Fichte's Science of Knowledge/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
THE I AND THE ME.

E have now to follow Fichte as he attempts to solve the problems which we have recognized.

As we have already seen, Fichte’s idea of a philosophical system requires that it shall be based upon one absolutely certain and independent proposition. This proposition must not be one that can be proved, otherwise it would not be the starting point of the system. There can be but one such proposition, for if there were more than one, we should have not a system, but only an approach toward a system; or else we should have as many systems as there are propositions. This fundamental proposition must not be found among those that occur in our conscious thought; for in this case we might demand its credentials. We should have to seek for its basis. We must go beneath our ordinary consciousness to find that proposition which shall state the ground of all our conscious thinking.

The method by which we must seek this fundamental truth, is to take some proposition that is regarded by us as absolutely certain, and will so be regarded by all; and to inquire what must be assumed in order to justify this certainty. Almost any proposition which has this obvious and unmistakable certainty would answer for our purpose; only some propositions would require a more complicated process of thought than others. The proposition from which we take our start in the search for the absolute and underlying truth, must be as abstract as possible. Any proposition that is not thus abstract, would have to be reduced to its most abstract or formal statement before it could be used. It is, then, better to start with one that is already as abstract and formal as possible. One such proposition will serve our turn as well as another. We will take the first that offers itself. When we seek such a proposition—one, namely, that is purely formal, and that nobody will or can doubt—the one that most readily offers itself is this: A is A, or, what is the same thing, A = A. This is a proposition that it will occur to no one to doubt—and it cannot be reduced to anything more abstract or formal. This, then, shall be our starting point.

It will be noticed that in the proposition the existence or non-existence of A does not concern us. We may put into A whatever impossible content we will, and the proposition will still be true. Suppose we assume that A represents space inclosed by two straight lines. In this case our proposition would be: A space inclosed by two straight lines is a space inclosed by two straight lines. This proposition is as true as the purely formal one which it represents. If, on the other hand, our proposition had affirmed that there is a space inclosed by two straight lines, it would be false. Thus we say, not that A is; but that A is A.

This involves the assumption that, if A is, then it is A. In this, we do not assume that A actually exists. The same proposition could be made of the space inclosed in two lines as above. In regard to this, we could affirm that if it exists, it is a space inclosed within two lines.

Lest the reader should fancy these formal propositions to be purely an idle play, lest he even fail to see that they are in any true sense propositions, and thus be unable even to think the statements that have been made, it may be well to illustrate the use of the Proposition of Identity, of which the proposition A is A is an example. Such propositions may practically exist under either of two conditions. The first of these conditions is that the subject and predicate express the same content, but under different forms. Of this the mathematical equation may furnish the type. In an algebraic problem, the process of calculation is needed to reduce the identity to its simplest form. We use the term x to express, in an anticipatory and formal way, the result that we seek. When the result has been reached, so that we can say, for instance, x = 6, we have a proposition of identity of the kind described. It expresses identity of content under difference of form. This difference of form has, however, now become useless, and x disappears.

In the higher kinds of mathematical equation, there is the same identity of content united with a like difference of form. It is the same quantum that is expressed by the two terms of an equation; but this quantum is regarded as existing under different forms, otherwise there would be no reason for the existence of the equation.

The other case in which the proposition of identity may be practically used, is that in which one wishes to make obvious the fact that every individual of a class possesses the essential attributes of the class to which it belongs. Thus, the familiar phrase of Burns, “A man’s a man,” is a proposition of identity. Its formula would be A is A. Its real significance is that the individual man, whatever his outward condition, possesses that inherent worth which belongs to man in general.

It will be noticed that in neither of the illustrations adduced is there absolute identity between the subject and the predicate. In the one case, there is a difference of form; in the other, there is a difference of emphasis in regard to the content. In each case, if it were not for this difference, the proposition would not exist. It will be seen as we advance that the fundamental proposition of Fichte is of the same nature. It also will be seen to involve a difference, and to be dependent upon this difference for its existence. Strictly speaking, there is no proposition of identity. In the proposition A is A, if there is no other element of difference, there is at least this: that one A is the subject and the other is the predicate. To the proposition of Fichte we will now return.

