Layered Irony in Sor Juana and Hume’s Compositions on Skepticism

1 Skepticism and Irony

Early modern compositions which deal substantially with skepticism tend to be rich with irony. I think this is no accident. The ancient Pyrrhonists’ skeptical method, which enjoyed renewed attention in the early modern era, naturally invites a comparison with irony.^[1] That method sets in opposition equally plausible arguments for competing views, leading to suspension of judgment and then to freedom from disturbance.^[2] The Pyrrhonian skeptic’s use of arguments not to produce assent to their conclusions, but rather suspension of judgment, then bears some resemblance to an ironist’s use of words not to convey their usual meaning, but rather something contrary.^[3]

Irony is a particularly powerful device for critiquing and finessing skeptical thought. Its aptness for this task is best appreciated by a close inspection of actual ironic treatments of skepticism. In this essay, I will compare two early modern compositions which relate the theme of skepticism to questions about the nature of human happiness and the role of philosophy in producing and preserving it. The first is a 1689 ballad by the Mexican Hieronymite nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, commonly referred to by its first line, “Let Us Pretend I am Happy” (“Finjamos que soy feliz”).^[4] The second is David Hume’s 1742 essay, “The Sceptic,” one of a quartet of essays named after Hellenistic sects, each offering its own vision of a happy life.^[5] I will argue that both compositions convey several competing messages. At the surface layer, both employ skeptical reasoning to argue against the usefulness of learning for attaining happiness. They also invite an ironic reading on which they emphasize that learning can be a primary source of joy. Ultimately, I argue, both compositions express an intermediary view between their surface-layer pessimism and ironic optimism. On this view, engaging in philosophy plays a modest role in human flourishing. By Sor Juana and Hume’s own lights, this intermediate position is more properly skeptical than the others, insofar as skepticism should moderate our confidence in even skeptical conclusions.

In support of my reading, I will introduce the notion of ‘layered irony.’ Layered irony is a literary device that suggests and blocks both a literal, surface-layer meaning and an initially natural ironic interpretation in order to convey yet a further meaning. While all verbal irony involves multiple layers of meaning – any ironic meaning lies behind a literal, surface-layer meaning – layered irony involves multiple layers of irony: it suggests an ironic interpretation ironically. It does so in order to convey a yet more submerged meaning, lying behind both the surface and an initial layer of irony.

To be understood, an instance of layered irony requires its audience to navigate several layers of meaning. Examples from lived experience are rare, requiring rich, shared social contexts. Layered irony is then almost exclusive to writing, where clues blocking the surface-layer and initial ironic meanings can be developed. Layered irony’s complexity and rarity may perhaps explain its absence from lists or typologies of irony. By discussing two instances of layered irony at length, I hope to introduce this kind of irony to discussions of irony in philosophy, rhetoric, and criticism.

Still, to get the phenomenon in view, consider an example drawn from W. H. Auden’s 1939 poem “The Unknown Citizen.”^[6] The poem is an epitaph of a nameless “citizen” presented by “the Bureau of Statistics,” “Producers Research,” and other state agencies (lines 1 and 18). The poem’s closing lines read: “Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: / Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard” (30–31). On the surface, “the question is absurd” because the bureaucratic details yield clear affirmatives; after all, the citizen “liked a drink,” “retired,” and “had everything necessary to the Modern Man, / A phonograph, a radio, a car and a Frigidaire” (13, 6, 20–21). But the coldness of the poem’s data suggests an opposed, ironic interpretation: “the question is absurd” because the bureaucratic state is utterly insensitive to any human elements; the citizen’s real character remains “unknown” (title). Yet even this ironic interpretation is suggested ironically: “The question is absurd” not because the bureaucracy can or cannot know who is free or happy, but because a society predicated on materialism, collectivity, and surveillance deflates notions such as ‘flourishing’ and ‘autonomy’ to the point of “absurdity.” This third, deeper layer of the poem is conveyed by the ways in which the others are blocked – the surface layer by tonal coldness and the ironic layer by the suffocating exhaustiveness of the state’s data. The impression, then, is that the state knows all there is left to know about the citizen’s well-being. Freedom is not so much irrelevant to the state, but meaningless even to the citizen, who “never interfered” (29).

Sor Juana and Hume’s compositions on skepticism use layered irony to express a view at least as nuanced and rich as that of the closing lines of Auden’s poem. The way both suggest and block their own surface-layer pessimism and ironic optimism leads to a further, more nuanced view about philosophy’s contribution to human flourishing. As I will argue, layered irony is well suited not only to reflecting on skepticism and the role of philosophy in reforming the temper but also to inculcating intellectual humility and to conveying moderate positions on any subject.

Recognizing that the compositions employ layered irony also helps to correct important misreadings of both figures. Both Sor Juana and Hume have been found to be either very sanguine or very gloomy about the value of philosophy. Emphasizing layered irony helps explain and resist this polarization in the secondary literature. The opposed positions expressed by the compositions’ surface layer and first layer of irony make polarized readings of the compositions unsurprising. But recognizing the compositions’ use of layered irony provides grounds for rejecting both poles in favor of attributing a more moderate position. Attributing this more moderate position, in turn, accommodates key insights from across divisions within the literatures, opening a way to common ground.

A defense of these claims also helps draw due attention to Sor Juana, an important philosopher who is only beginning to receive discussion in the philosophical literature. Despite her marginalized position as a criolla woman cloistered in the colonies, she was well recognized in her time as one of the Spanish-speaking world’s most prominent intellectuals. She was renowned for her prolific, competition-winning poetry, and her finely crafted philosophical letters defending her right to study and compose verse were among the first – and most forceful – feminist writings in the Americas. Like many early modern women intellectuals, Sor Juana fell into relative obscurity during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as Neoclassicism eclipsed Baroque style, whose wrought expression and multilayered complexity were rejected for their “softness” or “effeminacy.”^[7] But the late twentieth century saw Sor Juana quickly regain her status as a figure of enormous academic, literary, and even popular interest in and well beyond Mexico, thanks in no small part to an influential 1982 biography by Nobel prize winning poet Octavio Paz.^[8] Much of the recent literature on Sor Juana appears within literary, women’s, and Latin American studies. Philosophical treatments of Sor Juana’s work have largely, albeit understandably focused on her feminist arguments. But several philosophers have begun to note her rich and varied remarks on epistemology, especially on skepticism.^[9] I will explore this aspect of Sor Juana’s philosophy, though discussion of her use of rhetoric in her feminist writings will aid in this task. Indeed, one of my aims is to defend Sor Juana’s rhetorically rich style, which despite its complexity – or, rather, because of it – is well suited to addressing certain philosophical topics.^[10]

But why compare Sor Juana’s ballad with an essay by Hume? The first reason is that reading the two compositions together is mutually enlightening. The compositions show striking and interesting similarities in both content and rhetorical structure – particularly, in their use of layered irony. This structure is somewhat easier to identify in Sor Juana’s writing, given the way her Baroque style – full of complication, metaphor, and obfuscation of authorial intent – lends itself to ironic treatments of its subject matter. Hume’s essay, in contrast, appears expository on its surface, seeming to embody the Enlightenment virtues of clarity, accessibility, and frankness. A comparison with the ballad then helps to reveal just how much ambiguity, dissembling, and complication lurks behind the essay’s expository veneer.

