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Routledge History of Philosophy Vol III Medieval Philosophy - John Marenbon |
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Routledge History of Philosophy
Volume III
Volume III is devoted to the Middle Ages. It considers the rich traditions
of Arab, Jewish and Latin philosophy, which began to flourish in the
ninth century and continued, in the Latin West, until the early
seventeenth century. Among the philosophers treated in detail are
Avicenna and Averroes, Maimonides, Eriugena, Anselm, Abelard,
Grosseteste, Aquinas, Henry of Ghent, Duns Scotus, Peter Aureoli,
William of Ockham, Wyclif and Suárez. An introductory chapter
discusses Boethius, the late antique thinker who was enormously
influential in the medieval Latin West. Special attention has been given
to many lesser-known, but important figures in each period, as well as to
medieval logic and to the cultural context of medieval philosophy, both
in Islam and the Christian West.
This volume provides a comprehensive analysis of the main areas of
medieval philosophy by the experts in each field. It offers fresh
perspectives on a complex and rapidly changing area of research, in
which Arab and Jewish philosophy are considered in their own right,
rather than as sources for Latin thinkers, and the thirteenth century (the
time of Aquinas) is not viewed as dominating the earlier and later parts
of the period.
John Marenbon was educated at Westminster School and Trinity
College, Cambridge, where he is now a fellow. He is the author of
numerous books on medieval philosophy, including From the Circle of
Alcuin to the School of Auxerre (Cambridge 1991) and The Philosophy of
Peter Abelard (Cambridge 1997).
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Routledge History of Philosophy
General Editors—G.H.R.Parkinson
and S.G.Shanker
The Routledge History of Philosophy provides a chronological survey of
the history of Western philosophy, from its beginnings in the sixth
century BC to the present time. It discusses all major philosophical
developments in depth. Most space is allocated to those individuals who,
by common consent, are regarded as great philosophers. But lesser
figures have not been neglected, and together the ten volumes of the
History include basic and critical information about every significant
philosopher of the past and present. These philosophers are clearly
situated within the cultural and, in particular, the scientific context of
their time.
The History is intended not only for the specialist, but also for the
student and the general reader. Each chapter is by an acknowledged
authority in the field. The chapters are written in an accessible style and
a glossary of technical terms is provided in each volume.
I From the Beginning to Plato
C.C.W.Taylor (published 1997)
II Hellenistic and Late Antique
Philosophy
David Furley
III Medieval Philosophy
John Marenbon (published 1998)
IV The Renaissance and C17
Rationalism
G.H.R.Parkinson (published
1993)
V British Philosophy and the Age of
Enlightenment
Stuart Brown (published 1996)
VI The Age of German Idealism
Robert Solomon and Kathleen
Higgins (published 1993)
VII The Nineteenth Century
C.L.Ten (published 1994)
VIII Continental Philosophy in the C20
Richard Kearney (published
1993)
IX Philosophy of Science, Logic and
Mathematics in the C20
S.G.Shanker (published 1996)
X Philosophy of Meaning, Knowledge
and Value in the C20
John Canfield (published 1997)
Each volume contains 10–20 chapters by different contributors
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Routledge History of Philosophy
Volume III
Medieval Philosophy
EDITED BY
John Marenbon
London and New York
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First published 1998
by Routledge
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001
Selection and editorial matter © 1998 John Marenbon
Individual chapters © 1998 the contributors
John Marenbon has asserted his moral right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted
or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data
Medieval philosophy/edited by John Marenbon.
p. cm.—(Routledge history of philosophy; v. 3)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Philosophy, Medieval. I. Marenbon, John. II. Series.
B721.M453 1997
189–dc21
97–7483
ISBN 0-203-02846-5 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-05818-6 (Adobe eReader Format)
ISBN 0-415-05377-3 (Print Edition)
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Contents
General editors’ preface
vii
Notes on contributors
x
Acknowledgements
xiii
Abbreviations
xiv
Chronology
xv
Introduction
1
John Marenbon
1 Boethius: from antiquity to the Middle Ages
11
John Marenbon
2 From the beginnings to Avicenna
29
Jean Jolivet
3 Averroes
49
Alfred Ivry
4 Jewish philosophy
65
Colette Sirat
5 Philosophy and its background in the early medieval
West
96
Rosamond McKitterick and John Marenbon
6 John Scottus Eriugena and Anselm of Canterbury
120
Stephen Gersh
7 The twelfth century
150
John Marenbon
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CONTENTS
8 The intellectual context of later medieval philosophy:
universities, Aristotle, arts, theology
188
Stephen Brown
9 Metaphysics and science in the thirteenth century:
William of Auvergne, Robert Grosseteste and
Roger Bacon
204
Steven Marrone
10 Bonaventure, the German Dominicans and the new
translations
225
John Marenbon
11 Thomas Aquinas
241
Brian Davies OP
12 The Paris arts faculty: Siger of Brabant, Boethius of
Dacia, Radulphus Brito
269
Sten Ebbesen
13 Henry of Ghent and Duns Scotus
291
Stephen Dumont
14 Ockham’s world and future
329
Arthur Gibson
15 Walter Burley, Peter Aureoli and Gregory of Rimini
368
Stephen Brown
16 Paris and Oxford between Aureoli and Rimini
386
Chris Schabel
17 Late medieval logic
402
Paul Vincent Spade
18 Late medieval philosophy, 1350–1500
426
Zénon Kaluza
19 Suárez (and later scholasticism)
452
Jorge Gracia
Glossary
475
Index
486
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General editors’ preface
The history of philosophy, as its name implies, represents a union of
two very different disciplines, each of which imposes severe constraints
upon the other. As an exercise in the history of ideas, it demands that
one acquire a ‘period eye’: a thorough understanding of how the
thinkers whom it studies viewed the problems which they sought to
resolve, the conceptual frameworks in which they addressed these
issues, their assumptions and objectives, their blind spots and miscues.
But as an exercise in philosophy, we are engaged in much more than
simply a descriptive task. There is a crucial critical aspect to our
efforts: we are looking for the cogency as much as the development of
an argument, for its bearing on questions which continue to preoccupy
us as much as the impact which it may have had on the evolution of
philosophical thought.
The history of philosophy thus requires a delicate balancing act from
its practitioners. We read these writings with the full benefit of
historical hindsight. We can see why the minor contributions remained
minor and where the grand systems broke down: sometimes as a result
of internal pressures, sometimes because of a failure to overcome an
insuperable obstacle, sometimes because of a dramatic technological or
sociological change and, quite often, because of nothing more than a
shift in intellectual fashion or interests. Yet, because of our continuing
philosophical concern with many of the same problems, we cannot
afford to look dispassionately at these works. We want to know what
lessons are to be learnt from the inconsequential or the glorious
failures; many times we want to plead for a contemporary relevance in
the overlooked theory or to reconsider whether the ‘glorious failure’
was indeed such or simply ahead of its time: perhaps even ahead of its
author.
We find ourselves, therefore, much like the mythical ‘radical
translator’ who has so fascinated modern philosophers, trying to
understand an author’s ideas in his and his culture’s eyes, and at the
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GENERAL EDITORS’ PREFACE
same time, in our own. It can be a formidable task. Many times we fail
in the historical undertaking because our philosophical interests are so
strong, or lose sight of the latter because we are so enthralled by the
former. But the nature of philosophy is such that we are compelled to
master both techniques. For learning about the history of philosophy is
not just a challenging and engaging pastime: it is an essential element
in learning about the nature of philosophy—in grasping how
philosophy is intimately connected with and yet distinct from both
history and science.
The Routledge History of Philosophy provides a chronological survey
of the history of Western philosophy, from its beginnings up to the
present time. Its aim is to discuss all major philosophical developments
in depth, and with this in mind, most space has been allocated to those
individuals who, by common consent, are regarded as great
philosophers. But lesser figures have not been neglected, and it is hoped
that the reader will be able to find, in the ten volumes of the History, at
least basic information about any significant philosopher of the past or
present.
Philosophical thinking does not occur in isolation from other human
activities, and this History tries to situate philosophers within the
cultural, and in particular the scientific, context or their time. Some
philosophers, indeed, would regard philosophy as merely ancillary to the
natural sciences; but even if this view is rejected, it can hardly be denied
that the sciences have had a great influence on what is now regarded as
philosophy, and it is important that this influence should be set forth
clearly. Not that these volumes are intended to provide a mere record of
the factors that influenced philosophical thinking; philosophy is a
discipline with its own standards of argument, and the presentation of
the ways in which these arguments have developed is the main concern
of this History.
In speaking of ‘what is now regarded as philosophy’, we may have
given the impression that there now exists a single view of what
philosophy is. This is certainly not the case; on the contrary, there exist
serious differences of opinion, among those who call themselves
philosophers, about the nature of their subject. These differences are
reflected in the existence at the present time of two main schools of
thought, usually described as ‘analytic’ and ‘continental’ philosophy. It is
not our intention, as general editors of this History, to take sides in this
dispute. Our attitude is one of tolerance, and our hope is that these
volumes will contribute to an understanding of how philosophers have
reached the positions which they now occupy.
One final comment. Philosophy has long been a highly technical
subject, with its own specialized vocabulary. This History is intended not
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GENERAL EDITORS’ PREFACE
only for the specialist but also for the general reader. To this end, we have
tried to ensure that each chapter is written in an accessible style; and since
technicalities are unavoidable, a glossary of technical terms is provided in
each volume. In this way these volumes will, we hope, contribute to a
wider understanding of a subject which is of the highest importance to all
thinking people.
G.H.R.Parkinson
S.G.Shanker
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Notes on contributors
Stephen Brown (Boston College, Mass.) works mainly on the history of
philosophy and theology in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.
His many publications include studies and editions of William of Ockham
and Walter Burley.
Brian Davies OP (Fordham University, New York) works mainly on the
philosophy of religion and medieval philosophy. His books include The
Thought of Thomas Aquinas (1992) and An Introduction to the
Philosophy of Religion (2nd edn, 1993).
Stephen Dumont (University of Toronto) works especially on Duns Scotus
and has published many articles on him.
Sten Ebbesen (Institute for Greek and Latin, Copenhagen University)
works on a wide area of medieval Latin and Greek philosophy, with a
special interest in logic and the Parisian arts masters. His publications
include Commentators and Commentaries on Aristotle’s ‘Sophistici
Elenchi’ (1981) and many editions of logical texts.
Stephen Gersh (Medieval Institute, University of Notre Dame) works
especially on the Platonic tradition in late ancient and early medieval
philosophy. His books include From Iamblichus to Eriugena (1978) and
Concord in Discourse: Harmony and Semiotics in Late Classical and Early
Mediaeval Platonism (1996).
Arthur Gibson (Roehampton Institute) has interests stretching over a
wide area of modern philosophy and the history of philosophy and
logic. His publications include Biblical Semantic Logic: A Preliminary
Analysis (1981).
Jorge Gracia (Fordham University, New York) has worked especially
on the theory of individuation and its history in the early and late
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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Middle Ages, Suárez and also on modern Latin American philosophy.
His publications include Introduction to the Problem of Individuation
in the Early Middle Ages (1984) and, as editor, Individuation in
Scholasticism: The Later Middle Ages and the Counter-Reformation
(1150–1650) (1994).
Alfred Ivry (New York University) specializes in medieval Jewish and
Islamic philosophy. His publications include an edition of Moses
Narboni’s Treatise on the Perfection of the Soul and of Averroes’ Middle
Commentary on Aristotle’s On the Soul.
Jean Jolivet (Ecole pratique des hautes études, Paris) writes both on Latin
philosophy from the ninth to twelfth centuries, and on Islamic
philosophy. Among his many books are Arts du langage et théologie chez
Abélard (1969), L’Intellect selon Kindi (1975) and, as editor, Multiple
Averroes (1978).
Zénon Kaluza (Ecole pratique des hautes études, Paris) specializes in late
medieval philosophy in the Latin West. His publications include Les
querelles doctrinales à Paris: Nominalistes et réalistes aux confins du XIVe
et XVe siècles (1988), ‘Nicolas d’Autrécourt’ and numerous articles.
John Marenbon (Trinity College, Cambridge) works on medieval
philosophy. His most recent publication is The Philosophy of Peter
Abelard (1997).
Steven Marrone (Tufts University) works especially on thirteenth-
century philosophers and theologians and their attitudes to scientific
method. His books include William of Auvergne and Robert
Grosseteste: New Ideas of Truth in the Early Thirteenth Century
(1983) and Truth and Scientific Knowledge in the Thought of Henry of
Ghent (1985).
Rosamond McKitterick (University of Cambridge) specializes in the
history of culture, manuscripts and literacy in early medieval Europe.
Her many publications include The Carolingians and the Written
Word (1989) and, as editor, Carolingian Culture: Emulation and
Innovation (1993).
Chris Schabel (University of Cyprus) specializes in philosophical theology
of the later Middle Ages. His publications include a study, with texts, of
the quarrel over future contingents involving Peter de Rivo in fifteenth-
century Louvain (1995–6).
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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Colette Sirat (Paris, Ecole pratique des hautes études) is a specialist in
medieval Jewish philosophy as well as a leading palaeographer. Her
publications included A History of Jewish Philosophy in the Middle
Ages (1985).
Paul Vincent Spade (Indiana University) has worked extensively on later
medieval logic. Besides many articles and editions of logical texts, he has
published translations of William Heytesbury on insolubles (1979), of
texts on the problem of universals (1994) and a catalogue of Insolubilia
literature (1975).
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Acknowledgements
I am most grateful for the patience of the contributors, many of whom had
to wait for far longer than they would have expected for the whole volume
to be ready. Chris Schabel and Arthur Gibson rescued the whole enterprise
when they agreed to step in at very short notice to provide a replacement
for two chapters promised by a scholar who eventually was unable to
supply them. Richard Stoneman has been a tolerant and encouraging
editor throughout the whole project, and Harry Parkinson, one of the
general editors of the Routledge History of Philosophy, provided a draft
on which I based the Chronological chart. Laura Pieters Cordy has helped
throughout with scanning and setting out complex material, and I have
been most fortunate to have in Mary Dortch a scrupulously intelligent
copy editor, undaunted by the challenge of so many different authors,
styles and even languages.
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Abbreviations
AL
BGPTMA
CC c.m.
CHLMP
CHRP
CIMAGL
MPL
PIMSST
SIEPM
Aristoteles Latinus (various publishers), 1939–
Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des
Mittelalters
Corpus Christianorum continuatio medievalis
The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy, ed.
A.Kenny, N.Kretzmann and J.Pinborg, Cambridge, 1982
The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy, ed. C.
B.Schmitt et al., Cambridge, 1988
Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen Âge grec et latin (a journal
printing a large number of relevant texts)
J.-P.Migne, Patrologia Latina
Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Studies and Texts
Société Internationale pour l’étude de la philosophie
médiévale
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Chronology
This chronology runs from the birth of Boethius, the first author treated
in the volume, to shortly after the death of Suárez, in the early
seventeenth century. No attempt, however, has been made to treat the
fifteenth, sixteenth or early seventeenth centuries in any detail (a more
detailed chronology for this period will be found in Volume IV), but
merely to indicate the chronological position of the latest writers in the
medieval tradition and their relation to some of the most important
writers in other, contemporaneous traditions. A (?) indicates that a date
is approximate.
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Introduction
John Marenbon
Medieval philosophy, the subject of this volume, is a distinct tradition
within the history of Western philosophy. Its four sub-traditions are
‘Arab’ philosophy—which took place in Islamic lands and was written
usually in Arabic, though sometimes in Persian; ‘Jewish’ philosophy—
the work of Jews in Islamic and Christian countries, written in Arabic
or Hebrew; ‘Latin’ philosophy—produced in the countries of Christian
Europe where Latin was the main language of higher learning and
usually, though not always, written in Latin; and (of rather less
importance) ‘Byzantine’ philosophy—written in Greek in the Christian
empire of Byzantium. Medieval Arab philosophy begins with the first
philosophical writings in Arabic in the ninth century; it ends, as a
tradition of importance, with the death of Ibn Rushd (Averroes) in
1198, after which growing religious intolerance scarcely permitted the
practice of philosophy as it had been known. Medieval Jewish
philosophy begins in Islam not long after the Arab tradition, with which
it is closely connected. It went on to flourish also in the Jewish colonies
of Christian Europe and declined in the fifteenth century. Philosophy
in the medieval Latin West begins in the late eighth century, at the
court of Charlemagne. The tradition has no clear chronological end
point and its final centuries coincide in time with the different, though
related, tradition usually described as ‘Renaissance philosophy’.
Fifteenth- and sixteenth-century universities continued to produce
philosophical work firmly in the medieval tradition (often, indeed,
consciously restating the ideas of one or another great master of the
thirteenth or fourteenth century), and in late sixteenth- and early
seventeenth-century Spain there was a flowering of philosophy which,
though with differences of emphasis, is distinctively medieval in its
sources, techniques and concerns. In Byzantium, it is hard to place any
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
but an arbitrary boundary between late ancient Neoplatonism and
medieval Greek philosophy. The tradition was brought to a clear end,
however, when Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453.
Why, though, speak of a single, distinct tradition of ‘medieval
philosophy’ when four different traditions, developed in different
languages and cultures, appear to be involved? And why include works
written in Persia and the Middle East, in non-European languages, in
the history of Western philosophy? These seem difficult questions, but
the answer is simple (although it is wrong to use the description ‘Western
philosophy’ in a cavalier way: the importance of works in Arabic for
medieval philosophy should make historians ask how Western ‘Western
philosophy’ is1). The four traditions are interlinked so closely that,
whilst their differences are important, they are best understood as a
whole. First, all use a common heritage of ancient Greek philosophy,
especially that practised in the Neoplatonic schools of late antiquity,
although with a greater emphasis on the complete works, rather than
just the logic, of Aristotle. Second, in their development, the traditions
are interconnected. Medieval Jewish philosophers were deeply
influenced by the Arab thinkers they read, and translations of Arabic
writing transformed the study of philosophy in the Latin West from
the late twelfth century onwards. The Byzantine tradition was less open,
although there were some translations from Latin into Greek late in
the Middle Ages. Third, all four traditions belong to cultures dominated
by a monotheistic, revealed religion: Islam, Judaism or Christianity.
Although the relations between religious doctrine and philosophical
speculation varied both from one tradition to another, and at different
periods within each tradition, the questions posed and constraints
exercised by revelation were similar in all three religions and exercised
a profound influence on the philosophical work produced within their
ambit.
It is this third feature—its close connection with revealed religion—
which, more than anything else, explains a final, extrinsic characteristic
which applies to the medieval tradition of philosophy as a whole: its
comparative neglect. The Routledge History of Philosophy itself
provides an illustration. This volume, devoted to the Middle Ages,
must consider roughly twice the length of time covered by the following
seven volumes, dealing with Renaissance and modern philosophy. But
the allocation of space to medieval philosophy by the general editors
is, none the less, unusually generous by the standards usually accepted
today. The more common estimation of the Middle Ages among
professional philosophers is indicated by a recent, and in most other
respects excellent, textbook designed to introduce students both to
philosophy as it is practised today, and to the history of philosophy.
The editor explains to his readers that:
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INTRODUCTION
For a very long period—roughly from the fourth to the
seventeenth centuries AD—thought in the West was
dominated by Christianity. This does not mean that there
was no philosophy; far from it; but much of it served
theology or at least (except in such cases as logic) it was
constrained by theological considerations.2
Medieval (and Renaissance) philosophy is, apparently in consequence,
eliminated from the book entirely, except for a fleeting reference to
Aquinas. The historical section jumps from the Greeks to Descartes
without further comment.
The historiography of medieval philosophy (especially medieval Latin
philosophy, which has dominated historians’ attention) can be seen as
a series of reactions and counter-reactions to the dismissive approach
to the area illustrated here in a modern and extreme form, but
widespread in many variations, at least since the eighteenth century.3
The earliest serious historians of medieval philosophy, in the nineteenth
century (such as Victor Cousin and Barthélemy Hauréau) were willing
to concede the principle on which the dismissive approach, adopted
by those who would ignore medieval philosophy altogether, was
founded. The dominance of Christianity and its influence on the thought
of philosophers was, they granted, a grave defect in medieval
philosophy; but not so grave that the period was without interest.
Cousin, for instance, argued that in the Middle Ages ecclesiastical
authority was absolute and medieval philosophy—‘scholasticism’ as
he called it—was used ‘in the service of faith, under the aegis of religious
authority: it moved within a circle that was not of its own devising,
but had been imposed on it by an authority other than its own’ ([Intr.
1] 28). Yet philosophy still retained something of its own nature, and
Cousin believed that even medieval scholasticism took the four forms
he found in each epoch of philosophy: idealism, sensualism, scepticism
and mysticism. The approach produced richer results than its apologetic
tone would seem to promise, aided perhaps by Cousin’s belief in a
clear, though non-linear, development of philosophy from antiquity to
his own day.
From the late nineteenth century until nearly the present, however,
most work on medieval philosophy has been carried out from a very
different point of view.4 Historians strongly committed to orthodox
Catholicism, many of them in holy orders, were quick to build on a
long tradition of medieval scholarship within the Church (especially
among religious) and take up the new interest in medieval philosophy.
Understandably, however, they were opposed to the approach followed
by Cousin and other ‘rationalist’ historians (as they described them).
Yet they did not, as might have been expected, counter it by arguing
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
that the influence of revealed religion on medieval philosophy was not
cramping, but beneficial. Rather, they insisted that the great medieval
thinkers (pre-eminently, Thomas Aquinas) recognized a distinction
between philosophy and theology. They were, indeed, great theologians;
but they were also great philosophers, who elaborated rational systems
of philosophy independent of revelation. It is, they argued, the job of
the historian of medieval philosophy to isolate and explain these
philosophical systems. Part of the stimulus behind this approach may
well have been provided by the problem which many Catholic thinkers
and churchmen in the late nineteenth and earlier twentieth century
believed modern philosophical movements posed for them. They saw
most contemporary philosophy as hostile to the claims of religion and
hoped to find in medieval thinkers a system which could be set against
the current schools of thought. For this purpose, it was essential that,
although scholastic philosophy should be fully compatible with
Christian doctrine and lead naturally towards it, it should also be
recognized as a fully independent philosophy, separable from revealed
doctrine and able to compete on equal terms with other schools of
thought. The advantage of this approach is that it brought an interest
to medieval thinkers which was neither condescending nor merely
antiquarian. Its disadvantage is that the distinction between philosophy
and theology in the Middle Ages (even just in the Latin tradition) was
neither clear-cut nor undisputed nor unchanging, and that the modern
scholastic philosophy elaborated on the basis of medieval models is
intellectually feeble.5
In recent decades, three trends have been particularly important in
shaping approaches to medieval philosophy. All areas of medieval study
have become more and more professional, and there has been an
increasing emphasis on the need for research on the raw material of
medieval scholarship: the large, still in many parts unexplored
collections of manuscripts in libraries throughout Europe. So much
remained, and remains, to be done in the way of editing works of
medieval philosophy, studying their diffusion, establishing chronologies
and tracing influences that many scholars have devoted their careers
to this type of work. What they achieve, so long as they are technically
competent, is of enormous value; indeed, a good edition is likely to go
on being used and appreciated long after the best of interpretative studies
have been left to gather dust. There is, however, a tendency among
some scholars to see these sort of tasks as constituting the main business
of historians of medieval philosophy. Once the manuscripts have been
studied and edited most of the historian’s work, they feel, has been
done: it remains only to present the medieval philosopher’s thoughts
in terms as close as possible to his own; any attempt at deeper analysis
or, God forbid, criticism is disparaged as ‘unhistorical’. In this way, the
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INTRODUCTION
pursuit of scholarly goals, so valuable in itself, is made to obstruct the
understanding of medieval philosophy.
This emphasis on technical historical and editorial scholarship occurs
mostly among scholars who regard themselves primarily as medievalists
(and often belong to history or to literary faculties in universities). A
very different trend is to be found among the scholars of medieval
philosophy in the philosophy faculties of universities in Britain, North
America and Australasia. Whereas medieval philosophy has usually
had a place in philosophy courses in continental Europe, up until the
1950s it was almost entirely ignored by English-speaking analytical
philosophers, working in the tradition of Frege and Russell. Then a
number of pioneers—medievalists who had taught themselves logic,
such as Ernest Moody; logicians with medieval interests, such as Peter
Geach and Arthur Prior—began to point out the remarkable parallels
between modern and medieval logic.6 Many of the medieval logicians’
ideas could be clarified by using modern symbolic logic to describe
them, and it became apparent that in some fields they had anticipated
the discoveries of the twentieth century. More broadly, the highly
technical, unrhetorical, logically-based manner of addressing
philosophical issues in the medieval universities—which had often been
another cause of neglect—was seen to be uncannily close to the methods
of the twentieth-century analytical school. Since the 1960s or 1970s a
group of philosophers, mainly in North America, led by Norman
Kretzmann, have brought the interests, technical training and clarity
of the analytical method to bear on a range of mostly thirteenth- and
fourteenth-century philosophy and, especially, logic. The Cambridge
History of Later Medieval Philosophy, edited by Kretzmann, Jan
Pinborg and Anthony Kenny (whose career has combined original work
in modern philosophy with studies of ancient and medieval
philosophers), is both a manifesto of this approach, and a monument
to its achievements in the years up until 1982.7 It remains the single
most important modern book on medieval philosophy.
The ‘analytic’ approach to medieval philosophy championed by these
scholars searches for passages of philosophical interest in medieval
works, extracting them where necessary from their wider theological
or other context. The aim is to set out as clearly as possible the
arguments used by medieval philosophers, especially where they relate
to concerns shared by modern philosophers, and to examine them
critically, in much the same way as a philosopher now would examine
the arguments of one of his contemporaries. The great success of this
method is that it enables the medieval philosophers to be understood.
Understanding a philosophical argument or position involves being
able to explain the claims it makes and the distinctions it involves, and
being able to see what would count as an argument against it. Most
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non-analytical discussions of medieval philosophy fail to do this, both
from lack of close attention to the stages of each argument and from
the decision not to attempt translation of medieval terms into modern
ones, which we now can meaningfully manipulate in our reasoning. In
this sense, the analytical method sets a standard which any conscientious
student of medieval philosophy should emulate: to retreat from its
demands is to seek refuge in antiquarian obscurantism.
None the less, there is reason to doubt that the analytical method,
without further development and change, provides the path which will
lead medieval philosophy, as the editors of the Cambridge History
hoped ([Intr. 8] 3), from the ‘philosophical ghetto’ and make its study
‘intellectually continuous’ with the activity of contemporary philosophy.
Despite the impression to the contrary that the last two paragraphs
might have engendered, the study of medieval philosophy is not
flourishing in English-speaking philosophy departments. Its exponents
there are few and thinly spread. For most students of philosophy, and
professional philosophers, medieval philosophy is a non-subject, while
medieval historians continue to approach philosophical texts in
ignorance of the analytical method or hostility to it. The failure of the
analytical approach to medieval philosophy to win many converts may
be blamed partly on academic narrow-mindedness, but partly it must
be traced to the nature of its results. Although the analytical approach
has made a number of medieval arguments and positions
comprehensible, it has done little to show why it is worth studying and
understanding them. At best, the medieval authors are demonstrated
to have anticipated modern discoveries. More often, their arguments,
although ingenious, are exposed as flawed. The analysts are, indeed,
eager to emphasize, despite these results, the greatness of the best
medieval philosophers as philosophers, but philosophy students, even
if convinced by these protestations, might be excused for preferring to
study other great philosophers of the past, whose overall positions
link up more obviously with modern concerns, whilst historians will
be left puzzled about what exactly all this detailed scrutinizing of
argument and counter-argument is supposed to have revealed. At the
root of the problem is the way in which the analytical approach strips
away the context of medieval discussions and pays scant regard to the
overall aims and presuppositions of the writers, in order to isolate a
core of philosophical argument. Yet, it might be thought, its exponents
have no alternative. Whereas the wider contexts of early modern and,
strangely, ancient philosophical arguments have strong connections with
modern concerns, the contexts of the medieval arguments—very often
theological—seem irremediably strange and foreign to present-day
concerns. This judgement, however, is too swift. The wider contexts of
medieval philosophical arguments need to be grasped thoroughly and
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INTRODUCTION
in their relation to general problems and tensions in medieval culture,
rather than seen superficially and in isolation. Then their interest, and
their connections with modern concerns, will emerge.
A third trend, evident in the work of some of the leading scholars of
medieval philosophy in Europe (such as Kurt Flasch, Alain de Libera,
Ruedi Imbach and Burkhard Mojsisch),8 shows just such a willingness
to explore and explain the wider contexts of medieval philosophy. Each
of these scholars has concentrated especially on areas which have
traditionally been thought marginal to medieval philosophy: the
Platonic tradition which flourished in late thirteenth- and fourteenth-
century Germany, philosophical works written for or by laymen,
philosophical writing in the vernacular by figures such as Dante and
Eckhart. Their claim is not merely that this material deserves attention,
but also that it helps to provide a new picture of the underlying concerns
and aims, and of the range, of medieval philosophy.
This volume does not seek to represent any one method of treating
medieval philosophy. Its contributors were chosen because of their
specialist knowledge of the individual areas they discuss, and also with
the aim of producing a book which would not follow a single approach
to the area, but show something of the diversity of approaches now
current. The various approaches have, however, been carefully matched
to the subject-matter, so as to provide different points of entry to the
subject for readers from different academic backgrounds. To take just
the most striking examples. Later medieval logic and the work of
Ockham are the two areas of medieval philosophy with the most
obvious links with modern analytical philosophy. The chapters devoted
to them (17 and 14) have been written by scholars able to bring out
and explain these links; readers from an analytical background might
wish to begin here. In his chapter on Eriugena and Anselm (6), Stephen
Gersh has drawn on a different strand of modern philosophy, the
semiotic theories originating in France. These theories are not to
everyone’s taste (Gersh himself makes clear how distant his own
approach is from the editor’s!), but Eriugena’s work, especially, raises
questions about reading, interpretation and polysemy, which are now
of wide interest and have rarely been recognized in medieval philosophy.
Latin philosophy of the early Middle Ages is often anonymous and
needs to be studied not just by looking at individual texts and authors,
but also by a careful examination of the manuscript evidence of teaching
and learning. Rosamund McKitterick brings a manuscript specialist’s
attention to this area. Readers with a historical background may find
her chapter (5) a good starting place or, if they are interested in broader
questions about the relation between religion and the transmission of
culture, they might look to the chapter on Boethius (1), or that by Jean
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Jolivet on earlier Arab philosophy (2) or by Zénon Kaluza on late
medieval philosophy (18). The general reader, unsure perhaps whether
or not medieval philosophy has anything at all to offer, could not do
better than begin with the chapter (11) on the most celebrated medieval
thinker of all, Aquinas, where Brian Davies brings out, in simple, non-
technical terms, some of the themes in his work which are still important
today.
The chapters of this volume may, then, be taken individually, as
essays in different styles on various, related (and chronologically
ordered) subjects. But there is also a way in which this volume should
be seen and used as a whole. Both those coming new to medieval
philosophy, and those already familiar with the area, need a
chronological and geographical/linguistic map of the subject. This
volume offers a map of the subject as it is seen now by specialists—and
it is a map strikingly different in two ways from that offered by existing
general histories of medieval philosophy in English.9 First, most histories
treat Arab and Jewish philosophy almost exclusively with regard to
their influence on Latin philosophy, almost as if Avicenna, Averroes
and Maimonides had written so that one day they could be studied by
Aquinas and Duns Scotus. By contrast, the chapters on Arab and Jewish
philosophy here are the work of experts in Arab and Jewish thought
and culture and emphasize both the cultural context of these
philosophers and their achievement in absolute terms.10 Second, in most
histories of medieval philosophy, the thirteenth century is seen as the
period of greatest achievement in Latin philosophy, epitomized by the
work of Thomas Aquinas, with the centuries before leading up to it by
way of preparation and the centuries after representing a decline, slow
at first, then steep. In this History, by contrast, the early medieval period
and twelfth century is seen as an important area of philosophy in its
own right, and the later medieval centuries are not overshadowed by
the thirteenth. Although Aquinas is recognized as an outstandingly
great thinker, his work is seen as belonging to the first generation of
Latin philosophers who had thoroughly absorbed the new translations
of Aristotle and the Arab and Jewish writers: the tradition of medieval
philosophy became more sophisticated in the century following his
death and it remained lively (despite the vicissitudes of the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries) until the early 1600s.
NOTES
1 This point is brought out very clearly in de Libera [Intr. 9].
2 A.C.Grayling (ed.) Philosophy: a Guide through the Subject, Oxford, 1995, p. 3.
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3 Hostility to medieval philosophy (and especially to medieval logic) goes, of course,
far further back: to the fourteenth century, when early humanists began to attack
what they perceived as the obscurity and barbarous Latin of the university
logicians. But these critics did not complain about the connections between
philosophical concerns and revealed doctrine. On the historiography of medieval
philosophy, see also Marenbon [Intr. 10, 83–90] and Van Steenberghen [Intr. 13]
and, especially, Imbach and Maierù [Intr. 6].
4 The most distinguished recent exponent of the approach described in this
paragraph is Fernand Van Steenberghen (see, for example, [Intr. 12]). His approach
has influenced English-language readers both through translations of his work
(for instance [Intr. 13]) and through David Knowles’s widely read textbook [Intr.
8] which is heavily indebted to Van Steenberghen.
5 There is not space here properly to consider Etienne Gilson, whose work still
provides many with their first and only glimpse of medieval philosophy. Gilson
was both a remarkable scholar and a brilliant, independent (and often
idiosyncratic) thinker, influenced by modern philosophers, especially Heidegger.
In the course of his life, he moved further and further away from the model of
medieval philosophy as a discipline separable from Christian doctrine, as he
developed his notion of ‘Christian philosophy’, impossible without revelation,
yet distinct from theology. See A.de Libera, ‘Les Etudes de philosophie médiévale
en France d’Etienne Gilson à nos jours’, in Imbach and Maierù [Intr. 6] at 22–33.
6 Especially important pioneering books are Geach [Intr. 3] and Moody [Intr. 11].
7 There have, of course, been many important studies of medieval philosophy using
the analytical method in the fifteen years since then. Two of the most impressive
are Marilyn McCord Adams’s two-volume study of Ockham [14.12] (discussed
in Chapter 14) and Simo Knuuttila’s work on modality [1.21]. (For complicated
historical reasons, philosophy in Finland has tended to belong to the English-
language analytical school, though without the indifference towards the history
of philosophy, found in many English and American philosophy departments.)
8 See Flasch [Intr. 2] and Imbach [Intr. 5]. For the work of de Libera and Mojsisch,
see especially Chapter 10. This chapter is intended merely as a digest of some of
the important ideas proposed by these scholars, and to provide basic information
on Bonaventure and the translations which would not otherwise have been
included in the volume. Its author is not a specialist in the area!
9 It is close, however, to that provided by Alain de Libera in [Intr. 9], which is
strongly recommended to all who can read French.
10 The space allocated to Arab and Jewish philosophy here is, however, less than it
deserves. And Byzantine philosophy, although less important, ought not, practical
considerations aside, to have been excluded (for a good survey, see de Libera
[Intr. 9] 9–51). My excuse as editor is that, given severe pressures on the space
available, it seemed sensible to angle the volume towards the material which
would be most readily accessible, in translation and in the original, to readers.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Intr. 1 Cousin, V. Cours de Philosophie par M.V.Cousin: introduction à l’histoire
de la philosophie, Paris, 1828.
Intr. 2 Flasch, K. Das philosophische Denken im Mittelalter: Von Augustin zu
Macchiavelli, Stuttgart, 1986.
Intr. 3 Geach, P.T. Reference and Generality: an Examination of Some Medieval
and Modern Theories, Ithaca, NY and London, 1962; amended edn, 1980.
Intr. 4 Gilson, E. A History of Christian Philosophy in the Middle Ages, London,
1955.
Intr. 5 Imbach, R. Laien in der Philosophie des Mittelalters: Hinweise und
Anregungen zu einem vernachlässigten Thema (Bochumer Studien zur
Philosophie 14), Amsterdam, 1989.
Intr. 6 Imbach, R. and Maierù, A. Gli studi di filosofia medievale fra otto e
novecento (Storia e letteratura, studi e testi 179), Rome, 1989.
Intr. 7 Kenny, A., Kretzmann, N. and Pinborg, J. The Cambridge History of Later
Medieval Philosophy, from the Rediscovery of Aristotle to the
Disintegration of Scholasticism, 1100–1600, Cambridge, 1982 (hereafter
abbreviated to CHLMP).
Intr. 8 Knowles, D. The Evolution of Medieval Thought, 2nd edn, ed. D.E.
Luscombe and C.N.L.Brooke, London and New York, 1988.
Intr. 9 Libera, A. de La Philosophie Médiévale, 2nd edn, Paris, 1995.
Intr. 10 Marenbon, J. Later Medieval Philosophy (1150–1350): an Introduction,
rev. edn, London and New York, 1991.
Intr. 11 Moody, E.A. Truth and Consequence in Mediaeval Logic, Amsterdam, 1953;
repr. Westwood, Conn., 1976).
Intr. 12 Van Steenberghen, F. La Philosophie au XIIIe Siècle, Louvain, 1966.
Intr. 13 ——Aristotle in the West, 2nd edn, trans. L.Johnston, Louvain, 1970.
Intr. 14 ——Introduction à l’Étude de la Philosophie Médiévale, Louvain, 1974.
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CHAPTER 1
Boethius: from antiquity to
the Middle Ages
John Marenbon
Boethius is a difficult figure to place in the history of philosophy.
Considered just in himself, he clearly belongs to the world of late
antiquity. Born in 480, at a time when Italy was ruled by the Ostrogoths
under their king, Theoderic, Boethius was adopted into one of the most
distinguished patrician families of Rome and benefited from an education
which made him at home not only in classical Latin culture but also in
Greek literature and philosophy. Although most historians doubt that
Boethius actually went to Alexandria or Athens to study, he certainly
knew the work of Greek Neoplatonists of the immediate past: Proclus,
Porphyry and probably Ammonius. Although a Christian, writing in
Latin, he therefore falls into a tradition stretching back directly to Plotinus
and, ultimately, to Aristotle and Plato. Yet considered as a late antique
philosopher, his importance is limited. Most of Boethius’ ideas and
arguments derive from his Greek sources; his own contribution lay more
in choosing, arranging and presenting views than in original thinking.
By contrast, from the perspective of medieval philosophy, Boethius looms
large. Only Aristotle himself, and perhaps Augustine, were more
important and wide-ranging in their influence. Besides providing scholars
in the Middle Ages with two of their most widely-read textbooks on
arithmetic and music,1 through his translations, commentaries and
monographs Boethius provided the basis for medieval logic. His short
theological treatises helped to shape the way in which logical and
philosophical techniques were used in discussing Christian doctrine.
