2007 South Central Seminar in Early Modern Philosophy Abstracts

Justin Steinberg, Colby College (Maine)
“An Inquiry into the Binding Force of Hobbes’s Artificial Chains” steinberg photo

In this essay, I examine Hobbes’s claim that laws are impediments to one’s liberty. In order to make sense of this claim we must first answer two questions: What kind of liberty is thought to be restricted by laws? And, how is this form of liberty actually restricted? I will consider several ways of answering these questions, ultimately concluding that all of them are either internally incoherent or are inconsistent with core Hobbesian doctrines.

There are two general categories of liberty that have been invoked in response to the first question: de facto liberty and de iure liberty. De facto liberty consists in some actual capability one has to do or forebear something. De jure liberty consists in having some entitlement or license, i.e., moral capability.

Some scholars have argued that laws restrict one’s de facto liberty. For instance, Mathew Kramer reads Hobbes as supporting his account of liberty as overall “unpreventedness,” according to which laws, if well-enforced, restrict liberty by “eliminating the performability of certain combinations of actions,” (The Quality of Freedom, p. 67): illegal actions will tend to result in the forfeiture of future capabilities. This interpretation has the virtue of elegance, since it makes Hobbes’ account of legal impediments consistent with his “proper signification” of liberty as the absence of physical impediments. However, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Hobbes regards laws as restrictions of a very different sort than physical bonds (e.g., Leviathan, p. 152). Moreover, Hobbes would not accept the implication that our liberty is similarly curtailed whenever there are “natural punishments” annexed to actions that we might perform, e.g., when a sprained toe threatens to incapacitate one if one puts too much pressure on it.

A second way of understanding laws as restrictions on de facto liberty may be constructed on the basis of some of Hobbes’s remarks about deliberation (Brett, Liberty, Right and Nature). Hobbes notoriously claims that “deliberation signifieth the taking away of our liberty” (Elements of Law, p. 71; cf. Leviathan, p. 44). When we conclude our de-liberation—that is, when express our will to Ф or not to Ф—our liberty to choose whether or not to Ф is terminated (Elements of Law, p. 84). The problem with this, of course, is that in many cases we retain the capacity to act contrary to our antecedent acts of will. So even if laws are in some sense an expression of an antecedent act of will, they do not in fact restrict my de facto liberty to change my mind.

A more compelling view is that laws limit one’s de iure liberty, or, as Hobbes puts it, one’s “blameless liberty” (Elements of Law, p. 79); they restrict what we may do, not what we can do. Many passages in Hobbes’s writings support this reading (e.g., De Cive, p. 34; Leviathan, p. 93). However, this interpretation is riddled with its own set of problems. The problem on which I focus concerns whether Hobbes’ account of obligation is consistent with his materialism and his egoistic psychology. Artificial obligation, of which legal obligation is a species, depends on the transfer or renunciation of a right. And the obligatoriness of laws depends specifically on our having given up our right to judge how to defend ourselves. The problem here is two-fold. First, it is not clear what is being transferred, and how this right, whatever it is, fits into the material world. Second, it is not at all clear how such an obligation could arise, given Hobbes’s account of motivation (e.g., “man by nature chooseth the lesser evil” [Leviathan, p. 98]). If we assume that an ought implies a can, Hobbes’s egoism precludes the possibility of obligations that exist independently of perceived utility. Spinoza makes precisely this point, replacing the Hobbesian theory of obligation with a thoroughly naturalistic account of obligation as perceived utility (TTP, Ch. 16; TP, 2/12). At best, Hobbes’s claim that laws are “artificial chains” may be seen as part of a conjuring trick wherein he uses the appearance of obligation as a tool for securing de facto obligation, in the form of compliance. Just as, for Hobbes, “reputation of power, is power” (Leviathan, p. 62), so too the appearance of obligation is often sufficient to produce obligation.

Geoff Gorham, St. Olaf College (Minnesota)
" 'The Twin-Brother of Space': Spatial Analogies in Precursors of Absolute Time gorham photo

In a recent overview of early modern metaphysics, Nicholas Jolley observes in passing that “philosophers up to the time of Kant tended to debate the nature of space and time in tandem” (Cambridge Companion to Early Modern Philosophy, 128) The apotheosis of this tendency in the early modern period is surely Newton's famous 'Scholium' near the beginning of the Principia, which articulates and defends a space that “remains always similar and immovable”, and a time that “flows equably”, each “without relation to anything external”. But although Newton treats space and time in tandem, his defense of absolute space is much more detailed and forceful than of absolute time. This reflects, I will argue, another early modern tendency noted in passing by Jolley: “philosophical theories that seem primarily tailored to space are often said to apply mutatis mutandis to the case of time” (Ibid.). In other words, seventeenth century authors frequently argue by analogy about time from already established doctrines about the nature of space. Such reasoning figures centrally in authors well known to Newton, including Gassendi, Charleton, More and Barrow, and may therefore shed light on the genesis of absolute space and time.