The comparison also brings out the philosophical interest of the compositions’ common use of layered irony. Once we see the similarly nuanced and doubly ironic treatments of skepticism in these two quite different figures, we can better appreciate the aims and merits of each. As I will argue, their common multilayered approach is apt to inculcate a moderate view of the use of philosophy in living well – one that is neither too skeptical nor too naïve. The comparison helps to both explain and justify their common approach to skepticism.

2 Too Many Voices

“Let Us Pretend I am Happy” appears to employ skeptical argument to disparage learning. It opens with a vivid portrayal of opposite opinion:

The disagreement often concerns what sorts of things are worth pursuing:

Differences in what people find “attractive” or “annoying” lead to contrasting fundamental attitudes toward life. Such attitudes are central to whether one will be “cheerful” or “sad.” Democritus views life as an occasion for “laughter,” Heraclitus for “tears.”^[11]

Dwelling on the discord of opposed opinion is dizzying. Can reason or inquiry help us settle on just one message? Sor Juana’s next observation suggests a negative answer:

Reason promised to help us decide between opinions. But, in the ballad, it is opinion which finds a reason – or should we say a rationalization? – to lean on. If a proof can be found “for everything,” a proof is good for nothing. Each person then decides for herself.

Though laughter may seem more appealing than tears, Sor Juana finds herself disposed to tears, asking herself, “Oh why […] in / the choice between bitter and sweet / do you wish to choose the bitter?” (B2 53–56). Her outlook on happiness is “dictated” by a fixed “temperament” (B2 35), which philosophical reflection only exacerbates:

From this perspective Sor Juana yearns for a release from the “excess erudition” (B2 heading) which burdens her. The poem closes skeptically with her imagining the happy students of a “seminary where they [teach] / classes in how not to know” (B2 134–135).

We find a similar progression in “The Sceptic.” Hume’s Sceptic enters the scene after the speakers of the preceding three essays, “The Epicurean,” “The Stoic,” and “The Platonist,” have offered their competing visions of human flourishing: lives of “pleasure,” “action,” and “contemplation” (Ep n1, Mil 138; Sto n1, Mil 146; Pl n1, Mil 155). The Sceptic, by contrast, offers no singular vision on how to live. As in Sor Juana’s poem, Hume’s essay gives the sense that philosophy is subservient to variable “humour and inclination,” and cannot adjudicate between them. The “infirmity of philosophers,” says the Sceptic, “is […] not only by the narrowness of their understandings, but by that also of their passions.” A life-long “predominant inclination” shows itself most strongly in “reasonings concerning human life, and the methods of attaining happiness” (Sc 2, Mil 160). It inclines us to, like the speakers of the preceding three essays, develop arguments that socializing, or self-perfection, or meditation is really what is most worthwhile, unaware that we are merely flattering our prevailing passions.

According to the Sceptic, philosophy can never determine what objects we ought to pursue. What it does tell us is that “there is nothing, in itself, valuable or despicable, desirable or hateful, beautiful or deformed; but that these attributes arise from the particular constitution and fabric of human sentiment and affection.” This discovery, along with an observation about the variation in that “particular constitution and fabric,” then explains the variety in tastes and pursuits: “What affects the feeling of one with delight, produces uneasiness in another” (Sc 8, Mil 162; cf. Sc 18, Mil 166). But it cannot decide between them from a neutral standpoint. At best, it can offer “maxims of common prudence,” which advise us about how to achieve whatever ends we happen to value. But these maxims are hardly philosophical. Philosophy was supposed to determine the end, not the means (Sc 6, Mil 161; cf. Sc 17n, Mil 166).

This is not to say that all “fabrics” or “dispositions of mind are […] alike favourable to happiness [… O]ne passion or humour may be extremely desirable, while another is equally disagreeable” (Sc 27, Mil 168; cf. Sc 22–23, Mil 167; Sc 53, Mil 179). Unfortunately, philosophy does not seem to offer a way to shift our temperaments or passions. In fact, when philosophy makes reforming the temperament its business, the effect is often negative. Most of the second half of the essay is devoted to showing that philosophical maxims, largely of broadly Stoic origin, are harmful to some ears. For example, consider the philosophical maxim that “All ills arise from the order of the universe, which is absolutely perfect.” The maxim is meant to reconcile us with misfortunes – to remove some of their edge by portraying them as contributing to a greater good, perhaps too sublime for our grasp. But repeat this phrase to a criminal and her “own vices will also be a part of the same order” (Sc 39, Mil 173).

The essay ends with a dramatic portrayal of our lack of control over our own happiness. Since the temperaments most responsible for our happiness or misery are apportioned independently from our actions and other character traits (Sc 53, Mil 178–179), and cannot easily be improved, our own happiness seems to be beyond our control. And, being beyond control, it is not worth much concern. The Sceptic concludes rather darkly: “In a word, human life is more governed by fortune than by reason; is to be regarded more as a dull pastime than as a serious occupation; and is more influenced by particular humour, than by general principles” (Sc 55, Mil 180). Like Sor Juana’s ballad, “The Sceptic” sounds skeptical on the surface and ends on a bitter note.

3 For the Love of Learning

Though both compositions end pessimistically, this is not either’s last word. Both invite readings on which the pursuit of learning can play an important role in happiness. In particular, those whose temperaments incline them to study will find great joy in it.

I am not the first to suggest that “Let Us Pretend I am Happy” is more than an unmitigated attack on the pursuit of knowledge or celebration of “blithesome […] ignorance” (B2 81). Several interpreters have read the poem as employing “irony,” and avoiding the skepticism it seems to advance.^[12] Indeed, even a cursory encounter with the particulars of Sor Juana’s life characterized by “strident resistance to attempts to limit her studies and her writing,” or with her “skill at manipulating irony,” suggests that there may be more below the surface.^[13] There are some clues internal to the poem itself. These appear in the poem’s content, form, and tone.

First, with regard to content, the poem acknowledges the possibility of “true knowledge[,] consist[ing] only in / choosing what is salutary” (B2 71–72). A “true” knowledge would seem to be free from criticisms of false erudition, “fed and fattened on subtleties” (B2 94). It would also seem to help inculcate healthy tempers. I will return to these points below.

