason, which is equally absurd.
4. So, either way, we end up with an absurdity.
In support of 1, Leibniz argues elsewhere that substantial forms and souls, being
indivisible, cannot arise or be destroyed naturally.³¹ The support for 2 has already
been discussed, although it is interesting that Leibniz views this as a reason to reject
the daily creation of souls but does not in this text see it as a reason to reject the
miraculous elevation of a sensitive soul to the level of reason. That may raise some
questions about whether Leibniz sees this transformation as truly miraculous. But
I will put that aside for now and concentrate on 3. What reason does he have for 3?
He provides several:
3A. First, he seems simply to think that it would be ridiculous to say that so
many human souls lie unused and wasted.
3B. Second, Leibniz argues that the development of an irrational soul into a
rational soul would entail that the rational and irrational souls do not differ in kind
but only with respect to their organic structure.
³⁰ “On the Creation of Souls and the Origin of Minds,” A 6.4.1496–7/Shorter 61–2 (translation
modified). There are two other short passages on the same topic written during the same time frame:
“Souls are either Created or are Coeval with the World” (A 6.4.1494/Shorter 62) and “Difficulties
Concerning the Nature and Origin of Souls” (A 6.4.1494–5/Shorter 61–2), which the discussion of these
paragraphs will also draw on.
³¹ See “Difficulties Concerning the Nature and Origin of Souls” (A 6.4.1494/Shorter 61).
     
3C. Third, he seems to think that it would be arbitrary to say that only the souls
of humans are created at conception while the souls of other animals preexist their
generation.
3D. Fourth, if one were to say that human souls were supplemented with a
rational soul upon conception (avoiding the arbitrary distinction of 3C), then we
end up with two souls rather than one, which goes against the ecumenical councils.
These four reasons lead Leibniz to conclude that God infuses a sensitive soul with
reason “by an additional creation” upon conception. This seems to be the transcrea-
tion position, although notably Leibniz does not here describe the new creation as an
annihilation and re-creation but merely a miraculous increase in perfections. It does
not involve the absolute creation of anything new, which may be why he did not
regard it as a profusion of miracles to conclude that God intervenes at the conception
of a human being.
Leibniz’s correspondence with Des Bosses suggests that he has revised his theory
since this early note. In his response to Des Bosses, Leibniz allows that “rational souls
are concealed in spermata.” But if he allows for that, he would need to reject one of
the arguments above. Which is it?
I am inclined to think that Leibniz continued to support the argument of 3A, but
that he saw one way around it. As discussed above, in his mature philosophy Leibniz
sometimes says that the “elect,” those “destined” to become human beings are
preformed, in both body and mind, and exist in seed form prior to conception.
Other human spermatic animals have merely sensitive souls. Some might think this is
not entirely satisfying since it depends on a rather arbitrary and ad hoc distinction:
any human spermatic animal that develops into a human animal must have already
had rationality in it, while all others do not.³² Nevertheless, it does preserve the
naturalizing element of Leibniz’s philosophy. And it is consistent with Leibniz’s
claims that each substance already contains and expresses all that will ever happen
to it. That is, this claim is merely an instance of the general claim that all substances
express what they will become and their future relations with all other substances in
such a way that a sufficiently perspicuous mind (i.e., God) could tell how it will
unfold. As such, it is not all that distinctive of a claim for Leibniz. It merely restates in
genetic terms his claim that the future is already contained in the present. There is
something distinctive about the spermatic animals that will eventually become
human beings.
The upshot is that Leibniz does have the resources for a naturalized account of the
generation of rational beings that does not rely on transcreation. The preformation of
rational animals, created at the beginning of time and unfolding only at conception,
provides for an immanent development of the rational being. Its organic body is
already structured in such a way that would allow for this, and in a way that could
“already be perceived in them by a sufficiently perspicuous mind.” While it seems a
bit far-fetched to think that there is a preexisting formation of the seed prior to its
³² As Leibniz says in one of the early texts, “it does not seem very agreeable to reason to say that those
people who always retain their chastity did not have inside them the true seeds of human nature”
(A 6.4.1495/Shorter 61).
 ’    
conception that is based on the fact that it is destined to develop into a human being,
it does not undermine the naturalness of the theory. The ordinary operations of
nature account for the development of the animal.
This position is supported by the Theodicy Preface, where Leibniz says:
I admit the supernatural here only in the beginning of things, in respect of the first formation of
animals or in respect of the original constitution of pre-established harmony between the soul
and the body. Once that has come to pass, I hold that the formation of animals and the relation
between the soul and the body are something as natural now as the other most ordinary
operations of Nature.³³
And so, as I claimed at the beginning of this chapter, rationality does not force
Leibniz into an unbridgeable gap that undermines his naturalizing project. Even here,
where things get particularly difficult for Leibniz given a desire to cohere with
ecumenical creeds, he identifies a natural theory.
In response to 3B, this preformationist view maintains the difference in kind
between rational and non-rational beings, marked even in the organism itself, as he
makes clear in the correspondence with Des Bosses. It also does not establish an
arbitrary distinction between humans and other animals (3C), since Monadology §75
suggests that a similar distinction holds for all animals (with many that “remain
among those of their kind,” referring to the spermatic animals that never develop
into a larger animal). And against 3D, this solution does not require the multiplica-
tion of souls in a rational being.
But there is also evidence that Leibniz remained open to one further possibility
that would require him to reject 3B above. In another letter from Leibniz’s mature
period, addressed to Rudolph Christian Wagner on June 4, 1710 (and so just one
month following the letter to Des Bosses quoted above), Leibniz says:
[T]he souls hidden from the beginning in the little seminal animals are not rational until they
are destined to human life through conception; where all at once they are made rational and
capable of consciousness and of society with God . . . The result is that through natural laws,
because of the parallel between the reign of grace and of nature, souls are rendered more
suitable for rewards and punishments through the power of their actions.³⁴
This passage is quoted by Daniel Fouke as evidence that Leibniz favored the natural
development of rational souls.³⁵ The position advocated here seems to be that the
³³ G 6.42/T p. 66, emphasis added. Earlier in the same paragraph, Leibniz makes it clear that this applies
also to “the organization which God has demanded of the seeds.”
³⁴ G 7.531, qtd. in Daniel C. Fouke, “Spontaneity and the Generation of Rational Beings,” Journal of the
History of Philosophy 29 (1991): 36.
³⁵ Fouke goes on to provide some of the contrary evidence to this as well and concludes that Leibniz
finds himself caught between two competing conceptions of God: God as the “source of every perfection”
and God as the “perfect craftsman.” The former conception would lead to the view that the natural order is
open, since God must intervene to raise sensitive souls to the level of reason, and the latter conception
would entail that the natural order is closed, since God would foresee every contingency and create a
universe with the needed adjustments built in. I find this discussion interesting, but I am more inclined to
think that Leibniz’s equivocation here is due rather to the theological context of the discussions, as Fouke
allows that it might. See ibid., 43–4.
     
generation of rational souls results from the natural development of sensitive souls at
conception. There are some difficulties here for Leibniz, given that he has an
impoverished sense for what is involved in conception (as most did during the
seventeenth century). But it does seem that this path is open to him provided changes
in degree can result in changes in kind, as I think they do for Leibniz.³⁶
If we couple this with other passages that emphasize the continuity between
animal souls and human minds, a picture of Leibniz’s theoretical commitments
emerges more clearly. For example, the following passage from the New Essays is
problematic for the non-natural development of minds:
In nature everything happens by degrees, and nothing by jumps; and this rule about change is
one part of my law of continuity. But the beauty of nature, which insists upon perceptions,
which stand out from one another, asks for the appearance of jumps and for musical cadences
(so to speak) amongst phenomena, and takes pleasure in mingling species. Thus, although in
some other world there may be species intermediate between man and beast (depending upon
what senses these words are taken in), and although in all likelihood there are rational animals,
somewhere, which surpass us, nature has seen fit to keep these at a distance from us so that
there will be no challenge to our superiority on our own globe.³⁷
This passage, which arises in a very different context than those quoted in section 1—
a context in which Leibniz is not as concerned about demonstrating that his views
make room for a variety of theological positions—is in tension with the passages
discussed above, since it argues that there is no gap between humans and animals.
However, one might say that the two sets of texts are not entirely incompatible.
The passages that allow for discontinuity are specifically focused on the generation of
rational minds, while the passage above, emphasizing continuity, describes an onto-
logical continuity among already existing substances. So, perhaps Leibniz would
argue for continuity among substance kinds, but he could further argue that the
process of moving from one kind to the next would be a discontinuous one. There
could be ontological continuity at any given moment, while certain kinds of change in
state could still necessarily be discontinuous.
But Leibniz here characterizes his principle of continuity as a “rule about change.”
Indeed, in another passage from the New Essays, Leibniz explicitly rejects the
argument of the prior paragraph: “Any change from small to large, or vice versa,
passes through something which is, in respect of degrees as well as of parts, in
between.”³⁸ So, in the development of minds, why shouldn’t Leibniz simply say
that the intermediate species are themselves occupied in the process, and hence the
development of a soul to the level of reason would be a continuous one? I think there
is serious pressure from within Leibniz’s system to conclude exactly that.
³⁶ There is one claim in an earlier text that suggests that this sort of development would not be a change
at all: “For it is absurd to say that a human soul was made from a bestial soul, indeed it is to say nothing, for
the two souls would not be different even if they were variously changed” (A 6.4.1495/Shorter 62). The
claim seems to be that the change from sensitive soul to rational soul does not require the creation of a new
soul (and so even transcreation would not be a creation so much as a radical change). But this leaves open
the question whether such a change could result from natural processes.
³⁷ A 6.6.474/NE 474. ³⁸ A 6.6.56/NE 56.
 ’    
The passages from the New Essays attribute the principle of continuity both to the
species that exist at a time as well as all changes over time. This is further supported
by other passages in the New Essays where Leibniz argues that the embodiment of
souls solves a number of philosophical problems. He argues that changes in souls
“never are and never were anything but changes from more to less sensible, from more
perfect to less perfect, or the reverse” via a continuous series.³⁹ And in this passage, he
applies the principle of continuity to embodied minds and to the rarefied bodies of
angels, making it clear that he does not intend to restrict the scope to animal souls
and lower substances.
To summarize, the passages from the New Essays and the letter to Wagner suggest
a very different picture than the passages from more theologically driven texts like
the Theodicy or the correspondence with Des Bosses. It is clear that Leibniz is
committed to the preformation of souls in any case, but there seem to be three
options for the generation of rational souls presented in these texts. First is transcrea-
tion—God intervenes at conception to elevate a sensitive soul to the level of ration-
ality. Second, the option of preformation of rational souls, but only the preformation
of those that are destined to eventually be conceived and become full human beings.
Third, the natural development of a preformed sensitive soul to a rational soul. By my
lights, Leibniz has theological reasons to favor the first, and he has natural-scientific
reasons to favor the third. But given that he has already defended the claim that
each substance contains in it the seeds of its own development, the second option is
a way of defending the natural development of the sensitive soul into the rational
soul without it looking like there is a waste of human souls in the process. In other
words, it gives him a naturalized theory that respects certain theological boundar-
ies. And so I conclude that the texts do not require a non-naturalized reading even
of the generation of rational souls.
3. Bridging the Gap, Stage 2: The Chain of Being

and the Privilege of Minds
One objection to the natural development of reason might be that rational souls are
infinitely higher than animals, as Leibniz himself says in quotation (b) above.⁴⁰ Given
the infinite span (metaphorically speaking) that a simple substance must cross in
order to become a rational substance, we should expect that there would be a gap that
only a non-natural intervention could enable the substance to cross. But, for pretty
obvious reasons, this cannot be the right response. Leibniz recognizes that an infinite
difference does not normally require a miracle. To use one of Leibniz’s favorite
examples from geometry as a starting point, the parabola can be considered a special
case of an ellipse, an ellipse with infinitely distant foci, but this infinite difference does
not entail discontinuity. Indeed, Leibniz believes that it follows from the very natures
³⁹ A 6.6.58/NE 58, emphasis added. A similar claim is made at A 6.6.474/NE 474.

⁴⁰ See “Considérations sur la Doctrine d’un Esprit Universel Unique,” G 6.532/L 556.
     
of parabolas and ellipses. The same can be said for natural phenomena.⁴¹ So, an
infinite gap does not by itself necessitate a miracle.
However, there are still reasons to think the infinite difference is important in this
case. In PG, Leibniz says that “a small change can bring about a great effect.” But this
is in “composite things.” (His example is the small spark that falls into a large
quantity of gunpowder and destroys an entire city.) In contrast, “nothing like this
can happen in simple things . . . for otherwise nature would not be the effect of infinite
wisdom.”⁴² At the very least there is a prima facie problem with an infinite gap in the
elevation of a simple substance to the level of reason, and so Leibniz’s admission of
such a gap is evidence that he thought supernatural assistance necessary to the
generation of minds.
An alternative reason for appealing to gaps in Leibniz’s accounts of reflection and
reason is that minds are thought to be “privileged” in a way that animal souls are not.
Throughout Leibniz’s philosophical writings it is common to find this distinction—
minds are members of the kingdom of grace, animals members only of the kingdom
of nature; minds are citizens of the city of God, animals are not; minds are thought to
express God rather than the world, other creatures express the world rather than
God. There is still much more needed to unpack all of these claims, but they signal a
stark difference in status and privilege between minds and lower created substances.
But why should this privilege require a non-natural elevation? As Leibniz says in
the “New System of Nature,” “Rational souls follow much higher laws, and are
exempt from anything that might make them lose the quality of being citizens of
the society of minds.”⁴³ It seems that the difference between a mere animal and a
person is that a new set of laws applies to persons, and it would be difficult to see how
a transition that is by degrees could yield a transition in the laws themselves.
For example, many of the discussions of the origins of souls center on the question
of whether souls can arise or decay naturally. Leibniz has defended the view that souls
are not naturally generated, and as a consequence they cannot be naturally destroyed.
The only way a soul could be destroyed is by divine annihilation.⁴⁴ This, he thinks,
solves many of the problems surrounding the discussions of the generation of souls.
However, this account will not suffice as an account of the immortality of minds.
Souls, Leibniz says, are “imperishable,” but only minds perpetually preserve what
constitutes their moral personality, allowing them to enter into a continuing society
with God. While the natural states of bodies are subject to decay, once a soul has
reached the level of reason, God ensures that “no changes of matter can make them
⁴¹ See G 3.52–3/L 352. Note that the “infinite difference” between a parabola and an ellipse is with
respect to just one property of the ellipse, namely the distance between foci. There is another sense in which
there is an infinite difference, namely in there being infinitely many intermediate ellipses between any
ellipse and a parabola. But this is simply the nature of a continuous series. Leibniz does appeal to infinite
differences of the first sort to account for differences in kinds––differences in kind are limiting cases at the
infinitely large or the infinitely small––and this is the sort of infinite difference that is supposed to hold
between minds and souls. See also “Animadversiones in partem generalem Principiorum Cartesianorum”
(G 4.675–6/L 397–8).
⁴² G 3.54/L 353.
⁴³ G 4.481/AG 141. See also Leibniz’s letter to Bernoulli, January 13/23, 1699, GM 3.565/AG 171.
⁴⁴ See “New System” (G 4.479–80/AG 139–40).
 ’    
lose the moral qualities of their personhood.”⁴⁵ And so the natural imperishability
of souls does not provide a full account of immortality.
Natural laws do not guarantee the perpetuation of memory and moral agency, and
so it must be guaranteed by “higher laws.” The emphasis here is on the preservation
of minds in society with God, which is thought to require something over and above
what is guaranteed by the natural order. Hence, to develop such minds may require
supernatural aids. If there is a gap in Leibniz’s system, this is where one would expect
to find it. But I don’t think the invocation of the infinite gap in the order of being
alone requires it.
As one way to embrace the tensions in Leibniz’s system here, Lea Schweitz has
recently made a fascinating argument that shows how Leibniz’s naturalizing com-
mitments, the invocation of the infinite, and his Lutheran theology actually fit nicely
together. First, she affirms the tension. On the one hand, “human life seems to be
characterized as biological entity, no different than any other organic body or natural
machine.”⁴⁶ On the other hand, Leibniz says that humans are “divine mirrors,” that
is, “defined by a relationship to God,” which would seem to involve miraculous
intervention, setting such beings apart from the rest of nature. But, Schweitz argues,
Leibniz can have it both ways provided we understand his theory of nature against a
sacramental background. Filling out the historical and religious context will help us
to see that when Leibniz invokes the divine mirroring of rational beings, which sets
them off by an infinite distance from all other animals, he is not thereby committing
himself to a non-natural account.
The key, according to Schweitz, is to recognize the Lutheran sacramental view:
“the interplay of the finite and the infinite embeds a measure of God’s absolute
infinity within the natural order. As such, divine activity need not be intervening, and
nature’s spontaneity need not wholly exclude the divine.”⁴⁷ As mentioned earlier in
this chapter, Schweitz emphasizes Leibniz’s claim that the harmony between the
physical kingdom of nature and the moral kingdom of grace “leads things to grace
through the very paths of nature.”⁴⁸ As she argues, “the moral world that defines the
human situation arises through ‘the very paths of nature,’ and miraculous interven-
tion is unnecessary.”⁴⁹ The sacramental picture that Schweitz presents is one where
the “the finite is capable of the infinite (finitum capax infiniti),” and the activity of
God is already “immanent in finite things.”⁵⁰ This is consistent with the readings
given above of the generation of rational beings—Leibniz is looking for the ways the
infinite distance between rational and non-rational substances is already expressed in
nature, and the unfolding of nature is an unfolding of the infinite built into it from
the beginning of time. As I argued in the introduction and throughout the first parts
of this book, Leibniz is arguing for a naturalized theory of mind, but he insists that
⁴⁵ “New System” (G 4.481/AG 141). I will say more about this aspect of Leibniz’s philosophy in
chapter 11.
⁴⁶ Schweitz, “On the Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of Human Life in G.W. Leibniz,” 211.
⁴⁷ Ibid., 218.
⁴⁸ M §88, emphasis added. Quoted in Schweitz, “On the Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of
Human Life in G.W. Leibniz,” 219.
⁴⁹ Ibid. ⁵⁰ Ibid., 214.
     
this naturalizing thesis is grounded in the infinite wisdom and power of God. It is
both natural and sacred, depending on whether one is focused on the immanent
development of finite individuals (the natural) or on the beauty of the whole (the
sacred). For his philosophy of mind, Leibniz has repeatedly emphasized the imma-
nent development of finite individuals, and I do think that he has ways of spelling this
out (at least in outline) for rational beings. But if we shift our focus to the relationship
between rational beings and the divine, as Leibniz often does, then we recognize a
different kind of order, an order of citizenship in a kingdom. But the sacramental
picture is that the kingdom of minds is fully a part of nature and not distinct from it.
Divine wisdom demands that individual minds come to grace “through the very
paths of nature.”
4. Conclusion
What I have tried to show is that such a natural explanation is available to Leibniz,
and there is good reason to attribute this view to him. But perhaps Leibniz had other
reasons for straddling the fence. Perhaps he thought that the natural explanation
would not do the work it needs to do in order to establish the “privilege” of moral
agents. Does it provide access to necessary truths? Does it allow us to represent
ourselves and God rather than the world? Does it put us in moral society with the
divine? These are difficult questions, which will be the foci of the final two chapters.
11
Moral Identity and the Appearance
of the Self
[T]he intelligent soul, knowing what it is—having the ability to utter the word
“I,” a word so full of meaning—does not merely retain and subsist metaphysically,
which it does to a greater degree than the others, but also remains the same morally
and constitutes the same person.¹
Leibniz characterizes the essential difference between non-rational animals and

human beings in two ways. First, he says that human beings have “perception joined
with reason,” which enables human beings to know necessary truths. Secondly, he
says that human beings have “the ability to utter the word ‘I,’ ” which grounds a moral
identity, allowing human beings a distinctive relationship with the divine and making
human beings proper objects of punishment and reward.² These two claims are
closely linked. In a 1702 letter to Sophie Charlotte, Leibniz says that it is “the
consideration of myself that provides me with . . . notions of metaphysics . . . and
even those of logic and ethics.”³ That is, self-reflection and self-knowledge grounds
moral identity and enables the function of reason.
Leibniz thinks that this ability of self-knowledge is ennobling: the nature of minds
is “so noble that it brings them as near to divinity as it is possible for simple
creatures”⁴ and “each mind [is] like a little divinity in its own realm.”⁵ The City of
God is populated with just these images—the resemblance of minds to God enables
them to enter into society with God, and it is in this civic relation to minds that “God
has goodness, properly speaking, whereas his wisdom and power are evident every-
where.”⁶ The moral qualities of human beings depend on their resemblance to God
and their relation to him as subject to monarch. Metaphysically speaking, the criteria
for the identity of each substance must sufficiently distinguish it from God and from
all other substances. But morally speaking, mere persistence of substance must be
supplemented with an ability to own one’s actions as a responsible agent of justice.
¹ DM §34 (A 6.4.1584/AG 65).

