quo d.lib.um ich.

e du
http://quo d.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=did;cc=did;rgn=main;view=text;idno =did2222.0000.168

Notes
Add to bookbag

Title: Taste

Original Goût
Title:

Volume Vol. 7 (1757), pp. 761–770

and Page:

Authors : Jean Le Rond d'Alembert, Denis Diderot, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et
de Montesquieu, François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire

Translator: Nelly S. Hoyt; T homas Cassirer

Subject Grammar
terms:
Literature

Philosophy

Original Link
Version
(ART FL):

Source: Nelly S. Hoyt and T homas Cassirer, trans., T he Encyclopedia: Selections: Diderot, d'Alembert
and a Society of Men of Letters (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965).

Availability: T his work is in the public domain in the United States of America.

URL: http://hdl.handle.net/2027/spo.did2222.0000.168

Citation d'Alembert, Jean Le Rond, Denis Diderot, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et
(MLA): de Montesquieu, and François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire. "Taste." T he Encyclopedia of
Diderot & d'Alembert Collaborative Translation Project. Translated by Nelly S. Hoyt and
T homas Cassirer. Ann Arbor: MPublishing, University of Michigan Library, 2003. Web. [f ill in
today's date in the f orm 18 Apr. 2009 and remove square brackets]. . Trans. of "Goût,"
Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, vol. 7. Paris,
1757.

Citation d'Alembert, Jean Le Rond, Denis Diderot, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et
(Chicago): de Montesquieu, and François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire. "Taste." T he Encyclopedia of
Diderot & d'Alembert Collaborative Translation Project. Translated by Nelly S. Hoyt and
T homas Cassirer. Ann Arbor: MPublishing, University of Michigan Library, 2003.
http://hdl.handle.net/2027/spo.did2222.0000.168 (accessed [f ill in today's date in the f orm
April 18, 2009 and remove square brackets]). Originally published as "Goût," Encyclopédie ou
Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, 7:761–770 (Paris, 1757).

T his article deals with a key eighteenth-century concept. As René Wellek writes in A History of Modern
Criticism: 1750–1950 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1955), p. 24: "Taste can be f ound throughout the
Italian and French seventeenth centuries as a term, but it becomes the subject of elaborate theorizing only
in the early eighteenth century." Most of this theorizing revolved about the problem of reconciling the
personal nature of taste and its use as a universal criterion in art, a problem that one might def ine in the
words of Hume: "T hus, though the principles of taste be universal, and nearly, if not entirely, the same in all
men; yet f ew are qualif ied to give judgment on any work of art, or establish their own sentiment as the
standard of beauty. T he organs of internal sensation are seldom so perf ect as to allow the general
principles f ull play, and produce a f eeling correspondent to those principles." [1]

T he article in the Encyclopédie is one of the most interesting examples of the central position and
importance of the question of taste in eighteenth-century France. Such a question could elicit a
contribution f rom Voltaire, the f oremost man of letters of his time, f rom a great social and political thinker
like Montesquieu, and f rom a distinguished mathematician like d'Alembert. T heir essays dif f er in style and in
approach, but all three authors agree that it is good taste, above all, that distinguishes the educated man
and the civilized country.

Originally the topic was given to Montesquieu, at his own request. In line with the editorial policy of trying to
obtain the collaboration of the most distinguished men of letters of the time, d'Alembert had approached
Montesquieu in 1753 and asked him to write the articles on "Democracy" and "Despotism." But the f amous
author of the Esprit des lois evidently f elt he had nothing more to say on political thought and asked f or
the article "Taste" instead. [2] To judge f rom the unf inished essay in the Encyclopédie , Montesquieu was
engaged in research on the psychology of taste and aesthetic pleasure and intended his article to be an
original contribution to the subject. Af ter his death the editors quite naturally turned to Voltaire, the author
of Le Temple du goût (1731–1733) and the most f amous critic of his time. In contrast to Montesquieu's
probing and somewhat f ragmentary venture into a f ield that was new to him, Voltaire contributed a
polished, concise f ormulation of ideas on which he had already touched in his critical writings. D'Alembert
then exercised his privilege as editor and added his address to the French Academy, thus appending his
def ense of the philosophe to the essays of the two most outstanding philosophers of France. [3]

T he entire article was translated into English soon af ter it appeared and was added to the f irst two
editions of the most extensive English eighteenth-century work on taste, Alexander Gerard's An Essay on
Taste (Edinburgh and London, 1759 and 1764). [Translator note]

Taste. T he preceding article has described taste in its physical meaning. [4] T his sense, this capacity f or
discriminating between dif f erent f oods, has given rise, in all known languages, to the metaphorical use of
the word "taste" to designate the discernment of beauty and f laws in all the arts. It discriminates as quickly
as the tongue and the palate, and like physical taste it anticipates thought. In common with physical taste it
is sensitive to what is good and reacts to it with a f eeling of pleasure, it ref uses with disgust what is bad; it
is f requently uncertain and misleading, at times it cannot even tell whether something is pleasant or not,
and sometimes it needs practice to develop discrimination.

In order to have taste, it is not enough to see and to know what is beautif ul in a given work. One must f eel
beauty and be moved by it. It is not even enough to f eel, to be moved in a vague way: it is essential to
discern the dif f erent shades of f eeling. Nothing must escape an instantaneous perception. Here again
intellectual and artistic taste resembles sensual taste: just as the gourmet immediately perceives and
recognizes a mixture of two liqueurs, so the man of taste, the connoisseur, will discern in a rapid glance
any mixture of styles. He will perceive a f law next to an embellishment. He will be carried away by
enthusiasm at this line in

Horace: Que vouliez-vous qu'il f ît contre trois? qu'il mourût . He will f eel a spontaneous recoil f rom the next
line: Ou qu'un beau désespoir alors le secourût . [5]

Just as having bad taste in the physical sense means deriving pleasure only f rom seasoning that is
excessively piquant and unusual, so having bad taste in the arts is to enjoy only elaborate ornamentation
and to be insensitive to la belle nature . [6]

A depraved taste in f ood consists in choosing those dishes which disgust other men; it is a kind of
sickness. A depraved taste in the arts consists in enjoying subjects that are revolting to men of good
judgment. Such taste leads us to pref er the burlesque to what is noble, and to pref er what is precious and
af f ected to simple and natural beauty: this is a sickness of the mind. Man molds and educates his taste in
art much more than his sensual taste: though it may sometimes happen in sensual taste that men end by
liking things that at f irst seemed repugnant to them, yet nature intended that as a general rule men would
have an innate f eeling f or their needs; intellectual taste on the other hand needs more time to develop. A
young man who is sensitive but untutored cannot at f irst distinguish the parts in a large chorus; in a
painting, his eyes do not at f irst distinguish the shadings, the chiaroscuro, the perspective, the harmony of
its colors, and the correctness of the draughtsmanship; yet little by little his ears learn to hear and his eyes
to see. T he f irst time he sees a beautif ul tragedy he will be moved, but he will be unable to discern either
the ef f ect of the unities, or the subtle art by which all unjustif ied entrances and exits are avoided, or the
even greater art by which unity of interest is created, or any of the other dif f iculties mastered by the
author. Practice and ref lection alone will make it possible f or him to experience immediate pleasure f rom
elements that f ormerly he could not distinguish at all. Good taste develops gradually in a nation that has
hitherto lacked it because, little by little, men come under the inf luence of good artists: they become
accustomed to seeing pictures with the eyes of Lebrun, Poussin, and Le Sueur, they hear the musical
recitation of Quinault's scenes with the ears of Lulli, the melodies of a symphony with the ears of Rameau,
and they read books with the minds of the best authors. [7]

During the f irst ages in which the arts were cultivated, an entire nation sometimes agreed in its liking f or
authors whose works were f ull of f laws and who have f allen into disrepute with the passage of time. T his
is due to the f act that these works had a natural beauty accessible to everyone, while men were not yet
capable of discerning their imperf ections. T hus Lucilius was a f avorite of the Romans until Horace drove
him into oblivion, and Régnier was appreciated by the French until Boileau appeared. [8] If some ancient
authors who f umble on every page have nevertheless retained their great reputation, it is because in these
nations no writer ever appeared whose style was pure and elegant and who opened their eyes, as Horace
did f or the Romans and Boileau f or the French.

It is said that one should not argue about matters of taste. T his is true as long as it is only a question of
sensual taste, of the revulsion one experiences f or a certain f ood and the pref erence one f eels f or
another. T his is not subject to argument because it is impossible to correct a f law that is organic. T he same
is not true in the arts: since the arts have genuine beauty, there exists a good taste that discerns it and a
bad taste that is unaware of it, and of ten the f law of the mind that produces wrong taste can be corrected.
T here are also cold souls and men incapable of sound reasoning; these can neither be inspired with f eeling
nor corrected in their thinking; with them one should not argue about matters of taste since they have
none.

