Preliminary Remarks
If one were seeking to select one text from our Liberal
Studies Great Books curriculum which first ushers in the modern age, one
would have to consider Descartes' Discourse on Method, published in
1637, as a uniquely qualified selection. For in this relatively short
work Descartes announces an agenda which marks a dramatic and decisive break
with past traditions, lays down a project which became (and remains) the
central concern of modern Western civilization, and, in the process, sets on
the table the most important modern metaphor shaping our attempts to
understand nature and ourselves. It's no accident that Rene Descartes
has so often been hailed as the first and greatest modern thinker.
One should stress at the the outset that, like all great
revolutionary writers, Descartes is drawing extensively on the work of his
contemporaries, particularly on Galileo (1564-1642), Harvey (1578-1657), and
Bacon (1561-1626). But, unlike these well-known natural philosophers,
Descartes is both a practising scientist and a first-rate philosopher.
He is aware that whatever he has to offer by way of new explanations for natural
phenomena must not merely make sense in itself and satisfy experimental
testing but also must rest on a coherent method arising from a
theory of how the human mind knows, from a theory of knowledge. That is, the new approach to
natural science requires a rational justification. This philosophical
basis of his scientific writing and the corollaries which arise from it give
Descartes' text an enormous importance, over and above any new discoveries
or theories he announces.
In this lecture I would like to review some of the more
obvious ways in which Descartes' description and justification of his method
do indeed mark a revolutionary moment in how we have come to understand what
knowledge is and how we acquire and evaluate it. Most of these points
are obvious enough from Descartes' text, but, as his heirs who have been
raised to believe in his program, we may not fully
grasp just how decisive a turn he is inviting his contemporaries to take.
But first an important caveat.
It's really important
to understand that in the early 17th century there was no clear sense of
what the "new" science (or natural philosophy) should or could
be. There was not then, as there is now, a general consensus about
anything one might call a scientific method or any agreed-upon way to
evaluate claims made on the basis of experiments or bold new
mathematically-based hypotheses. Thus, while there was certainly a
sense of revolutionary change in the air and a growing interest in new ways
of looking at natural phenomena, especially with the aid of new
machines (telescopes, air pumps, and later microscopes), natural scientists
were still in the process of trying to establish and agree about just what
their activities involved. (For a quick overview of the social and
intellectual background to the period, see
Science
and Society in Europe, 1660 to 1859).
Descartes' Tone
Before reviewing some of the major points Descartes makes,
we might first notice the tone of the book, a particularly interesting
feature of the argument. Unlike Galileo's frequently satirical voice
or Bacon's polemical prose, Descartes strives from the start to reassure us—he is
offering, not a blueprint we should all follow, but merely his own personal
story, he has no desire for fame nor any radical agenda, especially in any
matters which affect his firm religious faith, he's not challenging any
important social customs or political arrangements, he's not even sure he
wants to write this book, and so on. There is a deliberate sense here
of a self-effacing, modest, unambitious, calm, reasonable, and co-operative
personality, something very much at odds with the bold and challenging ideas
he is setting out in rapid succession.
Of course, this is something of a rhetorical ploy. But
we should not therefore dismiss it out of hand as a hypocritical Trojan
Horse strategy intended merely to deceive suspicious authorities. For
there is no reason to suppose that Descartes is not being perfectly sincere
when he affirms his Christian faith or informs us of his intense distaste
for personal or political squabbling or proposes a radical scientific
hypothesis as a thought experiment rather than the truth of things.
Naturally, with the example of Galileo to ponder (as he reminds us),
Descartes is well aware of one possible response to what he is proposing,
but that does not entitle us to claim (as students sometimes seem fond of
doing) that his candour is simply a sham.
In one respect, Descartes' very calm personal tone plays an
important part in the argument, of course, since (as we shall see) one of the most
distinctive features of what he is proposing is that his method is (he says)
something anyone can practise. The book may be his own personal story,
but there's an obvious invitation here for others who find what he says
agreeable to follow his lead. His decision to write the Discourse in
French rather than in Latin (the language of the scholars) seems clearly a
part of his intention to reassure people about what he is doing and to
encourage them to agree with him (and to assist his work).