² These claims are made throughout Leibniz’s writings, but for three examples, see PNG §5, M §§29–30,
and “On the Souls of Men and Beasts” (G 7.330–2/Shorter 66–7).
³ G 6.502/AG 188. See also M §30. ⁴ DM §36.
⁵ M §83. For more references to passages in which Leibniz describes minds as little gods, see Brown,
“Leibniz’s Moral Philosophy.”
⁶ M §86.
        
Metaphysical identity provides a basis for the persisting identity of a self, while the
moral identity enables a rational creature to be subject to evaluation on the standards
of justice.
In this chapter, I want to consider Leibniz’s theory of moral identity. (In the next
chapter, I will connect this account of self-knowledge with the function of reason in
human beings.) Others have analyzed the necessary and sufficient conditions for
moral identity and its persistence over time.⁷ In this chapter, I would like to focus on
the aspects of moral identity that connect with Leibniz’s theory of consciousness and
reflection. In the New Essays, Leibniz says that
consciousness [consciosité] or the sense of I proves moral or personal identity . . . [Both animals
and humans] preserve a real, physical identity; but it is consonant with the rules of divine
providence that in man’s case the soul should also retain a moral identity which is apparent to
us ourselves, so as to constitute the same person, which is therefore sensitive to punishments
and rewards.⁸
Rather than focusing on the conditions of identity over time, I intend to focus on this
appearance. What, exactly, is the content of the appearance and how does it occur?
I will argue that the internal appearance of moral identity consists in the action of a
substance on itself.
In the first section of this chapter, I will distinguish moral identity from other sorts
of identity one will find in Leibniz’s writings. I will follow this in the second section of
this chapter with an argument for the necessity of the appearance of moral identity to
moral identity itself. Finally, in section 3, I will outline what I take to be the content of
the appearance that Leibniz describes as an appearance of moral identity.
1. Moral Identity
Leibniz clearly distinguishes “moral identity” from what he calls “real, physical
identity.” While he uses this distinction to address Locke’s claim that personal
identity could persist independently from the identity of the underlying substance,
Leibniz introduces the distinction well before his engagement with Locke’s philoso-
phy. Unlike Locke, Leibniz argues that moral identity presupposes the identity of
substances, at least in the order of nature. This last qualification is part of Leibniz’s
larger project of providing a fully natural theory, and so while there may be logical
possibilities in the neighborhood, Leibniz is narrowing in on what is available to him
⁷ See, for example, Marc Bobro, “Is Leibniz’s Theory of Personal Identity Coherent?,” The Leibniz
Review 9 (1999); Marc Bobro, Self and Substance in Leibniz (New York: Kluwer Academic Publishers,
2004); Edwin Curley, “Leibniz and Locke on Personal Identity,” in Leibniz: Critical and Interpretive Essays,
ed. Michael Hooker (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); Samuel Scheffler, “Leibniz
on Personal Identity and Moral Identity,” Studia Leibnitiana 8 (1976); Udo Thiel, The Early Modern
Subject, 280–301; Ezio Vailati, “Leibniz’s Theory of Personal Identity in the New Essays,” Studia
Leibnitiana 17 (1985); and Margaret Dauler Wilson, “Leibniz: Self-Consciousness and Immortality in
the Paris Notes and After,” in Ideas and Mechanism: Essays on Early Modern Philosophy (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1999).
⁸ A 6.6.236/NE 236, last emphasis mine.
 ’    
if he restricted himself to a fully natural account.⁹ This is of obvious interest to my

project in this book. Leibniz’s responses to Locke are grounded in a natural order,
which would require the underlying real identity of substances. The reasons for this
are clear by this point—any gap in the underlying basis of a moral identity would be
unnatural.
Moral identity, for Leibniz, is unique to persons, to those beings (including God)
who have “moral qualities” and can be held responsible for their actions. Other
substances, however, have this in common with persons: the persistence conditions
of the substance are the same. There is an underlying metaphysical identity that
ensures the continuation of the substance over time.
I will not spend much time on metaphysical identity, since earlier chapters
discussed Leibniz’s theory of substance.¹⁰ It is clear that Leibniz’s response to Spinoza
and Malebranche is to develop a theory of substance that attempts to base the identity
of the substance on the nature of the substance, its internal qualities and laws. The
Complete Concept Theory of Substance and the Predicate in Subject Principle are
perhaps the best expressions of this theory. “Every true predication has some basis in
the nature of things” (DM §8), and each individual substance contains in its nature
all that can be truly predicated of it (past, present, or future). Additionally, no
individual substance can naturally come into being or perish, and so the natural
unfolding of the substance will entail its continued existence over time.
Although the universe is full of substances of this sort, there are some that emerge
from the crowd and deserve special attention. First, there are those creatures that are
endowed with sensation and memory. Second, there are those who, along with
sensation and memory are further able to reason and know the necessary truths:¹¹
[T]here is an immense difference between the perception of men and beasts. For besides the
lowest degree of perception that is found even in the stupefied (as has been explained), and a
middle degree which we call sensation and recognize in beasts, there is a higher degree which
we call thought. But thought is perception joined with reason, which beasts, so far as we can
tell, do not have.¹²
Moral identity applies only to substances that have “perception joined with reason.”
In §34 of DM, Leibniz summarizes the difference between animals and humans. Of
animals, he says “no substance perishes, although it can become completely differ-
ent.” He goes on to say that:
The principal difference is that they do not know what they are nor what they do, and
consequently, since they do not reflect on themselves, they cannot discover necessary
and universal truths. As a result, though they may pass through a thousand transformations,
⁹ For discussion of the logical vs. natural possibilities here, see especially Scheffler, “Leibniz on
Personal Identity and Moral Identity,” and Wilson, “Self-Consciousness and Immortality in the Paris
Notes and After.”
¹⁰ But for further information on this point see Di Bella, The Science of the Individual; Cover and
O’Leary-Hawthorne, Substance and Individuation in Leibniz; and Laurence B. McCullough, Leibniz on
Individuals and Individuation (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1996).
¹¹ For summary versions of these claims, see PNG §§4–5 and M §§25–30.
¹² G 7.330–1/Shorter 66.
        
like those we see when a caterpillar changes into a butterfly, yet from the moral or practical
point of view, the result is as if they had perished.
Leibniz returns to this claim often—just as substances cannot come into being
naturally, as we saw in the previous chapter, substances naturally survive the death
of the organism, and so there is no need to appeal to a miracle to preserve a certain
kind of life after death. However, Leibniz points out that this is not the same thing as
immortality—it is a mere continuation of existence. In contrast:
[T]he intelligent soul, knowing what it is—having the ability to utter the word “I,” a word so
full of meaning—does not merely remain and subsist metaphysically, which it does to a greater
degree than others, but also remains the same morally and constitutes the same person. For it is
memory or the knowledge of the self that renders it capable of punishment or reward.
The survival of a person after death is different than the mere survival of the
substance. Persons maintain a moral identity.
These passages from DM suggest at least three levels of identity conditions. All
substances naturally persist indefinitely. This is metaphysical identity. However, here
he says that some “subsist metaphysically . . . to a greater degree than others.” How
could metaphysical identity come in degrees? I think on the initial sense of meta-
physical identity, the persistence of a substance over time, metaphysical identity does
not come in degrees. But here Leibniz is introducing a second notion, one that
depends more on qualitative similarities, on analogy with the caterpillar and the
butterfly. Animals persist until their death, at which point the underlying substances
persist but become significantly qualitatively dissimilar to their animal stages. “Thus,
not only souls,” says Leibniz, “but also animals cannot be generated and cannot
perish. They are only unfolded, enfolded, reclothed, unclothed, and transformed”
(PNG §6). And so, we can say that the animal has died without committing ourselves
to the annihilation of a substance. Thus the intermediate sense of identity is of a
qualitative identity over time, a condition a substance need not maintain in order to
persist as the same substance over time.
An important qualification is needed here: Leibniz describes the identity of the
substance in terms of the connection and continuity of perceptions as well as
the underlying laws governing the series of perceptions. These would certainly
provide for a kind of qualitative similarity over time. The qualitative similarity he
seems to have in mind with respect to animals is of the continuation of a particularly
significant degree.¹³ A butterfly is significantly different from a caterpillar, even
though there is an underlying continuity between them. If s₁ is a caterpillar and s₂
is a butterfly, we certainly cannot say that s₂ is the same caterpillar as s₁, since it is
clearly no longer a caterpillar. However, if what appears in s₂ is the natural unfolding
of the essence of s₁, then we can still say that s₂ is the same substance as s₁. And so we
¹³ Leibniz refers to van Helmont’s views that each substance maintains its species designation, regard-
less of the folding/unfolding (A 6.6.233/NE 233). It is not clear to me whether Leibniz intends to endorse
this conclusion. If so, then the death of an animal soul does not necessarily mean the loss of the animal. But
if not, then souls may change species in the process of death and regeneration.
 ’    
can characterize two kinds of identity in the following way (this is intended as a
rough characterization; refinements are certainly possible):
Substantial Identity: s₂ is the same substance as s₁ iff s₂ is the natural unfolding of
the essence of s₁.¹⁴
Animal Identity: s₂ is the same animal as s₁ (a) to the extent that s₂ retains a
continuity of s₁’s organic properties and organization, and (b) only if s₂ is
substantially identical to s₁.
The animal identity is clearly a matter of degree—small transformations would
typically preserve the identity of the animal, while massive transitions, such as
those that occur at death, would result in the loss of the animal. Even though there
is an underlying substantial continuity between its life as an animal and its new
existence as something else, the animal is no longer the same animal. The generation
and death of animals is analogous to the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a
butterfly.¹⁵
Things are different for rational substances, however. In addition to the animal
qualities that minds have, they also have moral qualities. And, according to Leibniz,
once a substance acquires such moral qualities, it cannot lose them! (The “cannot”
here is to be understood within the order of nature. It is certainly logically possible
that a mind lose all of its moral qualities.) Minds, Leibniz says, “subsist metaphys-
ically to a greater degree than others,” and I take this to be a reference to the fact that,
according to Leibniz, once a substance attains its moral status, it cannot be lost. Thus,
we might add a third identity, as a first pass:
Moral Identity: s₂ is the same moral being as s₁ iff (a) s₂ is substantially identical
to s₁, and (b) s₂ retains the moral qualities of s₁.
A couple of notes on this formula: First, it is controversial whether moral identity
requires the identity of substance, as I have stated it here.¹⁶ But, it is less controversial
that Leibniz thinks this is the case in the order of nature.¹⁷ So, for the moment, let us
limit ourselves to hypothetical necessities given God’s selection of a particular natural
order. Second, the formulation is intentionally vague about just what the moral
qualities are, since I hope to say more about that question in the following sections.¹⁸
¹⁴ I state this in a general way to avoid worries about how the continuity of perceptions and the laws
governing the perceptions is supposed to ground identity.
¹⁵ There is a related concern here about species identity, which, for Leibniz, is determined by parentage
but manifested by a certain set of unique functions. See Smith, Divine Machines, chapter 7.
¹⁶ For arguments that it does not, see Scheffler, “Leibniz on Personal Identity and Moral Identity.”
¹⁷ As Leibniz says in the New Essays,
You seem to hold, sir, that this apparent identity could be preserved in the absence of any
real identity. Perhaps that could happen through God’s absolute power; but I should have
thought that, according to the order of things, an identity which is apparent to the person
concerned—one who senses himself to be the same—presupposes a real identity obtaining
through each intermediate transition accompanied by reflection, or by the sense of I;
because an intimate and intermediate perception cannot be mistaken in the natural course
of things. (A 6.6.236/NE 236, emphasis added)
¹⁸ One further note: there is an interesting connection with Leibniz’s preformation theory here. If, as
argued in chapter 10, Leibniz could have allowed for human spermatic animals that already have
        
What I think this formulation enables us to see is why Leibniz says that minds are
able to “know what they are.” Even when Leibniz refers to memory in his account of
moral identity, it is an odd sort of memory: it is a “memory of what one has been.”
This is a strange way to put it—how many of us think of ourselves in those terms:
“Ah, yes, I remember what I was yesterday!” No. We are rather more likely to
say, “Ah, yes, I remember what I did yesterday!” But Leibniz’s account of moral
identity is supposed to give minds access to a certain kind of status. This is made
explicit in a passage in the Paris notes:
In our mind there is perception or sense of itself, as of a certain particular thing. This is always
in us, for as often as we use a word, we recognize that immediately. As often as we wish, we
recognize that we perceive our thoughts; that is we recognize that we thought a short time ago.
Therefore intellectual memory consists in this: now what we have perceived, but that we have
perceived—that we are those who have sensed.”¹⁹
Minds are able to recognize themselves as a certain kind of thing, as moral agents,
capable of entering into society with God. And, as we shall see, it is more than a
recognition of oneself as a moral agent—one is also able to recognize oneself as the
same moral agent.²⁰ And it is this recognition (or perhaps this capacity to recognize
oneself in this way) from which the moral identity arises.
2. Moral Identity: Appearance and Reality

But just how necessary is the appearance of a moral identity to the moral identity
itself ? In this section I will argue that the appearance of moral identity is necessary
for moral identity itself and for morally responsible action. That is, one’s moral
identity is not something one could be unaware of (although one could certainly be
confused about it), and, given one’s awareness, the standards of a certain kind of
justice will apply.
Given certain texts, especially in the New Essays, it seems that the appearance of
moral identity is not so important. For example, in Leibniz’s response to Locke’s
theory of personal identity, Leibniz considers the case of a loss of memory:
[I]f an illness had interrupted the continuity of my bond of consciousness, so that I did not
know how I had arrived at my present state even though I could remember things further back,
the testimony of others could fill in the gap in my recollection.²¹
rationality in seed form, then it might be thought that the moral identity could extend prior to birth as well
as beyond death. (On the transcreation model, the moral identity is clearly unavailable until after the seed
has been elevated to the level of reason.) However, as I will argue below, the appearance of moral identity is
a necessary condition, and so even if some seed form of rationality were preexistent, it would not be
accompanied by the kind of consciousness necessary to moral identity. And so, moral identity arises along
with consciousness.
¹⁹ A 6.3.509/DSR 59–61. ²⁰ See, for example, Leibniz’s example of the King of China in DM §34.
²¹ A 6.6.236/NE 236.
 ’    
Leibniz’s account avoids the strong implication of Locke’s theory that one must
remember all of one’s actions in order for those actions to be included in the
individual’s history, to be a part of the same person. But Leibniz goes even further:
And if I forgot my whole past, and needed to have myself taught all over again, even my name
and how to read and write, I could still learn from others about my life during my preceding
state; and . . . I would have retained my rights without having to be divided into two persons
and made to inherit from myself. All this is enough to maintain the moral identity which makes
the same person.²²
Note the force of Leibniz’s claim: the external reports are enough to maintain one’s
moral identity; it may not be enough to make the identity appear. That is, the
appearance of moral identity may not be necessary for moral identity. I can be
punished or rewarded without the appearance of moral identity, provided that the
action (which I have since forgotten) was voluntary.²³
However, while Leibniz avoids Locke’s strong claim that all of one’s memories
must be retained, he does not eliminate the condition altogether. There is a reading of
these passages that reinstates the appearance condition: it is necessary that a moral
identity appear to me now, which can be connected by external reports to my actions
at another time. For example, imagine the case of total amnesia. Suppose I have
lost all previous memories plus many dispositions that form my personality (e.g., the
ability to read and write, the knowledge of my name, perhaps even temperaments
and personality traits that have commonly been associated with me). It would do no
good to try to educate me on my past if I didn’t have some sense of moral identity
now. And so a necessary condition on the external reports having any bearing on me
is that my present moral identity appear to me. On this reading, the appearance of a
moral identity is a minimal but necessary condition, providing a starting point that
can be filled in by external reports.
Even on judgment day, the external reports will suffice: “I doubt that man’s
memory will have to be raised up on the day of judgment so that he can remember
everything which he had forgotten, and that the knowledge of others, and especially
of that just Judge who is never deceived will not suffice.”²⁴ But, again, a minimal
condition for standing for judgment is that one have some sense of one’s moral
identity at the time of judgment. The appearance of moral identity need not extend
any further than that in order to be held responsible for the things one has done.
Leibniz considers the possibility of such an extensive delusion, both of oneself and
of all others:
One could invent the fiction . . . that a man on the day of judgment believed himself to have
been wicked and that this also appeared true to all other created spirits who were in a position
to offer a judgment on the matter, even though it was not the truth. Dare one say that the
²² A 6.6.236–7/NE 236–7.
²³ For the voluntariness condition, see the distinction between actions done while sleepwalking vs. the
actions done while drunk, A 6.6.243/NE 243.
²⁴ A 6.6.243/NE 243.
        
supreme and just Judge, who alone knew differently, could damn this person and judge
contrary to his knowledge?²⁵
God will judge according to his knowledge of what a person has done rather than
according to the sense of self that the person has.
And so, Leibniz acknowledges the possibility of extensive error in one’s self-
conception. Nevertheless, at the moment, there is no room for error, since “a present
or immediate memory, the memory of what was taking place immediately before . . .
cannot naturally deceive us.”²⁶ Thus, the momentary appearance of moral identity
appears to be secure. Of course, there are moments of deep sleep, hallucination, illness,
etc., during which one may not even have a momentary appearance of one’s moral
identity. But that seems appropriate. We do not arrest someone in a coma for a crime
they did while awake—we wait until they wake up. One may be held responsible for
one’s actions only if one has at least a present and momentary appearance of moral
identity, which is not liable to error.
I should add, however, that although Leibniz acknowledges the possibility of
extensive error in the appearance of moral identity, he does think that in the order
of nature there will be a strong correlation between the appearance of moral identity
and the reality. While “the existence of real personal identity is proved with as much
certainty as any matter of fact can be, by present and immediate reflection; it is
proved conclusively enough for ordinary purposes by memories across intervals and
by the concurring testimony of other people.”²⁷ And later Leibniz reinforces this:
[A]lthough [moral identity and memory] cannot always indicate a person’s physical identity
either to the person in question or to his acquaintances, they never run counter to physical
identity and are never totally divorced from it . . . [T]here are always created spirits who know
or can know the truth of the matter, and . . . there is reason to think that things which make no
difference from the point of view of the persons themselves will do so only temporarily.²⁸
The position of the individual in a whole network of individuals has a particular
advantage here. While this seems somewhat optimistic (why should we expect there
to be a witness for every crime?), I think Leibniz has in mind here only an ultimate
sense of responsibility.
To summarize: the appearance of moral identity is necessary for moral identity
itself, since the appearance is characteristic of moral agents. The immediate and
present memory just is “consciousness or the sense of I,”²⁹ and this is what enables us
to become morally responsible agents. Why? Well, without going too far into
Leibniz’s moral theory, we can briefly outline it in the following way: Leibniz thinks
that reflection is necessary for intelligence and rationality. And there is “freedom only
in those that are intelligent.”³⁰ Free actions are the sorts of actions that can be held to
standards of justice.³¹
²⁵ A 6.6.243–4/NE 243–4.
²⁶ A 6.6.238/NE 238. See also A 6.6.236/NE 236, where Leibniz says that “an intimate and immediate
perception cannot be mistaken in the natural course of things.”
²⁷ A 6.6.237/NE 237. ²⁸ A 6.6.247/NE 247. ²⁹ A 6.6.236/NE 236. ³⁰ T §65.
³¹ Which is not to say that non-free acts cannot be punished or rewarded. See T §§68–72. But for the
specific kind of justice that applies to God, only free and intelligent creatures can be held responsible (T §73).
 ’    
Although the appearance of moral identity is liable to error, it is certain in the

moment and Leibniz is confident that it will not ultimately be wholly separated from
the truth. But, even in those occasions in which there is a separation of the appear-
ance from the reality, Leibniz says that “The ‘self ’ makes real physical identity, and
the appearance of the self, when accompanied by the truth, adds to it personal
identity.”³² Given the possibility of the error of memory over time, this discussion
will focus on the present and immediate case—how moral identity appears at a
particular moment rather than how it might connect with the total history of the
individual.
3. The Appearance of Moral Identity: Content

Turning now to the content of the appearance of the moral identity, let us remind
ourselves of the New Essays formulation: “consciousness [consciosité] or the sense of I
proves moral or personal identity,”³³ and, later he reformulates this as “the present or
immediate memory [souvenir], the memory of what was taking place immediately
before—or in other words, the consciousness [conscience] or reflection which accom-
panies inner activity.”³⁴
With these passages in mind, I would like to see whether we can fill in more fully
the intentional content of the appearance of the self. While Leibniz focuses on
immediate memory here, the clear focus is on the reflective consciousness that is
unique to humans. This is what gives us the “sense of I.”
First, it should be obvious from the argument of section 2 that the content of the
moral identity is not the memory of one’s personal history. Memory may be wildly
inaccurate, and yet Leibniz thinks that we can have an appearance of our moral
identity that is without error.
Second, the content of the appearance of moral identity is not the distinct
conception of oneself. Antoine Arnauld, at any rate, thought that this was all that
was needed: “I find in myself the concept of an individual nature, since I find there
the concept of myself. I have only to consult it, therefore, to know what is contained
in it.”³⁵ And, indeed, Leibniz does say that we are “innate to ourselves”³⁶ in a way that
would suggest just this sort of introspection. But, for obvious reasons, Arnauld’s
distinct conception requirement will not work for Leibniz. Leibniz responds, “It is
not enough for understanding the nature of myself, that I feel myself to be a thinking
substance, one would have to form a distinct idea of what distinguishes me from all
other possible minds; but of that I have only a confused experience.”³⁷ The distinct
self-conception that Arnauld proposes is out of reach since our experience of
ourselves is always, to some degree, confused.
Well, then, will a confused knowledge of ourselves provide the moral identity that
Leibniz thinks that humans have (or are capable of having)? Animals, presumably,
have a confused representation of themselves,³⁸ but they lack something that humans
³² A 6.6.237/NE 237, emphasis added. ³³ A 6.6.236/NE 236. ³⁴ A 6.6.238/NE 238.