His Consolation of Philosophy, read and studied from the eighth century
through to the Renaissance, and translated into almost every medieval
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vernacular, was a major source for ancient philosophy in the early Middle
Ages and its treatment of goodness, free will and eternity continued to
influence thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thinkers. In short, it would
be hard to understand the development of philosophy in the medieval
Latin West without looking carefully at Boethius’ work—and it is for
this reason that, although he falls outside its chronological limits, a
chapter on his work (with glances forward at its medieval influence)
begins the present volume.
THE LOGICAL WORKS
In one of his logical commentaries ([1.4] II:78–9), Boethius announces
that he is planning to translate into Latin all the works of Aristotle’s he
can find, and all of Plato’s dialogues, and to provide commentaries for
each of his translations. Only for Aristotle’s logic was the project, at
least in large part, realized. Boethius translated the whole of Aristotle’s
logical organon, along with the Isagoge (‘Introduction’) by Porphyry.
The translations, executed in meticulous word for word fashion,
remained the standard versions of the organon until the end of the
Middle Ages, except in the case of the Posterior Analytics, where his
version was lost. In addition, Boethius wrote two commentaries each
on the Isagoge and on On Interpretation, a commentary on the Categories
and scholia on the Prior Analytics; there are grounds for thinking he
also wrote a commentary on the Topics, although it does not survive.2
In formulating his project, Boethius was strongly influenced by the
common attitude among late Neoplatonists to Plato and Aristotle.
Although they looked to Plato as the originator of the philosophy which
gave understanding of the intelligible world and which they pursued
in their most ambitious works, Neoplatonists from Porphyry onwards
recognized a distinct place for the study of Aristotelian logic; and in
the Alexandrian school, Neoplatonists such as Ammonius devoted most
of their public teaching to Aristotle’s logic. This logic was seen to be
concerned with language as used to describe the world we perceive
with our senses. So long as students of logic were aware that they were
not dealing with a complete description of reality as the Neoplatonists
envisaged it, they could pursue the subject with profit. Plato and
Aristotle could be reconciled, once their different spheres of interest
were recognized (it is no surprise that Boethius himself planned to
write a monograph showing the agreement of Plato and Aristotle). In
the logical commentaries he kept scrupulously to the Aristotelian
approach, even where he produced two commentaries to the same text.3
Although he speaks of writing a second, ‘Pythagorean’ commentary
on the Categories, he seems never to have done so.4
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Some scholars have argued that Boethius’ logical commentaries are
merely direct translations of marginalia he found in his manuscripts of
the Greek texts, but this view is implausible. Boethius gives every
indication of having worked from a small number of sources, among
which Porphyry was his favourite, selecting, arranging, paraphrasing
and from time to time adding his own reflections.5 It remains true that
these commentaries are thoroughly unoriginal works, but they were
all the more valuable for that reason to medieval thinkers. Rather than
giving them the views of just one logician, the commentaries opened to
them a whole tradition of late antique thinking over a wide range of
subjects, since the commentaries go far beyond the discussion of strictly
logical questions, to consider matters of metaphysics, meaning and the
philosophy of mind. Unlike the Neoplatonic students or Boethius
himself, however, the medieval readers did not suppose that the
approach to philosophical problems taken in the commentaries was a
deliberately limited one, to be complemented and superseded by an
investigation of intelligible reality. As a result, medieval Western
philosophy was given a strong bias towards Aristotelian ways and aims,
even before Aristotle’s metaphysical, scientific and ethical works became
available.
There are many illustrations of this phenomenon. An obvious
example is the influence of Boethius’ discussion of universals in his
second commentary on the Isagoge ([1.3] 159:10–167:20). Porphyry
himself had skirted over the problem of universals as one too difficult
for the beginners to whom the Isagoge was addressed. He left just a set
of unanswered questions, which suggest that, understandably for a
Neoplatonist, were he teaching more advanced students he would have
wished to raise and defend the existence of Platonic universals, existing
independently of particulars and incorporeally. Boethius, however,
presents the view of Alexander of Aphrodisias, which he considers to
be the solution in accord with Aristotle. His argument, identifying the
universal with the form which makes any particular of a given species
the sort of thing it is, and which can be grasped mentally by abstracting
from accidental differences, has been criticized by modern
commentators as muddled—and was perceived as such by many
medieval readers. But it presented a realism quite distinct from Platonic
realism, and in the medieval debate, dominated by refinements of
Boethius’ position and nominalist attacks on it, Platonic realism played
almost no part.6 Or, to take another example, Boethius’ discussion of
perception, the mind and language at the beginning of his second
commentary on On Interpretation introduced many of the themes
which Aristotle explored in his On the Soul.
Boethius’ work as a logician went beyond his plan of translating
and commenting on Plato and Aristotle. He wrote a series of logical
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monographs, on categorical syllogisms, hypothetical syllogisms, division
and topical reasoning, as well as a commentary on Cicero’s Topics.
The short treatise On Division deals with some of the material of the
Isagoge and Categories. In writing about categorical syllogisms
(syllogisms the premisses of which are non-complex statements)—in
his earlier On Categorical Syllogisms and his later, unfinished
Introduction to Categorical Syllogisms—Boethius follows Aristotle
closely, though adding some post-Aristotelian developments concerning
negative terms. The other two treatises introduce new, non-Aristotelian
areas of logic. A hypothetical syllogism is a syllogism where one or
both of the premisses are molecular statements: statements consisting
of more than one simple statement joined together by a connective.
These are not just conditionals (as the word ‘hypothetical’ may suggest)
but also conjunctions and disjunctions. Whereas the variables in
categorical syllogisms are terms, the variables in hypothetical syllogisms
are statements. On Hypothetical Syllogisms goes beyond Aristotle, who
had restricted himself to the logic of terms, by exploring the logic of
statements (prepositional logic), although it seems not to draw on the
most sophisticated ancient exponents of this branch of logic, the Stoics.
To a modern reader, some of the inference schemata Boethius proposes
will seem strange, since—unlike most modern logicians—he assumes
that it cannot be the case that, if p then q is true, it is also true that if p
then not-q.7 For medieval logicians, however, On Hypothetical
Syllogisms was one of the two important bases from which they went
on to elaborate a logic of statements.
The other basis was Boethius’ On Topical ‘differentiae’. The theory
of topics was seen originally as a way of discovering arguments: in the
case of Aristotle’s Topics, arguments for use in dialectical argument-
contests, in the case of many later writers (including Cicero in his Topics)
for use in legal oratory. By Boethius’ time, topics were considered to be
both what were called ‘maximal propositions’—obviously true,
universal generalizations—and the differentiae by which the whole
genus of maximal propositions is divided into subordinate genera and
species. For instance, one of Boethius’ maximal propositions is that
‘things whose definitions are different are themselves also different’
and its differentia is ‘from definition’. Themistius and Cicero had each
divided up the maximal propositions differently, producing two
alternative sets of differentiae. On Topical ‘differentiae’ explains the
theory of topics, sets out the two schemes of differentiae and compares
them. The use of the treatise as an aid to constructing (and, by extension,
to confirming) informal arguments is obvious. The link with formal
logic arose because, in addition to maximal propositions expressing
what might, at best, be thought of as common-sense generalizations
(‘what seems true to everyone or to many or to the wise should not be
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denied’), there are others which put forward some of the fundamental
principles which are needed for logical deduction, such as modus ponens
(if p then q, and p, then q) and modus tollens (if p then q, and not-q,
then not-p). Some medieval logicians would see the theory of topics, as
set out by Boethius, as providing the laws both for syllogistic inference
and for the logic of statements.
THE THEOLOGICAL TREATISES
Boethius’ reputation as a theologian depends on five short treatises,
called in the Middle Ages the Opuscula sacra. Only three of them are
of importance: no. 2 is a briefer, probably preliminary version of part
of no. 1, whilst no. 4 (‘On faith’)—sometimes, but probably wrongly,
supposed inauthentic—is a straightforward confession of faith,
containing nothing of Boethius’ own thoughts. No. 5, a refutation of
the opposing extreme Christological views of Nestorius and Eutyches,
was probably the first to be written (after 512). Christology was a
controversial issue in Boethius’ day. The statement of the Council of
Chalcedon (451), which affirmed that Christ was made known in two
natures, but without division or separation, was accepted in the West,
but challenged in the East by the followers of Nestorius, who
emphasized the distinctness of Christ’s two natures, and by
monophysites, who held that in the person of Christ there is only a
single, divine nature. Acacius, the patriarch of Constantinople (471–
89) issued a document, the Henotikon, which condemned Nestorius
and also condemned the extreme monophysite, Eutyches, but failed to
reaffirm the Council of Chalcedon’s statement about the number of
natures in Christ. This failure provoked a schism (the ‘Acacian schism’)
with the Latin Church. Boethius’ treatise was stimulated by the attempt
in 512 of a group of Greek bishops to draw up a compromise position
which would be acceptable to the papacy (see [1.31]). Boethius—who
was more willing than the Pope to go along with the Greek bishops’
position—clearly wished to contribute to the debate, though less
perhaps by the view he stated, than by the manner in which he put it
forward. He adopted the precise, scholastic style of theological writing
which had become popular in the Greek East, but went against usual
practice in the Latin West. He carefully defined his terms—‘essence’,
‘subsistence’, ‘substance’, ‘person’ and ‘nature’—and proceeded to argue
that his heterodox opponents were guilty of logical, as well as doctrinal,
error (see [1.14]). Boethius’ treatises on the Trinity (1 and 2) also seem
to owe their origin to events connected with the Acacian schism. In
519, a group of Scythian monks, loyal to Chalcedon, came to Rome to
try to gain acceptance of the formula ‘one of the Trinity suffered in the
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flesh’, which had been rejected by the authorities in Constantinople.
Boethius approaches the question of divine triunity more generally,
trying to show that a careful application of logical tools, especially
Aristotle’s theory of the ten categories, shows how God can be both
three persons and yet one God.
Boethius’ theological treatises were studied intensely, glossed and
commented on, from the ninth century onwards. Their importance for
medieval scholars was unrelated to the doctrinal controversies from
which they arose: although there were many theological controversies
in the medieval Western Church, they were rarely on the questions of
Christology and trinitarian doctrine which were so important in late
antiquity. Medieval thinkers, rather, found in the opuscula a valuable
source of information about ancient philosophical doctrines. To take
two examples. Boethius’ definition of ‘nature’ in treatise no. 5 introduced
them to ideas from Aristotle’s Physics. A discussion early on in treatise
no. 1 ([1.7] 10:21–12:58) discusses in detail the relations between God,
form, matter and being. God, says Boethius, is not just form without
matter, he is also (the only) non-composite pure form. Physical objects
are concrete wholes of form and matter but, Boethius insists, the
embodied forms are merely images of other, disembodied forms. Much
twelfth-century metaphysics is an effort to clarify and develop this three-
layered hierarchy of pure, non-composite form, disembodied forms and
the images of these forms in material things. Medieval thinkers were
also greatly influenced by the method of these treatises. They suggested
that logical tools and precisely defined philosophical terms could both
clarify difficult points of Christian doctrine and provide the means to
demonstrate that, given certain fundamental points of doctrine (accepted
by all parties), heterodox positions involved logical error. These two
patterns of logically-competent, philosophically-informed theological
speculation were two of the main models for Christian thinking from
the ninth century to the fifteenth.
The third of the theological treatises is different in character from
the others. In the Middle Ages it was known as De hebdomadibus
(‘On the groups of seven’) from the reference in its first sentence to a
work, since lost, by Boethius called the ‘Hebdomads’. The treatise is
intended to clarify a problem considered there: how is it that all things
are ‘good in that they are’, although they are not ‘substantial goods’?
There is nothing explicitly Christian in its content. Boethius begins
with a list of philosophical axioms which modern scholars have been
able to interpret in the light of late antique Neoplatonism, but which
perhaps proved all the more stimulating to medieval commentators by
their obscurity.8 The discussion which follows is, in effect, an unravelling
of the ambiguity of the phrase ‘good in that it exists’. One way in
which something can be good in that it exists is to be ‘a substantial
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good’. God is a substantial good because he cannot be conceived except
as good. Everything else is good in that it exists, but in a different way.
All things derive their existence from God (and could not exist unless
they did so), and because God is good, they are good by virtue of the
existence they derive from him. It is true, therefore, that they cannot
exist without being good. They, however, unlike God, could be
conceived as not being good. They are not, therefore, substantial goods.
Some of the considerations Boethius raises here would be explored in
a wider context as part of medieval discussion of the transcendentals—
those attributes, including goodness, which everything was considered
to have by virtue of existing.9
‘ON THE CONSOLATION OF
PHILOSOPHY’: THE HIGHEST GOOD
Although they lived under the rule of a barbarian king committed to a
heretical Arian Christianity, Boethius and his aristocratic Roman
contemporaries were allowed to retain many of the trappings of
importance and authority and, if they chose, to exercise real power as
officials of Theoderic. Boethius combined—as a man of his rank would
have been expected to do—public service with his private devotion to
scholarship. Until near the end of his life, however, writing and
translating was his primary concern, and his political activities were
confined to Rome and the Senate, away from the court of Theoderic at
Ravenna.10 In 522 Boethius was given the almost unprecedented honour
of both his sons being appointed as consuls together. In the same year,
Boethius himself was appointed to be ‘Master of the Offices’, an
important and influential position at the Ravenna court. He had not
held the post for long when he was arrested, imprisoned and eventually
(probably in 525, but possibly in 524 or 526) executed, on charges of
treason against the Gothic regime and sorcery. Boethius himself
dismisses all these accusations and attributes his downfall to the
intrigues of enemies created by his uprightness and his defence of the
weak as a court official. The underlying reasons for Boethius’
execution—followed soon by that of his respected father-in-law,
Symmachus—seem, however, to lie in Theoderic’s growing doubts over
the loyalty to him of the Roman aristocracy, after the strongly pro-
Catholic Emperor Justin acceded to the Byzantine throne in 518 and
the Acacian schism had finally been resolved in 519.
While in prison, Boethius wrote the work by which he is most
remembered, On the Consolation of Philosophy (De consolatione
Philosophiae). Here he deserts his usual simple presentation and dry
style for the elaborate literary form of a prosimetrum (a work in prose
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
interspersed with verse passages), which allows his personal
circumstances to give urgency to the philosophical questions he tackles.
The Consolation is an imaginary dialogue between Boethius and
Philosophy, a female personification of the tradition of philosophical
wisdom which, despite the attempts of different schools to sunder it
(her clothes are torn, because each philosophical sect has tried to take
some of them for itself), is a unified one, stretching back to Socrates
and Plato. Boethius represents himself at the beginning of the dialogue
as overcome by grief and self-pity: he bewails the injustice of the
accusations against him and the turn of fortune which has brought
him from a position of importance to prison; he longs for death to put
an end to his suffering. Philosophy treats him as someone suffering
from an illness. The shock of his fall from power has made him forget
the wisdom which, from his youth, he had learned from her. He still
retains the knowledge (I, prose 6) that there is a God who rules the
universe, but he no longer knows to what end all things move. He
believes that, whereas the workings of nature follow a rational order,
in human affairs the evil are left free to triumph and oppress the good.
Philosophy begins with what she calls ‘lighter remedies’, a series of
arguments to show him that his personal downfall is not the disaster
he takes it to be. In particular, she insists that he cannot blame fortune
for instability, since it is the very nature of fortune to be unstable, and
of the goods of fortune, such as riches, power, honour and fame, to be
transitory.
Boethius is now prepared for Philosophy’s ‘weightier remedy’, her
argument about the highest good (bk III). When people seek to obtain
the various goods of fortune, she argues, they are motivated by a genuine
desire for the good—we desire only what we consider to be good—but
are misled by ignorance about the nature of the good. Each of the
goods of fortune, taken on its own, is worth little and does not last.
People’s mistake is to seek these goods individually, rather than trying
to gain the single good from which all these other goods derive. This
highest good is happiness (beatitudo); but, since God (III, pr. 10) is
that than which nothing better can be thought, he is perfectly good.
Therefore the highest good, which everyone seeks but most, ignorant
of its undivided nature, fail to gain, is God himself. Philosophy goes
on (bk IV) to explain why, despite appearances, it is not the case that
the wicked enjoy power while the good are left impotent. She
distinguishes the will to obtain something and the power to be able to
do so. Everyone, she says, wants happiness. The good have the power,
by being good, to gain happiness, whereas the evil are unable to gain
it. By contrast with Boethius-the-character’s earlier view of a universe
in which God has abandoned humankind to its own devices, Philosophy
explains that divine providence arranges all things; fate is simply the
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working out as actual events of this providential plan which is conceived
‘in the purity of God’s intellect’ (IV, pr. 6).
The thumbnail sketch in the last paragraph of Philosophy’s
arguments does little justice to the reasoned manner in which she is
made to develop her points. Yet the impression of looseness and
question-begging which may emerge is not misleading. At almost every
stage, Philosophy makes assumptions which an interlocutor less docile
than Boethius-the-character would have questioned, and the views she
reaches, although sweeping, are far from clear. To take just two
examples. Central to Philosophy’s argument is the idea that there is a
perfect good, from which the imperfect goods of fortune are derived.
She argues that the existence of a perfect good follows from the existence
of imperfect goods, because (III, pr. 10) ‘if in any genus there seems to
be something which is imperfect, it is necessary that there is also
something perfect in it’. She supports this view by asking from where
the imperfect thing would derive its existence, did a perfect one not
exist. This principle may, indeed, have been one which Neoplatonists
of Boethius’ time would accept, but is not the obvious truth which
Philosophy claims it to be. Another central idea is that the good man is
happy because he is able to gain the highest good, God. But in what
does this grasp of the highest good consist? What seems to be called
for is some idea of a beatific vision, either in this life or beyond it.
Philosophy, however, provides no such explanation. Yet it may not be
right to criticize Boethius-the-author for merely indicating the shape
of a philosophical position, rather than describing and justifying it in
detail. The full arguments for Philosophy’s views, he might argue, are
to be found in the tradition of writing she personifies. The Consolation
merely sets out the main conclusions of the way of thought which the
character Boethius had supposedly forgotten in his grief; five short
books cannot be expected to provide a substitute for his years of
Neoplatonic study.
‘ON THE CONSOLATION OF
PHILOSOPHY:’ DIVINE PRESCIENCE
AND HUMAN FREE WILL
In Book V, the manner of the Consolation changes. The ornate
language of the earlier books all but disappears in favour of a more
technical style, close to that of the logical commentaries; and it is the
Aristotelian logical tradition which now gives Boethius his starting
point. After a short discussion of chance, the dialogue takes up the
question of God’s omniscience and human freedom. Here the issue is
strictly God’s foreknowledge: his providential predestination, executed
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in time through fate, as discussed in Book IV, does not enter into
consideration.
Intuitively, divine omniscience seems to pose a threat to human free
will. If God knows everything, then he knows what I will do tomorrow.
Whether I drink red wine or white wine with my dinner tomorrow
might appear to be something I can choose by my free will. But if God
knows now which I shall drink, is not my free will over the choice
illusory? If God knows now that I shall drink white wine—and it is
knowledge, not just a good guess—then it seems that the possibility
that I shall drink red has already been closed. I have no choice but to
drink white. One way of trying to formalize this train of thought is
what might be called the ‘knowledge-brings-determinism’ argument.
Part of the definition of ‘knowledge’ is that it is true belief. So, if I
know p, then p is true. Since this follows from a definition, it is a
matter of necessity. Just as it is a matter of necessity that, if I am a
bachelor, I am unmarried, so it is a matter of necessity that if I know p,
p is true. God knows everything, and so for p we can substitute any
true statement about the past, present or future, including statements
about future events such as my drinking the white wine. If God knows
that I will drink white wine tomorrow, then necessarily I will drink
white wine tomorrow, and similarly for any statement about the
future—there are therefore no future contingents; all that will happen
will happen by necessity.
The knowledge-brings-determinism argument, however, is invalid.
It commits what would now be called a scope fallacy, by failing to
distinguish whether the whole complex statement, or rather just an
element of it, should be qualified by ‘necessarily’. Consider the analogy
of the bachelor. It is not the case that, if someone is a bachelor, then
necessarily he is unmarried. He might well have married before now,
although he has not. Rather, we ought to say: necessarily, if he is a
bachelor, he is unmarried. Similarly, the definition of ‘knowledge’ shows
merely that necessarily, if God foresees p, then p. Allowing that the
whole conditional (if God foresees p, then p) is necessarily true in no
way implies that p itself is necessarily true, and so it presents no threat
to contingency or to human free will.
Boethius is often credited with showing the fallaciousness of the
knowledge-brings-determinism argument and contrasted with earlier
thinkers, such as Augustine who, though upholding free will, thought
the logic of this argument irrefragable.11 The basis of the claim is a
distinction Boethius makes near the end of his discussion of divine
prescience (V, pr. 6) between ‘simple necessity’ and ‘conditional
necessity’. As an example of strict necessity Boethius gives the necessity
that all men are mortal; as an example of conditional necessity, that ‘if
you know someone is walking, it is necessary that he is walking’. He
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goes on to explain that, in such a case of conditional necessity, it is not
the nature of the matter, but the ‘adding of the condition’ which brings
about the necessity; and conditional necessity, he says, does not imply
simple necessity. At first sight, especially in light of his terminology,
Boethius does seem to be distinguishing between simple (non-composite)
necessary statements, and the necessity of a whole conditional; and it
is this distinction which is needed to expose the fallacy of the necessity-
brings-determinism argument, by contrasting the whole conditional
‘If God knows p, then p’, which is necessary, with the simple statement
p, the consequent of this conditional, which is not necessary. But closer
scrutiny of the text does not support this reading.12 Boethius is not
talking about different types of statement but about different types of
necessity. He is saying that the fact that men are mortal is necessary
according to simple necessity, whereas, if you know someone is walking,
the fact that he is walking is necessary, but only according to conditional
necessity. Simple necessity, he believes, constrains—men cannot but
die some time; but not conditional necessity—the man might have
chosen to remain still.
Boethius’ idea of conditional necessity is bound up with his view,
inherited from the Aristotelian tradition, of the necessity of the present.
Immediately after he has used the example of knowing (you know he
is walking) to illustrate conditional necessity, he moves on to another
example, which he apparently considers parallel: ‘No necessity compels
a walking man that he should will to walk although at that time when
he is walking, it is necessary that he walks.’ Here, too, Boethius believes,
is an example of conditional necessity: the fact that he is walking at
time t becomes necessary, conditionally though not simply, by the
addition of the condition that it is now time t. Modern philosophers
would say that, although it is not possible that he walk and not walk
at t, it is possible that, although he is walking at t, he might not have
been walking at that time: there is another possible world in which he
stayed still at that moment. Boethius had no such conception of
synchronous alternative possibilities.13
The link Boethius makes between conditional necessity and the
necessity of the present renders the way in which he goes about
tackling the question of divine prescience and human free will
explicable. At the beginning of the discussion (V, pr. 3) the character-
Boethius puts to Philosophy a version of the knowledge-brings-
determinism argument, as applied to divine prescience. He considers
the counter-argument made by some, that there is no causal relation
between divine prescience and future events, but he replies to it by
saying that, though there is no causal relation, none the less, divine
prescience renders future events necessary. In her reply (which
presumably gives Boethius-the-author’s considered view), Philosophy
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begins by arguing that Boethius was wrong to dismiss the counter-
argument. If divine prescience does not cause future events to take
place, it does not determine them. She recognizes, however, that there
is something troubling about the idea that God knows now what I
shall do tomorrow. Since, if the action in question is one I shall freely
decide on it is not certain now what it will be, it seems as if there can
be no foreknowledge about it, merely opinion. Philosophy’s way of
dealing with this problem (V, pr. 4–5) is to explain that beings of
different levels cognize in different ways. God’s ‘intelligence’ is unlike
our reason, just as our reason differs from the senses. To see how
God’s intelligence works, we must realize (V, pr. 6) that for God to be
eternal means that he enjoys ‘the entire and perfect possession at once
of unending life’ (interminabilis vitae tota simul et perfecta possessio).
God therefore knows all things, past, present and future, as if they
were present. Only after having established this point at length, does
Philosophy introduce briefly the distinction between simple and
conditional necessity. The idea of God’s timelessness—which would
have been entirely superfluous were this distinction Boethius’ way of
noticing the scope fallacy which underlies the knowledge-brings-
determinism argument—is, then, central to his treatment of prescience
and free will for two reasons. First, it enables him to answer the
epistemological problem about how an uncertain future could be
known: for God, the object of knowledge is not future (or past), but
present. Second, it allows him to resolve the logical problem which
troubled the Boethius-the-character-in-the-dialogue, by assimilating
God’s present-tense knowledge of p to the more general case of p
being true at the present time. Both cases are seen to involve an added
condition (‘GOD KNOWS p’/‘p WHEN P’). Boethius accepted the
necessity of the present, but also knew that no one thought it a
constraining necessity, and so it was now easy for him to characterize
both it and the necessity implied by God’s omniscience as a special
sort of non-constraining ‘conditional necessity’, to be distinguished
from constraining simple necessity.
From the thirteenth century onwards, detection of the scope fallacy
involved in the knowledge-brings-determinism argument was routine.
Statements of the form ‘if p, then necessarily q’ were said to exhibit
‘necessity of the consequent’ (necessitas consequentis), as opposed to
statements of the form ‘necessarily, if p then q’, which exhibited
‘necessity of the consequence’ (necessitas consequentiae) (‘consequentia’
was the word for an ‘if…then…’ statement). This awareness was,
however, often put in terms of Boethius’ simple and conditional
necessity, as if Boethius had shared it. Moreover, Boethius’ treatment
of God’s timeless eternity was widely discussed. Some, such as Aquinas,
adopted it (in the Summa Theologiae Aquinas states verbatim Boethius’
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definition of eternity as ‘the entire and perfect possession at once of
unending life’ and defends it); other, later thinkers argued vigorously
against it. Aquinas also found an important use for this view of timeless
eternity in tackling an argument from divine prescience to determinism
which Boethius had not anticipated. If God foreknows everything, then
it is not just that God knows that tomorrow I shall drink white wine,
not red: it is also true that it has come to God’s knowledge that I shall
drink white wine, not red, tomorrow. ‘It has come to God’s knowledge
that p’ implies p and, since it is a statement about the past and the past
cannot be changed, if it is true, it seems it must be necessarily true;
what a necessary truth implies is itself necessarily true; and so, the
argument goes, my drinking the white wine is necessary.14 There are
various ways of attacking this argument, but Boethius provides Aquinas
with a very straightforward one: if God knows in a timeless eternity,
then it is not the case that God has come to know anything. As with
many aspects of Boethius’ work, medieval thinkers found more in his
argument about divine prescience and human free will than he had
explicitly put there. This may be a tribute to a certain undeveloped
philosophical insight in Boethius—an inexplicit feel for important
problems and the moves needed to deal with them—as well as to the
cleverness of his medieval readers.
‘ON THE CONSOLATION OF
PHILOSOPHY’: NEOPLATONISM AND CHRISTIANITY
The most remarkable feature of the Consolation is something it omits:
any explicit reference to Christianity. Boethius’ discussion of the highest
good, which is God, and his treatment of providence, fate and
prescience, would have been as acceptable to a pagan Neoplatonist as
to a Christian, and of uniquely Christian doctrines such as the Trinity
and incarnation there is not a mention. But few scholars nowadays
believe that Boethius omitted Christian dogma from the Consolation
because, when he wrote it, he had abandoned Christianity. Such a
conversion to paganism is implausible, and there are several biblical
echoes in the Consolation, at least one of which appears deliberate,
since Philosophy echoes closely the phrasing of the Book of Wisdom
and Boethius-the-character comments that, not merely what she has
said, but the ‘very words’ she has used, delight him (III, pr. 12). Why,
then, is the Consolation not more openly Christian? Perhaps because
Boethius envisaged his task as presenting a philosophical justification
of the providential ordering of the universe by a supremely good deity:
a justification in which none of the premisses is based on revelation.
His training and writing had been as a logician and philosopher, and
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even his theological works had been exercises in philosophical analysis.
It is not surprising that he should seek to come to terms with his
downfall by writing as a philosopher, though he remained in his faith
a Christian.
None the less, there are moments in the Consolation when
Boethius’ Neoplatonism does sit uncomfortably with Christian
doctrine. At a central point in the work, before she concludes her
argument identifying God with the highest good, Philosophy makes a
solemn prayer. The poem (III, metrum 9) is an epitome of the Timaeus,
the favourite Platonic dialogue of the Neoplatonists. It speaks without
reservation of Platonic doctrines, such as reincarnation and the World
Soul, which are clearly incompatible with Christianity. Possibly
Boethius thought that, in the context of a poem, they need not be
taken literally. Later, however, in his discussion of divine prescience (V,
pr. 6), he champions the view that the world has endured for ever: it
is what many would call ‘eternal’, although Boethius prefers to
describe it as ‘perpetual’, reserving ‘eternal’ to describe the timeless
eternity of God. Boethius’ view was that of the pagan Neoplatonists
of his time. Christians insisted that the world had a beginning and,
writing shortly after Boethius’ death, the Greek Christian philosopher
John Philoponus would devise a set of intricate arguments, drawing
on Aristotle’s ideas about infinity, to support this position. Yet
Boethius cannot have seen his own view as unacceptable for
Christians, since he had already referred to it in his painstakingly
orthodox On the Trinity (section IV).15
Although medieval writers drew on almost every aspect of the
Consolation, none was more important than the work’s uncertain
status as a text by a Christian writer without explicitly Christian
doctrines, and with some ideas which seemed distinctly pagan. The
most popular strategy for commentators was to discover an explicitly
Christian meaning implicit within the text, especially in sections like
III, m. 9 which, at first sight, were hardest for Christian readers to
accept. But there were dissenters, such as Bovo of Corvey in the tenth
century, who insisted on a literal reading.16 For some writers, such as
the Middle English poet, Chaucer, the Consolation seems to have
provided a model for writing about serious issues in a way which
presupposes no commitment to Christianity, a philosophical
precedent for the use of a pagan setting in literary fiction.
EPILOGUE
In the Latin West, Boethius’ death marks the end of the ancient tradition
of philosophy. There were writers—for instance, Cassiodorus
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(c. 485–580), Boethius’ more politically-compromising successor as
Master of the Offices, and Isidore (before 534–636), Bishop of Seville—
who helped to pass elements of ancient teaching to medieval readers.
But they were educators and encyclopaedists, rather than thinkers. The
seventh- and eighth-century scholars in England and Ireland included
some enthusiastic grammarians, but no logicians; the philosophical
elements in patristic texts aroused little interest from them. The medieval
Latin philosophical tradition would begin at the court of Charlemagne,
in the 790s.
In the Greek tradition of philosophy, however, Boethius’ death by
no means marks a boundary. The Christian, John Philoponus, would
produce important and influential philosophical work a little later in
the sixth century.17 Nor had pagan Neoplatonism come to an end.
When in 529, shortly after Boethius’ death, the Emperor Justinian
closed the Platonic school at Athens, its philosophers sought refuge at
the court of the Persian king, Chosroes. When, a little later, Chosroes
concluded a peace treaty with Byzantium, it included a provision that
the pagan philosophers be allowed to return to Byzantine lands and
practice their form of philosophy unhindered. They took up residence
at Harran, near to the Persian border, in about 532 and there
Simplicius wrote most of his work.18 The pagan Neoplatonic school
at Harran survived at least until the tenth century, although very little
is known of its later work. By then, the Middle East had been
transformed by the preaching of Muhammad in the seventh century
and the rapid rise of Islam. It is the tradition of philosophy which
grew up in Islam from the ninth century onwards that this History
will first consider.
NOTES
1 For these works (and possible works on geometry and astronomy), which fall
outside the scope of this discussion, see Chadwick [1.12] 69–107 and the articles
in Gibson [1.16] by Caldwell, Pingree and White.
2 See J.Barnes, ‘Boethius and the study of logic’, in Gibson [1.16] 73–89. Barnes
points out (p. 87) that Boethius himself ([1.1] 1191A, 1209C, 1216D) claims to
have written such a commentary. Barnes also points to a thirteenth-century
commentary which mentions a commentary by Boethius on the Posterior Analytics;
but this medieval remark, not otherwise supported, carries little weight.
3 The first commentary on the Isagoge is an early work, which uses Marius
Victorinus’ translation rather than Boethius’ own; the second commentary gives
his maturer thoughts on the text. Boethius composed the two commentaries on
On Interpretation together, putting simpler material in the first and more complex
(but no less Aristotelian) discussion in the second.
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4 See [1.1] 160AB and S.Ebbesen, ‘Boethius as an Aristotelian commentator’ in
Sorabji [1.32], esp. 387–91.
5 See J.Shiel, ‘Boethius’ commentaries on Aristotle’ in Sorabji [1.32] 349–72 for
the view that Boethius translated marginalia, and Ebbesen’s article, cited in the
previous note, pp. 375–7, for strong arguments against it.
6 See the wide-ranging discussion in de Libera [1.22] (pp. 128–32 for Boethius).
7 See Barnes, ‘Boethius and the study of logic’ in Gibson [1.16] 83–4, Dürr [1.15]
and Martin [1.23] 379–86.
8 On the medieval influence of De hebdomadibus, see Schrimpf [1.30].
9 There is a collection of articles on the transcendentals in medieval philosophy in
Topoi 11 (1992) (guest editor, J.Gracia).
10 See J.Matthews, ‘Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius’ in Gibson [1.16] 26–9.
11 See, for instance, C.Kirwan, Augustine, London, 1989, p. 98.
12 Knuuttila ([1.21] 60–1) briefly mentions exactly this point; I shall try to develop
and justify it in the following paragraphs. Pike [1.28] 72–6) attributes to Boethius
a different and more powerful argument either than the traditional interpretation
criticized above, or than the one proposed here. But it is hard to believe, from the
way Boethius develops his ideas in the text, that the argument really is his.
13 The lack of a conception of synchronous alternative possibilities in Boethius and
other ancient writers, and the gradual introduction of this notion from the twelfth
century onwards, is one of the main themes of Knuuttila [1.21].
14 This argument is stated in, for instance, Aquinas’ De veritate q.12, a.12. For
discussion of it, see Kenny [1.19] and Prior [1.29].
15 See Courcelle [1.13] 221–31 for a comparison between Boethius’ views on the
eternity of the world and those of his Christian and pagan near contemporaries.
16 See Chapter 5, pp. 110–11.
17 A good introduction to Philoponus’ work is given in R.Sorabji (ed.) Philoponus
and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science, London, 1987.
18 See I.Hadot, ‘La vie et oeuvre de Simplicius’, in I.Hadot (ed.) Simplicius: Sa vie,
son oeuvre, sa survie (Peripatoi 15), Berlin and New York, 1987, pp. 3–39; but
not all scholars accept this reconstruction of events.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions of Boethius
1.1 Works in MPL, 63–4, Paris, 1847.
1.2 Translations of Aristotle in AL 1, 2, 3, 5, ed. L.Minio-Paluello et al., Bruges
and Paris, 1966–9; 6, ed. B.Dod, Leiden and Brussels, 1975 (hereafter AL).
1.3 Commentaries on Porphyry’s Isagoge, ed. S.Brandt (Corpus scriptorum
ecclesiasticorum latinorum 64), Vienna and Leipzig, 1906.
1.4 Commentaries on Aristotle’s On Interpretation, ed. C.Meiser, Leipzig,
1877–80.
1.5 Scholia on Prior Analytics, in AL 3.
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1.6 Commentary on Cicero’s Topics, ed. J.C.Orelli and J.G.Baiter in M.Tulli
Ciceronis opera omnia V, 1, Zurich, 1833 and On Hypothetical Syllogisms,
ed. L.Obertello, Brescia, 1969.
1.7 Theological Treatises (Opuscula sacra), ed. H.F.Stewart, E.K.Rand, S.J. Tester
(with On the Consolation of Philosophy), London and Cambridge, Mass.,
1973.
1.8 On the Consolation of Philosophy, ed. L.Bieler (Corpus christianorum 94),
Turnhout, 1957.
English Translations of Boethius
1.9 On Topical Differentiae, trans. E.Stump, Ithaca, NY and London, 1978.
1.10 Boethius’ ‘In Ciceronis topica’, Ithaca, NY and London, 1988.
1.11 On Division, in N.Kretzmann and E.Stump (eds) Cambridge Translations of
Medieval Philosophical Texts: Logic and the Philosophy of Language,
Cambridge, 1988, pp. 11–38.
1.7 contains a parallel English translation of the Theological treatises and also a
translation of On the Consolation of Philosophy. Many other translations of the
Consolation exist.
Boethius Studies
1.12 Chadwick, H. Boethius: the Consolations of Music, Logic, Theology and
Philosophy, Oxford, 1981.
1.13 Courcelle, P. La consolation de philosophie dans la tradition littéraire:
antécédents et posterité de Boèce, Paris, 1967.
1.14 Daley, B. ‘Boethius’ theological tracts and early Byzantine scholasticism’,
Mediaeval Studies 46 (1984):158–91.
1.15 Dürr, K. The Prepositional Logic of Boethius, Amsterdam, 1951.
1.16 Gibson, M. (ed.) Boethius: His Life, Thought and Influence, Oxford, 1981.
1.17 Gruber, J. Kommentar zu Boethius De Consolatione Philosophiae, Berlin, 1978.
1.18 Huber, P. Die Vereinbarkeit von göttlicher Vorsehung und menschlicher Freiheit
in der Consolatio Philosophiae des Boethius, Zurich, 1976.
1.19 Kenny, A. ‘Divine foreknowledge and human freedom’, in A.Kenny (ed.)
Aquinas: a Collection of Critical Essays, Notre Dame, Ind., 1969, pp.
273–96.
1.20 Klingner, F. De Boethii Consolatione Philosophiae, (Philologische
Untersuchungen 27), Berlin, 1921.
1.21 Knuuttila, S. Modalities in Medieval Philosophy, London and New York, 1993.
1.22 Libera, A. de La querelle des universaux: De Platon à la fin du Moyen Âge,
Paris, 1996.
1.23 Martin, C.J. ‘Embarrassing arguments and surprising conclusions in the
development of theories of the conditional in the twelfth century’, in J.Jolivet
and A. de Libera (eds) Gilbert de Poitiers et ses contemporains (History of
Logic 5), Naples, 1987, pp. 377–400.
1.24 Minio-Paluello, L. ‘A Latin commentary (trans. ?Boethius) on the Prior Analytics
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and its Greek sources’, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 77 (1957): 93–102
(repr. in Opuscula 347–56).
1.25 ——‘Les traductions et les commentaires aristotéliciens de Boèce’, Studia
Patristica II, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen
Literatur 64 (1957):358–65 (repr. in Opuscula 328–35).
1.26 ——Opuscula: the Latin Aristotle, Amsterdam, 1972.
1.27 Obertello, L. Severino Boezio, 2 vols, Genoa, 1974.
1.28 Pike, N. God and Timelessness, London, 1970.
1.29 Prior, A. ‘The formalities of omniscience’, in Papers on Tense and Time, Oxford,
1968, pp. 26–44.