The Break with Tradition
In some ways, the most devastating aspect of
Descartes'
argument comes right at the start in the friendly low-key account he provides of his
own education. For he makes it clear early on that he is radically
dissatisfied with the excellent but conventional education he has received,
because it has not answered his desire for truth. He has experienced a
thorough immersion in the received wisdom of the ages and the accepted ways of
understanding literature, nature, and philosophy, but he wants something
none of those disciplines apparently can offer, an assurance of certainty. At
the core of his project lies his demand for knowledge which is not subject
to disputes or probabilities. Hence, his polite but firm rejection of
everything he has been taught.
In making this demand, Descartes is taking issue with the
opinions of most of his contemporaries. Many of them continue, some
with increasing zealotry, to assert the traditional claims to the truth
established by religion and by the long tradition of linking an
understanding of nature with divine purposes. Many others, however,
including very well educated and reasonable people, have, after more than a
century of bloody wars over religious questions, abandoned the notion that
such certainty is available in any of the major questions of life and have
sought refuge in scepticism or in the developing science of
probability. If we live in a world of competing truths and are killing
each other over rival interpretations of scripture, we might as well give up
a search for Truth (with a capital T) and live quietly, organizing our lives
in accordance with the customs of the people around us, the position
recommended by Montaigne (1533-1592), or we must seek out and follow what,
as best we can ascertain, is most probably true or the course of action
which has a better chance of leading to success (a position most famously
publicized by Pascal's Wager, which appeared some years after the Discourse:
since God either exists and punishes those who disbelieve and rewards those
who believe in Him or else He does not exist and there is no afterlife of
rewards and punishment, the reasonable person will believe, since he has a
lot more to lose from disbelief than from belief).
Descartes' method, then, begins with his rejection of these
traditional ways of thinking about the truth. He will adopt a
sceptical attitude towards everything he has learned and everything he can
perceive with his senses, and he will adopt the customs of the people he
lives among, but not with a view to remaining in that state. For he is
confident that from this temporary vantage point he can construct something
much firmer if he simply looks for it in a new place, namely within himself,
within the framework of his own ability to think reasonably and to come to
unassailable conclusions about particular things.
In setting up this new method, for all his cautionary words
about how it might not suit everyone, Descartes is, in fact, making clear
that anyone capable of rational thought will be able, not merely to
understand him, but also to follow in his footsteps. His opening
comments about the average quality of his own mind are not just false
modesty but an important claim for what is to follow. He is thus
suggesting two very new features of his method, apart from the fact that it
does not require any deference to (or, for that matter, knowledge of) the
traditional ways of understanding the world: it is egalitarian, requiring no
more reason than most intelligent people possess, and it is self-correcting
and progressive, for errors can be dealt with by a better application of the
method, and later thinkers can build on the work of earlier ones (false
results come from mistakes, not from any inherent limitations in the human
mind attributable to original sin). Hence, disputes will be capable of
resolution, without the need for interminable arguments about the most basic
things, of the sort common to interpretations of Aristotle, for example, or
scholarly disputes about ancient texts, in which nothing is every finally
resolved. Such discussions, Descartes points out, may establish a
scholar's reputation for learning and make him famous and rich, but they
leave us where we always were, in a state of uncertainty. His method,
he is confident, will lead to a progressive improvement in what we know.
First Steps in the Philosophical Basis for the Method
Descartes is, of course, best known for his celebrated
reflections on what there might be which he can know with certainty and for
his first important conclusion: "I think; therefore, I am"
(although to describe more accurately what Descartes means, we should
probably translate that famous sentence as "I am thinking; therefore, I
am," since the assurance of one's own existence comes only while the
thinking is going on). Hence, while he is capable of doubting or being
deceived about nature around him (including his own body), he has something
within him, the "I", which he identifies with the soul, the
existence of which is for him absolutely certain, because, even in the
process of doubting everything, he cannot deny that he is thinking.
In reviewing Descartes' description of these first steps in
his reflections, we should remember that what he offers in the Discourse
is merely a summary sketch of the argument he presents in much more detail
in the Meditations on First Philosophy, published some years
later. So those who are tempted to make quick objections should first
direct their attention to the later book. What matters here is not so
much the philosophical adequacy of the argument but rather the direct
effects his reasoning has for an understanding of nature and the method most
appropriate for expanding what we know. That said, however, one needs
to pay attention to the steps Descartes goes through, because these give a
definite shape to the method he is proposing and lead to certain major
consequences.