Second, the poem’s form suggests a celebration of its subject: knowledge. The sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish form of ballad or romance, consisting of an indefinite number of four-line stanzas with iambic tetrameter and assonant rhymes on even lines, derives from the songs of narrative oral tradition. Ballads were used to celebrate special events and honor the subject of the poem, often a person.^[14] The same form is also common in classical Greek and Latin poetry, and may thus evoke a sense of timelessness. Sor Juana would have been familiar with both sources. So, in choosing this poetic form, Sor Juana may be honoring learning, even while her words disparage it.

Third, the tone of at least some parts of the poem corroborates this reading. As Lisa Shapiro emphasizes, “the way poetry folds affect into its representation” allows Sor Juana’s ballad to express more than it literally says (Shapiro 2022, 110). Shapiro focuses on the “negative emotions” that attach to Sor Juana’s metaphors for the dangers of an excessive drive to gain knowledge – over-fattened animals, sharp blades, capsizing ships, and flames burning themselves out (Shapiro 2022, 111–112). But the poem opens with a respectful tone. Sor Juana initiates a formal disputation with her own “melancholy Thought”:

Sor Juana’s use of the formal, second-person singular conjugation ‘podréis’ suggests a polite, even admiring relationship with her intellectual capacity, however sad.^[15] It is a trusted conversational partner, not only a tormentor, and one who may yet persuade her.

This textual clue is supported by a contextual one. The image of a scholar who venerates the source of his melancholy – even the melancholy itself – was a familiar trope from classic medical and literary tradition. According to that tradition, the scholar’s solitary, sedentary life and overuse of the intellect afflicted him with the so-called disease of the learned, or melancholy. This disease was a persistent fear or sadness without any identifiable object, sometimes attended with a low-grade fever, delusions, or minor physical ailments. Though in Sor Juana’s time melancholy was a recognized cause of acute mental pain, it also took on the desirable guise of a sign or distinction of genius. And, in this context, it is not hard to imagine, along with various interpreters, that Sor Juana is intentionally leaning into this trope, perhaps even savoring her “choice of the bitter.”^[16]

The case for an ironic reading is further reinforced by expanding our gaze to Sor Juana’s other writings. These often explicitly place a high value on learning and intellect. In Sonnet 146, Sor Juana says: “I do not set store by treasures or riches; / and therefore it always brings me more joy / only to fix riches in my intellect, / and never my intellect fix on riches” (S146 5–8, OC 1:389). If an enriched intellect is the best fortune, ignorance is true misfortune. Hence, in Sor Juana’s letter ending her relationship with her confessor, Father Antonio Núñez de Miranda, she complains: “Your Reverence wants to force on me the salvation of ignorance – but, beloved Father of mine: can I not be saved while learning? In the end, this is the clearest path for me. Why would salvation need to come through the path of ignorance, if that is repugnant to my nature?” (Autodefensa 149).^[17]

Sor Juana makes the same point yet more vividly in her 1691 Response of the Poet to the Very Eminent Sor Filotea de la Cruz. This letter defends her right to study secular topics and write verse against the warnings of the Bishop of Puebla, Manuel Fernández de Santa Cruz. Sor Juana’s defense comes in several forms. These include arguments that knowledge of diverse subjects such as logic and astronomy is necessary for scriptural interpretation (Respuesta 98–101, OC 4:447–450); that religious and classical sources attribute intellectual virtues to women (Respuesta 110–12, OC 4:460–462); and that preserving feminine chastity requires educating women to replace the male tutors of young girls (Respuesta 115, OC 4:464–465). But the argument given the most attention and emphasis is personal. Sor Juana argues that “there [can be] no blame” in her failing to curb her intellectual pursuits, since “no one is obliged to undertake impossible things” (Respuesta 94–95, OC 4:444). Accordingly, she portrays her own impulse towards learning as both natural and absolutely overwhelming:

God has favored me with a great love of the truth [… M]y inclination to letters has been so strong and powerful that neither the reprimands of others […] nor my own reflections […] have sufficed to make me abandon this natural impulse that God placed in me: His majesty knows why and to what end. (Respuesta 95, OC 4:444)

Even when deprived of access to books, Sor Juana reports, she found herself fascinated by “the hidden qualities” of allegedly trifling things – the movement of spinning tops or the reactions of eggs in syrup. This impulse sometimes “annoyed” her. But her frenzied, run-on sentences about “the natural secrets [she has] discovered when cooking” evince an ecstasy which verges on the spiritual love of God (Respuesta 108–109, OC 4:459–460). Hence, Amy Schmitter concludes: “Clearly, Sor Juana conceives of the good life as the life of the mind, devoted to the pursuit of letters and reason – which would generally have been considered ‘philosophy’ in her day” (Schmitter 2023, 214).^[18]

Schmitter continues: “But it is the good life particularly, and perhaps peculiarly, for her; she makes no general claim that the pursuit of letters is a good for everybody” (Schmitter 2023, 214). Officially, Sor Juana’s letter is a defense of her own innocence against the Bishop’s charges. A thoroughly understandable desire to champion Sor Juana as a feminist icon can easily lead us to overlook the fairly restricted nature of this defense, whose central argument focuses on her uniquely strong inclination to learning.^[19] That defense applies at most also to women of an allegedly rare, similarly intense inclination toward the life of the mind – women whose temperaments are, like Sor Juana’s, “set ablaze with the desire to know” (Respuesta 96, OC 4:445).^[20] But however restricted, the message is still clear: Study is part of the good life to those of so studious a temperament, regardless of gender.

The Respuesta also offers evidence for the ironic reading of “Let Us Pretend I am Happy” insofar as it gives a clear precedent for Sor Juana’s use of irony. As commentators have pointed out, the letter is “polyvocal and polysemous” and “seething with irony.”^[21] On the surface, Sor Juana is deferential, expressing gratitude for the Bishop’s “pastoral suggestions.” She claims to “receive in my soul your most saintly admonition to turn my studies to sacred books” (Respuesta 93, OC 4:443). She even appears to take to heart his reminder of the Pauline edict commanding the silence of women in church when she clarifies that “I do not study to write, much less to teach (which would be excessive pride in me), but only to […] be less ignorant” (Respuesta 95, OC 4:444). But the letter is itself an instance of writing and so of rejecting the Bishop’s advice. There is clear irony in Sor Juana’s portraying the Bishop’s recommendation of silence as “granting me benevolent license to speak and propound in your illustrious presence” (Respuesta 93, OC 4:442), and in her insisting that she is writing a reply “only to obey” (Respuesta 114, OC 4:464). Moreover, Sor Juana’s use of superlative after superlative to describe her “very eminent” recipient seems to be, as Rosa Perelmuter puts it, “affected modesty.” While perhaps rhetorically well-suited to producing an “attentive, benevolent, and docile” audience, it is also “a hyperbolic display that betrays underlying irony” (Perelmuter 2007, 187–188).