1.30 Schrimpf, G. Die Axiomenschrift des Boethius, De Hebdomadibus als
philosophisches Lehrbuch des Mittelalters (Studien über die Problemgeschichte
d. antike u. mittelalterlichen Philosophie 2), Leiden, 1966.
1.31 Schurr, V. Die Trinitätslehre des Boethius im Lichte der ‘Skythischen
Kontroversen’ (Forschungen zur christlichen Literatur und Dogmengeschichte
18.1), Paderborn, 1935.
1.32 Sorabji, R. (ed.) Aristotle Transformed: the Ancient Commentaries and their
Influence, London, 1990.
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CHAPTER 2
From the beginnings to
Avicenna
Jean Jolivet
INTRODUCTION
Arabic philosophy began at the turn of the second and third centuries
of the Hegira, roughly the ninth and tenth centuries AD. The place
and the time are important. It was in 133/750 that the ‘Abb&ssid dynasty
came to power. The ‘Abb&ssids, like the Ummayads whom they had
driven out, were Arabs; but they had been aided by eastern powers:
Persians and Shi‘ite Muslims. The symbolic capital of the empire
changed from Damascus to Baghdad, founded in 145/762 by the second
‘Abb&ssid caliph, al-ManU*r. Now Islamic power stretched from the
Atlantic to central Asia. Damascus and Baghdad were areas which had
been Hellenized for a millennium and where Byzantium and Persia
had faced each other. Now the Arabs had been victorious over them
both, overturning the Sassanids, who had already been forced back
towards the East by Byzantium, and taking from Byzantium not only
Egypt but also its Asian provinces, where the monophysite Christians
were in schism with the Orthodox Church and persecuted by the
imperial authorities. These conquests took place between 634 and 650
(the second and third decades of the Hegira). These historical
circumstances foreshadow several essential features of Arabic
philosophy to which we shall return. First, there was a gap in time
between the revelation of the Holy Book, which was ‘handed down’ in
an un-Hellenized area of Arabia, and the beginning of Arabic
philosophy (contrast the development of Christian thought, where
Hellenistic elements are to be found even in the earliest documents).
Second, the emergence of Arabic philosophy coincided with a change
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of dynasty brought about with the help of non-Arabs: the political,
religious and, in particular, literary aspects of this change would develop
in the third/ninth century into the movement which was called the
shu‘*biyya (after the Koran, 49, 13: ‘Men…we have set you up as
peoples, shu‘*ban). Third, Arabic philosophy developed in a milieu
linked, in language, culture and belief, by age-old ties both to Greece
and to Asia—and, as we shall see, it was thanks to Christian scholars
that it found its particular direction.
THE TRANSLATIONS
For two centuries, Christians had been employed to translate Greek
works into Syriac, a type of Aramaic that had been developed into a
literary language. In this way there began, even before the birth of
Islam, the great enterprise of translation which would provide the
opportunity for the first works of Arabic philosophy and the results of
which would provide its subject-matter and foundation. The history
of this movement, especially its earliest stage, has not yet been written
in full. We can say, however, that between the fifth and seventh centuries
AD translations were made from Greek into Syriac, particularly
translations of medical works and, even more, of logical works. The
first books of Aristotle’s Organon were, then, not merely translated
but received a number of commentaries. The majority of the translators
were Nestorians, but they also included Jacobites. At the end of the
first/seventh century, the Muslims took over the Fertile Crescent and
the Umayyad caliph ‘Abd al-Malik decided that Arabic would be the
official language of the empire. The work of the translators was
enlarged. Translation from Greek to Syriac continued to be their main
task, but there were also translations made from Greek into Arabic
and from Syriac into Arabic. This third route was used only in the
fourth/tenth century when even the educated no longer knew Greek,
and when in any case the translation movement came to a halt.
Not only was there a change in the languages from which, and to
which, translations were made; there was variation over time in the
method and type of translation. Translators into Syriac changed from
giving paraphrases to making literal versions. The greatest of them
were the two Christian Nestorians H. unayn ibn Ish. &q and his son
Ish. &q ibn H. unayn, whose work in Syriac and Arabic dates from the
third/ninth century. Acute in establishing their texts and rigorously
accurate in translating from one language to another, H. unayn and his
son ended by creating ‘a technical Arabic capable of closely reflecting
the structure of the Greek’ ([2.27]). There were many other translators
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too in their century and the one before, some of them very fine. Rather
than list them, it is more useful to step back in time and mention the
names of ‘Abd All&h ibn al-Muqaffa‘ (d. 140/757) and of the Syrian
Ibn Bahr(z, who lived at the time of the caliph al-Ma‘m*n (d. 218/
833). Both wrote epitomes of logical works (al-Muqaffa‘ on
Porphyry’s Isagoge and the first books of the Organon; Ibn Bahr(z on
the whole Organon). We can see in these works the first attempts to
develop an Arabic philosophical vocabulary ([2.27], [2.43]).
In this way an enormous library of philosophical and scientific works
was built up and revealed to the curiosity and interests of new readers.
The last Umayyad caliphs and the first of the ‘Abb&sids were especially
strong in their support for this work of translation. In the case of the
Abb&ssids, this enthusiasm was motivated in part by a political motive,
since Greek philosophy and science provided a cultural counterbalance
to the theology of the Islamic Arabs and to the ancient heritage of the
Persians. The intellectual (and, particularly, philosophical) market-place
was thus stocked with a complex mixture of goods: an Arabic Plato
(the details of which still remain unclear), an Arabic Plotinus attributed
to other authors, collections of philosophical comments and aphorisms
in which authentic pronouncements mingle with apocrypha, and above
all the complete works of Aristotle, without the Politics but with
various, especially Neoplatonic, pseudepigrapha. This Aristotle is
omnipresent in Arabic philosophy, yet its presence was the result in the
main of a choice made several centuries earlier by the Syriac translators:
‘it was not the Arabs who chose Aristotle, but the Syriacs who imposed
[him on them]’ ([2.43]; cf. [2.20], [2.38], [2.41], [2.44]).
AL-KIND/
Arabic philosophers drew extensively, then, on Aristotle’s work and
thought. Yet they were not Aristotelians in the strict sense of the word.
This is already clear in the work of the first of them, Ab* Y*suf Ya‘q*b
ibn Ish. &q al-Kind( (born end of second century/beginning of eight
century; died after 256/870) ([2.19], [2.11]). Al-Kind( was a philosopher,
no doubt; but he was primarily a wide-ranging scholar and scientist
(and it was just as such that, half a thousand years later, Ibn Khald*n
would remember him). The biographer and bibliographer Ibn al-Nad(m
(fourth/tenth century) provides a catalogue raisonné of his works:
almost 250 of them in all, of which only about a tenth survive. Ibn al-
Nad(m divides them into seventeen categories. Classifying them, rather,
by subject areas, we find that al-Kind( devoted about 50 treatises to
philosophy and logic, but nearly a hundred to the various branches of
mathematics (including astrology), and 35 to medicine and the natural
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sciences. The others do not concern us here. His scholarly and scientific
work was thus extensive and varied; we might mention, for instance,
in passing his contributions to optics and pharmacology. As a
philosopher, he quotes by name hardly any authors besides Plato and
Aristotle. We do not know precisely how great his knowledge was of
Plato, but he wrote a treatise listing the works of Aristotle ([2.23]). Of
the major works only the Politics is, as we should expect, absent. The
list includes two apocrypha (On Plants, On Minerals), but not the
Theology of Aristotle, a work by an unknown author, probably
Porphyry, consisting of considerably adapted extracts from Plotinus’
later Enneads. Its absence is all the more striking because al-Kind( had
corrected an Arabic translation of it made by Ibn N&‘ima for the son
of the caliph al-Mu‘tas. im (218/833 to 228/842). And indeed al-Kind(’s
philosophy is a branch of Neoplatonism, but not one which is disguised
by being based on Aristotelian apocrypha of Neoplatonic origin.
Among the handful of philosophical works of al-Kind(’s which have
survived, the most important is the Book of First Philosophy (Kit&b al-
falsafah al-*l& ([2.2]); note how the Greek philosophia is transcribed as
falsafah; similarly philosophas becomes faylas*f, plural fal&sifah). Of
this book with its Aristotelian title we have only the first part (divided
into four chapters). It is a Neoplatonic work in the sense that the main
concepts of Aristotelianism (the categories, the predicables, causes) are
made part of a theory of the one, into which al-Kind(’s ontology is
absorbed. In this rich discussion, new ideas and new methods are found
in every chapter. We shall consider merely a few significant themes of
various sorts. Chapter 1 forms a veritable manifesto, decked out with
quotations from Aristotle (who is not named: the passages are mostly
from the Metaphysics A 1). Al-Kind( provides an apologia for philosophy
which, he says, has been formed over the course of centuries. We must
gather what remains and bring it to fruition. It matters little, he says,
that it comes from elsewhere. We must adapt it into our own language
and to our own traditions, since it does not differ in content from the
messages of the prophets: it is knowledge of God’s unity and sovereignty,
of virtue and of what in general we should seek and avoid. The ending
of chapter 2 provides a characteristic example of al-Kind(’s method
and his liberty with regard to Aristotle. Using the method of geometry,
he shows that the body of the world, movement and time can exist only
if they are simultaneous with each other. They are, therefore, finite,
because the world is finite. Aristotle’s view that the world is eternal is
thus rejected. Chapter 3 ends with a dialectical treatment of the one
and the many based in detail, yet also very freely, on Proclus (Platonic
Theology II, 1), who none the less is not named ([2.29]). Finally, chapter
4 demonstrates that the True One is transcendent: above every genus,
category and ontological structure. It is he who gives to everything which
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is ‘accidentally one’ the unity which makes it exist, and this being-made-
one, ‘the flowing of unity from the True One’ is a being-made-to-exist
(tahaww(). (The noun tahaww( is derived from the pronoun huwa,
‘him’, which by its very meaning implies reference to an existing being
and from which is also derived the word huwiyya, ‘substance’ or
‘existence’ depending on the context. Al-Kind(’s vocabulary includes a
number of neologisms, some of which were not used by his successors;
it bears witness to the state of Arabic philosophical vocabulary which
was still being constructed, especially by the translators.) At this point
the known part of the First Philosophy concludes. It is an important
work, which shows how al-Kind( fits together the major systems of
Greek philosophy, especially Neoplatonism. The concepts of the one
and of transcendence are, in particular, common to this philosophical
school and to Muslim theology. The Mu‘tazilites especially would make
it one of their main themes, and there is independent evidence that al-
Kind( was close to them.
The doctrinal themes of the First Philosophy can be compared to
those contained in other works by al-Kind(: explicitly or implicitly, the
main aspects of his thought are to be found in this central work. First,
the idea of the underlying harmony between revelation and prophecy
is also found in the main discussion of the Letter on the Number of
Aristotle’s Bodies ([2.23]): the ‘divine knowledge’ which God gives,
from his free choice, to the prophets opens to them the knowledge of
visible and invisible substances, whereas men usually have to labour
long and hard, using logic and mathematics, to gain it. Thus the final
verses of sourate 36 (Y& ‘S(n) provide illuminating teaching on creation,
the sequence of life and death and on contraries in general. Al-Kind(
expounds at length the philosophical content of what divine revelation
condenses into a few words. Second, as has already been explained,
knowledge is gained through science and mathematics. This is an
important theme of the Letter, which is proposed and argued at the
beginning and taken up again near to the end. In both places,
mathematics is put first, and it is this method which is used in chapter
2 of the First Philosophy. The discussions there are taken up in three
other letters about the finitude of the world. Elsewhere too al-Kind(’s
arguments often have a rigorous, detailed structure based on the
mathematical method. Third, the cosmological theme is developed by
the same method in the Letter on the Prostration of the Farthest Body,
which takes a text from the Koran (55: al-Rah. m&n, 6)—‘The star and
the tree prostrate themselves’—as its point of departure. Al-Kind( begins
with a semantic analysis of the words ‘prostration’ and ‘obedience’,
which he says mean the same in this context. Then he explains in detail
how God’s will works in the world, which he envisages according to
Greek cosmology and Aristotle’s physics (except that he does not
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
consider it eternal); once they have been created, the heavens are put
into motion, and from this there comes about time and then coming-
to-be. The heavens live, think and are the agent cause of all coming-to-
be. The Letter on the True, First and Perfect Agent Cause, and the
Imperfect Agent Cause [which is called agent] by Extension explains
that true agency is reserved for God alone, who creates the first sphere
of the heavens and puts it into motion and, through it, puts all the
other spheres into motion: but what comes to be from it is not action,
but being-acted-upon (infi‘al) ([2.31]).
We should also mention two topics which are implied in the First
Philosophy but not discussed there. One of these is the soul, the subject
of a metaphysical, exhortatory treatise, which gathers together ideas
from various sources, in particular ones taken from Platonism,
Neoplatonism and Hermeticism ([2.22]). Another is intellectual
knowledge, treated in the Letter on the Intellect, one of the few works
by al-Kind( translated into Latin (twelfth century). Here al-Kind(
differentiates four types or levels of the intellect, according to the
reinterpretation of Aristotle’s theory of intellectual knowledge by the
early Neoplatonic school (Porphyry) and John Philoponus ([2.28]).
Finally, the Letter on How to Dispel Sadness ([2.40]) is a lengthy moral
exhortation which includes spiritual advice, written in the common
philosophical style of the first centuries AD. In this work al-Kind( shows
much less of his characteristic turn of mind than elsewhere, where he
subjects what he has gathered from the Greek philosophers to his own
treatment.
AL-R-Z/ AND AL-F-R-B/
The most idiosyncratic figure in the history of Arabic philosophy is,
without question, that of Ab* Bakr Muh. ammad ibn Zakariyy& al-R&z(
(251/865–313/925), who was also an outstanding writer on medicine.
The most important of his many medical works, al-H&w( (known in
Latin as Continens) has a significant place in the history of medicine, in
Christian Europe as well as in Islam, and it was translated into Latin
twice (end of thirteenth century and in the sixteenth century). He took
his inspiration as a philosopher more closely and constantly from the
Greeks than from other sources. He looked to Socrates as the master of
all philosophers in his way of life; he knew and quoted Plato, Aristotle,
Porphyry, John Philoponus and others. He did not think that philosophy
always remains one and the same. It progresses through the very
differences between those who follow it, and to be a philosopher does
not, he believed, mean to have the truth but to try to reach it—a view of
intellectual history entirely other than al-Kind(’s. The basis of al-R&z(’s
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ethics is reason and its aim is the ordering of conduct and the subjugation
of the passions. His theology is explicitly philosophical. The world is
an emanation from God; and not only God, but also the world soul,
prime matter, space and time are eternal. Al-R&z( believed in the
transmigration of souls, which could rise to higher moral and
metaphysical levels in successive reincarnations. And he denied that
there was such a thing as prophecy. God inspires all men equally, but
they are not all equal in taking advantage of it. Clearly, these views
were not acceptable to the Islamic faithful. Only a few rather short
treatises of al-R&z( survive, and the work where he denies the existence
of prophecy is known only through the quotes made in order to attack
it by his contemporary and compatriot, the Ism&‘(lite missionary, Ab*
H. &tim al-R&z(. Despite the controversial nature of his philosophical
ideas, al-R&z( was allowed to be the doctor in charge of the hospital at
Baghdad.
Ab* Bakr al-R&z(’s place in the history of falsafah is therefore a
strange one, the very opposite of that held by al-Kind(, another
Neoplatonist. Different again is that held by Ab* NaUr Muh. ammad
ibn Muh. ammad al-F&r&b(, who was born at about the same time as al-
Kind( died and who lived until 339/950 ([2.11]). He maintained the
same high level of philosophical thinking as his great predecessor, but
he moved it definitely into a new direction, opening up a fresh path for
its development. One feature of his work was his great interest and
ability in logic. Here he was the beneficiary of the work done by the
translators and commentators (most of them Christians), such as Ab*
Bishr Matt& and Yuh. ann& ibn H. ayl&n, his masters at the Aristotelian
school at Baghdad, whom he considered to belong to the tradition of
the Greek commentators. But he went further, especially in the attention
he gave to the structure of reasoning and the types of argument. Among
his works of logic are books based on, or commenting on (often very
freely), all the books of the Organon, as well as Porphyry’s Isagoge
and in accord with the practice of the School of Alexandria, the Rhetoric
(though not, like them, the Poetics, which remained on the edges of
the Arab philosophical tradition). He also wrote introductory logical
works and, more interestingly, a Little Book of Reasoning according
to the methods of the mutakallim*n and the fuqah&, which examines
critically, according to logical criteria alone, the methods of argument
used by the theologians and the lawyers. Al-F&r&b( begins with a
systematic exposition of Aristotle’s logic. In his prologue, al-F&r&b(
explains that he will use ‘terms known to those who speak Arabic and
examples familiar to our contemporaries’. This method might be taken
as one especially designed for teaching, but it might also be seen in
terms of a more far-reaching principle of logico-grammatical analysis.
Before giving a complete survey of logic and placing it within the whole
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domain of knowledge, the Book of Terms Used in Logic lists the words
which are joined to nouns, to verbs and to noun-verb combinations:
that is to say, tool-words. In this list are found purely logical terms
(such as quantifiers) but especially invariable words, some of which
correspond to terms in Greek, others of which have a place only in
Arabic. There is, then, here a tension between the universality implied
by the return to Greek philosophy, and the particularity of the language
of faylas*f. In this light, al-F&r&b(’s work can be seen as an attempt to
introduce certain particular features of the Arabic language into the
historical development of logic ([2.9], [2.25]).
Here we see the deep structure of al-F&r&b(’s thought: more
emphatically than al-Kind(’s, it is based on the attempt to combine
ideas of different sorts—Greek and Arabic, philosophical and religious—
into a whole which is both systematic and historical. Another witness
to this way of thinking and writing is the strange Book of Letters (Kit&b
al-h. ur*f). ‘Letters’ has two different (but compatible) meanings here. It
provides the work’s title first because the book is a set of loose variations,
in al-F&r&b(’s usual manner, on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, which was
sometimes called in Arabic Kit&b al-h. ur*f (from the fact that its books
are each designated by a Greek letter). But, second, the title refers to the
fact that, just like the Book of Terms Used in Logic, this treatise contains
a study of various tool-words; and these are what grammarians call
h. ur*f, ‘letters’. Here, however, the list is occupied mainly by terms which
are used in philosophy, whether words like ‘when’ and ‘how’ or the
names of the categories, predicables and so on. In this context, al-F&r&b(
examines the copula in attributive propositions which, in Arabic, poses
problems unknown to Greek logicians. (It is wrong, however, to draw—
as has been done—the conclusion that this difference in the way being
is expressed caused a radical separation between ‘Arab thought’ and
‘Greek thought’. The Greek attributive proposition can easily do without
the copula, and Arabic philosophers were perfectly comfortable in
ontology.) This treatise also dwells on, among other things, the relation
between philosophy, religion, language and the whole course of
civilization, considered in the most general way. Altogether, it examines
in depth concepts and themes from the whole field of philosophy: the
status of concepts, the categories, the vocabulary of being, epistemology
and scientific method. In one way or another it includes the subject-
matter of various Aristotelian works along with subjects such as the
history of culture and the theory of religion which Aristotle did not
consider systematically. Here perhaps is a third reason for its title. To
al-F&r&b(, this book occupied a place among his works similar to that
of the Metaphysics (devoted to being qua being, and to theology) among
Aristotle’s writings.
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In logic, then, al-F&r&b(’s project was to found the Greek on the
Arab and the Arab on the Greek. In political philosophy, his second
main interest, his procedure is the same, although it involves more
material that is rooted in cultural particularities. Political philosophy
includes consideration of the relations between philosophy and religion,
which for al-F&r&b( meant the defence of philosophy. A number of his
works fit into this class. The Enumeration of the Sciences surveys the
encyclopaedia of scientific knowledge which the Arabs have built up
through their philology, their translations from the Greek and their
own creative work: grammar and linguistics, logic, mathematics (in
the broad sense of the quadrivium along with mechanics), physics,
metaphysics, politics and two exclusively Islamic branches of
knowledge: fiqh or jurisprudence and kal&m, defensive or polemical
theology (about which al-F&r&b( manifests considerable reserve, whereas
he recognizes the usefulness of fiqh). Although the chapters on these
two Islamic subjects seem not to fit in with the rest of the work, al-
F&r&b( had promised, in his prologue, to deal with the branches of
knowledge ‘which are being followed at the present time’, a qualification
which now is seen to have its rationale. The Agreement of the Two
Sages is intended to show that, despite appearances to the contrary,
Plato and Aristotle do not contradict each other. This subtle, at times
even enigmatic work, is at least clear in its aim. Starting from a definition
and analysis of the content of philosophy, it attempts to reveal a deep
unity among the main doctrines which make it up and so to assert its
value against those who attack it, and guarantee its place in the field of
knowledge and thought. Side by side with this treatise is the collection
consisting of The Attainment of Happiness, The Philosophy of Plato
and The Philosophy of Aristotle ([2.3], [2.4]).
During the course of his life, al-F&r&b( was able to observe the
crumbling of the Abb&ssid caliphate’s power. In every part of the
empire minor, practically independent princely dynasties sprang up.
During al-Muqtadir’s caliphate (298/908 to 320/930) there were
thirteen vizirs, amd two rival caliphates were formed: the Fatimid in
Egypt and the Umayyad in Spain. Between al-Muqtadir’s death and
al-F&r&b(’s own, four caliphs were overthrown or assassinated. Not
unexpectedly, then, al-F&r&b( was aware of the importance of politics
and the philosophical problems posed by it. They formed the subject
of many of his works, and were emphasized even in books of his
which also dealt with other areas. His most extensive political work
is called Principles of the Opinions of the Citizens of the Best City.
Here al-F&r&b( considers the city and its government by placing it
within a wider scheme of macrocosm and microcosm, in which the
structure of the greater and lesser worlds is seen to be similar at every
level. This structure is hierarchical: its elements (the celestial spheres,
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the faculties of the soul, the bodily organs, the inhabitants of cities)
are each seen to depend on something superior, which is the basis for
their initial and continuing existence. Al-F&r&b( gives a clear description
of the emanation of the celestial intelligences and their spheres, one
which Avicenna will copy and fill out in detail. The city should be
organized and run by a legislator who combines being ‘wise, prudent
and a philosopher’. From the agent Intellect there come into the
legislator’s potential intellect the intelligible forms which make up his
knowledge, whilst also putting his imagination to work so that he
becomes an ‘annunciatory prophet’, who can inculcate the best laws
in the people through persuasion and thus achieve the aim of political
science: to establish the happiness of the city. The legislator will, then,
be both philosopher and prophet: he will combine philosophy and
religion. Especially in the Book of Letters and the Book of Religion,
al-F&r&b( asserts the priority of philosophy to religion, which ‘follows’
it: ‘good religious laws are subordinate to the universal principles of
practical philosophy’. Religion is subordinate to philosophy in the
way that imagination is to the intellect, and persuasive discourse to
demonstration. These ideas are linked to various ancient philosophical
themes: Platonic (the role of the legislator) and Aristotelian (the
position of rhetoric). Al-F&r&b( is certainly nearer than al-R&z( to the
Islamic view of religion and the state, in that he accepts the existence
of prophets and gives a rational explanation for it. But, by sharp
contrast with al-Kind(, his doctrine is laicized: it keeps the form of
Islam but subverts its content. The philosophical religion about which
he theorizes ends by placing the philosophical theology of the Greek
philosophers above the teaching of God’s messengers ([2.8]).
This is not the place for a history of Islamic theology (the kal&m),
nor even a sketch of it. This kind of speculative theology began even
before the end of the first century, the product of the need to express
and defend in formal language the truths first formulated in the Qu’r&n.
Its main themes included the structure of created being, the relation of
human actions to God’s absolute power and how God should be
conceived. Only the Mu‘tazilite school, which began in the second
century, need be mentioned here, since it was the first to deal with the
central points of theology and arrange them into a doctrinal whole;
and since, moreover, its exponents were accused of being close to the
fal&sifah. The Mu‘tazilites—who differed between themselves on many
matters—were agreed that the good can be known by reason, apart
from revelation; that man creates his own acts. They emphasized the
absolute unity of God: his names are many, but not his attributes. And
some of them engaged in profound speculations about the status of
non-existing things (for instance, things before God created them, or
those things which God knows will never exist). These are genuinely
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philosophical themes, and it is legitimate to speak of a metaphysics or
physics of the kal&m—but one which has a characteristic vocabulary,
set of concepts and structure different from those of falsafah. Their
paths are different but, quite often, they intersect. Without some
knowledge of the kal&m, there are important features of Arabic
philosophy which will not be properly understood ([2.21], [2.39]).
At the same period there were other writers connected in one way
or another with the central tradition of falasfah. First, the collective
work of the Ikhw&n al-¬af&’ (Brothers of Purity) should be mentioned.
It was produced throughout the tenth century AD. It consists of fifty-
two letters, written in a style which is more accessible and persuasive
than that of the philosophers and theologians. Taken together, the letters
make up an encyclopaedia which is Neoplatonic in its arrangement
and concepts, spiritual in content and religious in its basis. The Ikhw&n
should be placed within Shi‘ism or, rather, on its edges, since they were
Isma‘(lites. Theirs was an hierarchical organization of initiates. Although
they therefore have a rather special place within Islam as a whole, their
method of speculation illustrates how the Shi‘ites accepted far more
readily than the Sunnis the connection between philosophy and religion.
Like the Mu‘tazilites, the Ikhw&n held that truth was originally given
in a divine revelation witnessed by the philosophical sages as well as
the prophets. Whilst it is just to compare this idea to late Neoplatonism,
it also has a precise place in the intellectual and spiritual history of
Islam in this particular period. On the one hand, it provided a way to
recognize the value of ancient traditions, especially those in what was
now the eastern part of the empire, which seemed to pre-date Islam.
On the other hand, it was a means of legitimating the philosophy derived
from the Greeks, following the path opened by al-Kind( but with greater
historical precision. As a result the sages of antiquity (Empedocles and
Pythagoras were thought the most venerable) were considered to have
lived at the same period as David and Solomon and to have profited
from their wisdom; this wisdom, which emanated from ‘the tabernacle
of prophecy’ was successively passed to Socrates, then to Plato and
even went as far as Aristotle. The heyday of this historico-ideological
doctrine was the second half of the tenth century AD, a time when
several emirs of the Shi‘ite Buyid dynasty, with its capital at Sh(r&z,
acted as patrons of learning and science. There is a certain uniformity
to the philosophy of this period. Ancient philosophy was well and
accurately known, but it did not stimulate any really creative thought.
Rather, it was linked to a taste for learning and for expounding the
stock of ancient wisdom. Writers of this sort include Ab* Sulaym&n al-
Sijist&n( (died c. 990), Ab* H. ayy&n al-Tawh. (d( (died in 399/1099) and
Ibn F&tik al-Mubashshir, all of them men of great learning. Among the
works typical of this tendency is the Eternal Wisdom of Ab* ‘Al( Ah. mad
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ibn Miskawayh (died in 421/1030), chancellor of the Buyid emir, ‘A8ud
al-Dawla. This work claims to be a translation of an old Persian book
and collects pronouncements attributed to ancient Persian, Indian, Arab
and Greek sages. For the exponents of this current of thought, the
truth has been available ever since its original revelation. Such a
conception comes down to applying to philosophers the principle by
which the prophets all transmit the same revelation; but, for this reason,
philosophy, having been made sacred, becomes merely a matter of
retrospection. Al-Kind(’s explicit view was very different, but his idea
of a deep agreement between philosophers and prophets left the way
open for the notion of eternal wisdom and so may have perhaps
contradicted his own theory of progress ([2.18], [2.33], [2.34]).
AVICENNA
The traditional (perhaps not completely exact) date for the birth, near
Bukhara (in present day Uzbekistan) of Ab* ‘Al( al-H. usayn ibn
‘Abdallah ibn S(n& is 370/980. Ibn S(n&, known as ‘Avicenna’ in the
West through the twelfth-century Latin translations, is a giant in the
history of thought. A polymath, he was in particular an outstanding
physician, and it was in this capacity or as a vizier that he served various
princes in the eastern parts of Islam. His life was thus far from calm
and, at times, it was dramatic. He died at Hamad&n in 429/1037 as a
result of taking a wrongly made-up medicine. Some of his works have
been lost, but what remains is still substantial. It includes treatises on
various subjects, especially medicine; writings in which he wraps
philosophical views in fiction, in a way reminiscent of Plato’s myths;
and a set of encyclopaedias, some of which are more or less schematic,
whilst others are fairly or extremely detailed. The detailed, lengthier
encyclopaedias are The Direction (al-Hid&ya), The Cure (al-Shif&’)—
by far the longest of them, The Salvation (al-Naj&t) and Instructions
and Remarks (al-Ish&r&t wa-l-tanb(h&t). These are all in Arabic, whilst
a fifth large encyclopaedia, the Book of Knowledge (D&nesh-n&me) is
in Persian. Two rules of method guide the composition of these works.
First, they follow in general the scheme of the branches of knowledge
traditionally recognized in Aristotelianism: logic, physics, mathematics,
and theology or metaphysics. This does not mean that all Ibn S(n&’s
encyclopaedias follow exactly this order. For instance, the Book of
Knowledge, as well as another work in Persian, the Philosophy for
‘Al&’ al-Dawla, places metaphysics before physics, in accord with the
idea of metaphysics as the study of the general properties of being.
Avicenna’s other encyclopaedias place metaphysics after physics, which
prepares the ground for understanding it. The second rule is what
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follows from the progress of knowledge and Ibn S(n&’s own decisions
on theoretical questions. The result of these two principles is that Ibn
S(n& expounds his own views, following Aristotle but not repeating
him; thus in the Shif& the material of the Meteorologica is differently
arranged among different books, and the Metaphysics follows
Aristotle’s plan only distantly. The only works on which he actually
wrote commentaries are Aristotle’s Metaphysics ⌳ and On the Soul,
and also the apocryphal Theology of Aristotle. These commentaries
belonged to the Book of Right Judgement (Kit&b al-InU&f), which
survives only in fragments (the complete text was lost when the prince
whom Ibn S(n& served as physician and vizier was defeated in battle).
In this way there disappeared almost the whole of what has been taken
as Ibn S(n&’s last philosophy, what he called an ‘Eastern philosophy’,
distinct from that of ‘Westerners’. There has been much speculation
about the nature of this ‘Eastern philosophy’. Some have seen it as a
definite turning towards what would later be called ‘philosophy of
illumination’. Others point out that a treatise which Ibn S(n& actually
calls Logic of the Easterners is not particularly different from his other
writings. They consider that the term ‘Easterners’ refers to an
Aristotelian school at Khur&s&n. Moreover, in the Instructions, which
are later than the lost Book of Right Judgement, there is no mention of
‘Eastern philosophy’ ([2.10], [2.24], [2.25]).
As a young man, Ibn S(n& read and learnt everything there was to
read and learn. But for the formation of his thought the most important
of all the books he read were the Letters of the Ikhwan al-afa’, and the
works of al-F&r&b(, which were particularly important in allowing him
to grasp the point of Aristotle’s Metaphysics by showing him the deep
connection between the theology and the ontology of forms which this
text brings together. His interest in the Ikhw&n is understandable in
the light of his spiritual sympathy (perhaps even adherence) to
Isma‘(lism; his father was himself an Isma‘(li. With regard to al-F&r&b(,
there is no difficulty in drawing up a list of parallels with Ibn S(n&’s
views. The two thinkers shared a universal vision of a hierarchy of
being with God at the head of it, and (following the accumulated
teaching of the Aristotelian commentators and of al-Kind() an analysis
of the intellect which, using the notions of act and potency, divides it
into several ontologically distinct levels. To this, they both linked a
doctrine of prophecy; and they also shared an interest in logic. But Ibn
S(n& treated these traditions as he did Aristotle: he handled their various
features in his own personal way. A fuller study would need to take
these differences into account, listing and analysing them. For instance,
in logic Ibn S(n& combined the rules for attributive propositions and
those for hypothetical ones into a more complete synthesis than had
been previously achieved ([2.35], [2.37], [2.42]). Similarly, Ibn S(n&’s
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
thinking about the origin of things goes further than al-F&r&b(’s.
According to Ibn S(n& ‘the Being which is necessary by its essence’ is an
Intelligence which thinks itself and so is at once thinking and thought.
The thought which it has of itself is productive of being. The first
being produced in this way therefore exists necessarily and yet, in its
own essence, it is contingent. It too is an Intelligence (the First
Intelligence) which (1) thinks the Necessary in itself and also thinks
itself in its two aspects: (2) in its own necessary existence and (3) in its
contingent essence. From Thought (1) there emanates a second
Intelligence placed directly below this first Intelligence; whilst from
Thought (2) there emanates a form, and from Thought (3) matter,
which are respectively the soul and body of the first Intelligence’s sphere.
The second Intelligence produces the soul and body of its own sphere,
and the third Intelligence; and this process continues down to the last
Intelligence, that of the sphere of the moon. From it there emanate
into the sublunary world the forms which human intellects receive in
different ways and the matter which is ‘prepared’ to receive these forms.
The ideas implied by this scheme of cosmic emanation are at the very
heart of Avicenna’s metaphysics—none more so than the correlated
notions of necessity and contingency.
Aristotle had established the existence of a pure Act, the First Mover
‘on which depend the heavens and all nature’; al-Kind( that of a True
One, the ‘cause of unity’ and so of the existence of ‘all beings which
are unitary’. Ibn S(n& bases his own argument on a division of being
according to logical modality. All beings of whose existence we are
aware are contingent by their very essence, since it includes no
necessity: they can without contradiction be conceived as not-existing.
Moreover, their existence is ultimately linked by causal relations to
the celestial spheres which are themselves also contingent in essence.
But it is impossible that a chain of causes should go on for ever from
one contingent thing to another, since what is contingent is, by
definition, something which can equally be or not be: contingent
existence tends in itself towards non-existence in so far as it is not
founded on something which exists necessarily. There is, therefore, a
first term in the causal chain which is necessary in its very essence—
that is to say, whose essence includes that mark of necessity which is
lacking in all other things and which can also be expressed as the
identity in it of essence and existence. In this way, the cosmogony
sketched above is given a philosophical basis. Just as the whole system
of the world comes about from the thought which the Necessary
Being has of itself, so this being, in thinking itself at the same time
thinks everything in the universe: it thinks ‘the higher (that is, heavenly)
beings, each in its individuality, and the being of the sublunary world
in the universals under which they are classified’ ([2.6]).
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The distinction between essence and existence is another feature of
Ibn S(n&’s thought which is his own; he did not take it from al-F&r&b(,
as was long thought because of the misattribution of a short treatise
(FuU*U al-h. ikam, which might be translated as Precious Aphorisms)
which continues Ibn S(n&’s own formulation of the distinction. In all
contingent things, Ibn S(n& differentiates, on the one hand, the fact of
having a certain quiddity (m&hiyyah: m& is translated into Latin as quid,
thus producing the word quidditas) or, as he is also willing to say, a
h. aq(qah, meaning ‘truth’—what this thing which exists really is; and,
on the other hand, the very fact that it exists, its wuj*d or huwiyya.
(The word huwiyya is made up from the pronoun huwa which means
‘him’ but also acts as the copula in attributive propositions; al-Kind(,
who also uses wuj*d, had already used huwa as the basis for another
word, tahwid, as noted above.) The standard contrast essence and
existence in Western philosophy is, then, a good rendering of Ibn S(n&s
distinction between m&hiyya and wuj*d. In existing things essence does
not imply existence, otherwise they would exist necessarily. The one
exception, as we have seen, is God, and this structural distinction has
its place at the level of the ultimate origin of things. But it also gives rise
to an idea relevant to the ontology of forms. What sort of being does
essence have? It has no effect on existence as such, but essence determines
its status in each existing thing. In itself, essence is neither universal nor
particular, neither singular nor plural, neither present in existence nor
just a concept in the mind: but it can be any of these. To use Ibn S(n&’s
own example: the universal ‘horse’ signifies something which is distinct
from its universality: ‘horseliness’ (equinitas in the Latin translations)
or ‘just horseliness’ (equinitas tantum). This horseliness can be attached
to the ‘conditions’ of existence in actual horses, or not: in itself, it is
removed from any condition and only a ‘divine being’ can be attributed
to it, as Ibn S(n& says in an enigmatic comment which should certainly
be linked to what he says about the origin of the world in God’s thought.
Methodologically, this doctrine of being supports one of Ibn S(n&’s
favourite procedures. He engages in an imaginary experimentation with
combinations of forms, an inspection of the ‘thingness’ (his word too)
of a given object, from which one can see what is or is not compatible
with its nature and so what should be thought about it. In this theory of
essence, Ibn S(n& can be seen to be following on from the theological
speculations about non-existing things mentioned above in connection
with the Mu‘tazilites ([2.32]).
There remains one area where Ibn S(n& is close to al-F&r&b(: the
theory of prophecy, its nature and function. Prophetic revelation is an
outstanding example of the joining of the human soul with the separated
Intelligences. Intellectual understanding is the most common instance
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of this joining, but whereas ordinary men proceed through discursive
thought, the prophet is, he said, ‘informed of what is invisible; an angel
speaks to him’. The function of prophecy is to ensure the social ties
which are necessary for men by giving them laws and laying down
religious obligations. But it can only inculcate the truth which it contains
through symbols which are accessible to simple minds. It is not a matter
of the prophets’ hiding the truth but of expressing it in another language.
Thus the descriptions of the happiness of heaven are allegories of the
spiritual pleasures of the separated soul. Besides its use in interpreting
prophecies, Ibn S(n& uses his idea of symbolic expression in two ways.
Sometimes he employs it to give philosophical readings of verses from
the Qur’&n: for instance, in Instructions and Remarks he interprets the
famous verse about light (Sourate 24, Light, v, 35) as an imagistic
description of the intellectual faculties of the soul and their hierarchy,
from the material intelligence up to the intelligence in act which is in
contact with the Agent Intellect. In the same work, Ibn S(n& refers to
the Story of Sal&m&n and Abs&l (about which he also wrote a letter):
they are two figures, he says, who represent the soul of man (‘yourself’)
and its level of mystical knowledge, a subject treated in detail in the
Instructions. Or again—this is the second way in which he treats
symbols—he himself composes stories which put into the form of images
the adventures of the soul desiring ‘light’ (H. ayy ibn Yaqz.a-n) and in
search of truth (The Story of the Bird) ([2.1], [2.7], [2.36]).
CONCLUSION
Without doubt Ibn S(n& is the most widely known of the great Eastern
fal&sifah, because of the extent of his work and the variety of fields,
including medicine and literary composition, in which he excelled.