In discussing that famous first conclusion, Descartes
establishes his most important criterion for accepting something as true
After
that, I considered in general what is necessary for a proposition to be true and
certain, for since I had just found one idea which I knew to be true and
certain, I thought that I ought also to understand what this certitude consisted
of. And having noticed that in the sentence "I think; therefore, I am"
there is nothing at all to assure me that I am speaking the truth, other than
that I see very clearly that in order to think it is necessary to exist, I
judged that I could take as a general rule the point that the things which we
conceive very clearly and very distinctly are all true. But that left the single
difficulty of properly noticing which things are the ones we conceive
distinctly.
But what, one might
ask at once, does he mean by that key phrase "conceive very clearly and
very distinctly"? If those are the qualities a thing must possess
for it to be true, we need to understand just what they are. About
this point there has been much dispute, but in the context of the Discourse
the words seem to refer to an axiomatic certainty, of the sort we encounter
most frequently (as Descartes reminds us) in mathematics, truths which are
self-evident and do not admit of reasonable disagreement (like, for example,
the claim that things equal to the same thing are equal to each
other). And certainly to this point the clarity and distinctness of
his thinking seem evident enough, for all the reservations one might have
about identifying "I" as a distinct entity coextensive with the
soul (1).
At any rate, this
opening move establishes two key elements of Descartes' theory of
knowledge. The first is his radical separation of the thinking ego,
the "I," the soul, from the physical realm of the body and
nature. The world, given this metaphor, is fundamentally dualistic,
with a spiritual and thinking part within human beings separated from an
inert, mechanical world of non-human nature (more about this later).
And the second is that a certainty like that provided by mathematic axioms
and the deductions of geometry will be the criterion by which we assess what
we know.
The Importance
of God
Descartes then,
very quickly and cursorily, faces up to a major corner he seems to have
painted himself into. How is he to have any reliable knowledge of the
external world, when all his senses are deceptive and the only truth is his
own inner process of thinking? How can his knowledge escape total
self-consciousness, a thoroughgoing solipsism? The argument (or rather
the summary sketch of the later argument) concerning God is the key stage
which enables him to take this step.
It is not uncommon
for first-time readers of the Discourse to find this section rather
problematic and to offer the comment that Descartes is here simply placating
religious authorities rather than being sincere in his affirmations of
belief. Whatever the nature of Descartes' religious beliefs (and there
seems little evidence that his statements about them are not sincere), it's
important to note that the paragraphs about God are an essential part of the
philosophical argument, a necessary logical foundation for the method he is
proposing. Without them, the certainty he is seeking would not be available.
The argument for
the existence of God is, in part, a traditional one, as Descartes
acknowledges. Since he has ideas of perfection and all the flawless
qualities of God, he questions where these might have arisen. As a
limited and imperfect human being, he does not have those qualities
himself. And they cannot have come from sense experience of nature or
from outside natural sources (all of which he has discounted). Hence, the
idea of such qualities must have come from somewhere else, from some being
that manifests these qualities and is of a higher order of goodness than
himself, that is, from God. The existence of God is thus necessarily
true (2).
The perfection of
God then enables Descartes to establish the validity of his principle that
what we perceive clearly and distinctly must be true, for "the
very principle which I have so often taken as a rule—only to recognize as true
all those things which we conceive very clearly and very distinctly—is
guaranteed only because of the fact that God is or exists, that He is a perfect
being, and that everything which is in us comes from Him. From that it follows
that our ideas or notions, being real things which come from God, to the extent
that they are clear and distinct, in that respect cannot be anything but true."
Hence, the truth of the clear and distinct ideas we can formulate about the
world outside the thinking "I" are underwritten by the existence
of a perfect Deity.
To some people this
may look suspiciously like circular reasoning: the existence of God is
established by the clarity and distinctness of Descartes' perception of His
perfection, and then the perfection of God guarantees the truth of ideas
which Descartes perceives clearly and distinctly. Later in the Discourse,
Descartes quickly dismisses the objection that he uses circular reasoning
(using experimental effects to guarantee the truth of his theory of the
cause, and then using the cause to guarantee the truth of the effects), but,
as I mentioned before, we are being given here merely a summary sketch of
the argument, and so if we do have such reservations, we should direct our
attention to the case Descartes makes in the Meditations (and
especially to the Objections which Descartes includes and responds
to). For our purposes what matters here are some of the more obvious
effects of this line of reasoning.