In many f ields taste is arbitrary, such as in f abrics, f inery, coaches, and all matters that cannot be
considered on a level with the arts; in such cases we should use the word "whim." It is whim rather than
taste that produces so many new f ashions.

T he taste of a nation can become debased. Such a misf ortune usually happens af ter a century in which
perf ection was reached. T he nation's artists, f earing to be imitators, venture along untraveled paths. T hey
wander f ar f rom the belle nature their predecessors rendered successf ully. T here is merit in their ef f orts,
and as this merit hides their f aults, the public being avid f or anything new runs af ter them. It soon loses
interest, however, and others appear who try to please it in still other ways. T hese stray even f urther f rom
nature, taste disappears altogether, and men f ind themselves surrounded by a rapid succession of
innovations. T he public loses its bearings and vainly longs f or the century of good taste that cannot return.
Good taste becomes an heirloom which a f ew sound minds hold in saf ekeeping f ar f rom the crowd.

T here are vast countries into which good taste has never penetrated. T hese are the countries where
sociability has remained crude, where men and women do not gather together, where certain arts, such as
the sculpture or painting of animate beings, are f orbidden by religion. When there is little sociability, the
mind shrinks and grows dull because there is nothing to educate its taste. When some of the f ine arts are
absent, the others rarely manage to exist, because all the arts are interdependent and sustain each other.
T his is one of the reasons why there is scarcely any kind of art in which the Asians have ever excelled, and
why good taste has only f allen to the lot of a f ew nations in Europe. [9] Article by M. de Voltaire .

To this excellent article we shall add the f ragment on taste, which M. le Président de Montesquieu intended
f or the Encyclopédie, as we mentioned at the end of his eulogy in Volume V of this work. T his f ragment
was f ound incomplete among his papers: the author did not have the time to put the f inishing touches to it.
But the f irst thoughts of great writers are worthy of being preserved f or posterity, like the sketches of
great painters .
Essay on taste in matters of nature and of art . In our present mode of existence our soul experiences
three kinds of pleasures: some it derives f rom its own existence, others result f rom its union with the body,
others again take their origin in the habits and prejudices acquired f rom certain institutions, customs, and
conventions.

T hese dif f erent pleasures of our soul constitute the objects of taste, such as whatever is beautif ul, good,
pleasant, naïve, delicate, tender, gracef ul, noble, great, sublime, majestic, endowed with je ne sais quoi ,
etc. For example, when we f ind pleasure in seeing something that is usef ul f or us, we say that it is good ;
when we f ind pleasure in seeing it, without discerning f or the moment any utility in it, we call it beautif ul .

T he ancients did not see this clearly. T hey looked on all the relative qualities of our soul as being real
qualities. As a result, those dialogues in which Plato has Socrates develop his arguments—dialogues that
were so admired by the ancients—are untenable today, because they are based on a f alse philosophy: f or
there is no longer any meaning to arguments that treat what is good, beautif ul, perf ect, wise, mad, hard,
sof t, dry, and humid as if these were real entities.

T he source of what is beautif ul, good, pleasing, etc., lies in ourselves. When we seek to discover its origin,
we are in f act seeking the causes of the pleasures f elt by our soul.

Let us theref ore examine our soul, study it as it appears in its actions and its passions, and seek its nature
in its pleasures, f or this is where it reveals itself most clearly. Poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture,
music, dance, dif f erent kinds of games, all the works of nature and art can give pleasure to the soul. Let us
see why, how, and when they give this pleasure, and let us account f or our opinions. T his may help us to
educate and mold our taste, which is only another word f or the gif t of subtly and rapidly discovering the
degree of pleasure men can derive f rom any object.

Concerning the pleasures of our soul . T he soul experiences pleasures that are its own. T hese are distinct
f rom the pleasures it receives f rom the senses, and they are experienced independently f rom the latter.
Such are the pleasures inspired by curiosity, by ideas concerning the soul's greatness and perf ection, by
the perception of its existence in contrast with the awareness of night, by the pleasure of comprehending a
general idea in its entirety, of seeing a great number of things, etc., of comparing, linking, and separating
ideas. T hese pleasures are in the nature of the soul and independent of the senses, because they are
proper to every thinking being. It would be quite immaterial to examine here whether these pleasures belong
to the soul as substance in union with the body, or separated f rom it, because they always exist and are
the objects of taste. T hus we shall not draw a distinction here between the pleasures which the soul
derives f rom its nature, and those which it derives f rom its union with the body. We shall call all these,
"natural pleasures," to be distinguished f rom acquired pleasures, which the soul enjoys by means of certain
associations with natural pleasures. In the same way and f or the same reason we shall distinguish between
natural and acquired taste.

It is usef ul to know the source of the pleasures f or which taste is the criterion: A knowledge of natural and
acquired pleasures might serve to correct both our natural and our acquired taste. In order to gauge the
pleasures of our being, in some cases even merely to experience them, we must begin by describing the
conditions of our existence so as to know what its pleasures are.

If our soul had not been united with body, it would have had knowledge, and it is likely that it would have
loved what it knew. At present we love almost exclusively what we do not know.

T he way in which we are constituted is entirely arbitrary. We could have been made as we are or dif f erently;
but if we had been made dif f erently, we would have f elt dif f erently; an organ more or less in our machine
would have produced a new eloquence, a new poetry; a dif f erent make-up of the same organs would have
produced still another kind of poetry. For example, if the constitution of our organs made us capable of
greater concentration, this would do away with all the rules that keep the arrangement of a subject in
proportion to the length of our concentration; if we were capable of a greater penetration, this would put
an end to all the rules based on the degree of our penetration. In a word, all the laws that derive f rom the
f act that our machine is made in a certain f ashion would change if our machine were made dif f erently.

If our vision were weaker and dimmer, f ewer moldings and more unif ormity would have been required in
architectural members; if our vision were more distinct and our soul capable of comprehending more things
at one time, more ornaments would have been required in architecture. If our ears were made like those of
certain animals, many of our musical instruments would have to be modif ied. I am well aware that objects
would still have stood in the same relation to each other, but since their relation to us would have changed,
objects, which under present conditions have a certain ef f ect on us, would no longer have this ef f ect. Since
perf ection in the arts consists in presenting objects to us in such a way that they cause us as much
pleasure as possible, there would have to be changes in the arts once our pleasure depended on new
circumstances.

At f irst it seems that we need only know the diverse sources of our pleasures in order to acquire taste, and
that once we had read what philosophy tells us on this subject, we would have good taste and could boldly
judge works of art. But natural taste is not the same as theoretical knowledge. It consists in the rapid and
subtle application of the very rules which we do not know. It is not necessary to know that surprise is the
cause of the pleasure we derive f rom a certain object which we f ind beautif ul; it is enough if it surprises us,
and surprises us to the extent that it should, neither more nor less.

T hus what we may say here, and all the precepts f or the education of taste which we may give, can be
applied only to acquired taste; or we might say that directly it concerns only acquired taste, although
indirectly acquired taste touches on natural taste; f or acquired taste af f ects, changes, increases, and
diminishes natural taste, just as natural taste af f ects, changes, increases, and diminishes acquired taste.

When we do not consider whether it is good or bad, true or f alse, taste in its most general def inition is
whatever f orms a bond based on f eeling between us and an object. T his does not mean that the term
cannot be applied to intellectual matters. T heir knowledge brings so much pleasure to the soul that certain
philosophers have been unable to comprehend any other kind of f elicity. T he soul knows by means of its
ideas and its f eelings, and its ideas and f eelings are the source of its pleasure; f or although we may
oppose idea to f eeling, the soul f eels an object when it sees it. T here are no objects so intellectual that the
soul does not either see them or at least believe it sees them, and theref ore it f eels them as well.

Concerning intelligence in general . Intelligence is a genus and includes several species: genius, good
sense, discernment, discrimination, talent, taste.

Intelligence consists in having organs that are well f ormed f or dealing with the objects of its activity. If the
object is very restricted in scope, intelligence is called talent. If intelligence is closer to a certain kind of
ref ined pleasure enjoyed by men in good society, it is called taste. If the particular object is the only one f or
a nation, talent is called spirit, such as the art of war and agriculture among the Romans, hunting among
the savages, etc.

Concerning curiosity . Our soul is meant to think, which is to perceive. Now such a being must be endowed
with curiosity: since all objects are in a chain where each idea both precedes and f ollows another, it is
impossible to wish to see one object without desiring to see another one, and if we did not f eel desire f or
the latter, we would not take pleasure in the f ormer. T hus when we are shown part of a picture, our desire
to see the part that is hidden is in proportion to the pleasure we have taken in the part we have already
seen.