Sor Juana’s writings show her to be a master of irony, from her hilarious and biting epigrams to her fiery defenses of her right to undertake secular study.^[22] They also show a great love of learning and knowledge, in particular, which makes the ballad’s surface message unlikely to express her considered view. The ballad’s content, form, and tone, together with its context, suggest an ironic reading on which Sor Juana does not straightforwardly desire a life of ignorance.

As with Sor Juana, the idea that Hume employs irony in his various writings is familiar. Numerous commentators have found Hume with his “tongue […] in his cheek” in the first Enquiry’s discussion of religious topics, for instance. They detect an “ironical note,” “ironic overtones,” or “protective disingenuousness” in Hume’s couching his remarks on miracles within an apparent fideistic apology for Protestantism. Here, irony helps to convey an irreligious message to sympathetic ears, while retaining plausible deniability against those who would chastise Hume for irreligion.^[23]

I believe “The Sceptic” is meant to be taken with irony.^[24] Its surface-layer skepticism, while perhaps compelling in isolation, is complicated when the essay is read alongside the three that precede it. Hume invites reading all four together not only by their juxtaposition and parallel titles, but by their resembling the Academic Skeptic Cicero’s De finibus bonorum et malorum. This dialogue also features treatments of the good life delivered successively by representatives of Epicureanism, Stoicism, and Platonism, conceived broadly. Hume’s four essays themselves verge on dialogical; their speakers address similar themes, anticipate and respond to each other’s objections and views, and often use the second person.^[25] As Jacob Jost puts it, “Hume makes his essays speak directly to each other,” and in doing so gives them a “Ciceronian form.” But, contra Jost, they do not quite have “Ciceronian content” (Jost 2009, 12). They do not, like De finibus, conclude with an undisputed vision of human flourishing.^[26] The multiplicity of voices and interlocking critiques, together with the lack of a decisive conclusion, raise the possibility that the Sceptic does not represent Hume’s position.

The possibility of an ironic reading is further suggested by the essays’ paratext, which explicitly distances Hume’s own voice from those of his four speakers. When the quartet first appeared in 1742 in Vol. 2 of Essays, Moral and Political, the volume’s front matter declared it “proper to inform the Reader, that, in those Essays, intitled, The Epicurean, Stoic, &c. a certain Character is personated; and therefore, no Offence ought to be taken at any Sentiments contain’d in them.”^[27] Hume evidently did not want readers to hold him responsible for his characters’ words. In the 1748 edition, Hume adds a footnote to the title of the first of the four essays, “The Epicurean,” clarifying that their “intention […] is to deliver the sentiments of sects, that naturally form themselves in the world, and entertain different ideas of human life and of happiness” (Ep n1, Mil 138). It is not obvious, then, that any of the four speaks for Hume, whose own sentiments could differ from that of each “Character” he “personate[s].”

Still, the Sceptic stands out from the rest for delivering a speech which is “self-consciously not hortatory.”^[28] Instead of exalting and urging a vision of the good life, she explains how predominating sentiments color those visions. And, like the essays as a whole, she observes the variety of such sentiments. This fact, in conjunction with the essay’s sober, expository style, sentimentalist approach to morality and aesthetics, and final position can seem to suggest that the Sceptic is Hume himself “under the thinnest possible disguise,” as Robert Fogelin claims.^[29] But this impression should be shattered by another clarificatory footnote – this one introduced in 1753 – which states in an authorial tone that “The Sceptic, perhaps, carries the matter too far” in overlooking some philosophical maxims “whose truth is undeniable, and whose natural tendency is to tranquillize and soften all the passions” (Sc 51 n6.1, Mil 177).^[30] If the Sceptic makes this error, should not the reader be on guard for more?

Another hint of irony is found in the essay’s closing line, which acknowledges an important way in which philosophical reflection may be conducive to happiness after all. The acknowledgement begins pessimistically, however:

To reduce life to exact rule and method, is commonly a painful, oft a fruitless occupation: And is it not also a proof, that we overvalue the prize for which we contend? Even to reason so carefully concerning it, and to fix with accuracy its just idea, would be overvaluing it, were it not that, to some tempers, this occupation is one of the most amusing, in which life could possibly be employed. (Sc 55, Mil 180)

To reflect on how to be happy is a futile, even excruciating exercise. Only not to those who enjoy such labors! Hume would surely count himself amongst such people. In A Treatise of Human Nature, he views the anticipation of enjoyment in speculations as capable of overcoming the most extreme “philosophical melancholy and delirium” (T 1.4.7.9, SBN 269). After curiosity and ambition have aroused his interest in “the principles of moral good and evil […] and the cause of those several passions and inclinations, which actuate and govern me,” he reports: “by attaching myself to any other business or diversion, I feel I shou’d be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy” (T 1.4.7.12, SBN 271).^[31]

But while philosophy and study have an important place in his happy life, Hume, like Sor Juana, stops short of recommending them to all. He does not “pretend […] to make philosophers” out of those “many honest [English] gentlemen, who being always employ’d in their domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every day expos’d to their senses” (T 1.4.7.14, SBN 272). Presumably, such gentlemen would find little amusement in study. Donald Ainslie thus concludes that, for Hume, “philosophy is optional, appropriate only for those who are so inclined” and, consequently, that “the unexamined life can be well worth living” (Ainslie 2015, 219, 239). If that is right, Hume’s prescribing philosophy to only those who share his “easy disposition,” and on account of its being very pleasurable to those of this “good humour” (T 1.4.7.14, SBN 273), need not then conflict with the Sceptic’s overall narrative.

And, again, that narrative seems to minimize any more general use of philosophy. For Fogelin, “the rhetorical point of the essay is […] to point out that philosophical thought, i. e., abstruse reflection, can have little effect” on our passions and habits (Fogelin 1985, 121–122). M. A. Stewart agrees: “‘The Sceptic’ […] makes plain Hume’s own conviction that philosophy – any philosophy – has little direct impact on living” (Stewart 2002, 79). According to James Harris, “In the four essays on happiness Hume presents in dramatized form the bankruptcy of the ancient conception of moral philosophy as a means of curing the soul” (Harris 2007, 229).^[32] Harris may perhaps be right, if, on this “ancient conception,” philosophy must cure the soul by presenting it with the proper object of the will.^[33] But does the Sceptic really show the “bankruptcy” of the idea that philosophy can be “medicine of the mind” (Sc 28, Mil 169)? It is here, I think, that the essay’s irony really shines. For, on closer inspection, there is a notable gap between the essay’s pessimistic conclusions and its comparatively restrained complaints against the use of philosophy in reforming our tempers.

