Dendrite’s second premise was a little more challenging:
“A being that exists as an idea in the understanding and in reality, is necessarily greater than a being that exists as an idea in the understanding only. For instance, imagine the idea of an ice cream cone, just the idea of an ice cream cone, in your mind. Now imagine the idea of the ice cream cone in your mind, and in your hand as well, at the same time. Which is greater? The idea of the ice cream cone in the mind alone—or the idea of it in your mind combined with the actual item in your hand, and then in your stomach as well?”
The majority of the class conceded that, indeed, it was greater to have the ice cream cone both in the mind as an idea, and in their hand as a reality. Dendrite went on:
“Thus, if what we have agreed to in these two premises is true: that the being that exists as an idea in the understanding and in reality is greater than a being that exists only as an idea in the understanding, then the being than which there can be no greater cannot exist only as an idea in the understanding, for then we could obviously imagine a being that is greater than the being which there can be no greater. But, by definition we cannot conceive of a being greater than the being than which there can be no greater—for it is a contradiction to suppose that we can imagine a being greater than the greatest possible being. Therefore, this greatest possible being must necessarily exist.”
At the end of this brilliant recitation of a somewhat perplexing piece of reasoning, half of the class remained silent and understandably vexed. The other half appeared to at least get the logical “feel” of what was being presented—if not convinced of the truth of the conclusion. To Ian it was somewhat convincing, in that the argument seemed to have the uncanny ability to slip through the logical fingertips of the interlocutor when presented in this conversational form. It really only asks you to assent to the two initial premises:
1. That she is capable of understanding the idea of “the being than which there can be no greater,” i.e. the greatest possible being. It is not asked that the reader/listener imagine what this being would be like, or what it would be like to be this being, or even to believe that this being must or even could exist (in this initial premise)—only that she is able to clearly grasp the idea of the being than which there can be no greater. The majority of readers will readily assent to this premise. In the words of Anselm:
Hence, even the fool is convinced that something exists in the understanding, at least, than which nothing greater can be conceived. For, when he hears of this, he understands it. And whatever is understood exists in the understanding.¹
2. That a being that exists both in the understanding, conceptually, and outside of the understanding in “reality” (both as a mind-dependent and mind-independent substance) is necessarily greater than a being that exists only conceptually in the understanding. This premise is usually accepted by the majority of readers as well, although it may often require further explanation than is presented in the original argument:
And assuredly that than which nothing greater can be conceived, cannot exist in the understanding alone. For, suppose it exists in the understanding alone: then it can be conceived to exist in reality; which is greater.²
Once these two premises have been accepted by the reader, she has only to attend to the contradiction produced by attempting to deny the existence of the being than which there can be no greater (known as a reductio ad absurdum, i.e. an argument which concludes in a contradiction). If the reader is able to clearly conceptualize the idea of a being than which there can be no greater, and admit that this being would be even greater if it existed outside of the mind as a real being, as well as in the mind as an idea, then they have only to attend to the logical contradiction produced by the denial of this being’s existence outside of the mind. If the being does not in fact exist outside of the mind as well as within it (if the being is not realized, but remains only conceptual), then the two premises become incompatible; the greatest possible being cannot be the greatest possible being if there is an even greater possible being.
Ian had first encountered the argument about three years earlier, in his private studies. He was mystified, as many others had been before him, by the arrogance of the conclusion that one can prove the existence of an infinite substance by merely forming the concept of it in their mind. There was something fallacious about it in either a formal or informal sense, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. The most obvious problem, to Ian’s mind, was that between the first and second premise the argument appears to switch from a proposition about the idea or concept of a being to a proposition about an actual being, i.e. from proving that an idea exists, to proving than an actual being exists. And on this basis it may be concluded that, rather than proving that God exists as an actual being, the argument proves only that the idea of God exists. But it must then be admitted that the argument proves that the idea of God exists inside and outside of the mind as well—and what would it be like for an idea to exist outside of the mind? Is there such a thing even possible? A mind-independent idea? Ideas are by definition mind-dependent, and therefore any claims that the ontological argument only proves the existence of an idea, yet one that exists outside of the mind, is a manifest contradiction.