T he pleasure given us by one object inclines us toward another. T his is why the soul always seeks new
objects and is never at rest.
T heref ore one sure means of always pleasing the soul is to present it with many objects or with a greater
number than it had expected to see.

T his explains why we take pleasure in seeing a symmetrically ordered garden, and yet also in seeing a wild
and rustic spot. Both these ef f ects are produced by the same cause.

Since we like to see a large number of objects, we would like to expand our vision, to be in several places
and to cover greater distances. Our soul abhors limits, it would like, so to speak, to widen the sphere of its
presence; it derives great pleasure, f or instance, f rom looking into the distance. But how can this be done?
In the cities our vision is limited by houses, in the countryside by a thousand obstacles: we can barely see
three or f our trees. Art comes to our rescue and lif ts the veil behind which nature conceals herself . We love
art and we love it more than nature, that is to say, nature which is hidden f rom our eyes. When, however, we
f ind a beautif ul view, when our vision is f reed and can see f ar in the distance meadows, brooks, hills, and
those arrangements which are, so to speak, created expressly f or our pleasure, then our soul experiences
f ar greater delight than in seeing the gardens of Le Nôtre, [10] because nature does not imitate itself , while
the creations of art always resemble each other. If is f or this reason that in painting we pref er a landscape
to the most beautif ully laid out garden; f or painting preserves only the beauty of nature, the views where
the eye can range f ar into the distance and in all directions, and the sites where nature is varied and can be
contemplated with pleasure.

Expression of thought becomes great when it opens our eyes to more than what is actually said, and when
we perceive immediately what otherwise would have required a great deal of reading.

Florus shows us all of Hannibal's f aults in a f ew words: "At a time when he could make use of his victory,
he pref erred to enjoy it."

Cum victoria posset uti, f rui maluit . [11]

He gives us an impression of the entire Macedonian war, when he says: "To enter was to vanquish."
Introisse victoria f uit . [12]

He gives us all of Scipio's lif e at a glance, when he says of his youth: "T his is the Scipio who is growing up
to destroy Af rica."

Hic erit Scipio, qui in exitium Af ricae crescit . [13] One seems to see a child who grows and attains the
stature of a giant.

T hen he shows us the character of Hannibal, the situation of the world, and the greatness of the Roman
people, when he says: "Hannibal in f light sought throughout the world to f ind an enemy in the Roman
people."

Qui prof ugus ex Af rica, hostem populo Romano toto orbe quaerebat . [14]

Concerning the pleasure derived f rom order . It is not enough to show the soul many objects, they must be
shown in order, f or thus we remember what we have seen and we begin to imagine what we shall see. T hen
our soul is proud of its range and penetration. In a work in which there is no order, the soul f eels at every
moment that the order which it wants to introduce is being destroyed. T he sequence which the author has
created becomes conf used with the sequence which we create f or ourselves; the soul remembers nothing
and f oresees nothing; it f eels humiliated by the conf usion of its ideas and the inanity of what remains in
the mind; it exhausts itself to no purpose and cannot experience any pleasure. For these reasons order is
always introduced even into conf usion, unless the aim is to express or reveal this conf usion. T his is why
painters group their f igures; and those who depict battles place in the f oreground of their pictures
whatever the eye is intended to see distinctly, while relegating conf usion to the background and the more
distant scenes.

Concerning the pleasures of variety . While we need order, we also need variety, otherwise the soul
languishes. T hings that are similar appear the same to the soul, and if the part of a picture that is being
revealed to us resembled another part that we had already seen, then this object, even though new, would
not seem new and theref ore would not give us any pleasure. Since the beauty of works of art, and of the
creations of nature, comes only f rom the pleasures they can give us, these works must be capable of
giving the greatest variety of pleasures; the soul must be shown things it has not yet seen, it must be
inspired with a f eeling that dif f ers f rom the one it has just experienced.

So it is that historical narratives delight us by the variety in their manner of telling, novels by the variety of
marvels they relate, plays by the variety of passions presented; and so it is that those who know how to
teach modif y as much as they can the tedium of instruction.

Everything becomes unbearable with lengthy unif ormity: periods recurring in the same order over a long time
weary us in a speech, and the repetition of the same balanced and well-rounded phrasing bores us in a
long poem, If it were true that the f amous tree-lined highway f rom Moscow to Petersburg was actually built,
a traveler would die of boredom closed in between the two rows of trees. Someone who has been traveling
f or a long time through the Alps will, by the time he descends f rom the mountains, have lost all interest in
even the most beautif ul sites and the most charming views.

We have already stated that the soul loves variety only because it is meant to know and to see. T hus it has
to be able to see, and variety must permit this, that is to say that what the soul sees must be simple
enough to be perceived, and varied enough to be perceived with pleasure.

T here are objects which seem to have variety and do not have it, and others which appear to be unif orm
and yet have a great deal of variety.

Gothic architecture appears to have great variety, but the disorder of Gothic ornaments tires the eye
because of their small size, and thus we cannot distinguish one f rom another. Moreover the ornaments are
so numerous that the eye cannot dwell on any one of them. Because of this, Gothic architecture of f ends
our taste by means of the very elements designed to render it pleasing.

A building in the Gothic style presents a kind of enigma to the eye that sees it, and the soul is as perplexed
as when it is conf ronted by an obscure poem. [15]

Greek architecture, on the contrary, appears unif orm. Yet it has the kind of variety that makes us look with
pleasure on an object, because it has the necessary divisions, and as many as are needed, so that the soul
can see exactly as much as it can comprehend without becoming tired and can see enough to occupy its
f aculties.

Large objects must have large parts. Tall men have long arms, tall trees large branches, and high mountains
are part of vast mountain ranges; all this is in the nature of things.

Greek architecture is divided into a f ew large parts and thus imitates whatever is great. T he soul f eels it to
be permeated with an aura of majesty.

Similarly painting divides the f igures it represents on the canvas, into groups of three or f our; it imitates
nature, where a large herd always divides into smaller groups. In the same manner painting also separates
its lights and shades into large surf aces.

Concerning the pleasures of symmetry . I have said that the soul loves variety; yet in most things it likes to
recognize a kind of symmetry. To all appearances there is some contradiction in this; here is how I explain it:

When our soul sees objects, one of the principal causes of the pleasure it f eels lies in the ease with which
it perceives them. Symmetry is pleasing to the soul, because it saves the soul labor, brings it relief , and, in a
manner of speaking, cuts the soul's work by half .

T his gives rise to a general rule: Wherever symmetry is usef ul to the soul and can f urther its f unctions, the
soul f inds it pleasant; but wherever it is useless, it is tedious because it destroys variety. Objects that we
soul f inds it pleasant; but wherever it is useless, it is tedious because it destroys variety. Objects that we
perceive one af ter the other must be varied because our soul sees them without dif f iculty; those perceived
at a glance, on the other hand, must have symmetry. T hus, since we perceive at a glance the f açade of a
building, a f lower bed or a temple, these are arranged symmetrically and delight the soul by the ease with
which it can take in the entire object at once. [16]

An object that should be seen at a glance must be simple. T heref ore, it must have unity and all the parts
must relate to the whole. Here we have another reason why symmetry is pref erred: it produces a
homogeneous whole.

It is natural f or a whole to be complete, and the soul that sees this whole wants it to have no imperf ect
part. T his is another reason why symmetry is pref erred: we need a kind of equipoise or balance, and a
building with only one wing, or with one wing shorter than another, is just as unf inished as a body with one
arm, or with an arm that is too short.

Concerning contrasts . T he soul loves symmetry, but it also loves contrasts. T his requires a great deal of
explanation. For instance:

While nature requires painters and sculptors to introduce symmetry into the various parts of their f igures, it
demands on the other hand that they introduce contrasts into the attitudes of these f igures. A f oot placed
in the same position as another, a limb that moves like another, these are unbearable. T he reason f or this
is that their symmetry results almost always in a repetition of the same attitudes, as we see in Gothic
f igures, which are all similar on account of this. T hen the products of art lose all variety. Moreover nature
has not given us such a posture; she gave us movement and did not f ix our actions and our behavior as if
we were f igurines. If we cannot bear to see men under such constraint, what ef f ect will a work of art of this
type have on us?

T heref ore, f igures must be presented in contrasting attitudes, especially in sculpture, which is by nature
cold; sculpture can only express the f ire of lif e through strong contrasts and a striking position.

However, just as we noted that when men tried to introduce variety into Gothic style they produced
unif ormity, so it has f requently happened that men sought to introduce variety by means of contrasts and
achieved only symmetry and ugly unif ormity.