The touchstone for all medieval and early modern treatments of space and time is book IV of Aristotle's Physics, which devotes 9 chapters to space, place, and the void, followed by 5 chapters on time.  In Aristotle, this priority of treatment is a consequence of conceptual priority. Because time is “the number of movement with respect to ‘before’ and ‘after’” (220a 24) it cannot be understood without first understanding the nature of the spatial magnitude traversed in movement. “What is moved is moved from something to something . . . therefore the movement goes with the magnitude.” (219a 10-11) In medieval scholasticism, the conceptual connection between time and motion is even closer. Aquinas held not only that that there is no time without motion, since “in a thing bereft of movement, which is always the same, there is no before or after” (Summa Theologica I.10.1), but further that “time is consequent upon the quantity of only the first motion [outermost sphere]" (Aquinas, Commentary on the Physics, IV, 17, 576). Even seventeenth century scholastics, such as Suarez and the Coimbra Commentators, continue to hold that “time . . . is not really distinct from motion” [Suarez, Metaphysical Disputations, 50, 9, 1; Coimbra Commentators: “tempus non distingui re a motu”, Commentarii Collegii Conimbrincensis, IV (Physicorum), q. 2, art. 1 (1602, 155)

So it is not surprising that early modern philosophers inherited a tendency to treat space and time in ‘tandem’ given the dominant philosophical tradition conceived of time as, in effect, a privileged spatial trajectory. What is remarkable is that the 'spatialization of time' takes on a very different character in the seventeenth century. Whereas in the Aristotelian tradition the spatial features of time – continuity, homogeneity, periodicity, etc. – are consequent upon time's connection to regular motion, early modern treatments commonly assume that space and time will have similar structures even if time is independent of motion. For example, Walter Charleton introduces the discussion of time in his Physiologia by observing that “the most hopeful way of exploring the mysterious quiddity of Time lay in the strict examination of the affinity or analogy betwixt it and the subject of our immediately preceding chapter, Space”. Time, he declares, is the “Twin-Brother” of Space (Bk I, Ch. 7, Sect 2, art 1. See also Locke, Essay, Bk. II, Ch. 15)

To account for this reliance on spatio-temporal analogy, we must first note that in the traditional view just as time is inextricable from motion, space is inextricable from body. Owing again to Aristotle's authority, space was generally conceived as the combined places of the material parts of the finite cosmos with no void possible either within or beyond its boundaries. However, Stoic and other classical arguments for the void – both conceptual and empirical – gained significant traction in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. An important reason for this was increased emphasis in theology on God’s omnipotence. Since God can surely move, expand, or duplicate the material world, or annihilate a certain part of it, there must exist void space to accommodate such possible changes, Although in the Scholastics void space remains merely conceptual or ‘imaginary’, in sixteenth century natural philosophers like Patrizi it is made fully real and endowed with a three-dimensional structure independent of body. However, during the same period, and in the same authors, time remains wedded to motion. An important reason for this situation, I argue, is that the most powerful traditional arguments for void space simply do not extend to empty time. Consider the argument that God could annihilate a certain part of the world, leaving a vacated space with the same dimensions as the part destroyed. The force of this thought experiment lies in the fact that the dimensions of an evacuated space are fixed by the surrounding body that remains. But since time is one-dimensional there is nothing comparable to determine the length of a span of absolutely empty time. So there is no compelling reply to the Aristotelian charge that absent motion there is no fact of the matter about the passage of time. Similar difficulties afflict other standard metaphysical arguments, and also render futile the empirical investigation of empty time.

