{"id":2322,"date":"2021-04-02T22:06:47","date_gmt":"2021-04-02T22:06:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/?p=2322"},"modified":"2023-04-27T19:52:23","modified_gmt":"2023-04-27T19:52:23","slug":"love-and-hate-pleasure-and-pain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/2021\/04\/02\/love-and-hate-pleasure-and-pain\/","title":{"rendered":"Love and hate, pleasure and pain"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I covered parts one and two of Baruch Spinoza\u2019s \u2018Ethics\u2019 in a previous essay and this time I\u2019ll cover the third part of it, dealing with emotions<\/em>. I was going to include the fourth part in this essay as well but getting through the third part turned out to be more of a slog than I had imagined. I won\u2019t cover his summary of various concepts at the very of the third part either. It\u2019s useful, fair play to him, but it\u2019s not worth going through here, considering that it just repeats what\u2019s covered before that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s worth noting that what Spinoza means by emotions<\/em> is not exactly what we tend to mean by that word. Some translators prefer to use affect<\/em>(s<\/em>) instead of emotion(s), perhaps because it\u2019s closer to the Latin original, affectus\/affectio<\/em>. Gilles Deleuze and F\u00e9lix Guattari go with affect<\/em> in \u2018A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia\u2019 because it\u2019s not about personal feelings or emotions, as such, as experienced by a person, but about a prepersonal capacity to affect<\/em> and be affected<\/em> or, in more plain terms, to act and be acted upon, as explained by their translator, Brian Massumi (xvi) in the translator\u2019s notes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right, Spinoza (128) begins by arguing that humans are often treated \u201cas a kingdom within a kingdom\u201d. What he (128) means by this is that humans are often understood as deviating from nature <\/em>or at least disturbing it, having \u201cabsolute control over [their] actions\u201d and \u201cdetermined solely by [themselves].\u201d If this is not the case, the lack of absolute control and self-determination is then attributed to a lack or a flaw in the individual, to an infirmity or fickleness of that person, as he (128) goes on to add. In other words, unlike animals, humans are typically considered to be autonomous thinking subjects. Those who do not exhibit such autonomy and rationality, thus acting more like animals, are seen as flawed, which results in bemoaning, derision, despise and abuse, as he (128) goes on to specify how such people are often treated by others. I agree. That\u2019s my experience of this as well. That\u2019s how people get treated all the time. I\u2019d say that the bemoaning, derision, despise and abuse is also extended to those who don\u2019t agree with that presupposition, that humans are autonomous and rational. We can\u2019t have wrongthink!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (128) objects to people who seek to understand those who are deemed to be flawed in attempt to help people overcome their weakness, to help them attain absolute control and domination of their emotions<\/em>. He (128) reckons that such people, like Ren\u00e9 Descartes, only manage to realize their own great intellect. To be clear, he (128) isn\u2019t saying that great intellect doesn\u2019t have its merits, but rather that it\u2019s not all that there is. And again, I agree with him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (128-129) isn\u2019t fond of treating human emotions <\/em>as \u201chuman vice and folly\u201d, as unreason<\/em>. To connect this to what he states in the first and the second parts of the book, what I covered in my previous Spinoza essay, if reality<\/em>, aka nature<\/em>, aka substance<\/em>, aka God<\/em>, is indeed perfect<\/em>, then human emotions <\/em>cannot be understood as flaws of human nature, \u201crepugnant to reason, frivolous, absurd, and dreadful\u201d, as he (129) points out, because as imperfect <\/em>as humans may seem to be, they are always as perfect or imperfect as they should be, by necessity, depending on how you want to assess that, God being perfect, humans being imperfect only in comparison to the absolute and eternal perfection of God. In other words, just to be clear about this, things are the way they are, always perfect, in their own right, thus never lacking anything, even if they may appear as imperfect to us, as lacking, as he (109) points out in part two of the book. We may be confused to think that they are imperfect or lacking, that we ourselves are imperfect or lacking, but, in reality, they are not. Instead, they are always as perfect as they should be, in their own right, at any given moment, by necessity. They could, of course, be otherwise, as things could always be different, but they\u2019d still be perfect, in their own right, by necessity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Following that introduction to what part three of the book is all about and why he wants to focus on emotions<\/em>, he (129-130) moves on to provide his readers some definitions. Firstly, he differentiates adequate cause<\/em> from inadequate<\/em> or partial cause<\/em>. The former has to do with causes <\/em>that have effects <\/em>that \u201ccan be clearly and distinctively perceived\u201d, whereas the latter has to do with causes <\/em>that have effects that cannot be attributed this way, as (129) specified by him. This leads him (129) to define the former as having to do with being active<\/em> and the latter with being passive<\/em>, regardless of whether what takes place happens in us or outside of us. Secondly, he defines (130) emotions<\/em> as modification of bodies<\/em>, \u201cwhereby the active power of the said body is increased or diminished, aided or constrained, and also the ideas of such modifications.\u201d The bodies <\/em>that are modified by emotions are themselves modifications of substance<\/em> or, in short, modes<\/em>, as defined by him (45) in the first part of the book. To link emotions to causes<\/em>, he (130) differentiates between active emotions<\/em> or activities<\/em>, what it is that we<\/em> are capable of, functioning as the adequate cause, and passions<\/em>, what it is that happens passively, in us<\/em> unbeknownst to us, functioning as the inadequate or partial cause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Following those concise definitions, he (130) postulates that \u201c[t]he human body can be affected in many ways, whereby its power of activity is increased or diminished, and also in other ways which do not render its power of activity either greater or less.\u201d This simply means that something can affect <\/em>us in ways that increase or decrease our capacity to act<\/em>. It can also stay the same, meaning that it might have affected us, so that we haven\u2019t been unaffected by it, whatever it is, but our capacity to act remains the same, despite any modifications of our bodies<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To link activity <\/em>and passivity <\/em>to how we think, he (130) states that our mind is active <\/em>or passive<\/em>, depending on whether we have adequate<\/em> or inadequate ideas<\/em>. This makes sense when you take into consideration how he (83, 95, 129) defines adequate <\/em>and inadequate <\/em>or partial causes <\/em>and how things can be compounded<\/em>, so that ideas can be adequate, function on their own, or inadequate, functioning as parts of something adequate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To differentiate thinking <\/em>from motion <\/em>or rest<\/em>, that is to say the mind<\/em> from the body<\/em>, he (131) states that thinking does not cause <\/em>our bodies to move, nor does moving or resting cause us to think<\/em>. To make more sense of this, it\u2019s worth keeping in mind that thoughts <\/em>and bodies are both things<\/em>, that is to say modes<\/em>, which pertain to the two attributes<\/em> that we have access to, thought<\/em> (incorporeality) and extension<\/em> (corporeality), as he (55-56) points out in part one of the book. He (131) wants to emphasize this in this context:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[M]ind and body are one and the same thing, conceived first under the attribute of thought, secondly, under the attribute of extension.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

So, when we think of causes<\/em>, be they adequate <\/em>or inadequate<\/em>, while they can only \u201cbe conceived under one attribute or the other\u201d, the activity <\/em>or passivity <\/em>has to do with the same thing<\/em>, as he (131-132) goes on to specify. It\u2019s just that we conceive the activity or passivity under one or the other attribute<\/em>. He (132) acknowledges that this may be hard to comprehend, but, well, if you ask me, it does make sense. I mean, I don\u2019t have to think <\/em>in order for my body <\/em>to do this or that, for example press these keys on this keyboard, the way I do. I just do, one by one. I don\u2019t have to press the keys to make myself think either. It\u2019s sort of happens, at the same time, hence the apparent simultaneity of it, even though we can, of course, only think of thoughts <\/em>leading to other thoughts <\/em>and bodies leading to other bodies, one attribute at a time. Anyway, he (132) really wants to emphasize this point, because it\u2019s absurd to claim that the mind has control over the body, just as it is to claim that the body has control over the mind. In his (132) words:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[W]hen men say that this or that physical action has its origin in the mind, which latter has dominion over the body, they are using words without meaning, or are confessing in specious phraseology that they are ignorant of the cause of the said action, and do not wonder at it.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

