For what is there in natures of that kind which has the power of memory, understanding, or thought? Which can recollect the past, foresee the future, and comprehend the present? For these capabilities are confined to divine beings; nor can we discover any source from which men could derive them, but from God. There is therefore a peculiar nature and power in the soul, distinct from those natures which are more known and familiar to us.
Whatever, then, that is which thinks, and which has understanding, and volition, and a principle of life, is heavenly and divine, and on that account must necessarily be eternal; nor can God himself, who is known to us, be conceived to be anything else except a soul free and unembarrassed, distinct from all mortal concretion, acquainted with everything, and giving motion to everything, and itself endued with perpetual motion.
I am confused when certain strict materialists tell me that only the sensible can be real. I ask them why this is, to be told that it is because everything real must be sensible. Am I missing something, or is that a textbook case for the fallacy of begging the question?
I do understand that in order for me to be aware of something as real, it is necessary that I have some sort of perception of it, whether directly or indirectly, but this is hardly the same thing as saying that sensation is a condition for its very being.
Furthermore, I must be careful not to assume that all perception is reducible to the senses alone, for, as Aristotle and Aquinas taught me, what is received in the mind is first received in the senses, though the way in which it is understood is very different from the way it is seen, touched, or heard.
Let me not, therefore, confuse either perception with existence, or the senses with the intellect. Reality is surely far bigger than the limits of my experience, and there are many things in my experience that I comprehend in a way that goes far beyond any of the impressions they make upon my body.
If I look at a stone, or run my fingers overs its surface, I can immediately see its shape and color, or feel its solidity and texture. Notice, however, that as I write down these words, I am already considering these qualities as concepts, abstractions that have been separated from their material conditions. The senses work with particular impressions, before the presence of any conscious reflection, while the mind apprehends universal ideas, reaching to the form behind the matter.
Sorry, philosophers can get caught up in fancy language, so I can try to restate it in more down-to-earth terms: I know that I can have an idea, and there is no doubt that the thought is really present within me, yet I will find it impossible to “see” that idea with my eyes, or to “touch” it with my hands.
The idea has no physical location or dimensions. I can’t poke it with a stick or measure it with a ruler. If it isn’t “made” of sensible matter, then what could it be made of? If I can’t point to it in a certain place, then where could it be?
If the lofty language of heaven and divinity seem too far-fetched, it is quite possible to speak in more restrained terms, yet the conclusion will remain much the same:
Thoughts are not concrete “objects”, but active engagements of a mind that somehow does not follow the same rules as matter, and is not bound to the specific limitations of the physical world. Cicero calls it unearthly because, well, it doesn’t behave like the things bound to the earth.
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