Also, there is the famous objection presented by the 11th century monk Gaunilo. Gaunilo claimed that the logic used in the ontological argument could be applied to an idea of anything at all—that is, the perfect idea of anything. Being a contemporary of Anselm, Gaunilo was able to respond directly to his argument, proposing that Anselm swap the idea of the greatest possible being for the idea of the greatest possible island, and on that basis prove by the same argument that the island than which there could be no greater must necessarily exist. Gaunilo’s island than which there can be no greater is described as “the island which is more abundant with riches and delights than any other possible island.” This argument fascinated Ian just as much as the original, and Anslem had a chance to respond to it: his reply was that sheer quantity of “riches and delights” (or of any other thing) can always be exceeded. This is premised on Aristotle’s denial of the possibility of a true infinite, i.e. it is impossible to count upward to an actual infinite number. When dealing with quantities there can always be one greater—therefore infinity is purely conceptual, never actual. So the greatest possible island, when characterized as greatest on the basis of its unsurpassable abundance of riches, could always be greater in actuality, and therefore remains purely conceptual, and never actual. This resonated with Ian, being a devotee of Aristotle, but it also seemed that all Gaunilo would have had to do was to swap the island’s criterion for greatness from sheer abundance to beauty or tranquility, or a less quantifiable, more qualitative property.
As these thoughts flooded Ian’s mind (for minutes at a time, broken up by attending to the lecture) Dr. Dendrite fielded objections to Anselm’s argument for the better part of an hour. Several students had broken their slumbers and reacted, as they invariably will to the ontological arguments, with great passion and fervor. One student argued that a concept simply can’t prove the existence of something, i.e. that Gaunilo’s objection stands up against the argument, even in its quantitative form. Another argued that a “greatest possible thing” is necessarily finite and bounded, in that its “that which there can be no greater” status is able to distinguish it from other sorts of things—and is therefore disqualified as a theistic deity (for the theistic deity, by definition, possesses infinite being). But Dendrite disarmed them at all turns—he seemed, like many tenured professors, to have “canned” responses to all possible attacks (and these were not the most ferocious of attacks by any means).
Ian was not planning to weigh in on the subject—not today. Dendrite was on fire, and he could think of nothing that would stand against his counterarguments. Even Kant’s famous objection that existence is never a predicate or quality of an idea (and therefore adds nothing to its concept) seemed less than rival to the
power of Dendrite’s rejoinders. But then it hit him. It hit him hard. What if the positive character of the argument was reversed? What if the same logic demonstrated in the ontological argument was used not to prove the existence of the greatest possible being, but the worst possible being? Would the argument not possess the same strength in the negative? In fact, would it not be even more convincing in the negative? The more Ian thought about it (running it through his mind at lightning speed for what was probably no more than twenty seconds) the more he was convinced of it. It was practically apodictic (“apodictic” being one of those fancy philosophical words associated with Immanuel Kant, meaning: “necessarily conceived as true upon clear conception in the mind”), and more so than in the positive!
Ian was exalted, and simultaneously terrified. He stared down at his desk. Then at his note pad, his pen, the cover of Anselm’s Prosologium. Then he made his move. Without raising his hand he inquired sharply: “What if we can imagine the idea of the being than which there can be no more terrible?”
Dendrite looked up from the brooding plod of his wide-stepped pace, squinting through bifocals in Ian’s direction. “I mean,” continued Ian, “if we are able to clearly understand the idea of the being than which there can be no more horrible, and grasp it conceptually in our mind—and assent to the fact that that being would be more horrible if it existed both in the mind conceptually as well as outside the mind in reality—then does it not follow that that being must exist in reality?”