He (132) acknowledges that many will, nonetheless, assert the mind <\/em>as dominating over the body<\/em>. For example, it would appear that the body will not be affected <\/em>if mind is not fit to think. In other words, someone might be considered healthy, but not mentally healthy, which is why that person does not behave as expected. He (132) objects to this by noting that the mind might not be fit to think because the body is not fit. In other words, someone might not be mentally healthy because they are not bodily healthy. He (133) uses the example of how our ability to think is altered when we sleep, just as our bodies are altered when we sleep. We could say the same about alcohol as it the changes that it has on our bodies, there and then, also affects our thinking. I think he (133) summarizes this well:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think everyone\u2019s experience will confirm the statement, that the mind is not at all times equally fit for thinking on a given subject, but according as the body is more or less fitted for being stimulated by the image of this or that object, so also is the mind more or less fitted for contemplating the said object.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Indeed. For example, if I consume alcohol, I may well end up being unfit for thinking <\/em>this and\/or that, whatever that may. I can\u2019t say that everyone\u2019s experience will confirm that because if you\u2019ve never had alcohol or enough alcohol, you probably haven\u2019t experienced that, but those who have can confirm that. That said, consuming alcohol may result in being fit for thinking this and\/or that, whatever that may be. Again, if you haven\u2019t had alcohol or not enough alcohol, you can\u2019t confirm that, but if you have, you can confirm that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (132) mentions another possible objection, how people can decide to speak or to remain silent. He (133) counters this by humorously noting that wouldn\u2019t it be lovely if people were able to do just that, but, as experience tells us, there\u2019s no shortage of people who can\u2019t keep whatever it is that they have on their mind to themselves. It\u2019s so humorous that I\u2019ll include his (133) version:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI submit that the world would be much happier, if men were as fully able to keep silence as they are to speak. Experience abundantly shows that men can govern anything more easily than their tongues, and restrain anything more easily than their appetites[.]\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Haha! Priceless! And it\u2019s only funny because it\u2019s true. Sometimes people just can\u2019t help themselves. Sometimes it\u2019s also the other way around, so that we remain silent when it would have been better to speak. I totally agree with him (133-134) on this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have already covered how this works, what the limits of activity <\/em>and passivity <\/em>are. I have also provided some examples. That said, I think it\u2019s worth summarizing it the way he (134) does:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll these considerations clearly show that a mental decision and a bodily appetite, or determined state, are simultaneous, or rather are one and the same thing, which we call decision, when it is regarded under and explained through the attribute of thought, and a conditioned state, when it is regarded under the attribute of extension, and deduced from the laws of motion and rest.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

So, going back a bit, acknowledging that the body <\/em>and the mind <\/em>are in fact the one and the same thing <\/em>or, rather, that they are two attributes <\/em>of the same thing, distinct yet inseparable, we can assess this and\/or that decision, for example to speak or to remain silent, as willed <\/em>by us or as conditioned by our bodies. On one hand, we appear to be free to do as we like, yet experience tells us that it\u2019s hardly the case. On the other hand, experience tells us that we are constrained by who we\u2019ve become, yet it appears that we are free to do as we like at any given moment. Now, of course, this is just how we approach this issue either through one or the other attribute and not how we come to act, considering that all that is simultaneous. He (134) exemplifies this with how our memory works:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[W]e cannot act by the decision of the mind, unless we have a remembrance of having done so.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Agreed. You cannot remember something that you haven\u2019t done or, at least, you cannot remember something that you don\u2019t think you haven\u2019t done. It\u2019s the same the other way around, as he (134) goes on to add:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[I]t is not within the free power of the mind to remember or forget a thing at will.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

In other words, we are always free to do as we like, but only within the confines of what we\u2019ve become, as he (134) points out. Skipping ahead, ignoring the lengthy discussion about the state of things, because it reiterates much of what\u2019s contained in parts one and two of the book, he (137) defines will<\/em> as what we think of when we assess what we can or can\u2019t do, i.e., our endeavor, solely in terms of mind<\/em> or thought<\/em>, taking into consideration only one of the two attributes<\/em>, appetite<\/em> as what we think of the same in terms of thought (mind) and extension<\/em> (body<\/em>), that is to say when we take into consideration both of the attributes, and desire<\/em>, which is the consciousness of appetite<\/em>. So, as I just pointed out, we are always free to do as we like, but only within the confines of what we\u2019ve become. This is also why, for him (137), we don\u2019t desire what\u2019s good <\/em>or, to be more accurate, what we deem to be good, but that we deem something to be good because we desire it. This is a crucial point that he (156) reiterates later on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What is that we desire <\/em>then? Well, he (136-138) doesn\u2019t give us any readymade answers, except persistence <\/em>or self-preservation<\/em> or, should I say self-affirmation<\/em>, considering that nothing can be or contains its own destruction, as only other things may do that to other things, inasmuch as they are capable of such. This has to do with what was already mentioned about perfection <\/em>and imperfection<\/em>, how things are always perfect <\/em>the way they are, in themselves, even though we can, most certainly, think of them as being this or that perfect or imperfect<\/em>. This also has to do with how we can think <\/em>of ourselves, but how that can never be in the absence of our bodies<\/em>, considering that our thought <\/em>and extension <\/em>are attributes of the same thing<\/em>, as already pointed out and as he (138) points out in this context as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To be honest, as much as I\u2019ve come to like his way of presenting things, he doesn\u2019t always seem to follow his own rules. Perhaps it\u2019s just a translation issue or I\u2019m missing something crucial, but I don\u2019t like how he (138) moves on to point that our bodies <\/em>and minds <\/em>exist in a certain state of perfection<\/em>, be it a greater or a lesser state of perfection. I mean he is very adamant about things always being perfect <\/em>as they are. Wouldn\u2019t he negate God<\/em>, i.e., substance<\/em>, reality <\/em>or nature<\/em>, if it were possible for things not to not be the way they are supposed to be?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The way I understand that passage is that our bodies <\/em>and thoughts <\/em>have are always as perfect <\/em>as they can be, so that the state of perfection<\/em>, lesser or greater, is always relative to what it used to be. So, they are most or least perfect when our capacity to affect<\/em> and be affected<\/em> is maximized or minimized. It may seem contradictory to state that it\u2019s both, to affect and be affected, considering how being affected can diminish affecting, but it isn\u2019t at all contradictory because you do have to take both into account at the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Let\u2019s say that I say or do something which has an effect <\/em>on you. That\u2019s an act<\/em>. If it is positive, it increases your capacity to affect<\/em> and\/or be affected<\/em>. If it is negative, it diminishes your capacity to affect and\/or be affected. That act could be something like tying your hands. It diminishes your <\/em>capacity to act because you can\u2019t use your hands properly. It doesn\u2019t diminish your capacity to be acted upon though. That said, because it diminishes your capacity to act, your body <\/em>is in a lesser state of perfection <\/em>in terms of what it is capable of. I might also say that I\u2019ll tie your hands, that is to say threaten you, without ever tying your hands. That act diminishes your capacity to <\/em>act if it prevents you from doing something that you would otherwise do. It doesn\u2019t have an effect on your body but on your thoughts<\/em>, yet your body\u2019s capacity to act has been diminished so that it is now in a lesser state of perfection. We can also reverse this. Maybe you are into being tied, so that your capacity to act actually increases, leading you to do things that you otherwise wouldn\u2019t do or be capable of doing. Just saying that would come across as a promise to you, not as a threat. Now, of course, how that actually works really depends on the circumstances. Maybe you like bondage, maybe you don\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anyway, he (139) reiterates what\u2019s already been stated, that you can\u2019t separate the body <\/em>from the thought<\/em>, even though they are distinct, but adds that whatever affects <\/em>our bodies <\/em>also affects our thoughts<\/em>, be it positive or negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (139-140) further elaborates the positive and the negative. Crucially, he argues that one\u2019s mind <\/em>seeks to conceive or imagine the good <\/em>stuff, whatever helps to increase one\u2019s capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>. Conversely, he adds that one\u2019s mind also seeks to conceive or imagine the bad <\/em>stuff, whatever diminishes or hinders one\u2019s capacity to act and be acted upon, not because that\u2019s good for oneself, no, no, but because it\u2019s good to avoid the bad, to remember what\u2019s bad, in order to prevent such from diminishing or hindering one\u2019s capacity to act and be acted upon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (140) packs these two, the positive and the negative, into two words: love<\/em> and hate<\/em>. Firstly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLove<\/em> is nothing else but pleasure accompanied by the idea of an external cause<\/em>[.]