What leads the Sceptic to conclude that the “empire of philosophy extends over a few; and with regard to these too, her authority is very weak and limited”? First, the “empire” is small, because it does not include “the ignorant and thoughtless part of mankind,” who do not engage in philosophy. But this does not count against the usefulness of philosophy to those who do engage in it. So, why is philosophy’s authority said to be weak even still? Because “even upon the wise and thoughtful, nature has a prodigious influence; nor is it always in a man’s power, by the utmost art and industry, to correct his temper, and attain that virtuous character, to which he aspires” (Sc 28, Mil 168–169). “Nor is it always” makes a very weak point, however. It leaves open the possibility that many of those who do in fact practice philosophy may overcome nature’s “prodigious influence,” partially, substantially, or even fully.

To be fair, the Sceptic’s long catalog of abuses of Stoic maxims is meant to offer empirical support against the probability of this possibility. The numerous examples of people made worse by philosophy give an air of scientific respectability to her pessimism. But the data is clearly skewed. The people figuring in the examples tend, already, to be thoroughly corrupt. Indeed, the Sceptic introduces the argument by commiserating that “there [is no] remedy in philosophy” for “one […] born of so perverse a frame of mind, of so callous and insensible a disposition, as to have no relish for virtue and humanity” (Sc 29, Mil 169). Perhaps. But that does not preclude philosophy from helping “the greatest part of mankind[, which] floats between vice and virtue” (IS 23, Mil 594). Nor does it even deprive philosophy of a use for those who are already good, as the Sceptic claims. As I have argued, “the Sceptic overlooks that medicine can be of use to the already healthy by maintaining rather than restoring health, as does a regimen of diet and exercise” (Goldhaber 2022, 52).

The whole essay is marked by the Sceptic’s tendency to draw stronger, more pessimistic conclusions than her comparatively careful premises support. And, surprisingly for an essay whose larger beats chastise philosophy, it spends some words explaining the mechanisms through which philosophy can change us for the better. A philosopher can, she explains, “suggest particular views, and considerations, and circumstances, which otherwise would have escaped us; and, by that means, he may either moderate or excite any particular passion” (Sc 35, Mil 172). Nonetheless, the Sceptic worries that “reflections of philosophy are too subtile and distant to […] eradicate any affection” (Sc 36, Mil 172). Hume himself is less pessimistic. He claims across various writings that learning in general, and philosophy in particular, can have a real impact on the passions. In the first Enquiry, Hume says that “a small tincture of Pyrrhonism might abate [the] pride” of people “inclined, from their natural temper, to haughtiness and obstinacy” (EHU 12.24, SBN-Enq 161–162; cf. EHU 5.1, SBN-Enq 41).^[34] Again, in the Treatise, he claims that philosophy can remove desires by discovering the impossibility of satisfying them (T Intro.9, SBN xvii; T 1.4.7.5, SBN 267).^[35] The opening essay to nearly every edition of Hume’s Essays gives a detailed account of how study of the liberal arts can improve one’s temperament and instill greater government over the passions (see, esp., DT 6, Mil 7).^[36] And, as we saw, a recommendation of philosophical therapy appears within “The Sceptic” in a footnote which, unlike most of the essay, is “Hume in propria persona” (Potkay 2000, 13).

Hume gives us “The Sceptic” not as a mouthpiece for himself but, like the preceding three essays, as an example of carrying plausible ideas to an implausible extreme. He employs the Sceptic’s arguments not to show that their conclusions are correct but to show that their conclusions are exaggerated. This, again, is an instance of irony.

4 Finding a Balance

We now have two possible readings of each of the two compositions. On their surface, both compositions appear skeptical and pessimistic. They employ skeptical reasoning to show our lack of insight into, and control over, our own happiness. On the other hand, details in the compositions support opposed ironic readings, on which philosophical reflection plays a crucial role in the happiness of at least some individuals. Though this more optimistic, ironic reading clashes with a literal reading of large parts of both texts, it is significantly strengthened by comparison with both authors’ other writings.

Can we adjudicate between these two readings? Which of the two stands out more prominently likely depends on the “humour and inclination” of the reader – a point familiar from the surface-layer, skeptical argumentation of both compositions. Readers who admire Sor Juana or Hume for their intellectual humility and realism about human frailty may incline toward the surface-layer reading, whereas those more attracted to Sor Juana or Hume’s wit, rhetorical prowess, or lives of study may be more open to the ironic reading. But is one reading either author’s considered view?

It is possible that both are. If that is so, the authors employ complex irony: Simultaneously meaning what one says and something contrary to it.^[37] This is what Adriana Clavel-Vázquez and Sergio Gallegos Ordorica find in Sor Juana’s work. Their focus is on complex irony in the Respuesta.^[38] But they apply the point to the ballad as well, saying: “the poem exemplifies not only irony […] but complex irony since Sor Juana means in the poem both what she says (disparaging ‘learning’ when it is manifested as an unbridled drive) and the opposite of it (praising ‘learning’ when it involves acknowledging the limits of one’s capacities or, in her words, learning ‘not to know’)” (Clavel-Vázquez and Gallegos Ordorica 2023, 485–486).

I agree with the general gist of Clavel-Vázquez and Gallegos Ordorica’s reading. But I would not call it complex irony. The kind of learning which they have Sor Juana disparage differs from the kind of learning which they have her praise. And so the disparaging and the praise, having different objects, are not contrary. If Clavel-Vázquez and Gallegos Ordorica properly characterize Sor Juana’s true position, then any irony in it would have to be, as it were, more complex than complex irony. It cannot just be meaning what one says and the opposite. It would instead be meaning neither what one says nor the opposite, but rather something else – something in between. This is an instance of layered irony. Neither the surface layer nor the first layer of irony is straightforwardly meant. But suggesting and blocking both functions to convey yet a further meaning.

To make our way to this view, it is helpful to focus on the middle of Sor Juana’s poem, which, in contrast to the pessimistic beginning and end, explicitly takes a more neutral view on knowledge and its instruments. Here, she writes of reason as something that can be used for good or ill and for offense or defense:

Sor Juana does not clarify whether all offensive use of our discursive blade must result in evil. For all she says, even highly destructive skeptical argumentation may be put to a good cause. What Sor Juana does say is this: reason is in itself innocent; only we are to blame for any evil that comes from its misuse.

The possibility of misuse requires possible proper usage. Sor Juana acknowledges the proper use of reason when she says that “true knowledge consists only in / choosing what is salutary” (B2 71–72). The contrast is “knowing how to create subtle, / specious reasons.” That, she claims, is “not knowledge” really (B2 68–69). Talk of “creating” reasons recalls the poem’s earlier complaint that “a proof is found for everything” (B2 41–42) – that is, every person flatters her own peculiar temperament with rationalizations. Such an excess of reasons clouds our judgment, obscuring what is really salutary for us.

