Continuation of the same subject: The proper use we can make of admiration and other passions

All passions produce 2 very significant effects:

1. They focus the mind

They can be extremely useful for the discovery of truth — provided we know how to use them.

The focus brings clarity, and clarity reveals truth.

2. They take hold of the heart

This is always harmful because they seize the heart only by corrupting reason, and by presenting things not as they are in themselves, or according to truth, but only in relation to ourselves.

Of all the passions, admiration is the one that least affects the heart for it is the perception of things as good or bad that stirs us — seeing things as new, great, and extraordinary, without any connection to us, hardly moves us at all. Thus admiration, which accompanies our awareness of the greatness or excellence of new things we observe, corrupts reason far less than any other passion, and can even be of great use in seeking truth — as long as we take great care to ensure it does not lead to other passions, which is almost always what happens.

When we feel admiration, the animal spirits are driven forcefully toward those parts of the brain that represent the new object as it truly is; they form distinct and deep impressions there, which remain for a long time. As a result, the mind forms a clear and distinct idea of the object, and remembers it easily. So there is no denying that admiration is very useful for the sciences, since it both focuses and illuminates the mind. This is not the case with other passions: they focus the mind, but they do not illuminate it. They focus it because they awaken the animal spirits, whose flow is necessary for forming and retaining impressions; but they do not bring true light — or they cast only a false, deceptive light — because they drive the spirits in such a way that objects are represented only in relation to ourselves, and not as they really are.

Nothing is more difficult than to maintain focus on something for a long time when, lacking admiration, the animal spirits do not easily flow toward the areas needed to form a clear representation. We may be told to pay attention, but we simply cannot do so — or cannot do so for long — even if we hold an abstract conviction, which does not stir the spirits, that the subject deserves our attention. We must therefore trick our imagination to awaken our spirits, and present the topic we wish to reflect upon in a new light, so as to stir some feeling of admiration within us.

We see every day people who take no pleasure in study; to them, nothing is more burdensome than applying the mind. They understand that they ought to learn certain subjects, and they make every effort to do so — yet these efforts are largely fruitless: they make little progress and quickly grow weary. It is true that the animal spirits obey the will, and we can focus when we choose to do so. But when the command comes from pure reason alone, unsupported by any passion, the effort is so weak and sluggish that our ideas resemble fleeting phantoms, glimpsed only for a moment before vanishing. Our animal spirits receive so many hidden impulses from our passions, and by nature and habit are so inclined to follow them, that they are easily diverted from the new and difficult paths the will tries to set them upon. This is why, in such cases, we especially need special grace to know the truth — for by our own strength alone, we cannot long resist the weight of the body that weighs down the mind; or even if we could, we never achieve what we are truly capable of.

But when admiration awakens us, the animal spirits naturally flow toward the impressions of the object that aroused it; they present it clearly to the mind, and all the conditions required for clarity and certainty are produced in the brain, without the will having to strain to control unruly spirits. This is why those who are capable of admiration are far better suited to study than those who are not: they are open and alert, while the others remain dull and slow.

However, when admiration becomes excessive and turns into astonishment or bewilderment — or simply fails to lead to reasonable curiosity — it produces very harmful effects. In such cases, the animal spirits are entirely occupied with representing only the single aspect of the object that we admire. We cease to consider the other sides from which it might be viewed. The spirits do not even flow freely to the rest of the body to carry out their normal functions; instead, they imprint such deep traces of the object upon the brain, and break so many of its delicate fibers, that the idea they have formed can no longer be erased from the mind.

It is not enough for admiration merely to make us attentive; it must also make us curious. Considering only one aspect of something is not enough to know it fully — we must be curious enough to examine every side, otherwise we cannot form a solid judgment. So when admiration does not lead us to examine things with the greatest possible precision, or when it actually prevents us from doing so, it becomes almost useless for discovering truth. It then fills the mind only with appearances and probabilities, and leads us to make rash judgments about everything.

The goal must not be simply to admire for the sake of admiring, but to admire so that we may examine more easily afterward. The animal spirits naturally stirred by admiration present themselves to the soul, so that it may use them to form a clearer representation of the object and understand it better. This is how nature intended it to work: admiration should lead to curiosity, and curiosity should lead to knowledge of the truth. Yet the soul often fails to make good use of its powers. Instead of seeking to understand the object that stirs the spirits, it prefers the soft, pleasant feeling it receives from this abundance of spirits. It enjoys the sense of wealth they bring, rather than expending it to gain real knowledge — in this way, it resembles a miser, who prefers hoarding his money to using it when needed.

People generally enjoy anything that stirs them, no matter what passion is involved. They pay money not only to feel sadness while watching a tragedy, but also to watch sleight-of-hand performers and feel admiration — for it cannot be said they pay only to be tricked. This inner sense of pleasure we feel when admiring is the main reason we stop at admiration itself, without using it as reason and nature intended. This feeling of delight holds us so firmly attached to the things we admire that we become angry when someone points out how empty they really are. When a grieving person has grown accustomed to the pleasure of sorrow, they resent anyone who tries to cheer them up. It is the same with those who admire: when someone tries to show them their admiration is unfounded, they feel as though they are being insulted — because as the idea that caused the feeling fades from their mind, the secret pleasure they drew from the passion also diminishes.