\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Secondly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHate<\/em> is nothing else but pain accompanied by the idea of an external cause<\/em>.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Followed by a further clarification, in which he (140) adds that:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[The one] who loves necessarily endeavours to have, and to keep present to [oneself], the object of [one\u2019s] love[.]\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

And, conversely (140):<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[The one] who hates endeavours to remove and destroy the object of [one\u2019s] hatred.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Now, this makes sense. The first instance is pretty self-explanatory. The second instance also makes sense, if you consider how removing the negative is tied to this or that thing that diminishes or hinders one\u2019s capacity to act<\/em> or be acted upon<\/em>. If you remove it, if you destroy it, then it can no longer diminish or hinder one\u2019s capacity to act or be acted upon.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (140) adds to this formulation that it is also possible to be affected <\/em>by more than one thing at a time, which leads to associating them with one another. This means that if you are affected by one of them, you are also affected by the others, even in their absence. To be clear, this doesn\u2019t mean that you are literally affected by the others, but rather that you end up thinking <\/em>that you are, which is functionally the same as if you were affected by them. These can be positive and\/or negative. For example, you may end up associating eating ice cream with the warmth of sunshine or, alternatively, let\u2019s say, tooth ache. In the first instance, you find pleasure <\/em>in the taste of the ice cream as well as in the warmth of the sunshine, even when there is no sunshine. In the second instance, you find or may find pleasure in the taste of the ice cream, but it is accompanied by tooth ache which diminishes that pleasure at least to some extent. There needs to be no tooth ache. It\u2019s enough that you think there is, which more or less ruins the pleasure of eating ice cream. It might also be that you seek to avoid eating ice cream because you have sensitive teeth or have had sensitive teeth, even though you do like the taste of ice cream. It\u2019s just that the sensitivity issue takes precedence over the pleasure. Now, of course, it is also possible find pleasure in the taste ice cream and in the warmth of sunshine, while also finding it painful to eat ice cream. He (142) is very clear about this, that it is possible to find one thing both pleasurable and painful <\/em>at the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We can simplify this by saying that you love <\/em>ice cream and you love sunshine, but you hate <\/em>tooth ache because it involves pain<\/em>. Eating ice cream, actual or imagined, and enjoying sunshine, actual or imagined, increase your capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>. You love it! Tooth ache, actual or imagined, decreases your capacity to act and be acted upon. You hate it! That said, that\u2019s an oversimplification. How so? Well, the hatred of tooth ache does remove or destroy the tooth ache by preventing it from happening. So, in a sense, it\u2019s not at all clear whether it\u2019s a bad <\/em>thing to hate something, inasmuch as it prevents one\u2019s capacity to act and be acted upon from being diminished. Then again, the hatred of tooth ache may well be a bad thing for you, inasmuch as there would be no tooth ache. You may have had sensitive teeth in the past, caused by some ailment or dental procedure that needs extra time to heal on its own, which may no longer be the case. If it is no longer the case, that hatred of tooth ache prevents you from enjoying ice cream and thus diminishing your capacity to act and be acted upon. So, simply put, your hatred of tooth ache, likely well justified, ends up causing you to also hate ice cream, not because there is something inherently worth hating about ice cream (unless, perhaps, you are lactose intolerant), but because your hatred of something else has led you to hate it as well. Now, to further complicate this, while tooth ache is generally speaking a bad thing, yes, it may also be a good <\/em>thing, inasmuch it leads to you to investigate why it happens. If you get your dentist to have a look and fix the issue, that bad thing has led to you to a good thing, which, in turn, allows you to take pleasure <\/em>in ice cream. Maybe there\u2019s also something else that\u2019s wrong, that you just didn’t know of, and that then gets fixed, so a bad thing can also lead to a good thing, in ways that are often unimaginable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Later on, he (144) points this out, how getting rid of something positive isn\u2019t good <\/em>for you, whereas getting rid of something negative is. Conversely, having to deal with something positive is good for you, as it remains pleasurable<\/em>, whereas having to deal with something negative isn\u2019t, as it remains painful<\/em>. It\u2019s pretty simple, really. In addition, to add bit of complexity to this, when something good happens to something or someone that we hate<\/em>, we feel pained by that, as he (146) goes on to add. So, it\u2019s not just about the pain we feel when something bad <\/em>happens to something or someone that we love<\/em>, about what he (147) calls grief<\/em>, but also about the pain we feel when something good happens to something or someone that we hate, because we consider that what we hate to be reinforced or boldened by that, which, in turn, enables it or that person to incur pain in us. It might, of course, also be about envy<\/em>, which he (147) defines as the hatred of people who, instead of us, gain something we would like ourselves to have. Then again, we might also flip-flop on that, if that something or someone we\u2019ve come to hate, for some reason, now negatively affects something or someone else that we hate, it pushes us to love that something or someone, as he (146-147) goes on to specify.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We may also be tempted to take the quickest route, to simply remove that something that we hate<\/em>, but we don\u2019t always do that. The way he (156) explains this is that we abstain from hatred, from removing or destroying what we consider painful<\/em>, because we fear<\/em> (we\u2019ll get to that shortly) something more painful might happen to us as a result. For example, we could do something like go through a red light because it pains us, because it makes us wait, but we don\u2019t because we are aware that it might result in an injury, getting hit by a vehicle, and\/or a fine for a traffic violation. This is what he (157) calls timidity<\/em> or bashfulness<\/em> if it involves shame<\/em> (we\u2019ll get to this\u2026) and consternation<\/em> (\u2026and this\u2026) if it involves vacillation<\/em> (\u2026.in just a moment). And, again, this also works the other way around, as he (156) points out. If you love <\/em>something but find something that you love more, you turn your attention to that instead, because it\u2019s just more pleasurable <\/em>to you. He (164-165) distinguishes wonder<\/em> and veneration<\/em> from consternation and horror<\/em>. Wonder is about being captivated by something, in a positive sense, whereas consternation is about being captivated by something, but in a negative sense. In both case you are fixated on something, but for different reasons. Wonder turns into veneration if it has to do with other people and if their positive actions appear to be superior to our own actions. Furthermore, it can lead to not only veneration but also to devotion<\/em>. Similarly, consternation turns into horror if it\u2019s about other people and if their negative actions appear to surpass ours. It can also lead to derision<\/em> and scorn<\/em>. In both cases our love and hate towards such people becomes amplified. He (165) also adds that the opposite of being captivated by something, be it in a positive or a negative sense, is contempt<\/em>. It has to do with how, instead of being captivated by something special in something, we imagine something else instead, hence our contempt towards it. That turns into derision if we already hate or fear it and scorn if it doesn\u2019t make sense to us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (151) also reckons that our love <\/em>or hate <\/em>of something is fortified not only when others also love or hate it, but also when we imagine that they also love or hate it. In other words, it\u2019s enough that we think <\/em>they do, regardless of whether they actually do or don\u2019t. It\u2019s also enough that we think that they don\u2019t love or hate what we love or hate for it to lead to what he (142, 151) calls vacillation<\/em>, to the conflict of emotions<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We could also swap the ice cream with something that doesn\u2019t really do anything for you, but, nonetheless, conjures up something positive or negative, something pleasurable <\/em>or painful<\/em>. This is why he (140-141) points out that the way this works can be accidental. I reckon most people have experienced this when they\u2019ve said something to someone else, meaning no harm, but the other person takes it the wrong way, not because they want to take it the wrong way, but because whatever you said conjured up something negative that they\u2019ve come to associate with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To summarize this discussion of pleasure <\/em>and pain<\/em>, love <\/em>and hate<\/em>, it\u2019s possible for them to co-exist, so that, on one hand, whatever you are dealing with is something that you love, something that gives you pleasure, but, on the other hand, it is also something that you hate, something that causes <\/em>you pain. This is why he (143) states \u201cthat one and the same object may be the cause of many and conflicting emotions.