The Problems of Philosophy | Page 5

that it is not what it seems. Beyond this modest result, so far,
we have the most complete liberty of conjecture. Leibniz tells us it is a community of
souls: Berkeley tells us it is an idea in the mind of God; sober science, scarcely less
wonderful, tells us it is a vast collection of electric charges in violent motion.
Among these surprising possibilities, doubt suggests that perhaps there is no table at all.
Philosophy, if it cannot answer so many questions as we could wish, has at least the
power of asking questions which increase the interest of the world, and show the
strangeness and wonder lying just below the surface even in the commonest things of
daily life.

CHAPTER II
THE EXISTENCE OF MATTER
In this chapter we have to ask ourselves whether, in any sense at all, there is such a thing
as matter. Is there a table which has a certain intrinsic nature, and continues to exist when
I am not looking, or is the table merely a product of my imagination, a dream-table in a
very prolonged dream? This question is of the greatest importance. For if we cannot be
sure of the independent existence of objects, we cannot be sure of the independent
existence of other people's bodies, and therefore still less of other people's minds, since
we have no grounds for believing in their minds except such as are derived from
observing their bodies. Thus if we cannot be sure of the independent existence of objects,
we shall be left alone in a desert--it may be that the whole outer world is nothing but a
dream, and that we alone exist. This is an uncomfortable possibility; but although it
cannot be strictly proved to be false, there is not the slightest reason to suppose that it is
true. In this chapter we have to see why this is the case.
Before we embark upon doubtful matters, let us try to find some more or less fixed point
from which to start. Although we are doubting the physical existence of the table, we are
not doubting the existence of the sense-data which made us think there was a table; we
are not doubting that, while we look, a certain colour and shape appear to us, and while

we press, a certain sensation of hardness is experienced by us. All this, which is
psychological, we are not calling in question. In fact, whatever else may be doubtful,
some at least of our immediate experiences seem absolutely certain.
Descartes (1596-1650), the founder of modern philosophy, invented a method which may
still be used with profit--the method of systematic doubt. He determined that he would
believe nothing which he did not see quite clearly and distinctly to be true. Whatever he
could bring himself to doubt, he would doubt, until he saw reason for not doubting it. By
applying this method he gradually became convinced that the only existence of which he
could be quite certain was his own. He imagined a deceitful demon, who presented unreal
things to his senses in a perpetual phantasmagoria; it might be very improbable that such
a demon existed, but still it was possible, and therefore doubt concerning things
perceived by the senses was possible.
But doubt concerning his own existence was not possible, for if he did not exist, no
demon could deceive him. If he doubted, he must exist; if he had any experiences
whatever, he must exist. Thus his own existence was an absolute certainty to him. 'I think,
therefore I am,' he said (_Cogito, ergo sum_); and on the basis of this certainty he set to
work to build up again the world of knowledge which his doubt had laid in ruins. By
inventing the method of doubt, and by showing that subjective things are the most certain,
Descartes performed a great service to philosophy, and one which makes him still useful
to all students of the subject.
But some care is needed in using Descartes' argument. 'I think, therefore I am' says rather
more than is strictly certain. It might seem as though we were quite sure of being the
same person to-day as we were yesterday, and this is no doubt true in some sense. But the
real Self is as hard to arrive at as the real table, and does not seem to have that absolute,
convincing certainty that belongs to particular experiences. When I look at my table and
see a certain brown colour, what is quite certain at once is not 'I am seeing a brown
colour', but rather, 'a brown colour is being seen'. This of course involves something (or
somebody) which (or who) sees the brown colour; but it does not of itself involve that
more or less permanent person