³⁵ Letter from Arnauld to Leibniz, May 13, 1686 (A 2.2.37/LA 32). ³⁶ A 6.6.51/NE 51.
³⁷ Letter from Leibniz to Arnauld, July 4/14, 1686 (A 2.2.75/LA 59).
³⁸ This may be controversial, but I am prepared to defend it.
        
have. As Leibniz puts it in DM §34, animals “lack reflection about themselves” and
because of this “they have no moral qualities.” In contrast, “the intelligent soul,
knowing what it is—having the ability to utter the word, ‘I,’ a word so full of
meaning—does not merely remain and subsist metaphysically, which it does . . . but
also remains the same morally and constitutes the same person.”³⁹ So, at a minimum
the confused self-awareness that a human has is a “reflection about themselves,” and
enables a particular kind of ability, the “ability to utter the word ‘I.’ ”
Although the appearance of the self is not constituted by memories of our history,
Leibniz does say that it is constituted by a “present and immediate memory,” the
“memory of what was taking place immediately before.”⁴⁰ We might be able to connect
memory with moral identity if we give close attention to what Leibniz means by
memory in these contexts, and this will help complete the account of memory started
in chapter 8. As we have already seen, the object of memory in Leibniz’s discussions of
moral identity is somewhat strange. In DM §34, Leibniz describes it as a “memory of
what one has been.” And in a letter to Arnauld, Leibniz says:
[S]ince minds must keep their personality and moral qualities in order that the city of God lose
no one, it is necessary for them to preserve in particular a kind of recollection [reminiscence],
consciousness or power to know what they are, upon which depends the whole of their
morality, penalties and punishments, and it is consequently necessary that they be free from
those upheavals in the universe which would make them totally unrecognizable to themselves,
and would turn them, morally speaking, into another person.⁴¹
Here Leibniz equates the “kind of recollection” appropriate to moral identity with
consciousness and the “power to know what they are.” That is, it is a power that
enables individuals to recognize themselves as a particular kind of agent. And this,
I think, corresponds to what Leibniz calls the “immediate memory,” which Leibniz
also identifies with consciousness and reflection.⁴²
Thus, Leibniz is not arguing that humans must maintain a chain of memories that
enables a Lockean-style personal identity. Rather, he is arguing that minds possess a
certain kind of ability that operates immediately and in the moment. This ability
Leibniz calls a kind of memory, and he equates it with human consciousness and with
reflection. And so self-reflection seems to be the key to moral identity. It provides a
kind of owner’s stamp on one’s experience, recognizing experiences as one’s own.
Reflective self-consciousness, then, forms the basis for the moral qualities that
Leibniz believes forms the foundation for moral identity. But so far we have only
narrowed in on the ability which grounds moral identity. What, then, is the content of
the perception that results from this ability? That is, what is the (minimal) content
of the appearance of the self ?
³⁹ DM §34.
⁴⁰ Samuel Scheffler sums up the difference between animals and humans in the following way: “human
souls are distinguished from animals and rendered liable to moral responsibility by their possession of memory
in combination with self-consciousness” (“Leibniz on Personal Identity and Moral Identity,” 227). I think this
is not sufficiently precise, since, as I argued in the previous section, memory is not necessary to moral identity.
But if we focus instead on this particular species of memory, then I think the statement will stand.
⁴¹ A 2.2.258/LA 160, emphasis added. ⁴² A 6.6.238/NE 238.
 ’    
In a 1702 letter to Queen Sophie Charlotte, Leibniz provides some help:

To think of some color and to consider that one thinks of it are two very different thoughts, just
as much as color itself differs from the “I” who thinks of it. And since I conceive that other
beings can also have the right to say “I,” or that it can be said for them, it is through this that
I conceive what is called substance in general. It is also the consideration of myself that
provides me with other notions of metaphysics, such as cause, effect, action, similarity, etc.,
and even those of logic and ethics. Thus it can be said that there is nothing in the understanding
that did not come from the senses, except the understanding itself, or that which
understands.⁴³
Leibniz clearly distinguishes the intentional content of the perception of the

color yellow and the perception of myself when I think that I am perceiving
the color yellow.
We might model reflective self-consciousness on what is going on in the normal
case of consciousness, for example, of my awareness that there is a tree about 50 feet
from where I am sitting. In the normal case, the internal perceptions are unified in
such a way that they form a distinct perception of the tree.
This unifying activity can be understood on two levels: (a) as an activity of my
perceptual organs bringing together and concentrating the effects of the surround-
ings on the organs, and (b) as an activity of the mind, which, according to Leibniz,
runs in parallel with the activities of the body, concentrating the petites perceptions of
the tree into a perceptual whole.⁴⁴ In this case, we can say that the individual
substance is acting on the tree, in at least some small measure, as it combines the
effects of the tree into a distinct perception of the tree. (Compare the activity of the
individual who has no visual abilities—since there is no activity of that individual
on the effects of the tree, there is also no corresponding distinct visual perception
of the tree.)
Now, in the case of reflection, the activity is self-directed or directed towards what
is in us rather than towards external things.⁴⁵ In our awareness of external things,
there is an internal process of unifying petites perceptions into a distinct whole that,
when forceful enough, becomes conscious. And on analogy with this we might say
that in reflective self-consciousness the individual substance is unifying certain
activities that are proper to it into a perceptual whole, which, when it is sufficiently
strong, forms a distinct perception of itself.
In the perception of the color yellow, then, the substance is active in combining
certain features of the external world into a perception that will stand out from the
others, and as a result the substance senses yellow:
S₁ → (yellow)
In this diagram: S₁ is the substance itself, and the parentheses surround the content of
its sensation. This content can be analyzed further, according to Leibniz, but in this
case “yellow” represents the phenomenal content of the perception.
⁴³ G 6.502/AG 188, letter to Queen Sophie Charlotte, 1702.

⁴⁴ Building on the account of distinctness and activity in chapter 6.
⁴⁵ See A 6.4.1490–1, A 6.6.51/NE 51, and DM §27.
        
Minds, intelligent substances, are capable of a further operation on the self:

S₂ → (S₁ → (yellow))
In this diagram: S₂ represents a slight temporal remove from S₁—how slight, I don’t
know; Leibniz characterizes it as “immediate,” so it would, in his parlance, be smaller
than any given difference. What has happened here is that the substance has a
characteristic activity, call it reflective consciousness, which enables it to operate on
itself, bringing features of itself to its own notice. Thus, the intentional content of the
appearance here is of a substance perceiving the color yellow.
We can refine this a bit further. In his letter to Sophie Charlotte, Leibniz includes
both the understanding itself and that which understands, but he himself recognizes
that the content of each thought differs. Maria Rosa Antognazza has pointed this out
in her discussion of Leibniz’s writings on the Trinity. As a model of the Trinity,
Leibniz notes that the mind’s reflection on itself is a good analogy for three distinct
persons in one substance, since in the mind there is a difference between “the person
perceiving and the person perceived.”⁴⁶ Leibniz explains:
[T]he way in which different persons can be observed in a thing one in number is nowhere
better illustrated, as far as I know, than by the Mind understanding itself. It is in fact clear that
there is a certain distinction between that which understands and that which is understood,
one of which has the power of perceiving, the other the power of manifesting. Either of the two
is the same mind one in number; and nevertheless it cannot wholly and in every respect be said
that one is the other, since they are correlated entities.⁴⁷
Elsewhere, Leibniz emphasizes this:
The person who understands and the person who is understood are, in a certain way, certainly
two; although in a certain other way they are one and the same. They are in fact one and the
same by hypothesis. It is in fact supposed that the mind understands itself. They are neverthe-
less two for the very fact that the two between which there is a certain relation are in a certain
manner different.⁴⁸
When Leibniz says in his letter to Sophie Charlotte that the content of thought
when we think of ourselves is “the understanding itself, or that which under-
stands,” we must read it against this background where Leibniz has very clearly
drawn a relation between that which understands and the act of understanding. Of
course, the relation is an identity relation, they are one and the same thing, but the
content differs. They bear a certain relation to each other that must have its basis in
the way in which they are represented. And so the object of thought when we think
of ourselves is not as “that which understands.” Rather, it is “that which is being
understood.” We have a representation of the person qua something understood
and we hypothesize that this is the same individual as that which is actively
⁴⁶ Maria Rosa Antognazza, Leibniz on the Trinity and the Incarnation: Reason and Revelation in the
Seventeenth Century, trans. Gerald Parks (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 80.
⁴⁷ Antognazza, Leibniz on the Trinity and the Incarnation, 80.
⁴⁸ Antognazza, Leibniz on the Trinity and the Incarnation, 80, emphasis added.
 ’    
understanding. Once again, the perception of the self as “that which understands”
is not direct. Indeed, it cannot be.⁴⁹
But the appearance of the operation of the intellect does seem to allow for what
Leibniz includes in the appearance of a moral identity. Indeed, it is the only thing, as
far as I can see, that will allow Leibniz to distinguish human capacities from animal
capacities. For if we relied on the contents of perceptions, then (formally speaking)
there is nothing that would distinguish humans from the other animals—all of the
arguments Leibniz gives for the presence of an idea of the self or the ideas of
necessary truths apply equally well to all other substances. For example, given the
structure of Leibniz’s theory of expression, all substances must represent themselves,
even if not all substances are able to become aware of themselves. Likewise, Leibniz’s
arguments that minds express God (arguments based on (a) the causal dependence of
minds on God, or (b) the resemblance of minds to God, since any perfection in a
mind is a limitation of the unlimited perfection in God), and thereby they express
essences and necessary truths, these arguments would likewise apply to all sub-
stances, again, even if not all substances are able to bring these ideas to consciousness.
I am, of course, aware of passages in which Leibniz says that minds express God
rather than the world and other substances express the world rather than God, the
most obvious being DM §35, but what I am saying here is that Leibniz is not entitled
to these arguments unless there were something besides the ideas themselves to mark
the distinction. There is nothing in the arguments that would exclude non-rational
substances from having internal representations of God.
The crucial difference between minds and non-rational substances, it seems
to me, is that minds have a particular ability that non-rational substances do not
have. Minds are unique among the earth-bound creatures in being able to act on
themselves and in such a way that they (can) become aware of themselves, which
enables “us to think of that which is called ‘I’ and enable us to consider that this or
that is in us.”⁵⁰
The (necessary) content, then, of the appearance of the moral identity might be
something like this.⁵¹ Returning to the diagram from above:
S₂ → (S₁ → (yellow))
The content of the appearance of the self in this diagram is S₁. But S₁ differs in
content from any representation of S₂ since there are different relational prop-
erties of each. We might characterize the content of S₁ as this: S₁ is a perceiver
being perceived. It is a further inference that S₁ is the same perceiver as S₂. There
are three elements to the appearance of the moral identity: it is (a) the perception
of a perceiver (intrinsic content), (b) which is itself being perceived (relational
content), (c) by the same perceiver (inferential). The first provides some content
to the perception—it’s not just any perceiver, it’s the one with the particular
point of view currently being occupied. The second is a further content of the
⁴⁹ I think this is why Leibniz describes it as a kind of memory. ⁵⁰ M §30.

⁵¹ This account is a revision of the view I first proposed in Larry M. Jorgensen, “Mind the Gap:
Reflection and Consciousness in Leibniz,” Studia Leibnitiana 43 (2011).
        
perception, an implicit reference to the perceiver itself, which grounds the

inference to the third.
This model connects up nicely with another passage: “Consciousness [conscien-
tia],” Leibniz says, “is reflection on action, or memory of our action, in order that we
think it to be ours. This involves true substance itself or τὸ ego.”⁵² According to
Leibniz, there is a certain kind of memory that necessarily involves a self-reference,⁵³
and it is distinct from the kind of memory that is the mere repetition of the
phenomenon (absent the cause). For example, an animal may be able to remember
having seen the color yellow, but there is no additional content in the perception
other than that which came to them from the external source before. But in the
human case, many of our memories come with an ownership label attached: I have
experienced this before! Thus, the internal action of the substance is an action that is
owned in the case of self-representation.
And once the inference to a self is made, many other inferences are then available.
Leibniz talks of the concepts of being, unity, substance, etc., as inferred from the
innate idea one has of oneself. As Leibniz said to Queen Sophie Charlotte:
[S]ince I conceive that other beings can also have the right to say “I,” or that it can be said for
them, it is through this that I conceive what is called substance in general. It is also the
consideration of myself that provides me with other notions of metaphysics, such as cause,
effect, action, similarity, etc., and even those of logic and ethics.⁵⁴
The concept of substance in general is inferred from the conception of oneself
plus the recognition that there are others like me. So, while I may have elements
of the concept of substance available to me from my own self-consciousness,
I must go beyond the knowledge of myself in order to formulate other metaphys-
ical concepts.
We might wonder what it is about this appearance of the moral identity that
grounds one’s moral qualities. Insofar as reflection grounds intelligence and ration-
ality, this bears directly on Leibniz’s moral theory.⁵⁵ Once we are able to have a sense
of ourselves, we are also able to have a sense for what is good for ourselves. According
⁵² Table of Definitions 1702–07: C 495.

⁵³ In Jorgensen, “Mind the Gap: Reflection and Consciousness in Leibniz” I defended the naturalness of
Leibniz’s theory of reflection, but I acknowledged problems with how it could generate an appearance of
the self. The view I offered there suggested that a substance could come to a perception of itself by
aggregating the internal aspects of the substance until it qualifies as a representation of the self. However,
Leibniz’s texts are well-stocked with arguments that you cannot go from an aggregate to a simple, and it
seems that the account of reflection I earlier proposed would require just that: from an aggregate of
perceptions (or apperceptions) of what is internal to a substance, one perceives (or apperceives) the
substance itself. Unless we can show that some subset of perceptions is sufficient for a representation of
the self, this interpretation of reflection will have some difficulty providing a foundation for the appearance
of the moral identity. Even if some perceptions have the appropriate perceptual content needed to enable a
representation of the self, we will need an account of how reflection allows one to access that content.
⁵⁴ G 6.502/AG 188.
⁵⁵ See Brown, “Leibniz’s Moral Philosophy,” for more on the intellectualist nature of Leibniz’s moral
philosophy.
 ’    
to Leibniz, “the principal use of reason consists in knowing the good and pursuing it”
(NE 199). And it is the intellect that grounds even God’s moral qualities:
We must call to mind, therefore, that God is not only the First Substance, the Author and
Preserver of all others, but that He is also the most perfect Intelligence; and that, in this
relation, He is invested with a moral quality, and enters into a certain society with other
intelligences, over all of whom, collected into a most perfect commonwealth, which we may
call “the City of God,” He presides as a supreme monarch over his subjects.⁵⁶
The reflective capacities of minds, which enable them to know themselves, also make
them into limited divinities, capable of entering into relationship with God.⁵⁷
⁵⁶ Leibniz, A System of Theology, 10/A 6.4.2361; cf. DM §36.

⁵⁷ The genesis of this chapter was prompted by reflections on two papers by Robert Adams: Robert
Merrihew Adams, “Justice, Happiness, and Perfection in Leibniz’s City of God,” Robert Merrihew Adams,
“The Priority of the Perfect in the Philosophical Theology of the Continental Rationalists,” in Rationalism,
Platonism and God, ed. Michael Ayers (London: The British Academy, 2007). I do not believe I have even
started to integrate these two papers into what I have written here, but I wanted to acknowledge the debt at
any rate.
12
Self-Reflection, Perception,
and Conceptual Thought
I maintain that the conception of creatures is not the measure of God’s power, but
that their conceptivity, or ability to conceive, is the measure of nature’s power.¹
In this chapter, I will argue that the two-fold representation of the self provides a
basis for conceptual thought.
Some argue that perception and conception are, for Leibniz, radically divided, as
they are in Kant’s accounts of intuition and understanding.² If this is right, then there
is an apparent threat to continuity and therefore to the naturalness of Leibniz’s
philosophy of mind. Rational beings would have a capacity to form concepts that
non-rational beings would not have, and so there is a significant ontological gap
between higher animals and human minds. As I have already emphasized, it is true
that if there were a gap in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind, this is where one would
expect it. As Julia Jorati notes, “it should hardly be controversial that the distinctions
between free and unfree and between rational and non-rational are of the utmost
significance in Leibniz’s system.”³ The boundary between rational and non-rational
has moral implications for Leibniz, and it may well be the place where he would be
willing to abandon his naturalism in favor of theological commitments.
However, I would like to argue that Leibniz is not necessarily committed to a gap
here. As discussed in chapter 10, a sacramental view of nature would allow for a fully
naturalized theory that harmonizes with the theological commitments Leibniz
thought most important. And, in connection with the boundary between rational
and non-rational substances, even this seems open to a naturalized interpretation for
the following reasons. First, conception is grounded in and arises from perception.
Second, insofar as there are primitive concepts, animals could very well have those
primitives as well, lacking only the ability to develop those ideas into conscious
conceptual cognition. And so the difference would be the presence of a certain kind
of ability, which rational beings have that non-rational beings do not have. This
difference can be conceived as on a continuum.
¹ A 6.6.65/AG 304.
² For example, Parkinson, “Intellectualization of Appearances” and Margaret Dauler Wilson, “Confused
Ideas,” in Ideas and Mechanism: Essays on Early Modern Philosophy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1999).
³ Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in Leibniz,” 682.
 ’    
I will defend these claims in the following sections. In section 1, I will argue for an
account of ideas that grounds conceptual thought in perception. In section 2, I will
discuss in greater depth the underlying appetites that enable the kind of conceptual
thought in rational beings. Finally, in section 3, I will argue that the difference
between non-rational animals and rational beings can be conceived as on a con-
tinuum. I grant, of course, that there are many instances where Leibniz appeals to the
infinite gap between rational and non-rational substances, but I will deny that this
necessarily entails a discontinuity in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind.
1. Perception and Conceptual Thought