Some
Initial Consequences of Descartes' Argument
Given what
Descartes has said up to this point, certain very revolutionary consequences
follow for anyone interested in exploring human knowledge and sorting out
what we can and do know from what we are uncertain of. Some of these I
have touched on already.
Dualism
First, according to
Descartes' line of reasoning, the world is radically dualistic. The
spiritual, knowing world of the "I," the human soul, is set over
against the mechanical world of nature (including the human body), which is
without any spiritual dimension. The latter operates as a clock.
And we understand it, as we do a clock, by using our minds to analyze its
parts bit by bit, building our knowledge from simple ideas we are sure about
into more complex systems of belief (like the development of geometric
theorems).
This metaphor
obviously encourages a particular relationship between human beings and
nature, giving the knowing mind a pre-eminent position and charging it with
the responsibility for finding out about nature. Gone is traditional
sense of human beings as privileged participants in nature, with
responsibilities for respecting nature either as divine (the classical pagan
view) or as a uniquely mysterious creation by God (the traditional Christian
view). Descartes' picture of nature provides a license for human
beings to probe, explore, experiment—in a word, to tamper with—nature in the search for knowledge,
without having to worry about any spiritual qualities in the objects under
investigation, because everything outside the human soul is a machine (3)
This metaphor, more than anything else, accounts for the astonishingly
aggressive attitude Western science quickly developed towards nature.
The Victory of Power over Wonder
Later in the Discourse
the driving motivation for this way of thinking emerges. Descartes
wants his method to give us, not merely an understanding of nature, but
power over it, something that will make us "as it were, the masters and possessors of
nature." Like Francis Bacon, Descartes wishes to transform the
purpose of natural science into something immediately practical, a form of
knowledge which people can use effectively to attack and alter nature to
suit human purposes (especially in medicine).
Traditionally, of
course, the major purpose of natural science, both among the Greeks and the
Medieval Christians, was to encourage contemplation. It was, if you
like, a form of spiritual discipline or celebration which encouraged in the
enquirer a sense of higher moral purpose in the world around us. The
very idea of altering nature to fit human desires or seeking to control
nature was absurd or impious.
For Descartes and
Bacon, this traditional emphasis produced no useful results, nothing which
might improve the conditions human beings had to face. A constant
preoccupation with the moral purposes of creation produced, in their view, a
sterile, unproductive, and disputatious form of knowledge. By setting
such concerns to one side and focusing on nature as a soul-less machine
whose efficient causes human beings can understand and use, natural science
would acquire the knowledge necessary to transform the world for the better.
Descartes is here
urging something extremely familiar to us, something we take for granted as
a major imperative of our culture. But it was by no means so obvious
to his contemporaries, especially those who (like many pious scholars
antagonistic to Galileo's work) were primarily concerned about what might
happen to human thought once the importance of the moral framework of the
universe was set aside in the quest for efficient power over nature (4).
This is not to deny
that many modern natural scientists from Descartes' day to the present have
been motivated primarily by the wonders of nature, engage in their
scientific speculation out of a sense of intense curiosity, and derive
contemplative satisfaction from their work. But it is no less true
that the major imperative to carry on science so intensely in schools and
the research establishments has increasingly become the desire to gain more
power over nature, even at the expense of that wonder. Many writers
have acknowledged that the modern project launched by Descartes and others
has, in fact, gradually emptied the world of wonder, for we have so many
reasonable explanations for natural phenomena and have placed so much of
nature directly under our own control, that we are seldom personally
confronted with nature as a mysterious presence.
The Importance
of Mathematics
What Descartes is
proposing here also has important consequences for the vital role
mathematics must play in our understanding of nature. For the clarity
and directness which, thanks to God, reveal the truth to us are, above all,
conveyed in mathematical deductions. Hence, this Discourse launches
the strong demand that modern science must follow mathematic logic, and the
truth of its claims emerges from the mathematic foundations upon which those
are based. Science, in other words, needs to rely upon equations
rather than verses cited from scripture or traditional interpretations of
Aristotle.