Knowledge of al-Kind( and al-F&r&b( is more restricted to specialist
historians of philosophy, but it would be unjust not to recognize al-
Kind(’s pioneer role and his genius as a scholar and philosopher, or al-
F&r&b(’s penetration and power of synthesis. Not, of course, that there
is any question of drawing up an order of merit. The task of these
concluding remarks is, rather, to give a general picture of this period of
falsafah. It was a lively, creative period, and many lesser but highly
able authors, unmentioned in this account, were active. Its central
problems resulted from the interplay between two different oppositions.
On the one hand, there was the opposition between the Prophet of
Islam’s revelation and a body of teaching originating in another
language and a different spiritual atmosphere. On the other hand, there
was the opposition between tradition and progress, which in some
ways repeats the first opposition, but in others suppresses it by looking
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to a wisdom which has always been the same. Leaving aside this illusory
solution, there are two different ways in which the main opposition—
between religion and philosophy—was resolved. One way was to
reconcile their differences in some way or other. This was al-Kind(’s
procedure (although his historical view of philosophy did not fully
resolve the tension between the terms of the second opposition, tradition
and progress). Ibn S(n&, too, proceeded in this way. He combined a
theology which was philosophical in a highly technical way with
exegetical and mystical meditations. The other way involved
subordinating religion and making the philosophical tradition the solid
basis for progress. Al-R&z( went the furthest in this direction; al-F&r&b(
tried to have the best of both worlds, but his philosophy of religion
has philosophy of mind and political science, rather than the Koran,
as its main constituents.
These, then, were the main themes and tensions in the first period of
falsafah: the first period because, after Ibn S(n&, Arab and Islamic
philosophical and religious thought took on a new configuration.
During the fifth/eleventh century, the Seljuk Turks conquered Iran bit
by bit, moving from East to West, and they entered Baghdad in 447/
1055. They did not suppress the caliphate which had long been in
decline, but they put it beneath their authority and presented themselves
as its defenders against the various Shi‘ite regimes of the Near East and
Egypt. As a necessary accompaniment to this military/religious
programme, there was ideological reform. Its outstanding exponent
was Ab* H. &mid al-Ghazz&l( (458/1058 to 505/1111). His work took
many forms (theoretical, mystical, political), but here we need note
merely his hostility to falsafah. His main work in this area is the
Incoherence of the Philosophers (Tah&fut al-fal&sifah), in which he
refutes twenty theses held by al-F&r&b( and Ibn S(n&. These theses, he
says, express in one way or another three points of view which are
directly opposed to the faith: that the world has existed for eternity;
that God knows only universals; and that bodies will not be resurrected.
Physics and metaphysics are thus to be rejected; the only valuable parts
of philosophy left are mathematics and logic. Al-Ghaz&l(’s attack, which
took place in a political climate hostile to whatever fell outside strict
theological and juridical tradition, put an end to three centuries of
vigour in the falsafah of the Near East. Falsafah would go on as such
for a while in the extreme West of Islam, the Maghreb and Spain,
where there was already a well-established scientific and philosophical
tradition. And, in the East, the legacy of Ibn S(n& would continue, but
in a way where (starting especially with Shih&b al-D(n Yah.y& al-
Suhraward(, of Alep, put to death in 587/1191) its mystical tendencies
were emphasized. There followed a brilliant line of philosophers whose
doctrines brought together a profound metaphysics, religious
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speculations characteristic of Shi‘ism and traditions attributed to the
great figures of ancient Persia (such as Zoroaster) or to a mythical past
(Hermes). It is difficult not to recall here Neoplatonism at the end of
antiquity, in which poems attributed to Orpheus and the Chaldaean
Oracles were made the subject of commentary and were the goal for
pupils who would already have studied Plato and Aristotle. This new
Islamic philosophy thus marks the return, though with a different
content, of a stimulating structure of thought able to unify different
religious traditions. The ideas about ‘eternal wisdom’ of the fourth
and fifth (tenth and eleventh) centuries were a more restricted
development of the same way of thought.
(translated by John Marenbon)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Translations
2.1 Bakoš, J. Psychologie d’Ibn S(n& (Avicenne) d’après son oeuvre Aš-Šif&’, II,
Prague, 1956 (French translation).
2.2 Ivry, A.L. Al-Kindi’s Metaphysics: a Translation of Ya‘q*b ibn Ish. &q al-Kind(’s
Treatise ‘On First Philosophy’ (f( al-Falsafah al-1l&), Albany, NY, 1974.
2.3 Mahdi, M. Alfarabi’s Philosophy of Plato andAristote, translated and with
introduction, Ithaca, NY, 1969.
2.4 Mallet, D. Deux traités philosophiques: L’harmonie entre les opinions des deux
sages, le divin Platon et Aristotle, et de la religion, introduction, translation
and notes, Damascus, 1989.
2.5 ——‘Ab* NaUr al-F&r&b(: le rappel de la voie à suivre pour parvenir au bonheur’,
introduction, translation and notes, Bulletin d’études orientales de l’Institut
Français de Damas 39–40 (1989): 113–40.
2.6 Morewedge, P. The Metaphysica of Avicenna (ibn S(n&): a Critical Translation-
Commentary and Analysis of the Fundamental Arguments in Avicenna’s
Metaphysica in the D&nish. N&ma-i ‘al&’i (The Book of Scientific Knowledge),
New York, 1973.
2.7 Rahman, F. Avicenna’s Psychology: an English Translation of Kit&b al-Naj&t,
Book II, Chapter VI, Oxford, 1952.
2.8 Walzer, R. Al-Farab( on the Perfect State: Ab* NaUr al-F&r&bi’s Mab&di’ &r&’ ahl
al-mad(na al-f&8ila, Oxford, 1985.
2.9 Zimmermann, F.W. Al-Farabi’s Commentary and Short Treatise on Aristotle’s
De interpretatione, translated with introduction and notes, Oxford, 1981.
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Bibliographies
2.10 Janssens, J.L. An Annotated Bibliography of Ibn S(n& (1970–1989), Leuven,
1991.
2.11 Rescher, N. Al-F&r&b(: an Annotated Bibliography, Pittsburgh, Pa., 1962.
2.12 ——Al-Kind(: an Annotated Bibliography, Pittsburgh, Pa., 1964.
General Surveys
2.13 Badawi, A. Histoire de la philosophie en Islam, II, Paris, 1972.
2.14 Butterworth, C.E. ‘The study of Arabie philosophy today’, in T.A.Druart (ed.)
Arabic Philosophy and the West, Washington, DC, 1988, pp. 55–140.
2.15 Corbin, H. Histoire de la philosophie islamique, Paris, 1964.
2.16 Fakhry, M. A History of Islamic Philosophy, 2nd edn, London and New York,
1983.
2.17 Hitti, P.K. History of the Arabs, 8th edn, London, 1964.
Since this chapter was written there has also been published:
Nasr, S.H. and Leaman, O. History of Islamic Philosophy, 2 vols (Routledge
History of World Philosophies I), London and New York, 1996.
Studies
2.18 Arkoun, M. Contribution à l’étude de l’humanisme arabe au IV/Xe siècle:
Miskawayh, philosophe et historien, Paris, 1970.
2.19 Atiyeh, G.N. Al-Kindi: the Philosopher of the Arabs, Rawalpindi, 1966.
2.20 Fakhry, M. ‘The Arabs and the encounter with philosophy’, in T.A.Druart (ed.)
Arab Philosophy and the West, Washington, DC, 1988, pp. 1–17.
2.21 Frank, R.M. The Metaphysics of Created Being according to Ab* I’Hudhayl
al-all&f, Istanbul, 1966.
2.22 Genequand, C. ‘Platonism and hermetism in al-Kind(’s F( al-nafs’, Zeitschrift
für Geschichte der arabisch-islamischen Wissenschaften 4 (1987–8): 1–19.
2.23 Guidi, M. and Walzer, R. Studi su al-Kindi, I: uno scritto introduttivo allo
studio di Aristotele, Rome, 1940.
2.24 Gutas, D. Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition: Introduction to Reading
Avicenna’s Philosophical Works, Leiden, 1988.
2.25 Hasnaoui, A. ‘F&r&b( et la pratique de l’exégèse philosophique (Remarques sur
son Commentaire au De Interpretatione d’Aristote)’, Revue de Synthèse 106
(1985): 27–59.
2.26 ——‘Aspects de la synthèse avicennienne’, in M.A.Sinaceur (ed.) Penser avec
Aristote, Toulouse, 1991, pp. 227–44.
2.27 Hugonnard-Roche, H. ‘L’intermédiaire syriaque dans la transmission de la
philosophie grecque à l’arabe: le cas de l’Organon d’Aristote’, Arabie Sciences
and Philosophy 1(2) (1991): 187–209.
2.28 Jolivet, J. L’Intellect selon Kind(, Leiden, 1971.
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2.29 ——‘L’intellect selon al-F&r&b(, quelques remarques’, Bulletin d’etudes orientales
29 (1977): 211–19.
2.30 ——‘Pour le dossier du Proclus arabe: al-Kind( et la Théologie platonicienne’,
Studia Islamica 49 (1979):55–75.
2.31 ——‘L’action divine selon al-Kind(’, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 50,
Beirut (1984): 313–29.
2.32 ——‘Aux Origines de l’ontologie d’Ibn S(n&’, in J.Jolivet and R.Rashed (eds)
Etudes sur Avicenne Paris, 1984, pp. 11–28.
2.33 ——‘L’Idée de la sagesse et sa fonction dans la philosophie des 4e et 5e siècles’,
Arabie Sciences and Philosophy 1, 1 (1991): 31–65.
2.34 Kraemer, J.L. Philosophy in the Renaissance of Islam: Ab* Sulaym&n al-Sijist&n(
and his Circle, Leiden, 1986.
2.35 Maróth, M. Ibn S(n& und die peripatetische ‘Aussagenlehre’, Leiden, 1989.
2.36 Michot, J. La Destinée de l’homme selon Avicenne: le retour à Dieu (Ma‘ad) et
l’imagination, Louvain, 1986.
2.37 Moussaoui, A. ‘Le Problème des fondements de la logique chez les penseurs
musulmans médiévaux: la logique d’Ibn S(n&’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis,
University of Paris I, 1987–8.
2.38 Peters, F.E. Aristotle and the Arabs, New York, 1968.
2.39 Pines, S. Beiträge zur islamischen Atomenlehre, Berlin, 1936; repr. New York
and London, 1987.
2.40 Ritter, H. and Walzer, R. Studi su Al-Kind( II: uno scritto morale inedito di Al-
Kind( (Temistio peri alypias?), Rome, 1938.
2.41 Rosenthal, F. Greek Philosophy in the Arab World, London, 1990.
2.42 Shehaby, N. The Prepositional Logic of Avicenna, Dordrecht and Boston, 1973.
2.43 Troupeau, G. ‘Le Rôle des syriaques dans la transmission et l’exploitation du
patrimoine philosophique et scientifique grec’, Arabica 38 (1991):1–10.
2.44 Walzer, R. Greek into Arabic, Oxford, 1962.
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CHAPTER 3
Averroes
Alfred Ivry
Ab*’l Wal(d Muh. ammad ibn Ah. mad ibn Rushd (1126–98) needs to
be known only as Averroes to be familiar to students of philosophy in
the West. Greatly respected as a commentator on Aristotle’s writings,
Averroes was also strongly attacked for what were perceived to be his
theologico-political and metaphysical views. He was accused of holding
a double-truth theory, in which religion had its own truths which could
contradict, though not invalidate, the truths of reason; and accused as
well of believing that our minds belong essentially, and return at death,
to a single eternal intelligence, a doctrine known as monopsychism.
‘Averroism’ came to be synonymous with these views, though the
‘double truth’ accusation is a distortion of his position. Averroes,
however, cannot be faulted for the particular view of him that the Latin
West had, which it chose to have, on the basis of the translations of his
work that it privileged. For Christian Europe may be seen to have been
so taken with Averroes as the disciple and interpreter of Aristotle, that
it disregarded his indigenous Islamic identity. The Muslim Ibn Rushd,
however, is very concerned to show that the teachings of philosophy
are not antithetical to those of Islam, that religion not only has nothing
to fear from philosophy, but that philosophy endorses its teachings as
a popular expression of its own. At the same time, Averroes’ argument
with his co-religionists may be seen as a plea for toleration of dissent
within Islamic society.
Averroes was able to take this stand because he was deeply rooted
in the religious establishment of his day. Born into a Cordoban family
of learned jurists, Averroes studied and wrote on Islamic law and
eventually became chief judge of Cordoba, following in the family
tradition. As a young intellectual he also studied theology, and his
familiarity with the writings of al-Ghazz&l( (d. 1111) in particular were
critical to his later defence of philosophy against the latter’s criticisms.
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In addition to mastering the traditional ‘religious sciences’ of
Islam, Averroes avidly studied the full range of the ‘secular sciences’
of his day. Besides Arabic poetry, these subjects were basically the
heritage of Greek learning (in Arabic translation), and featured
mathematics, astronomy, medicine and philosophy. He achieved
prominence as a physician, and wrote a medical treatise, known in
the Latin West as Colliget (from al-Kulliy&t, the Arabic for
‘generalities’ or principles).
Averroes’ major scholarly effort, however, went into the study of
philosophy, which for him meant the writings of Aristotle. For him, as
for others from Andalusian Spain (Maimonides, for example), Aristotle
was ‘the master.of those who know’, and Averroes dedicated himself
to expounding peripatetic views. In so doing, he set himself against
both the competing influence of Neoplatonic ideas, which had made
considerable inroads in the Muslim East, and the domestic opposition
of anti-philosophical theologians, the mutakallim*n.
Averroes’ philosophical position attracted the Almohad caliph, Ab*
Ya‘q*b Y*suf (reigned 1163–84).1 The caliph, while apparently
interested in understanding and cultivating science and philosophy,
was no doubt also interested in having philosophers at court for reasons
of state, perhaps as a check on the influence of the more traditionally-
oriented theologians and lawyers. Averroes’ repeated criticism of these
people, and of al-Ghazz&l( in particular, bespeak the author’s confidence
in royal support, which he in fact enjoyed for many years.
It was the Prince of the Believers, Ab* Ya‘q*b himself, who (in 1168–
9) comissioned Averroes to summarize Aristotle’s corpus, and who
then appointed him to various high offices, first as a qadi and then,
from 1182, as court physician. Averroes remained at court during the
reign of Ab* Y*suf, the son of Ab* Ya‘q*b, and was able to complete,
under apparently favourable conditions, what had become a
monumental task of philosophical exegesis.
In 1195, however, the caliph turned against Averroes and other
philosophers, apparently deferring to the conservative majority in his
regime. For a brief time the study of philosophy was prohibited,
Averroes was banished from court and placed under house arrest, his
books banned and ordered burnt. Having made his point, the caliph
then relented, and Averroes was a free and respected person when death
took him in 1198.
Islamic philosophy of the sort Averroes advocated died with him,
however, in a Muslim climate which had become increasingly
conservative. Averroes had no significant Muslim disciples, and his
books were largely ignored by Arab readers, some writings disappearing
in their original language. Fortunately, interest in Averroes and in
Aristotelian thought remained high among Jews and Christians; the
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Jews reading him in Judaeo-Arabic (Arabic in Hebrew characters) and
then Hebrew translation, the Christians in Latin. Averroes’
commentaries on Aristotle were read alongside the original works from
the thirteenth century on, and themselves engendered
supercommentaries; while a Latin (and, to a lesser extent, Hebrew)
Averroism emerged which claimed him as its progenitor.
Today, Muslim scholars, particularly in North Africa, are
reclaiming Averroes for their culture, appreciating his contribution
to Western philosophy while viewing him within the social and
political context of Almohad Andalusia and the Maghreb. An
international consortium of learned societies is engaged in
publishing critical editions, with concordances, of his Aristotelian
commentaries in Arabic, Hebrew and Latin, the languages in which
they circulated in the Middle Ages; they bring to fruition the project
first proposed by Harry Wolfson in 1931.
Averroes wrote thirty-eight commentaries in all, mostly two and
sometimes three per Aristotelian work.2 The commentaries differ in
length, and are called ‘short’, ‘middle’ and ‘long’ accordingly. The short
or ‘epitomes’ are free-standing summaries, apparently Averroes’ initial
effort to digest the arguments of Aristotle and his successors, both
Greek and Muslim, on a given text. There are only five long
commentaries, for the Posterior Analytics, Physics, On the Heavens,
On the Soul and Metaphysics, and they are exhaustively detailed and
uncompromising studies, quoting Aristotle in full and commenting on
his every sentence. Comparison of Averroes’ middle and long
commentaries on On the Soul and Metaphysics has raised the possibility
that the middle are abridgements and somewhat revised versions of
the long. It seems likely that Averroes wrote the long commentaries for
himself and the few who would have the training and patience to follow
him, while composing the middle commentaries in a relatively shorter
and somewhat more accessible and hence popular form, presumably
for the edification of the caliph and his educated retinue.
Besides these commentaries, Averroes composed a number of smaller
independent treatises, particularly on issues relating to epistemology
and physics, both terrestrial and celestial. He also wrote two defences
of philosophy, against the critical onslaught of al-Ghazz&l( and the
theologians of Islam.
In these apologia, Averroes insists upon respecting the dogmas of
Islam, while presenting himself as a dedicated philosopher, and offering
a spirited defence of the religious obligation to pursue philosophy.
Refraining on principle from deliberating upon the truth value of articles
of faith in general, Averroes yet asserts the political and ethical necessity
of affirming traditional religious beliefs.
Though this non-judgemental attitude to religious claims may be
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seen as disingenuous, it could as well be argued that Averroes was
simply applying the same criterion to religion that he applied to other
fields of enquiry, namely, that it had its own premisses, which, as
premisses, were non-demonstrable. Moreover, he knew that the
particular nature of the claims made in Islam, as in all revealed religions,
based as they were on a belief in miracles, did not comply with the
natural and empirical foundations which he saw as necessary for logical,
rational discourse.
Accordingly, the theology which Averroes allowed himself is of the
philosophical kind, in which the particular affirmations of Islam are
relevant only at the most universal and impersonal level, concerned
with the existence and nature of God, creation and providence.
Averroes’ God is thus the philosophers’ God, with no historical or
ethnic identification. As a medieval philosopher, however, Averroes
works within a modified Aristotelian view of the deity, such that God
relates to the world more directly and affectedly than Aristotle thought.
Averroes’ logical commentaries attest to the advanced state of the
art in the Islamic world by the twelfth century, with full understanding
of the technical aspects of syllogistic proof as well as of the political
purposes to which logical argument could be put. Viewing, with his
predecessors, the Poetics and Rhetoric as part of the Organon, Averroes
has less sympathy with poetry as a vehicle for expressing the truth
than he has for rhetoric, recognizing the common and even necessary
use of rhetoric in traditional religious discourse ([3.4] 73, 84). Dialectical
reasoning is both criticized, when used by the mutakallim*n as a self-
sufficient methodology; and praised, when treated by the fal&sifah as
an effective stepping-stone to demonstrative proof. It is the
demonstrative proof, with its necessary premisses, which remains the
ideal form of argument for Averroes, though he may well have suspected
it was an ideal not often realized. As al-Ghazz&l( insisted, foreshadowing
Hume, many of the philosophers’ physical and metaphysical premisses,
and hence proofs, were not necessarily true.
Nevertheless, Averroes’ physics and metaphysics follow Aristotle
mainly in integrating the principles of being in the sublunar and
supralunar spheres. As much as is possible, Averroes presents a uniform
picture of the universe. The same principles obtain in the celestial and
terrestrial realms, despite the matter of the heavens being considered
as eternal. Even where Averroes acknowledges the special properties
of the heavens, and even more so of God, and qualifies his descriptions
as ‘equivocal’, and ‘analogous’ language, it appears he believes in the
universal applicability and intelligibility of his ontological principles.
Developing Aristotle’s hylomorphic perspective, Averroes posits a
prime matter which, through its connection with an initial amorphous
‘corporeal form’, is conceived of as an existing substantive potentiality
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([3.12] 51–4). This, because the corporeal form for Averroes is an
indeterminate tridimensional extension, an actual substance of sorts.
Prime matter thereby represents being in a perpetual state of
becoming.
At the other end of the spectrum of being—and part of that spectrum
for Averroes—the first mover or God is conceived as an immaterial
substance, both fully actual and the very principle of actuality, the
actual state of every being deriving ultimately from him. In this way,
while representing the very principle of being, God functions to facilitate
continuous change and becoming in the world.
Every substance in the universe in this view is regarded as the product
of these eternal formal and material principles of being, and each
substance exists in actual and potential states. At the extremes there is
no absolutely separate existence either, prime matter not being found
without a corresponding ‘corporeal form’, and God’s very existence
‘proven’ only in relation to the motion of the heavens, for which he is
a first and necessary cause.
Averroes gets this view of God partly from Aristotle, together with
Aristotle’s conceptualization of the first mover as an immaterial and
intelligent being: a mind the essential being and sole activity of which
is thought, treated in the post-Aristotelian tradition as equivalent to
knowledge. For Averroes, as for his Muslim predecessors, this divine
knowledge is not purely self-referential; in thinking himself, God was
believed to think and hence to know the essential forms (i.e. the species)
of all beings ([3.9] 155). While not subscribing to a Neoplatonic
emanationist view, and instead believing that all forms are intrinsic to
the substance in which they appear, Averroes yet believes that the
actualization of each form depends ultimately on the first cause.
For Averroes, the physical dependency of the world upon God is
couched not only in terms of intelligence and knowledge, but also desire
and even love ([3.9] 154). The heavenly bodies were each thought to
have intellects which functioned as their immaterial, formal principles.
For Averroes this meant that each intellect ‘knew’ the place and role of
its sphere in the cosmos, both in relation to the other spheres, and to
the unmoving first cause itself. This knowledge could also be expressed
as a desire in the intellect to realize itself as perfectly as it could, which
for the spheres took the form of perfectly circular and hence eternal
motion.
Averroes does not seriously posit the existence of a soul in addition
to an intellect for each sphere, believing he had no need for a second
immaterial principle to explain the motion of the planets ([3.9] 149).
For him, the intellect alone could both think or know its object, and
desire or love it, desire being the external manifestation of its knowledge,
intellect in action. Moreover, the intellects of the spheres could be said
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
to ‘know’ events on earth, inasmuch as their movements, and
particularly the heat of the sun, affected the generation of substances
here. This knowledge Averroes judged ‘accidental’ or incidental to the
‘essential’ knowledge or function of the spheres, which was to maintain
their own, more immediate perfection, expressed by perfect circular
motion ([3.9] 38).
Averroes clung to the Aristotelian model of circular planetary motion,
though aware that astronomical theory had long since modified it. He
thereby shows his fundamental if anachronistic loyalty to Aristotle as
the arbiter of scientific truth. At the same time, Averroes modified his
Aristotelian stance, or appears to have done so, as circumstances
required. A striking example of this occurs in his treatment of the process
of intellection, at the juncture where mortal and immortal intellects,
transient and eternal thoughts, supposedly meet.
This is a subject about which Aristotle was notoriously vague in On
the Soul 3.5, and for which the post-Aristotelian tradition had proposed
a number of theories. The fundamental question was whether the
potential human intellect, being formed and informed by the imaginative
and sensory faculties of the soul, could transcend these physical origins
and become an independent and hence immortal substance. Averroes
formulated different responses to this question throughout his life
([3.31] 220–356), and it appears his final position is that the individual
intellect is only ‘accidentally’ related to the other corporeal faculties of
the soul, belonging ‘essentially’ to a universal immaterial ‘Agent
Intellect’. Put another way, the Agent Intellect is ‘essentially’ a single
immaterial actual substance, ‘accidentally’ related, as a potential or
material intellect, to many corporeal beings.
The Agent Intellect for the peripatetic post-Aristotelian tradition is
that intellect which is the last of the heavenly intelligences, its sphere
of operation our earth. For Averroes, it acts in much the same way that
God does in the universe as a whole, as the actualizing principle for all
innate forms, including and especially the form of human beings, their
intellects. The Agent Intellect thus actualizes the potential and natural
intelligibility of all objects here, and the potential knowledge of all
persons who exercise their minds. The philosopher’s knowledge, his
‘acquired intellect’, may be considerable indeed, when directed towards
and conjoined with the Agent Intellect, his ultimate goal; yet this
conjunction does not, for Averroes, render the individual intellect itself
immortal. Its truths are not personal, though its knowledge is its own,
as long as the person lives. The immortality that the individual may
anticipate is as part of the sum of universal truths, identified with the
Agent Intellect. For Averroes this knowledge, however inadequate it
may seem to the person seeking a personal immortality or mystical
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union with the deity, yet provides the philosopher with a sense of great
felicity and fulfilment.
The uncompromising teachings of Averroes’ commentaries are
modulated in the works he composed in his own name in defence of
philosophy. The FaUl al-Maq&l, paraphrased in English as ‘Averroes on
the harmony of religion and philosophy’,3 was probably written about
ten years after Averroes received his mandate from the caliph to explain
and summarize Aristotle’s works, i.e. in a period when Averroes enjoyed
the caliph’s support and felt confident in presenting philosophy’s claim
to religious legitimacy before its detractors.
The Harmony has a logical and legal focus, Averroes arguing before
his fellow jurists that while rooted in the Qur’&n, Islamic law is as
much of an innovation or post-Qur’&nic development within Islam as
is philosophy, and that therefore both are equally permissible
expressions of the faith. For Averroes, the Qur’&n demands that one
reflect upon, hence study the world, which he takes as an obligation to
pursue philosophy, for those capable of it. This means, in effect, those
who appreciate the difference between demonstrative and non-
demonstrative arguments, people (i.e. philosophers) who can argue
apodictically ([3.11] 45).
Persons such as these are relatively few in any society, Averroes
recognizes, and he readily accepts the use of the less conclusive and
more popular forms of religious discourse, expressed dialectically and
rhetorically. Averroes believes the Qur’&n appeals to people on all
three levels, though its demonstrative arguments may only be alluded
to, and that only by understanding the text allegorically. Averroes has
no hesitation in doing so, his philosophical—here metaphysical—
convictions dictating his interpretation of God’s word ([3.11] 58).
The Harmony is in this respect a dogmatic assertion of the superiority
of scientific, i.e. demonstrable, philosophical discourse, to all other
forms of reasoning. Averroes could scarcely expect to persuade his
critics of the virtues of philosophy in this manner, and his writing simply
attests to his complete conviction and self-confidence.
Averroes’ claims for philosophy are buttressed in this book by a
brave de facto attack upon one of the institutions of Islamic faith, the
concept of ijm&‘ or consensus, which when invoked has the status of
law. To his critics, there is a consensus in Islam that philosophy is an
irreligious and hence unacceptable pursuit. Averroes, in response, claims
that a unanimous consensus does not exist on this issue, simply because
there may always be private reservations to positions publicly declared,
undermining theoretically the seeming unanimity; while this is true in
many areas, it is particularly so for philosophy, which has always had
an esoteric tradition of its own ([3.11] 52).
Averroes in fact insists upon the private nature of philosophical
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instruction, claiming it wrong to teach the masses philosophy or the
allegorical meaning of Scripture, since they would misunderstand the
philosophers and be led to unbelief. It is better to have them believe in
ideas which approximate and imitate the truth, thereby preserving
society and their own (and the philosophers’) well-being ([3.11] 66).
While it would be too much to claim that Averroes is fully preaching
toleration, within the limits of his society he may be seen as advocating
a fair measure of freedom of speech. He is not beyond branding as
heretics disbelievers in creation, prophecy and the afterworld, but insists,
without going into much detail, that the traditional understanding of
these concepts should not be the only permissible ones.
Averroes addresses these particular issues more fully in the Tah&fut
al-Tah&fut (The Incoherence of the Incoherence), his major defence of
philosophy against the theological attack of al-Ghazz&l(. Here the
polemical side of Averroes takes a back seat to his gift for philosophical
argument, his sights set on Avicenna (d. 1037) as much as on al-
Ghazz&l(. For it is Avicenna’s philosophy which al-Ghazz&l( had first
summarized, in his Maq&sid al-Fal&sifah (The Intentions of the
Philosophers), and then attacked, in his Tah&fut al-Fal&sifah (The
Incoherence of the Philosophers).
The incisiveness of al-Ghazz&l(’s attack may well have contributed
to the declining fortunes of philosophy in the Muslim East, and
eventually in the Muslim world as a whole. In Andalusia, however, the
rational philosophical tradition lived on through the twelfth century,
and Averroes’ Incoherence may be seen as a last hurrah for a rigorous
Aristotelianism within Islamic culture. Averroes may have hoped that
in discrediting Avicenna’s Neoplatonically inclined approach to
philosophy he could defuse al-Ghazz&l(’s critique of philosophy in
general, not appreciating the fact that if Avicenna’s more religiously
compatible philosophy was refuted, his own more uncompromising
approach would be even more at risk in Islamic society.
As does his Harmony, Averroes’ Incoherence daringly insists on the
legitimacy, if not necessity, of his interpretation of creation, providence
and the afterworld, though realizing the philosopher’s political and
moral obligation to uphold conventional beliefs in these issues.
Accordingly, he gives sufficient lip-service to traditional religious
locutions to permit wildly divergent assessments of his views on these
matters in contemporary scholarship.
Averroes’ Incoherence of the Incoherence is a detailed response to
al-Ghazz&l(’s Incoherence of the Philosophers, containing a verbatim
transcript of the former work. As such, it offers, among other things,
Averroes’ proofs for the eternity of the world, so presented as to be
compatible with the notion of God as creator; Averroes’ utilization of
positive predication of divine attributes in the one God; and Averroes’
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AVERROES
rejection of the Avicennian distinction between essence and existence,
as well as of the Neoplatonically inspired emanationist ontogony which
Avicenna adopted. In place of Avicenna’s scheme, Averroes advocates
a more immanentist role for God in the cosmos, modifying thereby
Aristotle’s self-centred deity.
Averroes’ physics, both celestial and terrestrial, is basically
Aristotelian, as is his closing defence of the logical necessity for believing
in causation, directed against al-Ghazz&l(’s Occasionalism. Averroes’
final remarks defending his views on immortality of the soul and
resurrection are very abbreviated, and perhaps indicative that he knew
how difficult it was to make them acceptable to his critics, though
ostensibly he claims these are not topics amenable to philosophical
investigation.
For al-Ghazz&l(, the notion of the eternity of the world poses two
main difficulties: it challenges God’s role as sole creator of the
universe, and pre-empts the exercise of his free will. Al-Ghazz&l( thus
attempts both to discredit the notion of eternal motion and the
philosophers’ use of the concept of divine will. He claims, using
arguments which may be traced to John Philoponus, that the different
rates of motion of the supposedly eternal heavenly bodies would
create disparate and hence impossible infinite numbers; while a divine
will in an eternal universe would have to act for that which already is
and always has been existent, chaining its will to necessity and
thereby rendering it otiose.
Averroes’ response to the problem of different infinities distinguishes
between actual and potential states of being; as all actual movements
are finite, infinity is predicable only of non-actual or potential
movements, which as such are non-quantifiable ([3.18] 10). As for the
divine will, Averroes acknowledges that its action is indeed eternal and
necessary, but that it is nevertheless a real will, not the same as ours,
though equivocally predicable ([3.18] 90).
‘Creation’ for Averroes is the term for an eternal process in which
God is the agent directly responsible, as the first and final cause, for
the motion of the heavenly bodies; and indirectly responsible,
through those motions, for the formal and efficient causality which
determines the nature of all objects. Even matter may be said to come
within God’s purview, through the forms with which all matter is
connected ([3.18] 108).
This eternally created world is viewed as the willed effect of God’s
knowledge, which ‘knowledge’ is tantamount to the creative act itself.
God thus ‘knows’ the world, in so far as he is its creator. This knowledge
is of the world as it is, the actual world, with its corresponding real
potentialities, integral to the nature of every actual being. God’s
knowledge accordingly is of that which is necessary, being actual,
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though full knowledge of that entails, for Averroes, knowledge as well
of non-necessary or possible alternative states of being.
Averroes’ assurance in the divine awareness of logically possible
alternative orders in the universe encourages him to speak of the divine
will as ‘choosing’ to act in the manner which he does, though the choice
is eternally foreknown and necessary. The divine will is thus, for
Averroes, the external realization of a theoretically more comprehensive
divine knowledge. These and other attributes may be predicated of
God, since as immaterial properties they pose for Averroes no
quantifiable challenge to the divine oneness ([3.18] 188, 212).
Nor do such distinct notions as knowledge and will, or power and
life, for example, introduce differentiation into the divine essence for
Averroes, since in that essence they are undifferentiated ([3.18] 257). It
is we who, assessing the multiple effects of God’s presence in the world,
attribute diverse faculties to him. God’s nature remains unique, though
it is not necessary therefore to strip it of all meaningful predication,
and to distance God from the world physically and logically. God’s
involvement in the world is thus a necessary part of his very being,
even as the full nature of every object includes the effect it has upon
others.
Averroes is, accordingly, more willing than other medieval
philosophers to detail God’s manifold presence in the world, a presence
which allows him to speak even of God’s knowledge of individuals,
though such statements must not be taken without qualification ([3.18]
207). A frequent form of qualification for Averroes, used in many
contexts as we have seen, is the distinction he employs between
‘essential’ and ‘accidental’ states of being, though both are necessary
for the full description of the object discussed. Thus, it may be said
that God’s knowledge is essentially one (or single) though accidentally
many (or diverse).
Averroes’ political philosophy is known to us from a variety of
sources, not least his commentary on Plato’s Republic.4 This work is
particularly intriguing, being included, presumably intentionally, within
the corpus of his Aristotelian commentaries. Admittedly, Averroes’
choice of the Republic was determined in part by his unfamiliarity
with Aristotle’s Politics, a text which was unavailable to him in Spain,
and largely unknown throughout the Islamic world. However, that
fact may itself indicate the status which the Republic enjoyed among
the Muslim fal&sifah, particularly Averroes’ predecessor, al-F&r&b( (d.
950). As the pre-eminent textual representative of Greek political
philosophy, the Republic thus had to be included in the canon of
philosophical texts which Averroes was charged to present, with his
commentaries, to the caliph.
The paraphrase of the Republic which Averroes offers his readers is,
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however, imbued with Aristotelian perspectives, and shows the influence
of the Stagirite’s Organon as well as his Nicomachean Ethics ([3.30]
17–45). The metaphysical and dialectical underpinnings of the Republic
all but disappear, and the examination of personal and civic virtue
which Plato describes is pursued by Averroes for essentially instrumental
purposes. Political philosophy is treated primarily as a practical science,
though surely Averroes knew the kind of state Plato advocated was
impractical and totally unrealistic for a Muslim society.
Though it is not necessary to believe Averroes endorsed everything
he reports Plato as recommending in the Republic, it is quite clear that
he is sympathetic to many of Plato’s teachings there. Averroes’ own
affinities can be discerned from the style of his composition, both in
his omissions and elaborations, as well as in his comparisons of Plato’s
teachings with references to the situation obtaining in the cities or states
of his own time.
Averroes omits the opening and closing Books of the Republic, with
their dialectical, poetic and mythic emphases, and omits also the
discussion of the Ideas and of the divided line in Book 6 of Plato’s
work; substituting for it an attack upon the world view and methods
of the mutakallim*n, a critique which may be seen as an indirect way
of affirming Aristotelian nominalism and logic. There as elsewhere in
this commentary, Averroes emphasizes Aristotelian distinctions between
demonstrative and non-demonstrative forms of reasoning. While
preferring demonstrative arguments, Averroes acknowledges the
necessity of presenting philosophical truths to the masses in less rigorous
ways. Suspicious of the dialectical arguments of the mutakallim*n and
of the themes and excesses of much of poetic discourse, and recognizing
the limited scope of demonstrably necessary argument in this field,
Averroes would apparently consider the métier of political discourse,
if not of political philosophy in general, to be rhetoric.
This non-literal interpretation of Averroes’ approach to the Republic
may help the reader understand his stunning indifference to the
conventions of Muslim society. Daringly, Averroes follows Plato in
considering religion from a political perspective only. It is seen as a
structural component of all societies, part of the legal and moral
composition of each city, with Islam and its Prophet accorded no special
priority ([3.13] 48). Prophecy as an institution is not placed above the
leadership and laws bestowed by the philosopher-king or im&m (the
one Muslim term which Averroes uses, though treating it as a mere
synonym for Plato’s ideal leader) ([3.13] 72). Nor is Averroes
particularly sensitive to the strictures of Islamic law, in apparently
advocating equal rights and responsibilities for both sexes, and in
seeming agreement with Plato’s views on the engendering and
upbringing of the guardian class.
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Again, Averroes does not hesitate to convey and apparently concur
with Plato’s remarks about the necessity for political leaders to lie to
their subjects on occasion, presenting abstract or impersonal truths in
fictive dress. While Averroes is sympathetic to the particular teachings
of popular Islam, with its personal and providential God, and afterworld
beliefs, he considers them only from a neutral political perspective,
risking thereby the wrath of his community ([3.13] 24). Here it would
appear that his philosophical zeal has overwhelmed his political
prudence.
On the other hand, a conventional Islamic influence on Averroes
may be discerned in his treatment of Plato’s views on warfare ([3.13]
12). Unlike the Greek philosopher’s defensive (if pre-emptive) military
strategy, which Averroes sees as a racially biased attempt to keep the
barbarians at bay, the war which the Cordoban faylas*f advocates is a
jih&d or ‘holy war’; this is intended, however coercively, to bring the
virtues of good government and civilization to all those capable of
being educated, particularly the young.5 Averroes, we could thus assume,
did not ponder the destabilizing effects upon society of a permanent
state of warfare, and this despite the ample evidence from the cities of
his own time.
We know, however, from his legal compendium Bid&yat al-Mujtahid
wa-Nih&yat al-IqtiU&d (which may be loosely translated as The Proper
Rational Initiative of a Legist), written for the most part well before
his Republic commentary, that Averroes had considered jih&d in all its
ramifications, including the advisability, under duress, of declaring a
truce, in effect making peace. His remarks in the Republic commentary
should therefore not be taken as a realistic assessment of or prescription
for Islamic society, but as a commentary on an ideally imagined state,
as loosely Muslim as Plato’s was Greek.
This commentary, like many other commentaries of his, leaves the
reader wondering which of Averroes’ remarks are meant to be taken
as truly his, and to what degree we must see him adopting a rhetorical
stance, and for what ultimate purpose. Fundamentally, Averroes has
an appreciation for the philosopher-king model of leadership, with all
its stratification and manipulation for the common good; and he has
an elitist but apparently egalitarian view of society. It would be
surprising if he did not know that this Platonic political philosophy
was anything but a practical or implementable document, and that
therefore this commentary, as all his philosophical writings, were
primarily intended for theoretical reflection, the path to happiness for
him best reached through intellectual pursuits.
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NOTES
1 Cf. the description of Averroes’ momentous encounter with the caliph, as given
by Hourani [3.11] 12.
2 Cf. the inventory of these commentaries assembled by Harry Wolfson [3.29].
3 The full title more literally would be ‘The Book of the Distinction of Discourse
and Determination of the Connection between Religious Law and Philosophy’,
cf. Hourani [3.11] 1.