Leibniz most famously defended the innateness of ideas in his New Essays Concerning
Human Understanding, although he had a well-defined theory of ideas long before
his publication of the New Essays. By thinking through Descartes’s account of clear
and distinct ideas as well as the controversy over true and false ideas between
Malebranche and Arnauld, Leibniz defended a theory of ideas that was designed to
thread the needle between these controversies, grounding conceptual thought in the
natural activities of mind. Leibniz saw the promise of this theory of ideas in response
to Locke as well, allowing Leibniz another opportunity to express and defend his
theory. The nature of ideas is foundational to Leibniz’s account of reason.
There is some controversy over how best to interpret Leibniz’s theory, however,
and that is what I hope to clarify in this section. In particular, several scholars have
argued that Leibniz’s theory of ideas and their relation to perception is fundamentally
confused or hopeless.⁴ While I do not expect to address all of the problems that have
been pointed out, I do hope that the ground we have laid in previous chapters will
allow us to see a bit more clearly what Leibniz may have been arguing.
1.1. Ideas
In an important paper, Shane Duarte has argued that “Wilson, along with many
other interpreters of Leibniz, is mistaken in her opinion that perceptions are related
to ideas for Leibniz in a manner analogous to that in which intuitions are related to
concepts for Kant.”⁵ This seems to be a persistent worry among interpreters attempt-
ing to distance Leibniz from Kant’s charge that Leibniz merely “intellectualized the
appearances.”⁶ Kant’s point had been that Leibniz failed to see sensibility as a “special
source of representations,” and was merely a “confused kind of representation.” The
efforts of Leibniz scholars who reject this criticism has been to show that there is a
genuine and deep distinction between perception and conceptual thought for Leibniz
(which, as Wilson puts it, prefigures the Kantian distinction between the manifold of
⁴ See Wilson, “Confused Ideas,” 330–1 and Nicholas Jolley, The Light of the Soul: Theories of Ideas in
Leibniz, Malebranche, and Descartes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 182.
⁵ Shane Duarte, “Ideas and Confusion in Leibniz,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 17
(2009).
⁶ Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), A271/B327. About this criticism, see also Parkinson, “Intellectualiza-
tion of Appearances.”
-, ,    
intuition and the understanding).⁷ If Leibniz has two sources of cognition, namely
perceptions and ideas, then the Kantian criticism is false.
However, it is not clear that Kant got his interpretation of Leibniz entirely wrong.
I will say more towards the end of this section about how best to address the Kantian
criticism, but first we need to see just what the relation between perception and idea is
for Leibniz. In this section, I will defend an account of ideas as perfect expressions of
possibilia and as dispositions to form concepts. Then I will extend this account to
consider how the innateness of ideas might be related to self-reflection for Leibniz.
Leibniz’s account of ideas emerges from the controversies over the nature of ideas
between Malebranche and Arnauld.⁸ This background leads Leibniz to be precise in
his use of terms, defining ideas in a way that makes it clear what grounding they have
in individual minds. In an early text, “What Is an Idea?,” dated 1677, Leibniz says:
[B]y the term idea we understand something which is in our mind . . . There are many things in
our mind, however, which we know are not ideas, though they would not occur without
ideas—for example, thoughts, perceptions, and affections. In my opinion, namely, an idea
consists, not in some act, but in the faculty of thinking, and we are said to have an idea of a thing
even if we do not think of it, if only, on a given occasion, we can think of it.⁹
An idea is something in our minds, but it is not a particular act of mind, although
ideas are necessary for particular thoughts, perceptions, and affections. He describes
ideas here as a kind of disposition to think in a given way. The implication is that an
individual cannot have a thought of x without first having a basic disposition to have
a thought of x.
This does not quite yet capture the full nature of an idea. There are at least two
further features that Leibniz needs to clarify. First, what explains the disposition to
think of something? As Jolley notes, dispositions tend to be explained in terms of
“some non-dispositional property in virtue of which it is ascribed.”¹⁰ For example, we
say a wine glass is fragile—it has a disposition to break under relevant conditions—
because of the structure of the glass that constitutes the wine glass. The dispositional
property, fragility, is grounded in something non-dispositional, the structure and
shape of the glass. Similarly, Leibniz recognizes that an idea is not just any disposition
to form a thought. Rather, he says, “there must be something in me which not merely
leads me to the thing but also expresses it.”¹¹ This expression condition allows Leibniz
to distinguish ideas from more accidental dispositions to form an idea. Leibniz
provides an example of a disposition that should not be regarded as an idea: when
one enumerates the conic sections, leading to knowledge of some of the conic
⁷ Wilson, “Confused Ideas,” 332.

⁸ I will not go into this background debate here. For an orientation to the debates, see Jolley, The Light
of the Soul; Denis Moreau, “The Malebranche–Arnauld Debate,” in The Cambridge Companion to
Malebranche, ed. Steven M. Nadler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); and Tad Schmaltz,
“Malebranche on Ideas and the Vision in God,” in The Cambridge Companion to Malebranche, ed. Steven
M. Nadler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). There is also an important connection with
Leibniz’s engagement with Spinoza’s Ethics as well, as noted by Loemker, L 207.
⁹ “What is an Idea?” A 6.4.1370/L 207.
¹⁰ Nicholas Jolley, “Leibniz and Malebranche on Innate Ideas,” Philosophical Review 97 (1988): 86.
¹¹ A 6.4.1370/L 207.
 ’    
sections even if one did not have a previous idea of those conic sections. We will see
more examples of dispositions to think something without activating an idea in our
discussion below. So far, Leibniz says that an idea is a disposition to think of x,
provided I already have something in my mind that expresses x. And so the dispos-
ition to think of x is grounded, at least partly, in the fact that my mind already
expresses x. (Does this entail, contrary to what Leibniz has just said, that the
disposition isn’t a particular act of thought? That will depend on whether all mental
representations are grounded in mental acts, and Leibniz is not entirely clear about
this. I will provide some reasons below to think that it does not depend necessarily on
a particular mental act.)
So, in this earlier text ideas are simply the disposition to formulate a concept plus
some grounding in the mind that actually expresses the thing. But Leibniz adds a
second refinement to his theory of ideas in the conclusion of this short essay:
[T]hat the ideas of things are in us means . . . nothing but that God . . . has impressed a power of
thinking upon the mind so that it can by its own operations derive what corresponds perfectly
to the nature of things.¹²
If ideas “correspond perfectly to the nature of things,” then, again, not all dispositions
to think of something will be examples of ideas, since it is patently obvious that many
of our thoughts fail to represent the world truly. An idea is a disposition to form a
perception or thought that involves a true or perfect expression of things.
Each of these criteria are repeated in later texts, notably the “Meditations on
Knowledge, Truth, and Ideas” (1684)¹³ and the “Discourse on Metaphysics,” §§23–9
(1686).¹⁴ One refinement of the view emerges in the DM, however, in that there he
provides a distinction between ‘idea’ and ‘concept’: “the expressions which are in the
soul, whether conceived or not, can be called ideas, but those which are conceived or
formed can be called notions or concepts.”¹⁵ And he spells out more fully the fact that
true ideas are those that are non-contradictory expressions of possibilia, saying that
“we have no idea of a notion when it is impossible.”¹⁶ We can form notions that are
impossible—for example, the notion or concept of the fastest velocity (which, Leibniz
argues, is impossible, even though we can form a notion of it), but these notions are
merely suppositive—we suppose we have the relevant ideas in mind to form such
notions, when in fact we do not. Thus, whatever internal dispositions led to the
formation of these notions are not, properly speaking, ideas. Ideas, in the strictest
sense, involve only those inclinations to form true concepts.
Ideas, then, are dispositions to form (genuinely possible) concepts, grounded in
the internal true expression of the nature of things. This theory of ideas seems
¹² A 6.4.1371/L 208. ¹³ A 6.4.585–92/AG 23–7. ¹⁴ A 6.4.1566–74/AG 55–60.

¹⁵ DM §27. It should be noted that this way of putting things is open to Paul Lodge and Stephen
Puryear’s argument that it is not necessary to be conscious of one’s concept in order to conceive something.
Rather, one can have non-conscious conceivings just as one can have non-conscious perceivings. This
seems right to me. For this argument and the background argument to which Lodge and Puryear are
responding, see Paul Lodge and Stephen M. Puryear, “Unconscious Conceiving and Leibniz’s Argument
for Primitive Concepts,” Studia Leibnitiana 38/39 (2006) and Dennis Plaisted, “Leibniz’s Argument for
Primitive Concepts,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 41 (2003).
¹⁶ DM §25.
-, ,    
naturally suited to address the debate over innate ideas in the New Essays, since there
Leibniz emphasizes the dispositions of the mind to form ideas, which he believes
suffices as an account for the innateness of ideas. Of course, in order for Leibniz’s
account of ideas to address the question of whether they are innate, he would have to
show that these dispositions are present from birth. Leibniz does think this, and I will
say more about why in the next sub-section. But there is one interpretive point
I would like to clarify first.
Shane Duarte gives an interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of ideas that coheres well
with what I have presented here, and provides more analysis of some of the later
texts. However, one difference between what I have presented here and Duarte’s
interpretation is that Duarte argues that ideas, for Leibniz, are the “abiding objects of
perception.”¹⁷ I have presented ideas as dispositions to form (genuinely possible)
concepts, grounded in the internal true expression of the nature of things. Duarte’s
defense of ideas as objects of perception draws on the following passage:
In order properly to conceive what an idea is, we must prevent an equivocation. For some take
the idea to be the form or difference of our thoughts, and thus we have an idea in the mind only
insofar as we think of it; every time we think of it again, we have other ideas of the same thing,
though similar to the preceding ideas. But it seems that others take the idea as an immediate
object of thought or as some permanent form that remains when we are not contemplating it.
And, in fact, our soul always has in it the quality of representing to itself any nature or form
whatsoever, when the occasion to think of it presents itself. And I believe that this quality of
our soul, insofar as it expresses some nature, form, or essence, is properly the idea of the thing,
which is in us and which is always in us, whether we think of it or not.¹⁸
Duarte takes Leibniz’s claim here to be an endorsement of the view that the term ‘idea’
is properly attributed to the permanent object of thought and not to the form or
differentia of thought. And if there must be something permanent, according to this
analysis, then there must be an idea to serve as the permanent object of thought.
I would suggest that this last inference is not clearly attributable to Leibniz. Leibniz
does appear to be endorsing the claim that there must be something permanent and
abiding that grounds the disposition to form concepts. But it is not clear from this text
alone just what serves as the object of thought. Indeed, Duarte stops one sentence
short in quoting this passage. The passage concludes, “For our soul expresses God, the
universe, and all essences, as well as all existences.” The abiding aspect of ideas is the
perpetual expression of God, the universe, essences, and existences. These expressions
provide something abiding, but the objects of the expressions are not ideas.
Duarte gets closer to what I take to be the objects of thought when he discusses
parallel passages in the New Essays, where Leibniz describes the soul as “its own
immediate inner object . . . to the extent that it contains ideas, i.e., something corres-
ponding to the nature of things.”¹⁹ The New Essays passage actually exposes a new
ambiguity, despite Leibniz’s attempts to be clear. If ideas are the “immediate inner
objects” of thought, then—from this passage—the soul would be an idea. But in the
¹⁷ Duarte, “Ideas and Confusion in Leibniz,” 713. ¹⁸ DM §26, emphasis added.

¹⁹ A 6.6.109/NE 109.
 ’    
sentence quoted here, Leibniz says that the soul is an immediate inner object of
thought but that it contains ideas. Of course, objects of thought can contain other
objects of thought, but then they would not be “immediate” objects of thought, and
so there is something puzzling about the way Leibniz is expressing himself here.
I think the better interpretation of these passages in which Leibniz invokes those
“others” who speak of ideas as abiding objects of thought is that he is adopting their
language to express something that he takes to be true. Namely, he thinks it is the case
that there must be something abiding and permanent about ideas. And what is
abiding and permanent, according to Leibniz? The expressions of essences and
existences. These expressions need not be construed as immediate objects of thought
themselves. And so I prefer to speak of ideas as the dispositions to form concepts of
the possible or the real, grounded in the true expression of essences and existences.
In the next sub-section, we will see how these expressions are grounded in objects
of thought.
1.2. Self-Consciousness, perception, and conceptual thought

Much of what we consciously perceive or think about involves ideas in at best an
obscure way. Leibniz says that our knowledge is confused when we cannot identify
any differences among the constituent ingredients of a perception or thought, and
much of our sensory grasp of the world is like this—we perceive patterns of color, for
example, without being able to distinguish the constituent ingredients for each of the
colors. This allows for clear knowledge of a thing, when we can recognize something
without being able to say just how we are able to recognize it as an instance of the
thing (e.g., “I know art when I see it”.) But our knowledge becomes distinct once we
are able to explain some of the marks that differentiate one thing from another. And
our knowledge is adequate when we are able to analyze all of the constituent
ingredients of a thought all the way to the primitive concepts.
Similarly, Leibniz provides a taxonomy of definitions: a definition is nominal when
it does not demonstrate the possibility of the thing being defined, and it is a real
definition when the possibility of the thing is demonstrated. When the proof of
possibility is a priori, it yields a causal definition, and when a causal definition is
reduced to primitive notions, then it is a perfect or essential definition.²⁰
These are familiar distinctions for Leibniz scholars. But what it shows is where
Leibniz leaves room for conceptual thought that separates from ideas. If a particular
cognition does not allow us to distinguish the conceptual ingredients of the cogni-
tion, then there is a possibility that the running together of these basic ingredients
leads to a perception or thought that is not a true representation of the world. For an
example from sensation, consider the cog wheel, which, when it rotates quickly,
appears to form a translucent ring.²¹ For a more conceptual example, consider the
thought that the wheel is rotating at the fastest velocity. Since there is no fastest
velocity, this is a false notion, and so conceiving of the wheel as rotating at the fastest
²⁰ For these distinctions, see DM §24 and “Meditations on Knowledge, Truth, and Ideas.”
²¹ A 6.6.403/NE 403.
-, ,    
velocity is confused.²² Each of these failures are due to an inability in the moment to
distinguish the constituent ingredients of the sensation or thought. Were we able to
reduce the sensation or thought to its composite perceptions or thoughts, we would
be able to consciously recognize our failure.
Nevertheless, according to Leibniz the most basic representations of existences are
what generate our sensations. While macro-level objects appear colored, spatially
extended, and in motion, Leibniz’s mature metaphysics tells us that these well-
founded phenomena are grounded in more basic representations of individual
monads. (Much more could be said about the nature of Leibniz’s phenomenalism
here, but that would take us beyond the scope of this chapter.)²³ There is no
expectation in the case of our sensory or scientific image of the world that we
would be able to fully reduce these images to the most basic sets of monads that
ground the phenomena. And so, our sensations and our sciences will always operate
at a certain degree of distinctness at best.
But what about conceptual thought? Leibniz argued that we need to analyze our
concepts into their constituent concepts to ensure that we are not confused. One
example that he returns to frequently is the example of the ontological proof for the
existence of God: God is the ens perfectissimum, existence is a perfection, therefore
God necessarily exists. According to Leibniz, this argument will not even get started
until we provide a real definition for an ens perfectissimum. That is, we will not know
whether God necessarily exists until we know whether God is possible. It could very
well turn out that an ens perfectissiumum is impossible, just as a fastest velocity is
impossible.²⁴
The failure in forming the notion of a fastest velocity is a failure in reducing
the concept to its constituent concepts sufficiently far to see that there is an internal
contradiction. We should attend to our concepts in such a way that we can see which
concepts involve ideas and which do not. And the gold standard is to provide this
analysis a priori. Leibniz is dubious that we will be able to reduce very many concepts
to their constituent primitive concepts.²⁵
The reason I have rehearsed all of this here is to show the complexity of Leibniz’s
account of conceptual thought. Not all concepts are coherent in that they fail to bring
together the primitive concepts in a way that preserves their possibility or truth.
Insofar as ideas are a disposition to form concepts of the possible or the real, grounded
in the true expression of essences and existences, there will also be contrary disposi-
tions that yield merely suppositive concepts that involve “a hidden impossibility.”
²² DM §23 and A 6.4.588–9/AG 25.

²³ For a fairly bold expression of phenomenalism, see “On the Method of Distinguishing Real from
Imaginary Phenomena” (A 6.4.1500–4/L363–5). For discussion of Leibniz’s phenomenalism, see Adams,
Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, chapter 9 and Margaret Dauler Wilson, “The Phenomenalisms of
Leibniz and Berkeley,” in Ideas and Mechanism: Essays on Early Modern Philosophy (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1999).
²⁴ See DM §23 and A 6.4.588–9/AG 25–6.
²⁵ See, for example, A 6.4.159/MP 3. Note: there is some concern over whether Leibniz has a univocal
and coherent account of confusion here. I will not address the question here, since I do think it has received
good treatment elsewhere. See Duarte, “Ideas and Confusion in Leibniz” and Stephen M. Puryear, “Was
Leibniz Confused about Confusion?,” The Leibniz Review 15 (2005).
 ’    
These contrary tendencies map nicely onto our previous discussions of active and
passive tendencies in the substance.
But what is the underlying mechanism that allows us to contemplate ideas?
In the context of his disagreement with Locke, Leibniz argues that the innateness
of an idea is due to the idea being available to reflection or attention. Leibniz argues
that Locke
admits . . . that ideas which do not originate from sensation come from reflection. But reflection
is nothing but attention to what is in us . . . In view of this, can it be denied that there is a great
deal that is innate in our minds, since we are innate to ourselves, so to speak, and since we
include Being, Unity, Substance, Duration, Change, Action, Perception, Pleasure, and hosts of
other objects of our intellectual ideas?²⁶
Jolley worries that the addition of reflection to the account merely confuses matters:
Leibniz’s attempt to press ideas of reflection into the service of innateness has generally been
regarded as an embarrassment, and with good reason; indeed, the full extent of the difficul-
ties it poses has not perhaps been fully appreciated. In the first place, it seems clear that the
reflection account is a new theory of innateness; it is not simply a different name for the more
familiar and more prominent dispositional theory . . . Consider how the two theories handle
the claim that we have an innate idea of substance. According to the one theory, we have an
innate disposition to have an occurrent thought of substance under certain specifiable
conditions. According to the other theory, we acquire the idea by simply reflecting on the
fact that the mind is a substance. It should be obvious that these two claims are not at all
equivalent . . . Of course, since ideas are dispositions, by acquiring an idea of substance
through reflection, we thereby acquire a disposition, and to this extent . . . even the reflection
account contains a dispositional component; but since the disposition is acquired through
reflection, it is clear that this is not an innate disposition in the sense of one we have
possessed since birth.²⁷
The dispositional account of ideas provides all Leibniz needs for a theory of the
innateness of ideas: ideas are innate insofar as the dispositions to form concepts
corresponding to or involving them are present from birth. When Leibniz introduces
reflection as what allows for this disposition, does he intend to introduce a new
means by which ideas are in us, namely as objects of reflection? If so, then the
account suddenly becomes much more complicated, given that reflection tends to be
recognized as a higher-level cognitive function, acquired after birth, and that not all
monads can reflect in this way. If this is the account of the innateness of ideas, then it
appears that not all monads will have ideas.
In the following sub-section, I will argue that this is not Leibniz’s purpose of
invoking reflection in this passage. Rather, Leibniz has in mind the expression of
these ideas in the mind by what is “in us” already. Reflection will become important
to conscious concept formation but not to the innateness of ideas.
²⁶ A 6.6.51/NE 51. (Note: ideas have objects, not that they are objects.)
²⁷ Jolley, The Light of the Soul, 182–3.
-, ,    
1.3. The two-fold representation of the self