The proposition, If A is, then it is A, involves a necessary connection between A, the subject of the leading proposition, and the A that is the predicate of the dependent proposition. It is this necessary connection, the dependence of one upon the other, that is assumed absolutely and without ground. The proposition itself, A is A, though assumed as established without proof, must have, as we see when we think of it, some basis. There must be some reason why we are sure that A is A. This reason must exist, none the less, although it is assumed by us unconsciously, and even though in any case we might be puzzled to say what this reason is. We affirm, for instance, that the Right is Right. If we are asked why the Right is Right we might not know what to say. Most men, perhaps, have never even raised the question. Those who have raised it have given many different answers. Yet we all see, not only that the proposition must be true, but that there must be, if we could find it, some absolute ground for its truth. We repeat, then, that the proposition, A is A, implies a necessary ground between the subject and the predicate. This ground of connection we will call, for the present, X.

I may illustrate the place which X holds in the discussion by reference to the ordinary processes of logic. We say A is B. When we are asked for a reason we introduce some intermediate term. Our ground of connection, we will say, is C. We have, then, the syllogistic form, A is C, and C is B, therefore A is B. In a proposition of this kind we ordinarily feel the need of a connecting element, and we seek it consciously. In the proposition A is A, it is obvious that a ground of connection is equally needed, though we may not ordinarily think of the necessity, and do not consciously seek it. We assume its existence, even if we cannot consciously state it. Until we shall be able to state it really, we will, as was just said, call it X.

Where are we to seek for this X which forms the indispensable ground of this connection between the subject and the predicate of our proposition? Whatever else may or may not be true in regard to it, two things may be affirmed without hesitation: first, its existence is assumed by the thinking subject, the I. The I pronounces the judgment, A is A. It must base its judgment upon some principle. Secondly, it finds this principle within itself. The I, in judging, follows an inevitable law which exists in itself. For this principle, whatever its ultimate form may be, the I, or the thinking subject, can give no reason. At the same time, it recognizes the absoluteness of the principle. So truly as it judges, must it judge according to this law. It is one that is given to the I, and given to it by itself; that is, it is given to it by its own nature. So long as the I is what it is, so long as it is an I, it cannot judge otherwise.

There is a word which is so convenient a one in the presentation of the system of Fichte, and is so uniformly used in this presentation, that it cannot be avoided. I refer to the word, posit. The word is undesirable because it has a technical sound, and also because it has the fault that we might hope to escape by technicality; namely, that of being somewhat vague and ambiguous. The original German word for which this word, posit, stands, is, at least, equally ambiguous, and has been repeatedly misunderstood. At first, Fichte used it without explanation. Later he repeatedly explained its meaning, driven to this, without doubt, by misunderstandings that had arisen. The word, posit, means to find or recognize, and thus to assume as given. The students of Fichte, even careful students, have sometimes been tempted to give to it a more active meaning, to put into it more or less distinctly the idea of creation. The word may sometimes indirectly involve the idea of creation. The attention of the reader will be called to this secondary meaning. From the word, in the primary significance which Fichte gives to it, this meaning is wholly wanting.

In the proposition, A is A, we do not know whether or not A is actually posited. X, however, shows a connection between a hypothetical positing of A as subject, and an absolute positing of the same A as predicate. This X, which is the ground of the necessary relation between A as subject and A as predicate, is absolutely posited in the I. X has no meaning except in relation to an A; consequently the extremes which X connects must also be posited, if they are posited at all, in the I, for it is necessary that all should exist in the same sphere, if there is to be any relation between them. The A as subject and the A as predicate must then be found in the same I.

We have thus established the identity of the I. There is something in the thinking subject which is always the same, namely, X. This is absolute, whether A is actual or hypothetical. X involves, actually or hypothetically, both A as subject and A as predicate. These are, therefore, in the I, and in the same I; consequently, the I must be identical with itself. We may then substitute for the proposition, A is A, another proposition which we have found to be involved in it, namely: I am I. X is absolutely posited; that is, we recognize it as expressing an unquestionable and permanent truth. To the proposition, I am I, which is involved in X, may be ascribed a similar absoluteness.

The proposition, I am I, may at first sight appear as meaningless as did the proposition, A is A. It may even appear more absurd, because it has a more definite content. We found, however, that the so-called Proposition of Identity has often a real meaning and importance. This is especially true of the proposition, I am I. The I of the subject and the I of the predicate represent, the subject and predicate of the proposition, A is A. The I as subject and the I as predicate represent the I in different relations and at different moments. It affirms, then, the permanent identity of the I.

