vapour, a breath, nor anything at all which I can imagine or
conceive; because I have assumed that all these were nothing.
Without changing that supposition I find that I only leave
myself certain of the fact that I am somewhat.  But perhaps it
is true that these same things which I supposed were non-
existent because they are unknown to me, are really not
different from the self which I know.  I am not sure about
this, I shall not dispute about it now; I can only give
judgment on things that are known to me.  I know that I exist,
and I inquire what I am, I whom I know to exist.  But it is
very certain that the knowledge of my existence taken in its
precise significance does not depend on things whose existence
is not yet known to me; consequently it does not depend on
those which I can feign in imagination.  And indeed the very
term feign in imagination10 proves to me my error, for I
really do this if I image myself a something, since to imagine
is nothing else than to contemplate the figure or image of a
corporeal thing.  But I already know for certain that I am,
and that it may be that all these images, and, speaking
generally, all things that relate to the nature of body are
nothing but dreams [and chimeras].  For this reason I see
clearly that I have as little reason to say, "I shall
stimulate my imagination in order to know more distinctly what
I am," than if I were to say, "I am now awake, and I perceive
somewhat that is real and true:  but because I do not yet
perceive it distinctly enough, I shall go to sleep of express
purpose, so that my dreams may represent the perception with
greatest truth and evidence."  And, thus, I know for certain
that nothing of all that I can understand by means of my
imagination belongs to this knowledge which I have of myself,
and that it is necessary to recall the mind from this mode of
thought with the utmost diligence in order that it may be able
to know its own nature with perfect distinctness.

     But what then am I?  A thing which thinks.  What is a
thing which thinks?  It is a thing which doubts, understands,
[conceives], affirms, denies, wills, refuses, which also
imagines and feels.

     Certainly it is no small matter if all these things
pertain to my nature.  But why should they not so pertain?  Am
I not that being who now doubts nearly everything, who
nevertheless understands certain things, who affirms that one
only is true, who denies all the others, who desires to know
more, is averse from being deceived, who imagines many things,
sometimes indeed despite his will, and who perceives many
likewise, as by the intervention of the bodily organs?  Is
there nothing in all this which is as true as it is certain
that I exist, even though I should always sleep and though  he
who has given me being employed all his ingenuity in deceiving
me?  Is there likewise any one of these attributes which can
be distinguished from my thought, or which might be said to be
separated from myself?  For it is so evident of itself that it
is I who doubts, who understands, and who desires, that there
is no reason here to add anything to explain it.  And I have
certainly the power of imagining likewise; for although it may
happen (as I formerly supposed) that none of the things which
I imagine are true, nevertheless this power of imagining does
not cease to be really in use, and it forms part of my
thought.  Finally, I am the same who feels, that is to say,
who perceives certain things, as by the organs of sense, since
it truth I see light, I hear noise, I feel heat.  But it will
be said that these phenomena are false and that I am dreaming.
Let it be so; still it is at least quite certain that it seems
to me that I see light, that I hear noise and that I feel
heat.  That cannot be false; properly speaking it is what is
in me called feeling;11 and used in this precise sense that is
no other thing than thinking.

     From this time I begin to know what I am with a little
more clearness and distinction than before; but nevertheless
it still seems to me, and I cannot prevent myself from
thinking, that corporeal things, whose images are framed by
thought, which are tested by the senses, are much more
distinctly known than that obscure part of me which does not
come under the imagination.  Although really it is very
strange to say that I know and understand more distinctly
these things whose existence seems to me dubious, which are
unknown to me, and which do not belong to me, than others of
the truth of which I am convinced, which are known to me and
which pertain to my real nature, in a word, than myself.  But
I see clearly how the case stands:  my mind loves to wander,
and cannot yet suffer itself to be retained within the just
limits of truth.  Very good, let us once more give it the
freest rein, so that, when afterwards we seize the proper
occasion for pulling up, it may the more easily be regulated
and controlled.

     Let us begin by considering the commonest matters, those
which we believe to be the most distinctly comprehended, to
wit, the bodies which we touch and see; not indeed bodies in
general, for these general ideas are usually a little more
confused, but let us consider one body in particular.  Let us
take, for example, this piece of wax:  it has been taken quite
freshly from the hive, and it has not yet lost the sweetness
of the honey which it contains; it still retains somewhat of
the odour of the flowers from which it has been culled; its
colour, its figure, its size are apparent; it is hard, cold,
easily handled, and if you strike it with the finger, it will
emit a sound.  Finally all the things which are requisite to