From even early texts, Leibniz was concerned about distinguishing ideas from
(a) other perceptions or thoughts that could form, and (b) the form or quality of
occurrent thoughts. And the key way that he distinguished them from these two
properties was by the immediacy of the object or faculty that enables the expression
of ideas. Consider first this early (1676) note on the reply of Foucher:
Idea can be taken in two senses: namely, for the quality of form of thought, as velocity and
direction are the quality and form of movement; or for the immediate or nearest object of
perception. Thus the idea would not be a mode of being of our soul . . . For when the soul thinks
of being, identity, thought, or duration, it has a certain immediate object or nearest cause of its
perception. In this sense it is possible that we see all things in God and that the ideas or
immediate objects are the attributes of God himself. These formulas or modes of speaking
contain some truth, but to speak correctly it is necessary to give constant meaning to the terms.²⁸
We have already seen that Leibniz uses a similar locution in “What Is an Idea?” And
this characterization continues through the New Essays in 1704:
An idea is an immediate inner object, and . . . this object expresses the nature or qualities of
things. If the idea were the form of thought, it would come into and go out of existence with the
actual thought which corresponds to it, but since it is the object of thought it can exist before
and after the thought. Sensible outer objects are only mediate, because they cannot act
immediately on the soul. God is the only immediate outer object. One might say that the
soul itself is its own immediate inner object; but that is only to the extent that it contains ideas,
i.e., something corresponding to things.²⁹
Leibniz makes clear that there are only two immediate objects of perception or
thought: God and ourselves. Sensory objects are mediate because there is no direct
causal relation between our minds and the sensory objects—there is only a repre-
sentation relation that stands in for the causal relations, as we have discussed in
previous chapters.
This point about the causal relations among objects of perception is a key to
understanding what Leibniz is arguing. In “What Is an Idea?” and in the Discourse on
Metaphysics, Leibniz emphasizes the fact that substances express God because “every
entire effect represents the whole cause, for I can always pass from the knowledge of
such an effect to a knowledge of its cause. So, too, the deeds of each one represent his
mind, and in a way the world itself represents god.”³⁰ And in DM §28, Leibniz says
that “God is the only immediate object of our perceptions which exists outside of us,”
and he explains this by saying that
²⁸ A 6.3.315–16/L 155.
²⁹ A 6.6.109/NE 109. The last sentence of this passage was discussed above in connection with Duarte’s
claim that ideas are objects of perception. In this section, it will become clear what I think Leibniz means by
phrasing it this way.
³⁰ A 6.4.1371/L 208.
 ’    
in the rigorous sense of metaphysical truth there is no external cause which acts upon us except
God alone . . . [and] it is only by virtue of the continual action of God upon us that we have in
our soul the ideas of all things: that is to say, since every effect expresses its cause, the essence of
our soul is a certain expression, imitation, or image of the divine essence, thought, and will and
of all the ideas which are comprised in God.³¹
The clear implication here is that ideas are in us insofar as we ourselves express
the divine.
Since (a) every effect expresses its cause, and (b) all monads are caused by the
divine and continually depend on the divine, (c) all monads are expressions of the
divine. And Leibniz does not limit this to some aspects of the divine, the portions of
thought that were most causally relevant to the creation of this universe, let’s say. No.
Leibniz says that “our soul is a certain expression . . . of the divine essence, thought,
and will and of all the ideas which are comprised in God.” So, my hypothesis is this:
Leibniz is not arguing that ideas are in minds as distinct objects of thought nor
primarily as dispositions. Rather, ideas are in us insofar as our minds are expressions
of God’s mind. The dispositions will be a matter of the tendencies within us to attend
to those aspects of ourselves that express the divine mind, and these dispositions are
reflected in individual efforts to progress towards perfection. The two aspects of
Leibniz’s philosophy of mind are present: (a) the fundamental expressive or repre-
sentative relation to existence and modality, and (b) a tendency or striving towards
the perfections represented in individual natures. But the entry into this world of
ideas is self-expression: the self is the immediate internal object of reflection, and that
object expresses the realm of the real and the possible, namely, the divine mind.
In one telling passage, Leibniz says that ultimately there is only “one thing which is
conceived through itself, namely God himself, and besides that there is nothing, or
privation.”³² (He uses binary arithmetic as an example of how everything can be
derived from 1 and 0.) This suggests that the most fundamental ideational ingredi-
ents for any complex concept are God and privation. In the previous chapter,
I argued that minds perceive themselves in a two-fold sense: as perceivers and as
perceived. That is, minds perceive themselves both as active and as passive, providing
expressions of both the positive attributes of God and their negations. And so, insofar
as ideas are grounded in objects of perception, the immediate inner object is the self
(in a two-fold sense, as active and as passive), and this provides an expression of God.
And since Leibniz regards God as the ground of all existences and the realm of all
possibilities, it is via an expression of God that we can conceive a priori truths about
existence and modalities. Thus, the two-fold representation of the self grounds
conceptual thought for Leibniz.
Leibniz does not expect that we can come to know a priori all of the ideas
contained in this two-fold representation:
Since, however, it is not in our power to demonstrate the possibility of things in a perfectly a
priori way, that is, to analyse them into God and nothing, it will be sufficient for us to reduce
³¹ Loemker translation.
³² A 6.4.158/MP 2, cited in Adams, Leibniz: Determinist, Theist, Idealist, 122n16. See also Lodge and
Puryear, “Unconscious Conceiving and Leibniz’s Argument for Primitive Concepts,” 180.
-, ,    
their immense multitude to a few, whose possibility can either be supposed or postulated, or
proved by experience.³³
The human mind cannot carry out the demonstration to primitives, and so we
content ourselves with a few ideas that we know to be possible either through a
priori reasoning or through experience. Notably, many of our concepts will remain
suppositive, since they have not been reduced to their constituent concepts, and so we
often cannot be certain that our concepts do not contain hidden contradictions.
While the Leibnizian mind provides all of the necessary ingredients for omniscience,
it is—and always will be—limited by its confusion.
How, then, does this allow Leibniz to address Jolley’s worry that he is introducing
two differing conceptions of innate ideas, one based in dispositions and the other
based in reflection? Jolley argues that Leibniz’s reflection theory of innate ideas is
circular:
The reflection theory of innate ideas suffers from a . . . fundamental weakness. The theory is
supposed to offer an explanatory account of the origin or acquisition of certain ideas. In other
words, I am supposed to turn my mental gaze inwards, and notice that my mind is a substance
or a unity; I thereby come to acquire the appropriate idea. But it seems clear that in order to
recognize that my mind is a substance, I must already have the idea of substance. Thus the
explanation offered by the reflection account is in reality circular; it explains the acquisition of
an idea on the assumption that we already have the idea in question.³⁴
Based on the dispositional theory of ideas, it does not seem that reflection should be
regarded as “the origin or acquisition of ideas,” and so insofar as Leibniz claims that
reflection allows for this, he is playing into Locke’s hands.
Jolley goes on to speculate that Leibniz instead has in mind the fact that reflection
enables an a posteriori source of self-knowledge—we experience ourselves through
reflection and “verify the claim that our mind is a substance.”³⁵ It seems to me that
this cannot be quite right either. Leibniz is rather clear that an aggregate could never
yield a true unity, and it seems to me that any a posteriori knowledge of the self would
be via an aggregation of experiences. Obviously Hume and Kant have their own takes
on this claim, but it would appear that it is a claim that Leibniz has an interest in as
well. A firm grasp on the concepts in which Leibniz is interested (being, unity,
substance, etc.) would require a priori knowledge, and this a priori knowledge is
supposed to be grounded in the claim that we are “innate to ourselves.”³⁶ Thus,
I think the “appearance of the self ” discussed in chapter 11 grounds a kind of
immediate acquaintance that is not a kind of Kantian experience of the self (via
intuition). Rather, the inference involved in the appearance of the self is an a priori
inference to a substance that thinks, grounded in the internal expressions and
tendencies of the substance that enable it to recognize itself for what it is. Whether
³³ A 6.4.159/MP 3. In “Meditations on Knowledge, Truth, and Ideas,” Leibniz says, “I don’t know
whether humans can provide a perfect example of this, although the knowledge of numbers certainly
approaches it” (AG 24).
³⁴ Jolley, The Light of the Soul, 186. ³⁵ Ibid., 187.
³⁶ Cf. Letter to Queen Sophie Charlotte of Prussia, “On What Is Independent of Sense and Matter”
(1702), discussed in the previous chapter (G 6.499–508/AG 186–92).
 ’    
Leibniz is entitled to this, I do not yet know, but it is clearly different from the
Kantian account of concepts with which Leibniz is sometimes compared. Neverthe-
less, Leibniz does think that sensation is necessary to concept formation, and
reflection is the actualization of these tendencies. I will take up the relation of
sensation to reflection and reason in the next section.
2. Instinct and Reason

In this section, I would like to consider the nature of the tendency or appetite
involved in concept formation, focusing specifically on a set of passages in the New
Essays where the relationships among sensation, thought, and moral agency are
connected by what Leibniz calls an instinct. The main passages that I will look at
are in Book I, where Leibniz responds to Locke’s discussion of innate ideas and innate
principles and aims to show that “one starts with the senses in order to lead men
gradually to what is above the senses.”³⁷ Later in the New Essays, Leibniz says that
knowing the good and pursuing it is “the principal use of reason.”³⁸ One central
claim brought out in the New Essays is that sensation bears an important relation to
reason, and the principal aim of this reason is the good, in intellect, will, and action.
By implication, failing (as Leibniz thinks that Locke does) to acknowledge the rich
relations among sensation, reason, and moral action would diminish and attenuate
the resulting moral theory. I will not try to spell out this whole story, but I focus
on this moral theory because it brings together some of the strands discussed up until
this point.
My particular focus will be the structural similarity in the New Essays between
two processes: first, the process of moving from sensation to idea, and second, the
process of moving from sensation to knowing justice, willing, and acting accord-
ingly. (For the sake of brevity, I will call this latter complex of knowing, willing, and
acting according to justice “moral action.” And so the second process is the
movement from sensation to moral action.) When we spell out the similarity
between these two processes, it raises a number of interesting questions about the
details of the two processes. Each process is guided by “instinct,” but we shall see
that the relevant instincts, when expressed in the form of principles, have a
different epistemic status.
2.1. The two processes

Let me first outline the similar structures, starting with the process of coming to
know intellectual ideas. As is well known, Leibniz argued in the New Essays that
sensation alone is not sufficient for knowledge of necessary truths, since the senses
“give us [nothing] but instances . . . [and] however many instances confirm a general
truth, they do not suffice to establish its universal necessity.”³⁹ But rather than pursue
this line of argument, I want to look at the other side of the coin: although Leibniz
argued that sensation could not yield truths of reason, he does think that for finite
³⁷ A 6.6.104/NE 104, emphasis mine. ³⁸ A 6.6.199/NE 199.

³⁹ A 6.6.49/NE 49. See also A 6.6.81/NE 81 and A 6.6.392/NE 392 for representative claims.
-, ,    
rational beings, sensation is necessary to the process of coming to know them, for
“without the senses we would never think of them.”⁴⁰
Leibniz distinguishes himself from Locke in saying that even if ideas are connected
to or bound up with sensation, the ideas themselves do not originate in sensation. As
we have already discussed, according to Leibniz ideas are in us as “inclinations,
dispositions, tendencies, or natural potentialities, and not as actualities.”⁴¹ When we
are “attentive and methodical,”⁴² our sensations may actualize the disposition to
form a thought of a necessary truth. And the resulting idea is not a sensory idea—it is
a “pure idea,” which Leibniz contrasts with “images of sense.”⁴³ “Intellectual ideas,
from which necessary truths arise, do not come from the senses,” Leibniz says,
although “truths involving ideas which come from the senses are at least partly
dependent on the senses.”⁴⁴ This partial dependency on sensation is what I would
like to focus on.
This partial dependency requires one additional element. The movement from a
sensory impression to an idea is due to what Leibniz describes as an “affinity.” He
says that “what makes the exercise of the faculty easy and natural so far as these
truths are concerned is a special affinity which the human mind has with them;
and that is what makes us call them innate.”⁴⁵ He equates this “affinity” with “a
disposition, an aptitude, a preformation, which determines our soul and brings it
about that they are derivable from it.”⁴⁶ In this passage, Leibniz emphasizes that
the affinity brings out what is already in the soul, the truths that are derivable from
it, rather than from sensation itself. So, the initial sketch of the process of coming
to know a necessary truth involves three basic moments: (1) a sensation, (2) which
connects to an “affinity” (3) that leads one to form the idea. There is more to be
said here about the nature of sensory knowledge, the nature of the disposition
itself, and how the idea itself is formed. But before we get into these details,
I want to compare this epistemic process with the practical process of coming to
act morally.
The relation of sensation to moral action is similar to that of sensation to idea. We
have a sense and perhaps some thought about what the right action is, but it is what
Leibniz here calls an “instinct, so to speak” that inclines us toward moral knowledge
and just action. The “instinct of humanity” is an instinct to “pursue joy and avoid
sorrow.”⁴⁷ Moral knowledge mirrors the process of sensation to idea just discussed,
but the movement from sensation and idea to action depends on this further instinct.
As Leibniz says, “this is how we are led to act humanely: by instinct because it pleases
us, and by reason because it is right.”⁴⁸ And so, as before, the process of acting
morally involves three moments: (1) a sensation, (2) which connects to an instinct
(3) that leads us to act humanely. He calls this instinct, when expressed by the
understanding a practical truth, a “precept” or “principle” (following Locke’s usage).
The instinct is not irresistible, but it is one that grounds moral action.
⁴⁰ A 6.6.81/NE 81. See also A 6.6.50/NE 50 and A6.6.77/NE 77. ⁴¹ A 6.6.52/NE 52.
⁴² A 6.6.86/NE 86. ⁴³ A 6.6.77/NE 77. ⁴⁴ A 6.6.81/NE 81. ⁴⁵ A 6.6.80/NE 80.
⁴⁶ A 6.6.80/NE 80. ⁴⁷ A 6.6.88/NE 88. ⁴⁸ A 6.6.91/NE 91.
 ’    
The similarity of structure between rational thought and moral action is explicitly
noted by Leibniz:
Instincts [do not] always pertain to practice: some of them contain theoretical truths—the in-
built principles of the sciences and of reasoning are like that when we employ them through a
natural instinct without knowing the reasons for them.⁴⁹
And he thinks this occurs with some frequency: “there are principles of knowledge
which enter into our reasonings as constantly as practical ones do into our volitions;
for instance, everyone makes use of the rules of inference through a natural logic,
without being aware of them.”⁵⁰ The natural instincts incline us to act in particular
ways that reflect underlying connections of sensation and idea. But when we act
merely on instinct, it is because we are not attending to those underlying connections
themselves. Here Leibniz says that we employ them through an instinct “without
knowing the reasons for them,” but it seems that even when we do know the reasons,
we may not always be attentive to those reasons. And so I think what Leibniz has in
mind is that we act on instinct when we follow the inclination without occurrently
and consciously thinking about the reasons for the connections. (As, for example, a
logician who is reasoning informally without explicit consideration for the grounds
of inference.)
To make the parallels between the two processes clear, we can sketch the processes
in the following way:
(A) Sensation to idea: (B) Sensation/Idea to moral action:

Affinity/Disposition/Natural Instinct Instinct of Humanity
Sensation → Idea Sensation → Moral Action
In each case, the movement from sensation to idea or sensation to action is mediated
by an instinct. (Leibniz uses several words for the mediating inclination: affinity,
disposition, tendency, instinct, etc. From now on, simply for the sake of consistency,
I will call them instincts or inclinations.) Of course, this similarity comes as no
surprise, since we know that Leibniz is committed to two aspects of the human mind:
perception and appetition. And any movement from one perception to another is
mediated by a tendency, a composite appetition for the subsequent perception.⁵¹ But
Leibniz is here giving us two applications of this movement, and it helps us to see two
distinct ways this movement is worked out.
The parallel structures of the two processes might hide an underlying asymmetry.
The instincts themselves are distinctive—the perception of the “affinity” for ideas is
itself an idea, and it allows us to see further how necessary truths are grounded in the
⁴⁹ A 6.6.90/NE 90, emphasis mine. ⁵⁰ A 6.6.91/NE 91.

⁵¹ See, for example, A 6.6.165 and 172–3/NE 165 and 172–3.
-, ,    
mind itself, while the perception of the “instinct for humanity” is not sufficiently
grounded in ideas and depends on sensation.
In the remainder of this section, I will try to unpack this asymmetry by raising the
following two sets of questions:
(a) How are ideas or moral actions related to the content of sensations? (It is not
just any sensation that will actualize a certain idea—there seems to be some
dependency on the sensation itself. How should we characterize that
dependency?)
(b) Are the principles (the intellectual representation of the instincts) truths of
reason?
2.2. How are ideas or moral actions related to the content of sensation?
Sensation, as Leibniz uses it in the New Essays and as discussed in previous chapters,
refers to a confused perception, “vivid in the aggregate but confused in the parts.”
Sensations “involve the infinite; that connection that each being has with the rest of
the universe.”⁵² Leibniz further claims that human minds are never without sensation—
the world is always making some impression, however feeble.⁵³ Leibniz also thinks we
are never without thought, which he distinguishes from sensation in the following way:
I believe we are never without ideas, never without thoughts, and never without sensations
either. But I distinguish ideas from thoughts. For we always have all our pure or distinct ideas
independently from the senses, but thoughts always correspond to some sensation.⁵⁴
One primary way Leibniz thinks we are “never without ideas” is as dispositions
towards those ideas. Ideas are “engraved” in our souls “not in the form of proposi-
tions, but rather as sources which, by being employed in particular circumstances,
will give rise to the actual assertions.”⁵⁵ Ideas express necessary truths that cannot be
represented in sensation alone, and when these ideas become connected to sensations
in the right way, they result in thoughts. Thoughts involve both sensations and ideas,
which express the truths of reason related to the sensory content.
What I want to work out here is just what the relation of dependency or combin-
ation of idea and sensation is for Leibniz. We have seen that Leibniz does not think
the necessary ideas are inferred somehow from sensation; rather, they are actualized
by sensory experience. But we can press the principle of sufficient reason here: in
virtue of what is idea x actualized by sensation y (as opposed to some other
sensation)? Similarly, for the instinct of humanity, in virtue of what is an instinct
towards moral action actualized by a particular sensory experience rather than
⁵² A 6.6.55/NE 55.
⁵³ See, for example, A 6.6.54, 113, 115, 117, 119, 212, and 221/NE 54, 113, 115, 117, 119, 212, and 221.
There is a second strand of Leibniz’s use of the concept of sensation in the Nouveaux Essais, where he
describes it as “when one is aware of an outer object” (A 6.6.161/NE 161). This second usage would render
Leibniz’s claims that humans are always sensing inconsistent, since he also claims that there are times when
awareness is lost (e.g., in the case of a coma, A 6.6.139/NE 139), which would then result in the loss of
sensation in this second sense. In this chapter, I will use sensation in the first sense, as the apparently simple
but constitutively complex representation of the universe.
⁵⁴ A 6.6.119/NE 119. ⁵⁵ A 6.6.447/NE 447.
 ’    
another? There seems to be some at least partial dependency of idea and moral action
on the content of a particular sensory experience.
I will consider a couple of possibilities. First, one might resist the pressure of the
PSR here and say that there is no strong dependency of ideas on the content of a
sensation. There could be a couple of ways to work this out. First, it could be that all
ideas are already implicit in any sensation, in which case the disposition towards an
idea will depend on the sensation only trivially—one must have some sensation but
no particular sensation is required for any given idea. Leibniz clearly thinks that some
ideas are connected with all of our sensations and so any sensation could be sufficient
(provided one is sufficiently attentive and methodical) to produce the idea. For
example, Leibniz says that
the ideas of being, possible, and same are so thoroughly innate that they enter into all our
thoughts and reasoning, and I regard them as essential to our minds. But I have already said that
we do not always pay particular attention to them, and that it takes time to sort them out.⁵⁶
Note that here Leibniz and Locke appear to be in agreement about the conclusion
that certain ideas might accompany any sensation. Here’s Locke:
Existence and Unity, are two other Ideas, that are suggested to the Understanding, by every
Object without, and every Idea within. When Ideas are in our Minds, we consider them as
being actually there, as well as we consider things to be actually without us; which is, that they
exist, or have Existence.⁵⁷
Strangely, Leibniz does not pick up on this possible agreement, commenting only
very briefly on Book II, chapter vii, saying that “the senses could not convince us of
the existence of sensible things without help from reason.”⁵⁸ But Leibniz may be
simply emphasizing the point that sensation alone could not account for knowledge
of ideas. If we have only sensation, then existence and unity would need to be known
by some sort of inference from sensation to these further ideas, something that
Leibniz thinks is not possible without an additional source of ideas.⁵⁹
At any rate, if some ideas are already bound up in sensation or thought, then this
may form a part of the reason the actualization of an idea is dependent upon sensation.
However, it seems implausible to think that this is Leibniz’s view, since it is not clear
that all sensations or thoughts are equally good at providing the opportunity for
methodical attention. (For example, when teaching arithmetic to your kids, you
might use blocks that they can manipulate and aggregate rather than drops of water
that merge together as counted.) If this is right, then it seems that there is some sort of
dependence of the disposition to form an idea on the content of a sensation.
Of course, one might also develop an account of ideas such that the dependence of
ideas on sensation is merely arbitrary. It just happens that a sensation of x connects
with idea y, built into the disposition in a regular but arbitrary way. If this were the
case, then there would be no reason to reflect further on the contents of sensation as if
⁵⁶ A 6.6.102/NE 102. ⁵⁷ Locke, Essays, II.vii.7, qtd. in Weinberg, Consciousness in Locke, 77.
⁵⁸ A 6.6.129/NE 129.
⁵⁹ Shelley Weinberg presents a persuasive argument that for Locke these ideas are constitutive of
sensation, and therefore the ideas would not be known inferentially (Consciousness in Locke, 61–87).
-, ,    
it would illuminate Leibniz’s theory of ideas. But, again, this doesn’t seem like a
plausible way for Leibniz to go. Leibniz insists (against what he takes Locke to be
claiming) that sensations bear non-arbitrary relations to the world, and his account
of the “order of nature” requires it.⁶⁰
In light of these two failed attempts to spell out the dependency of idea on the
content of a sensation, what can be said in its favor? I think there are three general
claims that Leibniz makes, each of which has a role to play in his theory of ideas:
(a) First, there is the relation of sensation to subject: for some of the more general
ideas, any sensation that makes the subject of thought transparent will lead one
to form a particular set of ideas (e.g., being, substance, unity, etc.). Leibniz
regularly appeals to the innateness of our own minds—“there is nothing in the
intellect that was not first in the senses except the intellect itself.”⁶¹ I think that
this is one of the most fundamental of Leibniz’s positions on this, but it is not
unproblematic, since it raises further questions about how particular sensa-
tions or thoughts could actualize an idea of the intellect itself.
(b) Second, there is the non-arbitrary internal complexity of sensation and
thought: it is clear that for Leibniz sensations and thoughts are infinitely but
non-arbitrarily complex, and an analysis of a particular sensation or thought
will not necessarily lead to further illumination. But wrapped in with this
complexity—given the non-arbitrary combination of lower-level percep-
tions—will be some necessary truths and, given the right sort of attention,
we may be able to determine what these are. Of course, not everything that is
uncovered will be an idea (the sensations of blue and red do not generate of
themselves distinct ideas, but the mathematical regularities about the reflec-
tion of light, ideas that accompany the sensations of blue and red, though not
“apparent,” will be).⁶²
(c) Third, and similar to the second, there is the non-arbitrary individuation of
sensations and thoughts: that sensations combine in certain ways to generate
an individuated perceptual field will tell us something about the non-arbitrary
relations among the objects represented in sensation or thought. Leibniz
argues that “the truth about contingent singular things is grounded in the
outcome that sensory phenomena are linked together in just the way required
by truths of the intellect.”⁶³
It seems to me that each of these will play a role in identifying the dependency of
the disposition to form an idea on the content of sensation. Additionally, it will be a
complex story relating to matters of context, education, and attention whether a
given set of sensations will actualize the disposition to form an idea.⁶⁴
⁶⁰ See, for example, A 6.6.56, 117, 131f., 264, 403/NE 56, 117, 131f., 264, 403.
⁶¹ A 6.6.111/NE 111; see also A 6.6.51/NE 51. ⁶² A 6.6.372 and 382–3/NE 372 and 382–3.
⁶³ A 6.6.392/NE 392.
⁶⁴ A 6.6.374/NE 374 allows for contingent links that distinguish sensation from dreams and imagin-
ation, and so even these are important material for reasoning, but it is the necessary connections that
distinct ideas represent.
 ’    
I have not said much yet about moral ideas, which will be important for seeing the
similarities between the movement towards rational thought and the movement
towards moral action. At one point in the New Essays, Leibniz gets frustrated and
says, “I don’t know why you and your associates always want to make virtues, truths
and species depend upon our opinion or knowledge. They are present in nature,
whether or not we know it or like it.”⁶⁵ Leibniz argues that pleasure is a confused
perception of perfection. And since love is “to be disposed to take pleasure in the
perfection, well-being or happiness of the object of one’s love,” the sensory quality of
one’s relations to others is obviously relevant to the moral category of love and the
related ideas of justice and perfection.⁶⁶ The particular content in this case is also
essentially confused—the interior complexity of what pleasure represents.⁶⁷ And so,
the content of the sensation insofar as it represents in a confused way some
underlying perception of perfection, along with the moral knowledge that, Leibniz
says, is innate in the same way that arithmetic is, will play a role in producing the
right action.
2.3. Are the principles themselves truths of reason?