This largely explains, I maintain, the heavy reliance on spatial analogies in early modern precursors of absolute time. Thus, I will show that Gassendi, More and Barrow, each a likely influence on Newton, all rely on traditional arguments for the void and then, in lieu of corresponding arguments for empty time, simply infer by analogy that time has an independent structure to similar to space. Further, I will argue that this methodology is assimilated by Newton in both his early (‘De Gravitatione’) and mature (‘Scholium’) accounts of space and time. From this point of view, I suggest, we can make better sense of various otherwise puzzling features of Newton’s famous discussion in the Scholium, especially his comparatively limp defense of absolute time vs. absolute space and motion.   

Michael J. Deem, Texas A&M University
"Repraesentare and Exhibere: Descartes' Theory of Representation in the Third Meditation" deem photo

Repraesentare—the representing of an object—is the primary function of Cartesian ideas.  Commentators agree that Descartes’ theory of ideas carries with it the sense that ideas represent some thing to the mind.  Nevertheless, there linger a number of interpretative difficulties stemming from what Descartes means by representation and how ideas actually represent things. If the recent flurry of incongruent literature treating the nature of Cartesian ideas may serve as any indication of these difficulties, we may reasonably conclude that the question of just what it means for ideas to possess what has been called “representational character” remains, at least in part, open. Obviously then, even the most careful of commentators on Descartes is faced with the daunting task of overcoming an interpretive obstacle that impedes, and possibly interdicts, progress toward a faithful interpretation of the full scope of the Meditationes which rests so heavily on the manner in which ideas represent things to the mind.

In my paper, I examine the contour of Descartes’ theory of representation as it unfolds in the Third Meditation, seeking to elucidate his theory by means of a careful study of the original Latin text.  What I propose to show is that a subtle interpretive key can be found in Descartes’ use of the Latin word exhibere in order to demarcate a special mode of representation characteristic of ideas that are clear and distinct and whose cause can be known with certainty.  While several commentators have noted the fact that Descartes employs the Latin verbs repraesentare and exhibere interchangeably to designate the act of representing throughout the Third Meditation, I suggest that Descartes reserves exhibere only for an ideas whose objective reality is great enough for him to refer its object to an existing external object, be it God or finite substance.  Hence, these ideas are said to “exhibit” their objects rather than merely to represent things, and just as it is the characteristic action of all ideas to represent (repraesentare), it is the characteristic action of the class of clear and distinct ideas to exhibit (exhibere).

While my presentation is primarily expository, my account of Descartes’ theory of representation inevitably brings me into direct contact with a number of debated issues in contemporary Descartes scholarship whose resolution is paramount to a proper understanding of representation in the Meditationes.  Therefore, in addition to my exposition I shall:
If my reading of Descartes is correct, then my paper will have advanced our collaborative efforts to clarify Descartes’ presentation of his theory of representation in the Third Meditation, providing us with keener insight into his causal theory of perception and his case for the knowledge of the existence of objects other than the self.

Patricia Easton, Claremont Graduate University
“Descartes and the Birth of Psychiatry: The Cartesian Doctor, François Bayle (1622-1709)”
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The story of the early modern critiques of scholastic science and explanation, and the rise of mechanical philosophy in the seventeenth century is a familiar one. So too is the influence of Descartes' mechanization of matter on the modern worldview; yet comparatively little has been said about the influence of Cartesian mechanics on specific scientific practices, particularly in medicine and psychology. Despite repeated claims by Descartes himself that medicine and the study of the preservation of health was the principal end of his studies.

In the first part of the paper I examine Descartes' explanatory framework for physiological, medical and psychological phenomena. Here, the distinctive roles and interplay of mechanism and dualism are particularly important, as are the respective roles of the will, imagination, passions and animal spirits. I consider two types of human movement: (1) involuntary movements such as reflex actions and habits; and (2) voluntary actions such as remembering and moral action. I explain how both kinds of movements appeal to mechanism at some level in their explanation, but the latter appeals to the principle of volition as well. I argue that the faculty of imagination mediates the volitions of the will, thoughts of the mind, and motions of the body. This result, the interdependence of the soul and body by means of the imagination has the interesting consequence that medical conditions could be caused by some breakdown in the physiology of the body-machine, or by some mental cause whereby the patient entertains ideas whose images cause disturbances in the body-machine.

