Weighing René Descartes’ Influence in a World Without Him

A conversation with Arturo Serrano on the core questions of ethics and political theory and why he kills off Descartes in his new novel

Arturo Serrano’s first novel in English imagines that the Mayflower was lost at sea in 1620, the English Separatists were disheartened, and the United States were never born. In this alternate history, rival empires split up the world, and those caught in the middle fight to bring an end to all empires. The novel is called To Climates Unknown and will be released next month. Full disclosure: Arturo Serrano and I are married. Here, for readers of this philosophy blog, I ask him why he chose to put a young René Descartes as a character in his novel.
—Tucker Lieberman


Part 2 of your novel is called “Setback.” This is a chapter imagining René Descartes as a young man in the early 17th century: as a curious, precocious 14-year-old student, then as a 23-year-old plagued by existential dread and confusion, and finally as a 25-year-old who comes face-to-face with an enemy. What inspired you to imagine Descartes as a character in To Climates Unknown?

Arturo Serrano

When I was first researching events in the 17th century to get an idea of what world I would be jumping into, I focused on a particular week in September 1620 that contains the main four events I altered: the return of Danish sailor Jens Munk, the return of Japanese diplomat Hasekura Tsunenaga, the start of the Mayflower’s journey, and the plot to assassinate Chinese Emperor Taichang.

As it happens, that window of time in 1620 contains another key event: the Battle of White Mountain, which had major consequences for the balance of power between Catholics and Protestants. René Descartes was present at that battle, as a soldier in the army of the Holy Roman Emperor. So from the start I knew I wanted to do something with Descartes.

However, I was holding myself to using just one point of divergence from our timeline, and I wasn’t able to find a plausible chain of consequences that would affect that battle. So I let that event go as it went in our timeline, but chose to mess with Descartes at some later point.

Another reason why I kill Descartes is to help me better explore a world without America. It is not enough to remove the particular people in a particular region who founded America, because America is an idea, not a nation. Without that concrete historical event, it’s still entirely possible that someone else would have founded another country on the same principles. So I realized I had to remove the principles entirely, along with the purported nation. The principles are the theories of British liberalism, which are a development from the tradition of modern philosophy. There are other events in my book that negate the preeminent role of Britain in world politics, but to make sure modern liberalism never emerges in that area of the world, the most efficient method was to remove the root of all modern thought.


You portray Descartes as a ruminative character. Do you empathize with him? Is he someone you might have liked to have met?

Both the Meditations on First Philosophy and the Discourse on the Method are written as first-person testimonials. You get a very close impression of how his mind worked and which of the ongoing discussions surrounding the Wars of Religion were obsessing him. You can tell he’s struggling to communicate the importance of skepticism in terms that would be acceptable to an era when your life or death depended on a profession of faith.

More than meeting him in his time, I would have liked to invite him to ours and show him all the ways he won.


The rector at the Jesuit Collège Royal Henry-Le-Grand at La Flèche discusses an abstract question with the young René Descartes. They ask: If God foresees a certain future and then chooses to alter that future, does the originally envisioned future have any kind of reality in God’s mind? Is this question, in this exact form or similar form, one that ever interested you independently before you began writing this book?

That was not one of the original themes, but it became essential as I researched the 17th century. There was an intense discussion going on about determinism vs. human freedom. On the Protestant side, you had Calvinists vs. Arminians, and on the Catholic side, you had Jansenists vs. Jesuits. The starting question was whether human beings got a say in their salvation, but it turned out to have deeper ramifications that involved God’s absolute sovereignty and, ultimately, whether events in human history are fixed beforehand or shaped by our choices.

One author I found fascinating in this debate was Spanish priest Luis de Molina, who tried really hard to find a way to reconcile human freedom with divine foreknowledge. What makes him relevant to the whole conception of my novel was his work on the reality of counterfactuals, imagined scenarios that do not match our world. Since the whole business of writing an alternate history is to treat a counterfactual as a possible reality, you can see how Molina’s theories were crucial to the novel.


What do you see as some of the direct or indirect effects of Descartes’ philosophy in our world? Or, from a different angle: How might our world be different if he had not written anything?

Because we live in a Cartesian world, it’s hard to imagine what it looked like before he appeared. Descartes introduced the notion that we should not believe what we don’t know for a fact to be true. Without that first principle, you can’t have serious science, or the entire legal theory of freedom of conscience and religious tolerance. Descartes did his best to challenge, without exposing his neck too much, the authoritarian nature of dogma.