So far, the processes relating to innate ideas and innate practical principles mirror
one another. Sensations, which are non-arbitrary but infinitely analyzable mental
representations, actualize a disposition to form ideas, some of which can be demon-
strated and brought to the full scope of reason. (While this might not be possible in
every case, due to limitations on the capacity of attention, it is at least structurally the
same.) What, then, about the principles governing knowledge and moral action?
This, I think, is where the two diverge. A principle is the representation of an
instinct by the understanding. Leibniz says that
an inclination which is expressed by the understanding becomes a precept or practical truth;
and if the inclination is innate then so also is the truth—there being nothing in the soul which
is not expressed in the understanding, although not always in distinct actual thinking . . . Nor
do instincts always pertain to practice: some of them contain theoretical truths—the in-built
principles of the sciences and of reasoning are like that when we employ them through a
natural instinct without knowing the reasons for them.⁶⁸
The principles of reasoning and moral precepts are representations of the tendency or
instinct towards certain outcomes. In the case of reasoning, it is an instinct towards
the formation of an idea; in the case of moral precepts, it is an instinct towards moral
action.
In most cases, the instincts operate without our being aware of them, although
many of them will be susceptible to demonstration. As Leibniz says regarding the
“principles of the sciences”: they are instinctive when employed “without knowing
the reasons for them.” The clear implication is that these principles can themselves be
subjected to demonstration and we can come to know the reasons for them and
thereafter practice them not merely from instinct but from reason itself. Leibniz goes
⁶⁵ A 6.6.327/NE 327, emphasis added. ⁶⁶ A 6.6.163/NE 163.

⁶⁷ A 6.6.194/NE 194. ⁶⁸ A 6.6.90/NE 90.
-, ,    
on to say that “there are in us instinctive truths which are innate principles that we
sense and that we approve even when we have no proof of them—though we get one
when we explain the instinct in question. This is how we employ the laws of
inference, being guided by a confused knowledge of them, as if by instinct, though
the logicians demonstrate the reasons for them.”⁶⁹ In the case of logic or scientific
method, while we might approach the topics with an instinctive sense for what is
needed to move from one idea to the next, these very instincts can be explained and
demonstrated. (This puts me in mind of a line from Iris Murdoch, who said,
“Philosophers merely do explicitly and systematically and often with art what the
ordinary person does by instinct.”⁷⁰)
Leibniz’s description of the use of reason in the New Essays bears out this point.
Leibniz says that “reason is a chain of truths”⁷¹ and he says that humans rise above
the animals when “they see the connections between truths—connections which
themselves constitute necessary and universal truths.”⁷² Certain of our instincts
reflect underlying necessary connections, and when we come to know these connec-
tions, we are able to explicitly draw out the connections that we previously followed
only according to instinct. The principles of reasoning—the intellectual representa-
tion of our disposition towards ideas—are themselves ideas.
Moral knowledge is different. The “instinct of humanity” is an instinct to “pursue
joy and avoid sorrow.” Can this principle be rationally known? According to Leibniz,
it cannot: “morality has indemonstrable principles, of which one of the first and most
practical is that we ‘pursue joy and avoid sorrow,’ . . . that is not a truth which is
known solely from reason, since it is based on inner experience—on confused
knowledge; for one only senses what joy and sorrow are.”⁷³ The reason this instinct
cannot be rationally demonstrated is because it essentially involves sensation, and the
sensory content cannot be rationally demonstrated (although, as discussed above, the
sensations are non-arbitrary and they do reveal truths of fact). Joy, Leibniz tells us, is
“something in the present,” a momentary sensation, while reason can lead us into the
future, to lasting happiness. But insofar as this presupposes joy and sensation, then
reason alone cannot give us full moral knowledge.
This seems to conflict with Leibniz’s claim that morality is demonstrable. But the
nature of the instinct of humanity entails that moral theory will always be hypothet-
ical. Leibniz says that “Given this principle [the principle that expresses the instinct of
humanity] . . . one can derive scientific conclusions from it, [and so] morality [is] a
demonstrative science.”⁷⁴ That is, if we assume the principle, reason can fill out the
rest. There is a set of principles that express moral instincts that depend (at least
partly) on sensation, from which we can rationally deduce moral action.
⁶⁹ A 6.6.91/NE 91, emphasis added.

⁷⁰ Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good (New York: Routledge, 1971), 91. ⁷¹ A 6.6.199/NE 199.
⁷² A 6.6.275–6/NE 275–6. Both passages are qtd. in McRae, Leibniz: Perception, Apperception, and
Thought, 46. A 6.6.275/NE 275 also says that “in beasts is merely an expectation of a similar issue in a case
which appears to resemble the past, with no knowledge of whether the same reason obtains.” How should
this be spelled out? Is it that the animals cannot come to know the connections, the principles, while rational
beings can? That seems to be entailed. They act only on instinct (a “shadow of reason”) without being able
to know the principle.
⁷³ A 6.6.88/NE 88, emphasis added. ⁷⁴ A 6.6.89/NE 89.
 ’    
2.4. How are ideas and actions themselves related to reason?

Leibniz does not think that the content of sensation alone is sufficient for any distinct
idea or truth of reason. Rather, sensation activates an already present disposition or
instinct to form the relevant concept. Again, there is a rather complex structure to
how this might occur.
Since Leibniz says that sensation can occur without awareness (or at very low
levels of awareness), and since we have noted that some ideas are bound up with all
sensations, it seems that concepts can be formed without any awareness of the idea.
And so, while Leibniz’s explicit line of defense against Locke’s claim that we have no
innate ideas is that innate ideas are not actual thoughts—rather, they are disposi-
tions to form the relevant concepts—he does appear to allow for the presence of
concepts “under the surface” as it were. Indeed, when he argues that innate ideas are
merely dispositions, he adds that “these potentialities are always accompanied by
certain actualities, often insensible ones, which correspond to them.”⁷⁵ As argued in
the previous section, I am inclined to think that fundamental to all of this is an
underlying structure in the mind that expresses the modal contours of God’s
intellect. Leibniz argues that the “linking together of ideas” in a necessary way
(e.g., “the angles of every three-sided figure are equal to two right angles”) is
grounded in the “Supreme and Universal Mind,” which, he says, “is where I find
the pattern for the ideas and truths which are engraved in our souls.”⁷⁶ If this is
right, then there may be a closer connection between perception and conception
than has been acknowledged.
Rationality would need to go beyond the mere “traces” or “veins” in the marble.
Rationality, in its fullest sense, is not merely to have an idea (whether dispositional or
occurrent), nor to be aware of the idea (as in reflection), but also to know its
necessity. (Not many ideas come with necessity as an obvious feature!) To fully
know the idea as a necessary idea, it must be demonstrated, reduced to identities.⁷⁷
Moral knowledge is no different from metaphysical or mathematical knowledge
here. As Leibniz says, “moral knowledge is innate in just the same way that arithmetic
is, for it too depends upon demonstrations provided by the inner light.”⁷⁸ Propositions
about the nature of justice are demonstrable in just the same way that proposi-
tions about the nature of rectangles are, grounded in the principle of contradiction
and reducible to identities.
This is the distinguishing feature of distinct ideas from sensation: the sensory
content of a sensation is infinitely analyzable, unable to be resolved to an identity.
Ideas that express truths of reason, by contrast, are finitely demonstrable (at
least in principle). But both are subject to full explanation, both are intelligible
(at least in principle). And this lines up perfectly with Leibniz’s discussion of
⁷⁵ A 6.6.52/NE 52, emphasis added.

⁷⁶ A 6.6.447/NE 447. See also A 6.6.109, 149, 265, 268. 296, 300, and 440/NE 109, 149, 265, 268, 296,
300, and 440.
⁷⁷ A 6.6.361–2/NE 361–2. ⁷⁸ A 6.6.92/NE 92.
-, ,    
modality, as we would expect: “truths of reason are necessary, and those of fact are
contingent.”⁷⁹
Leibniz presents a complex and rich account of the relation between sensation and
ideas on the one hand, and sensation and moral action on the other. The two
processes are similar in structure, but one will often allow us to make a Platonic
ascent from sensation to ideas, while the other leaves us firmly in the grips of
sensation. Leibniz’s moral epistemology is tethered to sensation. As Leibniz says
about other forms of sensory knowledge:
The truths of sensible things is established by the links amongst them; these depend on
intellectual truths, grounded in reason, and upon observation of regularities among sensible
things themselves, even when the reasons are not apparent. Since these reasons and observa-
tions provide us with means to make judgments about the future as it bears upon our interests,
and since the outcome bears out our judgments, when they are reasonable, we can neither ask
for nor, indeed, attain any greater certainty about such objects.⁸⁰
The dance between sensation and reason gives us sufficient grounds to pursue our
interests and the interests of humanity, and so we are in the best position when we are
attentive to the kinds of connections that we observe in sensation. The degenerate
person, in Leibniz’s epistemology, is the Empiric, whom he compares (negatively) to
animals. The Empiric fails to invoke basic human capacities and lives as if sense
experience alone were sufficient for knowledge. They fail to recognize what Leibniz
describes as the “privilege” of humanity. The principal function of sensation is to lead
one to reason, and the failure to make this ascent is an epistemic tragedy.
But this is not a failure of reason per se—even the most stubborn Empiric will be
exercising rational faculties if only instinctively. Leibniz says that the “principal use of
reason is to know the good and to pursue it.”⁸¹ But he also says “as for morality: one
part of it is wholly grounded on reasons, but there is another part which rests on
experiences and has to do with [people’s] temperaments.”⁸² Again, we see the
dynamic: sensation and thought lead us to reason, which requires further attention
to the particular circumstances we find ourselves in. Sensations and thoughts are
essential to the well-lived life, since they conceal non-arbitrary connections with the
rest of the world, they have veins of ideas running through them, they provide us
opportunities for attention and improvement, and they are already value-laden. They
provide the basis for a “good will,”⁸³ an instinct directed at the common good.
3. Continuity Redux
In this final section, I want to consider what it is that distinguishes non-rational
animals from human beings. The passages quoted in section 1 of chapter 10 show
that Leibniz was committed to a rather sharp difference between non-rational
⁷⁹ A 6.6.361/NE 361. See also A 6.6.211/NE 211: “sensations also involve action, in as much as they
present us with perceptions which stand out more, and thus with opportunities for observation and self-
development, so to speak.”
⁸⁰ A 6.6.444/NE 444, emphasis mine. ⁸¹ A 6.6.199/NE 199.
⁸² A 6.6.352/NE 352. ⁸³ A 6.6.510/NE 510.
 ’    
animals and humans. And Leibniz characterizes this difference in terms of the
capability to reason. As he says in PNG:
True reasoning depends on necessary or eternal truths, such as those of logic, numbers, and
geometry, which bring about an indubitable connection of ideas and infallible consequences.
Animals in which these consequences are not noticed are called beasts; but those who know
these necessary truths are those that are properly called rational animals, and their souls are
called minds. These souls are capable of performing reflective acts, and capable of considering
what is called “I”, substance, soul, mind—in brief, immaterial things and immaterial truths.
And that is what makes us capable of the sciences or of demonstrative knowledge.⁸⁴
The key distinguishing feature here is that rational animals are self-reflective, and by
means of reflection they are able to know necessary truths. Non-rational animals lack
this capability.
Now, if my argument in section 1 is correct, then the ground of ideas, the
expression of eternal and necessary truths, is the fact that the self is an expression
of the divine, then it seems that Leibniz is not entitled to a strong distinction between
rational and non-rational animals. Leibniz’s argument that minds express the divine
is grounded in the fact that “the entire effect represents the whole cause.”⁸⁵ Since God
is the whole cause of minds, then minds are individual expressions of the divine. But
this argument applies equally to all substances, not just minds. Every individual
substance is an expression of the divine mind, and insofar as it has internal disposi-
tions that strive to form concepts consistent with this expression of the divine mind,
then every individual substance has ideas.
The theory of ideas I have been arguing for is that ideas are dispositions to form
modal truths (about both actual and possible things), which are grounded in the
internal true expression of the nature of things. If the internal true expression of the
natures of things is entailed by the fact that every individual is immediately caused by
God alone, then every individual substance has this aspect of ideas. So, we may ask
the further question: does every individual substance have internal dispositions to
form concepts related to these expressions?
Leibniz does not need to say that substances differ radically on this point. It seems
to me that given two aspects of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind, it would follow that
each substance could have such dispositions. First, Leibniz’s account of appetite
suggests that each subset of the total expressive range of the substance is striving to
increase its power within the whole, and the prevailing appetite is due to a compe-
tition among these sub-appetites. The basic expressions of modal truths would be
among these, and there would be a set of internal appetites striving to increase the
power of these expressions. Second, it seems that the formation of concepts does not
require that they be consciously formed.⁸⁶ And so there is no contradiction in
thinking that even some very faint occurrent perceptions map onto these modal
truths without yielding knowledge of necessary truths. And so even non-rational
⁸⁴ PNG §5. ⁸⁵ A 6.4.1371/L 208. See also DM §28.

⁸⁶ As noted above, Lodge and Puryear make this argument in Lodge and Puryear, “Unconscious
Conceiving and Leibniz’s Argument for Primitive Concepts,” §4.
-, ,    
substances could have dispositions to form concepts and some of these dispositions
could be actualized in a faint way.
This is supported by the PNG passage above, where Leibniz says that beasts are
“animals in which these consequences are not noticed.” He does not say that the
consequences are not internally expressed by the lower substances; it is only that they
are not noticed. And there are passages in which Leibniz is actually prepared to
suggest a greater continuity between non-rational animals and humans. For example,
in a short note called “Reflections on the Souls of Beasts” (1710?), Leibniz says:
[L]est we are seen to make man too equal to a beast, it must be understood that there is an
immense difference between the perception of men and beasts. For besides the lowest degree of
perception that is found even in the stupefied (as has been explained), and a middle degree
which we call sensation and recognize in beasts, there is a higher degree which we call thought.
But thought is perception joined with reason, which beasts, so far as we can tell, do not have.
And later in the same essay:
Therefore beasts (as far as we can tell) are not aware of the universality of propositions, because
they are not aware of the basis of necessity.⁸⁷
The inclusion of the phrase “as far as we can tell” (quantum observare possumus) is
interesting in this context where Leibniz is at pains to distinguish beasts from rational
animals. The key difference is whether an individual can make inferences to neces-
sary truths, a difficult matter even for many of us humans, requiring an attention and
care of thought that we do not often give to our conclusions.
I recognize the controversial nature of this claim, and I also recognize that the
textual evidence in favor of animals having ideas in the sense that I have outlined is
not as strong as I might hope for. But I do think it is entailed by the overarching
argument and by Leibniz’s systematic concerns, and so it must be taken seriously.
Leibniz himself didn’t play out this entailment as fully as is warranted by his
underlying principles, but the resources are here for a defense of the claim that
non-rational animals have ideas, although they are not able to develop these ideas
into conscious conceptual cognition.
And so one possible response to the worry about continuity between what Leibniz
calls beasts and rational animals is that there is a continuity that we have not yet been
able to observe. We know, Leibniz thinks, that humans are capable of a priori
demonstration. It is an open question just how far down the chain of being that
capacity goes.
However, this response would simply move the question down the chain. Wher-
ever the distinction arises between those animals that can engage in rational infer-
ences and those that cannot, would there not be a gap, an ontological leap in
substance kinds?
Perhaps a better response is that the underlying tendencies, appetites, or instincts,
are stronger in some animals than others. If an appetite to formulate the concept of
self is present in all substances, it may be too weak in many to ever be felt above the
⁸⁷ G 7.330–2/Shorter 66–7.
 ’    
frenzy of other appetites and perceptions. But some substance kinds have sufficiently
heightened perceptions that allow for the emergence of this faint voice among
the mass of others. Once this tendency to form the concept of self (or ideas that
are expressed within the concept of self) becomes itself sufficiently heightened, the
individuals are capable of distinguishing the conceptual ingredients in a way that
enables rational inferences.
It seems to me that such a capacity to form a heightened expression or concept of
the self is something that could come in degrees, thereby allowing for a fully
naturalized theory of ideas as well as perception.
Conclusion
Nature and Grace: Striking
a Leibnizian Harmony
This distinction between what is natural and explicable and what is miraculous
and inexplicable removes all the difficulties. To reject it would be to uphold
something worse than occult qualities, and thereby to renounce philosophy and
reason, giving refuge to ignorance and laziness by means of an irrational system.
—G.W. Leibniz¹
I have argued that Leibniz offers us a fully naturalized philosophy of mind.