In the second part of the paper I recount how Descartes' theory and influence can be seen in the writings of a doctor from Toulouse, Francois Bayle (1622-1709). Although Bayle is now virtually unknown (and not to be confused with Pierre Bayle), his career is interesting as an episode in the externalist history of how Cartesianism actually translated into scientific practice, especially in the French provinces. One especially intriguing event in Bayle's career occurred in 1681, when Bayle was summoned by the Parliament of Toulouse to examine an extraordinary case of possession involving 12 persons in a small village outside of Toulouse. His co-authored Report on the Condition of Certain Allegedly Possessed Persons (Toulouse, 1682) offers detailed observations and analyses and concludes contra the common opinion of demonic possession, that the "wounded" imaginations of these patients could be better explained by appeal to the mechanics of bodily humors and the effects of physical impressions on the imagination.

Rather than to superstition Bayle looked to nature and the Cartesian theory of the imagination to explain what may be viewed as psychosomatic or psychiatric phenomena. Bayle's work has been cited as influential on that of the great eighteenth century physician, Phillipe Pinel. There is little doubt that in France at least, as Bayle's work bears witness, Descartes' account of the interplay between the body-machine and the human provided a useful framework for the development of cognitive psychology and psychiatry.

Andrew Youpa, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale
“Spinoza’s Model of Human Nature” youpa photo

Commentators are divided over the status of Spinoza’s model of human nature. Interpretations run the gamut. At one end there is Jonathan Bennett’s view that Spinoza’s reference to a model of human nature in the Preface to Part 4 of the Ethics is a relic of an outlook he had abandoned but never got around to amend fully in the text. On this reading, Spinoza’s mature view does not contain a model of human nature and the reference in 4Preface is the last we hear of it. Other commentators hold that the figure who surfaces in propositions 67-72 of Part 4 “the free man” is the model referred to in 4Preface but that the idea of the free man, it turns out, is an inadequate idea.

The idea of the free man is picturesque and, as a result, potentially edifying, but that it is picturesque betrays its pedigree from the ranks of the imagination. A third group of commentators agree that the idea of the free man is the model of human nature but suggest that, unlike other models that have been proposed throughout the history of philosophy, Spinoza’s model is, or is based on, an adequate idea of human nature. Surely Spinoza cannot believe (so the argument goes) that his model has no stronger foundation and no greater claim to our allegiance than any other model. The free man must therefore possess credentials that set him apart from, say, Aristotle’s great-souled man, the Stoic sage, and Descartes’ generous human being, to name a few.
 
In this paper I propose and defend an interpretation that does not fit into one of these three categories. On the reading I defend, there is a sense in which it is correct to think, as those in the second group hold, that the idea of the free man is an inadequate idea, and yet there is also a sense in which the idea of the free man is, or is based on, an adequate idea, as the third group of commentators hold. Specifically, I show that, regarded as the idea of a particular finite thing, the idea of the free man is inadequate.  But I also show that Spinoza’s idea of the free man is based on an adequate idea of God, and insofar as the model is based on an idea of God, it is, I argue, an adequate idea.
 
On my reading, then, the free man is Janus-faced. From one side the idea of the free man is a representation tailored to the ineluctable passivity of finite things (4p4). From the other side it represents the active power of fundamental metaphysical reality, the power that each and every finite thing is a definite and determinate expression of (1p36, 3p6d). This Janus-faced character of the free man is therefore deliberate. The inadequate but vivid face of the free man serves as a powerful motivational tool insofar as it captivates the imagination. The adequate but abstract face of the free man is the metaphysical foundation of our physical, emotional, and intellectual lives. As we come to know and love that reality, we come to know and love ourselves. Thus the two faces of the free man mirror the two sides of human, or modal, existence: as the subjects of external causal forces, on the one hand, and as determinate expressions of God’s power, on the other.

Jan-Erik Jones, Southern Virginia University
“Lockean Real Essences and Natural Kinds”

jones photo In the Essay Concerning Human Understanding there appears to be a version of species conventionalism; species are not created by nature, but are “the Workmanship of the Understanding.” (III.iii.13)  On the other hand, there is some evidence that Locke left open the possibility of real kinds in nature.  For example, in the Stillingfleet correspondence, he says: “…where we find all the same properties, we have reason to conclude there is the same real, internal constitution, from which those properties flow.” (Works, vol. IV, p. 91)  This has led some scholars, e.g., Christopher Conn, Mathew Stuart, Pauline Phemister, etc., to argue that Locke allows that there could be natural kinds (in at least some sense).

Stuart and Phemister, inter alia, argue that there are species of real essences.  By their lights, if the real essences are the causal grounds of the properties that figure into our nominally essential properties, then similarities in nominally essential properties implies similarities of real essences.  So, on their view of Locke, there are species of real essences prior to our sorting.  Whilst Conn has a relativized version of real essences, his interpretation of the Essay includes that claim that similarities of real essences implies similarities in nominally essential properties, so our species classes track real similarities in nature.
 