\u201d This is what he (142) calls vacillation<\/em>. This is related to the aforementioned flip-flopping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (143) acknowledges how the way this works not only has to do with the past, that is to say with one\u2019s experiences, but also the future, but always as imagined from the present. He doesn\u2019t explain it this way, but I like to explain it this way, so that to make more sense of this, imagine that you are in the future, which, of course, then functions as the present from which you assess the past, which is the actual present. Anyway, the point is that it doesn\u2019t matter whether you are dealing with the past or the future because the past and the future are always assessed from the present, here and now. In his (143) words:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[T]he body is affected by no emotion which excludes the existence of the thing, and therefore \u2026 the body is affected by the image of the thing, in the same way as if the thing were actually present.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

So, to be clear, as already established, the point he makes is that a body <\/em>can affect <\/em>a body and thought <\/em>a thought. Imaginary things, things that don\u2019t actually exist, whatever the mind <\/em>conceives, still function as if they did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From all this complexity of how emotions <\/em>work, he (143-144) draws hope<\/em>, fear<\/em>, confidence<\/em>, despair<\/em>, joy<\/em> and disappointment<\/em>. Hope is about \u201cinconstant pleasure\u201d, when we can\u2019t be sure whether something will be pleasurable or not, but we reckon it will be. Fear works the same way, as the \u201cinconstant pain\u201d, when we can\u2019t be sure whether will be painful or not, but we reckon it will be. Hope becomes confidence and fear becomes despair once the doubt involved in hope and fear is removed, when we realize how things are panning out for us. Joy <\/em>and disappointment <\/em>is about when we look back at those moments of confidence or despair, when we feel joyous or disappointed about something that we simultaneously anticipated and doubted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To add yet another layer of complexity to this, whatever we reckon as having a positive effect on something that we already consider positive, i.e., love<\/em>, we\u2019ll also find pleasure <\/em>in that, i.e., love that as well, as he (145) points out. Conversely, if we consider something as having a negative effect on something that we consider to be positive, i.e., love, we\u2019ll come to hate <\/em>it, as he (145) also points out. How much one will love or hate that thing <\/em>that affects <\/em>what one already loves then depends on how much one loves it to begin with, as specified by him (145). I\u2019d say that this only makes sense. If you are into something, if you think of it in positive light, you\u2019ll be happy to see it being affected <\/em>positively, but not negatively. Conversely, if aren\u2019t that into it, if you don\u2019t see it that positive light, you won\u2019t really care what happens to it, be it positive or negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is wonderful, really. I mean he isn\u2019t taking any sides, nor appealing to something as inherently pleasurable<\/em>, nor painful<\/em>. It really depends on the circumstances. So, for example, if I find myself fuming over something like the mistreatment of my friend, someone I care about, it means that the pain inflicted upon my friend is also painful to me. If I don\u2019t find myself pained by such, it means that that person isn\u2019t really my friend and that I should call that person my friend. Conversely, if I\u2019m happy about something good <\/em>happening to my friend, it means that the pleasure of my friend pleasures me. If that\u2019s not the case, if that doesn\u2019t provide me pleasure, then, well, I really shouldn\u2019t be calling that person my friend. Now, of course, we can replace that friend in my example with just about whatever, for example by some cause or even by that ice cream that I mentioned. Just think about, it makes sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What can be drawn from all this, according to him (145-146) is pity<\/em>, when we share in someone else\u2019s pain<\/em>, the opposite of pity, when we share in someone else\u2019s joy<\/em>, which he has no name for (is it some sort of revelry<\/em>?), approval<\/em>, when we love <\/em>someone for causing pleasure <\/em>to someone else, and indignation<\/em>, when hate <\/em>someone for causing pain to someone else. I guess we could replace the persons here with things <\/em>as well, as he (146) does on go on to mention things right after explaining these four emotions<\/em>. He (146) adds that we tend to approve something good <\/em>that happens to someone who reminds <\/em>or resembles <\/em>us and, conversely, take offense, feel indignation, when something bad <\/em>happens to someone who reminds or resembles us. In plain terms, we tend to approve or disapprove something if we think that could have been me. He (148) seems to have this urge to further explain this, basically noting how we have this tendency to align with whatever appears to be the same as us, but really just similar (not the same!) to us, and, on the contrary, to say fuck it, fuck them, when whatever doesn\u2019t appear to be the same as us, when it\u2019s clearly dissimilar to us. For him (148-149), the former has to do with compassion<\/em>, emulation<\/em> and benevolence<\/em> whereas the latter has to do with repugnance<\/em> and, by all logic, malevolence<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This leads him (147-148) to define pride<\/em>. For him, it occurs when one thinks <\/em>of oneself, or what one loves<\/em>, too highly. It also occurs when one thinks of what one hates <\/em>too meanly, with too much hatred. It\u2019s basically about thinking that you and your crew are the best shit ever and, conversely, everyone is simply shit, even though, obviously, it\u2019s not that simple. I mean, okay, if you are great, then great. Good <\/em>on you. But if that\u2019s just about posing, then, well, you are poser, which is exactly why I don\u2019t like pride, why I don\u2019t like taking credit for something. I can say that I\u2019m responsible for this and\/or that, having done it or played a part, if asked, but I\u2019m not fond of taking credit for something, even if my contribution has been considerable, even if it wouldn\u2019t have happened without me. So, yeah, I don\u2019t like it when someone says they are proud for having achieved this and\/or that. I\u2019m like, yeah, sure, sure, you did it all by yourself and no one helped you, it was all you and only you. Maybe that\u2019s too harsh, so, I guess, you can have those brief moments of pride, when you are like nice, nice, well done, good for me, when appropriate, but that\u2019s about it. I just don\u2019t like the notion of pride. There\u2019s just something really complacent <\/em>about it, expecting others to acknowledge it and all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You have to be careful with pride <\/em>though. It\u2019s one thing to point out that someone thinks <\/em>too highly of themselves, but it\u2019s another thing to mock their achievements for one\u2019s own benefit, which is why he (148) states that thinking too highly of someone else results in over-esteem<\/em>, i.e., overvaluing them, and that thinking too little of them results in disdain<\/em>, undervaluing them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (150) defines ambition<\/em> as someone\u2019s desire <\/em>to please others, i.e., to gain their approval<\/em>, either by doing something or not doing something, in order to avoid their disapproval<\/em>, as distinguished from kindliness<\/em>, which has to do to with doing whatever it is that you are doing, or, alternatively, leaving it undone (but isn\u2019t that sort of still doing something, just negated?) without care for the approval of others. He (150) links ambition to praise<\/em> and blame<\/em>, so that one gets praised, i.e., approved by others, or, alternatively, blamed, i.e., disapproved by others, for one\u2019s actions or for the lack thereof. Note here how this doesn\u2019t apply to kindliness, because, well, praise and blame are irrelevant if you don\u2019t do something, whatever it is that you wish to do, or abstain from doing it for the sake of approval.