4 Averroes’ commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics is only partially extant; for
his paraphrase of Plato’s work see Ralph Lerner [3.13].
5 Cf. Rudolph Peters [3.14] 21 (the chapter on Jih&d from Averroes’ legal handbook
Bid&yat al-Mujtahid).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
This is an abbreviated bibliography, owing to the large number of editions, translations
and studies of Averroes’ philosophical writings. A complete listing to date may be
found in the Rosemann and Druart-Marmura entries given in the bibliographical
section below.
Complete Editions of Arabic Original, and of Hebrew and Latin
Translations
3.1 Aristotelis opera cum Averrois Commentariis, 9 vols and 3 supplements,
Frankfurt-On-Main, Minerva, 1962. Reprint of Aristotelis omnia quae extant
Opera…Averrois Cordubensis in ea opera omnes, qui ad haec usque tempora
pervenere, commentarii, Venice, 1562.
3.2 Corpus Commentariorum Averrois in Aristotelem. Ongoing series, published
by the Mediaeval Academy of America, Cambridge, Mass. until 1974, Arabic
editions since then published in Madrid and Cairo, Hebrew editions in
Jerusalem, and Latin editions in Cologne, under the auspices of learned
academies in each country. Nine editions published to date, three each in
Arabic, Hebrew and Latin.
The American Research Center in Egypt has sponsored the publication of various
Arabic commentaries on the Organon, edited by C.Butterworth et al.
Editions and Translations of Single Works
3.3 Bland, K. (ed. and trans.) The Epistle on the Possibility of Conjunction with
the Active Intellect by Ibn Rushd with the Commentary of Moses Narboni,
New York, Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1982.
3.4 Butterworth, C. (ed. and trans.) Averroes’ Three Short Commentaries on
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Aristotle’s Topics, Rhetoric, and Poetics, Albany, NY, State University of New
York Press, 1977.
3.5 ——(trans.) Averroes’ Middle Commentaries on Aristotle’s Categories and De
Interpretatione, Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1983.
3.6 ——(trans.) Averroes’ Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s Poetics, Princeton,
NJ, Princeton University Press, 1986.
3.7 Davidson, H. ‘Averrois Tractatus de Animae Beatitudine’, in R.Link-Salinger
(ed.) A Straight Path, Washington, DC, Catholic University of America Press,
1988, pp. 57–73.
3.8 Freudenthal, J. and S.Fränkel, ‘Die durch Averroes erhaltenen Fragmente
Alexanders zur Metaphysik des Aristoteles untersucht und übersetzt von
J.F.Mit Beiträgen zur Erläuterung des arabischen Textes von S.F.’,
Abhandlungen der Königlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin aus
dem Jahre 1884; repr., New York, Garland, 1987.
3.9 Genequand, C. (trans.) Ibn Rushd’s Metaphysics, Book Lam, Leiden, E.J.Brill,
1984.
3.10 Goldstein, H. (trans.) Averroes’ Questions in Physics, Dordrecht, Boston and
London, Kluwer, 1991.
3.11 Hourani, G. (trans.) Averroes on the Harmony of Religion and Philosophy,
London, Luzac, 1961; repr. 1976.
3.12 Hyman, A. (ed. and trans.) Averroes’ De substantia orbis, Cambridge, Mass.
and Jerusalem, Medieval Academy of America and Israel Academy of Sciences
and Humanities, 1986.
3.13 Lerner, R. (trans.) Averroes on Plato’s Republic, Ithaca, NY and London, Cornell
University Press, 1974.
3.14 Peters, R. (trans.) Chapter on Jih&d from Averroes’ legal handbook Bid&yat al-
mujtahid, in Jihad in Mediaeval and Modern Islam, Leiden, E.J.Brill, 1977,
pp. 9–25.
3.15 Puig, J. (trans.) Averroes, ‘Epitome in Physicorum Libros’, Madrid, Instituto
Hispano-Arabe de Culture, 1987. (Pages 14–24 contain a bibliography.)
3.16 Rosenthal, E. (ed. and trans.) Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic,
Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1956; repr. with corrections 1966
and 1969.
3.17 Van den Bergh, S. (trans.) Die Epitome der Metaphysik des Averroes, Leiden,
E. J.Brill, 1924 (repr. 1970).
3.18 ——(trans.) Averroes’ Tahafut al-Tahafut (The Incoherence of the Incoherence),
London, Luzac, 1954 (repr. 1969, 2 vols).
Bibliographies
3.19 Cranz, F.E. ‘Editions of the Latin Aristode accompanied by the commentaries
of Averroes’, in E.Mahoney (ed.) Philosophy and Humanism. Renaissance
Essays in Honor of Paul Oskar Kristeller, Leiden, E.J.Brill, 1976, pp.
116–28.
3.20 Druart, T.-A. and Marmura, M. ‘Medieval Islamic philosophy and theology:
bibliographical guide (1986–1989)’, Bulletin de Philosophie Médiévale 32,
ed. SIEPM (1990): 106–11.
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3.21 Rosemann, P. ‘Averroes: a catalogue of editions and scholarly writings from
1821 onwards’, Bulletin de Philosophie Médiévale 30, ed. SIEPM (1988):
153–215.
3.22 Vennebusch, J. ‘Zur Bibliographie des psychologischen Schriftums des Averroes’,
Bulletin de Philosophie Médiévale 6 (1964): 92–100.
Surveys
3.23 Badawi, A. Histoire de la philosophie en Islam, II: les philosophes purs, Paris,
Vrin, 1972, pp. 737–870.
3.24 Cruz Hernández, M. Abu-l-Walîd Ibn Rušd (Averroes): Vida, obra, pensamiento,
influencia, Cordoba, Caja de Ahorros, 1986.
3.25 Fakhry, M. A History of Islamic Philosophy, London and New York, Longman
and Columbia University Press, 1970, 2nd edn 1983, pp. 270–92.
3.26 Gätje, H. ‘Averroes als Aristoteleskommentator’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen
Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 114 (1964): 59–65.
3.27 Jolivet, J. (ed.) Multiple Averroès, Paris, Les Belles Lettres, 1978.
3.28 Schmitt, C., ‘Renaissance Averroism studied through the Venetian editions of
Aristotle-Averroes (with particular reference to the Giunta edition of 1550–
2)’, in L’Averroismo in Italia, Rome, Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 1979,
pp. 121–42.
3.29 Wolfson, H. ‘Revised plan for the publication of a Corpus Commentariorum
Averrois in Aristotelem’, Speculum 38 (1963): 88–104; 39 (1964): 378,
corrections.
Studies
3.30 Butterworth, C. ‘Ethics and classical Islamic philosophy: A study of Averroes’
Commentary on Plato’s Republic’, in R.Hovannisian (ed.) Ethics in Islam,
Malibu, Calif., Undena, 1985, pp. 17–45.
3.31 Davidson, H. Alfarabi, Avicenna, and Averroes, on Intellect, New York and
Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1992, pp. 220–356.
3.32 Hourani, G. ‘Averroes on good and evil’, Studia Islamica 16, (1962): 13–40.
3.33 Hyman, A. ‘Aristotle’s theory of the intellect and its interpretation by Averroes’,
in D.O’Meara (ed.) Studies in Aristotle, Washington, DC, Catholic University
of America Press, 1981, pp. 161–91.
3.34 Jolivet, J. ‘Divergences entre les métaphysiques d’Ibn Rušd et d’Aristote’, Arabica
29 (1982): 225–45.
3.35 Kogan, B. Averroes and the Metaphysics of Causation, Albany, NY, State
University of New York Press, 1985.
3.36 Mahdi, M. ‘Averroes on divine law and human wisdom’, in J.Cropsey (ed.)
Ancients and Moderns, New York and London, Basic Books, 1964, pp.
114–31.
3.37 Merlan, P. Monopsychism—Mysticism—Metaconsciousness, The Hague,
Nijhoff, 1963, 2nd edn, 1969, pp. 85–113.
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3.38 Sabra, A.I. ‘The Andalusian revolt against Ptolemaic astronomy: Averroes and
Al-Bitrûjî’, in E.Mendelsohn (ed.) Transformation and Tradition in the
Sciences, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1984, pp. 133–53.
3.39 Wolfson, H. ‘Averroes’ lost treatise on the Prime Mover’, Hebrew Union College
Annual 23, 1 (1950/1): 683–710.
3.40 ——‘Avicenna, Algazali, and Averroes on divine attributes’, Homenaje a Millás-
Vallicrosa, Barcelona, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, vol. 2
(1956): 545–71.
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CHAPTER 4
Jewish philosophy
Colette Sirat
INTRODUCTION
The history of medieval Jewish philosophy can be divided into two
consecutive periods. The first, beginning in the ninth century and ending
roughly with the death of Maimonides in 1204, occurred in Islamic
lands. The second, which lasted from the twelfth century until the end
of the Middle Ages, took place in Christian Europe.
Whether they lived among Muslims or Christians, Jews centred their
lives on the Torah, a word which was used beyond its strict meaning to
designate, not just the Pentateuch, but the whole scriptural tradition:
the twenty-four books of the Hebrew Bible, their commentaries and
also (except for the Karaites) the oral law: the Mishnah and Guemarah
which make up the Talmud.
In Jewish schools the Torah was studied in Hebrew and, for the
believer, the world was built around the revealed text. From the creation,
God has guided the course of universal history. The sun and the planets
are subject to his will. The God of the Bible is a moral agent who wills
and decrees. To man, whom he has created ‘in our image and likeness’,
he gives commandments and issues prohibitions. Humans can grumble
to God, plead with him, make him change his mind. Moses speaks to
God man to man: there is a dialogue between them. God is free to
reply or not, but he is visibly and audibly in the presence of the prophets,
appearing as a majestic king or sending his angels.
God has made a pact with the Jewish race. They are the chosen
people, especially close to God. Other peoples are God’s instruments,
whom he uses to punish the people of Israel and bring them back to
the right course. God has given his people, through Moses, his Law,
the Torah. Even for the later prophets, who considered that God was
king over all humanity, it was the Bible which enshrined divine will.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
This text, revealed just once in human history contained all God’s
commands and all his prohibitions. For Jews the Torah, regarded as
eternal and complete truth, given once and for all, was the criterion
for all other truths. To turn against it would be to turn against God
himself.
Philosophy came from outside. It was enshrined in Greek texts,
translated into Arabic and, from the twelfth century onwards, into
Hebrew. It appears that, at the very start, the Jews made use of
doxographies; but the texts of Plato and Aristotle, along with Arabic
commentaries, very soon became available to them. Arabic was the
language which the Jews in Islamic lands spoke and wrote (sometimes,
using Hebrew characters). For the whole of the first period of Jewish
philosophy, philosophical texts were written in Arabic. Philosophy also
included science and was a requisite for many physicians, astronomers
and astrologers. It was not taught in the Jewish schools but by private
tutors, and so it was available only to the better off
Yet the majority of philosophers who had a significant influence on
Jewish thought in general were also rabbis, talmudic scholars and
leaders of their communities. Although they were sometimes attacked
for their opinions, the philosophers remained none the less within the
Jewish community. This was possible, perhaps, because there are no
articles of faith in Judaism. Orthodoxy is based, rather, on the Bible,
which is far from monolithic and contains various passages that can
be interpreted in more than one way. It is well known that, with regard
to the Law, from early times oral teaching gave room for variety, nuance
and innovation on the basis of the written text. The teaching was then
recorded in writing and itself expounded and glossed until it formed
an enormous (and even today still-expanding) body of material. Its
importance shows how new problems were resolved without going
against the old texts. And this use of allegory and symbolism as tools
for interpretation allowed different systems of thought—philosophical,
kabbalistic or ascetic—to remain within Judaism.
JEWISH PHILOSOPHY IN
ISLAMIC LANDS
Jews in Islamic lands divided into the same philosophical schools as
the Muslims: the kal&m, Neoplatonism and Aristotelianism. Similarly,
the questions which Jewish philosophers set themselves were, to a large
extent, the same as those discussed by their Muslim counterparts.
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The kala-m
The kal&m or, to be precise, the Mu‘tazilite school, provided the context
for rabbinic thought for a number of generations, and it lasted even
longer among the Karaite Jews. D&w*d ibn Marw&n al-MuqammiU
(ninth century) is the first rationalist Jewish thinker whose work
survives. His ‘Ishr*n Maq&la (Twenty Chapters) expounds ideas inspired
by the kal&m but strongly influenced by Christianity, to which—for
part of his life—he was a convert. His treatise is modelled on treatises
of the kal&m, except for his vigorous defence of Judaism and his
arguments against other religions.
By contrast, other Jewish thinkers adopted only some ideas from
the kal&m, in particular, the definition of reason as a universal moral
law transcending race and religion, which man finds within himself,
and which applies to God, assuring us that there exists a good God in
whom we can trust. Among the Karaites, Ab* Y*suf Ya‘q*b al-Kirkis&n(
(Jacob al-Kirkisani) gave the fullest theoretical discussion of this
doctrine, whilst Japheth ben Ali made a translation of the Bible into
Arabic, accompanied by a commentary where these ideas emerge in
the reading of the text. Both thinkers lived in the tenth century. Their
great contemporary among rabbinic Jews was Saadiah ben Joseph Gaon
(882–942), who was born in Egypt and moved to Babylon; there, in
928, he became Gaon, the head of the Talmudic academies. He was
extremely prolific in every field: as a grammarian and lexicographer, a
translator of the Bible into Arabic and commentator on it, as a liturgical
poet and compiler of a prayer book, as a Talmudist and a jurist, as a
writer on the calendar and chronology. Saadiah philosophized and
engaged in polemic to prove the absolute truth of rabbinical Judaism
against the claims of the Karaites and dangers posed by other religions,
and by the various schools of philosophy and by scepticism in its
different forms.
Arguments based on reason are found in most of Saadiah’s works,
but it is in two of them that they receive a systematic exposition. They
are the Commentary on the Book of Creation (Tafs(r Kit&b al-Mab&d(,
Peroush Sefer Yetzira), which was translated into Hebrew several times
and used especially in the eleventh and twelfth centuries; and the Book
of Doctrines and Beliefs (Al-Am&n&t Wa-l‘I‘tiq&d&t, Sefer Emunot
Wede‘ot), which still remains today one of the fundamental works of
Jewish theology.
Saadiah makes especial use of arguments taken from the kal&m, as
the plan of the Am&n&t shows. Its first two chapters discuss the unity
of God, the topic with which exponents of kal&m usually begin their
treatises, whilst the seven following chapters consider God’s justice,
the second main theme of the kal&m. None the less, Saadiah does not
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
adopt one of the central ideas of the kal&m, that of atomism and the
renewal of creation by God at every instant (the corollary of which is
the denial that there are laws of nature). He chooses instead a somewhat
vague Aristotelian understanding of the physical world.
In the introduction to his Am&n&t, Saadiah proposes a theory of
knowledge. Conviction (i‘tiq&d) arises from three sources: external
reality, reason (that is to say, knowledge of good and evil) and what
reason deduces necessarily from the reality of things and from the
knowledge of good and evil. To these three Saadiah adds ‘the truthful
tradition’, that of the Torah (including the oral Torah, the Talmud).
The truthfulness of this tradition has been proved, Saadiah says, by
signs, prodigies and, in particular, by the miraculous feeding of the
Children of Israel with manna during their flight from Egypt. Whereas
miracles and prodigies might be illusory or simulated, the miracle of
the manna could not have been simulated, since it lasted for forty years
and was so public an event that any idea of a carefully contrived lie is
implausible. Nor could it have been a natural phenomenon which Moses
was able to produce, since the philosophers would also have known
about it and made use of the technique themselves. The ‘truthful
tradition’, the fourth source of knowledge, is therefore based on the
historical experience of the Jewish people. And Saadiah’s argument
gains added strength since none of the other religions questions the
historical reality of the exodus from Egypt and the Jews’ wanderings
in the desert.
The Torah itself asks us to seek to understand the teachings it
transmits. It does so for two reasons: first, so that the knowledge
transmitted by tradition becomes firmly fixed in the intellect; and,
second, so that we can reply to those who call the Law into question.
Now, the knowledge which rational, scientific investigation uncovers
turns out in fact to conform to traditional knowledge. Saadiah was
thus able to represent the Torah and scientific knowledge as two twigs
from the same branch. They can in no way contradict one another.
Any apparent contradictions are the result either of mistakes in our
reasoning, or of our failure to interpret Scripture correctly.
The structure of the Am&n&t reflects this identity between tradition
and reason. Each chapter begins with an introduction to the problem.
Then follows an examination of biblical texts which confirm the thesis
and, finally, there is a rational analysis of the problem and a refutation
of opposing theses.
In his chapter on the creation, Saadiah begins by setting out the way
in which this enquiry should be pursued. Here the senses cannot be of
any help. Only rational arguments can be used. Whatever the
hypothesis—the eternity of the world, the eternity of matter, and so
on—an attempt must be made to establish it by reason.
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Saadiah’s deep intuition is that the world is limited and changing.
Only the infinite action of God can sustain and explain this constant
change, the perceptual generation of a world both spatially and
temporally finite. The world and man, limited and imperfect, bear
witness to a perfect and infinite being and lead us to a rational
knowledge of the one God, creator of the world. In the introduction to
the chapter on the unity of God, Saadiah lists all the objections which
were made in his time to this rational way of thought and refutes them
all ([4.3] 78, 80):
Our Lord (be He exalted and glorified) has informed us
through the words of His prophets that He is One, Living,
Powerful and Wise, and that nothing can be compared unto
Him or unto His works. They established this by signs and
miracles, and we accepted it immediately. Later, speculation
led us to the same result. In regard to His Unity, it is said,
‘Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One’.
(Deut. 6:4)
God, the creator of the world, is therefore one; but who is he? And,
when we say of him that he is one, about what unity are we speaking?
What is the knowledge he possesses, on account of which we say he
is knowing, and what are the actions which are attributed to him, on
account of which we say that he acts? The rabbinical Jews replied to
these questions with verses from the Bible which often use in
connection with God not only such adjectives as ‘powerful’, ‘good
and merciful’, ‘jealous’, but also attribute to him bodily movements—
‘God rises’, ‘God comes down’ and even parts of the body—‘God’s
arm’, ‘God’s hand’. But Saadiah strongly opposes any notion of divine
corporeality. One of the central aims in his thought is to purify the
idea of God and demonstrate that God is incorporeal and
transcendent. Everything in our world can be defined according to
the Aristotelian categories. Even the soul and ‘divine Glory’ are
definable substances and so more or less corporeal, because for
Saadiah body and substance are one and the same thing. God,
however, cannot be defined by any of the Aristotelian categories. He
transcends them all; and there is nothing in common between finite,
composite bodies, which are subject to change, and God, who is
immaterial and always remains exactly what he is. Whilst his
attributes, power and knowledge, signify that God is not lacking in
power or knowledge, power and knowledge such as they are found in
man cannot be applied to God because, in God, attributes are identical
to essence. Men gain knowledge by learning over a period of time: it
comes to be where it was not previously, and in old age it decreases,
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at death it disappears. But God has knowledge for all eternity. When
we talk about God using positive attributes, in reality we are talking
about ‘something other’, about which we can only form a vague
notion and of which we know only that it does not resemble what
exists here below. God’s attributes are identical to his essence (or
quiddity), and none is outside his essence. God is absolute unity.
Since we can arrive by reasoning at a refined and exact knowledge
of God, why was it necessary to send the prophets? According to
Saadiah, God, in his supreme knowledge, has acted ‘for the good’.
He does nothing in vain. The ‘justice of God’ (‘adl), as conceived in
the second of the Mu‘tazilites’ theses, shows why the very nature of
God makes prophecy legitimate. Saadiah then goes on to explain
why revelation was necessary for mankind. First, it sets out the
actions which allow the very general moral laws, dictated by reason,
best to be put into practice. Second, it includes other
commandments, which are of value and which reason does not
teach. Third, it allows people to act immediately, whereas reason,
although based on the same principles, takes time to arrive at its
conclusions. Moreover, some men never reach the level of rational
knowledge, because of their imperfection or their disinclination to
study, or because of the doubts which trouble them.
The Bible, however, is often written in anthropomorphic terms, which
contradict what reason teaches us: that God is one and incorporeal.
Yet tradition is drawn from the same source as rational knowledge
and so it cannot be contrary to reason. A rational explanation must
therefore be given for the whole of scriptural revelation, and especially
for the visions of the prophets. Three principles guide this explanation:
1 All the manifestations of the supernatural are the work of God and
God alone. Prophecy is a grace, a gift which God has put into a
human receptacle, who is then called a prophet. The prophet is mortal
like other men. He cannot do without food or drink. He leads a
normal married life. He cannot predict the future. Nor can he perform
miracles, except under exceptional conditions—otherwise it would
be necessary to suppose that he had superhuman capacities. The
prophet is merely an instrument of God’s will, the receiver of
supernatural visions.
2 God, who is unknowable and incorporeal, makes manifest his created
Glory, the first of his creations, an air which is finer and more subtle
than the visible air: the ‘Second Air’. This Second Air is audible and
visible, filled with light and colour, striking in its splendour. It is
through the Second Air that the created word was produced which
Moses heard, and the Ten Commandments heard in the visible air
by the whole people of Israel on Mount Sinai. It is the Second Air
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which the prophets saw and called the Throne of Glory and
Cherubim, Angels, Seraphim…
3 God makes his glory visible in the manner of a teacher going from
the easier to the more difficult. He created man in such a way that
he was free to obey or disobey his commandments. His wish was
that man should merit the highest reward, the world to come, and it
is to this end that he made his orders and prohibitions. Among them
are some which reason would have shown us were necessary, and
others which revelation alone teaches us (though none of them is
contrary to reason). These purely religious laws allow the faithful to
prove their obedience and merit the reward which God wishes to
give them: immortality and resurrection at the time of the Messiah.
Saadiah Gaon’s thought remains very close to tradition, both in his
conception of God and his exegesis of texts. His charm and optimism
cannot fail to allure the modern reader. His simplicity ensures that he
will remain for ever young.
Jewish Neoplatonists
Isaac Israeli (born 850, died by 932, or perhaps c. 955) was a slightly
older contemporary of Saadiah’s. He was a famous doctor, and he has
the credit of having introduced into medieval Jewish thought texts and
ideas taken directly from the Greeks. Like al-Kind(, he also used Greek
texts which have not survived to modern times. His type of
Neoplatonism is based on emanation. Between the perfection of God
and the imperfection of the world below there are interposed more or
less perfect essences which link the incorporeal deity to the world of
matter. According to Isaac Israeli first matter and first form come from
God. Intellect is engendered from these. From Intellect emanates the
world of souls (that is, of the rational soul, the animal soul and the
vegetative soul). There follows the world of the spheres, then the
sublunary world with its four elements and what is made from them.
Our earth is a mixture of the four elements: earth, water, air and fire. It
is at the centre of the universe and without motion. The spheres, which
are made of a more perfect matter, the quintessence, revolve around
the earth and create by their movements the composite beings which
are bodies.
Other Neoplatonists held that first form and matter emanated from
God in a manner which was involuntary and outside time. But Isaac
Israeli lays great stress on the creation. God creates first matter and
first form. He makes them come to be from nothing, something which
God alone can do. Isaac is, however, in agreement with other
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Neoplatonists in believing that first matter is intelligible, that is to say,
absolutely incorporeal. First form contains all other forms which come
into existence, but in a perfect way. Intellect, which is light and
splendour, comes from the conjunction of first form and first matter.
From Intellect emanates the rational soul, which is the human soul.
The Intellect holds a high rank in the scale of being, since its source is
a pure light, more elevated and brilliant than any body, even one as
perfect as the sphere of the heavens. The so-called ‘metaphysics of light’
play an important role in this description of the higher world, and it is
because the soul is part of this world that it is able to climb back up
again towards its former habitation. The start of this return is
knowledge of the higher world and certainty of the truth.
God, by his will and his power, has created and made manifest first
matter and first form from nothingness. But it is by emanation—a
necessary action—that Intellect, which is the source of souls and the
universe, comes from these two created beings. Intellect and souls act
in a different way from that found in the celestial sphere and the
sublunary world. It can be said to create, in that nothing is lost of the
essential light and lower beings are created from the shadow of this
light. But in the world of the spheres and below, natural action is by
generation and corruption, since the source of action is changed and
diminished by the action itself which it carries out on bodies with
qualities opposed to it. Below the celestial sphere all beings come into
being from the four simple elements: fire, air, water and earth. Whereas
in other bodies one or another of these elements predominates, in man
they are in harmonious equilibrium. Every creature made of the elements
is given a soul according to its capacity and each finds pleasure in
bringing itself closer to the principal element in it.
The three degrees of the soul—intellectual, animal and vegetative—
are not absolutely separate. For instance, certain animals have almost
as much intelligence and prudence as man. All this is due to the
inclination of one soul towards another. Sometimes, the rational soul
tends towards the animal soul and its actions tend towards those of
the animal soul which desires eating, drinking and pleasure. In the
same way, the animal soul has a tendency to assimilate its actions to
those of the rational soul when it is instructed and influenced by it.
The rational soul tends to draw itself near to the Intellect and reach
perfection, in which case it will be clear and pure, and it will seek good
and true things such as knowledge and understanding, purity and
saintliness, service of God and nearness to him. This all comes about
from the influence of the higher substance.
Since man of his own accord raises himself towards the Intellect,
and so towards God, what part does revelation play? Isaac Israeli divides
mankind into types according to which of each of the three souls is
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dominant: the rational soul, the animal soul or the vegetative soul.
Only a small proportion of the human race is, therefore, truly close to
the light of the Intellect. These are the privileged individuals whom
God will use as intermediaries in order to bring the divine word to
humankind.
One of Isaac Israeli’s pupils, Dunash ben Tamin, brings out his train
of thought when he discusses Moses. Moses differs from the other
prophets because he heard the word of God in the way described in
Exodus 32:11: ‘the eternal one spoke to Moses face to face.’ Moses’
soul was superior to that of other men: it was subtle, light and, even
before it was separated from Moses’ body, it was united with the world
of the rational soul. For when souls are separated from their bodies,
they remain alive and are united with the world above: the soul becomes
intellect and, in an incorporeal, spiritual union, the intellect is united
with light.
Prophetic visions are no longer conceived as real, external
phenomena which are seen and heard, but as internal visions which
reflect spiritual rather than sensory reality. So far from being inferior
to sensory reality, spiritual reality is as much superior to it, as the
soul is superior to the body:
One whose rational soul has withdrawn itself [i.e. from the
lower souls] and upon whom intellect causes its light and
splendour to emanate becomes spiritual, god-like, and
longing exceedingly for the ways of the angels, as far as lies
within human power. The Creator, exalted and blessed be
He, therefore chose from among His creatures one qualified
in this manner to be His messenger, caused him to prophesy,
and showed through him His truthful signs and miracles. He
made him the messenger and intermediary between Himself
and His creatures, and caused His true Book to descend
through him.
([4.20] 139)
The Bible is not, however, a work of philosophy. It includes narratives
which have a sense which is far from intellectual (and some which can
hardly be understood at all!). The reason for this, Israeli explains, is
that God speaks the language of men so that all will understand him.
He bases his language on the capacities of his audience. Those among
them able to discern the pure sense will find it; because they are distant
from material things and their minds are detached and luminous, they
will see God’s words and his light. Those who are still incapable of
seeing the light will ask the sages to expound the Bible to them and,
little by little, thanks to their expositions, they will understand and will
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come nearer to the source of purity until they are so close to the Intellect
that it will print its form in their soul. God himself provides the example
which the Intellect follows. God puts himself within reach of human
understanding: the Intellect imitates this divine way of teaching when it
wishes men to know future events, and the philosophers in their turn
take the same course when they explain viva voce what their pupils
cannot understand in their written work. The superior beings are like a
ray of light which penetrates through the entire breadth of a solid body.
The Intellect, the prophets and the philosophers all follow God’s own
footsteps as they incline themselves towards lower beings and help each
of them, so far as he is able, to climb the ladder of light.
It was not only philosophers who developed such themes: the quest
for purity, freedom from bodily desires, and the desire for union with
the Intellect. They were also taken up by scholars, rabbis, poets and
courtiers during the tenth to twelfth centuries: for instance, Haï Gaon
(938–1038, Babylon), president of the Talmudic academy; Bah. y& ibn
Paqudah (c. 1050–80, Andalusia), a judge on the rabbinical tribunal
and author of the famous devotional work, Guide to the Duties of the
Heart; the famous poet, Moses ibn Ezra (1055–c. 1135, Spain);
Abraham ibn Ezra (c. 1092–1167, Spain then Italy and France), also a
famous poet and biblical commentator; Joseph ben Jacob ibn Z. addik
(died 1149 at Cordoba), a judge on the rabbinical tribunal and a
philosopher; Abraham bar H. iyyah (died after 1136 at Barcelona), an
astronomer and mathematician who held an important post at the
court of Alphonsus I of Aragon and of the counts of Barcelona; and
Solomon ibn Gabirol and Judah Halevi.
Solomon ben Judah ibn Gabirol (c. 1022 to 1054/8, Spain) is well-
known for his Hebrew poetry, both sacred and secular. His philosophy
is expounded in a treatise which has not survived in its Arabic original
but in the Latin translation, Fons Vitae (Source of Life) made by John
of Spain and Dominicus Gundissalinus in the mid-twelfth century. The
Fons Vitae was widely read by thirteenth-century Christian theologians,
who knew its author as ‘Avicebron’ or ‘Avencebrol’ and took him to
be an Arab—or even a Christian—thinker. In addition, there survive
some extracts from the work, translated into Hebrew, made in the
thirteenth century by Shem Tov ibn Falaqera. These do not preserve
the dialogue form found in the Fons Vitae. Gabirol’s treatise was known
to Neoplatonic Jewish philsophers and was fiercely criticized by the
first Jewish Aristotelian, Abraham ibn Daud. Then it was almost entirely
forgotten until 1846, when Solomon Munk showed that the extracts
made by Falaqera were from the work translated into Latin as the
Fons Vitae, and so that ‘Avicebron’ was none other than the famous
Hebrew poet, Solomon ibn Gabirol.
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Gabirol’s system is Neoplatonic. Through knowing his own soul,
man can know nature, free himself from it and return to the spiritual
world, his place of origin. Knowledge is knowledge of being. There are
only three sorts of being: (1) primary substance, (2) primary matter
and form, (3) God and the Will, which is an intermediary between
God and matter-with-form. Man is able to grasp these types of being
because he finds within himself equivalents of them: his understanding
corresponds to primary substance, his soul to the Will and his matter
and form to primary matter and form. Man can know God’s actions
but not his essence apart from his acts, since it is infinite and above all
things. In the order of emanation, primary matter and form are the
nearest to the divine Will. From them together is engendered Intellect,
then Soul, and from Soul Nature, which is the last of the simple
substances. It is from Nature that bodily substance derives.
The path which will take the soul back to Intellect goes by the
knowledge of composite beings: spiritual beings which are called
‘simple’ although they are in fact composite. Indeed, ‘simple’ and
‘composite’ are relative terms: a being is simple with regard to that
which is lower than it, and composite with regard to that which is
above it. The entirety of things can thus be regarded as if it were
arranged in a line, beginning with universal matter and form. The
further it is from its source, the more composite a being is with regard
to that which goes before it, although it remains simple in relation to
that which follows it.
Matter, form and the Will are the true subject-matter of the Fons
Vitae. Gabirol describes at length the various types of matter and form,
universal and particular, which make up the universe. Beings are
individuated in the first place by forms, material or spiritual, whereas
matter is one and universal. But to the unity of form there corresponds
a unity of matter and, in another passage, Gabirol makes it clear that
the diversity of beings is not brought about because of form, since
form is one and entirely spiritual, but by matter which can be perfect
and subtle or thick and heavy.
The Will is the ultimate goal of man’s quest. This Will is identical
to the Wisdom of God and his logos. Conceived apart from its acts,
the Will is indeed identical to the divine essence, but it is distinguished
from it when its acts are considered. In the former case, it is infinite,
but finite in the second. It is an intermediary between the divine
essence and form and matter. It penetrates all things and is their
efficient cause; itself without motion, it is the cause of spiritual and
bodily movement.
In Gabirol’s philosophy, as in other Jewish Neoplatonic (and later
Aristotelian) philosophies, God can be approached only through
rational knowledge. Prophets and philosophers imitate God by their
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intellect, in thought, and prophetic visions are no longer considered to
be dialogues with God or his angels but rather internal illuminations.
Bodily acts have no value in themselves: they prepare the soul to separate
from the body, since only then will it be able to fulfil its destiny.
It is this very approach to philosophy which Judah Halevi (born
before 1075, died 1140) wishes to supersede in his Kuzari. Written in
Arabic, the Book of Refutation and Proof, in Defence of the Despised
Faith is a dialogue between the king of the Khazars and the defenders
of philosophy, of Islam, Christianity and Judaism. From the beginning,
Judah Halevi insists that good intentions are not sufficient to please
God, who also cares about which rites and observances are used.
Above the natural manner of action, there is the supernatural way
of acting of the Amr Ilahi (God’s word and action): God has revealed
himself in history, in his choice of a people, a land and a language.
This choice is the only real proof of God’s existence, and it is part of
the order of the world. On to the mineral, vegetable, animal and rational
kingdoms, there is added, in the hierarchical order, the prophetic order,
that of Adam and his sons, of Noah and then of the whole people of
Israel.
Man is able, by his own strength, to rise as far as the level of the
Intellect. To do so, he must follow the discursive path, that of
philosophy. But, in order to be marked out by the Amr Ilahi, he needs
to follow the supernatural path, that of the Torah. God has reserved
this path for his elect. In every generation since Adam there was one
pure man, worthy of the Amr Ilahi; but then the whole people of Israel
and it alone was chosen by God.
Along with the choice of the people of Israel goes the choice of the
land of Israel and of its holy language, Hebrew. The land of Israel has
a special place in Judah Halevi’s work, and his Hebrew poems about
Jerusalem are among the most beautiful of all Jewish literature. They
are still recited today, and Judah Halevi’s thought, with its particularist
view of Judaism, remains as popular among modern Jewry as the
thought of Maimonides.
The most original writing of the twelfth century, however, steps aside
from debates between religion and philosophy. It is that of Abu’l-
Barak&t al-Baghd&d(, who lived in Iraq and died, at a very old age,
after 1164. Towards the end of his life he converted to Islam. His Kit&b
al-Mu‘tabar, a sort of reply to Avicenna’s philosophy, is based on his
own personal reflections. He upholds the unity of the soul, denying
that there is a distinction between it and the intellect. In his view, there
is just one time, which measures esse and is similar for all beings,
including God. Space is three-dimensional and infinite. Abu’l-Barak&t
had a deep influence on Arab philosophy but none on Jewish thought,
and his works were not translated into Hebrew.
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Maimonides
Moses ben Maimon was born in 1138 at Cordoba, where his father
was a rabbinical judge. In 1148 Maimon and his family fled from the
religious persecution which took place after the town fell to the
Almohades. After wandering from town to town in Spain, and perhaps
also in Provence, in 1160 they arrived at Fez in Morocco, In about
1165 the whole family fled from Fez and set off to Acre. For five months,
Maimon and his children lived in the land of Israel, then they went to
Cairo and settled at Fostat. Maimon’s son Moses rose rapidly in
Egyptian Jewish society, helped perhaps by family ties with some of
the important people there. For about five years from 1171 he was
‘Leader of the Jews’. He was subsequently deprived of this post, but
twenty years later he regained it and kept it until his death.
Maimonides earned his living by practising and teaching medicine,
which he had studied in north Africa. His fame reached its peak in
1185 when he was chosen as one of the official doctors of Al Fadil,
Saladin’s vizier. At the same time as he followed his profession and
composed his medical treatises, Maimonides completed two great
works, the Mishneh Torah in 1180 and the Guide of the Perplexed in
1190, as well as conducting a lengthy correspondence with the many
Jewish communities of Egypt and in other countries. His death in 1204
was the occasion for public mourning among Jews everywhere.
With the exception of the Mishneh Torah, all Maimonides’ works
were written in Arabic. They were almost immediately translated into
Hebrew. The Guide of the Perplexed was translated by Samuel ibn Tibbon
in 1204, and a second, less precise, more literary translation was made a
few years later by Judah al-Harizi. It formed the basis for the Latin
translation used by Christian scholastics such as Thomas Aquinas.
Maimonides’ reputation rests, in the first place, on his contribution
to law. It was as a legal authority that he was first known to the Jews
of the diaspora and still today many eastern Jewish communities follow
his juridical and religious rulings.
The comparison between Maimonides and Averroes is inescapable,
and one difference between the two thinkers is striking. By contrast
with Averroes, who held that philosophy should be carefully hidden
from the ignorant, Maimonides is a philosopher in all his works, legal
as well as philosophical, in the texts intended for the general public as
much as in those written for students of philosophy. After Aristotle, al-
F&r&b( was Maimonides’ real master. His influence is visible in a youthful
work, the Milot-ha-Higayon, ‘A Logical Vocabulary’, written at the
age of 16, and it remains in Maimonides’ last work, the Guide. In a
letter written to Samuel ibn Tibbon a year or two before he died,
Maimonides told him:
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Aristotle’s intellect [represents] the extreme of human
intellect, if we except those who have received divine
inspiration. The works of Aristotle are the roots and
foundations of all works on the sciences. But they cannot be
understood except with the help of commentaries, those of
Alexander of Aphrodisias, those of Themistius, and those of
Averroes, I tell you: as for works on logic, one should only
study the writings of Ab* Nas.r al-F&r&b(. All his writings are
faultlessly excellent. One ought to study and understand
them. For he is a great man.
On Avicenna, his view is more qualified:
Though the work of Avicenna may give rise to objections
and are not as [good] as those of Abu Nasr [al-F&r&b(], Abu
Bakr al-S&igh [Ibn Bajjah] was also a great philosopher, and
all his writings are of a high standard.
([4.13] lix-lx)
And to read the other Jewish and Arab philosophers was, he thought,
a waste of time.
The philosophical school to which Maimonides says he belongs, and
which he recommends to Samuel ibn Tibbon, is that of the Andalusian
philosophers, who strictly separated scientific knowledge from religion.
Maimonides, however, did introduce philosophical principles into all
his works, including those intended for the simple believer, such as Book
I, part one of his Mishneh Torah, the Book of Precepts and the
commentary on the Mishnah. These principles, thirteen in all, which are
discussed afresh in the Guide, are presented by Maimonides as truths
which everyone should accept by authority because they are the beliefs
of the Jewish people, the necessary condition for belonging to it:
When a man has accepted these principles and truly believes
in them, he forms part of the community of Israel; and it is
incumbent upon us to love him, to care for him and behave
towards him as God has ordered us to do: to love and
comfort him; if he sins because of his corporeal desires or his
bad instincts, he will receive the punishment proportioned to
his crime, and he may [afterwards] have the part [that
belongs to him in the world to come], he is a sinner within
the community of Israel. But if someone casts doubt on one
of these principles, he has foresworn his faith, he is a
renegade, a heretic, an unbeliever, he has rebelled against
God and it is a duty to hate him and to cause him to perish.