In Catholic theology, a dogma is a belief defined as mandatory. Not mandatory like an axiom, which is considered self-evident and thus doesn’t need much demonstration, but mandatory like a law, in the sense that the Church is ordering you to assent to this belief. Descartes opposed that and gave us tools to evaluate beliefs without regard to authority.

This is a truly radical notion, that truth ought to suffice on its own without compulsion. If an idea survives examination and questioning and debate, it deserves to be believed. Later developments in the philosophy of science have added refinements to this guideline, and thus now we accept that all scientific truths are provisional until we reach better ones, but the whole attitude of rejecting authority as a justification for belief starts with Descartes. That is a huge break from the ipse dixit approach that prevailed in Medieval philosophy, and it is the key reason why Medieval philosophy ends when Descartes shows up.


A big theme in To Climates Unknown is imperial power, colonization, and the march to war. What role can philosophers play, if any, in promoting peace?

Philosophy deals with the questions that matter. You can actually differentiate between branches of philosophy by looking at the core question each asks. The core question of ethics is “What do I do?” But then you look at political theory, and its core question is “What do we do?” This illustrates the point that political theory grows from ethical theory; it is one part of the whole discipline of ethics.

So all political questions are ultimately ethical questions. The way you treat other human beings depends on what you believe about human beings. The way you treat their rights and their lives depends on what you believe about rights and lives (even if you’re not aware of what beliefs you’re operating from). When you choose war, when you choose that the deliberate application of violence is favorable to your interests, you’re making a moral calculation, and the role of philosophers in helping put an end to wars is to show the true weights involved in that calculation.


The part of your book about René Descartes begins with two epigraphs: “Things that appear unrelated actually have some sort of natural link” (Cicero, On Divination) and “It is beneath God’s majesty to know how many gnats are born every second” (Saint Jerome, Commentaries on the Minor Prophets). Why did you choose these?

This chapter follows immediately after one where I show how the last descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers become lost to history. Since the plot is no longer going to be about the Pilgrims, I use those quotes to reassure the reader that the completely different characters and scenarios I’m about to use do have a connection to what I’ve told so far and do belong to the same overall story, even if what I do to Descartes renders him an irrelevant figure in history—a gnat, so to speak.


Book cover: To Climates Unknown by Arturo Serrano
To Climates Unknown

Who do you hope will read To Climates Unknown and what do you hope they will experience or take away?

My first version of this novel was written in Spanish. My choice to make the final version in English stems from the function I hope this book serves. Questioning America’s role in the world is an exercise we’ve done hundreds of times in the rest of the world, but one Americans themselves haven’t done enough. The mere postulation of this timeline is a challenge to the creed of Manifest Destiny (yet another incarnation of Calvinist determinism).

There is a brand of American conservatism that insists America is a nation in the traditional sense as opposed to an idea. Such a position leads to a lot of nasty xenophobic implications, and it needs constant questioning. Of all countries currently in existence, America is the one with the least claim to being a “nation.” If there’s any basis in reality to the hyperinflated story of American Exceptionalism, one has to recognize that what makes America special is not an ethnic origin or a religion or a language. America is not a particular group of people, but a set of principles that are completely opposed to the nation state. And that set of principles is not exclusive to an ethnic origin or a religion or a language. My novel ends with the emergence of a political entity much like America, but woven from more diverse threads.

Belief in American Exceptionalism has been weaponized to cause serious harm, but there is a spark of truth in that idea. The positioning of “All are created equal” as a self-evident axiom of collective life is the kind of principle that breaks away with all nationalisms and tribal identities. It is a guiding idea that America has forgotten and badly needs to be reminded of.


To Climates Unknown is available for preorder and will be released on November 25, 2021, the 400th anniversary of the mythical first Thanksgiving. You can also engage on Goodreads.

Moll Flanders and the Gettier problem

Moll Flanders is an early 18th-century novel written by Daniel Defoe. Moll is a fictional character whose famous conundrum is her discovery that she has accidentally married her own biological brother.