T his can be f elt not only in certain sculptures and paintings but also in the style of writers who in every
sentence introduce a contrast between the beginning and the end by means of one antithesis af ter
another. Among these are Saint Augustine and other late Latin authors as well as some of our moderns,
such as Saint-Evremond. T heir turn of phrase, always the same and always monotonous, is very repellent:
such perpetual contrast turns into symmetry, and their continual, labored antithesis becomes monotony.

T he mind f inds little variety in such a style. Once you have seen one part of the sentence, you will always
guess the other. You see words that are contrasted, but they are always contrasted in the same manner;
you see a turn of phrase in the sentence, but it is always the same one.

Many painters have the f ault of indiscriminately placing contrasts everywhere, so that when we see a f igure
we are immediately led to anticipate the arrangement of the f igure next to it. T his continual diversity results
in a certain kind of similarity. Furthermore, when nature produces disorder, it does so without continually
emphasizing contrasts, nor does it place all bodies in motion, and constrained motion at that. Nature is
more varied, it places some bodies in repose and gives to others movements of dif f erent kinds.

T he part of the soul which knows, and the part which f eels have an equal love f or variety. T he soul cannot
support the same situation f or any length of time, because it is bound to a body that cannot endure this;
our soul can only be stimulated when the spirits f low through the nerves. Now there are two obstacles to
this: f atigue of the nerves, and cessation of the spirits that either no longer f low or disappear f rom the
places where they f ormerly f lowed.
T hus everything tires us in the end, and keen pleasures in particular. We always turn away f rom them with
the same f eeling of contentment with which we seized upon them, f or the f ibers which served as organs
f or these pleasures are in need of rest. We must then use other f ibers which are in better condition to
serve us, and thus distribute the work, in a manner of speaking.

Our soul is tired of f eeling. Yet not to f eel is to f all into a prostration which wearies it. Everything is set
right when we vary the activity of the soul; then the soul f eels without tiring.

Concerning the pleasures of surprise . Since the soul is always disposed to seek new objects, it enjoys all
the pleasures that surprise can procure. Surprise is a f eeling that is agreeable to the soul because its
ef f ect is rapid and attracts our attention. T he soul perceives or f eels something which it did not expect, or
in a manner which it did not expect.

Something can surprise us because it excites wonder, or because it is new or unexpected. In the latter case
the principal f eeling of surprise is combined with a secondary f eeling based on the f act that the object is
new or unexpected.

It is f or this reason that games of chance excite us; they make us see a continual succession of
unexpected events. It is f or the same reason that we delight in parlor games; they too constitute a
succession of unexpected events, caused by a combination of skill and chance.

For this reason too we delight in seeing plays; they develop gradually, conceal events until they happen,
continually prepare new surprises f or us, and of ten stimulate us by revealing these surprises to be
something we should have f oreseen.

Witty works are read ordinarily only because they provide pleasant surprises and make up f or the dullness
of conversation, which is almost always listless and does not produce such ef f ect.

Surprise can be produced by an object itself or by the manner in which it is perceived, f or the object may
appear to our eyes to be larger or smaller or dif f erent f rom what it really is. We may also see the object
itself , but accompanied by an accessory idea that surprises us. In a particular object, the accessory idea
can be the dif f iculty of making it, the person who made it, the time when it was made, the manner in which it
was made, or some other accompanying circumstance.

Suetonius describes Nero's crimes with a composure that surprises us and almost makes us believe that
he does not f eel the horrors which he describes. Suddenly he changes his tone and writes: "Af ter the
universe had suf f ered this monster f or f ourteen years, he f inally lef t it":

tale monstrum per quattuordecim annos perpessus terrarum orbis tandem destituit . [17] T his calls f orth
dif f erent kinds of surprises in the mind: we are surprised by the change in the author's style, by our
discovery that his opinions dif f er f rom what we had assumed, and by his manner of giving expression in so
f ew words to one of the greatest revolutions that ever happened. T hus the soul discovers many dif f erent
sentiments which act together to unsettle it and give it a f eeling of pleasure.

Concerning the diverse causes which may produce a f eeling . It must be noted that a f eeling ordinarily has
more than one cause in our soul. Strength and variety of f eeling is, if I may use the term, produced by a
certain dosage of these causes. Intelligence consists in knowing how to strike several organs at once, and
if we examine various writers, we will see perhaps that the best and those who have been the most popular
are those who have aroused a greater number of simultaneous sensations in the soul.

Take a look, I beg you, at the multiplicity of causes: We pref er to see a neatly arranged garden rather than a
disorderly mass of trees because (1) our vision is not blocked; (2) each avenue is a whole, and each f orms
an important object, while in a disorderly mass each tree is a whole and an unimportant object; (3) we see
an arrangement we are not in the habit of seeing; (4) we are appreciative of the trouble that has been
taken; (5) we admire with what care a ceaseless battle is waged against nature which attempts to cause
total conf usion by producing growth which was not required of it. T his is so true, that we cannot bear to
see a neglected garden. Sometimes we like the dif f iculty and sometimes the ease of execution, and just as
in a magnif icent garden we marvel at the greatness of its owner and at the expense to which he has gone,
so we sometimes take pleasure in seeing that someone has had the skill to please us with little expense
and work.

We like to gamble because it satisf ies our avarice, that is to say, our hope of greater gain. Gambling
f latters our vanity by f ostering the idea that f ortune pref ers us and that our f ellow men have their attention
f ixed on our good luck; it satisf ies our curiosity by providing us with a spectacle. In a word, it af f ords us the
diverse pleasures of surprise.

We f ind the dance pleasing because of its lightness, its particular grace, the beauty and variety of its
poses, and its connection with music, the dancer being like an accompanying instrument. Above all,
however, we f ind it appealing because our brain is so constituted that it imperceptibly reduces all movement
to a f ew basic movements and a f ew basic poses.

Concerning sensibility . Almost always we f ind things pleasing and displeasing f rom dif f erent points of view.
For example, the Italian virtuosi [18] should give us little pleasure, (1) because it is not surprising that they
sing well, f ashioned as they are; they resemble an instrument f rom which wood has been cut away to make
it produce music; (2) because we have too strong a suspicion that the passions they enact are f alse; (3)
because they belong neither to the sex we love nor to the sex we esteem. On the other hand we may f ind
them pleasing because they retain f or a very long time a youthf ul aspect, and also because they alone have
f lexible voices. T hus every object arouses a f eeling in us which is composed of many other f eelings that
sometimes clash and weaken each other.

Of ten our soul makes up its own reasons f or f eeling pleasure. It succeeds in this mainly by establishing
connections between objects: something which pleased us once pleases us again f or the sole reason that
it has already done so in the past, that is, because we connect the f ormer and the present idea; thus an
actress who delighted us on the stage also delights us of f stage; her voice, her manner of delivery, the
memory of the admiration she received, even the idea of the princess she played, brought into relation with
what she is now, all this creates a kind of mixture which occasions a f eeling of pleasure.

All of us are inf luenced by many secondary ideas. A woman of high reputation who has a slight def ect can
turn it to advantage so that everyone considers it one of her charms. Usually when we love a woman, this
love springs only f rom a preconceived notion concerning her birth or her wealth and is f ed by the marks of
honor or esteem which she receives f rom others.

Concerning ref inement . People of ref inement connect each idea or each taste with many secondary ideas
or tastes. Coarse people experience only one sensation, their soul can neither combine nor analyze. T hey
only have what nature gives them, and neither add to this nor take away f rom it. T his is not true of people
of ref inement. In love, f or instance, they compound most of the pleasures of love themselves. Polixenes
and Apicius brought to the table many sensations which are unknown to us vulgar eaters, and those who
judge works of the mind with taste, create f or themselves and experience an inf inity of sensations which
other men lack.

Concerning the "je ne sais quoi." [19] Persons or objects sometimes have an invisible charm, a natural
grace which def ies def inition and perf orce has been called je ne sais quoi . It seems to me that this ef f ect
is chief ly based on surprise. Our f eelings are roused because a woman attracts us more than we had
expected at f irst, and we are pleasantly surprised because she has been able to overcome def ects which
our eyes reveal to us but which our heart no longer believes to be true. T his is the reason why ugly women
very of ten have charm, while it is very rare f or beautif ul women to have it; f or someone who is beautif ul
ordinarily acts in a manner contrary to our expectations and thus seems to us less worthy of love. Such a
person f irst surprises us f avorably, later unf avorably; but the f avorable impression lies in the past while the
unf avorable impression is f resh. T hus it is that beautif ul women rarely arouse great passions; these are
almost always addressed to women who have charm, that is, who have delightf ul qualities we did not
expect and had no reason to expect. Elaborate dress rarely has charm, while the clothes worn by
shepherdesses have it f requently. We admire the majesty with which Paul Veronese drapes his f igures, but
it is the simplicity of Raphael and the purity of Correggio that moves us. [20] Paul Veronese promises much
and delivers what he promises. Raphael and Correggio promise little and deliver a great deal, and this
pleases us even more.