In this paper I argue that each of these versions of species realism attributed to Locke founder on the same point: they insist that Locke thinks that similarities in real constitutions imply similarities in sensible qualities.

Instead, I argue for Lockean conventionalism by reinterpreting Locke’s account of real essences and arguing that Locke denies that similarities in deep structure imply similarities in sensible qualities, and thus also rejects as meaningless any talk of kinds that appeals to similarities in deep structure.  For Locke, similarities in real essences are not only irrelevant to species, but natural kind theories based on them are unintelligible.

My version of real essences and the role they play for Locke allows me to do justice to the putative realist claims in Locke without sacrificing consistency or his conventionalism.  It also addresses the current trend of Locke scholars to interpret Locke as a species realist.

John Whipple, University of Illinois at Chicago
“The Structure of Leibnizian Simple Substances”
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If one wants to understand and evaluate Leibniz’s mature metaphysics, one must understand his famous theory of monads.  Many commentators have hazarded this task, and although few are inclined to think that Leibniz’s theory of substance might be true, it is at least generally thought to be internally consistent.  But even this latter claim cannot be maintained, for Leibniz’s theory of substance, as interpreted by recent commentators, is beset with serious internal problems, or so I argue in this paper. 

The difficulties I am concerned to discuss can be approached by considering two distinct yet closely related questions:

Q1:  What is the ontological relation between a substance and its successive states?
Q2:  What is the ontological status of the successive states of a substance?

Q1 has received more attention than Q2 in the secondary literature.  It is significant to note, however, that the answers that have been given to the former typically presuppose a particular answer to the latter, namely that successive states of substance are basic (or fully real).  If one assumes that monadic states are basic, the following two accounts of the ontological relation between the successive states and the substance itself emerge:
 
(i)   A substance is an underlying substratum in which successive states inhere.
(ii)  A substance is the sum of a series of successive states
 
Bertrand Russell, in his immensely influential study of the philosophy of Leibniz, attributed (i) to him.  The substratum conception of substance, however, has been effectively criticized by Locke, Hume, Kant, and a number of more contemporary philosophers (including Russell himself).  Given the problems attending (i), it is not surprising that some of Leibniz’s recent expositors have avoided attributing the substratum conception of substance to him.  Substrata are rejected, but in so doing (ii) appears to be affirmed, that is, a substance (at least implicitly) seems to be identified with the sum of a series of successive states.  Very few commentators are willing to explicitly attribute this conception of substance to Leibniz, and for good reason.  A substance of this construction is essentially a plurality, while Leibnizian substances are supposed to be simple unities.  The question thus becomes:  is it possible to understand the relation between the states of a substance and the substance itself in a way that avoids the pitfalls associated with (i) and (ii)?  I argue that so long as monadic states are taken to be basic, no satisfactory account of this relation can be provided. 

Q2 has been almost entirely ignored in the secondary literature.  Nearly all commentators assume that the successive states of a substance are basic in Leibniz’s system (though they often do not explicitly use the word “basic”).  This assumption can be found in standard interpretations of certain of Leibniz’s metaphysical doctrines, such as his views on logic, diachronic identity, causation, and space and time.  Although interpretations of these doctrines assume that monadic states are basic, they usually do not consider how monadic states could be basic in Leibniz’s system.  In order for a state to be basic it must be individuated from its preceding and succeeding states.  But how could this be done?  I argue that only two options are available here:  states must be individuated at durationless instants along a temporal continuum, or at intervals of some finite length or other.  Unfortunately, both of these options turn out to be highly problematic within Leibniz’s metaphysics.  The position that monadic states are individuated at durationless instants stands in direct opposition to Leibniz’s solution to the continuum problem—a solution that Leibniz thought any solid metaphysics must respect.  The position that monadic states are individuated at intervals of some finite length or other fares no better, for it runs afoul of the principle of sufficient reason, which Leibniz praises as one of the “two great principles” upon which all our reasoning is based.  Collectively these problems constitute the Problem of Monadic States, which can be formulated as follows:  if Leibniz takes the successive states of a substance to be basic then his monadological metaphysics is rife with internal problems.   