Reasoning may also be “subtle” or “specious” from an excess of ambition. Sor Juana makes this point using imagery of flight:

Our unrestrained desire for knowledge tempts us to consider lofty topics which may be beyond our capacity. Such inquiries are likely to founder quickly, leaving us disappointed. Sor Juana makes this point in Sonnet 205: “all our human knowledge, dim and slow, / lay in darkness without our mortal feathers / able to be, in proud and boastful flight, / another Icarus of reasoned discourse” (S205 9–12, OC 1:447). We would not set flight, if we realized how soon we must plummet.

Tarrying too long amongst superlunary forms also makes us susceptible to illusion:

Without worldly friction, we cannot tell true from false. Our attention is diverted by mere curiosities and novelties. Discourse becomes a game, an indulgence, an opportunity for ostentation in which reasons multiply. Soon enough, we forget our humility and want to become omniscient, as does the dreamer of Sor Juana’s First Dream before she is disillusioned by her “inability to grasp in only one intuitive act all of creation” (FD 506–507, OC 1:514). But such desire is uncomely in mere mortals. Hence, Sor Juana asks:

We need not revert to the pessimistic surface-layer reading to understand Sor Juana’s rhetorical point here. She is not suggesting that the desire to know can only hinder, never aid in, our flourishing. Rather, she questions the degree to which we desire to know. The desire becomes problematic if it leads to overindulgence – a reason “fed and fattened.” Hence, the ballad’s summary heading portrays “excess” as the main theme: “She acknowledges the excesses of a good deal of erudition, which she fears is useless even to learning and injurious to living.” This theme is illustrated by the central image of overgrown plants:

Excess is a problem of degree, of too much of something which would be healthful in smaller amounts. It is because the “thickly leafed tree” has such great vitality that it grows too many branches for an ideal crop of fruit. Likewise, the impulse to learn is healthy but, when excessive, produces at best barren polymathy. Proper cultivation of human temperament, like proper cultivation of plants, requires regular pruning.

That is something the skeptical reasoning at the surface of the poem is itself good for. It underscores the futility, even counterproductivity, of the overuse of reason. But, as a highly destructive use of reasoning which slides easily into excessive melancholy, it is itself in need of pruning. We can get this pruning from the first layer of irony, which celebrates the ecstasies of learning, reminding us of its value for living. But this enthusiasm, too, requires restraint if we are to avoid returning to precipitous heights. We may then resort back to the surface. But amidst the oscillation the poem offers a third message: We need a balance – a properly proportioned desire to know.

The ballad conveys this third message using layered irony insofar as the message is contrary to both the surface layer and the first layer of irony. Against the surface layer, it claims that, for some people, knowledge is essential to happiness. Against the first ironic layer, it claims that the pleasure of reflection is not reason enough to reason, since indulgence leads to idle play or bitterness. The ballad, as Shapiro aptly puts it, “temper[s] our natural desire to pursue knowledge” (Shapiro 2022, 99).^[39] But it manages to do so to the right degree by also tempering excess in our attempts at tempering this desire. It offers an elaborate system of checks and balances for our desire to pursue knowledge.

We find a similar pattern in Hume. While he corrects his Sceptic’s exaggerated claims against the utility of philosophy for living well, he would likely agree with her criticism of philosophical enthusiasm. The Sceptic discusses a form of philosophical enthusiasm under the label “philosophical devotion,” which she advances as her primary example of a passion which is “not so steady or constant as others, nor convey[s] such durable pleasure and satisfaction.” While moved by such devotion, philosophers meditate upon “divinity” conceived of as “an abstract, invisible object.” But they cannot be moved for long, she claims. For the passion, “like the enthusiasm of a poet, is the transitory effect of high spirits,” and will soon dissipate, lacking the support of a vivid image of its object (Sc 23, Mil 167). In the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, Hume puts a similar point in the mouth of Cleanthes, who directs it towards Stoics and Pyrrhonists. Noting that both of these difficult, often unnatural philosophies come naturally only in “some dispositions,” and require the force of enthusiasm to be sustained more widely, Cleanthes asks: “how shall [the philosopher] support this enthusiasm itself? The bent of his mind relaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure: Avocations lead him astray: Misfortunes attack him unawares: And the philosopher sinks by degrees into the plebeian” (DNR 1.7, 133).

Elsewhere, Hume implies that attempts to practice such philosophies universally involve denial of one’s humanity. Such denial is inherent in the overblown pretensions of Stoical philosophy to rise above the mortal realm, for instance. In the Natural History of Religion, Hume explains that the ancient Stoics pretended to godliness: “The Stoics bestowed many magnificent and even impious epithets on their sage; that he alone was rich, free, a king, and equal to the immortal gods.” This pretension led them to “join a philosophical enthusiasm to a religious superstition” and, like augurs, hear omens in “the language of rooks and ravens” (NHR 12.22, 74). But the gift of augury harms more than it helps. As Sor Juana’s ballad emphasizes, “examining bad omens / achieves nothing but the growth of / the bad through anticipation” (B2 74–76). Any perceived evil omen becomes self-fulfilling prophecy. Likewise, for Hume, Stoical attempts at inuring oneself to inevitable misfortunes, if not just inert, are prone to backfire. Hume seems to hold this view from personal experience. In a 1734 letter to an anonymous physician, he complains that his own attempt at “the Improvement of my Temper & Will” by “continually fortifying myself with reflections against Death, & Poverty, & Shame, & Pain, & all the other Calamities of Life […] serve[d] to little other Purpose, than to waste the Spirits.”^[40] Evidently, Hume realized how much harm these forced reflections had inflicted only after they “had already ruin’d my Health” (HL 1.14).

In pretending to esoteric insight such as augury, the ancient Stoic is comparable to the more commonplace enthusiast of Hume’s essay “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm.” The Stoic’s “enthusiasm,” like that of the false profit or crusading zealot, “arises from a presumptuous pride and confidence, thinks itself sufficiently qualified to approach the Divinity […and] even imagines itself actually to approach him by the way of contemplation and inward converse” (SE 6, Mil 76; cf. SE 3, Mil 74). A similar arrogant superhumanity pervades the Lucretian image of the Stoic sage that features in “The Stoic.” This sage – a veritable demigod – lives high in the “serene air” of “the temple of wisdom[, …] seated on a rock, above the rage of the fighting elements, and inaccessible to all the malice of man” (Sto 12, Mil 150). But, as the Sceptic rightly points out: “The air is too fine to breathe in, where it is above the winds and clouds of the atmosphere” (Sc 36, Mil 172). The necessities of mortal life destroy the illusion of the empyrean. Hume makes this point more mundanely (and more humorously) when, in the first Enquiry, he balks at the “ineffectual[ity]” of Stoic fortification for a person “lying under the racking pains of the gout” (EHU 8.34, SBN-Enq 101).