([4.7] 148–9)
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The ‘Thirteen Principles’ are divided into three groups. The first five are
concerned with God, who is one and incorporeal; the following four
with prophecy and the Law; the last four with reward and punishment,
the coming of the Messiah and the resurrection of the dead.
The principles include certain articles of faith which were far from
being unanimously accepted by the Jewish community, especially in
these two respects:
(1) Divine incorporeality implies the rejection or allegorization of
many biblical passages and of a certain number of texts which
are an integral part of the oral Law. Maimonides was not the first
to declare that God is not corporeal, but he was the first to exclude
from the people of Israel those Jews who took the
anthropomorphic comments in the Bible in their literal sense.
(2) By ‘the world to come’ Maimonides understands the immortality
of the soul, and he does not make clear whether this is a matter of
individual immortality. Traditional texts use two other expressions
to talk about man after death: ‘the days of the Messiah’ and ‘the
resurrection of the dead’. For Maimonides, ‘the days of the Messiah’
means political independence of the Jews and their return to the
land of Israel. The Messiah will easily be recognized, since his coming
will coincide with a new period of history, totally different from
the time of the diaspora. As for the corporeal resurrection of the
dead, Maimonides holds that it is neither necessary from a scientific
point of view, nor theoretically impossible. If one believes in divine
omnipotence, it is a possibility. Clearly, this bodily resurrection is
not of great importance to Maimonides, especially since it would
be followed by a bodily death. Samuel ben Eli, Gaon of Baghdad,
attacked Maimonides sharply for failing to insist on the resurrection
of the dead and the survival of the individual human soul. In his
final work, The Letter on the Resurrection of the Dead, Maimonides
repeats his earlier view, unchanged, often with fierce irony.
A fourteenth-century versification of the Thirteen Principles became
part of the daily prayers of almost every Jewish community, except for
the Ashkenazim, thus impressing themselves on the great majority of
Jews and definitively shaping the Jewish notion of God.
The Guide of the Perplexed is the Jewish philosophical work most
known outside Judaism. By contrast with Maimonides’ other works,
which are models of clarity and order, the Guide is avowedly difficult
to understand. Like the Torah, the prophetic books and the Aggadot
of the Talmud, it is constructed in such a way as simultaneously to
hide and reveal its inner sense. The difficulties of its plan and the
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ambiguities in its expressions can be traced back to the obscurities of
the texts it discusses.
Maimonides suggests, moreover, that his book should not be studied
chapter by chapter, but rather problem by problem. He asks that it
should not be read in the light of preconceptions, but that the reader
should first have studied all that ought to be studied, and that he should
not explain it to others.
The book is intended neither for the ignorant, nor for philosophers—
neither of these are in difficulties—but for those who, like Maimonides’
follower, Joseph ben Judah, have studied science, mathematics,
astronomy and then logic, and who pose themselves questions about
the Bible and its interpretation. Take the example of God’s
incorporeality. From the conceptual point of view, belief in the existence
of God is inseparable from his absolute unity and his absolute unity is
inseparable from his incorporeality. But it is quite otherwise when seen
from the pedagogical or historical angle. The Law of Moses, a political
law like every other religious law, was given to the Jewish people at a
certain point in its history. For it to be accepted, it had to take into
consideration the beliefs to which the people were accustomed. If it
had not done this, the political and intellectual good it brought would
have been lost. Before insisting on the existence of an incorporeal God
it was necessary to bring about acceptance of the existence of God
himself. When they fled from Egypt, the only type of existence which
the Jews could conceive was that of a corporeal being: ‘The minds of
the multitude were accordingly guided to the belief that He exists by
imagining that he is corporeal and to the belief that he is living by
imagining that He is capable of motion’ (I, 46; [4.13] 98). ‘God, may
He be exalted above every deficiency, has had bodily organs figuratively
ascribed to Him in order that His acts should be indicated by this
means’ ([4.13] 99). What was a gain in understanding at the time of
Moses had become an inexcusable fault by the time of Maimonides:
those who believe that God is corporeal were, as we have seen, to be
excluded from the Jewish community. The Sages themselves had never
committed this fault: ‘the doctrine of the corporeality of God did not
occur even for a single day to the Sages, may their memory be blessed
and…this was not according to them a matter lending itself to
imagination or confusion’ ([4.13] 102).
The problem which the Guide is intended to resolve is, therefore,
that of the Law’s double character. Sometimes its external sense, which
results from the historical situation at the time when it was granted,
serves to introduce and helps to discover the internal sense, which alone
is true. Sometimes the external sense prevents the reader from reaching
‘the knowledge of the Law in its reality’ and is contrary to reason. The
object of the Guide is to bring to light the two senses of the Bible:
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through this duality alone can knowledge from science and revelation
be reconciled.
In the Guide there can be found the elements of the method which
allows the cloak of divine, scriptural allegory to be removed:
Know that the key to the understanding of all that the
prophets, peace be on them, have said, and to the knowledge
of its truth, is an understanding of the parables, of their
import, and of the meaning of the words occurring in them.
You know what God, may He be exalted, has said: And by
the ministry of the prophets have I used similitudes (Hos.
12:11). And you know that He has said: Put forth a riddle
and speak a parable (Ezek. 18:2).
([4.13] 10–11)
The first half of Book I treats in general the expressions in the Bible and
the Talmud which cannot be taken in their literal sense. In the second
half, God’s attributes are described and the Mu‘takalimun, among them
Saadiah, are attacked. Book II discusses philosophical doctrines, then
prophecy. Book III begins with an allegorical explanation of the ‘Account
of the Chariot’ and then considers providence and the fact that the
world will end and not continue eternally. Maimonides gives a
psychological explanation of the book of Job, a history of religions and
types of worship, and he goes on to talk about religious commands.
Clearly, it is beyond the scope of this survey to examine the great
variety of interpretations of the Guide. Our discussion must be limited
to mentioning a few of the especially important points in its doctrine.
(1) God and his attributes According to Maimonides, only negative
attributes can be applied to God. Any relation between two terms
implies something they have in common. But there can be nothing
in common between a being which is totally separate and another
being which depends on every other being. Even existence is not
common to them both, because ‘existence’ does not describe the
same thing when one speaks of God and when one speaks of a
created being, because God is a necessary existence and a created
being a possible existence.
For Moses, the prince among the prophets, as for man in general,
to know God means, not to know anything of his essence but to
know his actions. Through the speculative method which God
showed to Moses, it is possible to make progress in knowing the
unknowability of God’s essence. As we deny attributes of God, we
understand better his supereminence and the lack of relation
between his perfection and ours. To deny that God has emotions is
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already to be closer to the truth about him than just to deny that he
has a body. To deny not only that he has emotions but that there is
any relation between him and other beings is to take another step
on the path of negative theology, a step which brings us closer to
the idea that God is above all our categories of thought. We should,
therefore, say nothing about God, and true prayer—the only prayer
which is befitting to God—is silence, since every positive praise in
fact consists of attributing to him what, to us, is perfection and, for
him, a defect. Maimonides quotes with great praise a Talmudic
story (Babylonian Talmud Berakhot 33b) where a worshipper adds
eulogistic adjective to eulogistic adjective in his prayers. Rabbi
Haninah tells him that these praises are as unfitting as if one were
to praise a king for all the silver coins he possessed, when his treasury
was full of gold. Indeed, Maimonides says, were we left to follow
reason alone, we would use none of these adjectives. We do so
because men have need for images in order to understand and also
just because the Torah used them. Since they were written in the
Torah, we are allowed to read them as part of the biblical text. But
we use them in our prayers only on the authority of the men of the
Grand Synod, since they have taken the responsibility for this
decision. Verbal prayer is, in fact, a concession to human weakness.
‘Knowing God’s actions’ is the second aspect of knowledge of
God. By knowing his creation, we learn what we should deny of
God. Every branch of knowledge can teach us something about
this. Arithmetic and geometry teach us that God’s unity is not
like the unity to which we add, or which can be multiplied. Physics
and astronomy teach us how God puts the world into motion
through the intermediary of separated intellects, in a perfect and
absolute manner. It is only because we have a tendency to describe
God in anthropomorphic terms that certain of God’s, or nature’s,
actions seem beneficent and certain others seem destructive. In
reality, God’s action is intended to maintain the immutable order
of nature, which includes the preservation of the human race as
of other species of living things.
(2) God’s understanding In Part I, Chapter 68 of the Guide,
Maimonides proposes a theory of understanding which seems to
contradict his negative theology.
Now when it is demonstrated that God, may He be
held precious and magnified, is an intellect in actu… It
is accordingly also clear that the numerical unity of the
intellect, the intellectually cognizing subject, and the
intellectually cognized object, does not hold good with
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reference to the Creator only, but also with reference to
every intellect. Thus in us too, the intellectually
cognizing subject, the intellect and the intellectually
cognized object, are one and the same thing wherever
we have an intellect in actu.
(I, 68, [4.13] 165–6)
Contrary, then, to the views of Aristotle and al-F&r&b(, Maimonides
holds that God does not merely know his own essence but also
every intelligible thing and the laws of nature: ‘for through
knowing the true reality of His own immutable essence, He also
knows the totality of what necessarily derives from all His acts’
(Guide, III, 21, [4.13], 485) The commentators have not found a
convincing explanation for this contradiction.
(3) The origin of the world In the Mishneh Torah, the proof of God’s
incorporeal existence is based on the perpetual movement of the
sphere and so on the eternity of the world. In the Guide,
Maimonides shows the extent to which the philosophical point
of view contradicts the religious one:
[T]he belief in eternity the way Aristotle sees it—that is,
the belief according to which the world exists in virtue
of necessity, that no nature changes at all, and that the
customary course of events cannot be modified with
regard to anything—destroys the Law in its principle,
necessarily gives the lie to every miracle, and reduces to
inanity all the hopes and threats that the Law has held
out…
If, however, one believed in eternity according to the
second opinion we have explained—which is the opinion
of Plato—…this opinion would not destroy the
foundations of the Law and would be followed not by
the lie being given to miracles, but by their becoming
admissible. It would also be possible to interpret
figuratively the texts in accordance with this opinion.
And many obscure passages can be found in the texts of
the Torah and others with which this opinion could be
connected or rather by means of which it could be
proved. However, no necessity could impel us to do this
unless this opinion were demonstrated. In view of the
fact that it has not been demonstrated, we shall not favor
this opinion, nor shall we at all heed that other opinion.
(II, 25, [4.13] 328–9)
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Commentators have interpreted these passages in opposing fashions.
Some take them to be a clear statement in favour of creation, whereas
for others they seem rather to disguise Maimonides’ view, which he
proposes clearly elsewhere, in favour of the eternity of the world.
Shlomo Pines, in the most recent discussion of the problem, suggests
that problems of method came to occupy Maimonides increasingly as
his thought matured, which can be summarized as follows:
1 Aristotle’s physics are true so far as the sublunary world is concerned,
but dubious with regard to the heavens and the order of intelligences.
2 Man cannot reach the level of intellectual understanding except
through the imagination, through the phantasmata of bodily things
which, according to a quotation he makes from al-F&r&b(’s
Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics, implies the denial of
the immortality of the soul. (The only happiness would be a
political one.)
Maimonides’ extreme intellectualism was not an easy doctrine to live
with: his son, Abraham, who followed as head of the Jewish community
in Egypt adopted a sufi-like mysticism and gathered around him a
group of spiritually intense pietists. The descendants of Maimonides
continued to practise this mystical approach to religion for two hundred
years.
Ibn Kamm*nah (thirteenth century) may be considered the last Jewish
philosopher living in Islamic lands. In the fifteenth century, however,
there was a sort of renaissance of Jewish philosophy, accompanied by
mysticism, in the Yemen.
JEWISH PHILOSOPHY IN
CHRISTIAN LANDS
From the twelfth century onwards, Christians and Jews discovered a
whole body of Greek texts and their Arabic commentaries. They were
translated into Hebrew for the use of Jews, just as they were put into
Latin for Christian readers.
Jewish philosophy in Christian lands was based on Greek and Arabic
sources, but also on the works of Jews who had written in Arabic.
Maimonides had seen no need to use texts written by other Jews, since
Greek and Islamic works provided what was essential in disciplined
knowledge. But his successors, who lived among Christians, wanted
to know this Jewish philosophy, and there were translators—often
dynasties of translators—who worked to make these texts available to
them. The first of them was Judah ben Saul ibn Tibbon. He translated
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works by Bah. y& ibn Paqudah, Judah Halevi and Saadiah. In 1204
Samuel ibn Tibbon put Maimonides’ Guide into Hebrew. The work
came as a revelation to educated Jews. All of a sudden, the passages of
the Bible which offended reason became clear and rational.
Maimonides, as the spiritual leader of Judaism, was already celebrated
for his religious learning. Now, with the Guide, he showed that he was
also a consummate philosopher, who accepted the true path of scientific
knowledge—that of Aristotle—and showed that true Judaism was the
religion which fostered this knowledge. The Guide became a manual
of philosophy.
Aristotle could not be studied without a commentary, and Maimonides
himself had recommended those of Averroes. From the beginning of
the thirteenth century, Averroes’ commentaries were translated into
Hebrew but also, in the middle of the century, popularized through
encyclopaedias: the Midrash ha-Hokhma of Judah ben Solomon ha-
Cohen, the Sha‘ar ha Shamayim of Gerson ben Solomon of Arles and
the De‘ot ha-philosophim of Shem Tov ibn Falaqera. Besides Averroes,
there are frequent references to Aristotle, Plato, Alexander of Aphrodisias,
Themistius, al-F&r&b(, Avicenna, Ibn B&jjah, and Greek and Arabic
mathematical, astronomical and medical texts. The Jewish philosophers
were deeply affected by their reading of Averroes and this coloured
their interpretation of Maimonides. Very often, Averroist ideas were
preferred to those of Maimonides, thereby sharpening the opposition
between philosophy and religion. Except in Italy, no Christian author
is named and the influence of Christian scholasticism is not explicitly
acknowledged. Indeed, the universities were Christian institutions to
which the Jews had no access. Jews spoke the vernacular (French,
Provençal, Italian or Catalan), but these spoken languages did not give
them knowledge of Latin. Whereas Jewish philosophers in Islamic
countries benefited from all the sources of inspiration open to their
Muslim colleagues, those in Christian lands were limited to Hebrew
texts. This gave a certain homogeneity to Jewish philosophy, but also
limited it. In contrast with what had happened in Islamic lands, Jewish
philosophy developed in parallel, but separately, from Christian thought,
and the connections between the two are not easy to discern. Often
they share common problems; their answers are usually different.
During the thirteenth century, many philosophical works were
written. Along with pursuing the sciences, authors engaged in the
philosophical explanation of traditional texts, as Maimonides had
shown, and of their anthropomorphic expressions. Philosophy was no
longer the preserve of a learned or rich minority, but became available
to a large section of society. An enlightened middle class had grown up
in the south of France and Provence, in Catalonia, Spain and Italy. The
existence of towns, material prosperity and the extensive links between
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the various Jewish communities encouraged the growth of a milieu
where science and philosophy were keenly studied, and where scholars
were numerous and influential within the community. Philosophy
became the subject of public sermons. True, Jacob Anatolio was forced,
by the opposition of some of his community, to abandon the set of
philosophical sermons he had been giving on Saturdays in the
synagogue. But the very fact that he had begun to give them, with the
agreement of a certain number of the community, shows well how
public philosophical teaching had become.
Both the upholders of traditional Judaism and the exponents of the
kabbalah, which was developing in this period in Catalonia and
Provence, were violently opposed to this surge of interest in philosophy.
There was fierce anti-philosophical polemic in the Jewish communities
during the whole of the thirteenth century, which reached its climax at
several points: in 1202, about the resurrection of the dead (even before
the Guide of the Perplexed had been translated), in 1240–2 and then
at the very end of the century. This controversy about studying
philosophy itself came to an end when the Jews were expelled from
France in 1305, but the underlying differences of view continued until
the end of the Middle Ages.
In the fourteenth century, Maimonides remained the fixed point of
reference and provided the framework for Jewish thought. The central
problems, however, and the way of tackling them began to be affected
by the scholastic philosophy of the Christian universities: for instance,
the question of individual forms in Yedaya ha-Penini, at the very
beginning of the century; that of future contingents in the 1320s and
1330s; that of non-Aristotelian (Parisian) physics at the end of the
century. In the second half of the fourteenth century, translations from
Latin into Hebrew were more often of medical than philosophical texts,
but they began to include works of logic. There was also a resurgence
of interest in astrology, with a Neoplatonic emphasis.
Gersonides and Crescas
The dominant Jewish philosopher of the fourteenth century was
Gersonides. Gersonides (Levi ben Gerson, Leo of Bagnols) (1288–1344)
seems never to have left the south of France, where he lived at Bagnolsur-
Cèze, in Languedoc, in Avignon and in Orange. He is often considered
the greatest Jewish philosopher after Maimonides. Like Maimonides,
he was a philosopher and a Talmudist, as well as being learned in the
sciences.
Besides works on astronomy (where he attacks some of the
fundamental principles used by Ptolemy and proposes his own
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solutions) and biblical commentaries, Gersonides wrote (still mostly
unpublished) commentaries on the epitomes and Middle Commentaries
of Averroes. They were composed between 1319 and 1324 and cover
the greater part of Aristotle’s oeuvre. These are purely philosophical
works and do not deal with questions linked to religion. In the excursus,
where Gersonides expresses his own ideas, he refers readers to his Wars
of the Lord. This work, divided into six books, took ten years to write
and was finished in January 1329. Its introduction shows how much it
differs from Maimonides’ writings both in method and in its thoughts:
I would like to examine in this book several important yet
difficult questions on which many crucial doctrines relevant to
man’s intellectual happiness are based. First, is the rational
soul immortal when it has achieved [only] some perfection?
Second, when a man is informed by dreams or divination or
prophecy of future events, is he informed of them essentially
or accidentally?… Third, does God know existent things?…
Fourth, is there divine providence over existent things?…
Fifth, how do the movers of the heavenly bodies move these
bodies, and how many movers are there, as far as we can
know?… Sixth, is the universe eternal or created?…
Now it is without doubt essential that the reader of this
book be familiar with the mathematical science, the natural
sciences, and metaphysics. Of the questions mentioned so far,
some belong to the sciences, others to metaphysics, and
others require a knowledge of mathematics [including
astronomy].
([4.14] 91–4)
Gersonides has therefore written a work about science, and he deals
with mathematical, physical and metaphysical—that is to say,
philosophical—questions. His intended audience are those who are
plunged into perplexity by scientific questions to which previous
philosophers have found no solution. It is not the letter of the biblical
text which causes problems:
The reader should not think it is the Torah that has
stimulated us to verify what shall be verified in this book,
[whereas in reality] the truth itself is something different. It is
evident, as Maimonides (may his name be blessed) has said,
that we must believe what reasoning has proved to be true. If
the literal sense of the Torah differs from it, it is necessary to
interpret those passages and accord them with reasoning.
Accordingly, Maimonides (may his name be blessed) explains
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the words of the Torah that suggest that God (may He be
blessed) is corporeal in such a way that reason is not
violated. He, therefore, maintains that if the eternity of the
universe is demonstrated, it would be necessary to believe in
it and to interpret the passages of the Torah that seem to be
incompatible with it in such a way that they agree with
reason. It is, therefore, evident that if the course of
speculation causes us to affirm doctrines that are different
from what appears to be the literal sense of Scripture, we are
not prohibited by the Torah to pronounce the truth on these
matters, for this is not incompatible with the true
understanding of the Torah. The Torah is not a political law
that forces us to believe false ideas; rather it leads us to the
truth to the extent that is possible…
([4.14] 98)
In Gersonides’ view, most of the prophets did not have revelations about
things to do with the intelligible world. So Abraham did not know how
many stars there are, because this number was not known in his day.
Ezekiel thought that he had heard the voice of the celestial spheres,
because this is how people thought of it in his times. Nor did the prophets
have a political role (and here Gersonides rejected the whole Arab and
Jewish political tradition); the purpose of dreams, divination and
prophecy is to reveal the future, especially future contingents which
will happen to individual human beings. These future events seem
accidental. In fact, they can be known in advance, by dream, divination
or prophecy, because they have been determined and arranged. The
fact that accidental events are part of an order is proved by the existence
of men who are said to have been born under a good star. They are
granted every success whilst for other men misfortune is heaped on
misfortune. But, if good or bad fortune were accidental, they would be
distributed in fairly equal measure. Another argument is that, as the
most eminent of creatures, man is taken care of by the celestial substances
to such an extent that his actions and thoughts come from them. So
astrologers know what people think and their predictions are often
correct. When they predict wrongly, this is because of the distance of
the stars from us and the limitations of the astrologers’ knowledge.
Since that which, for man, is an accident, is ordered and determined for
the stars, these human events are in fact ordered and determined.
There are, however, acts which cannot be foreseen in the ordering
of the stars: those which are freely chosen by men. But such acts are
few. Indeed, almost all the thoughts of men and their movements are
determined by the stars. Men are the most noble creatures and the
order of the stars is intended for the good, and so men benefit more
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than other animals from the beneficent influence of the stars. It is rare
that men set themselves against this order and, in fact, the great majority
of events which we call accidental are determined and knowable. They
are therefore the objects of scientific knowledge: of God’s knowledge,
eminently perfect; of the more partial knowledge of the Agent Intellect;
and of the very limited and incomplete knowledge of man—a degree
of knowledge which, none the less, gives him immortality.
God’s thought is directed not merely toward himself but also to the
law, order and organization of beings, which he considers in a single,
unified concept. All the attributes which he has disseminated to the
pure forms are perfect within him. To him then can be attributed those
attributes which are the reflection of the perfection of the divine being
in us: essence, existence, unity, substantiality, understanding, the joy
which accompanies doing good and so on.
Gersonides discusses the creation of the world from an astronomer’s
point of view. God created the world by beginning with a first body
lacking in form and therefore not being. This first body, entirely in
potency, neutral and lifeless, has an existence which is known to the
senses. It is the fluid body between the spheres and sometimes it is
opposed to form. It can be seen in the spheres, where God has given it
a geometrical form along with the ability to keep this form; whilst, in
the sublunary world, it has the form of the elements and the ability to
receive every form.
God created the world in time. Gersonides rejects the definition of
the present instant as that which separates the past from the future. An
instant can be the beginning or the end of an interval of time. In order
to support the idea that the world was created in time, Gersonides also
brings in the argument that history is still going on and is far from
having reached its conclusion; consider the history of the branches of
knowledge, or of the dissemination of God’s law, or the history of
languages.
Although he was deeply convinced of the truth of astrology,
Gersonides upholds the existence of human free will, as all the other
Jewish philosophers had done. The problems of determinism and future
contingents which, in Christian scholastic philosophy, had taken a clear
form in the work of Peter Aureoli, were raised in Jewish circles by
Abner of Burgos. Abner’s unqualified determinism was the justification
for his conversion to Catholicism in the 1320s.
It is all the more astonishing to find an equally complete
determinism in the thought of Hasdaï Crescas. Hasdaï Crescas was
the leader of the Jewish community in Barcelona, already well known
in 1367. His only son was killed in the anti-Jewish uprisings of 1391,
though he himself survived. The wave of conversions to Catholicism
which would go on through the whole of the fifteenth century had
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already begun, and Crescas dedicated himself to combating it and to
reconstructing the Jewish communities which had been destroyed.
His two polemical works were written in Catalan and his
philosophical book in Hebrew.
Aristotelian philosophy was accused of having disturbed people’s
minds and of having driven the heads of communities—rich men who
were often interested in philosophy—to convert and take with them
other Jews. The Light of God (Or Adonaï) was planned by Crescas as
just the first part of a more extensive project, intended to replace the
whole of Maimonides’ work, both in philosophy and rabbinical
jurisprudence. But the second part of it was never written. According
to Crescas, the very root of Maimonides’ philosophy, like that of any
thinker basing himself on Aristotle, was false. The route to God is not
intellectual understanding, but fear and love.
The final purpose of human existence is the fulfilment of the divine
commands given by God himself to the children of Israel, in order that
they should love and fear him. Scientific knowledge, a preliminary to
the knowledge and understanding of the commandments, must be based
on a physics different from Aristotle’s, because his physics is false.
Book I of the Light of God is devoted to a critique of Aristotelian
physics as it is expounded by Maimonides in the twenty-five
propositions which precede Book II of his Guide.
Crescas argues that Aristotle gives to the infinite the characteristics
of finite bodies, and conceives the infinite only in relation to the finite.
If it exists, the infinite is not contained within bounds. It has neither
weight nor lightness, neither form nor shape. If it has a circular
movement, it is not around a centre and, although it moves itself
voluntarily, it has no need of any external object to bring about its
movement. It can just as well be a simple being as a composite one.
Similarly, place in the Aristotelian definition is the place of the elements,
not the place of the world as a whole. Crescas holds that it is necessary
to dissociate body and space. Space can be empty of bodies. In this
case, the definition of the place of the world as being its external
boundary no longer applies, and we can conceive an infinite space.
Space is no longer the relation between bodies, but, as pure extension,
it exists before bodies. The finite corporeal world is situated within an
infinite void. Crescas does not deny the possibility of an infinite number
of worlds and this hypothesis, although not explicitly adopted, is
perhaps implied by his citation of a passage from the Talmud. In the
same way, Crescas refuses to define time as the measure of movement:
time is also a measure of rest.
If we can conceive an infinity of time and an infinite numerical series,
we can no longer accept the proof of God’s existence based on showing
that he is the Prime Mover because this proof is based on the assertion
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that a series of causes cannot be infinite and so must end in a first
cause.
Crescas’ central intuition, then, is that, because God is infinite, space
and time are infinite, and a numerical series can be extended infinitely.
The human mind cannot reach the essence of an infinite God either
through philosophy or through revelation. God is unknowable in his
essence. But, like Gersonides, Crescas asserts the existence of positive
divine attributes. Yet, for him, there is no possible relation or
comparison between God and his creatures. We gain our idea of God’s
attributes in the way in which we gain our idea of the infinite from the
finite. Equally, the number of divine attributes is itself infinite. Just as
the final aim of human existence is not understanding, so our joy in
God cannot be the contemplation or understanding of his essence: it is
the joy of a gift, of the Good which gives of itself. God is the true agent
of all creatures. He makes them act through will and intention, and
maintains them always in being through the emanation of his goodness.
God likes to spread goodness and perfection and his joy is that of
always giving the being which he spreads over the whole of creation,
in the most perfect way that can be.
The joy which God experiences in an infinite and essential way is a
giving; it is also love and desire. God has loved and desired the
patriarchs, and he loves and desires the love of Israel. God’s power is
infinite. If it has given rise to a finite world, that is a result of will and
choice. It is not merely infinite in potentiality but also in act. God’s
omnipotence, which reason shows to be infinitely strong in act, is
revealed in the biblical miracles, when substances are created or
destroyed, as when Moses’ rod was changed into a snake.
As a result of God’s omnipotence, there is no place for free will.
Only the feeling of freedom differentiates freedom from compulsion.
All human acts are made necessary by their causes. The will of the
agent who causes an act is itself determined by causes which might be
external or internal or both. Divine commands and the rewards or
punishments which follow obedience to them or their disregard are
themselves links in the causal chain which leads to a human act. A
man is said to act ‘voluntarily’ when a cause is internal and not perceived
by him, and ‘involuntarily’ only when an external cause is perceived as
forcing him, despite his internal dissent, to such and such an action.
Joy accompanies the fulfilment of God’s commandments as an effect
accompanies a cause, but only when the soul has acted voluntarily,
without any external obligation which it regards as contrary to it.
Beliefs, especially true beliefs, are obligations on the soul, not results
of its will, since their reality constrains the soul to accept them. Beliefs,
then, give rise neither to reward nor punishment, and they are
unrelated to the knowledge of intelligible things. Nor are the
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intelligibles what one calls ‘the survival of the soul’. Reward—joy—
is brought by the effort towards knowledge, the desire to know, the
wish to understand.
The goal of the Torah is to enable men to acquire perfection in
behaviour and belief, material happiness and happiness of the soul.
Most important is the happiness of the soul. This is the ultimate aim of
God’s law. The soul’s eternal happiness is the love and fear of God.
Love and fear of God are the final stage, not only of the Torah, but
also of true philosophy.
EPILOGUE
In Crescas’ thought, we can see the influence not only of Christian
scholasticism, but also of the kabbalah, which became more and more
important in Jewish thought, the worse became the political situation
of Jews in Spain and the more eagerly they returned to the sources of
their religion. It became necessary to define precisely what were the
principles of Judaism. It is not correct to speak of ‘dogma’ in Judaism.
Jewish tradition, the Bible and the Talmud, was considered as a whole,
over a long period. It had to be accepted in its entirety, since belief was
involved in each of the commandments. It was in confrontation with
other religions that Judaism found itself obliged to clarify and
systematize the principles of the faith. This problem was marginal up
until the end of the fourteenth century, but it became a burning issue in
the fifteenth century, culminating with Albo (c. 1366–1444?). Albo
places his assertion of the superiority of the Torah within the context
of a consideration of the different types of law: natural, conventional
and divine. The Torah alone, he believes, is divine law, because it guides
men towards the true good: the immortality of the soul.
Traditionally, the fifteenth century is taken to mark the end of
medieval Jewish philosophy. Yet as many philosophical works were
written as they had been during the previous two hundred years.
Here—as in the history of medieval Jewish philosophy in general—
history has been distorted in favour of the ‘great philosophers’, whose
works were printed in the sixteenth century and so widely diffused.
Here in this chapter an anachronistically disproportionate weight has
been given to the better known philosophers, in order to avoid too
thin a treatment of too many figures. More obscure philosophers,
whose works are still unprinted, deserve to have a more important
place. We would then see that the fifteenth century, far from being a
barren period, witnessed a real renewal of all the types of philosophy
which had previously flourished: the Aristotelian current with Joseph
ben Shem Tov ibn Shemtob and his son Shem Tov, Abraham ben
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JEWISH PHILOSOPHY
Yomtob Bibago, Isaac Abraham and, in the area of Padua, Elias del
Medigo and his circle. In Italy, the Neoplatonic current was
represented especially by Judah Abraham. In Provence, Africa and
Turkey, as well as the Yemen, medieval philosophical texts were still
read and taught to a wide audience. True, kabbalistic ideas came little
by little to figure in the work of most philosophers. No longer did
intellectual understanding play the only important part in the
philosophers’ systems—too many political and religious events had
shaken the philosophers’ ivory tower. But philosophical ideas (the
most important of which is that of God’s incorporeality) had taken
root in the Jewish community, and to this day they remain an integral
part of Judaism.
(translated by John Marenbon)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
English translations of the most important texts are given here, followed by some
English studies.
Translations
Karaite thinkers
4.1 Karaite Anthology, ed. L.Nemoy, New Haven, Conn., 1952; repr. 1980.
Saadiah Gaon
4.2 The Book of Beliefs and Opinions, a translation of the Amanat by S.Rosenblatt,
New Haven, Conn., 1948.
4.3 The Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, an abridged translation of the Amanat by
A.Altmann, in I.Heinemann (ed.) Three Jewish Philosophers, New York, 1969.
Solomon ben Judah ibn Gabirol
4.4 The Fountain of Life, Book III, trans. H.E.Wedeck, London, 1963.
Judah Halevi
4.5 Book of Kuzari, trans. by H.Hirschfeld, New York, 1946; also in I.Heinemann
(ed.) Three Jewish Philosophers, New York, 1969.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Maimonides
4.6 Mishneh Torah: The Book of Knowledge, trans. M.Hyamson, Jerusalem, 1962.
4.7 Intoductions to Commentary on the Mishnah, in Ethical Writing of Maimonides,
trans. R.L.Weiss and C.E.Butterworth, New York, 1975.
4.8 Crisis and Leadership: Epistles of Maimonides, trans. and notes by A.Halkin,
discussions by D.Hartman, Philadelphia, Pa., New York and Jerusalem, 1985.
4.9 ‘Maimonides’ Arabic treatise on logic’, trans. M.ha-Higgayon, ed. E.Efros,
Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 34 (1966),
supplementing a previous publication ibid., vol. 8 (1938).
4.10 Letters of Maimonides, trans. and ed. with introduction and notes by L.D.
Stitskin, New York, 1977.
4.11 ‘The first letter on astrology’, in ‘The Correspondence between the Rabbis of
Southern France and Maimonides about Astrology’, ed. and trans. by A. Marx,
Hebrew Union College Annual 3 (1926):311–58.
4.12 ‘The second letter on astrology’, trans. R.Lerner, in ‘Maimonides’ Letter on
Astrology’, History of Religions 8 (1968): 143–68.
4.13 The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. S.Pines, Chicago, 1963.
Gersonides
4.14 The Wars of the Lord, Book One: Immortality of the Soul, trans. and with
introduction and notes by S.Feldman, Philadelphia, Pa., 1984.
4.15 The Wars of the Lord, Book Two: Dreams, Divination and Prophecy; Book
Three: Divine Knowledge; Book Four: Divine Providence, trans. with appendix
and notes by S.Feldman, Philadelphia, Pa., New York and Jerusalem, 1987.
4.16 The Creation of the World according to Gersonides, J.J.Staub, Book VI, part
2, ch. 1, of The Wars of the Lord, Chico, Calif, 1982.
Joseph Albo
4.17 Sefer ha-Ikkarim (Book of Principles), critical edn with trans. by I.Husik,
Philadelphia, Pa., 1929.
Isaac Abrabanel
4.18 Isaac Abravanel: Six Lectures, ed. J.B.Trends and H.Loewe, Cambridge, 1937.
Studies
Saadiah Gaon
4.19 Maker, H. Saadia Gaon: his Life and Works, New York, 1929.
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JEWISH PHILOSOPHY
Isaac Israeli
4.20 Altmann, A. and Stern, S.M. Isaac Israeli, a Neoplatonic Philosopher of the
Early Tenth Century, Oxford, 1958.
Abu’l-Barak&t al-Baghd&d(
4.21 Pines, S. Studies in Abu-l-Barakat al-Baghdadi: Physics and Metaphysics.
Collected Works, vol. I, Jerusalem, 1979.
Solomon ben Judah ibn Gabirol
4.22 Loewe, R. Ibn Gabirol, London, 1989.
Maimonides
4.23 Yellin, D. and Abrahams, I. Maimonides, his Life and Works, repr. with notes
by J.I.Dienstag, New York, 1972.
4.24 Goiten, S.D. ‘Moises Maimonides, man of action: a revision of the master’s
biography in light of the Geniza documents’, in G.Nahon and C.Touati (eds)
Hommage à Georges Vajda, Louvain, 1980.
4.25 Efros, I. Philosophical Terms in the Moreh Nebukhim, New York, 1924, repr.
1966.
4.26 Fox, M. Interpreting Maimonides: Studies in Methodology, Metaphysics and
Moral Philosophy, Chicago, Ill., 1990.
4.27 Hartman, D. Maimonides, Torah and Philosophical Quest, Philadelphia, Pa.,
1976.
4.28 Kellner, M. Maimonides on Human Perfection, Atlanta, Ga., 1990.
4.29 ——Maimonides on Judaism and the Jewish People, Albany, NY, 1991.
4.30 Leaman, O. Moses Maimonides, London, 1990.
4.31 Hyman, A. (ed.) Maimonidean Studies, with bibliography (1950–86) by D.R.
Lachterman, New York, 1990.
4.32 Strauss, L. ‘The literary character of the Guide for the Perplexed’, in Persecution
and the Art of writing, Glencoe, Ill., 1976.
4.33 Reines, A.J. Maimonides and Abrabanel on Prophecy, Cincinnati, Oh., 1970.
Isaac Abrabanel
4.34 Natanyahu, B. Don Isaac Abravanel, Statesman and Philosopher, Philadelphia,
Pa., 1953.
4.35 Sarachek, J. Don Isaac Abravanel, New York, 1938.
Crescas
4.36 Wolfson, H. Crescas’ Critique of Aristotle, Cambridge, Mass., 1929.
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CHAPTER 5
Philosophy and its
background in the early
medieval West
Rosamond McKitterick and
John Marenbon
‘Libraries, schools and the dissemination of texts’ is by Rosamond
McKitterick; the ‘Introduction’ and ‘Philosophical themes’ are by John
Marenbon.
INTRODUCTION
The period from 800 to 1100 is even more neglected by historians of
medieval Western philosophy than the rest of the Middle Ages. The
neglect has not, however, been total. Two figures—John Scottus Eriugena,
who wrote between c. 850 and c. 870, and Anselm of Canterbury, whose
writings date from 1060 to 1100—have long been picked out for special
treatment. But Eriugena has most usually been regarded as a solitary
genius closer to Greek late antiquity or even to nineteenth-century
currents of thought than to his own time, whilst Anselm has been
conveniently seen as the precursor of a twelfth-century intellectual
awakening. In consequence, the attention received by these two thinkers
has done little to stimulate interest in their contemporaries. Eriugena
and Anselm are, indeed, the two outstanding philosophers of the time,
and their thought is discussed in detail in the following chapter. But
many of the problems they tackled and methods they used were common
to their contemporaries. This chapter is designed to fill in some of this
often forgotten background.
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PHILOSOPHY IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL WEST
The names of some of those besides Eriugena and Anselm who
considered philosophical questions in the early Middle Ages are known:
for instance, Alcuin (the Englishman who became one of Charlemagne’s
main advisers in the 790s, and Alcuin’s pupils Candidus Wizo and
Fredegisus of Tours); Ratramnus of Corbie and Gottschalk of Orbais
(mid-ninth century); Remigius of Auxerre and Bovo of Corvey (late
ninth and early tenth century); Abbo of Fleury, Notker of St Gall and
Gerbert of Aurillac (end of tenth century); Berengar, Lanfranc and Peter
Damian (eleventh century). Yet much of the material from which a
history of philosophy during this time must be constructed is
anonymous, and an important part of it consists, not of independent
works or even free-standing commentaries, but of glosses written in
the margins and between the lines of the manuscripts of ancient or late
antique textbooks. Indeed, since a good deal of the philosophical activity
of these centuries consisted, not in original speculation, but in absorbing
the ideas of ancient texts, the best evidence for it is often not a particular
piece of writing, but information as to which centres of learning
possessed manuscripts of what philosophical and theological works at
which times. For these reasons, the study of manuscripts and their
transmission is fundamental to the history of early medieval philosophy.
The next section, therefore, presents an expert’s summary of the state
of knowledge in this area; it is followed by a brief survey of some of
the outstanding philosophical themes of the period.