The proposition, I am I. has a very different significance from the proposition, A is A; for the former has a content only under a certain condition. If A is posited, then it certainly must be posited as possessing the predicate A. We do not, however, affirm that it is actually posited. The proposition, I am I, has, on the contrary, absolute force; for it is involved in X, and X we have found to have absolute validity. The proposition, I am I, has absolute validity, not only so far as its form goes, but also as to its content. The I is affirmed to exist not conditionally, but absolutely. The proposition, then, may with equal truth assume the form, I am.

The proposition, I am, is now recognized as true, but only as a fact. We have recognized, in the I, merely being, not activity. It is simply a fact of consciousness that we recognize the truth of X, and that X involves the reality of the I. We have thus found that before anything is posited by the I. it must have posited itself. We affirm this, unhesitatingly, in regard to all the facts of consciousness, because we have seen that X is the highest fact of consciousness, and that all other facts depend upon this. Later, we shall see that the I is not merely a fact, but an activity.

This method of reaching the idea of the I through the processes of thought, is compared by Fichte with the famous procedure of Descartes. The affirmation, Cogito, ergo sum, Fichte rightly affirms to involve, not a deduction, of which the major premise is: Whatever thinks, is; but, a direct fact of consciousness. In another connection, he criticises Descartes unjustly, by affirming that thought represents only one form of our being, while there are, besides this, many other forms. We not only think, we do much else. This criticism is false, for Fichte seems not to have recognized the fact that thought, considered in its most universal form, is a constant element of all our other activity. Descartes was sure of but one thing; that is, of his doubt of all things. In his very doubt, however, he found the certainty of himself. The position of Descartes differs, however, from that of Fichte, in two very important particulars. In the first place (and this distinction is remarked by Fichte) the proposition, Cogito, ergo sum is not placed as the starting point of a system; but stands as an isolated fact of consciousness. Descartes compares other propositions with it; he deduces none from it. In the second place, the position reached by Fichte is more explicit than that reached by Descartes. Descartes affirmed the I. Fichte proved the identity of the I.

It has been maintained by some, that the I is simply a series of states of consciousness. Hume has perhaps presented this view with more clearness and force than others, but it is stated or implied by many writers of the present day. Thought is recognized, but not the thinker. The result reached by Fichte involves the affirmation of some sort of personal identity. His fundamental proposition affirms that the I is in and through all the processes of thought.

It must not be assumed that the I is thus made to be a matter of deduction. It does not depend upon the proposition, A is A; the proposition, A is A, depends upon it. It is present in all processes of thought, not as resulting from them, but as that from which they result, and upon which they at every point depend.

It may be helpful to compare with the reasoning of Fichte, that of a recent English writer. The latter being put in the language of our time and to meet the exigencies of modern thought, may be more intelligible, or may at least have a greater air of reality than the course of thought which we have been considering. I will therefore quote a few lines from the late Professor T. H. Green. The passage quoted should, however, be taken in connection with its surroundings.

“If there is such a thing as a connected experience of related objects, there must be operative in consciousness a unifying principle, which not only presents related objects to itself, but at once renders them objects and unites them in relation to each other by this act of presentation; and which is single throughout the experience. The unity of this principle must be correlative to the unity of the experience. If all possible experience of related objects—the experience of a thousand years ago and the experience of to-day, the experience which I have here and that which I might have in any other region of space—forms a single system; if there can be no such thing as an experience of unrelated objects; then there must be a corresponding singleness in that principle of consciousness which forms the bonds of the relation between the objects.”

We have seen that the proposition, I am, must be taken as a fact. It is a fact that is absolutely given. It cannot be deduced from anything else, but all deduction starts from it. The I then posits itself absolutely. Since this recognition of itself depends upon nothing else, and since it is so absolutely given in human consciousness, the positing of itself must be the pure, or absolute, activity of the I. The I posits itself and is by means of this mere positing of itself; and on the other hand, the I is and it posits itself through its mere being. It is at once the actor and the product of the act: the door and that which is brought forth by the doing. The act and the accomplishment are one and the same.

The I then is, merely so far as it posits itself; and it posits itself absolutely because it is. In more familiar speech, self-consciousness is at once the result of the existence of the I, and the cause of its existence, in the sense that it constitutes its essence. We understand then in what sense the word I is used; namely, in that of the absolute subject. The I may be defined to be that which posits itself as being. As it posits itself, so it is, and as it is, so it posits itself; therefore the I is absolutely and necessarily for itself. The stone has an existence for us; we recognize it, and say, There is a stone. But the stone has no existence for itself. It has no consciousness or recognition of itself. It is for us; it is not for itself. In the language of Fichte, we posit it, but it does not posit itself. Only that which is for itself is an I, and the being for itself is what constitutes it an I.