Charm usually resides in the mind rather than the f ace, f or a beautif ul f ace immediately reveals its beauty
and scarcely conceals anything, but the mind reveals itself little by little, only when it wishes and as much as
it wishes; it can conceal itself in order to appear later and thus provide the kind of surprise that is the
essence of charm.

Charm is f ound less in the f eatures of the f ace than in behavior, f or behavior varies with every moment and
can at any time create surprise. In a word, a woman can be beautif ul in only one way, but she is attractive in
a hundred thousand ways.

T he law of the two sexes ordains, in civilized and in savage nations, that men should do the asking and
women should only grant what is asked of them. T his causes charm to be more particularly a f eminine
quality. Since women have to def end everything about them, it is to their interest to conceal everything. T he
least word, the least gesture, everything they reveal without inf ringing on their f irst duty, every action that
throws of f constraint becomes an element of their charm. Such is the wisdom of nature that things which
would be of no value without the law of modesty acquire inf inite value, thanks to this f ortunate law on
which rests the happiness of the universe.

Since constraint and af f ectation cannot surprise us, charm is f ound neither in constrained nor in af f ected
manners, but in a certain f reedom or ease which lies between the two extremes. T he soul is then agreeably
surprised that both pitf alls have been avoided.

It would seem that it should be easiest to have natural manners, yet they are the most dif f icult, f or our
upbringing constrains us and makes us lose some of our naturalness; we are enchanted, however, when
we see this naturalness reappear.

In dress we f ind nothing more pleasing than the appearance of carelessness, even disorder, that conceals
f rom us all the caref ul preparations not required by cleanliness and only inspired by vanity. In the same way
our wit is only charming when it appears spontaneous and not rehearsed.

When you say something that has cost you ef f ort, you may well prove that you have wit, but not a
charming wit. To show such charm you must not notice it yourself , and others must be mildly surprised to
see it since a certain naïve and simple quality in you held out no such promise.

Charm cannot be acquired. In order to have it one must be naïve. But how can one make an ef f ort to be
naïve?

One of Homer's most beautif ul inventions was the girdle that gave Aphrodite the gif t of radiating delight.
Nothing could better make us f eel the magic and the power of charm, which seems to be conf erred on a
person by an invisible hand and must be distinguished f rom beauty itself . T his girdle could only have been
given to Aphrodite; it would not be appropriate to Hera's majestic beauty, since majesty demands a certain
gravity, that is to say, a constraint that is the opposite of the artlessness of charm; nor would it be very
appropriate to Athena's proud beauty, because pride is the opposite of the gentleness of charm and can
of ten be suspected, moreover, of af f ectation.

T he progression of surprise . We become aware of the presence of great beauty when something inspires
us with a surprise which at f irst is only mild, but which continues, increases, and f inally turns into
admiration. Raphael's works impress us little at f irst glance: he imitates nature so well that we are at f irst
no more astonished than we would be if we saw the object itself , which would not cause us any surprise at
all. On the other hand the extraordinary manner of expression, the stronger colors, the bizarre f orms of a
lesser painter strike us at f irst glance, because we are not accustomed to seeing them. Raphael can be
compared to Virgil, and the Venetian painters, with their constrained poses, to Lucan. [21] Virgil, who is
more natural, is less striking at f irst but leaves a greater impression af ter a while. T he opposite is true of
Lucan.

T he exact proportions of the f amous church of Saint Peter make it seem at f irst glance smaller than it is,
f or we do not know at the outset on what we should base our ideas to judge its size. If it were not so wide,
we would be struck by its length; if it were not so long, by its width. But as we examine it, our eye sees the
church growing in size, and our astonishment increases. One can compare it to the Pyrenees: the eye
thinks at f irst that it can take in their f ull measure, and then it discovers mountains behind mountains and
strays ever f arther into the distance.

Our soul of ten experiences pleasure when it f eels something it cannot analyze, or when an object appears
quite dif f erent f rom what it knows it to be. T his arouses a f eeling of surprise which the soul cannot
overcome. Here is an example of this: the cupola of Saint Peter's basilica is immense; we know that when
Michelangelo saw the Pantheon, which was the largest temple in Rome, he said that he wanted to build a
similar temple but place it high in the air. He built the dome of Saint Peter's church in imitation; but he
designed such massive columns that the dome does not seem at all heavy to the eye of the observer,
although it towers like a mountain above our heads. T hus the soul hesitates between what it sees and
what it knows, and it remains surprised to see a bulky mass that is at one and the same time so enormous
and so light.

Concerning the elements of beauty that arise f rom a kind of uncertainty of the soul . T he soul is f requently
surprised because it cannot reconcile what it sees with what it has seen previously. T here is a large lake in
Italy, called Lake Maggiore; it is a small ocean whose shores are entirely wild. In this lake, at a distance of
f if teen [ sic ] miles f rom the shore, there are two islands with a circumf erence of a quarter mile, called Isole
Borromee . In my opinion they are the most delightf ul spots in the world. T he soul is astonished by this
romantic [22] contrast, it remembers with pleasure the marvels described in novels where we cross rocky
and arid regions, and then f ind ourselves in a f airyland.

All contrasts make an impression on us, because two objects placed in opposition set each other of f .
When a small man stands next to one who is tall, the small man makes the other seem taller, and the tall
man makes the f ormer seem smaller.

T his sort of surprise is the cause of the pleasure we derive f rom any beauty based on contrast, f rom
antitheses and similar f igures of speech. Florus writes, "Who would believe that Sora and Algidus were
once a threat to us; that Satricum and Corniculum used to be provinces; that we once triumphed over the
inhabitants of Bovillae and Verulae whom we now disdain; and that at one time we would go to the capitol
to pray f or success in conquering Tibur, now our suburb, and Praeneste, where we now have our country
houses?" [23] T his author depicts f or us at the same time the greatness of Rome and its small beginnings,
and our astonishment is aroused by both these f acts.

Here we can see what a dif f erence there is between antithetical ideas and antithetical expressions. T he
antithesis of the expressions is not concealed, as is the antithesis of the ideas; the latter is always clothed
in the same manner, the f ormer changes at will; one antithesis is varied, the other is not.

When this same Florus speaks of the Samnites, he states that their cities were so completely destroyed
that it would now be dif f icult to f ind the country which was the occasion f or twenty-f our triumphs:

ut non f acile appareat materia quattuor et viginti triumphorum . [24] By the very words describing the
destruction of this nation, he shows us its greatness and its unyielding courage.

When we try to keep f rom laughing, we laugh twice as hard because of the contrast that exists between the
situation in which we f ind ourselves and the situation in which we should be. Similarly, when we see a great
f law in a f ace, such as a very big nose, we laugh because we realize that this contrast with the other
f eatures should not exist. T hus, f laws, as well as beauty, are an ef f ect of contrasts. Whenever we see
contrasts f or which there is no reason, or perceive that they set of f or highlight another f law, they are the
chief cause of ugliness; and ugliness can, if it comes upon us suddenly, arouse a certain kind of glee in our
soul and make us laugh. If , on the other hand, our soul considers ugliness a misf ortune in the particular
person who is ugly, then pity can be aroused. When the soul looks on ugliness with the idea that it might be
harmf ul and compares it with those objects that customarily move us and arouse our desires, then the soul
looks on it with a f eeling of aversion.

T he same is true of our ideas when they contain a contrast that goes against common sense. When this
contrast is vulgar and easily discovered, it does not please us and constitutes a f law because it causes no
surprise; if on the other hand it is too f arf etched, it does not please us either. Such ideas must be ef f ective
in a work because they belong there, and not because an ef f ort was made to stress them, f or in the latter
case we are only surprised by the author's stupidity.

We f ind the naïve especially pleasing but no style is more dif f icult to master. T his is because it f alls in
between high and low style, and is so close to the latter that one has dif f iculty continually skirting low style
without stumbling.

Musicians realize that the music easiest to sing is the hardest to compose. T his is incontrovertible proof of
the f act that art and the pleasures it arouses lie within def inite limits.

When we see that Corneille's lines are so grandiloquent and Racine's so natural, we would not guess that
Corneille wrote easily and Racine with dif f iculty.

Low style is the sublime of the common people; they love to see something which is made f or them and
which they can understand.

T he ideas that occur to those who have good upbringing and great intelligence can be naïve or noble or
sublime.