The class continued to stare at Ian. Dendrite’s expression further intensified—his stare moved to the floor, to the table on which his text laid. It struck Ian for the first time that Dendrite was truly convinced by the logic of the ontological argument—the intensity with which he pondered this new negative version only testified to the fact that he took the logical force of the reductio ad absurdum very seriously.
“In fact,” Ian explained further, “one of the common objections to the original argument denies that the idea of a being existing in the understanding alone is necessarily a lesser being than one existing in reality. But a being than which there can be no more horrible, or terrible, would definitely be more terrible if it existed in reality. I can clearly comprehend the idea of the worst possible being: the most terrifying, evil, disgusting, contemptible being possible. It is clear to me what these words mean, and although I do not wish to come up with an image to accompany them, the concept of this being is clearly apprehended by the mind. Now surely if the idea I have of this being were realized there is no question that it would be much, much more terrible than it is as a mere idea inside my mind—in fact it seems even more certain that it would be all the more terrible if it were realized than the greatness of the greatest possible being would be if it were realized—and therefore all the more convincing that this being must exist in reality.”
It was true that the argument seemed much more convincing in the negative. It was hard to put one’s finger on exactly why, but it was clear to Ian that Dendrite was now convinced of this disturbing addendum to the ontological argument. The fact that this being could, and in fact must (by the logic of the ontological argument) exist in reality, was a much more powerful realization for some strange reason than the realization of the existence of the greatest possible being. And it was the fact that the certainty of the sharp increase in the manifest terribleness of this being if it were to exist in reality, rather than in the mind alone that was responsible for the certainty that it must exist. The realization that one must assent to this being’s necessary existence—not the worst being in existence, but the worst possible being—the most terrible being that could exist in any possible world, or accept the logical contradiction which arises from its denial, appeared to be more than Dendrite’s superior yet delicate sensibilities could suffer.
Professors often shudder and stir at the well placed jabs of their brighter students, but subsequently regain their composure, rejoining with a zinger of their own, or more often “bloviating” their way around the objection with grand postures and big words. Dendrite did neither. He was clearly vexed by Ian’s argument, and just as clearly convinced of its logical efficacy. His pacing resumed silently. Clearly he was disturbed, put off—completely broadsided by this bizarre yet highly convincing argument. He shook his head. He stirred and took his glasses off, wiping them with his breast-pocket handkerchief which he then applied to his moistened brow. In a highly transparent attempt to laugh it all off, he exclaimed: “Well, that’s really quite an interesting point, of course, I do see your point… It is rather… ummm… interesting. You have created quite a conundrum. In fact… my God…” he exclaimed, now drenched in sweat and making little effort to compose himself. “You seem to have stumbled upon something quite, well… quite… I’m at a bit of a loss to…” Dendrite chuckled nervously, this time under his breath. “I’ll have to think… I… aaugh… I’ll have to get back to you… that will be all for today—”
Dendrite abruptly left the room. The students looked at each other, and then at Ian, who began to laugh nervously. He had a desperate urge to discuss the argument further with Dendrite. It was not going to leave his mind. He was not entirely convinced of it, of course—he was never entirely convinced by the original ontological argument—but there was one thing he was sure of: Dendrite was convinced—clearly convinced of the necessary existence of the being than which there can be no more terrible. He had obviously been much more convinced by Anselm’s ontological argument than Ian had previously realized, and, on that basis, was even more convinced by this new version. He could only imagine that Dendrite was now staring at the walls of his office, trying desperately to un-convince himself of the sheer logical necessity of the existence of this horrible being, and perhaps just as desperately to rid his mind of accompanying images.