This emphasis is
significantly different from early 17th century science in England, where,
under the energetic leadership of Francis Bacon, the stress is much more on
experimental evidence, the collection of observed facts, and the inductions
one might draw from repeated observation and testing. And for some
time, there was a lively dispute between English science (based on
experiments) and Continental science (based on mathematics). In fact,
however, one should not over-emphasize these differences. Descartes
makes clear in the Discourse how important experiments are, and Bacon
repeatedly called attention to the imperfections of sense experience (all
the more evident when frequently defective machinery was involved, like
imperfect lenses in telescopes and leaky air pumps).
The major synthesis
between the two approaches to natural science occurred in the work of Isaac
Newton (1643-1727), whose work combined mathematically-based hypotheses with
key experiments to test the explanatory power of the equations.
Descartes
Historical Hypothesis
Once he has
established the basis of his method, Descartes then quickly offers a summary
list of what he turned his attention to, the natural phenomena which he
feels his method has enabled him to understand. In the midst of this
section, he puts on the table an idea which was later to have the most
revolutionary implications for our understanding of nature and ourselves,
that is, a historical approach to understanding nature scientifically.
It's worth having a close look at this suggestion, particularly for anyone
who is going on to follow what later thinkers will do with what at this
stage is little more than a tentative hypothesis.
What if, Descartes
suggests "God now
created somewhere in imaginary space enough material to compose [a new world], and if He
set in motion, in a varied and disorderly way, the various parts of this
material, so that it created a chaos as confused as poets could make it, and
then afterwards He did nothing other than lend His ordinary help to nature and
allow it to act according to the laws which He established." What if,
in other words, we were to seek to understand the world as something with a
unique history, a series of different stages through which it passed, under
the guidance of divinely ordained natural laws, from disorganized materials
into the ordered structure we see all around us?
This is, for
Descartes, an extremely bold and potentially dangerous idea. For
at the centre of a Christian understanding of nature had long been the
insistence, based on scripture, that God created the world and everything in
it in its present state. Hence, the earth does not have a history, not
in the sense of a unique linear development out of something very different
from what it is now. Descartes' proposal suggests that the only
permanent things are the laws God established to allow nature to act as He
wanted it to through various stages and that we can come to a useful
understanding of what is in the world by seeing it as a something with a
particular history.
The second
doctrinal problem this suggestion has always run into is that it imposes
restrictions on God. If matter always obeys the laws God has
established to guide its development, then He is not free to intervene in
unexpected and miraculous ways. God is, in effect, the servant of His
own laws, not totally free. This point has always been the major
objection of Christian thinkers to the often popular view called Deism
(which corresponds roughly with what Descartes is proposing: God created the
original matter, established the natural laws governing its development, and
does not intervene).
Newton's opposition
to this view of the world is well known. For him, God established the
universe in its present form, and the only possible changes came from
unexpected "miraculous" divine interventions. Nonetheless,
within a century of Newton's great work, natural scientists (including
Immanuel Kant) were writing accounts of the historical development of the
earth and of the universe itself.
The dangers in this
approach stem not merely from its challenge to orthodox belief. Any
historically based understanding of the world carries a latent political
message, as well, namely
that the existing state of things is not something permanently ordained but
rather the result of a historical process (which, presumably, is still going
on). Hence, a historical approach brings with it potentially explosive
political implications (something which is exploited dramatically by Jean
Jacques Rousseau in the 18th century). Eventually, of course, this way
of understanding the past leads directly to two of the most revolutionary
thinkers of all, Charles Darwin and Friedrich Nietzsche, who, in effect,
undercut all claims to the permanence of anything.
Descartes presents
this historical proposal only tentatively, as a thought experiment,
something useful for our thinking about the world, but not the truth of what
really occurred.
However,
I don't want to suggest from all these things that this world was created in the
fashion which I was proposing. For it is much more probable that God made the
world from the beginning just what it had to be. But it is certain, and this is
an opinion commonly received among theologians, that the actions by which God
now preserves the world are exactly the same as the method by which He created
it, in such a way that even if He did not give it at the start any form other
than a chaos, providing that He had first established the laws of nature and had
given His assistance, so that it would act as it usually does, we can believe,
without denying the miracle of creation, that because of these facts all purely
material things would have been able, over time, to become the way we now
observe them, and their nature is much easier to conceive when one sees them
born gradually in this way than if one thinks of them only as made all at once.