The question is often raised, What was I before I came to consciousness? The obvious answer is, I was not, for I was not I. The question arises out of a confusion between the I as subject, and the I as an object of the thought or recognition of some other subject. We try to think of ourselves as an object. The consciousness receives in this way a sub-stratum,—something that would be even without consciousness; and we ask, What is this sub-stratum of consciousness? But in all this we assume unconsciously a subject, perhaps the absolute subject. We are introducing into the problem that which is assumed by the problem. We put ourselves, as it were, outside of ourselves; and then ask, how, in that case, we should appear to ourselves. But we cannot think without assuming our own self-consciousness. Our self-consciousness is the one thing from which we cannot escape by any process of abstraction. We live in the world of thought. Everything appears to us as we think it. The problem, What can we think of that which is wholly outside our thought? is one that is unanswerable. If we cannot answer the question, What is the object of thought apart from thought? still more unanswerable is the question, What is the subject of thought apart from thought? This is the real meaning of the question, What am I when I am unconscious? This, Fichte insists, is a question that should never be asked.

To the reader who cannot help thinking, in connection with the I, of some object to which consciousness is an accident, something to which consciousness may be added and from which it may be taken away—as a musical instrument maybe abstracted from its sound, and may be considered as something to which sound is an accident, which can exist silent as well as sounding,—to him the statements just made will be unsatisfactory, if not incomprehensible. To such a reader, I would say that the difference in the point of view is, at this stage of the reasoning, immaterial. I do not wish him to make any effort to strain his thought in the direction which the discussion has been following. He will doubtless grant readily that if an I be deprived of its consciousness, the residuum would at least be no longer an I. From being a subject it would have become an object. We are not, however, here inquiring as to the nature of the object, but as to that of the subject. We will assume, then, as granted, that the I without consciousness would not be an I; that the essence of the I, as such, is self-consciousness.

Fichte appends to the discussion certain additional propositions which grow out of it:

If the I is, only so far as it posits itself, it is only for itself. I am only for myself; but for myself I am by necessity.

To posit itself and to be, are, when used of the I, precisely the same. Therefore the proposition, I am, because I have posited myself (or recognized myself), may be thus expressed: I am, absolutely because I am.

Further, the I that posits itself and the I which is posited are one and the same thing. The I is what it posits itself as being, and it posits itself as that which it is. Thus I am absolutely what I am.

He sums all up in the statement, I am absolutely; that is, I am, absolutely because I am, and am absolutely what I am; both for the I.

The proposition, then, which must stand at the head of any system of the Science of Knowledge, must be expressed thus: The I posits originally and absolutely its own being. All this is equivalent to saying that the I is necessarily identity of subject and object. It is subject-object, and it is this absolutely, without any mediation.

Perhaps these statements, in spite of what has gone before, may need some explanation. The system of Fichte is essentially a science. He means to assume nothing that is not absolutely and directly given. In this sense, he proposes to make no assumption. This must not be supposed to mean that he begins without accepting anything as given. He accepts the self as given. A man is conscious of himself; that is, of all that his mind contains,—his thoughts and his feelings. Whatever is given more than this, is given indirectly. Fichte starts only with what is directly, and thus absolutely, given. He says thus: I am only for myself. The meaning of this is that the self which is given to anyone in his own consciousness is thus given to himself only. If others accept his existence, or if he accepts the existence of others, this is done indirectly. He is not for others, and others are not for him in the same absolute sense in which each is for himself. Indeed, at this point of the discussion, we have no right to assume that others exist. We have to do only with the one point of absolute, that is, immediate, certainty. It is often said that Fichte never passed beyond this point; that he never recognized the reality that is given indirectly. This prepossession is so common that I refer to it here in order that the reader may not fancy that he has already exhausted the thought of Fichte. We must remember that we have here to do only with that which is given absolutely at first hand, which must be the starting point of any scientific treatment of our knowledge; that is, of any treatment which begins at first principles. With this explanation, I think that the position of Fichte will be clear. If the reader, after all, is not fully prepared to accept it, he will, I think, easily understand how Fichte could occupy this position without any of that extravagance that is often attributed to him. We may find that his system is extravagant. All that I urge, is that we do not assume this too soon.