The primary aim of the paper is to provide a forceful statement of the Problem of Monadic States.  I will not, however, end the paper on a negative note.  Although it must be conceded that the problem is extremely difficult, I am not convinced that it is ultimately insoluble.  The only way for it to admit of a solution is if Leibniz does not take the successive states of a substance to be basic.  In the final section of the paper I will sketch an alternative account of simple substances that does not commit Leibniz to this problematic position.  The alternative account draws on the fact that there are degrees of reality in Leibniz’s ontology.  He often characterizes phenomenal entities, such as bodies, as being real.  These entities, which are aggregates resulting from monads, are more real than ideal entities like space and time, but they are not fully real, that is, they do not comprise the metaphysical “ground floor” of Leibniz’s ontology (they are not “basic” in the sense in which I am using the word).  I will suggest that a similar story holds with respect to successive monadic states—they are phenomenal, strictly speaking.  On this interpretation, the division of a substance into successive states does not occur at the deepest level of Leibniz’s ontology.

An interpretation of Leibniz’s theory of substance that does not take monadic states to be basic has several advantages over interpretations that affirm the opposite.  First, it absolves Leibniz of the Problem of Monadic States, that is, it attributes a conception of substance to him that is consistent with his solution to the continuum problem and the principle of sufficient reason.  Second, it allows for a clean account of the ontological relation between a substance and its successive states.  Third, it serves to elucidate an important but seemingly obscure aspect of Leibniz’s philosophy—his view that substances are neither spatial nor temporal.

David Forman, University of Nevada, Las Vegas
“ ‘Le franc arbitre et le serf arbitre sont une même chose’: Leibniz on Freedom as Knowledge and Sin as Ignorance” forman photo

Taking his cue from Aristotle, Leibniz claims that freedom can be defined in terms of the conditions of spontaneity and intelligence.  And since for Leibniz all (simple) substances are spontaneous, it is intelligence—rather than either contingency of actions or mere spontaneity—that distinguishes free beings (God, angels, human beings) from other kinds of substances.

In comparison with his accounts of the contingency of creation and the spontaneity of substances, Leibniz’s account of the intellectual conditions of freedom remains relatively unchanged from before his time in Paris all the way through the publication of the Theodicy.  (Perhaps this is also why it has received relatively little scholarly attention—until recently.)  Indeed, the basics of the account are in place before he becomes concerned with the questions regarding contingency with which Leibniz’s account of freedom is usually associated.  The young Leibniz thinks that it is enough for freedom that the human being chooses with a conception of the good in view.  This intelligent choice preserves human responsibility without resorting to a Molinistic indifferentism. 

In developing this account, Leibniz says that this freedom is a degree property: “Plus un homme a de connoissance d'autant plus est il libre.”  And since Leibniz subscribes to a kind of Socratic intellectualism concerning virtue, this means that the more virtuous a person is, the more he is free.  On this view, only God is truly free, whereas human beings are slaves who can attain freedom only to the extent that they turn toward virtue by extirpating the passions hindering them from the cognition of what is truly best.  But this view seems to imply that the more sinful we are, the less free and hence less accountable we would be.  That is certainly an awkward view for someone who places human responsibility for sin at the center of his theodicical project.  (There is, first of all, a question about how a wholly evil being could be responsible since he would be wholly lacking in wisdom.  But the problem can be generalized to those who are like the wholly evil being to a certain extent.)

Leibniz never addresses this problem, even to dismiss it.  My suggestion here is that the reason Leibniz does not see the problem is because he actually has two different conceptions of freedom in play here--even though he does a poor job of distinguishing the two.  It is only late in his career, when confronting Locke’s account of freedom, that he makes the distinction explicit: (1) both good and evil beings have a freedom of choice since they act on an intellectual conception of the good: they act for reasons; (2) but only the virtuous have the freedom that is a perfection of the intellect—and only God has this freedom in an unqualified sense.  Leibniz associates the later variety of freedom with freedom of the Stoic wise man.  (In fact, the distinction between these two varieties of freedom can be traced to Stoic doctrine itself, in which the freedom of the wise man is completely irrelevant to the question of freedom as responsibility.  Unlike Leibniz and the moderns more generally, the Stoics used an unambiguous terminology that avoided any confusion that might call into question the responsibility of the foolish, vicious person.)  And like the Stoics, Leibniz considers the freedom of the wise man to be a freedom that contrasts with servitude or bondage.  For this reason, Leibniz is entitled to say that “le franc arbitre et le serf arbitre sont une même chose.”