LIBRARIES, SCHOOLS AND THE
DISSEMINATION OF TEXTS
Sometime before 814, Archbishop Leidrad of Lyons presented a
comprehensive collection of philosophical treatises to his cathedral
library. The manuscript, now in Rome, Casa dei padri maristi A. II. 1,
is datable on palaeographical grounds to the late eighth or early ninth
century. It contains Porphyry’s Isagoge, the Ten Categories (a
paraphrase-cum-commentary of Aristotle’s Categories wrongly
attributed to Augustine), pseudo-Apuleius Perihermenias and Boethius’
first commentary on Aristotle’s On Interpretation ([5.17] 83, [5.20]
417, [5.75] 52–3). It was written for Leidrad and is the oldest surviving
collection of works on dialectic. Not only does it contain the ancient
texts; it also includes Alcuin’s verses dedicating the Ten Categories to
Charlemagne. In consequence, Bischoff linked this collection to the
court library ([5.31] 157). Similarly, the Frankish royal court in the
late eighth century and the cathedral library of Lyons are implicated in
the transmission of Plato’s Timaeus (in the translation by Calcidius).
Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale lat. 2164, for example, written in
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
north-east France c. 800, can be connected with the group of classical
manuscripts in the court library of Charlemagne ([5.32] 158 and [5.55]
89). Its textual twin Lyons 324 also contains the commentary on the
Timaeus by Calcidius and may have reached Lyons by the same route
as Bishop Leidrad’s philosophical and dialectical collection.
That Lyons, famous for its participation in the antique book trade,
a notable centre of learning in the seventh century and possessor of
many fifth-, sixth- and seventh-century codices in its libraries, should
play a role in the transmission of ancient philosophical texts is certainly
credible.1 Charlemagne’s remarkable collection of rare classical texts,
moreover, is usually identified as listed on spare leaves in a late eighth-
century grammatical collection, Berlin, Deutsche Staatsbibliothek Diez
B.Sant. 66, emanating from the court circle. Such texts are now generally
regarded as the fruit of an appeal for copies of remarkable or rare
books sent out in about 780 ([5.32] 162–6, 154–6). In the case of the
books associated with Leidrad, and with other classical texts linked
with the court, the extant manuscripts are copies made from books
sent to the Carolingian court, or, at a further remove, copies of the
court transcriptions.
Although not all surviving manuscripts of philosophical and
dialectical works have court connections, it is certainly the case that
it is from the Carolingian period that our earliest copies of most of
the principal works survive. We have in fact very little with which to
fill the gap between late antiquity and the Carolingian period as far as
any classical texts are concerned. Certainly, knowledge of ancient
philosophy was also transmitted through the medium of patristic and
Christian writers such as Augustine, Maximus the Confessor and
Marius Victorinus, of whose work copies survive from the fifth to
eighth centuries in relative abundance. It is from Carolingian copies,
however, that most witnesses to classical literature and learning
descend ([5.22], [5.31]). Nevertheless, it would be unwise to assume
that no study was made of, or interest shown in, such texts in Italy or
Gaul between the sixth and the late eighth centuries. In the eighth and
ninth centuries we see classical texts, including those concerned with
logic and philosophy, that have gained a sufficient readership and
attracted enough interest for a copy or copies to be made of them. A
wider intellectual context must therefore be envisaged. We may
surmise indeed that Carolingian manuscripts containing philosophical
texts reflect not random survival but deliberate preservation. They are
the outcome of choices made in the eighth and ninth centuries in
relation to distinct intellectual preferences, even if the initial survival
of an ancient text beyond the fifth century had an element of chance
in it. Thus, as Marenbon has established, the difference in popularity
between the Ten Categories and Aristotle’s Categories can be
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PHILOSOPHY IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL WEST
accounted for in that the former accords better with the intellectual
preoccupations of thinkers in the ninth and tenth centuries ([5.75]
and see also below, pp. 108–9).
Even so, intellectual preferences and an apparent encouragement of
this type of intellectual activity and branch of learning cannot be
assumed to be the natural outcome of the Germanic groups establishing
successor states within the old Roman empire. Why should philosophy
and logic have become a focus of scholarly interest within early medieval
Western Europe, especially in light of the prevailing scholarly
preoccupations with Christian theology and exposition of the Bible?
Before attempting to answer this question, let us survey the evidence,
in terms of extant manuscript distribution, firstly, that philosophy texts
were more widely available throughout the eighth, ninth and tenth
centuries, and secondly, that philosophy was studied in the early
medieval schools.
In establishing the intellectual context for the study of philosophy
in the early Middle Ages principal considerations are what texts were
known and available, whether we can document the introduction of
particular texts to a wider audience or region, and how ideas could be
disseminated. Were particular centres noted for the study of philosophy
and how did they come to be in such a position? The principal texts in
question are: Plato’s Timaeus; Boethius’ On the Consolation of
Philosophy, logical writings and the Latin translation of Aristotle’s
Categories; the composite translation of the Categories with Boethius’
lemmata; the early medieval paraphrase of the Categories known as
the Ten Categories; pseudo-Apuleius’s Perihermenias; Macrobius’
commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio; the Topics of Cicero.
If the Lyons philosophical collection and the Lyons Timaeus highlight
the recognizable role played by the Carolingian royal court in the
dissemination of philosophical texts, other centres also played a role,
apparently independently of the court. Analysis of the textual tradition
of Latin versions of the Timaeus, for example, indicates a special role
for Ferrières and Corbie for the translation by Cicero, and for Rheims
and St Amand for Calcidius’s version (see [5.56]). Such specialization
of book production in terms of types of text copied is an observable
phenomenon of the Carolingian period, with classical literary texts
concentrated in the Loire, Picardy and Lake Constance regions, mass
books particularly associated with St Amand, Bibles and Gospel books
of a distinctive format with Tours and a remarkable preoccupation
with Augustinian theology at Carolingian Lyons (see [5.54]).
The earliest manuscripts of Boethius’ translation of the Categories
of Aristotle, whether complete or in fragmentary form, date from the
late tenth and eleventh centuries.2 They were produced at such centres
as Corbie, Fleury, St Gall, Echternach and St Vaast, and were
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
presumably based on earlier exemplars, or, conceivably, one common
ancestor. The date of these, whether sixth or ninth century, is a matter
for speculation. Three ninth-century manuscripts of the composite
translation are extant, apparently from regions as diverse as the Lake
Constance area, Picardy and northern Italy. Such distribution suggests
either originally widely-dispersed texts or else the consequence of
specific contacts between individuals in these areas in the ninth century.
The Ten Categories survives in no fewer than nineteen ninth- and tenth-
century manuscripts, many of them with extensive glosses ([5.75] 116–
38, 173–206). Auxerre is an important centre of production, as is Fleury,
but there are examples also from St Gall and Corbie, from as far east
as Freising and as far west as Wales, with some French and Italian
representatives in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Examination of
the manuscript transmission of other key texts reveals a similar pattern.
Porphyry’s Isagoge in the translation by Marius Victorinus, for
example, survives in fragments, now Munich, Bayerische
Staatsbibliothek Clm 6403, written at Freising. In Boethius’ translation,
on the other hand, it is to be found in many copies of ninth and tenth
century date (including Clm 6403), often coinciding with the Ten
Categories. It is found, moreover, in such dialectical collections as the
Lyons corpus belonging to Leidrad ([5.75] 173). Marenbon,
furthermore, has ascertained that Ratramnus of Corbie, John Scottus
Eriugena, Heiric of Auxerre and Remigius of Auxerre knew the Ten
Categories. Thus Auxerre again figures very prominently, as indeed it
does in all branches of intellectual life in the Carolingian world, but
representatives of the Isagoge and Ten Categories are to be found in
other cultural centres within the Frankish kingdoms, north and east,
some of which had connections with Auxerre (see [5.24]). Again a
similar pattern emerges when the manuscript tradition of the Isagoge
and logical collections and Boethius’ two commentaries on the Isagoge
are considered. One ninth-century copy of the first commentary (in
dialogue form) is extant in BN lat. 12958 of the late ninth or early
tenth centuries used at Corbie, though not written there, in order to
compile BN lat. 13955. The commentary survives in five tenth-century
manuscripts whose origins indicate a wide dissemination of the text
thereafter, though not necessarily emanating from Corbie itself
(Aristoteles Latinus 1, 6–7, p. xxi). Pseudo-Apuleius’ Perihermenias,
too, has a largely Frankish circulation in the early Middle Ages ([5.66])
while Auxerre plays a particularly important role in the transmission
of Macrobius’ commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio ([5.22] 22–
32). BN lat. 6370, moreover, although from Tours, has corrections
written in the hands of Heiric of Auxerre and Lupus of Ferrières. Other
ninth-century manuscripts of Macrobius survive also from Tours, Fleury
and Corbie with dissemination thereafter into southern Germany and
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PHILOSOPHY IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL WEST
southern Italy. Similarly, work on the ‘Leiden corpus’ of Cicero’s
philosophical works has established that Corbie, Ferrières and possibly
Rheims in the ninth century as well as Monte Cassino in the eleventh
are implicated in the transmission of Cicero’s Topics (see [5.25], [5.27]
and [5.22] 124–30).
The textual links among the Carolingian copies of the various
philosophical works studied in the early Middle Ages and between
these and descendants of later date from elsewhere are sometimes strong,
suggesting that individual contacts played a crucial role at some stage
in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, if not earlier. Equally, it is
remarkable, within the traditions of the texts, how many independent
lines of transmission there are. Although the evidence indicates a group
of centres in the early Middle Ages which concentrated much attention
on those philosophical texts, there is enough surviving from elsewhere
to suggest that study of philosophy was not confined to centres such as
Auxerre, Fleury or Corbie but that there were pockets of interest
scattered elsewhere, notably in southern Germany. Further, although
some of the later centres evincing interest in these texts in the tenth
and eleventh centuries are clearly connected with the older Carolingian
centres, others are not, and may therefore be the earliest extant witnesses
to a far more widespread interest in and study of philosophical texts in
Western Europe in the early Middle Ages than the available evidence
now permits us to reconstruct.
We may have to envisage, moreover, a considerable survival of late
antique exemplars. Traces of their existence can sometimes be deduced,
as in the copy of Macrobius owned by Symmachus, whose subscription
in his book is transmitted in no less than ten of the later copies. Other
examples are the sixth-century geographical miscellany which travelled
from Ravenna to Gaul and provided the exemplar for the copy (Vatican
lat. 4929, fos 79v–159r) made in the circle of Lupus of Ferrières and
Heiric of Auxerre; the ancient papyrus codex of Boethius’ commentary
on the Topics of Cicero borrowed by Lupus of Ferrières from Tours,
the late antique texts of Terence and the Aratea copied at Rheims and
in Lotharingia in the ninth century such as BN lat. 7899 and Leiden
Voss. lat. Q79, and the famous Virgil texts thought to have been
possessed by St Denis and Lorsch in the Carolingian period.3 Certainly
if one augments the core texts denned in this chapter with texts of
related interest and content, as well as the evidence provided by library
catalogues of the ninth, tenth and eleventh centuries, the number of
centres possessing them is very considerably enhanced. The royal court
of the Carolingians, moreover, figures with some prominence (see [5.15]
1005, [5.18], [5.53]).
The scriptoria of the monasteries and cathedrals were, therefore,
obviously active in the provision of texts. From glosses and
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commentaries on philosophical texts dating from the ninth century
onwards, moreover, it is clear that such provision was clearly related
to, and supplied the needs of, libraries and schools (see [5.30], [5.38],
[5.78]). Such specialized book production facilitated study and the
intellectual activity of individuals, as is evident from the occasional
indications we get of personal libraries, such as that of Gerward of
Lorsch or the books added to the library of Murbach by Abbot Iskar
(see [5.16], [5.21], [5.29]). Similarly the requirements of individuals
or even institutions stimulated copying activity, in that the network of
communications between the various centres established the canon of
texts necessary for a particular library to possess as well as furnishing
information about where exemplars of desired texts might be obtained
(see [5.53]). The personal interests of Hadoardus of Corbie, Lupus of
Ferrières and Murethach, Haymo, Heiric and Remigius of Auxerre
determined to a very considerable degree the direction of study at the
schools and within the groups of scholars with which they were
associated.4
Other Carolingian masters elsewhere were as active. At Laon, Martin
of Laon, as is evident from the number of school texts he annotated,
taught script, Greek, law, history, grammar and computus. One of his
most famous teaching compilations, Laon Bibliothèque Municipale
468, also used by his successors as masters of the school at Laon,
Bernard and Adelelm, includes texts on the life of Virgil and
commentaries on Virgil, on the liberal arts and ‘On philosophers, poets,
the sibylls and magicians’. The overriding emphasis of two of Martin’s
other teaching manuals, Laon Bibliothèque Municipale 444 and 464,
is on grammar (see [5.36], [5.38] and more generally [5.44]). At
Reichenau, among the many teachers there, one, Walafrid Strabo,
reveals his interests to us in his personal compilation of texts (St Gall
Stiftsbibliothek 878) (see [5.28]). It contains a rich miscellany of
grammatical texts, short treatises on metrics and computus, Bede’s On
the Nature of Things and works on time extracts from ecclesiastical
histories and an excerpt from a letter by Seneca. If we compare this
selection with the school texts listed at the end of the Reichenau library
catalogue for 821, there is a similar emphasis on grammar and computus
(see [5.18]). In very few Carolingian centres, notably Auxerre in the
ninth and tenth centuries and Rheims in the tenth century, was
philosophy in any sense formally part of the curriculum. Gerbert of
Rheims, for example, is said to have taught Porphyry’s Isagoge in the
translations of Marius Victorinus and Boethius, Aristotle’s Categories
and On Interpretation and Cicero’s Topics as well as to have provided
instruction in the arts of metrics, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry and
astronomy.5
In the tenth century at St Gall it was Notker III Labeo (950–1022)
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PHILOSOPHY IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL WEST
who was the first to translate philosophical texts from the Latin into
German vernacular for the sake of his German-speaking pupils at the
school of St Gall. According to a letter written to Hugh, bishop of
Sitten, Notker translated Boethius, On the Consolation of Philosophy,
the Categories and On Interpretation of Aristotle (translated from
Boethius’ Latin version) and the first two books of Martianus Capella’s
On the Marriage of Mercury and Philology as well as the Quicumque
vult, the Psalter and the Book of Job. Notker III composed one treatise,
On Music, in German and wrote a number of others in Latin, such as
On the Art of Rhetoric, On the Parts of Logic, On Disputation and
Computus, which were subsequently translated into German. Not all
these have survived but among those that are extant are, in the literal
translation they provide, invaluable indications of pedagogical methods
in an early medieval school, with every assistance being offered to aid
understanding of the text, guides to rhetorical figures and dialectical
techniques and a wealth of miscellaneous general information about
etymology, history, zoology and astronomy.6 There are, moreover, some
fascinating witnesses to the dissemination of texts from Auxerre
mentioned above: to these translations, notably of the On the
Consolation of Philosophy of Boethius and Martianus Capella, were
appended commentaries, some of which were based on, if not actually
translations of, the expositions of Remigius of Auxerre.
The combination of Notker’s texts, as with the range of topics
addressed by Walafrid Strabo, Martin of Laon, Gerbert of Rheims and
other Carolingian masters, is in fact typical of the different emphases
within the school curriculum in the early Middle Ages. It is not feasible
to think in terms of philosophy playing a separate role within the school
curriciulum in the Carolingian period. Rather, elements of philosophy
and the discipline of logic would develop out of the emphasis on the
structure of language and grammar and be incorporated into the general
teaching of the artes as the foundation for a deeper understanding of
scripture and the teaching of the fathers (see [5.41], [5.46]). Thus Notker
translated texts relating to all aspects of the trivium (grammar, dialectic
and rhetoric), the quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and
music) and to the Bible and liturgy.
At other schools in France, Germany and Italy a similarly rich mixture
within the school curriculum is to be observed. In the episcopal schools
of Germany, such as those of Trier, Augsburg, Eichstätt and Utrecht,
Würzburg, Regensburg, Cologne and Liège, and many more, the
Carolingian school curriculum was taught, with only occasionally the
instruction in philosophy being noted (see [5.39], [5.60]). Ohtrich of
Magdeburg, for example, was noted as one of the famous philosophers
of his day.7 Bruno of Cologne, instructed at Utrecht under Bishop
Balderich, kept abreast with the newest developments in ‘history,
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
rhetoric, poetry and philosophy’.8 Even at Auxerre, where philosophy
is such a major part of the intellectual activity of its leading scholars, it
is important to remember that this was also the centre which produced
the Deeds of the Bishops of Auxerre, Miracula, homiliaries, biblical
exegesis of lasting importance, and lives of saints.
Nevertheless it would appear, in fact, that philosophy became a more
dominant part of the school curriculum in the course of the tenth
century, and became still more important in the schools of the eleventh
and twelfth centuries, at least in France. In the later ninth and tenth
centuries, moreover, there is a discernible increase in the importance of
cathedral schools in both the West and the East Frankish kingdoms,
notably, by way of example, at Rheims and Liège and the German
episcopal schools mentioned above. The lines of institutional continuity
between the cathedral and monastic schools of the East and West
Frankish kingdoms in the ninth and tenth centuries to the schools of
Paris in the twelfth century are clear [5.60]. It is no surprise that we
find in the teaching of the schools of Laon, Chartres and Paris in the
eleventh and twelfth century the same mixed curriculum, designed
according to a similar structure, and methods of teaching which have
their roots in the early Carolingian period. At Chartres, for example, it
was possible to study medicine, geometry, computus, music and logic;
a manuscript from Fulbert of Chartres’ time, Chartres Bibliothèque
Municipale 100, was a compilation of familiar texts, namely, the
Isagoge, the Categories, the Topics of Cicero and other related texts,
including a poem by Fulbert on the difference between rhetoric and
dialectic [5.60]. In the glossing methods employed by Anselm of Laon,
of Peter Lombard, or Hugh of St Victor, the development of distinctive
layout of text and gloss to accommodate these new developments, and
in the philosophical discussion of such authors as Thierry of Chartres,
we witness a similar blend of older curriculum and scholarly methods
with a response to the new influences in learning and currents of
thought, wonderfully elucidated long since by Southern ([5.63], [5.64]).
No doubt this was due in part to the availability of a greater variety of
classical texts, especially by Plato and Aristotle but to these should be
added the work of the contemporary authors, discussed in the various
chapters in this volume. The extant library catalogues of the twelfth
century and the reconstruction of twelfth-century libraries such as those
of Zwiefalten, demonstrate more clearly than any other sources the
extent both of the Carolingian foundations of the school curriculum
and their intellectual emphases and the innovations of the eleventh
and twelfth centuries (see [5.17], [5.23]). Corbie’s library, for example,
although including a large corpus of philosophical works, with many
of Boethius’ works, a commentary on Martianus Capella by John
Scottus Eriugena, the Timaeus, and the philosophical works of William
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of Conches, and the library of Cluny with its copies of the Isagoge,
Martianus Capella, the Categories of Aristotle, Boethius’ commentary
on Cicero’s Topics, Calcidius and many more, still contain an
overwhelming preponderance of patristic texts and biblical exegesis.
The primary focus of intellectual endeavour remained the Bible, but
philosophy had a secure place in the intellectual activities of many of
the leading scholars of Europe.
That learning, including the study of philosophy, enjoyed such a
prominent position within the life of the monasteries and cathedrals of
Western Europe in the early Middle Ages is a phenomenon to which
we have become accustomed, even though the preoccupation with
scholarship within a monastic context might appear anomalous (see
[5.44], [5.52] 19). The acceptance of intellectual endeavour as an
essential part of a society’s activity and the primary focus of its culture
is nevertheless a remarkable characteristic of early medieval culture
and merits some discussion.
Let us consider, therefore, the role of the royal court signalled at the
beginning of this chapter in order to explore, first, the political
dimensions of the promotion of education and learning and, second,
the implications of patronage—royal, aristocratic, episcopal and
monastic—not only in promoting education and the study of philosophy
but also in helping to shape particular cultural imperatives that became
an accepted part of a society.
Within the Germanic kingdoms Lupus of Ferrières offers a clue, in
that he laments, in a letter to Einhard, the passing of Charlemagne:
within your memory there has been a revival of learning,
thanks to the efforts of the illustrious emperor Charles to
whom letters owe an everlasting debt of gratitude. Learning
has indeed lifted up its head to some extent… In these days
[c. 836] those who pursue an education are considered a
burden to society…men have consequently shrunk from this
endeavour, some because they do not receive a suitable
reward for their knowledge, others because they fear an
unworthy reputation.9
Lupus lauded the activities of Charlemagne’s grandson Charles the
Bald and his support of scholarship in many of his other letters. Further,
such authors as Notker Balbulus of St Gall testify to the extent to
which the Carolingian rulers actively promoted scholarship.10 We may
add to this the emphasis on correct texts of the Christian liturgy, canon
law and the Bible, education and learning in Carolingian legislation
and directives from the king to his abbots and bishops, such as the
Admonitio Generalis of 789 and the De litteris colendis of c. 800.11
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Although the main aim of such learning was a fuller understanding of
the Christian faith, and the provision of an educated administrative
class of clerics and lay magnates, sufficient latitude is provided to those
responsible for carrying out the wishes of the ruler with respect to
teaching and the provision of correct texts for all Christian learning to
benefit. Certainly, the subsequent production and dissemination of all
kinds of text, apparently in response to the ruler’s initiative, is well
documented (see [5.54]).
What should also be reckoned with is the personal interest of the
rulers themselves in matters of higher learning and the degree to which
they actively promoted scholarship, the liberal arts and philosophy by
means of patronage. From the books associated with the Carolingian
rulers it is apparent how they gathered together scribes and artists,
not only to produce books which reflect the personal piety and private
interests of the king but also as a strategy of royal piety and largesse
(see [5.31], [5.32], [5.43], [5.53], [5.55]). As Lupus implies in the
extract from his letter to Einhard quoted above, the king’s patronage
held the promise of material reward. It is clear from the surviving
evidence of scholarly activity associated with the court, and the
dedications of many works to the king, that many sought such
patronage. The essential material support for learning, in other words,
was provided by secular rulers as well as by the Church to satisfy
particular as well as general goals.
The role of the king in creating the social imperatives that made an
exercise of secular patronage in this particular sphere of activity so
acceptable is all important. We are not observing merely the
consequences of personal intellectual and aesthetic predilections.
Certainly the presence of early Carolingian manuscripts with court
connections, such as the Lyons dialectical collection or Plato’s Timaeus,
seems to testify to the gathering of rare classical works, and suggests
that there are deeper motives in royal patronage to be discerned. What
is apparent above all is the sheer organization and determination behind
the dissemination of particular texts to do with the Christian faith and
learning, and the explicit association of this activity with the exercise
of Christian kingship made by the rulers. Thus it is not simply that
King Charles the Bald enjoyed his lessons with Walafrid Strabo and
derived intellectual pleasure and stimulus from the presence of such
scholars as Manno of St Ouen, Lupus of Ferrières or John Scottus
Eriugena in his kingdom, or even at his court. Nor is it that scholars
who enjoyed royal patronage were thereby able to pursue their
intellectual activities; and many had considerable influence on
succeeding generations of pupils and scholars. Among them were Alcuin
of Tours, Hrabanus Maurus of Fulda and Mainz, John Scottus Eriugena,
or Lupus, who was part of the dynamic intellectual milieu focused on
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Auxerre and Fleury in the mid-ninth century. What is essential is that
intellectual activity was recognized to be a fundamental part of the
spiritual and cultural goals of all Christians; the king as Christian ruler
therefore had a duty to foster this as much as he enlarged the kingdom,
promoted the administration of justice and the use of agreed weights
and measures or guaranteed the stability and value of the coinage.
The example of the high priority given to intellectual activity and
culture set by rulers to future generations, moreover, is not to be
underestimated. Of course, the Carolingians were not the first to
exercise patronage in this way. Nevertheless, they were arguably the
first to take such an effective interest in the correctness of the Christian
texts in use in the churches, chapels and monasteries of their kingdoms,
and the first whose patronage was more than an occasional interest in
benefactions. The Carolingian rulers actually sustained groups of artists,
scribes and craftsmen over a long period of time in order to create
artefacts or carry out their particular cultural objectives (see [5.55]). It
was an example, if not actually followed, then certainly emulated by
other rulers, and by lay and ecclesiastical magnates. In Anglo-Saxon
England, for example, Asser’s Life of King Alfred recounts the great
interest the king took in learning and how he himself translated, as
well as commissioning translations from others, many crucial texts,
not least Boethius’ On the Consolation of Philosophy (see [5.34],
[5.48]). Cnut is also attested as a patron of some stature (see [5.43],
[5.51]). If in the tenth and eleventh centuries on the Continent the
Carolingian, Capetian and Saxon kings of the West and East Franks
were rather less active in the promotion of scholarship and patronage
of learning, the baton fell above all to the bishops. The bishops of
Liège, Trier and Hildesheim are cases in ponit. Liège was celebrated
for its learning under Bishops Ebrachar and Notker but they were
following a tradition established in the time of Bishop Hartgar, who
acted as patron and offered a refuge to the Irish scholar Sedulius Scotus
(see [5.42], [5.50]). Many manuscripts, ivories and some remarkable
pieces of metalwork have been associated with Egbert, bishop of Trier
from 977 to 993, and Bernward of Hildesheim, which were produced
in ateliers both in their own dioceses and elsewhere (see [5.43]). Mayr-
Harting has highlighted these bishops’ acknowledgement of their
reflection of kingly rule, and the way in which they visibly manipulated,
or commanded, spiritual power by commissioning book covers and
reliquaries wrought in gold and studded with bright jewels, and
manuscripts resplendent with fine painting, decorated initials and
beautiful script (see [5.59] 57–97).
The display of wealth that was one obvious outcome of the patronage
of culture and learning was also a demonstration of power and might.
It is of crucial importance for our understanding of the intellectual
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culture of the early Middle Ages to see that patronage operated so
effectively and constructively in the cultural as well as in the political
and military spheres. Indeed, these various activities were seen to
interlock and to be many facets of one society. Thus social and political
imperatives from the pinnacle of authority, displays of wealth and
power, the enhancing of authority, and the incorporation of a further,
cultural, dimension within the ideals of political and social leadership
had repercussions for the particular cultural preoccupations and
intellectual aspirations of early medieval society. Patronage played a
crucial role in establishing such preoccupations within the intellectual
horizons and educational traditions of Western Europe. We thus observe
an essential interplay between political authority, economic resources
and intellectual endeavour.
PHILOSOPHICAL THEMES
There were three main fields of philosophical activity in the early medieval
period: the study of logic, the reading and reaction to ancient and late
antique philosophical texts and the analytical discussion of problems
about Christian doctrine. The manuscript background to the first two
has been explored in the previous section; the following paragraphs
offer a quick sketch of some of the main themes in each area.
Logic
The earliest evidence for medieval interest in and use of logical
techniques is found in the Libri Carolini, the statement of the Western
position on the worship of icons prepared at Charlemagne’s court c.
790, probably by Theodulf of Orleans. The longest logical passages
here borrow material from Boethius and Apuleius on semantics and
on the relations between the truth-values of differently quantified
sentences (see [5.10] IV 28, pp. 216–21). It was Alcuin, who apparently
established himself as Charlemagne’s leading intellectual in the 790s,
who gave early medieval logic its twist towards metaphysical and
theological concerns. In his De dialectica (‘On logic’), the first medieval
logical textbook, Alcuin gives pride of place to the doctrine of the ten
categories, as expounded in the Ten Categories, attributed at this time
to Augustine. Aristotle’s discussion of the categories is less a piece of
logic than an exercise in fundamental metaphysics, an analysis of the
different types of entity (universal and particular substances, universal
and particular accidents). Augustine had already put the doctrine to
theological use in his On the Trinity, and Alcuin borrowed and
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emphasized this theme in his On the Faith of the Holy Trinity.12 The
Ten Categories became the most eagerly studied logical textbook in
the ninth and tenth centuries, and the question of whether God could
be fitted into them, already raised by Alcuin, was taken up by his pupils
and explored in depth by Eriugena (see [5.6]; cf. [5.75] 50–3, 72–86).
The glosses to the Ten Categories, which vary from manuscript to
manuscript, show a definite pattern of development. The late ninth-
century glossators tended to use the text as a springboard for Eriugena-
inspired metaphysical and theological comments, only loosely related
to the logical subject-matter. Tenth- and eleventh-century glossators
became less and less interested in such speculation and more concerned
to reach an understanding of basic Aristotelian ideas such as the
distinctions between substance and accident, and between univocal
and equivocal words, or the nature of space and time.13 Gradually, a
translation of Aristotle’s own text came to replace the pseudo-
Augustinian paraphrase, giving scholars the chance to use Boethius’
commentary and, through it, to master the argument of the text and
consider the difficult problems about the status of Aristotle’s discussion
(is it about words, or things, or what?) which would concern twelfth-
century logicians.14
The Isagoge (‘Introduction’) by Porphyry, a short guide to the notions
of genus, species, differentiating property (differentia), distinguishing
characteristic (proprium) and accident, long regarded as an introduction
to Aristotle’s Categories, was also known from the time of Alcuin.
Glosses to the Isagoge—at least those so far investigated—draw heavily
on Boethius’ commentaries.15 Porphyry’s famous allusion to the
disputed status of universals, which became the focus for medieval
debates from the twelfth century onwards, seemed to excite no
controversy. One of the few early medieval writers to discuss universals,
Ratramnus of Corbie, exponent of a somewhat inchoate conceptualism,
turned, not to the Isagoge, but the first of Boethius’ commentaries on
it and also to Boethius’ Theological Treatises.16 Aristotle’s On
Interpretation, although known, was found forbiddingly difficult by
most logicians until the eleventh century: glosses are rare and derivative
(see [5.78] 101). But, by about 1000, Abbo of Fleury, Notker of St
Gall and Gerbert of Aurillac included it within their teaching, and
Abbo compiled his own introduction to syllogistic reasoning, drawing
on Boethius’ textbooks.17
Aside from Anselm’s De grammatico, there is disappointingly little
direct evidence for logical studies for most of the eleventh century itself.18
Material dating from 1100 or just before shows a sophistication in
dealing with the Isagoge, Categories and On Interpretation, and a
facility in handling syllogisms and topical inferences which cannot have
been suddenly acquired; this is a surmise strongly supported by the
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confident use in doctrinal controversy and discussion of notions from
both the Categories (as in the dispute between Lanfranc and Berengar)
and On Interpretation (as in Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo and Peter
Damian’s Letter on God’s Omnipotence).19
Reading Ancient Philosophy
Although some early medieval writers criticized logic as a distraction
from religious devotion, no one could claim that the ancient logical
textbooks were themselves a challenge to the faith; and, indeed, in his
Theological Treatises (much read and glossed in these centuries)
Boethius had shown how logical techniques could be used against heresy
in support of orthodox doctrine. By contrast, Latin texts of ancient
philosophy posed what might seem as a direct challenge to Christian
belief, by proposing a view at least in some respects incompatible with
them. Yet it was not, in fact, any of the three main pagan philosophical
books available from the ninth to the eleventh centuries that became
the focus of controversy. Plato’s Timaeus (in Calcidius’ partial
translation) was found too difficult for sustained discussion; the two
introductory books of Martianus Capella, preceding the handbooks
to the individual disciplines, were too obviously an allegory to cause
problems; and Macrobius’ commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio
tended to be looked on as a source of information about natural science,
especially astronomy, to which further information of like nature should
be appended by glossators. And so, strangely, it was in connection
with the work of a Christian author that scholars from the ninth to the
eleventh centuries considered most carefully how to react to ancient
philosophy. After writing his logical translations, commentaries and
translations, and his Theological Treatises, Boethius, in prison and
awaiting execution, wrote his final work, On the Consolation of
Philosophy. The Consolation not only avoids any explicit reference to
Christian revelation. It also contains passages which present ancient
Platonic ideas which, taken literally, are incompatible with Christianity.
In particular, the ninth metrum (or verse passage) of Book III, a prayer
incanted at the very climax of the argument, is an epitome of the
Timaeus, and it refers both to the idea of reincarnation and to that of
the World Soul.
What should the Christian reader make of such passages?20 The most
forthright reaction was that of Bovo (d. 916), a monk of Corvey, who
recognized clearly that, although Boethius had written elsewhere on
Christian doctrine, he was setting out here to present Platonic and not
Christian teaching ([5.5]). Using Macrobius—he seems not to have
known the Timaeus itself—he gives a clear explanation of the ideas
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behind the compressed phrases of Boethius’ poem. Although this
approach had its followers, it was not the most common one. At much
the same time as Bovo, Remigius of Auxerre had composed his
commentary ([5.14]), not just to this metrum, but to the whole
Consolation, drawing on earlier glosses (just as he would do in his
extensive commentary on Martianus Capella) but developing them in
his own way. His effort was to find an explicitly Christian meaning
hidden in the apparently Platonic phrases of Boethius.21 About a
hundred years later, Adalbold of Utrecht pursued a similar
Christianizing line in his commentary on Book III, metrum 9 ([5.1]),
although he allegorized less thoroughly than Remigius and ended with
an unintendedly strange amalgam of orthodox Christianity and Platonic
teaching.22 Twelfth-century scholars, especially William of Conches,
would follow and sophisticate the approach pioneered by Remigius
and Adalbold, applying it to genuinely pagan texts as well as to the
Consolation.23
Problems Raised by Christian Doctrine
From the twelfth century onwards, much of the best philosophical
thinking took place in the context of theology, the systematic
investigation of Christian doctrine which would be typified in the
universities by the commentaries on the Sentences of Peter the Lombard.
In the ninth to eleventh centuries, it is difficult to talk of ‘theology’ in
this sense. But philosophical discussion still arose in connection with
various types of writing concerned primarily with Christian doctrine:
sermons and biblical exegesis were inclined to be unargumentative
(though Eriugena’s are an exception), but other works about doctrine,
stimulated by controversy or responding to particular questions, often
contain interesting material for the historian of philosophy.
One of the fiercest controversies in the ninth century was instigated
by Gottschalk, a monk first of Fulda, then Reichenau, then Orbais.24
In a series of writings from the 830s onwards, Gottschalk championed
the idea, which he claimed (with some justice) to be Augustine’s, that
God’s predestination is dual: of the good to bliss and of the wicked to
damnation. He found many well-educated supporters, but others in
the Church feared that his teaching would discourage people from
trying to act well by making them think that, regardless of anything
they did, they were from eternity predestined to hell or to heaven. Two
important churchmen—Hrabanus Maurus, archbishop of Mainz and
prolific scriptural exegete and encyclopaedist, and Hincmar, archbishop
of Rheims—wrote against Gottschalk; and they also commissioned an
attack from a scholar attached to the court of the emperor, Charles the
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Bald; this would be John Scottus Eriugena’s first treatise, his On
Predestination.25 Although Hrabanus’ and Hincmar’s pieces (not,
however, John’s) amass patristic quotations, all three involve argument
and analysis, and together they provide the earliest medieval attempt
to explore notions such as free will, evil and punishment.
All three writers challenged Gottschalk’s formula of dual
predestination by saying that God predestines in one way alone—the
good to salvation—but he foresees both the salvation of the good and
the damnation of the wicked. Only those predestined to salvation can
be saved, because for salvation God’s grace is needed. Yet God cannot
be said to ‘predestine’ the wicked; rather, he fails to predestine them.
Eriugena also adds the argument ([6.4] 62:27–65:123), based on the
Platonic view that evil is not a thing but a deficiency, that God could
not possibly predestine anyone to a wicked life or to eternal punishment
because, as evils and therefore deficiencies, they have no cause. (This
last is a particularly silly argument: the emptiness of my glass is just as
clearly caused by my having drunk the wine as its fullness was caused
by my having poured wine into it from the bottle!) So far all three
writers have hardly distanced themselves more than verbally from
Gottschalk, since on their view people will still be damned, whatever
they do, if God fails to predestine them. Hrabanus and Hincmar are
aware of this problem but try to dodge it, stressing God’s inscrutability
or, in the case of Hincmar, suggesting that God withholds grace from
those whose future misuse of their wills he has foreseen. Eriugena does
not resolve the central issue: how can an individual human being be
held responsible for the evil actions which, without the help of grace,
he cannot but perform? Rather, he concentrates on relieving God of
any responsibility for unjustly punishing those who are not responsible
for their wickedness by an astonishingly bold move. He claims that
God does not punish anybody [[6.4] 63:42–66:155). Sinners are
punished (through ignorance, or through the knowledge that they lack
beatitude, or through the frustration of their desire to become nothing
at all), but not by God, who is merely the framer of just laws.
There were various doctrinal controversies in the two following
centuries which stimulated philosophical discussion, most notably the
dispute in the mid-eleventh century between Lanfranc and Berengar
over the eucharist.26 But even more interesting for the history of
philosophy is a work written at much the same time (c. 1067), as part
not of a public controversy but of a private debate. Peter Damian was
unwilling to accept Jerome’s statement, put to him by a friend, that
‘whilst God can do all things, he cannot restore a virgin after she has
lost her virginity’ and he wrote his Letter on Divine Omnipotence
([5.11]) to explain why not. Damian is known as an ascetic,
contemptuous of pagan philosophy, and historians have often
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interpreted his rejection of Jerome’s position in this light: as an extreme
manifestation of his anti-philosophical stance, according to which he
claims that God can undo the past, making what has happened not
have happened and thus violating the fundamental logical law of non-
contradiction. On a careful reading, however, the argument of the letter
is seen to be quite different.27 Damian contends that, by nature, it is
impossible to restore her virginity to a virgin who has lost it. By this he
means that there is no way of repairing the ruptured membrane. The
only way, then, that by nature a non-virgin could become a virgin
would be if the past were changed, so that her virginity never had been
lost. But, Damian goes on, this—changing the past—is impossible
absolutely, even for God and certainly by nature. Making a non-virgin
into a virgin by repairing her virginity (not by changing the past) is
possible, however, for God, though it is impossible by nature. Here,
then, Damian seems to be distinguishing between the physically
impossible, which is possible for God, and the logically impossible,
which even for God is impossible. But, at one point ([5.11] 619A–
620C), he asks whether God could make it that Rome had never existed
and answers that God could. He goes on to explain that, since God
lives in an eternity which is timeless, to say that God could now make
it that Rome never existed is equivalent to saying that God could have
from the beginning shaped a providence which did not include the
existence of Rome. Damian’s position is defensible, though when
clarified it becomes less bold than it at first seems. He makes two
arguable claims: (1) that God might have chosen a providence other
than the one he has in fact chosen—a providence in which, for instance,
Rome never existed; (2) that God’s choice of providences does not
take place at any moment in time, but in timeless eternity. (1) would be
accepted by most Christian thinkers; the meaningfulness of (2) can be
queried, but the position has had many adherents, from Boethius’ time
until now. Taken together, (1) and (2) lead to the conclusion that God
could make it (tenseless) that Rome never existed. Since God exists
timelessly, any verb which is applied to him is timeless: the apparently
paradoxical ‘God is able to make it that Rome never existed’ is no
different in meaning from the straightforward ‘God was able to make
it that Rome never existed’.