Passions always seek to justify themselves, and gradually convince us that following them is right. The pleasure and satisfaction they bring to the mind — which ought to judge them objectively — corrupts it in their favor. Their reasoning goes something like this: we can only judge things according to the ideas we have of them; and among all our ideas, the most vivid ones seem the most real, because they affect us most strongly. Therefore, these are the ideas we should rely on first. Now, the object I admire carries a vivid sense of greatness; so I must judge it according to that idea, for I ought to respect and love greatness. Therefore, I am right to focus my attention upon it. Indeed, the pleasure I feel when I contemplate it is natural proof that it is good for me to think of it; for it seems to me that I grow greater myself when I reflect upon it, and that my mind expands as it embraces such a vast idea. The mind ceases to exist when it thinks of nothing; if this grand idea were to vanish, it would feel as though my mind were vanishing with it — or shrinking and becoming confined, if it turned its attention to something smaller.

Preserving this grand idea is therefore the same as preserving the greatness and perfection of my own being; so I am right to admire it. Others, if they were fair, ought to admire me as well; for I myself become great through my connection to great things. In a way, I possess them through my admiration, and I feel it already in the hopeful anticipation this brings. Other people could be just as happy as I am — if only they recognized my greatness and turned, as I have, to the source of it. But they are blind: they fail to see what is beautiful and great, and do not know how to raise themselves or make themselves worthy of respect.

This is roughly how the mind naturally reasons, without even realizing it, when it lets itself be guided by the deceptive light of its passions. These arguments have a certain surface plausibility, but clearly no real substance. Yet this seeming truth — or rather the vague feeling of it that accompanies such unthinking reasoning — is so powerful that, if we do not remain vigilant, it will always lead us astray.

For example: suppose poetry, history, chemistry, or any other branch of human learning captures the imagination of a young man and arouses feelings of admiration. If he does not watch carefully how these feelings affect his mind, if he does not examine thoroughly what real benefits these studies offer, if he does not weigh the effort required to learn them against the advantage he will gain, and if in short he does not cultivate the curiosity needed to judge them properly — there is great danger that his admiration, showing these subjects only in their most attractive light, will mislead him. Worse still, it may corrupt his judgment so deeply that he will never be able to free himself from the illusion, even if he later recognizes it for what it is. Once deep impressions have been etched into the brain by prolonged admiration, they can never be fully erased. This is why we must constantly guard the purity of our imagination — meaning we must prevent it from forming those dangerous impressions that corrupt both mind and heart. The method to do this will be useful not only against excessive admiration, but against all other passions as well.

When the flow of the animal spirits is strong enough to create deep impressions in the brain that distort the imagination, it is always accompanied by some feeling in the soul. Since the soul cannot be moved without being aware of it, this feeling is enough to warn us to be on guard and to consider whether allowing these impressions to take root and strengthen will truly benefit us. But while the emotion is active, the mind is not free enough to judge clearly — because the feeling itself deceives us and inclines us to favor it. We must therefore do all we can to calm the emotion, or redirect the flow of spirits that causes it, and in the meantime, we must suspend all judgment.

We should not imagine, however, that the soul can always stop this flow of spirits by willpower alone, and so regain full use of reason. Its ordinary strength is not enough to halt movements it did not itself initiate. Instead, it must use strategy — as if outwitting an enemy that attacks only by surprise.

Just as the movement of the spirits awakens certain thoughts in the soul, our thoughts also produce certain movements in the brain. So when we want to stop a surge of spirits rising within us, it is not enough simply to will it to cease — that alone will not always succeed. We must use skill: we should call to mind ideas that oppose the thoughts feeding this movement, which will create a counter-reaction. If, however, we only wish to redirect a movement already underway, we should not think of opposing ideas, but only of different ones — this will effectively shift our attention elsewhere.

Because the strength of this shift or counter-reaction depends on how strongly our new thoughts stir the spirits, we must learn to notice which ideas affect us most deeply. Then, when facing temptation, we can deliberately bring those ideas to mind to counteract the deceptive influence of our imagination. We must make this habit so natural that no sudden surge of feeling can catch us unprepared.

If we make a habit of linking the thought of eternity — or any other firm, unshakable truth — to the strong emotions that arise within us, then whenever such feelings appear, they will automatically call this idea to mind, giving us the means to resist them. This is confirmed both by experience and by the principles explained earlier in the chapter on how ideas are connected. So we should not think it is impossible, with determination and skill, to overcome the force of our passions.

Even so, we must not pretend that this method will make us infallible or allow us to avoid every error. First, it is difficult to acquire and maintain the habit of linking opposing ideas to our emotions. Second, even if we do acquire it, the rising spirits will directly stimulate the ideas we must fight against, and only indirectly bring to mind the ideas we need to resist them. As a result, the harmful thoughts will always be stronger than the helpful ones, so we must still rely on our will to stand firm. Third, the movement of the spirits can sometimes become so intense that it fills the entire capacity of the soul, leaving no room — so to speak — to receive or even properly consider the counteracting idea. Finally, there are so many special circumstances that can render this remedy ineffective that we should not rely on it too heavily, even though we must not neglect it either. We must constantly turn to prayer, asking heaven for the strength we need in the heat of the struggle, while also striving to keep before our minds truths so solid and powerful that they can overcome even the strongest passions. Here I should note in passing that many devout people fall repeatedly into the same faults because they fill their minds with many fine-sounding truths that impress more than they sustain, and serve only to scatter their thoughts rather than strengthen them against temptation. By contrast, people of simple faith and limited knowledge remain faithful to their duty, because they have made one great, solid truth their own — one that strengthens and supports them in every circumstance.