The “Gettier problem” is an epistemological question raised by Edmund Gettier in a 1963 paper, “Is Justified True Belief Knowledge?”, in which he questioned a traditional definition of knowledge—a justified true belief—as insufficient. Gettier died earlier this year in 2021. I have described the philosophical problem in a separate article. To present it generally: Gettier pointed out that, when we have reason to believe a certain proposition, sometimes we formulate a vague statement about it, and the vague statement may well turn out to be true, but for a different reason than we originally assumed. For example, if I say, “Don’t worry about the utility bill on the table; it’ll be affordable, and it isn’t due until the end of the month,” and I say this because I am thinking about the electric bill, whereas the utility bill on the table is actually the phone bill, then arguably my statement about the utility bill on the table is not an example of my own “knowledge.” My statement, which was justified for the electric bill, might also be true for the phone bill: that bill, too, is affordable and isn’t due until the end of the month, and therefore we don’t need to worry about the bill. But I was “correct” only due to a happy coincidence. Although I presented a justified true belief, something went awry in my justification, and therefore I didn’t know what I was talking about. This distinction between knowledge and non-knowledge feels intuitive. But why? By what definition of knowledge can I be described as not having known? This is the Gettier problem. It is a problem for the definition of knowledge.

In this blog post, I propose that Moll Flanders suffers the Gettier problem.

Moll’s problem

In Defoe’s 1722 novel, the narrator, Moll, is born to an inmate of London’s Newgate Prison. Moll grows up not knowing her biological mother. Raised by someone else, she is poor and becomes a household servant. Eventually, Moll begins to enjoy a fairly happy life with her third husband. She is pregnant with her third child by him when she realizes that her husband’s mother is her own long-lost biological mother. Moll has, therefore, married her own brother.

This is how Moll tells her story. For emphasis, I have put the family terms mother-in-law, mother, daughter, husband, brother in bold type. At the end, I have also emphasized Moll’s insistence that this is a new discovery for her: she had “known nothing” of her husband’s preexisting family relationship to her.

“We lived here all together, my mother-in-law, at my entreaty, continuing in the house, for she was too kind a mother to be parted with; my husband likewise continued the same as at first, and I thought myself the happiest creature alive, when an odd and surprising event put an end to all that felicity in a moment, and rendered my condition the most uncomfortable, if not the most miserable, in the world.

My mother was a mighty cheerful, good-humoured old woman—I may call her old woman, for her son was above thirty…

…with a great deal of good-humoured confidence she told me she was one of the second sort of inhabitants [of Newgate] herself.

my mother, smiling, said, ‘You need not think a thing strange, daughter…’

Here she went on with her own story so long, and in so particular a manner, that I began to be very uneasy; but coming to one particular that required telling her name, I thought I should have sunk down in the place.

…this was certainly no more or less than my own mother, and I had now had two children, and was big with another by my own brother, and lay with him still every night.

I was now the most unhappy of all women in the world. Oh! had the story never been told me, all had been well; it had been no crime to have lain with my husband, since as to his being my relation I had known nothing of it.

—Daniel Defoe, ‘Moll Flanders’

It seems that Moll frets that her marriage may be invalid. Her marriage is, she says, a “crime.” She acknowledges that she is committing “open avowed incest and whoredom” despite maintaining “the appearance of an honest wife.” In Moll’s estimation, it isn’t possible for the same woman to have biologically mothered both Moll and Moll’s husband; the same woman can’t be her “mother” and “mother-in-law.” She means this at least legally, as she eventually tells her husband that she is “not your lawful wife” and their children are “not legal children.” If this woman indeed gave birth to a girl and a boy, a subsequent “marriage” between those two siblings would be invalid and no marriage at all. She may mean it religiously and in a broader ontological way, too.

Here is the situation, quite simply:

Before the big revelation, Moll and her mother-in-law sometimes call each other “mother” and “daughter.” These are terms of endearment, and they are also, in a sense, true, since to be a mother-in-law or a daughter-in-law is to be a specific type of mother or daughter. Thus, for Moll to say “My mother was a mighty cheerful, good-humoured old woman” is a justified true belief.

After the revelation that her mother-in-law is the same person who gave birth to her, Moll reflects that “this was certainly no more or less than my own mother.” This relationship of “mother” takes on new meaning. Though it did not bother her before, it bothers her now. She insists: “I had known nothing of it.”

In other words, when Moll says, “My mother was a mighty cheerful, good-humoured old woman,” implying but crucially omitting the detail of “mother-in-law,” she did not know what she was talking about. The woman is not Moll’s mother-in-law, because Moll’s marriage is invalid. The woman is only Moll’s mother. Moll’s original statement remains true only if we shift the meaning of the phrase “my mother” and alter the reasoning behind its use.

Moll’s justified true belief wasn’t knowledge. This is the Gettier problem.