Leibniz argued that only a fully natural theory of mind would be intelligible and
amenable to explanation. A failure of naturalism would yield an inexplicable
theory of mind, and—in one of his bolder claims—he says that it would “renounce
philosophy and reason, giving refuge to ignorance and laziness by means of an
irrational system.”²
I will not rehearse the contours of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind here, although I do
think that it is rich with suggestions and implications regarding mental representa-
tion, consciousness, motivation, and conceptual thought, tapping into a rich vein of
ideas that could be productively mined.
By way of conclusion, I would like to suggest three take-away points from Leibniz’s
naturalized philosophy of mind, each of which I think can be instructive in today’s
discussions. First, Leibniz’s naturalism provides an illuminating way to think about
the naturalizing project in philosophy of mind. Second, Leibniz’s naturalized phil-
osophy of mind demonstrates one way in which the project of naturalism does not
necessarily entail physicalism.³ And third, Leibniz’s naturalism actually coheres with
certain religious positions, allowing for a better-considered harmony between natural
philosophy and philosophy of religion.
¹ A 6.6.66/NE 66. ² Ibid.

³ Portions of sections 1 and 2 of this conclusion overlap with my broader historical survey in Larry
M. Jorgensen, “Consciousness in Western Philosophy,” in The Routledge Handbook of Consciousness, ed.
Rocco J. Gennaro (New York: Routledge, 2018).
 ’    
1. The Project of Naturalism

A naturalized theory will be a theory that has no irresolvable “mysteries”—mysteries
like those presented by phenomenal consciousness or subjective experience. As Fred
Dretske has put it, a naturalized theory may not “remove all the mysteries [but] it
removes enough of them . . . to justify putting one’s money on the nose of this
philosophical horse.”⁴ While many of today’s defenders of naturalism will define
naturalism in terms of the natural sciences, Leibniz’s philosophy suggests a broader
definition. For contemporary naturalists, we can ask: what is it about continuity with
the natural sciences that would make this a desirable goal? This would press for a
more fundamental aim of naturalism, one that would be open to a broader compari-
son with historical figures such as Leibniz without falling into anachronism.
I will identify two principal constraints that I think are at the core of what makes
naturalism desirable, and which Leibniz’s philosophy of mind illustrates.
One way to recognize a naturalized theory is that it provides plausible or satisfac-
tory explanations of all mental states and events. This is evident from the claim that
we want to remove mysteries from our theories. Naturalism is about discharging
explanatory demands. Any explanation of consciousness should make it intelligible.
And so the first constraint for a naturalized philosophy of mind is the intelligibility
constraint.
Of course, as we have seen in our discussion of Leibniz’s engagement with other
figures in the seventeenth century, there may be non-natural ways to make some-
thing intelligible. When natural events are conceived in terms of the behavior of the
gods, this is a way of making those events intelligible. However, if appeal to the gods
makes the explanation more mysterious (because the gods are fickle and unpredict-
able), then it would not satisfy the intelligibility constraint. What we want is a way of
making the events intelligible without introducing new mysteries—making them
intelligible in ways that would allow us to (at least in principle if not in practice)
make predictions and govern our behavior accordingly.⁵
However, some conceptions of divine activity are fully consistent and predictable,
as we saw in our discussion of occasionalism in the early chapters of this book.
Would such a theory that incorporated divine activity into natural explanations be a
naturalized theory? Surely not. Rather, a second constraint on naturalism seems to
require intelligibility in terms of the natures of the things themselves. That is, an
explanation should be immanent to the things being explained. This is not to say that
natural events must be intelligible in terms of intrinsic properties. Rather, any
properties invoked should be properties (intrinsic, dispositional, relational) of the
kinds of things being explained. For example, rain would be more naturally explained
⁴ Fred Dretske, Naturalizing the Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), xiii.
⁵ I say “in principle if not in practice,” since many of the natural causes are so complex that it is
practically impossible to make a prediction if not theoretically impossible. Quantum mechanics is often
mentioned in this context, raising the question of just how strong the intelligibility constraint ought to be.
I don’t have a fully formed answer to this, but if the natural sciences become as unpredictable as the fickle
gods, then I am not sure any more what the project of naturalism will be. There does seem to be some
condition of intelligibility required even in these cases, and interpretations of quantum theory seem to
support this claim.
 
by appealing to the properties of the atmosphere and water cycle rather than by
appealing to divine activity. Call this the immanence constraint.⁶
The naturalizing project, then, will be to satisfy these two constraints, and so a
naturalized theory of consciousness would be one that makes consciousness
intelligible in terms of features of the mind and body. Or, to put it differently, it
will provide an explanatory framework that ensures intelligibility, consistency, and
immanence, and in which consciousness plays its unique role. Consciousness
and other aspects of mind then become intelligible aspects of nature. Without
such a framework, the mind—and particularly consciousness—remains somewhat
mysterious.⁷
We have seen these two constraints defended in Leibniz’s philosophy of mind:
he sought to provide a fully intelligible account of the mind, explained in terms of
the mind itself. And the argument of this book is that he went farther towards his
goal than has previously been appreciated, naturalizing even the higher functions
of the mind, like reflection and reason, which might seem to create theological
tensions for someone like Leibniz. But I do think that he saw a way to hold these
in tension and provide a fully naturalized account, as I have argued. And so the
model that Leibniz provides gives us one way to attempt the naturalizing project
in philosophy of mind.⁸
⁶ There are perhaps other ways to formulate the constraints of a naturalized theory, and indeed
someone trying to articulate how naturalism is understood today might identify different constraints.
However, I intend to identify constraints that are sufficiently neutral to the theory that results from it. For
example, I would not want to identify a constraint of intelligibility in terms of common or universal natural
laws, since that is a modern concept and it would rule out efforts to naturalize the philosophy of mind of
historical figures predating the modern conception of natural law. I am here trying to articulate an account
of naturalism that would allow for a broader comparison.
⁷ These two constraints might create problems for a theory in which consciousness turns out to be a
basic property of the mind. But intuitively this seems right. If consciousness turns out to be basic, then
consciousness will be able to play a role in explaining other features of mentality, but it will not itself be
explained. Someone might try to save naturalism here by positing it as a basic fact that consciousness is a
property of the mind, in which case it satisfies the immanence constraint—there is no appeal to other
things to explain the presence of consciousness besides the fundamental nature of the minds themselves.
But this leaves open the question of intelligibility.
One prominent response of this sort is found in Descartes’s reply to Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia.
When Elisabeth asks how mind and body interact, Descartes appeals to a primitive notion of mind–body
union, which is not explicable in terms of any more fundamental notions. Many historians of philosophy
have found this rather unintelligible. For the exchange between Descartes and Elisabeth, see The Corres-
pondence between Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes, 61–73; Daniel Garber,
“Understanding Interaction: What Descartes Should Have Told Elisabeth,” Southern Journal of
Philosophy 21, no. SUPP (1983); and David Yandell, “What Descartes Really Told Elisabeth: Mind–Body
Union as a Primitive Notion,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 5 (1997).
⁸ For more discussion of how naturalism is used in today’s context, see Dretske, Naturalizing the Mind;
Carruthers, Phenomenal Consciousness: A Naturalistic Theory; Mario De Caro, “Varieties of Naturalism,”
in The Waning of Materialism, ed. Robert C. Koons and George Bealer (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2010); and Steven Horst, “Naturalisms in Philosophy of Mind,” Philosophy Compass 4 (2009). As
I mentioned, my own characterization here differs in important respects from the positions defended in
these texts since my goal is to find the core of naturalism that would allow us to make an informed and
broader historical survey.
 ’    
2. Naturalism and Physicalism

One immediate implication of the claim that Leibniz provides a naturalized philosophy
of mind is that naturalism does not entail physicalism. If we recognize the above two
constraints as what is desired from a naturalized theory, then it will turn out that
naturalism will be compatible with dualism and idealism as well, and there is reason to
expect that even today a fully naturalized theory of consciousness might be incompat-
ible with physicalism.⁹
One main project of much recent philosophy of mind has been to discover how the
mind fits into a physical world, and so naturalism has been regarded as coextensive
with physicalism. But I think this is a mistake. Leibniz provides an example of a way
we can aim for the goals of naturalism without prejudging the debate between
physicalism and its detractors. Leibniz provides a naturalized theory of mind within
an idealist ontology. And I do think that this still can provide a promising way to a
fully naturalized theory of mind, a way that has been underexplored.
There has been a recent effort to reclaim naturalism from physicalism. Brie Gertler
has recently defended “naturalistic dualism,” in which the non-physical mind is as
much a part of the natural order as the brain and other physical objects. To the
charge that the view is “spooky,” Gertler appeals to Bertrand Russell’s claim that
“matter has become altogether too ghostly to be used as an adequate stick with which
to beat the mind,” and she concludes:
Surely, dualism does not spookify our overall picture of the world. That picture was already
plenty spooky, due to the progress of physics itself. So there is no reason to hold that dualism is
spooky, or that it conflicts with a broadly scientific, naturalistic picture of reality.¹⁰
And so Gertler provides one more recent example of a naturalism that does not entail
physicalism. We could appeal to others. For one more example, Berit Brogaard and
others have argued for naturalized theories of panpsychism, consistent with the facts
of the natural sciences as we know them. Here is Brogaard:
I think that the most plausible version of constitutive panpsychism grows out of thoughts
about the analogy between the mystery of consciousness and the mystery of gravity. The
mystery of gravity comes from the fact that while physicists can detect the effects of gravity on
planets and stars, gravity is very different from other elementary forces. For one thing, it seems
to have an indefinite range, permeating matter in the most distant corners of the universe. For
another, while we have quite elegant large-scale descriptions of gravity in terms of the
curvature of spacetime, we are completely in the dark when it comes to its elementary nature.
To compensate for this lack of knowledge, physicists posit the existence of gravitons: hypo-
thetical tiny, massless elementary particles that emanate gravitational fields.
The mystery of consciousness looks not altogether different from that of gravity. Philosophy,
psychology, and neuroscience can explain, or may ultimately be able to explain, certain
⁹ I will not rehearse all of the particular problems that consciousness raises for physicalism. I refer the
reader interested in a good overview to David J. Chalmers, The Conscious Mind: In Search of a
Fundamental Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996).
¹⁰ Brie Gertler, “In Defense of Mind–Body Dualism,” in Consciousness and the Mind–Body Problem, ed.
Torin Alter and Robert J. Howell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 44–5.
 
large-scale aspects of consciousness, for example how it arises when neurons oscillate in
particular ways. But there is little hope that large-scale theories can offer a theory of the
fundamental nature of consciousness.
To be sure, I am not proposing that gravity and consciousness are intimately connected. All the
analogy does is demonstrate how two mysteries of science are similar in some interesting
respects. Gravity and consciousness are phenomena we are extremely acquainted with in
everyday life. Sure, we are acquainted with them in different ways. But both play a crucial
role in our everyday activities. Both phenomena allow for some large-scale explanation of how
they actually come about. No one has a clue as to the fundamental nature of the phenomena.
But the analogy does not end here. For it is at least theoretically possible that both gravity and
consciousness are field-like phenomena composed of elementary particles: gravitons and
mentons, respectively.¹¹
I quoted at length here to show that character of Brogaard’s engagement here. Notice
that one of the principal aims of her more scientifically respectable theory of con-
sciousness is to dispense with fundamental mysteries, just as scientists have done in
introducing gravitons to explain gravitation. Here we have an effort to naturalize the
mind that leads away from physicalism (at least as it has often been conceived).
These recent examples are, I think, in the same family of naturalized theories as
Leibniz’s. Naturalism cannot presuppose the truth of physicalism. Rather, we ought to
become clear on what the basic goals of naturalism are, as argued in the previous section,
and then see where the arguments take us in trying to satisfy those naturalizing con-
straints. We may very well end up in a position other than physicalism. By distinguishing
the aims of naturalism from those of physicalism, we may be able better to articulate what
we want from a naturalized theory without presupposing the outcome.
3. Naturalism and Religion

A third implication of Leibniz’s naturalized philosophy of mind is that naturalism
turns out to be compatible with certain religious points of view. Leibniz provides
what I might call a theological naturalism. Or, following Lea Schweitz, we might call it
a sacramental naturalism.¹² Leibniz insists that we could conceive the total order of
the universe under the heading of natural law or under the heading of the system of
grace. I quoted the following passage in chapter 1:
[T]he laws of nature regarding motive force come from superior reasons and an immaterial
cause, which does everything in the most perfect way . . . And all this endless infinite variety is
animated in all its parts by an Architectural Wisdom that is more than infinite. One could
¹¹ Berit Brogaard, “In Search of Mentons: Panpsychism, Physicalism, and the Missing Link,” in
Panpsychism: Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Godehard Bruntrup and Ludwig Jaskolla (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2016), 137–8. See also Berit Brogaard, “The Status of Consciousness in Nature,” in The
Constitution of Phenomenal Consciousness: Toward a Science and Theory, ed. Steven M. Miller
(Amsterdam: Johns Benjamins, 2015).
¹² This is not Schweitz’s term, but her argument that we should understand Leibniz’s claims sacramen-
tally provides another way of conceptualizing Leibniz’s naturalizing project. See Schweitz, “On the
Continuity of Nature and the Uniqueness of Human Life in G.W. Leibniz.”
 ’    
say that there is a harmony of geometry, of metaphysics, and, so to speak, of morality

throughout . . . So that one could say that all nature is full of miracles, but miracles of reason,
and they become miracles by being reasonable, in a way that astonishes us. For these reasons,
there is an infinite progress, where our mind, although it sees as it should, can be followed by
an understanding of it. Otherwise, nature is admired without being understood . . . [T]he true
temperament for appreciating nature is with knowledge, recognizing that the more we
advance, the more we discover the wonder and beauty and grandeur of those same reasons
that are more surprising and less comprehensible to us.¹³
We might wonder why this would be at all desirable. If the universe can be
understood from the perspective of science or metaphysics without invoking theo-
logical claims, then why not limit ourselves to this perspective? After all, it seems in
the spirit of simplicity and careful theory selection not to invoke entities where they
are not necessary. So, why invoke God at all in a fully naturalized philosophy of
mind? (And—I must admit—God has been invoked quite a few times in the pages of
this book, which one must do to do full justice to Leibniz’s theory.)
I think there are two ways that Leibniz’s naturalizing project comes together with
his theological commitments. (These should not be construed as arguments on behalf
of his theological commitments—he has other things to say on that front.)
First, we could ask the question: why should we expect nature to be regular and
intelligible in the first place? That is, what grounds the expectation or assumption
that natural philosophy will be satisfied when it undertakes its investigation into
nature? Perhaps things are fundamentally random or chaotic in a way that would
resist any effort at explanation. Leibniz’s answer is to appeal to the nature of God as
fully rational and benevolent in God’s actions. That is, if the universe depends
ontologically on God, and if God is rational and benevolent, then God will ensure
a kind of order and consistency in the universe. But this will be assured from the
beginning of time (if there is a beginning) and in terms of the natures of things
themselves, since God, Leibniz says, is a perfect architect, able to build into the
system all that it needs to run on its own steam. Absent such an ontological ground,
I think Leibniz would be less confident that nature is fundamentally intelligible.
Second, as he suggests in the passage above, Leibniz thinks that a system of nature
that is not grounded in a benevolent deity would lack the basis for admiration or
moral judgment. Nature would be as it is, neither good nor bad. But Leibniz thinks
that there is much to admire in nature, and our experience of nature is thin and
impoverished if we view it as merely a perpetual machine devoid of meaning or value.
This particular aspect of Leibniz’s thought gets him into a different tangle, since the
presence of evil in the world seems uncontroversial but also inconsistent with the
actions of a benevolent God. And so Leibniz takes great pains to show that there is no
philosophical contradiction here in his Theodicy and other writings. But to fully
explore Leibniz’s moral theory and his theodicy would require a full volume of its
own. For now, I will say only that Leibniz thought an impoverished view of nature as
impersonal results in an impoverished ethic as well.
¹³ Leibniz to Jacques-Benigne Bossuet, April 8/18, 1692 (A II.ii.516–17), emphasis mine.

 
In sum, Leibniz’s naturalized theory of mind is grounded in his theological views

in ways that we might do well to continue to question. What does ground our
expectation that nature is intelligible? This question connects with the realism/anti-
realism debate in the philosophy of science, where some argue that our scientific
theories provide at least some purchase on how the world really is (that is, it succeeds
in making certain aspects of nature intelligible to us) while others argue that
intelligibility is ultimately culturally determined. Obviously, there are a number of
ways to work out the details of these two extremes and their intermediate positions.
Leibniz himself is interesting in this regard, given that his physical theories remain at
some remove from what he takes to be the ultimate ground of reality. The intelligi-
bility of physical models rests in something more fundamental. And this continues to
be contested ground in philosophy of science and in metaphysics.
What does seem clear to me is that Leibniz’s God is not a meddler in the natural
order. Aside from the possibility of a couple of rare miracles (and I have my
suspicions that there are no true miracles for Leibniz), Leibniz’s theology grounds a
theory of nature that yields a natural philosophical method. If nature can be expected
to be intelligible and open to rational understanding, then we will approach it with
that aim. As Leroy Loemker notes, although Leibniz was “second to none in his faith
in science . . . a forger of its new mathematical tools and social instruments, the
academies, he was also vigorous in opposing the divorce between truth and action,
and between power and its moral controls.”¹⁴ Loemker notes this against the
background of the testing of atomic bombs, which highlights the need for careful
attention to the underlying physics and technology as well as the moral import of our
place in nature.
4. Conclusion
The overarching interpretation I have provided of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind is
one that tries to take Leibniz’s stated commitment to a fully natural theory of mind to
its full extent. Some might doubt whether Leibniz was committed to this position, or
at least not to the extent that I have argued for here. Indeed, there are many texts that
seem to work against the theory, where Leibniz admits to some sort of divine action
or to some mysterious aspect of mind. I have included many of those texts in this
book in hopes to show that they can be read in a way that is consistent with Leibniz’s
broad commitment to a fully natural theory.
The resulting theory is one that is interesting and potentially fruitful. Leibniz did
not develop fully all of the details, and at certain points I have had to speculate what
Leibniz meant such that he could consistently hold to his more basic systematic
commitments. By approaching Leibniz systematically in this way, I hope to have
presented an account of Leibniz’s philosophy of mind that gives full credit to how it
connects with other aspects of his philosophy and enriches our discussion.
¹⁴ L 1.
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Index
action, moral 270–3, 276–9 Bowne, Borden Parker 92n.9