All these points bring out a grain of truth in the Sceptic’s often overly pessimistic assessment of philosophy’s utility. She, like Hume, recognizes that the practice of philosophy, however perfect, cannot secure everyone’s happiness in any condition. Instead, an overly “intense view” of philosophical ideas – be they Stoical or skeptical, focused on our godliness or our “manifold contradictions and imperfections” – produces at best melancholy (T 1.4.7.8, SBN 268). But a more moderate philosophical practice can improve the lives of those inclined to it. To be salutary, it must prescribe strands of thought in proper dosages – only “small tincture[s] of Pyrrhonism” (EHU 12.24, SBN-Enq 161, my emphasis), for instance. But, as even the Sceptic points out, a gentle and periodic application of “philosophy […] insensibly refines the temper, and it points out to us those dispositions which we should endeavour to attain, by a constant bent of mind, and by repeated habit” (Sc 33, Mil 171).

Like Sor Juana’s composition, Hume’s is best read as endorsing a balanced approach to the use of philosophy – one which indulges neither too much nor too little. This message is contrary to both the surface layer’s rejection of philosophy as useless or even harmful and the ironic reading, supported by the Sceptic’s own glaring oversights, that the Sceptic is to be universally mistrusted. For Hume, “a true sceptic will be diffident of his philosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction” (T 1.4.7.14, SBN 273). A “true sceptic,” then, will counterbalance his own pessimism by acknowledging the limits of this perspective, making some room for optimism. But he will also be sure to not exaggerate the counterbalance. The result of this layered irony is a form of moderation – a healthy balance.

5 Why Layered Irony?

I have argued that both Sor Juana’s ballad and Hume’s essay support three possible readings. First, both compositions feature skeptical reasoning against philosophy’s utility for improving one’s temper or happiness. Second, both invite a contrasting, ironic reading on which the compositions’ portrayal of philosophy as at best impotent and often harmful is not to be taken at face value, given the great pleasure some take in the practice of philosophy. On a third reading, both the explicit pessimism and hints of optimism are exaggerated. Philosophy can help make those inclined to it be happy, contra the surface-layer reading. But it does not do so whenever it promises pleasure, contra the first layer of irony. Rather, those who feel a strong desire to engage in philosophical speculation must keep their desire in check in order to avoid burnout and cynicism, on the one hand, and being dazzled into unconstrained dogmatism, on the other.

Attributing this moderate view about the role of philosophy in living well, I have argued, involves viewing the compositions as employing layered irony. Admittedly, some of the key evidence for the attribution derives from passages taken at face value. The ballad’s talk of a “true” and “salutary” knowledge (B2 71–72) and the Sceptic’s admitting that “philosophy” can “insensibly refine the temper” in certain specific and limited ways (Sc 29, Mil 169), for instance, straightforwardly express versions of the moderate view that I find in both compositions. These passages need not – indeed should not – be read as employing irony, if they are to support my reading. That can seem to make my appeal to irony idle. Have I just argued for the most consistent reading of both compositions without the aid of irony?

We can address this concern by noting that the attribution of a moderate and nuanced view is hard to sustain if the whole of either composition is read at face value. Indeed, I think large swaths – the majority – of both cannot be taken literally if the attribution is to stick. Their repeated, starkly negative conclusions about the role of philosophy for living well are directly at odds with the idea that philosophy can, in the right conditions, meaningfully improve the temper. To be clear, it would be an abuse of both terms and texts to take any claim which is inconsistent with a text’s more considered message as grounds for attributing irony. Some inconsistencies should be written off as stray errors or exaggerations. Others can be shown to be merely apparent through appeal to suppressed distinctions or differences in context. But the pessimism on the surface layer of the ballad and essay cannot be treated in either manner. It is too prevalent and too systematically developed to be considered either accidental misrepresentation or consistent with the more moderate view that also appears in both compositions, though more rarely and largely submerged. Irony must be in play.

But why layered irony? Both the second and third readings view Sor Juana and Hume as meaning something contrary to the skeptical reasoning and pessimistic conclusions which form the bulk of both compositions, taken literally. After all, layered irony is a kind of irony – it is a literary device in which one means something other than what one’s words literally express. But the two ironic readings are worth distinguishing in terms of the structural complexity they attribute to the compositions. Doing so clarifies that the most easily forthcoming ironic reading is not the only, or final, one. That reading is one on which learning is conducive to happiness whenever it brings pleasure. Neither Sor Juana nor Hume think this is so, however, as made clear by their criticisms of philosophical enthusiasm. These criticisms block the first ironic readings, even while other parts of the texts suggest that reading. The simpler ironic message must be rejected, too, if we are to arrive at a more accurate, coherent, and stable reading.

The compositions’ use of layered irony raises a question about authorial intent: why might Sor Juana or Hume have chosen to employ such a technique? If their goal was to convey certain ideas to their readers, we might have expected them to be forthcoming about what those ideas are. Instead, the ideas come cloaked in several layers of subterfuge. Many common reasons to use irony are lacking. Irony is often used to vent or shame one’s audience.^[41] But Sor Juana and Hume have no need for that here. Elsewhere, both use irony self-protectively – for example, to disseminate criticisms of patriarchal or religious authority without overtly owning them.^[42] But, in the compositions at hand, the ironic construction threatens to make the compositions appear more skeptical, and so more vulnerable to contemporary vitriol, than they in fact are.^[43] So, again, what could our two philosophers have hoped to gain by employing layered irony?

Layered irony has at least four advantages – two general, and two specific to the subject matter of the compositions.

First, layered irony can encourage intellectual humility in sympathetic readers. Keeping the most considered message under wraps, yet providing clues, both demands and rewards patience. Readers who are willing to genuinely engage with a doubly ironic composition must consider and sift between multiple messages and layers of argumentation before determining what to think. The experience of reading such a composition can foster carefulness, toleration, and openness to alternative perspectives.^[44]

Second, layered irony is well-suited to conveying a moderate position. It does this by delivering more extreme positions on the surface layer and first layer of irony. When both the surface-layer message and most forthcoming ironic rejection of that message appear to a reader partially compelling and partially flawed, she is likely to gravitate toward a middle ground.^[45] An author may choose to persuade in this indirect way for several reasons. Perhaps arguments for and against the extremes are easier to develop or convey to a wide audience than an argument for the middle position, which may require more finesse from both parties. The author may also lack a full specification of the middle position.^[46] Or she may wish to offer the reader some latitude for determining its exact boundaries or conditions.

This second advantage invites a comparison between layered irony and Pyrrhonism. Like Pyrrhonian argument, layered irony produces the desired attitude in its audience by opposing contrasting positions. Unlike Pyrrhonian argument, the resulting attitude need not be suspension of judgment. It can instead be conviction in a moderate position. Still, that position is likely to be only loosely defined, leaving room for further inquiry about how, or even whether, it can be made more precise. In this regard, layered irony, like Pyrrhonism, leaves the audience in a state of continued investigation (see PH 1.7).