It seems noble to us to see an object magnif ied by its context. T his is especially apparent in comparisons,
where the mind must always gain and never lose: comparisons must always add something, render the
object greater to our eyes, or, if it is not a question of greatness, render it f iner and more subtle. Great
care must be taken not to show the soul any comparison that detracts f rom the object, f or even if the soul
had discovered such a comparison, it would have concealed it f rom itself .

Since a comparison is designed to reveal subtleties, the soul pref ers to see one manner compared to
another, or one action to another, rather than to see one object compared to another, such as a hero to a
lion, a woman to a star, and a f leet-f ooted man to a stag.

Michelangelo excels in imparting nobility to all his subjects. In his f amous "Bacchus" he does not proceed
like the Flemish painters who show us a f alling f igure arrested, so to speak, in mid-air. T his would be
unworthy of the majesty of a god. Michelangelo depicts him standing squarely on his f eet, but he is so
successf ul in giving him the cheerf ul appearance of drunkenness, and in showing his pleasure as he
watches the f low of the liquor he is pouring into his cup, that there exists nothing more admirable.

In the "Passion," which hangs in the gallery in Florence, he has painted the Virgin standing and looking at
her crucif ied son without showing any sorrow, pity, regret, or tears. Michelangelo imagines that she already
knows this great mystery and hence has her bear the sight of his death with f ortitude.

Each one of Michelangelo's works is marked by a certain nobility. We f ind greatness even in his preliminary
sketches, as we do in Virgil's unf inished lines.

In the room in Mantua where he represents Jupiter hurling thunderbolts at the giants, Giulio Romano [25]
depicts all the gods as being f rightened. But Juno, who stands next to Jupiter, seems untroubled as she
shows him a giant whom he should strike down. T his gives Jupiter an air of greatness not shared by the
other gods; the closer they are to him, the less af raid they are, and this is quite natural, f or in a battle no
f ear is f elt by those who are close to the one who has the advantage. . . . Here ends the f ragment .

T he glory of Montesquieu rests on works of genius and did not require the publication of these f ragments
he lef t us. Yet they will bear eternal witness to the interest the great men of the nation took in our work;
and the centuries to come will note that Voltaire and Montesquieu too had a share in the Encyclopédie .

We shall conclude this article with some remarks which in our opinion have an essential bearing on the
subject. T hey were read bef ore the Académie f rançaise on March 14, 1757. We were strongly urged to
contribute these remarks, and it would be dif f icult to f ind any other article in the Encyclopédie to which they
would be as pertinent. T his may excuse our taking the liberty of coming f orward af ter two such men as MM.
de Voltaire and de Montesquieu.

Ref lections on the use and abuse of philosophy in matters of taste . T he philosophic spirit, which is
praised so highly by half our nation, while being disparaged by the other, has produced contrary ef f ects in
the sciences and in literature. In the sciences it has placed strict limits on the mania f or explaining
everything, a mania that had arisen f rom the love f or philosophical systems. In literature, the philosophic
spirit has undertaken to analyze the dif f erent kinds of pleasure we enjoy, and to examine everything that is
an object of taste. If the wise timidity of modern physics has f ound its opponents, is it surprising that the
boldness of the new men of letters has met with the same f ate? T his boldness has shocked above all
those among our writers who believe that in matters of taste, as in more serious questions, any opinion
that is new and paradoxical must be condemned merely because it is new. It seems to us, on the contrary,
that in matters of speculation and aesthetic pleasure one cannot give a f ree enough rein to
industriousness, even if it is not always equally successf ul in its ef f orts. Genius produces sublime
creations when it f eels f ree to stray. If we wish to enable reason to guide genius along unknown paths, we
should allow reason the same f reedom to illuminate with its torch all the objects of our pleasure, and to do
so at random and sometimes unsuccessf ully. Truths and sophisms would soon separate of their own
accord, and we would thus be lef t richer or at the least more enlightened.

One of the advantages of applying philosophy to matters of taste is that it cures us of literary
superstition, or even preserves us f rom it. Philosophy justif ies our esteem f or the ancients by f ounding it
on reason, it prevents us f rom worshipping their f aults, it makes us see that several of our good modern
writers are their equals. T hese writers, because they modeled themselves on the ancients, were led by their
modesty to believe, quite illogically, that they were very much inf erior to their masters. But is it not possible
that the metaphysical analysis of f eeling will lead us to seek reasons f or phenomena which have none, will
dull our pleasure by getting us into the habit of discussing coldly what we should f eel ardently, and will
f orge chains f or genius, rendering it slavish and timid? Let us try to reply to these questions.

Good taste is rare, yet it is not a matter of whim. T his truth is recognized equally by those who reduce
taste to f eeling, and by those who want to constrain it to proceed by reasoning. Yet taste does not extend
its domain over all the elements of beauty that can be f ound in a work of art. Some that are striking and
sublime move all men equally. T hese nature produces without ef f ort in all centuries and in every nation; and
consequently all men, all centuries, and all nations are capable of judging them. T here are other elements
that move only sensitive souls and have no ef f ect on others. Such elements of beauty are of a secondary
order, since what is great is pref erable to what is only subtle. Yet it requires the greatest perspicacity to
create these elements and the greatest sensitivity to f eel them. T hey are theref ore more common in
nations where the ref inements of social lif e have perf ected the art of living and of savoring pleasure.
T hese elements of beauty are destined f or a small minority and are, properly speaking, the objects of
taste. Taste might be def ined as

the talent of discriminating in works of art between those elements which should please sensitive souls
and those which should shock them .

Since taste is not based on whim, it rests on incontrovertible principles. What f ollows necessarily is that
any work of art can be judged by the application of these principles. As a matter of f act the source of our
pleasures and of our boredom lies entirely within us. T hus, if we look caref ully, we shall f ind within
ourselves general and invariable rules governing taste, and these will be the touchstones by which we can
test all the creations of talent. T he same philosophic spirit that obliges us, f or lack of suf f icient knowledge,
to check our step at every turn when we study nature and the objects that lie outside ourselves must, on
the contrary, lead us to engage in argument on all matters that are the objects of taste. At the same time
the philosophic spirit knows f ull well that such argument must have a limit. In all subjects we must despair of
ever getting back to the f irst principles, which are hidden f rom us in a cloud. It would be just as illusory a
project to try to f ind the metaphysical cause of our pleasures, as it would be to undertake to explain how
objects act on our senses. Yet it has been possible to reduce the origin of our knowledge to a small
number of sensations, and similarly one can reduce the principles of pleasure in matters of taste to a small
number of incontrovertible observations about the way we experience f eeling. A philosopher will go this f ar,
but at this point he will turn back and be led to explore the consequences of this position.

Precise thinking, which is so rare in any case, is not enough in this analysis. Even a ref ined and sensitive
soul is not adequate. In addition, if we may be allowed to use this expression, one must have all the
f aculties that enter into the make-up of taste. In a poem, f or example, the author must sometimes speak to
the imagination, sometimes to f eeling, sometimes to reason, yet he must always speak to the organ of
hearing; the lines of the poem are a kind of song that the ear judges so relentlessly that reason itself is
sometimes f orced to make slight sacrif ices. A philosopher who lacked the organ of hearing would be a bad
judge of poetry, even if he had all his other f aculties. He would maintain that the pleasure we derive f rom
poetry is a matter of opinion, and that in any work of literature the author should limit himself to reaching
the intelligence and the soul. His specious reasoning would lead the philosopher to ridicule all ef f orts to
arrange words so as to give pleasure to the ear. In the same way a physicist who possessed only the
f eeling of touch would maintain that remote objects cannot act on our organs, and he would prove this by
sophisms to which the only answer would be to restore sight and hearing to him. Our philosopher would
believe that he had not taken anything away f rom the poem if he kept all its expressions but transposed
them in order to destroy its meter. T he f act that the work seems dull and uninspired in its new f orm he
would attribute to a prejudice of which he himself is the unwitting slave. He would not notice that, by
breaking the meter and changing the order of the words, he had destroyed the harmony created by their
original arrangement. What would we say of a musician who, in order to prove that the pleasure produced
by a melody is a matter of opinion, would pervert a very agreeable air by haphazardly transposing its
notes?