We shall now have to follow Fichte in his attempt to discover whether, in addition to what is directly given, there is anything indirectly given; that is, whether we are to accept anything as existing outside the circle he has drawn; namely, the circle of self-consciousness. If there be any such reality, we have further to ask what it is, at least for us, and how we attain to the knowledge of it. Before doing this, we must, however, examine certain criticisms which have been made upon his view of self-consciousness. The criticism upon Fichte’s definition of the I, is best made by Herbart.

We must remember that the I is defined as that which is conscious of itself. Whatever is conscious of itself, is an I. Whatever is an I, has self-consciousness. The two notions perfectly cover each other. In this definition, Herbart finds two fundamental contradictions. The first of these contradictions concerns the material of the definition. The second concerns its form.

The first of these contradictions resolves itself into two. The I is that which is given in self-consciousness; and this statement is considered its full definition. But to this definition there is lacking both subject and object; thus it is absolutely without material. We have words which signify nothing. We will first illustrate the affirmation that the definition which we are considering lacks an object.

Who or what is the object of self-consciousness? The answer must lie in the proposition itself. The self of which the I is conscious can be only the I that is conscious. If the definition is a perfect one, we can substitute for its terms their meaning. For the self, we can substitute the definition of that I which is the self. We have, then, this statement: The I is that which is conscious of that which is self-conscious. In this, recurs the word self again, for which we may substitute its definition as before. This process may go on forever. The end can never be reached; thus the self which is the object of consciousness cannot be reached. The pursuit of it is a progress into the infinite.

We fare no better when we seek a real subject for the proposition which defines the I as that which is conscious of itself. As soon as the I is conscious of itself, that of which it is conscious has become objective. The I which is conscious is subjective. It lies outside of that of which it is conscious. To become conscious of this I, we must in some way get behind it. We must be conscious of that which is conscious. But as last as the I gets behind itself, it is there as an I, which demands a renewal of the same process. The search for the Me, the object of self-consciousness, is, as we have found, a progress into the infinite; the search for the I, is in like manner a process which can never be completed.

We have thus examined the criticism which Herbart made of Fichte’s definition of the I, considered as to its material. This criticism may resolve itself into a single statement. The self is subject-object. Both elements, that of subjectivity and that of objectivity, belong to it. In the definition, we attempt to separate these. We seek to place a self that is pure subject over against a self that is pure object. The attempt fails, for each of the terms breaks up into its constituent elements. The subject, because it is the self, is not pure subject, but subject-object. The object is not pure object, but subject-object. We try to eliminate the one or the other element from each of the terms, but as fast as we do this, because what we have reached is still a self, the same problem meets us, and so on forever.

It may be said of this criticism that, in the first place, it is merely formal. It is a criticism that can be made upon almost every reflex proposition. We may treat in like manner the definition of the arc of a circle. This we may define to be a curve which if sufficiently prolonged will return into itself. What is the self into which the curve returns? It is evidently the returning curve. We can substitute this full expression for the term self as before. We may say that the arc of a circle is a curve which returns into a curve which returns into itself. We may make this substitution as often as we will. It might be continued forever. Still, the definition is a good one, and, when taken seriously, has a clear meaning. It is only when we play with the definition that it becomes obscure.

Further, it may be said that the criticism describes a process which may be repeated indefinitely, not in words only, but in fact. We may rise to the consciousness of our consciousness. Indeed, we actually do this. What we call consciousness is as really self-consciousness as that which we call self-consciousness, for we can be conscious of nothing but ourselves. Self-consciousness is the consciousness of consciousness. This single process is, however, sufficient; a repetition of it adds nothing to it. Such repetition will become mere play. It is so with the arc of the circle. We may draw over and over again the line that returns to itself; there may be, up to a certain point, an advantage in this repetition; our first drawing may have been too light, and we wish to deepen it; but, after a certain point, this too becomes play. Thus the reductio ad absurdum, as applied to the definition, expresses simply the reduction to an absurdity of the process for which the definition stands.

The fundamental mistake of the criticism is that it treats the elements of the self as if they were entities which could be separated or made to revolve about one another. The self is that which is subject-object. The fuller definition is simply an expansion of this. The I which is conscious is not something over against the Me of which it is conscious; the two are one. If the definition seems open to the criticisms above cited, it is because it seeks momentarily and formally to separate elements which have no separate existence. The two rest each in the other. So we may go round and round a circle, seeking to find some point of rest. The circle remains one in spite of our revolution. No matter which point we may assume to be the beginning, it is at once beginning and end.

The second criticism made by Herbart has reference to the form of the definition. The definition affirms the identity of subject and object; but subject and object are not identical. The one is the absolute opposite of the other, and the attempt to present them as one, involves an absolute contradiction.

