SLEEP OF REASON By Dehlia Hannah

Philosophers and scientists have long depended upon an array of imaginary creatures, places and things to stage arguments and thought experiments, exemplify points, and serve as counter- examples. Over the history of philosophy, such examples have taken on lives of their own within what Michelle Le Doeff calls the “philosophical imaginary”(1989). Philosophical problems are often discussed using shorthand references to evil demons, grue emeralds, invisible hands, bats, cats and brains-in-vats; caves, imaginary islands, twin earth and other fictive worlds; color blind scientists, noble savages, trolley cars, spandrels… just to name a few of the endless array of hypothetical persons and literary characters that stand in for complex analyses. Pervading ancient and modern, continental and analytic philosophy alike (La Caze, 2002), these figures populate our imaginary geographies and structure what we take to be real, to be possible, and to be ethically and aesthetically virtuous.

I refer to this motley crew as philosophical monsters, an inclusive term that spans the sciences, literature and the arts. In some cases, they are actually monsters in the familiar sense—fearsome beings lurking at the edge of imagination, the stuff of horror stories or nightmares— as suggested by Francisco Goya’s 1799 etching, The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (Los Capricios, 43). Yet the premise of this project is that reason also produces monsters when waking. Far more than

We might realize, philosophical monsters walk among us, collecting our thoughts, captivating our imaginations, and serving as memory devices. We think through them, or perhaps they think through us. And sometimes, they play amongst themselves, breeding conceptual chimeras and mixed metaphors, fueling both artistic and scientific creativity. Philosophical monsters sometimes embody norms, but they just as often violate them.

Philosophers and scientists have long depended upon an array of imaginary creatures, places and things to stage arguments and thought experiments, exemplify points, and serve as counter- examples. Over the history of philosophy, such examples have taken on lives of their own within what Michelle Le Doeff calls the “philosophical imaginary”(1989). Philosophical problems are often discussed using shorthand references to evil demons, grue emeralds, invisible hands, bats, cats and brains-in-vats; caves, imaginary islands, twin earth and other fictive worlds; color blind scientists, noble savages, trolley cars, spandrels… just to name a few of the endless array of hypothetical persons and literary characters that stand in for complex analyses. Pervading ancient and modern, continental and analytic philosophy alike (La Caze, 2002), these figures populate our imaginary geographies and structure what we take to be real, to be possible, and to be ethically and aesthetically virtuous. I refer to this motley crew as philosophical monsters, an inclusive term that spans the sciences, literature and the arts. In some cases, they are actually monsters in the familiar sense—fearsome beings lurking at the edge of imagination, the stuff of horror stories or nightmares— as suggested by Francisco Goya’s 1799 etching, The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (Los Capricios, 43). Yet the premise of this project is that reason also produces monsters when waking. Far more than We might realize, philosophical monsters walk among us, collecting our thoughts, captivating our imaginations, and serving as memory devices. We think through them, or perhaps they think through us. And sometimes, they play amongst themselves, breeding conceptual chimeras and mixed metaphors, fueling both artistic and scientific creativity. Philosophical monsters sometimes embody norms, but they just as often violate them. “… The Urpflanze [or Primal Plant] is going to be the strangest creature in the world, which Nature herself shall envy me. With this model and the key to it, it will be possible to go on forever inventing plants and know that their existence is logical; that is to say, if they do not actually exist, they could, for they are not the shadow phantoms of vain imagination, but possess an inner necessity and truth.” -J.W. von Goethe, Italian Journey (1787)

Philosophers and scientists have long depended upon an array of imaginary creatures, places and things to stage arguments and thought experiments, exemplify points, and serve as counter- examples. Over the history of philosophy, such examples have taken on lives of their own within what Michelle Le Doeff calls the “philosophical imaginary”(1989). Philosophical problems are often discussed using shorthand references to evil demons, grue emeralds, invisible hands, bats, cats and brains-in-vats; caves, imaginary islands, twin earth and other fictive worlds; color blind scientists, noble savages, trolley cars, spandrels… just to name a few of the endless array of hypothetical persons and literary characters that stand in for complex analyses. Pervading ancient and modern, continental and analytic philosophy alike (La Caze, 2002), these figures populate our imaginary geographies and structure what we take to be real, to be possible, and to be ethically and aesthetically virtuous.

I refer to this motley crew as philosophical monsters, an inclusive term that spans the sciences, literature and the arts. In some cases, they are actually monsters in the familiar sense—fearsome beings lurking at the edge of imagination, the stuff of horror stories or nightmares— as suggested by Francisco Goya’s 1799 etching, The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (Los Capricios, 43). Yet the premise of this project is that reason also produces monsters when waking. Far more than

We might realize, philosophical monsters walk among us, collecting our thoughts, captivating our imaginations, and serving as memory devices. We think through them, or perhaps they think through us. And sometimes, they play amongst themselves, breeding conceptual chimeras and mixed metaphors, fueling both artistic and scientific creativity. Philosophical monsters sometimes embody norms, but they just as often violate them.