Long before he wrote Part V of his Ethics, in which he culminates his geometrical treatise by discussing human freedom, Spinoza wrote Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect. In the introduction he wrote some of his most well-known thoughts. He confides to his readers and to himself that the journey he is about to undertake will undoubtedly be fraught with uneasiness, uncertainty, and the temptation to look back on old habits and securities. He writes, “I perceived that if true happiness chanced to be placed in the former [those things he is going to attempt to give up] I should necessarily miss it” (trans. Edwin Curley, 1994). By “it” he is referring to a “permanent good,” which is the object of his search. Spinoza, then, is embarking on a journey for a different way of life—one that is centered on something lasting and true. But he knows that because his search necessarily involves giving up some things, he runs the risk of losing what perhaps he should have gone after.
Several hundred years before Spinoza was writing (middle of the 17th century), John of Salisbury expressed a related strand of thought. In his Policraticus, composed around 1155, he remarks in his opening that “The soul, deceived by allurements of many kinds, proving false to its own inner light, by a sort of self-betrayal goes astray as the result of its desires amid the deceptions of the outer world” (trans. Joseph Pike, 1938). He’s speaking of how easy it is for people — especially “men of eminence”— to become lost in a flurry of “self-indulgence.” The result is that they become “blind…to truth.”
Both these philosophers, in their own way and for their own pursuits, hit upon something very deep. In the case of Spinoza, he was aware of the magnitude in attempting to jettison a familiar way of life. Letting go of previous things and attaching a different value status to them is no easy task. But it must be done in order to reach a higher plane of truth. And whatever might be said about Spinoza’s philosophical system as a whole, it seems as if Spinoza was successful in his search. In the case of John of Salisbury, and the political nature of his Policraticus, he understood the importance of knowing human nature. In order to conceive what a virtuous ruler might look like, and in order to think about political life in general, he made sure to understand what human beings are like.
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I remember having coffee with a friend, during a time which was especially difficult and frustrating for me, and he said, in a supportive, gentle and wisdom-like way, “Did you really think you would go through this life without losing something?” I remained rather quiet, not saying much. But I do remember thinking that he is right. I did however want to protest a bit (as I did in my mind), and admit that yes, we certainly are going to lose things in this life, but why does it have to be this particular thing? Why can’t it be something else? Why can’t the things I’m losing be returned to me and instead I’ll submit to losing other things. It was a kind of futile bargaining process. The fact is we don’t get to choose the things we lose, and neither do we better understand the concept of loss if it is always qualified or short-circuited.
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In the admittedly somewhat arbitrary examples above, loss, in myriad forms and ways, shows itself to have real value and importance. In Spinoza, formerly trusted goods and habits of thought are given up, ultimately leading to the “permanent good.” In the section of Policraticus, something is lost – the ability to see truth – if the senses and appetites become accustomed to indulgence. In my own example, loss eventually came to function as a way to come to grips with reality and better understand the cold, hard fact that things are ephemeral.
Spectatio 