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To give you an example of ambition <\/em>and kindliness<\/em>, I\u2019d say that he would argue that charity <\/em>is about the latter but not about the former. If you give something, if you seek to benefit others, you just do it, not because you want their praise <\/em>for doing it, but because it is the kind thing to do. If you do it to gain recognition and praise, it\u2019s about ambition. So, the next time you engage in some charitable act, just do it. Don\u2019t think about it, just do it. Don\u2019t ask for attribution. Don\u2019t ask for people\u2019s praise, for whatever it is that you do for them. Now, of course, it\u2019s important that they approve what you do, that they agree with it, as opposed to disapprove <\/em>it, that they don\u2019t disagree with it, in the sense that whatever it is that you do is supposed to have a positive effect on them, not a negative effect on them. That\u2019d be like walking all over them, telling them that what you do for them is for their own good<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d say it\u2019s okay to benefit from a charitable <\/em>act, inasmuch that\u2019s not your motive to begin with, inasmuch you are indifferent to praise <\/em>and blame<\/em>, approval <\/em>and disapproval<\/em>. I\u2019d say this also means that you have to be aware that your act of kindliness <\/em>may not necessarily have the intended effect<\/em>, which may result in blame<\/em>, regardless of your lack of ambition<\/em>. So, yeah, you do have to take that into account.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then again, I guess he\u2019d argue that kindliness <\/em>is just that, that you just do it and take the hit if that\u2019s what ends up happening. It\u2019d be about ambition <\/em>if you weighed on your options, to do or not to do, on the basis of what\u2019s the likelihood of it being approved <\/em>or disapproved<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Related to ambition <\/em>and kindliness<\/em>, he (158-159) notes that if our love <\/em>is not met with gratitude<\/em> or thankfulness<\/em>, or, as I\u2019d put it, appropriate gratitude or thankfulness, we\u2019ll feel pain<\/em>. For him (159) this has to do with how we tend to love what\u2019s similar <\/em>to us. To be brief, this is because we expect what\u2019s similar to act similarly and if that\u2019s not the case, we are pained by that, as he (159) points out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (150-51) further distinguishes love<\/em> and hate<\/em> from honor<\/em> and shame<\/em>. In summary, love and hate have to do with something external. You love or hate this or that. The point is that it\u2019s just that, very direct. In contrast, honor and shame are about the pleasure <\/em>and pain <\/em>\u201caccompanied by the idea of an external cause\u201d, the point being that we may feel honored or ashamed if we are praised <\/em>or blamed<\/em>. If, however, there is no praise or blame involved, it\u2019s not about feeling honored or ashamed, but about what he (151) calls self-complacency<\/em> and repentance<\/em>. He (151) then adds that this may lead to pride<\/em>. I\u2019d say this make sense, considering how I already mentioned that there is just something really complacent about pride. Another good word here is vanity<\/em>, as he (151) goes on to add, how one \u201cmay imagine that [one] is pleasing to all, when in reality [one] may be an annoyance to all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Going back a bit here, to the earlier remark about how our love <\/em>or hate <\/em>of something is reinforced when others also love or hate it and when we think they love or hate it, he (151-152) notes that we are pushed to not only imagine such, but to make it so. In other words, we are tempted to want others to want what we want. For him (152) this is another definition of ambition<\/em>, because it\u2019s about wanting others to want exactly what you want and not something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Similarly, he (152) adds that we are also tempted to want what someone else has, even if that can only be had by one person at a time. Note how this leads to a conflict. If that person has it and can take delight in it, then you can\u2019t have it and take delight in it. If you want to have it, in order to take delight in it, you must take it away from that other person, who, as a result then can\u2019t take delight in it. This is another definition of envy<\/em> for him (152). In addition, when we love <\/em>something that loves something else more than us, our love of it turns into hatred <\/em>of it and results in a rivalry with that something else, as we come to envy that something else for being loved by what we loved, as he (153) goes on to elaborate. Now, if you\u2019ve ever been interested in someone, only for that someone to show affection to someone else, probably because that\u2019s just how it is, how it already was, nothing against you, you\u2019ve probably experienced this, which is why he (154) aptly labels this as jealousy<\/em>. To be clear, that doesn\u2019t have to be the case. It can also be that we think <\/em>that it is the case. We may, for example, be jealous of someone when we think that the person we are interested in is interested in someone else, even when that\u2019s not actually the case. He (154) points this out explicitly, noting that men tend to exhibit jealousy because they think women are theirs and not someone else\u2019s, certainly not other men\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (152) then further comments on our love <\/em>of what we think <\/em>as the same <\/em>as us, or, to be more accurate, what we think of as similar <\/em>to ourselves. I reckon this connects well with vanity<\/em>, considering that it\u2019s about the excessive love of oneself. How so? Well, he (152-153) notes that when we love something that\u2019s similar to us, because it reminds <\/em>us of ourselves, we also want that something to love us back. In other words, there is this desire <\/em>for something, but also this desire to be desired<\/em>. The way he (153) explains it is that when we love something similar to us, for being similar to us, like ourselves, we come to expect the same from that, because why wouldn\u2019t it love us if it is like us? Makes sense. The problem with this is that it tends to result in complacency<\/em>, a self-centered regard for oneself, instead of others, as he (153) goes on to point out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This also works the other way around, as he (157-158) points out. If we think that others hate <\/em>us, for no apparent reason, we\u2019ll also hate them, because it only makes sense to hate your enemy<\/em>, someone who hates you for no reason. He calls this anger<\/em> (158). This results in vacillation<\/em> if we think that those we love hate <\/em>us for no apparent reason. If we don\u2019t really think of anything about others who we think <\/em>as hating us, we\u2019ll seek to revenge<\/em> that. This can then also be flipped back to positive. If we don\u2019t think much of someone who then shows love for us, for no apparent reason, we are pushed to love them back, to show them gratitude<\/em> or thankfulness<\/em>, as he (158) refers to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (158) also further comments on these, on reciprocal love <\/em>and hate<\/em>, noting that we appear to be \u201cmuch more prone to take vengeance than to return benefits.\u201d My guess is that we simply don\u2019t do enough for others, so they don\u2019t reciprocate. Instead, we probably think <\/em>that others simply seek to gain something on our expense, so it\u2019s like we are already geared up for vengeance<\/em>. This actually reminds me of how bad faith<\/em> works, as I\u2019ve explained in another essay, but I\u2019m not going to go on a tangent on that here. Anyway, relevant to bad faith, he (158) also adds that if our hatred, real or imagined, is undermined by being loved by our object of hatred, we vacillate<\/em>, and if our hatred is stronger than the conflicting love, hatred prevails over love, resulting in cruelty<\/em>. Then again, if your hatred is met by love that prevails, it\u2019s like when you hate something and, all the sudden, the reason for that is gone, you just can\u2019t do that anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is also the related issue of reinforcement. Some of this has been covered already, but here he (159) states that hatred <\/em>tends to reinforce hatred. This shouldn\u2019t be tough to understand, how hatred breeds hatred and how you have to be a proper hater to hate even those who show you at least some love<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To be properly negative again, for a moment, to further comment on jealousy<\/em>, the more you expect to be loved<\/em>, the more hatred <\/em>it fuels in you if what you love, typically a person, loves or appears to love something else, typically another person, as he (154) also points out. On top of that, the more you loved, the more it will turn into hate, especially when contrasted with something that you end up hating but you didn\u2019t love before, as noted by him (155). Simply put, you don\u2019t really mind something if it wasn\u2019t that important to you in the first place, but you do mind if it was important to you. To flip this, yet again, to be positive again, this also works the other way around, as he (159) goes on to add. If you\u2019ve hated, and hated, like nothing compares, but then that object of your hate shows love to you, undermining your hatred to the point that love prevails, your love for your former enemy is now much, much greater than it would have been if that hadn\u2019t been the case, if that love hadn\u2019t prevailed over your hatred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s an important caveat to how love <\/em>and hate <\/em>and pain <\/em>and pleasure <\/em>may become stronger by flipping from one to the other. As noted by him (159-160), you can\u2019t just do one in