T his is not how the true philosopher judges the pleasure that poetry gives us. He ascribes everything
neither to nature nor to convention, and he recognizes that just as music has a universal ef f ect on all
nations, even though the music of one nation does not always sound pleasant to another, so too every
nation appreciates poetic harmony, even though the poetry of each nation dif f ers. By examining this
dif f erence attentively, the philosopher will succeed in determining to what degree habit inf luences the
pleasure we derive f rom poetry and music. He will then also be able to distinguish the genuine increase in
pleasure that we owe to habit f rom illusory pleasures that are due to convention. He will not conf use
pleasure based on habit with purely arbitrary and conventional pleasure; this is a distinction that has
perhaps been too seldom made in dealing with this subject, and yet our daily experience conf irms it. T here
are pleasures that take possession of us f rom the f irst instant; at other times we initially react with
aversion or indif f erence, yet this will later turn into a f eeling of pleasure that is all the more keen because it
could not be experienced until our soul was suf f iciently aroused. How of ten has it not happened that a
musical composition that we disliked at f irst has later delighted us when our ear, through hearing it
repeatedly, had succeeded in discerning all its expressiveness and subtlety? T hus the pleasures we owe to
habit need not be subject to whim, and they may even have had at f irst to overcome prejudice.

In this f ashion a philosophical man of letters grants the ear all its rights. At the same time, however, and it
is this in particular that sets him apart, he does not believe that the need to satisf y the organ dispenses us
f rom the even more important obligation to think. Since he knows that the f irst law of style is to conf orm to
the subject, nothing f ills him with greater disgust than to see commonplaces expressed with af f ectation
and embellished with the meaningless adornment of versif ication. Natural and mediocre prose seems to him
pref erable to poetry in which the excellence of the harmony is not combined with a corresponding
excellence of the content. Precisely because he is appreciative of the beauty of an image, he desires only
images that are new and striking; yet above all he pref ers beautif ul f eelings, especially those which have
the advantage of expressing truths usef ul to mankind in a noble and moving manner.

It is not enough f or a philosopher to possess all the f aculties that enter into taste, he should also not
exercise these f aculties too exclusively on one single object. Malebranche [26] could not read the best
poetry without being bored, although his style shows the signal qualities of a poet, imagination, f eeling,
and harmony. Yet he applied himself too exclusively to the object of reason, or rather of reasoning, and his
imagination created only philosophical hypotheses, while the intensity of f eeling which he possessed
merely led him to take these hypotheses f or truths and to espouse them ardently. T hough his prose is
most harmonious, he f ound no delight in poetic harmony, either because the sensitivity of his ear was in
f act limited to the harmony of prose, or because a natural talent led him to produce harmonious prose
without being aware of it, as if his imagination served him without his knowledge, or as if he were an
instrument that produced music unwittingly.

Faulty judgment in matters of taste should not be attributed solely to some lack of sensibility in the soul or
in a sense organ. T he pleasure we derive f rom a work of art comes or can come f rom several dif f erent
sources. T heref ore philosophical analysis consists in knowing how to distinguish and isolate all of them so
that each can be given its due and so that our pleasure is not attributed to the wrong cause. It is true that
the rules must be drawn f rom those works in each genre that have been successf ul, but they must not be
based on the over-all pleasure such works have given us. T hey must be based on a methodical discussion
that enables us to discern the actual passages which have moved us. We must be able to distinguish them
f rom others that were only intended to serve as background or as a pause, as well as f rom those where
the author has been unintentionally careless. If this method is not f ollowed, the imagination, in the heat of
its enthusiasm f or some passages of high beauty in a work that is otherwise monstrous, will soon close its
eyes to the weaknesses of the work, will transf orm its very f aults into elements of beauty, and will
gradually bring us to that state of cold and dazed enthusiasm where, by dint of admiring everything, we f eel
nothing. T hen we are struck by a kind of paralysis of the mind that renders us unworthy and incapable of
enjoying true beauty. Men will then either set up f alse principles of good taste, which are based on a
conf used and automatic reaction, or, and this is no less dangerous, they will set up as a principle
something that in itself is purely arbitrary. T he domain of art will be constricted and limits will be prescribed
f or our pleasures because men will want them to be of one kind only. Talent will be limited within a narrow
conf ine beyond which transgression will not be allowed.

It must be the task of philosophy to f ree us f rom these bonds, but philosophy cannot be caref ul enough in
the weapons it chooses. T he late M. de la Motte [27] maintained that plays did not need to be written in
verse; to prove this statement, which in itself is quite tenable, he wrote against poetry and thereby only
weakened his case; all he still needed to do was to write against music in order to prove that a tragedy
need not be accompanied by singing. It seems to me that there was a more direct way f or him to attack
such a preconception rather than to combat it with paradoxical arguments: namely, to write the drama of
Inès de Castro in prose. T he subject is so interesting that he could have risked this innovation, and
perhaps he would have given us a new genre. But our great desire to be noticed makes us rebel against
established opinion in theory, while vanity, f earf ul of f ailure, makes us respect it in practice. In contrast to
legislators, who grant themselves dispensation f rom the laws they impose on others, philosophers, in their
works, submit to the same laws they condemn in their pref aces.

T he two causes of error we have mentioned so f ar, lack of sensibility and carelessness in analyzing the
principles of pleasure, will always rekindle the dispute concerning the merits of the ancients: [28] their
partisans, being too enthusiastic, praise the whole too much because of the excellence of the details; their
adversaries, being too critical, do not do justice to the details because of the def ects they observe in the
whole.

T here exists another kind of error against which a philosopher must guard himself even more caref ully,
because he is more likely to succumb to it: this consists in judging the objects of taste according to
principles which are correct in themselves but which have no relevance to these objects. T he f amous line
qu'il mourût , [29] spoken by the elder Horace, is f amiliar to all, and the line that f ollows has been justif iably
criticized; yet popular philosophizing could advance many sophisms with which to def end it. T his second
line, it could be said, is essential to the complete expression of the elder Horace's f eelings: doubtless he
would pref er the death of his son to the dishonoring of his name, but he must desire even more strongly
that his son's valor might save him f rom peril and that, impelled by "an admirable despair," [30] he might
alone stand up against three adversaries. In answer to this argument it might be said, f irst of all, that the
second line expresses the more natural f eeling and should at least have come f irst, while in its present
position it weakens the general ef f ect. Yet anyone can also see that the second line would still be weak and
uninspiring, even if it were put in its true place. Is it not obvious that there is no point to the elder Horace's
expressing the sentiment represented by this line? Everyone can easily imagine that he would rather see his
son the victor than the victim of this contest. T he only sentiment which he must reveal and which is in
keeping with the violent state of his emotions is the heroic courage that makes him pref er his son's death
to shame. T he cold and slow logic of a quiet mind is not the logic of a troubled soul. Such a soul does not
deign to tarry on vulgar f eelings, it implies more than it can express and immediately throws itself into
immoderate sentiments; it resembles the god in Homer who takes three steps and reaches his goal with the
f ourth.

In matters of taste, a partial grasp of philosophy theref ore leads us astray f rom truth, while a better
understanding of philosophy brings us back to it. T hus it is a double insult to literature and to philosophy if
we believe that they can harm each other or be mutually exclusive. T he true domain of philosophy consists
of everything that pertains not only to our manner of thinking but also to our manner of f eeling. If we
relegated philosophy to the heavens and limited it to the order of the universe, that would be as
unreasonable as to restrict poetry to speaking of the gods and of love. How could the true philosophic
spirit be in conf lict with good taste? On the contrary, it is the most f irm support of good taste, since this
spirit consists in going back in all matters to their true principles, and in recognizing that each art has its
own nature, each state of the soul its particular character, and each thing its proper hue; in a word this
spirit consists in respecting the distinctions between dif f erent categories of objects. Anyone who exceeds
the bounds of the philosophic spirit shows that he is not a philosopher.

We might add that there is no danger that discussion and analysis will dull f eeling or cool the ardor of
genius in men who possess these precious gif ts of nature. T he philosopher knows that genius wishes to
be lef t f ree of all constraint at the moment of creation. He knows that it pref ers to f orge ahead without
bridle or rule, to create the monstrous next to the sublime, and to carry both mud and gold irresistibly along
with it. T hus reason gives the creating genius entire f reedom and permits it to exhaust its strength until it is
in need of rest, as is done with those f iery steeds that can be tamed only when tired out. At that point
reason reviews the creations of genius with severity, preserves whatever is an ef f ect of true enthusiasm,
condemns whatever is the work of impulsiveness, and in this way helps the f lowering of a masterpiece. Is
there a writer who has not noticed, unless he is entirely devoid of talent and taste, that in the heat of
creation one part of his mind in a sense stands aside f rom the part that is creating, observes it, gives it
f ree rein, and even marks the passages that will have to be erased?

T he true philosopher proceeds more or less in the same way whether he is criticizing or creating; at f irst he
gives himself over to the keen and lively pleasure of receiving impressions; however, because he is
convinced that true beauty always gains upon examination, he soon retraces his steps, goes back to the
causes of his pleasure, analyzes them, separates the elements which deceived him f rom those which
impressed him deeply, and by means of this analysis puts himself in a position to render a sound judgment
on the entire work.

