g but by our souls; but our souls
animate them far more easily than they can know them. . . . The
soul knows not the body which is subject to it. . . . It does not
know why it does not move the nerves but when it pleases; and why,
on the contrary, the pulsation of veins goes on without
interruption, whether the mind will or no. It knows not which is
the first part of the body it moves immediately, in order thereby to
move all the rest. . . . It does not know why it feels in spite of
itself, and moves the members only when it pleases. It is the mind
does these things in the body. But how comes it to pass it neither
knows what she does, nor in what manner it performs it? Those who
learn, anatomy," continues that father, "are taught by others what
passes within, and is performed by themselves. Why," says he, "do I
know, without being taught, that there is in the sky, at a
prodigious distance from me, a sun and stars; and why have I
occasion for a master to learn where motion begins? . . . When I
move my finger, I know not how what I perform within myself is
performed. We are too far above, and cannot comprehend ourselves."

SECT. XLVIII. The Sovereignty of the Soul over the Body
principally appears in the Images imprinted in the Brain.

It is certain we cannot sufficiently admire either the absolute
power of the soul over corporeal organs which she knows not, or the
continual use it makes of them without discerning them. That
sovereignty principally appears with respect to the images imprinted
in our brain. I know all the bodies of the universe that have made
any impression on my senses for a great many years past. I have
distinct images of them that represent them to me, insomuch that I
believe I see them even when they exist no more. My brain is like a
closet full of pictures, which should move and set themselves in
order at the master's pleasure. Painters, with all their art and
skill, never attain but an imperfect likeness; whereas the pictures
I have in my head are so faithful, that it is by consulting them I
perceive all the defects of those made by painters, and correct them
within myself. Now, do these images, more like their original than
the masterpieces of the art of painting, imprint themselves in my
head without any art? Is my brain a book, all the characters of
which have ranged themselves of their own accord? If there be any
art in the case, it does not proceed from me. For I find