order to do the exact opposite. Why? You simply don\u2019t seek to be pained in order to be loved. You don\u2019t harm yourself for the sake of recovery. He (160) also argues that if you seek to access a stronger form of love through hate, you\u2019ll be continuously tempted to hate more and more, and more and more, just so that, in the end, the love would be stronger and stronger. The point here is that if you seek ever greater love or pleasure through hate or pain, there\u2019ll be no limit to it and no end to it. For example, you don\u2019t seek to get seriously ill, let\u2019s say infected by a virtually uncurable disease, just so that you could enjoy the pleasure of being cured from it, rather miraculously, let\u2019s say by getting a transplant from a person who just so happens to be immune to that disease, which then carries over to your immune system. To be clear, people have been cured of HIV following transplant procedures, but, no, I\u2019m quite confident that they didn\u2019t seek to get HIV just so that they make headlines later on. That\u2019d be absurd, as he (160) points out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jealousy <\/em>turns into something even more painful <\/em>when we already hate <\/em>the third party and when we\u2019ve been loved <\/em>by what\u2019ve loved, as pointed out by him (154). On top of that, what else we\u2019ve come to associate with that love will now also incite hatred in us, even though nothing about what we\u2019ve associated to what we\u2019ve loved gives us cause <\/em>for hatred, as he (154) goes on to add. This pushes us to regain what we once loved but now hate as it should remove the pain caused by the others things, as he (154) points out. In short, it\u2019s not that you want this or that back, typically a former lover, but everything that came with <\/em>it, with <\/em>that person. You just want your old life back because everything that was part of it, one way or another, now appears to be painfully absent. The whole thought process involved here, reminiscing about a lost love, is what he (155) calls regret<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This next one is a fairly little thing, but I guess it matters quite a bit, when you think of it. So, he (155) states that the greater the pain <\/em>endured, the greater the effect <\/em>it has on one\u2019s capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>. That\u2019s the little thing. In addition, the greater the pain involved, the more one wants to get rid of it, as he (155) goes on to add. That\u2019s the important thing here. How so? Well, because the more pain is inflicted, the more obvious it is and the more one wants to get rid of it. It\u2019s like how it is with force <\/em>and resistance<\/em>. The more you use force, the more it will invite resistance. This also works the other way around, as he (155) points out. The more something gives you pleasure<\/em>, the more you want to keep it that way. So, if you have a sweet gig, you\u2019ll want to keep it, which explains why people don\u2019t want to do and\/or say anything that might put it to risk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To go back a bit, again, he (160) further specifies vacillation <\/em>and similarity<\/em>. So, in summary, when we have contradictory emotions, we don\u2019t know whether to love <\/em>or hate <\/em>and who or what we should love or hate. In addition, we tend to love what\u2019s similar to us and expect all that\u2019s similar to us to act <\/em>as we do, i.e., to love us. However, that\u2019s not always the case. The problem with similarity is that it\u2019s not about being the same<\/em>. In short, as people, we are similar to many other people, not just this or that person. So, as he (160) goes on to point out, we are capable of hating what\u2019s similar to us if it appears to hate what\u2019s also similar to us. In other words, our love of something similar to us can trigger hatred towards something else similar to us, inasmuch it appears to us that what we are trigged to hate happens to hate what we love, despite the shared similarity. This also pains us, inasmuch as we, in our hate, succeed in removing, destroying or injuring what we\u2019ve come to hate because of the similarity involved, as he (160) goes on to specify.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This issue that involves vacillation <\/em>and similarity <\/em>also has a temporal dimension. When we look back at that, having done that, we are, on one hand, pained <\/em>by the conflict, having had to deal with it, and, on the other hand, rejoice <\/em>in having dealt with it. The point he (160-161) makes here is that having to have gone through such, having to take sides with something similar <\/em>against something also similar, pains us, even in retrospect because, well, we had to get rid of something similar. We rejoice because by doing so we made sure that something similar to us, what we love, wasn\u2019t removed, destroyed or harmed in the process, or because by getting involved we managed to minimize the damage to what\u2019s similar to us. Then again, our joy is shadowed by a certain pain coming from the realization of having to remove, destroy or harm something that we also loved<\/em>. The problem here is, as you might realize yourself, that we simply cannot remain uninvolved or, well, I guess we can, but then we are letting something that we love perish or be harmed, which will, nonetheless, pain us because our love will be lost or be in danger of being lost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s also worth noting that, for him (160), similarity <\/em>is not just between individuals, let\u2019s say me, you and someone else, but also between groups, what he calls \u201ca class or nation\u201d. He doesn\u2019t elaborate this in this context, but I reckon this makes sense. We are certainly capable of imagining those similar to us as \u2018the us<\/em> group\u2019 and those dissimilar to us as \u2018the them<\/em> group\u2019. I think it\u2019s also worth noting, and reiterating, that he isn\u2019t saying that we, \u2018the us group\u2019, are all the same<\/em>, nor that they, \u2018the them group\u2019, are all the same, so that\u2019d we or they would belong to this or that group because of sameness. He (141-142) uses the word resemblance<\/em>, which certainly isn\u2019t a matter of sameness, but of similarity. This may seem like a small thing, but it changes everything. I\u2019d say that we are most certainly tempted to think that we are the same within a group, that there is this essence <\/em>of what\u2019 make us us<\/em> and them them<\/em>, but that\u2019s our idea <\/em>of how things <\/em>are, not how things are. As a side note, this is something that runs through his text, how it is enough that we think <\/em>that this and\/or that is the case for us to feel <\/em>and act <\/em>in certain ways, in relation to others. Things don\u2019t actually have to be that way. It\u2019s enough that we believe <\/em>that things are this and\/or that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moving on! He shifts his attention to causes<\/em>. He (161) comments on how we like to think that our love <\/em>or hate <\/em>for something is tied to that something, typically a person, and how our love or hate is conditioned by that, so that if we come to realize that it\u2019s not the case, that we, in actuality, love or hate something because of something else, to this or that degree, our love or hate diminishes, to this or that degree. For example, if we love a person because we think <\/em>that person did something for us but, later on, we are told that it was someone else, the person didn\u2019t act alone or the person was forced to do that, our love for that person changes accordingly. He (161-162) actually further comments on the last bit, on volition<\/em>, noting that it makes a great difference whether we reckon someone does something out of necessity <\/em>or is free <\/em>to do so. I think this is pretty obvious, but I\u2019ll provide a couple of examples of this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right, let\u2019s say that you ask someone to help you with something and that person says no to it. It\u2019s not clear why the person says no to it. It might be that the person can\u2019t<\/em> help you or it might be that the person isn\u2019t willing <\/em>to help you. I don\u2019t know about others but at least I let people off the hook if it is about the former. If it\u2019s about the latter, it\u2019s really telling to me about how that person feels <\/em>about me. Now, don\u2019t get me wrong, if you don\u2019t know that person (which is why I didn\u2019t specify the relation), you can\u2019t really expect them to help you, to show you any love<\/em>. It\u2019s the same with a person who isn\u2019t fond of you, not that you\u2019d really ask such a person to help you. If that person is your friend, that person better tell you that they can\u2019t<\/em> help you, otherwise you\u2019ll probably want to rethink your friendship. If its about the former and not the latter, it also better be the case that it is, otherwise you\u2019ll really want to rethink your friendship because they are, in my view, seeking to gain from you, one way or another, sooner or later, but otherwise they\u2019d not deal with you at all. To use Spinoza\u2019s terms, if it turns out to be the case that your friend could <\/em>help you but simply isn\u2019t willing <\/em>to help you, your love is bound to turn into hate<\/em>, proportional to the level of friendship you thought you had. If you were barely friends, you probably won\u2019t hate the person that much for such treachery, no biggie, but if you are really good friends, you\u2019ll hate them a lot for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To flip that example on its head, we can also change the roles, to think of a case where someone asks you for help. Is that person asking you for help, just because that person needs your