The dialectical method of certain Academic Skeptics like Cicero might then make for a more apt comparison. Like the Pyrrhonists, these Academic Skeptics also invoked multiple perspectives in order to combat dogmatism. But many such Academic Skeptics went on to affirm an emergent, more moderate position as probable.^[47] Layered irony can, I have argued, bring about the same sort of moderation. But instead of presenting competing voices successively, it collapses several layers of meaning into a single expression. If layered irony’s production of moderate views is dialectical, the dialectic must be recomposed by an attentive reader, who teases apart the layers of meaning and juxtaposes them.^[48]

These comparisons bring out a third advantage of layered irony – one that is specific to the subject matter of the compositions. In part because of its structural similarities with the methods of the Pyrrhonian and Academic traditions, layered irony is a suitable technique for reflecting on, exploiting, critiquing, and finessing skepticism. This is not to say that layered irony allows either Sor Juana or Hume to convey a simple verdict on the nature or proper function of skepticism. On the contrary, the complexity of the doubly ironic construction of their compositions helps convey the complexity of their attitudes about the use and abuse of skepticism. Sor Juana and Hume’s first layer of irony rejects the surface layer’s use of a skeptical method to draw overly pessimistic conclusions.^[49] But, by invoking a further layer of irony, both still employ, and so plausibly endorse, something akin to that skeptical method in their philosophical investigation; counterbalance between extremes helps to produce the intermediate position of their compositions. This second layer, somewhat ironically, partially vindicates the surface layer’s use of a skeptical method, insofar as it can function as counterbalance to philosophical enthusiasm.

Fourth, the compositions’ employing layered irony offers support for their moderate message about the potential for philosophical therapy. It does so by contributing to the compositions’ themselves functioning as philosophical therapy. Indeed, all three layers of the compositions offer messages which can be therapeutic to certain tempers; their messages can help correct overly pessimistic, optimistic, or simplistic attitudes towards philosophy’s utility. Someone who soars too high into dogmatic subtleties, or too violently affects to practice Stoic indifference, might benefit from taking up the skeptical perspective of the surface reading for a while. That could cool her enthusiasm for reflection, and do so through a currently accessible means – namely, reflection itself. But someone dejected by skeptical pessimism could use a forceful reminder that philosophy can be a great source of pleasure. The emotional force of this message is exactly the medicine for the disheartened misologist, who has temporarily turned against the “melancholy Thought” which has left her gloomy. The messages of the first two layers may not be as accurate or stable as that of the third. But by functioning as philosophical medicine, which works in different ways on different temperaments, these messages together provide evidence for the third. They do this by showing that philosophy has an important, even if limited, role in shifting the temper and producing or preserving human happiness. Understanding the compositions as employing layered irony then offers additional, metatextual evidence for attributing the moderate view of philosophy’s utility to them.

These four advantages help us to see the value of treating the topics of skepticism and philosophy’s utility in the surprisingly parallel ways that Sor Juana and Hume do. The availability of various readings, and the fact that different ones are likely to stand out to readers of different temperaments, increase the value of these philosophical compositions. They can resonate with and correct a greater variety of temperaments. Moreover, any overcorrections can be recorrected by that very same composition. A layered, polysemous text is well suited to improve a variety of temperaments, even if, in this case, one of its messages is the most stable, being supported by the text’s own function as medicine. It is in part because attributing layered irony explains the value of the compositions’ supporting multiple readings that I think it is the most plausible.

Acknowledging the role of polysemy in these compositions can seem to revive the complex irony reading advanced by Clavel-Vázquez and Gallegos Ordorica. They, too, emphasize that a text’s “exploiting the ambiguity” of its meaning something and simultaneously the contrary can contribute to its “pedagogical value” (Clavel-Vázquez and Gallegos Ordorica 2023, 481). It is likely that both Sor Juana and Hume intend the availability of the surface-layer reading and first layer of irony. But, in the end, neither composition means what either of those readings claim it does. Rather, as I have argued, the compositions give a moderate assessment of the role of philosophy in human life – one which contrasts with that of the two more forthcoming readings, yet is supported by the way in which considering either of those readings can contribute to a reader’s temperamental health.

Still, one may wonder whether readers of these compositions will find their way to the message which benefits their particular constitution. Are they not apt instead to attach to the message which flatters, and so worsens, their own temperamental imbalances (cf. B2 53–60; EHU 5.1, SBN-Enq 40)? This can of course happen, and denying its danger would oversell philosophy’s curative potential. But we should not blow the problem out of proportion, as the skeptical pessimism of the surface-layer reading would have us do. As we have already seen, the availability of ironic readings furnishes responses. Each composition nurtures doubts about philosophy’s utility, but offers patient readers reasons to move beyond them. By furnishing competing optimistic and moderate perspectives, it can help even the skeptically inclined make their way toward a more balanced view of philosophy itself.

But the question was: Will alternative readings be available to readers whose temperaments strongly favor only one? Again, it would be a distortion to suggest that they always or even regularly will be. But here it is significant that the two compositions are both finely written. Their elegance, careful construction, and tantalizing ambiguities make them immediately striking and easy to love. Their hints of depth and mystery motivate and reward repeated engagement.^[50] Layered irony plays no small role in their literary richness. Even the first indications of multiple layers convey that the compositions have more to offer to those willing to fully explore them. And, as with many artworks which we find ourselves returning to again and again, we are bound eventually to discover something new in them and find ourselves transformed by such a discovery. The literary appeal of the two compositions thus helps to open readers’ ears to their multiple messages. For this reason, layered irony pairs well with more literary forms of composition. Its various advantages may then motivate opting for more florid literary styles over the expository or argumentative ones most commonly associated with philosophical rigor. But the literary style of such compositions need not make them any less tightly constructed, persuasive, or deep – which is to say, not any less philosophical.

Hume tells us that a “true sceptic” will be one who maintains as much hesitance toward her doubts as she does toward her convictions. Hesitance toward doubts leaves room for conviction, now made more moderate by the moderate doubts. The polysemy of both compositions, created by multiple ironic reversals, helps to inculcate this balanced conviction. Though the compositions both begin their treatment by portraying skeptical thought as leading to excessive gloom, they break free from this gloom and reach a more balanced outlook on philosophy and happiness by letting multiple, competing voices speak. Using multiple voices to moderate or balance one another is, as we have observed, close to the Pyrrhonist and Academic Skeptic’s methods. In a final ironic twist, then, what looked like an idiosyncratic, literary critique of skepticism may instead be a deliberately constructed prescription for practicing skepticism well.