see also justice Boyer, Carl B. 33n.3
see also identity, moral Boyle, Robert 79–80, 80n.91, 81–2, 84
activity, divine 16–17, 24–5, 29, 213, 242–3, Brandom, Robert 125–6, 137–8
284–5 Bremer, Manuel 113n.40
see also miracles Broad, C. D. 71
see also naturalism Brogaard, Berit 286–7
see also occasionalism Brown, Gregory 77n.77, 244n.5, 257n.55
Adams, Robert Merrihew 8n.14, 13n.10, 14–15,
14n.14, 25n.51, 27, 61–2, 72n.60, Carlin, Lawrence 213n.44
77–8, 77n.77, 94–5, 98, 111–12, 208, 210, Carnap, Rudolf 113n.40
212, 234, 258, 265n.23, 268n.32 Carriero, John 209n.28
agency, moral 26, 351, 404, 480, 537 Carruthers, Peter 154n.33, 285n.8
Anapolitanos, Dionysios 46n.61, 47n.63, Cartesianism, Leibniz’s rejection of:
54n.94, 140n.56 problem of consciousness 146–51
Anaxagoras 18–20 as relying on God’s volition 60
animals 97, 157–8, 214, 216, 279 as rejecting general laws 64, 160–2
consciousness of 191–2, 195–6, 257 as occasionalist 36–9
generation of 228 as unintelligible 56
memory of 180, 198, 221 as unnatural 11–16, 202
and moral identity 245 causation 115, 209, 218
Antognazza, Maria Rosa 255 efficient 73n.64, 81–3, 213–17
appearance of the self 16, 252, 269–70 final 70–5, 82–3, 213, 216
apperception 131, 146, 151, 155, 172–6, immanent 83, 96
182n.33 mechanical 19, 28, 215, 218
appetite 102, 157, 201, 209 natural change 37, 42, 49, 59, 101–2,
Aristotelianism 23–4, 33, 56–7, 98n.30, 99, 206 202, 213
Aristotle 11–14, 79, 94–5 Chalmers, David 286n.9
Arnauld, Antoine, correspondence with charity of the wise see justice
Leibniz 12–13, 21–2, 37, 41, 94, Clarke, Samuel, correspondence with
176n.10, 177, 225, 252–3, 260–1 Leibniz 12n.6, 23n.45, 26–8, 74–5,
Arthur, Richard T. W. 35n.10, 54n.94 84–5, 102
attributes, distinct 121 Cohnitz, Daniel 113n.40
compossibility 48, 59
Bar-Hillel, Yehoshua 113n.40 conatus 12–13, 99, 210
Barth, Christian 171, 194n.58 see also Hobbes
Bayle, Pierre 64, 214–15, 217 concepts, distinct 121
beasts see animals conceptual density 50–1, 196
Bennett, Jonathan Francis 181n.27 confusion 121–2, 185, 198, 208, 265
Berkeley, George 92n.9 consciousness:
Bernoulli, Johann, correspondence with external world 147n.8, 190–2
Leibniz 33n.2, 42n.46, 203–4, memory theory of 184–91, 194, 199–200
205nn.13, 17, 241n.43 occurent higher-order theory of 154, 159,
Bernstein, Howard R. 12n.9 162–3, 177–8, 199, 267
best, principle of 19, 51, 75, 168–9 reflective 147n.8, 253–4
Black, Andrew 62n.21 same-order theory of 158, 163, 194
Blumenfeld, David 77n.77 threshold theory of 165–6, 188–9, 191, 194, 200
Bobro, Marc 245n.7 see also animals
Bolton, Martha 114–15, 174–5 see also perceptual distinctness
Bossuet, Jacques-Benigne 29, 39, 288n.13 see also sensation
Bowler, Peter J. 233n.24 continuity, types of see density
 
continuity, principle of 34, 45, 51, 56, 145, 159, 168 equipollence 38–40
and intelligibility 17, 51, 57, 59 evil, problem of 23, 76–7, 91, 207–8, 288
as a naturalizing constraint 56, 145, 147, 205 Extension Problem 173–4, 185–6, 188, 190–1
see also best, principle of
see also occasionalism Fichant, Michel 37–8, 38n.24, 39n.30, 93n.16,
see also sufficient reason, principle of 129n.30, 135n.44
contradiction, principle of 70–5, 278 finite things 19, 66, 91, 242–3
Cook, Daniel J. 14n.14, 27 Floridi, Luciano 113n.40
Costabel, Pierre 39n.31 force, active and passive 90–1, 97, 105–6, 116,
Couturat, Louis 188 204, 206, 210
Cover, J. A. 13n.11, 246n.10 Foucher, Simon, correspondence with
Crockett, Timothy 47nn.63, 67 Leibniz 22n.38, 33n.2, 39, 42, 53, 267
Curley, Edwin 245n.7 Fouke, Daniel C. 231n.21, 238–9
freedom 91, 121–2, 131, 251
death 26n.58, 49, 247–8 Furth, Montgomery 124, 148, 164, 172
De Caro, Mario 285n.8
de Gaudemar, Martine 152 Garber, Daniel 38, 40, 98, 128n.29, 285n.7
Della Rocca, Michael 74n.65 Gassendi, Pierre 82–4
denomination, intrinsic and extrinsic 72, 95–6, generation 49, 64, 226–40
177–8 Gennaro, Rocco J. 154–7, 184–7
density 47, 49–51, 196 Gertler, Brie 286
of actual existents 48–9 grace:
conceptual 49–50 kingdom of 226, 241
of existence 49, 162 and nature 28, 60–2, 238–43, 287
ontological 48–9 see also Malebranche
spatiotemporal 48–9 Greenberg, Sean 41n.42
Des Bosses, Bartholemew, correspondence with Griffin, Michael V. 73n.61
Leibniz 47, 76n.74, 227n.7, 230n.19,
234–5, 237–8 habit of loving conformed to wisdom see justice
Descartes, René 12, 16 habituation 193, 199
and consciousness 154, 166 harmony, pre-established 12, 96, 214–15,
and correspondence with Elisabeth of 232, 238
Bohemia 285n.7 higher-order thought 154–62, 184–8, 199
and justice 20 Hobbes, Thomas 12–13, 18, 20, 82–4
and naturalism 18, 80–4 Horst, Steven 285n.8
and physics 40, 43, 52 HOT see higher-order thought
see also Cartesianism Hume, David 13–14, 269–70
desire: Huygens, Christiaan 22n.38, 33n.2
see appetite
see teleology ideas:
determination 147, 211 distinct 121, 260, 273, 278–9
Detlefsen, Karen 63–4 innate 178, 257, 262–3, 266, 269–70, 278
De Volder, Burchard, correspondence with identity of indiscernibles 95–6, 149
Leibniz 33, 44, 51–2, 56n.1, 78, 89, identity:
97–100, 105, 136n.46, 201, 203–5, 220, moral 183, 187n.43, 245, 249, 252
229–30 see also action, moral
Di Bella, Stefano 93–4, 176n.12, 246n.10 see also justice
Dretske, Fred 114, 284–5 personal 176, 187, 196, 245–6, 249–53
dualism 286 Iltis, Carolyn 39n.26
Duarte, Shane 260–1, 263–4, 265n.25 impressions 122n.7, 133, 136–7, 156, 164,
Duchesneau, François 35n.8, 39n.31, 40n.41, 180, 192–3
52–3, 52n.83, 53–4, 135n.44 inclination 206, 219–21, 271–2
Duncan, Stewart 95n.20 instinct 214, 216, 270, 273, 276, 278
intellect, divine 20, 30–1, 45, 59, 75
Elisabeth, Princess of Bohemia 52, 285 intelligibility, principle of 17n.24, 70, 78
entelechy 97–9, 122, 136n.46, 210, 221 see also nature
Epicureanism 18–19, 80–3 interactions, bodily 20, 205
 
Johann Friedrich, Duke of Hannover 12n.9 matter:

Jolley, Nicholas 36n.14, 41n.42, 58n.3, 70, primary 97–100, 205n.13, 206
176n.11, 231n.21, 260n.4, 261–2, secondary 97–100
261n.8, 266, 269 mathematics 36, 53–4, 275, 278
Jorati, Julia 209n.28, 216, 218, 220–1, calculus 33n.3, 50
222n.59, 259 geometry 29, 33, 41–2, 44, 57, 111–13
justice 20–1, 65, 75–7, 244–5, 270, 278 McCollough, Laurence B. 246n.10
see also action, moral McDonough, Jeffrey K. 59n.9, 209n.28,
see also identity, moral 213n.44
see also knowledge, moral McRae, Robert 105n.15, 124–5, 156n.38,
182n.29
Kant, Immanuel 92n.9, 134, 259–61, mechanism 79–80, 103–4, 228, 266
269–70 mediation, bodily 118, 131–2, 137–9
Keller, Eve 233n.24 Melamed, Yitzhak 73–4
Kepler, Johannes 44, 46n.61 memory:
knowledge: corporeal 183n.35
distinct 121 intellectual 183n.35, 249
moral 271, 277–8 mémoire 182–3, 183n.35, 186, 198
see also justice mémoire corporelle 183n.35
of self, reflective 131, 180n.26, 187n.43, mémoire spirituelle 183n.35
207–8, 244–5, 269–70 recollection 176n.10, 178, 181, 249, 253
Kulstad, Mark 106, 156n.38, 157, 171n.64, recordatione 176n.10
182n.33 reminiscence 183n.35, 253
souvenir 181, 183, 183n.35, 186–8, 194,
La Chambre, Marin Cureau 183n.35 198, 252
La Forge, Louis de 183n.35 Mercer, Christia 176n.12
Laerke, Mogens 13n.10, 16n.22, 44n.54 Messina, James 59n.9
Lang, Helen S. 11n.4 microscope 63–4
Lee, Sukjae 201n.3, 209 miracles 24–6, 56, 69, 230, 287–9
Leeuwenhoek, Antonie van 228 annihilation 241–2, 247
see also preformation creation 26–7, 30, 64, 78, 162, 232–3
Levey, Samuel 34–5, 49n.74, 54n.94, 95n.20 of the highest rank 26–7
Locke, John 68, 83–4, 145, 166 see also naturalism
and innate ideas 266–70, 278 see also occasionalism
and personal identity 245–6, 249–50 see also transcreation
Lodge, Paul 203n.4, 205n.16, 262n.15, 268n.32, monism 13n.10, 101
280n.86 Moreau, Denis 261n.8
Loemker, Leroy E. 39n.26, 79n.88, 80n.89, motion:
83n.100, 289 Descartes’ theory of 12, 16, 36–9, 52,
LoLordo, Antonia 80–4 160–1, 167
Lovejoy, Arthur O. 48–9 in “General Principles” (1687) 42–5
Lycan, William G. 154n.33 laws of 161–2, 168–9
Locke’s theory of 68, 83–4
machines 80–1, 93, 97–8, 106, 288 Malebranche’s theory of 40–1, 45, 61–2
artificial 84, 228 naturalized account of 13, 17, 26
material 67 Newton’s theory of 68–9, 83–4
natural 84, 228 and sensation 133–4
Malebranche, Nicolas 261 in Pacidius to Philalethes (1676) 34
and naturalism 16, 21, 60, 64 see also physics
and the principle of continuity 40 motions, bodily 17, 136–7
Malpighi, Marcello 228 Mouy, Paul 36n.14, 37n.18
see also preformation Mulvaney, Robert 21n.36
Mancosu, Paolo 44n.57 Murdoch, Iris 276–7
Masham, Damaris Cudworth, Lady,
correpondence with Leibniz 13n.13, 53, Nadler, Steven M. 62n.21
58, 66–7, 84n.102, 91n.7, 103 Naert, Émilienne 156n.38, 176n.12, 183n.35
Mates, Benson 111, 113 Nagel, Thomas 2
 
naturalism 284, 286–7 Socratic 19, 21

definitions of 14–17, 22, 27–8, 30, 81, 83 see also force
and generation of minds 230–1, 239, see also motion
241–2 Plaisted, Dennis 262n.15
and intelligibility 68–70 plants 11, 44, 64, 97–8
and the principle of sufficient reason 75 Plato 18–20, 82–3, 98n.30, 279
see also continuity, principle of pleasure 61, 76–7, 212, 214–17, 221–2, 276
see also miracles see also appetite
see also occasionalism see also teleology, desire
see also physicalism point of view 97, 118, 149–50, 251, 256–7
nature: possible worlds 48n.71, 51, 75–8, 151, 168–9
individual 13, 17, 23–4, 65, 84, 204 power see force
intelligibility of 17, 59, 63, 67–8 predicate-in-subject principle 92
necessitarianism 17–18, 72–3 preformation 63–4, 92–3, 228–9, 232–4,
necessity: 237–8
blind 18–19, 82–3 see also transcreation
mechanical 18, 21 Problem of Apparent Good 201–2, 209,
metaphysical 19, 74–5 213–14, 216, 219–20
moral 74–5 Problem of Change for the Worse 201–2,
Newlands, Samuel 72n.60, 89n.2 214–15, 219, 221–2
Newton, Isaac 26, 68–9, 83–4 Problem of Discontinuous Knowledge
201–2, 222
occasionalism 21, 33, 56, 60, 64, 232 Problem of Unsuccessful Striving 201–2, 209
see also Descartes PSR see sufficient reason, principle of
see also Malebranche Puryear, Stephen 262n.15, 265n.25, 268n.32,
O’Leary-Hawthorne, John 13n.11, 246n.10 280n.86
omniscience 269
organisms, natural 30, 228–9, 235, 238, 247 rational beings 165, 225–9, 232–8, 242–3,
259–60
Parkinson, G. H. R. 71, 124–6, 130 see also transcreation
passion 128, 130–2, 213, 218 reflection, self- 214, 221, 244, 253, 266, 269–70
passivity 94–5, 105, 114, 128–9, 132, 206 Remnant, Peter 181n.27
see also force res cogitans 148–51
perceptions: Rescher, Nicholas 71, 156n.38, 157
confused 121–2, 124, 127, 130–1 Rey, Anne-Lise 133n.39, 135n.44
petites 158–9, 164, 198, 254 Riley, Patrick 21n.36
see also perceptual distinctness Robinet, André 40
perceptual distinctness 99–100, 122, 124, 127 Rosenthal, David M. 154n.33
in activity and sensation 128, 131, 165 Rozemond, Marleen 213n.44, 215, 217n.49
analyses of 124 rules of the good and beautiful 14, 18–20
and bodily mediation 127 Russell, Bertrand 46n.61, 71, 110n.34, 286
degrees of 123 Rutherford, Donald 17n.24, 29n.67, 36n.14,
as distribution of consciousness 148 41n.42, 51, 59n.9, 67, 69, 71, 75–6,
perfection 77–8, 97, 208, 227 75n.70, 77–8, 209n.28, 214–18, 220, 225
and activity 128, 132, 201–2
divine 74–5, 256, 265 Scheffler, Samuel 245n.7, 246n.9, 248n.16, 253n.40
and imperfection 27, 50, 196, 208 Schmaltz, Tad 261n.8
metaphysical 76–8, 237 Scholasticism 79, 92, 95, 98n.29
moral 76–7, 268, 276 Schroeder, H. S. 77
principle of 18–21, 71 Schweitz, Lea F. 29, 225–6, 242–3, 287
Pessin, Andrew 62n.21 sensation 137, 141, 158, 193–4, 217, 279
Phemister, Pauline 58, 91n.7, 103n.8, 104 and activity 131
physicalism 30–1, 286 and consciousness 97, 127, 164–5
Physics 25, 32, 36, 39, 95, 104 and memory 175–6, 180, 185, 191–2, 246
Cartesian 12, 43, 56, 147, 202–3 and moral action 270, 273, 277
dynamic 37, 53, 165, 205 and perceptual distinctness 104–5, 121–4,
Malbranchian 40–2, 59 128, 191, 265
 
and occasional causes 62–3 see also intelligibility, principle of

organs of 135, 139–40 see also contradiction, principle of
unifying function of 164, 190, 193 Swoyer, Chris 106, 114, 116–19, 139
see also animals
see also appetite teleology:
Shields, Christopher 71n.51 agent 218
Simmons, Alison 125n.15, 146, 147n.8, and appetite 213
152n.27, 154n.31, 156n.37, 159, 166, and causation 209
175, 182n.33, 190 desire 216–18
sleep 104–5, 122–3, 130–1, 138, 147n.7, 152 metaphysical 218
Sleigh, Robert C. 41n.42, 57–8, 62n.21, 66n.32, natural 216–18
67n.37, 71, 72n.60, 129n.30 rational 218
Smith, Justin E. H. 29n.69, 228nn.9, 10, 11, restricted 215
233–4, 233n.24, 248n.15 tendentia 99, 210
Socrates 18–22, 28, 82–3 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 90n.3
Sophie, Dutchess of Hanover and Electress, Thiel, Udo 154n.31, 171, 171n.64, 245n.7
correspondence with Leibniz 14–15 thoughts, distinct 121–2, 131
Sophie Charlotte, Queen Consort of Prussia, Tournemine, René-Joseph, correspondence
correspondence with Leibniz 49, with Leibniz 12, 22n.38
254–5, 257 transcreation 34–5, 55, 228, 231–2
Spinoza: see also animals
Leibniz’s rejection of 12–13, 75, 89–94 see also preformation
and naturalism 16n.21, 18, 79–84 truth 72–5, 270–1, 276–8, 280–1
and necessitarianism 72–3 conceptual-containment theory of 72
and the PSR 74n.65
spontaneity 91, 128, 214–15 unity 94–5, 101–2, 257, 269–70
agent 218
metaphysical 218–19 Vailati, Ezio 47n.67, 245n.7
rational 218–19 volition 22, 41–2, 60, 212
Stoics 18–21, 82–3
Sturm, Johann 84, 90–1, 94–5 Wagner, Rudolph Christian 238, 240
substance: Wahl, Russell 62n.21
activity of 126–9, 204, 254 Weinberg, Shelley 171n.64, 274nn.57, 59
bodily 22, 37 White, Michael J. 35n.8
complete concept theory of 39–40, 246 Wilson, Catherine 79–80, 79n.88, 83n.100,
see also equipollence 92n.10, 93n.15, 233n.24
composite 203, 220n.55, 241 Williamson, Timothy 110n.34
corporeal 97–8, 128n.29 Wilson, Margaret Dauler 95n.20, 124–7, 131,
finite 24, 27–8, 65, 85, 90, 139–40, 207–8 134–8, 152n.27, 245n.7, 246n.9, 259n.2,
incorporeal 18, 82–3 260–1, 265n.23
simple 90, 93, 99–100, 114, 122, 183 Wrenn, Thomas E. 79n.87
sufficient reason, principle of (PSR) 19, 70–1,
75, 97, 273–4 Yandell, David 285n.7

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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 11/2/2019, SPi

Leibniz’s Naturalized Philosophy of Mind

For Lillian and Evan

Part I. Leibniz’s Naturalizing Project

Part II. The Metaphysical Basis of Minds

Part III. Mind in the Natural Order

Part IV. The Prerogative of Minds

Karl Barth’s commentary on the book of Romans opens with an acknowledgement

Abbreviations for Editions of Leibniz’s Works:

xii   

LR The Leibniz–Des Bosses Correspondence, trans. Brandon C. Look and

Abbreviations for the Works of Other Seventeenth-Century Figures:

The celebrated American author Willa Cather (1873–1947) writes in a letter to a

¹ G 3.346/NS 223. ² G 6.595/NS 250.

 ’    

 ’    

regard as a fully natural theory. Leibniz’s commitment to naturalism is clear. In the

¹⁰ A 6.6.66/NE 66. ¹¹ Ibid.

The Argument of the Book

¹² See AG 281. ¹³ To Arnauld, October 9, 1687 (G 2.113/LA 145).

 ’    

in fully natural terms. In chapter 7, I argue for a same-order theory of consciousness

 ’    

This vulgar opinion, according to which we ought in philosophy to avoid, as much

 ’    

on Cartesian natural philosophy, Leibniz was not attempting a mere reﬁnement,

And again, in a response to René-Joseph Tournemine, Leibniz says:

Similarly, in his criticisms of Descartes’ theory of motion, Leibniz says that:

As a fully natural philosophy, Cartesian philosophy was a failure.

   

 ’    

1. Sophie’s Naturalism: “everything

   

In his response to Sophie, Leibniz claimed to be “thoroughly persuaded that there is

 ’    

1.2. Limiting “nature”

   

2. Leibniz’s Middle Way

 ’    

   

³⁰ A 6.4.1388/AG 284. ³¹ M §32.

 ’    

   

2.2. The threat of occasionalism

³⁴ A 6.4.1385/AG 282. ³⁵ Ibid.

 ’    

   

 ’    

⁴⁶ G 4.507/AG 158–9, emphasis mine. ⁴⁷ DM §9.

   

3. A Harmony of Nature and Grace

⁴⁸ DM §16. ⁴⁹ Ibid. ⁵⁰ Ibid.

 ’    

   

⁵⁹ See A 6.4.2214. ⁶⁰ Cook, “Prophecy and Revelation,” 281. ⁶¹ T §20.

 ’    

internal representations of the things surrounding it so that the relations it has to

3.2. Nature and grace

⁶⁵ Of course, Leibniz might also grant a more limited deﬁnition:

   

 ’    

   

I ﬁnd these leaps of yours very excruciating