This stance is not
necessarily, as with Rousseau (in his Second Discourse), an obvious
rhetorical ploy to fend off religious authorities, but a standard and
acceptable way to offer a scientific speculation without contradicting
orthodox religious doctrine. The introduction to Copernicus'
revolutionary book on the sun-centred solar system (a letter written
anonymously by the Lutheran theologian Andreas Osiander and put in the book
to replace Copernicus' original Preface) made exactly the same claim (in
1543) and was, many assert, the reason the book was not
condemned. Nonetheless, the mere existence of such "thought
experiments" is enough to get people thinking about them as possible
versions of what really exists.
Descartes'
Final Plea for Assistance
Descartes concludes
his Discourse by inviting his readers to assist him in his endeavours
(this plea may well be the main reason for his publishing it in the first
place). What's striking about this section is the way in which it
indicates how Descartes sees his new method as a cooperative enterprise,
something to which the general public could and should contribute, both with
money and with ideas (objections, new experiments, and so on).
Clearly, he wants
his new method to generate discussion and significant interaction.
Natural science, he is asserting, is not something to be restricted to the
schools but carried on as a widely publicized activity, because its
progressive character requires and makes possible contributions from all
quarters.
This, too, marks
something significantly new—an opening up of natural science to everyone
who wishes to contribute. It's not surprising that the years
immediately following the publication of the Discourse (and other
works urging similar public communication in different countries of Europe)
saw the establishment of officially sanctioned scientific societies, whose
major purpose was to fund and carry out experiments and publicize the
results. This quickly became an international endeavour, often fuelled
by intense rivalries which had a catalytic effect on the development of
modern science, until we reached the condition we are all too familiar with,
modern science and its technological offshoots as the dominating activities
of modern society, the lifeblood of our huge public universities and any
number of research institutes.
Notes
(1)
Nietzsche's dismissive comments on Descartes might be worth recalling at the
point. As a linguist, Nietzsche felt that this famous conclusion
simply revealed that Descartes was, like so many other philosophers, a
prisoner of grammar. Since one indicates thinking in French, as in
English, with a personal pronoun and a verb ("Je pense" or "I
think"), rather than with, say, an expression like "thinking is
going on," Descartes assumed the real existence of the "Je"
and went off in search of it. For Nietzsche this elementary mistake
made Descartes "trivial." [Back to
Text]
(2)
Descartes' proof here has been usefully illustrated with an analogy by
John Cottingham. If you found that your ten-year old child had
produced a very sophisticated and workable blueprint for, say, a new
super-computer, you would naturally assume he or she had received some
outside help, since there is, so far as you know, nothing in the child's
education, environment, or character which would possibly have come up with
the design. It would be quite reasonable to assume outside assistance
or inspiration from some vastly superior intellect. On the other hand,
if the child had simply produced a drawing of a box with the words "really big and new computer" written on it, you would not find
that problematic. How one assesses Descartes' argument depends to some
extent on which of these two possibilities best fits his argument. [Back
to Text]
(3)
And so Descartes, for example, would consider animals simply complex
machines. If a dog howls with pain when it is kicked, that is simply a
mechanical response, rather like the gears in a machine squealing when they
malfunction. The recent popularity of animal pain as a subject for
philosophical speculation is a direct challenge to this old dualism, an
attempt to break it down. It is worth noting, too, that Descartes is
fully aware that there must be some interaction between the soul and the
body, since what we think has an effect on how we act. Hence, his
later remarks about how the soul is more than a pilot on a ship for "it is necessary that the soul is joined and united more
closely with the body, so that it has, in addition, feelings and appetites
similar to ours and thus makes up a true human being." But he has
little to offer by way of suggesting how that interaction might take place
(elsewhere he locates the place where the soul and the body interact as the
pineal gland, because he can find no other use for it). This matter
remains a highly contentious matter today, what has come to be called "the problem of consciousness," especially for those, like Richard
Dawkins, who wish to understand all human experience as merely the result of
physical processes. [Back to Text]
(4)
We still manifest this old objection when we express reservations about the
unchecked development in some areas, especially in the science of human
reproduction (cloning, stem cells, and so on), all of which is an energetic
continuation of Descartes' project. To raise moral objections to such
work is to echo many of the complaints of traditionalists worried about the
shift in emphasis brought about by the new science.
[Back to Text]