help, let\u2019s say because you\u2019d be perfect for the job, or is it because that person wants your help. How do you know which one it is? My answer is that if that person doesn\u2019t otherwise associate with you, if they only make contact and speak to you when they need something from you, that person probably isn\u2019t your friend. Chances are the person asks you because they know that you can help them. That person could ask someone else, an actual friend, but asks you because that person reckons you are a more suitable candidate for the task. That person could also pay someone at least equally good as you at the task to help but won\u2019t because it would involve giving instead of just gaining. Does this mean that you shouldn\u2019t help people, just because you aren\u2019t their friend, just because you aren\u2019t fond of them? No. That\u2019s not the point here as you may actually gain a friend by doing that, as doing something for someone who doesn\u2019t expect anything from you may changes their opinion of you. It\u2019s rather that if people only deal with you when they need something from you, it is probably better for you to not associate with them. I realize that it might be me, my aura, my personality, fair enough, but I\u2019m surprised how common this is, how people call you, how they message you, perhaps, at first, asking how you are doing, which is nice, only to then ask you for something, which is like, ah, okay, I see what\u2019s going on here. I\u2019m like \u2026 is that it? Is that all that I am to you?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This leads him (162) to note that love <\/em>and hate <\/em>seem to be amplified inasmuch we think that people are free <\/em>to do as they like. Conversely, if we assume that the opposite is the case, we tend to let people off the hook. Yeah, I\u2019d say that\u2019s about right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moving on, skipping a head a bit, to another topic, he (165) recommends knowing oneself. In short, the better you know yourself, what you can and cannot do<\/em>, what you can and cannot think<\/em>, i.e., know your limits at any given time, the more in control you are and the more you\u2019ll feel pleasure<\/em>. The point here is that you are more capable of affecting<\/em> and being affected<\/em> the better you know yourself and your limits. I\u2019d say that all that actually helps you to go beyond your limits, albeit only when assessed in retrospect as you are always within your own limits, no matter what. When that works, you\u2019ll feel pleasure, but when that doesn\u2019t work, you\u2019ll feel pain<\/em>, as he (166) goes on to add. This makes sense, in the sense that inasmuch as you feel <\/em>like you can do it, you probably can do it, but inasmuch as you feel like you can\u2019t do it, you probably can\u2019t do it because you\u2019ve let that thought <\/em>take hold of you. In this context, what others think of you or, rather, what you think others think of you also matters, so that thinking that you are seen in a positive light will make you feel capable <\/em>and, conversely, thinking that you are seen in a negative light will make you feel incapable<\/em>. The former he refers to as self-love<\/em> or self-complacency<\/em> and the latter as humility<\/em>. Note how he isn\u2019t saying that knowing yourself is necessarily a positive thing. It can also end in self-indulgence<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (168) moves on to summarize all this, noting that:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere are as many kinds of pleasure, of pain, of desire, and of every emotion compounded of these, such as vacillations of spirit, or derived from these, such as love, hatred, hope, fear, [et]c., as there are kinds of objects whereby we are affected.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

In other words, he simply acknowledges that emotions <\/em>tend to be compounded<\/em>, rarely occurring separate from one another. This is further compounded <\/em>by the compoundedness <\/em>of what we deal with, as he (168) goes on to further specify:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[T]he pleasure, which arises from, say, the object A, involves the nature of that object A, and the pleasure, which arises from the object B, involves the nature of the object B; wherefore these two pleasurable emotions are by nature different, inasmuch as the causes whence they arise are by nature different.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Only to paraphrase this (168):<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo again the emotion of pain, which arises from one object, is by nature different from the pain arising from another object, and, similarly, in the case of love, hatred, hope, fear, vacillation, [et]c.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

The point here is that our capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em> is conditioned by the capacity to act and be acted upon of everything else that we encounter, have encountered and will encounter in the future. It\u2019s very here and now, it is what it is, way of explaining who we are<\/em>. Stable identity <\/em>is replaced by this, just this, that we are <\/em>what we\u2019ve become<\/em>, as checked by everything else, which, of course, is also defined by the same way as just that, as what it is that they\u2019ve become.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That may make it seem like he ends up contradicting himself, considering that part three is about emotions<\/em>, what we all come to feel <\/em>these emotions that he lists and defines, some more than others, only to indicate that none of us is the same<\/em>. It\u2019s like a lot of talk how we share in these emotions, only to say that it all depends on who we are <\/em>or, rather, who we\u2019ve become<\/em>, and who others are or, to be more accurate, who they\u2019ve become, but he isn\u2019t contradicting himself. How so? Well, he isn\u2019t saying that these are all the emotions that one may feel, but only some emotions that one may feel. His list is by no means exhaustive. Also, he isn\u2019t saying that everyone will come to have this and\/or that emotion, but rather that there are these tendencies<\/em>, which, of course, depend on who we\u2019ve become and who or what we come to deal with. This is why he (169) stresses that:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny emotion of a given individual differs from the emotion of another individual only in so far as the essence of the one individual differs from the essence of the other.<\/em>\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

This ties in with the discussion of kinds of knowledge <\/em>in my previous Spinoza essay. In summary, he (109, 113-144) distinguishes between opinion<\/em>\/imagination<\/em>, reason<\/em>, and intuition<\/em>, of which the first is always inadequate<\/em> knowledge<\/em>, i.e., confused<\/em>, whereas the second and the third are always adequate<\/em> knowledge<\/em>, i.e., not confused knowledge. The first kind of knowledge deals with a bit of this and a bit of that, in a rather impressionistic and confused manner, whereas the second kind of knowledge draws what\u2019s common <\/em>between all those bits and bobs. While the second kind of knowledge improves upon the first kind of knowledge, so that it\u2019s no longer confused, providing us with understanding of what\u2019s common between this and that, but not between something else, but which has something else in common with something else, it gets removed from all that particularity<\/em>, what makes this this<\/em> and not that<\/em>, and what makes that that <\/em>and not this<\/em>. I\u2019d say that this is how we contemporarily understand knowledge, albeit there is a certain temptation to think that what Spinoza thinks as common is a matter of thinking what\u2019s common or general <\/em>between everything, i.e., what\u2019s universal<\/em>, which isn\u2019t at all the case as commonality or generality of his second kind of knowledge is always a matter of thinking what\u2019s common between this and <\/em>that. That commonality may, of course, extend much further than just this and <\/em>that, but it\u2019s not about universals, whether this and\/or<\/em> that exhibit some universal feature or trait that is common. So, I\u2019d say that it\u2019s important to keep in mind that it\u2019s always bottom-up, rather than top down. Anyway, only the third kind of knowledge gives us that particularity or, rather that singularity<\/em>, the essence<\/em> of something or someone. So, in short, to make sense of this, our emotions <\/em>differ according to our essences<\/em>, which, in itself, isn\u2019t fixed. Instead, it\u2019s defined as the capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s also worth keeping in mind that he isn\u2019t saying that just because everyone is unique, according to one\u2019s essence<\/em>, according to one\u2019s capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>, one isn\u2019t also limited by that. In other words, as he (170) goes on to note, a human is a human, whereas a horse is a horse, an insect is an insect, a fish is a fish and a bird is a bird, and even though we may have this and\/or that in common <\/em>with what else is there, we are not the same<\/em>, nor, more importantly, can we think <\/em>that we are <\/em>something that we aren\u2019t<\/em>. Simply put, we are what we are, what we\u2019ve become<\/em>, not what we think we are, nor what we think we\u2019ve become. What’s common is, of course, important. It\u2019s a very practical way of dealing with things. That said, it\u2019s not all there is to whatever or whoever we are dealing with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s also why he (169) goes on to point out that certain emotions <\/em>are very common<\/em>, so that we keep being tempted by \u201cluxury, drunkenness, lust, avarice, and ambition\u201d, exhibiting \u201cimmoderate love of feasting, drinking, venery, riches, and fame.