This criticism, and the fact that it expresses what to many may seem to be a real difficulty, may serve to show us to how great an extent we ordinarily live outside of ourselves. The definition given by Fichte expresses a fundamental and universal fact of consciousness. We are at each moment conscious of ourselves. Some would, indeed, make this self-consciousness an act of memory. We are conscious not of ourselves at any given moment; we only recall the experience of the preceding moment. Thus, consciousness would be always flying after that of which it is conscious. But how do I know that this moment just receding belonged to me, that its experience was my experience? This knowledge could be gained only by taking the past into my present; that is, by holding it in relation to my present. Thus, we must have a present self-consciousness to make the consciousness of our past possible. Thus, at every moment of consciousness, we have this unity which exists in and through diversity. This kind of unity is present to all spiritual activity. The statement of it expresses the very law of thought. We can think of no single element by itself; and we can have only one thought at once. Here is a contradiction that would seem to make thought impossible. We cannot think unity, and we cannot think variety. We can think both together, unity in variety and variety in unity. In other words, each thought is a unit; but it is a complex and organic unity. It contains elements distinct, yet united. The self is the type of this organic unity, as indeed it is that which creates this organic unity in thought. Notwithstanding the fact which we have just considered is one so universally present in our consciousness, being indeed our consciousness itself, it strikes many either as something marvellous or as something absurd. We are so used to living in relation to material facts, that we unconsciously apply to spirit the laws of matter. Because among material things there can be no division without fracture and separation, therefore it is believed that division in the spirit must imply fracture and separation.

On the other hand, an attempt is constantly made to construct the unity of consciousness out of the successive elements of consciousness, even out of the atoms of which the body is composed. We are told of mind-stuff. Each atom of which the brain consists has, it is claimed, two sides—the conscious and the unconscious. When these are properly put together, the unconscious sides unite to form the brain, while the conscious sides unite to form the unity of consciousness. Thus, those who think that a contradiction is involved in the attempt to deduce from the unity of consciousness the elements that enter into it, because the same thing cannot be at once one and manifold, yet find no absurdity in the attempt to construct the unity of consciousness out of semi-material particles. The unity of consciousness is what every conscious being must admit. It is easy to show that this can be the result of no composition. Suppose these particles of mind-stuff united so as to produce consciousness, where would the consciousness be found? It could not be apart from all. It must be in each. We can only think of this crowd of particles as of a crowd of men all fired by a like purpose, each heightening the enthusiasm of the other, all together creating an intensity of enthusiasm of which no one would be capable alone; but the enthusiasm of all is simply the heightened enthusiasm of each. There are still as many centres of consciousness as there are individuals. So would it be with these mind-particles. Consciousness is one; they are many; and each can have only its own consciousness.

The relation of consciousness to the elements which enter into it, is then one of absolute supremacy. It is not their product; they are its product. It is, indeed, dependent upon them indirectly. There is no creator without a creation; but the creation is directly dependent upon the creator; the creator only indirectly and ideally dependent upon the creation. So the consciousness is indirectly dependent upon its contents; they are directly dependent upon it. The I is thus independent and active. Its very nature is to act. It posits itself, and thereby creates itself.

We have thus reached the Category of Reality. Philosophers have often raised the question as to what is real. This is indeed the fundamental question of philosophy. Our right to affirm reality cannot be derived from anything else. All else must be derived from it. In other words, what we recognize as the ultimate reality cannot be shown to be such by any argument. If we undertake to prove the fact of this ultimate reality, we must appeal to something that we regard as more real than it. Herbert Spencer recognizes this very clearly in his affirmation of the existence of something real outside of us. This we cannot reason to; we can only reason from it. This assumed reality outside ourselves is, however, only indirectly given. The reality which is given directly, and thus which is given absolutely, is that of the I. It recognizes itself and thereby becomes what it is. Because it is what it is, it recognizes itself. Whatever other reality we may recognize, it must be derived from the I. Of whatever we can say with absolute certainty, So surely as I am, this is—of this we affirm reality; and we can affirm reality in no other way. We have also reached the Proposition of Identity: A is A or, the I is the I. This Proposition of Identity is the fundamental proposition of philosophy. It is unconditional, both as to form and as to content. The A or the I is posited freely and absolutely. It is dependent on nothing else. The positing is free and absolute. It is dependent upon nothing else. In its highest form, it is self-affirmation, which is the one fundamental and absolute affirmation.