Ian left the classroom no less abruptly than Dr. Dendrite had moments before. Dendrite’s office was in the same building, two floors up. Ian took the stairs—thoughts of violence and terror racing through his mind as he climbed. When he got to Dendrite’s door it was hanging open. The first thing he noticed was a swift draft blowing into the hallway. Upon entering he saw no sign of Dendrite, but then noticed broken glass all over the desk, spilling onto the floor. The large window facing the street was shattered. Something large had obviously been hurled through it. Ian retreated to the door and shut it, falling back against it in a doomed attempt to deny what he was surely about to confirm. Slowly he stepped towards the window and stuck his head through the shattered pane, only to confirm his greatest fear. Dendrite’s tweeds were ruffled for the last time, around his twisted, motionless body on the sidewalk four stories below. The fear was too much—the reality of this most horrible being was incontestable. Only a fool would attempt to deny it.
* * *
Sources:
¹ St. Anselm, Proslogium; Monologium; an Appendix in Behalf of the Fool by Gaunilon; and Cur Deus Homo, Translated From the Latin by Sidney Norton Deane, B. A. With an Introduction, Bibliography, and Reprints of the Opinions of Leading Philosophers and Writers on the Ontological Argument (Chicago, The Open Court Publishing Company, 1903, reprinted 1926)
² ibid.
Author’s notes:
My first attempt at philosophical fiction was made at the age of 19, when I composed the tedious story of a graduate philosophy student who drives himself insane, entitled A Rhetorical Apocalypse. It surely did justice to its namesake—though a more pithy title such as A Literary Disaster might have been more appropriate. I printed up a few copies with a little paper cover and submitted it for review to the Fact Sheet Five, in which it received a moderately pleasant review. Several people (among them at least one incarcerated individual) actually ordered copies and wrote me letters in response commenting on the story and its philosophical/horrific content. Hopefully this current effort is, if not better, at least slightly more mature, readable, entertaining, etc. I composed it (after having driven myself insane as a graduate student, and becomin
g a philosophy teacher myself) mostly as a teaching tool for my Philosophy of Religion students, as supplementary reading to St. Anselm of Canterbury’s Twelfth Century Ontological Argument. The obvious Lovecraftian flavor of the story is simply there to make it more fun to read (and write). I don’t think I could ever publish standard academic philosophy papers—for lack of interest and perhaps talent, so this is as close as it gets.
Mystery Believer
By Scott Waldrop
“Ghosts are real. They’re here. I’ve seen them.” The utterly random and bizarre assertion issued forth from an unfamiliar voice punctuating the still night air and permeating the group’s collective energy with adrenal trepidation. The bellowing halted a marathon of tall-tale-telling, one non-believer regaling the next with preposterous fancies toned with sardonic mockery. The night-cutting utterance was followed by an even more commanding and darker inflected truth: “Your mysteries are my mundane.” The voice was rustic, generally obtuse and blunt in timbre yet possessed of a puzzlingly singularly articulate nature. The flames’ frenetic illumination contorted the shadows upon his already hideous visage, shape-shifting it to and fro to create a cinematic gallery of grotesque masks, much to the pointedly nauseating terror of his hostages. They collectively gasped aloud as the stranger materialized from the edge of the wild. From the spaces where black and orange shadows contort and contrast his form filled out—out of the real country darkness. Down from true north he came. He was thin-skinned and albeit he gazed at them through milky cataract eyes, he seemed to stare straight and true to his target as he tallied each onlooker from garb to soul. From his entire body hung unusually long hair tangled with gory bones. The matted rot which precariously dangled from him was pasted with upchuck and reeked of wet dog. No doubt he was a transient who had traipsed downward from The Mildew Mountains and was all too happy to chance upon a group whom he could impose his incoherence upon. Inasmuch as they were appalled by the gray grizzled mongoloid, they were taken by his silver tongue. In his clutch, transfixed by the crazed man’s command over them, the fireside captives were all but the arrested prostrate recipients of his eldritch knowledge. The forest revelers now a sable throng, dripping sweat and tear, were statues in ice and a variable cromlech weathering against an ever-intensifying hellpyre fueled by the incantations belching forth from the blathering stranger’s fetid tongue. To intervene with his spell would be precipitous and result in blunder though his prisoners knew not why. It was a truth told to them in their mind’s eye. His power compelled them to listen to his tale.
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