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286 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1739
It seems absurd to give a star rating to an acknowledged classic like Hume's Treatise of Human Nature, but for what it's worth, this curious non-philosopher found it an engrossing and engaging read. It is certainly a long, involved and systematic book, but Hume writes with such grace and geniality that I think anyone of sufficient patience will find something to love in his writing.
After the lapse of nearly 300 years, a certain contradiction is apparent in Hume's approach to things. On the one hand, he was one of the most rigorous and sceptical philosophers of his time. The Treatise is extremely systematic—a point that rarely noted by Hume's admirers today—and Hume wittily reduces all the complicated ideas we call 'common sense' down to a few simple principles. Everything in the mind is either an innate passion, a discrete datum of sense, or a complex idea generated by the imagination through the power of association. He presents numerous forcible arguments to make these reductions, and the result is a great edifice of sceptical thought.
What is contradictory in this position, is that while Hume undercuts all our commonsense notions with his reductive philosophy, he also basically agreed with all the conventional opinions of his time. He was a Tory, true, which made him somewhat unfashionable in mid-eighteenth-century Britain. But otherwise he was a gentle, indulgent spirit who found little to criticise in the arrangements of the world. He seems relatively unconcerned that slavery and autocracy abound in human history. He finds it quite natural that women should be monitored more strictly than men. He approves of gaming, hunting, polite wit, the charisma of politicians, the acumen of merchants, and of the eighteenth-century ideal of 'improvement' (the chief beauty of a natural landscape, he repeats several times, is its potential to be farmed). From this more practical perspective, Hume is virtually the opposite of a sceptic—he is a cheerful acquiescer to the status quo.
It is interesting, in this respect, to compare Hume to his frenemy, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Rousseau is arguably a less sceptical philosopher than Hume, but was a far more sceptical man. The whole panoply of ordinary life was disgusting to Rousseau, and he fell back on classic philosophical ideals of virtue, soulfulness and the will to oppose it. Perhaps a little example will paint the difference. One classic idea that Hume rejects is the distinction between pride and vanity. All pride is vanity, says Hume. I have a good opinion of myself only because I see that others are pleased with me. Rousseau opposes this utterly. The most fundamental distinction in his philosophy is that between amour de soi, my love of my self, and amour-propre, my vain desire to rise in others' estimation. Hume thinks it impossible to extricate ourselves from others, and blends into society. Rousseau thinks nothing is more essential than independence of will, and says we should vigorously forsake any concern for society's opinions.
All in all, I enjoyed my two weeks' company with le bon David, whom I haven't read for years. The Treatise is certainly not his most inviting book, but it is a splendid edifice, and I think one of the more readable classics of Western metaphysics.
«إنني، بعد أدقْ عملياتي الفكرية وأشدْها صحة، لا يمكنني أن أعطي سبباً لماذا عليّ أن أقبلها.»