It seems to me that on the basis of these ref lections one can give a brief answer to a question that has
been f requently argued, namely whether f eeling is pref erable to analysis when it comes to judging a work
that appeals to taste. Our impression is the natural judge in the f irst moment, analysis in the moment that
f ollows. In individuals who possess both a subtle and quick judgment and a clear and precise mind, the
second judge will ordinarily do no more than conf irm the decisions handed down by the f irst. But, it will be
argued, since the two judges will not always agree, would it not be better to accept in all cases the f irst
decision, which is given by f eeling? Is it not an unf ortunate pastime to quibble in this way with one's own
pleasure? In what way will we be obliged to philosophy if it should succeed in lessening this pleasure? We
shall answer regretf ully that such is the misf ortune of the human condition: seldom does the acquisition of
new knowledge not bring us the loss of an illusion, and we almost always become enlightened at the cost
of our pleasures. It may well be that the simplicity of our f orebears was more deeply stirred by the
monstrous plays of our earliest theater than we are today by the f inest of our dramatic compositions.
Nations less enlightened than ours are no less happy, because having f ewer desires they have f ewer
needs and are content with coarse and unref ined pleasures. Nevertheless we would not wish to exchange
the light of our knowledge f or the ignorance of these nations or of our f orebears. Enlightenment can
lessen our enjoyment of pleasure, but at the same time it f latters our vanity—we congratulate ourselves on
having become hard to please, and we believe that this has conf erred a kind of merit on us. Vanity is our
most cherished f eeling, it is the one in which we are most anxious to indulge. T he pleasure it brings us is
not, like so many others, the ef f ect of a sudden and violent impression, but it is more continuous, steadier
and longer lasting, and it can be sipped more slowly.

It seems that these f ew ref lections ought to be suf f icient to justif y the philosophic spirit against the
criticism to which it is usually subjected because of ignorance and envy. Let us remark in conclusion that
such criticism, should it prove well f ounded, ought perhaps to come rightf ully only f rom the mouths of true
philosophers and carry weight only when they utter it: they alone should have the duty to determine the use
and the limits of the philosophic spirit, just as only the writers whose writings are f ull of wit have the right
to protest against the abuse of wit. Unf ortunately the opposite has happened: among us those who are
the most def icient in philosophic spirit and who know the least about it are its most ardent detractors, just
as poetry is disparaged by those who have no talent f or it, the noble sciences by those who are ignorant
of their f irst principles, and our age by those writers who bring it the least renown.

1. [David Hume, "Of the Standard of Taste," f irst published 1757. See

T he Philosophical Works of David Hume (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1854), III, 265.]

2. [Montesquieu, Correspondance (Paris, 1914), II, 492.]

3. [See "Philosopher" (pp. 283f f .) f or another discussion of the philosophe .]

4. [ Goût (Physiologie) , i.e., "Taste (Physiological)" by Jaucourt; not present in these selections.]

5. ["What should he alone have done against three? He should have died, or drawn new strength f rom an
admirable despair." Corneille, Horace , Act III, Scene VI. In these f amous lines the elder Horace gives way to
his indignation when he hears that his one surviving son is f leeing f rom the three Curiatii.]

6. [ La belle nature is the eighteenth century term f or ideal nature. Jaucourt def ined it in the article Nature,
Belle as "nature that is beautif ied and perf ected by the f ine arts f or our use and pleasure." It f ound its
highest f orm in classical art, and theref ore imitation of the ancients is the surest way f or the artist to
f ollow la belle nature .]

7. [I.e., "good taste" f ollows the principles of French classicism. Charles Lebrun (1619–1690), Nicolas
Poussin (1594–1665), and Jean-François le Sueur (1617–1655) were three of the f oremost French painters
of the seventeenth century, while Philippe Quinault (1635–1688) was a dramatist and writer of librettos,
Jean-Baptiste Lulli (1632–1687), although of Italian origin, the creator of the French opera, and Jean-
Philippe Rameau (1683–1764) the f oremost French composer of instrumental music of his time.]

8. [Caius Lucilius (149–103 B.C.), Horace (65–8 B.C.), Mathurin Régnier (1573–1613), and Nicolas Boileau-
Despréaux (1636–1711) were all satiric poets.]

9. [A rather surprising statement to come f rom one of the chief eighteenth-century admirers of China. See
Basil Guy,
T he French Image of China Bef ore and Af ter Voltaire , "Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century," Vol.
XXI (Geneva, 1963), especially Chap. V, "Voltaire, Sinophile."]

10. [André le Nôtre (1613–1700) designed the gardens of Versailles.]

11. [Florus (Lucius Annaeus, or Julius, or Publius Annius) was a Roman writer who lived f rom the late f irst to
the early second century A.D. He was the author of an abridged history of Rome,

Epitomae de Tito Livio Bellorum Omnium Annorum DCC Libri II , which was a popular schoolbook f rom the
Middle Ages to the eighteenth century. T he passage quoted is I. 22. 21.]

12. [ Ibid ., I. 23. 11.]

13. [ Ibid ., I. 22. 11.]

14. [ Ibid ., I. 24. 5.]

15. [Montesquieu's interest in the Gothic style extended beyond these cursory remarks. His papers contain
f ragments of a projected essay, De la manière gothique (Montesquieu, Oeuvres complètes , "Bibliothèque
de la Pléiade," [Paris: Gallimard, 1950] I, 966–972), apparently inspired by what he had seen on his travels, in
which he def ines Gothic as "the style characteristic of the beginning of art or of its concluding phase" (p.
966). His comments in "Taste" are typical of the appreciation of Gothic in eighteenth-century France, as a
style in which the beauty of the basic design is destroyed by excessive and incongruous ornamentation.
See: Wolf gang Herrmann,

Laugier and Eighteenth-Century French T heory (London: A. Z wemmer, 1962), especially Chaps. V, "Gothic
through Classical Eyes," and VI, "Embellished Gothic."]

16. [Jaucourt makes similar observations in "Symmetry" ( Symmetrie ), where he writes: "Symmetry is the
basis of architectural beauty, but it destroys the beauty of almost all the other arts. . . . Nothing is more
contrary to striking impressions, to variety, to surprise than symmetry: as soon as you see one part,
symmetry f oretells all the others and seems to excuse you f rom looking at them."]

17. [Suetonius (69– ca . 140), Lives of the Caesars VI. 40. 1. Montesquieu is apparently quoting f rom
memory; Suetonius does not use monstrum but writes:

Talem principem paulo minus quattuordecim annos perpessus orbis tandem destituit .]

18. [I.e., castrati .]

19. [Literally, the "I don't know what"; the expression was a key term in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
criticism.]

20. [Veronese (1528–1588), Raphael (1483–1520), and Correggio (1489–1534) were Italian Renaissance
painters with whose works Montesquieu had become f amiliar during his travels in Italy in 1728.]

21. [Roman poet (39–65), author of the Pharsalia , the most important Latin epic poem af ter Virgil's Aeneid
.]

22. [T he French is romanesque . T he expression romantique only entered the language in the later
eighteenth century.]

23. [

Epitomae de Tito Livio Bellorum Omnium Annorum DCC ; Montesquieu quotes here f rom I. 5. Algidus is a
region in the Alban Hills near Rome, conquered in 431 B.C., while Sora, Satricum, Corniculum, Bovillae, and
Verulae were small towns in Latium, within a f ew miles of Rome. Tibur is the modern Tivoli, Praeneste is
today called Palestrina.]
24. [ Ibid. , I. 11.]

25. [Giulio Romano (1499–1546), principal disciple of Raphael; Montesquieu is here ref erring to the Sala dei
Giganti in the Palazzo del Te.]

26. [Malebranche, De la Recherche de la Vérité . T he passage is on "Imagination" and is chapter 6 of the

third section, which deals with the contagiousness of strong imaginations. Nicolas de Malebranche (1638–
1715) was a French theologian and philosopher inf luenced by Cartestian philosophy.]

27. [Antoine Houdar de la Motte (1672–1731), French critic and dramatist. In his critical writings he
advocated a new f orm of tragedy that would dispense with the classical conventions, in particular, the three
unities and versif ication. But in his plays, of which Inès de Castro is the best known, he continued the
classical tradition with only minor innovations.]

28. [

La querelle des anciens et des modernes , which divided the French literary world in the late seventeenth
century and again around 1715. It was a dispute between the "ancients" who continued to uphold the
literature of classical antiquity as the supreme standard of artistic excellence, and the "moderns," who
maintained that the age of Louis XIV had equaled, if not surpassed, classical antiquity.]

29. [Cf . note 5 above.]

30. [Cf . note 5 above.]