\u201d As you might guess, he (169) juxtaposes these with moderation<\/em>, \u201ctemperance, sobriety, and chastity\u201d, arguing that they \u201cindicate a power of the mind\u201d over immoderate or unmoderated loves<\/em>. This could, of course, be reversed, in some situation. I mean some people are just so, so overly moderated, you know, like total buzzkills, which is why I don\u2019t totally buy into this, that we should learn to keep ourselves in check at all times. While he does have a point, about how we ought to moderate ourselves, so that we aren\u2019t wont to indulge in luxury, drinking, lust, wealth and personal gain, the Friedrich Nietzsche in me thinks that he is being a bit of a party pooper here. Then again, moderation is not the same as abstinence<\/em>, so, okay, fair enough, maybe he simply means that maybe, just maybe your life shouldn\u2019t be only <\/em>about those common temptations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (171) reiterates an earlier point, that some emotions <\/em>are passive<\/em>, what he (130, 171) also calls passions<\/em>, whereas others are active<\/em>, what he (130) also calls activities<\/em>. This is not worth going into more detail as the point simply is that we may get pleasure <\/em>or pain <\/em>from passive and active emotions <\/em>alike. What he (171) wishes to emphasize here, however, is that when we think <\/em>in ways that result in the second or third kinds of knowledge<\/em>, i.e., conceive adequate ideas<\/em>, we get pleasure out of that activity. He (171-172) then specifies two kinds of strength of character<\/em> or fortitude<\/em>. Courage<\/em> is the desire<\/em>, i.e., conscious appetite<\/em>, to preserve one\u2019s being through reason<\/em>, which involves conceiving adequate ideas, whereas highmindedness<\/em> or generosity<\/em> is the desire to do the same for others as guided by reason, to aid them and to unite with them in friendship. To link this back to his wont for moderation<\/em>, he (172) notes that the aforementioned temperance <\/em>and sobriety<\/em>, as well as \u201cthe presence of mind in danger\u201d and the like, all exhibit courage, being its varieties, whereas courtesy<\/em>, mercy <\/em>and the like exhibit highmindedness or generosity, being its variables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He (172) wraps things up by stating that our appetites<\/em>, what I\u2019d call (unconscious) desires<\/em>, are what drive <\/em>us, pushing us to do <\/em>and think<\/em>, or just do if we collapse thinking into doing, of all kinds of things:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c[W]we are in many ways driven about by external causes, and that like waves of the sea driven by contrary winds we toss to and fro unwitting of the issue and of our fate.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

He doesn\u2019t specify conscious <\/em>or witting side of things or desires<\/em>, i.e., conscious<\/em> appetites<\/em>, what I\u2019d call reason <\/em>and intuition<\/em>, here, but I\u2019d say that he by no means ignores them either. It\u2019s rather that he wishes to emphasize that our desires, i.e., conscious appetites, what I\u2019d call reasoning and intuition, are grounded on what drives <\/em>us unconsciously<\/em>. In short, our essence <\/em>is just that, what we\u2019ve become<\/em>, as assessed at any given moment as our capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>. We like to think <\/em>that we do <\/em>or think <\/em>this and\/or that because we choose <\/em>to do so, freely<\/em>, but it\u2019s actually not the case. We are only to free <\/em>to do or think whatever, when we acknowledge that, when we seek to actively <\/em>temper our passions<\/em>, as he (169) points out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m not a hundred percent fine with this though, considering how he comes across a bit of killjoy. I\u2019d say it\u2019s enough that you realize that we are not free <\/em>the way we think <\/em>we are <\/em>or like to think we are. That already makes us aware of how our passions <\/em>shape us, how they condition us, setting limits to what is thinkable <\/em>and doable<\/em>. Once you just accept that you are what you are, what you\u2019ve become<\/em>, not what you think <\/em>you are or what you think you\u2019ve become, you are free to think and do as you see fit, albeit always constrained by what you\u2019ve become.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To be clear, I didn\u2019t reach that conclusion by reading Spinoza. I reached it by reading Deleuze and Guattari. The conclusion is pretty much the same though. Maybe Spinoza puts more emphasis on how things are determined<\/em>, but that\u2019s about it. The cool thing is that once you come to that conclusion, you get so much more out of yourself as you are no longer simultaneously the master <\/em>of yourself and the slave <\/em>to yourself, as I\u2019ve explained this on that essay on bad faith<\/em>, explaining this through Jean-Paul Sartre\u2019s work, and in some of my essays that concern \u2018A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia\u2019. It is also a real time saver as you no longer spend time thinking <\/em>what you should <\/em>and\/or shouldn\u2019t be<\/em>, as you just are<\/em>, at all times, which then leaves you a lot more time to get things done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Others are not going to like this type of way of thinking though, because, for them, it\u2019s just inconceivable. You\u2019ll most likely appear to them like you are the smuggest person ever even though that couldn\u2019t be further from the truth, as you couldn\u2019t give less about pride<\/em>, about defining yourself through achievements. They want everyone to be measured according to their track record, according to their past, but you keep moving on, acknowledging your deeds, yes, but treating as irrelevant for the present. This is exactly what distinguishes what Spinoza (147-148, 150) calls kindliness <\/em>from pride <\/em>and ambition<\/em>. You really aren’t smug, or the like, because it doesn’t matter to you whether you are praised <\/em>or blamed <\/em>for what you do. You just do what you do, relying solely on your fortitude<\/em>, on your reason <\/em>and intuition<\/em>, as Spinoza might explain it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What matters right now is your capacity to act<\/em> and be acted upon<\/em>. It\u2019s like do you want someone who used to be<\/em> good <\/em>or do you want someone who is good<\/em>? To me, the answer to that question is a no-brainer. Of course I want someone who is good, instead of someone who used to be good. Then again, that doesn\u2019t mean that you can\u2019t be good if you used to be good though. Of course you can be good if you used to be good. I just don\u2019t think it\u2019s all relevant to the present whether you used to be good in the past. All I care is that you are good now, regardless of whether you used to be good or not. Also, if you are not good now, having been good in the past or not, that doesn\u2019t mean that you can\u2019t be good in the future. Why couldn\u2019t you be good in the future? Of course you can be good in the future, even if you are not good right now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right, where was I? Well, that\u2019s actually all there is to this essay as that was the last point he makes in part three before moving to provide a list of more concise definitions of the emotions <\/em>that he has already covered by this point in the book. I\u2019ll jump over it and continue from part four, but I\u2019ll cover that for another essay. Like with parts one and two, what I like about part three is the consistency he has, how he can explain something as rudimentary as emotions with such clarity, while also triggiring certain emotions in you just by explaining how this and\/or that emotion hits us, causing pleasure <\/em>or pain<\/em>, but without taking any sides, without telling how you should <\/em>or should’n<\/em> live your life. Okay, he does end up coming across as a bit preachy at times, but that\u2019s probably just my take.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

References<\/h4>\n\n\n\n
  • Deleuze, G., and F. Guattari ([1980] 1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia<\/em> (B. Massumi, Trans.). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.<\/li>
  • Spinoza, B. ([1677] 1884). The Ethics. In R. H. M. Elwes (Ed.), The Chief Works of Benedict de Spinoza: Vol. II<\/em> (R. H. M. Elwes, Trans.) (pp. 43\u2013271). London, United Kingdom: George Bell and Sons.<\/li><\/ul>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    I covered parts one and two of Baruch Spinoza\u2019s \u2018Ethics\u2019 in a previous essay and this time I\u2019ll cover the third part of it, dealing with emotions. I was going to include the fourth part in this essay as well but getting through the third part turned out to be more of a slog than […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3554,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[71,123,443,1461,171],"class_list":["post-2322","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essays","tag-deleuze","tag-guattari","tag-massumi","tag-sartre","tag-spinoza"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2322","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3554"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2322"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2322\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4223,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2322\/revisions\/4223"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2322"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2322"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogit.utu.fi\/landd\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2322"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}