NOTES
1 See Cavallo [5.35], Kleberg [5.49] 44, Lowe [5.19] and cf. Eddius Stephanus,
Life of Bishop Wilfrid, Cambridge, 1985, ch. 6.
2 See Minio-Paluello’s introduction to his edition of the Categories in Aristoteles
Latinus (I, 1–5), Bruges and Paris, 1961, pp. xiv, xxiii, xxxii, xxxv.
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3 See Reynolds [5.22] 225 and Bischoff [5.33]; for Lupus’s borrowing, see the
edition of his letters by L.Levillain, Paris, 1964, pp. 214–15.
4 See Bischoff [5.27] (Hadoardus), Beeson [5.25] and Gariépy [5.40] (Lupus), and
on Heiric see [5.24] as well as the editions of his Collectanea by R.Quadri, Fribourg,
1966, and of his excerpts from Valerius Maximus by D.Schullian, Memoirs of the
American Academy in Rome 12 (1935): 155–84.
5 See Marenbon [5.75] and Richer’s History of France, ed. R.Latouche, Paris, 1967,
II, p. 46.
6 See P.Piper, Die Schriften Notkers und seiner Schule, Freiburg and Tübingen,
1882–3, I, pp. 859–61 for Notker’s letter, and cf. J.Knight Bostock, A Handbook
on Old High German, 2nd rev. edn, Oxford, 1976; see also below, Chapter 6, p.
132, for Notker.
7 Life of St Bernward, ch. 1 in H.Kallfelz (ed.) Lebensbeschreibungen einiger
Bischöfe des 10.–12. Jahrhunderts, Darmstadt, 1973.
8 Ruotger, Life of Bruno, ch. 5, in H.Kallfelz (ed.) Lebensbeschreibungen einiger
Bischöfe des 10.–12. Jahrhunderts, Darmstadt, 1973.
9 Translated in G.W.Regenos, The Letters of Lupus of Ferrières, The Hague, 1966.
10 Notker, Gesta Karoli, ed. H.Haefele, Berlin, 1959, 1.1.
11 Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Capitularia, ed. A.Boretius, Hanover, 1830, I,
nos 22, 29, 30, 53, 79–81.
12 De dialectica is printed in [5.2] 101, cols 951–76 and On the Faith of the Holy
Trinity at cols 13–54; see esp. col. 22; cf. Marenbon [5.75] 31 and the additions
and corrections to this view in J.Marenbon, ‘Alcuin, the Council of Frankfort
and the beginnings of medieval philosophy’, in Dos Frankfurter Konzil van 794,
ed. R.Berndt, Mainz, 1997, II, 603–15.
13 [5.75] 116–38; for some additions and corrections, see Marenbon [5.78] 100.
14 See L.Minio-Paluello, ‘Note sull’Aristotele latino medioevale: xv—Dalle Categoriae
Decem pseudo-Agostiniane (Temistiane) al testo vulgato aristotelico Boeziano’,
Rivista di Filosofia Neoscolastica 54 (1962) 137–47, reprinted in Minio-Paluello
[5.83] 448–58; and, for glosses and commentaries to Categories see Marenbon
[5.78] 82–3, 100–1, 109–10 and 26–7. A paraphrase/commentary of the Isagoge
and Categories from the early eleventh century has been edited by G.d’Onofrio:
Excerpta Isagogarum et Categoriarum, Turnhout, 1995 (CC c.m. 120). See also
Marenbon [7.67].
15 The Isagoge glosses from one manuscript have been edited by C.Baeumker and
B.von Walterhausen: Frühmittelalterlichn Glossen des angeblichen Jepa zur Isagoge
des Porphyrius (BGPMA 24,1), Münster, 1924; for a list of glossed manuscripts
and their relations, see Marenbon [5.78] 99.
16 See Ratramnus [5.12] for the text and cf. Marenbon [5.75] 67–70.
17 For bibliography and further discussion of Abbo, Notker and Gerbert, see below,
Chapter 6.
18 For Anselm’s De grammatico, see below, Chapter 6.
19 Peter Damian’s Letter is discussed below, pp. 112–13; for the use of Aristotle
here and by Anselm, see also Marenbon [5.79].
20 For a survey of the influence of the Consolation, see Courcelle [5.68]; see also
Troncarelli [5.82], [5.83].
21 Useful extracts are printed in Remigius [5.14]; cf. Courcelle [5.68] 278–90, and
Marenbon [5.76] 78–9.
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22 See T.Gregory, Platonismo medievale: studi e ricerche (Istituto storico Italiano
per 51 medioevo, studi storici 26–7), Rome, 1958, pp. 1–15.
23 See below, Chapter 7, pp. 172–3.
24 On Gottschalk, see esp. Jolivet [5.74]; on the predestination controversy, see Ganz
[5.70] and Schrimpf [5.81]. For Gottschalk’s theological works, see [5.8].
25 See also below, Chapter 6, p. 120 on the background and reaction to On
Predestination. Hrabanus puts his views in letters to Bishop Noting of Verona
(MPL 112, cols 1530–53) and to Count Eberhard of Friuli (Monumenta
Germaniae Historica, Epistolae Karolini Aevi III, pp. 481–7). Hincmar’s
contribution before Eriugena entered the controversy was a letter to his
parishioners, ed. W.Gundlach, ‘Zwei Schriften des Erzbischofs Hinkmar von
Reims’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 10 (1889):258–309. For a full account
of Hincmar’s part in the controversy and his various writings connected with it,
see J.Devisse, Hincmar, Archevêque de Reims, 845–882, Geneva, 1975–6, pp.
115–79.
26 This is well discussed in Holopainen [5.73] 44–118; cf. also Gibson [5.72].
27 This is the reading proposed by Holopainen [5.73] 6–43. See also the discussion
of the modal notions involved in this discussion in Knuuttila [1.21] 63–7.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
5.1 Adalbold of Utrecht, Commentary on Book III, metrum 9 of Boethius, On the
Consolation of Philosophy, in Huygens [5.9].
5.2 Alcuin, Works in MPL 100–1.
5.3 Anonymous glosses to Ten Categories, in Marenbon [5.75] 185–206.
5.4 Anonymous glosses to Boethius, Theological Treatises, in E.K.Rand, Johannes
Scottus, Munich, 1906.
5.5 Bovo of Corvey, Commentary on Book III, metrum 9 of Boethius, On the
Consolation of Philosophy, in Huygens [5.9].
5.6 Candidus Wizo, Theological and philosophical passages, in Marenbon [5.75]
152–70.
5.7 Fredegisus of Tours, On the Substance of Nothing and on Shadows, in
Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Epistolae, IV, pp. 552–5.
5.8 Gottschalk of Orbais, Oeuvres théologiques et grammaticales de Godescalc
d’Orbais, ed. D.C.Lambot, Louvain, 1945.
5.9 Huygens, R.B.C. (ed.) ‘Mittelalterliche Kommentare zum O qui perpetua …’,
Sacris Erudiri 6 (1954): 373–427.
5.10 Libri Carolini, ed. H.Bastgen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Concilia II,
Supplementum, Hanover and Leipzig, 1924.
5.11 Peter Damian, Letter on God’s Omnipotence, ed., with French translation, by
A.Cantin (Sources chrétiennes 191), Paris, 1972.
5.12 Ratramnus of Corbie, Liber de anima, ed. D.C.Lambot, Namur and Lille,
1952.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
5.13 Remigius of Auxerre, Commentary on Martianus Capella, ed. C.Lutz, Leiden,
1962–5.
5.14 Remigius of Auxerre, Commentary on Boethius, On the Consolation of
Philosophy (extracts) in Appendix to E.T.Silk (ed.) Saeculi noni auctoris in
Boetii consolationem philosophiae commentarius, Rome, 1935.
Bibliographies, Catalogues and Handbooks
A bibliography of the philosophical material is given in Marenbon [5.76] 164–91.
Bibliographies for the various areas of cultural history from c. 780 to c. 900 are
found in McKitterick [5.57].
5.15 Becker, G. Catalogi bibliothecarum antiqui, Bonn, 1885.
5.16 Berschin, W. and Geith, K.E. ‘Die Bibliothekskataloge des Klosters Murbach
aus dem IX. Jahrhundert’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 83 (1972):
61–87.
5.17 Delisle, L. Le Cabinet des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Impériale/Nationale,
Paris, 1868–81.
5.18 Lehmann, P. Mittelalterliche Bibliothekskataloge Deutschlands und der Schweiz,
I, Die Diözesen Konstanz und Chur, Munich, 1918.
5.19 Lowe, E.A. Codices Lugdunenses antiquiores, Lyons, 1924.
5.20 ——Codices Latini antiquiores, IV, Oxford, 1957.
5.21 Milde, W. Der Bibliothekskataloge des Klosters Murbach aus dem 9.
Jahrhundert. Ausgabe und Beziehungen zu Cassiodors ‘Institutiones’, Beiheft
to Euphorion, Zeitschrift für Literaturgeschichte 4, Heidelberg, 1968.
5.22 Reynolds, L.D. (ed.) Texts and Transmissions: a Survey of the Latin Classics,
Oxford, 1983.
5.23 von Borries-Schulten, S. Katalog der Illuminierten Handschriften der
Württemburgischen Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, 2, Die Romanischen
Handschriften, Part I, Provenienz Zwiefalten, Stuttgart, 1987.
Studies
Manuscript transmission, schools and cultural background
5.24 [Auxerre] Intellectuels et artistes dans l’Europe Carolingienne ix–xi siècles,
Auxerre, 1990.
5.25 Beeson, C.H. Lupus ofFerrières as Scribe and Text Critic, Cambridge, Mass.,
1930.
5.26 ——‘The Collectaneum of Hadoard’, Classical Philology 40 (1945):
201–22.
5.27 Bischoff, B. ‘Hadoardus and the manuscripts of classical authors from Corbie’,
in S.Prete (ed.) Didascaliae: Studies in Honor of Anselm A.Albareda, New
York, 1961; repr. in German in Bischoff, Mittelalterliche Studien 1, Stuttgart,
1965, pp. 49–63.
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PHILOSOPHY IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL WEST
5.28 ——‘Eine Sammelhandschrift Walahfrid Strabos (Cod. Sangall. 878)’,
Mittelalterliche Studien 2, Stuttgart, 1967, pp. 34–51.
5.29 ——Lorsch im Spiegel seiner Handschriften, Munich, 1974.
5.30 ——‘Die Bibliothek im Dienst der Schule’, in Mittelalterliche Studien 3, Stuttgart,
1981, pp. 213–33.
5.31 ——‘Panorama der Handschriftenüberlieferung aus der Zeit Karls des Grossen’,
Mittelalterliche Studien 3, Stuttgart, 1981, pp. 5–38.
5.32 ——‘Die Hofbibliothek Karls des Grossen’, Mittelalterliche Studien 3, Stuttgart,
1981, pp. 49–70.
5.33 ——‘Paläographie und frühmittelalterliche Klassikerüberlieferung’, in
Mittelalterliche Studien 3, Stuttgart, 1981, pp. 55–72.
5.34 Bullough, D. ‘The educational tradition in England from Alfred to Aelfric:
teaching utriusque linguae’, in his Carolingian Renewal: Sources and Heritage,
Manchester, 1991.
5.35 Cavallo, G. Libri, editori e pubblico nel mondo antico: Guida storica e critica,
Rome, 1977.
5.36 Contreni, J.J. The Cathedral School of Laon from 850–930: its Manuscripts
and Masters, Münchener Beiträge zur Mediävistik und Renaissance-Forschung,
Munich, 1976.
5.37 ——Codex Laudunensis 468: a Ninth-century Guide to Virgil, Sedulius and
Liberal Arts, Armarium Codicum Insignium III, Turnhout, 1984.
5.38 ——Carolingian Learning, Masters and Manuscripts, Aldershot, 1992.
5.39 Fleckenstein, F. ‘Königshof und Bischofsschule unter Otto dem Grossen’, Archiv
für Kulturgeschichte 38 (1956): 38–62; repr. in J.Fleckenstein, Ordnungen
und Formende Kraft des Mittelalters. Ausgewählte Beiträge, Göttingen, 1986,
pp. 168–92.
5.40 Gariépy, R.J. ‘Lupus of Ferrières: Carolingian scribe and text critic’, Medieval
Studies 30 (1976): 90–105.
5.41 Glauche, G. Schullektüre im Mittelalter: Entstehung und Wandlungen des
Lektürekanons bis 1200 nach den Quellen dargestellt, Münchener Beiträge
zur Mediävistik und Renaissance-Forschung, Munich, 1970.
5.42 Hellmann, S. Sedulius Scottus, Munich, 1906.
5.43 Heslop, T.A. ‘The production of de luxe manuscripts and the patronage of
King Cnut and Queen Emma’, Anglo-Saxon England 19 (1990): 151–95.
5.44 Hildebrandt, M.M. The External School in Carolingian Society, Leiden, New
York and Cologne, 1992.
5.45 Hoffmann, H. Buchkunst und Königtum im ottonischen und frühsalischen
Reich (Monumenta Germaniae Historica Schriften 30), Stuttgart, 1986.
5.46 Illmer, D. Formen der Erziehungs und Wissensvermittlung im frühen Mittelalter.
Quellenstudien zur Frage der Kontinuität des abendländischen
Erziehungswesens, Münchener Beiträge zur Mediävistik und Renaissance-
Forschung, Munich, 1971.
5.47 Iogna-Prat, D., Jeudy, C. and Lobrichon, G. L’Ecole Carolingienne d’Auxerre
de Murethach à Remi 830–908, Paris, 1991.
5.48 Keynes, S. and Lapidge, M. Alfred the Great, Harmondsworth, 1983.
5.49 Kleberg, T. Buchhandel und Verlagswesen in der Antike, Darmstadt, 1969.
5.50 Kurth, G. Notger de Liège et la civilisation au Xe siècle, Paris, 1905.
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5.51 Lapidge, M. ‘Artistic and literary patronage in Anglo-Saxon England’,
Committenti e produzione artistico-letteraria nell-alto medioevo occidentale
(Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di studi sull ’alto medioevo 39),
Spoleto, 1992, pp. 137–91.
5.52 Leclercq, J. The Love of Learning and the Desire for God, London, 1978.
5.53 McKitterick, R. The Carolingians and the Written Word, Cambridge, 1989.
5.54 ——‘Carolingian book production: some problems’, The Library, 6th series
12 (1990): 1–33.
5.55 ——‘Royal patronage of culture in the frankish kingdoms under the
Carolingians: motives and consequences’, Committenti e produzione
artisticoletteraria nell’alto medioevo occidentale (Settimane di Studio del
Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo 39), Spoleto, 1992, pp. 131–91.
5.56 ——‘Knowledge of Plato’s Timaeus in the ninth century: the implications of
Valenciennes Bibliothèque Municipale MS 293’, in H.J.Westra (ed.) From
Athens to Chartres, Neoplatonism and Medieval Thought: Studies in Honour
of Edouard Jeauneau, Leiden, New York and Cologne, 1992.
5.57 ——(ed.) Carolingian Culture: Emulation and Innovation, Cambridge, 1993.
5.58 ——(ed.) The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. II, Cambridge, 1995.
5.59 Mayr-Harting, H. Ottonian Book Illumination: an Historical Study, 2 vols,
London, 1992.
5.60 Riché, P. Les Ecoles et l’enseignement dans l’occident chrétien de la fin du v
siècle au milieu du xi siècle, Paris, 1979.
5.61 La Scuola nell’Occidente Latino nell’alto medioevo, Settimane di Studio del
Centro Italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, Spoleto, 1972.
5.62 Sot, M. Haut Moyen-Âge: Culture, éducation et société, Paris, 1990.
5.63 Southern, R. The Making of the Middle Ages, London, 1953.
5.64 ——Medieval Humanism and Other Studies, Oxford, 1970.
5.65 Sullivan, R.E. (ed.) ‘The Gentle Voices of Teachers’: Aspects of Learning in the
Carolingian Age, Columbia, Oh., 1955.
5.66 Thomas, P. (1908) Apulei Opera quae supersunt III, Leipzig, 1908.
Philosophical studies and monographs on particular texts
and authors
5.67 Bouhot, J.P. Ratramne de Corbie, Paris, 1976.
5.68 Courcelle, P. La Consolation de philosophie dans la tradition littéraire, Paris,
1967.
5.69 Delehaye, P. Une controverse sur l’âme universelle au IXe siècle, Louvain, 1950.
5.70 Ganz, D. ‘The debate on predestination’, in M.Gibson and J.Nelson (eds) Charles
the Bald. Court and Kingdom, 2nd edn, London, 1990, pp. 283–302.
5.71 Gibson, M. (ed.) Boethius: His Life, Thought and Influence, Oxford, 1981.
5.72 ——Lanfranc of Bec, Oxford, 1978.
5.73 Holopainen, T. Dialectic and Theology in the Eleventh Century (Studien und
Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 54), Leiden, New York and
Cologne, 1996.
5.74 Jolivet, J. Godescalc d’Orbais et la trinité, Paris, 1958.
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5.75 Marenbon, J. From the Circle ofAlcuin to the School of Auxerre (Cambridge
Studies in Medieval Life and Thought, 3rd series 15), Cambridge, 1981.
5.76 ——Early Medieval Philosophy (480–1150): an Introduction, 2nd edn, London,
1988.
5.77 ——‘John Scottus and Carolingian theology: from the De praedestinatione, its
background and its critics, to the Periphyseon, in M.Gibson and J.Nelson
(eds) Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, 2nd edn, London, 1990, pp.
303–25.
5.78 ——‘Medieval Latin commentaries and glosses on Aristotelian logical texts,
before ca. 1150 AD’, in C. Burnett (ed.) Commentaries and Glosses on
Aristotelian Logical Texts: the Syriac, Arabic and Medieval Latin Traditions
(Warburg Institute Surveys and Texts 23), London, 1993, pp. 77–127.
5.79 ——‘Anselm and the early medieval Aristotle’, in J.Marenbon (ed.) Aristotle in
Britain during the Middle Ages, Turnhout, 1996, pp. 1–19.
5.80 Minio-Paluello, L. Opuscula: the Latin Aristotle, Amsterdam, 1972.
5.81 Schrimpf, G. ‘Der Beitrag des Johannes Scottus Eriugena zum
Prädestinationsstreit’ in H.Löwe (ed.) Die Iren und Europa im früheren
Mittelalter, Stuttgart, 1982.
5.82 Troncarelli, F. Boethiana aetas, Alessandria, 1987.
5.83 Troncarelli, F. Tradizioni perduti, Padua, 1981.
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CHAPTER 6
John Scottus Eriugena and
Anselm of Canterbury
Stephen Gersh
INTRODUCTION
by John Marenbon
John Scottus Eriugena came from Ireland, as his name indicates
(‘Scottus’ meant ‘Irishman’ in the Latin of this period, and ‘Eriugena’,
a neologism invented by John himself, is a flowery way of saying the
same thing). He worked on the Continent, however, under the patronage
of Charles the Bald. The first mention of him, in a letter of 851 or 852
about the predestination controversy, is as ‘an Irishman at the royal
court’. After the disastrous reception of his own contribution to this
dispute, On Predestination (discussed in Chapter 5), it seems to have
been Charles’s protection which saved Eriugena from punishment and
ensured he could continue his work. Glosses survive by Eriugena on
Martianus Capella’s On the Marriage of Mercury and Philology, a late
antique handbook of the seven liberal arts widely studied in the ninth
century, and it is likely that these represent some of his teaching at the
palace school in the late 840s.1 Already his comments show some of
the characteristic themes of his thought. For instance, a reference by
Martianus to the myth of Orpheus, who tries to rescue his wife,
Eurydice, from the underworld, is glossed in terms of the relation
between the beauty of sound (represented by Orpheus) and the art of
music ‘in its profoundest reasons’ (represented by Eurydice), which
the musician must seek by descending into the depths of his discipline.
Eriugena’s intellectual horizon was greatly enlarged in the 850s when
Charles commissioned him to translate from Greek the writings which
had been issued as (and were taken to be) by Dionysius, the learned
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JOHN SCOTTUS ERIUGENA AND ANSELM OF CANTERBURY
pagan converted by St Paul, though they were in fact the work of a
fifth-century Christian deeply influenced by the Neoplatonism of
Proclus. The manuscript of pseudo-Dionysius had been sent as a present
by the Byzantine emperor to Charles’s father, Louis the Pious. An
obscure translation had been made at the time by Hilduin, Abbot of St
Denis. Eriugena had taught himself Greek much better and succeeded,
not merely in producing a comprehensible translation which would be
used for the next three centuries, but also in absorbing the ideas he
found in the text. He went on to translate various other Greek Christian
texts, by Gregory of Nyssa and the seventh-century Maximus the
Confessor. All these influences, along with his wide reading of the Latin
fathers (especially Ambrose and Augustine) and his enthusiasm for
logic (especially as found in the pseudo-Augustinian Ten Categories),
are combined in his masterpiece Periphyseon (About Nature’; it is also
sometimes known as De divisione naturae, ‘On the division of nature’),
written in the 860s. The Periphyseon has been seen by some as
continuing a tradition of Greek Neoplatonic thought, and by some as
anticipating nineteenth-century German Idealist philosophy; whilst
other scholars have concentrated on placing the work within the context
of Carolingian thought.2 Yet other approaches, too, are possible (as
Stephen Gersh’s discussion below will illustrate)—a diversity of
interpretation encouraged by a text of remarkable breadth and audacity,
where bold strokes of the imagination sometimes stand in for rigour
of argument and suggestiveness of imagery for clarity of thought.
The Periphyseon begins by setting out a fourfold division of universal
nature—discussed below in greater depth by Stephen Gersh—into: (1)
that which is not created and creates, (2) that which is created and
creates, (3) that which is created and does not create, and (4) that
which is not created and does not create. God, as creator, constitutes
(1); the primordial causes—which are both like Platonic Ideas and the
Stoic seminal reasons Eriugena learnt about in Augustine’s Literal
Commentary on Genesis—make up (2); (3) is the created world of
men, animals and things and (4), like (1), is identified with God, but
God as the Final Cause to which all things return. The underlying
course of universal history, seen as the progress from (1) to (4), is
described in the five books of the work, which takes the form of a
dialogue between master and pupil. Book I is mainly devoted to showing
that God does not belong to any of Aristotle’s ten categories. Drawing
on pseudo-Dionysius’ negative theology, Eriugena argues that God does
not even belong to the first category, that of ousia (substance or essence)
as Augustine had held. The remaining four books are structured round
an exegesis of the story of creation and fall in Genesis, in which Eriugena
discovers not only an account of divisions (2) and (3) but also that of
the return of all things at the end of time to the uncreated and uncreating
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
God of (4). Unusual positions abound: that (following Maximus) sexual
differentiation arose only as a consequence of the fall; that the nothing
from which God created all things is God himself who, being beyond
all description, is nothing rather than something; that (continuing the
line of thought from On Predestination, but hedging it around with
qualifications and even contradictions) there will be no Hell, at least in
the ordinary sense.
Eriugena also composed a commentary on pseudo-Dionysius’
Celestial Hierarchy, a homily on the prologue to John’s Gospel and
the beginning of a commentary on that Gospel. The homily provides a
short and beautifully written summary of some of the main themes of
his later work.
Anselm was born at Aosta in Italy in 1033. He became a monk of
Bec in Normandy in 1059, where he was taught by Lanfranc, whom
he went on to succeed as Abbot (in 1078) and as Archbishop of
Canterbury (in 1093). He died in 1109, after a stormy tenure of the
archbishopric in which he tried to assert the power and independence
of the Church. Anselm did not begin to write his theological and
philosophical works until he was over 40. From then up almost until
his death he produced a series of writings distinguished by an
extraordinary elegance of thought and clarity of purpose. Unlike almost
every other medieval thinker, Anselm makes no parade of philosophical
or theological authorities, although he clearly knew as well as anyone
of his time the logical texts of Aristotle, Porphyry and Boethius then
available, and he had studied deeply Augustine’s more philosophical
writings.3
Anselm’s two earliest monographs, the Monologion (1076) and the
Proslogion (1077–8), are both concerned to provide rational arguments
for the existence and attributes of God, although he assumes that his
readers will be Christians who already accept by faith the truth of the
assertions which he is setting out to prove. The Monologion uses a
variety of arguments designed to show that there exists a triune God.
The Proslogion uses a single line of argument and does not attempt to
argue for triunity, but restricts itself to the not specifically Christian
divine attributes such as omniscience, omnipotence, perfect goodness
and eternity. The piece is built around the notion of that-than-which-
nothing-greater-can-be-thought: what, for simplicity’s sake, may be
called the notion of a ‘maximal being’. Most of the work is devoted to
showing that, in the case of each presumed divine attribute, it must
belong to a maximal being because, without it, the being would not be
maximal. But this would merely show that, if it existed, a maximal
being would be omnipotent, omniscient and so on. By far the greatest
attention, in Anselm’s time and ever since, has been given to the
argument placed at the beginning (often called Anselm’s ‘ontological
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JOHN SCOTTUS ERIUGENA AND ANSELM OF CANTERBURY
proof’) to demonstrate that a maximal being does actually exist. Anselm
advances two premisses: (1) that a maximal being does at least exist in
thought, and (2) that to exist in reality and thought is greater than to
exist in thought alone. He considers (1) to be proven by the fact that
even someone who denies the existence of a maximal being (such as
the fool of Psalm 14, who denies that God exists) has the mental concept
of such a being; and he takes (2) for granted. He then argues that it
must be false to claim that a maximal being A exists in thought and
not in reality, because such a being would be less great than a being B
exactly like it except that it existed in thought and also in reality, and
so A would not be a maximal being. Therefore, given that a maximal
being exists in thought, it must exist in reality too. The classic objection
to this argument, that existence is not a predicate, is not very powerful,
since Anselm’s argument is based on the contrast between ways of
existing, in thought and in reality. His premiss (2) may not be
convincing, but it is not obviously false or meaningless. Modern re-
workings of the ontological proof usually adapt premiss (1) to read:
‘“God exists” is possibly true’, and, in order to make a plausible
argument, they need to add another claim (3), that if a maximal being
exists, it must exist in such a way that it cannot not exist: it must exist
necessarily. (3) is found in the next chapter of the Proslogion, but as a
further argument rather than as an additional premiss to the proof
that a maximal being exists. It remains a matter for dispute among
philosophers whether any version of the ontological argument,
strengthened in this way, is sound.4
Besides writing a detailed reply to the criticisms raised by Gaunilo, a
monk of Marmoutier, to his ontological proof, Anselm went on to
write, among others, works On Truth, On Free Will and on the
compatibility of grace and divine prescience with human freedom. His
Cur Deus homo (Why God became man, 1094–8) is especially
ambitious: basing himself on Scripture, but only on that part of it
accepted by Jews and Muslims as well as Christians, Anselm tries to
show that God needed to become incarnate if he was to remain just
but also maintain the benevolent purpose of his creation. Two works
of Anselm also survive which are more purely philosophical in content:
De grammatico, an intricate logical discussion, following on from
Aristotle’s Categories and Boethius’ commentary, of the semantics of
denominative words such as grammaticus (‘literate’), and the
‘Philosophical fragments’, which examine modal notions and sketch
out a philosophy of action.5
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QUESTIONS OF METHOD
Like any other object of critical analysis, the literary production of those
writers of the ninth to eleventh centuries who are usually styled
‘philosophers’ is approachable from various perspectives. One such
viewpoint, dominant in medieval philosophical scholarship until quite
recently, has been that of orthodox Thomism. However, the notion that
pre-thirteenth-century intellectual figures should primarily be valued for
their tentative movements towards certain doctrines of high scholasticism
is nowadays losing its appeal. There is obviously neither the socio-political
pressure nor the metaphysical conviction to sustain it.
John Marenbon’s survey, published in 1983 ([6.33]), makes the pre-
scholastics speak, at least to a degree, in an idiom intelligible to a late
twentieth-century audience. That he should emphasize their
preoccupation with problems of language is therefore perfectly
understandable. This is documented by their elaboration of the doctrine
in Aristotle’s On Interpretation about words, thoughts, and things
([6.33] 21–2, 32–3, 101–2) and by their rediscovery of the distinction
between sense and reference of terms ([6.33] 102–3, 106 ff.).6 One
only needs to adopt a more comprehensive notion of the linguistic—
including the structural element and the overlap with the semiotic—in
order to see such preoccupation in greater relief. However, that he
should limit their claim to be called ‘philosophers’ is perhaps too drastic.
A careful reading of Early Medieval Philosophy reveals its author’s
personal conviction about the nature of philosophy. For him, it is
primarily methodological in a sense opposed to ontological realism
and system building ([6.33] 6, 10, 15–16, 81). The methodology consists
of arguments from premisses to conclusions (pp. 4, 58), the premisses
being generally open to doubt but ideally self-evident either to
observation or reason rather than textually given, the conclusions being
unknown in advance (pp. 4, 12). Philosophy also employs terms which
are literal rather than metaphorical and univocal rather than equivocal
in its discussions (pp. 5–6, 9–10). Since these criteria define a discipline
recognizable to Bertrand Russell but not to early medieval writers,
Marenbon is left with relatively few illustrations of genuine philosophy
before the twelfth century. Although the traditions of logic and of logic’s
application to theology represented by certain passages in Augustine
and Boethius are to be excepted (pp. 10, 47–8), a substantial portion
of the late antique and early medieval literature fails to meet one or
more criteria. The Latin translation of Plato’s Timaeus is too
metaphorical (pp. 5–6), the Latin Platonic material of late antiquity
too much concerned with system building and metaphorical expression
(pp. 9–10, 15–16). Likewise, Eriugena’s thought involves too much
system building (p. 81), too many premisses derived from texts (p. 58),
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and too much equivocal language (pp. 65–9), Anselm of Canterbury’s
too many conclusions known in advance (pp. 95–7).
Despite the persuasiveness of this discussion, a different approach
to the philosophical writing of the ninth to eleventh centuries is possible.
This would involve equal attention to the linguistic component but—
since history shows this term to imply not universality but family
resemblance—fewer prior assumptions about the meaning of
‘philosophy’. What follows is an attempt to investigate samples of
Carolingian and post-Carolingian philosophical literature from such a
viewpoint. I shall suggest that these materials, in their concern for
systematic construction, pre-existing textual data, and the polysemy
of etymology and metaphor, exhibit not intellectual weaknesses but
intellectual strengths.
ERIUGENA
In some respects, Western medieval philosophy can be viewed as
beginning with the brilliant and controversial ninth-century thinker
John Scottus Eriugena.7 Marenbon values him for his ability to reason
abstractly yet criticizes his tendency to system building. However, it is
Eriugena’s notion of structure which perhaps makes him closer to
modern writers than to other medieval ones.
Few would deny that a particular concept of ‘structure’ is one of the
intellectual paradigms of our era.8 This involves a priority of relation
to related terms, such relations being either of opposite to opposite
where one opposite exists through or is understood through the other,
or else of whole to part where the whole exists through or is understood
through the part, or vice versa.9 Originating in linguistics, where it
determined both the phonological and semantic spheres—for example
as the Saussurian concept of ‘value’,10 the theory regarding presence
(+) or absence (-) of distinctive features elaborated by Trubetzkoy and
Jakobson,11 and the Hjelmslevian notion of ‘form’12—it has passed
into the currency of historical, anthropological, literary, psychoanalytic,
and other studies. Although avoiding the term ‘structure’ itself, Eriugena
builds his metaphysical system with identical components. Priority of
relation is underlined by his discussion of the Aristotelian categorical
doctrine in Periphyseon I where the category of ‘relation’ (relatio, ad
aliquid) or of ‘condition’ (habitus) is found to be present in all the
other categories.13 Contrast of opposite with opposite is a recurrent
theme of Eriugena’s writing, as instanced by the negative and affirmative
predicates applied to God (I. 458A–462D, II. 599B–600A, III. 684D–
685A, etc.) and the five dichotomies constituting nature (II 529C–545B);
contrast of whole with parts is only slightly less frequent, an instance
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being God’s status with regard to created things of which man’s is the
microcosmic reflection (IV. 759A–B. Cf. II. 523D–524D). Strict
relatedness is clearly the writer’s underlying assumption in such cases,
since each binary term is said to be dependent ontologically and
epistemologically on its counterpart (V. 953C–954A, V. 965A–B).
Eriugena exploits the notion of structure in developing his own
variant of the classical Platonic Theory of Forms. The expression of
this doctrine, acquired through intermediary Greek and Latin patristic
sources, combines ontological and semiotic criteria.
From the ontological viewpoint,14 there exists a set of transcendent
i.e. atemporal and non-spatial principles. These are termed ‘reasons’
(rationes) in Latin, and ‘Ideas’ (ideai), ‘prototypes’ (pr)totypa),
‘predestinations’ (proorismata), or ‘divine volitions’ (theia thel%mata)
in Greek.15 They possess a metaphysically intermediate status since
they depend upon a prior cause: God (the technical term for such
dependence being ‘participation’ (participatio)), while subsequent terms,
created objects, depend on them.16 According to Eriugenian textual
exegesis, when the Bible describes God as making heaven and earth ‘in
the beginning’, it means that the first principle establishes the reasons
or Ideas of intellectual or sensible creatures within its Word.17 Examples
of the transcendent principles are Goodness, Being, Life, Wisdom, Truth,
Intellect, Reason, Power, Justice, Salvation, Magnitude, Omnipotence,
Eternity, and Peace (II. 616C–617A).
From the semiotic viewpoint,18 Eriugena proposes an analysis of the
term ‘nature’ (natura) using a combination of traditional logical
principles like the square of opposition19 and the division of genus into
species versus the partition of whole into parts.20 Within nature, four
‘differences’ (differentiae) are posited: creating (A), not created (D),
created (B), and not creating (C), these combining to form four ‘species’
(species): creating and not created (1), both created and creating (2),
created and not creating (3), and neither creating nor created (4).21
The relations between 1 and 3 and between 2 and 4 are described as
‘opposition’ (oppositio), those between A2 and Al, between B3 and
B2, between C3 and C4, and between D4 and D1 as ‘similarity’
(similitudo), and those between B2 and D1, between C3 and A2,
between B3 and D4, and between C4 and Al as ‘dissimilarity’
(dissimilitudo) (I. 441A–442A, II. 523D–528B). This semiotic analysis
is applied to metaphysics when species 1 is identified with God as the
beginning of the cosmic process, species 2 with the reasons or Ideas,
species 3 with the effects of the reasons or Ideas, and species 4 with
God as end of the cosmic process.22
By endorsing the thesis that there is an analogy between the cosmos
and a book, Eriugena can pass easily from assumptions about the
structure of reality to assumptions about the structure of texts.23 That
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he has a systematic approach to texts is suggested by the possibility of
dissolving Periphyseon into a mosaic of citations.24 Of course, he
presents no formalized theory concerning the relations between a literary
text, its reader, and antecedent texts comparable with those developed
in connection with modern fiction by Bakhtin, Kristeva and others.25
Nevertheless, the combination of quotations in his writing indicates
several interpretative strategies.
Among Eriugena’s citations,26 a considerable number come from
the Greek Fathers. Taking them in chronological order of authorship,
there are lengthy passages from Origen on the end of the world (V.
929A–930D), from Gregory of Nyssa on man as the image of God (IV.
788A–801C), from pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite on the divine
names and on the celestial hierarchies,27 and from Maximus the
Confessor on the fivefold division of nature (II 529C–542B). Two Latin
Fathers contribute textual materials of importance: Augustine on
miscellaneous questions28 and Ambrose on the interpretation of Paradise
(IV. 815B–816C). Among Eriugena’s further quotations, a large group
comes from Latin secular authors. Considering these also in
chronological order of authorship, there are substantial extracts from
pseudo-Augustine on the ten categories,29 from Martianus Capella on
the measurement of the cosmos,30 and from Boethius on the nature of
number.31 The incorporation of all these antecedent texts into
Periphyseon reflects one paramount exegetical purpose. This is to make
them agree in meaning so that, when two texts are perceived to disagree
on the denotative level, agreement must be sought in some connotative
meaning;32 and when they are seen to disagree on the connotative level,
the denotative meaning of one text should be accepted, its selection
being founded on a hierarchy of socio-political value.33 The application
of this exegetical principle can be documented by many examples. Latin
Christian and Greek Christian writings are held to agree when
Augustine and pseudo-Dionysius discuss the divine ignorance beyond
knowledge (II. 597C–ZZ598A), Latin secular and Greek Christian
when ‘Plato’, Virgil and Gregory of Nyssa describe the four elements,34
Latin secular and Latin Christian when ‘Plato’ and Augustine interpret
the world soul as principle of life (III. 727C–728D), and Latin secular,
Greek Christian and Latin Christian when ‘Aristotle’, pseudo-Dionysius
and Augustine discuss the ten categories.35 Disagreement on the
denotative level overcome by shifting to the connotative level of one or
both texts is instanced among Latin Christian and Greek Christian
authors when Ambrose, Augustine, pseudo-Dionysius and Maximus
describe the indirect perception of God through theophany;36
disagreement on the connotative level overcome by concentrating on
the denotative level of one text only is illustrated among Latin Christian
and Greek Christian authors when pseudo-Dionysius and Maximus
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but not Augustine discuss the threefold division of the soul into
substance, power and activity,37 and among Latin Christian and Latin
secular authors when Pliny and Martianus Capella but not Augustine
calculate the measurements of the cosmos (III. 719A, 721C. Cf. III.
724A–C).
Eriugena obviously exploits the notion of multiple meanings in texts.
That this is in the late twentieth century part of the definition of
literariness would hardly be questioned,38 and that it is nowadays also
a fundamental problem in philosophy is the legacy of Gadamer, Derrida
and others.39 But it is important to find the exact coordinates of
Eriugena’s position. Of the theoretically possible views of meaning
which are relevant here, one would connect the polysemy of individual
texts with an ultimate monosemy—metaphysical truth—and establish
a limit for hermeneutical activity and a distinction between denotation
and connotation.40 This was the attitude of medieval theologians.41
Another view would connect the polysemy of individual texts with an
ultimate polysemy—a linguistic ‘reality’—and establish no limits for
hermeneutical activity and no distinction between denotation and
connotation. Such is the position of modern deconstruction.42 A careful
study of Eriugena’s philosophical methodology reveals him supporting
neither the first nor the second viewpoint exclusively but oscillating
between the two: a most unusual approach for a Western medieval
thinker.
The evidence for Eriugena’s concept of polysemy consists primarily
of various statements about thought and language.43 Clearly the notion
that polysemy is a property to be exploited rather than a defect to be
overcome in the pursuit of philosophy requires a fusion rather than a
separation of the cognitive and the verbal. Eriugena explicitly advocates
such a fusion in several instances while commenting on Martianus
Capella and Maximus the Confessor.
Among Eriugena’s comments on the text of Martianus Capella, those
dealing with the meaning of its initial allegory are particularly relevant.
This narrative depicts the god Mercury’s search for a bride, culminating
in his choice of the mortal Philology, and then the preparations for the
marriage of Mercury and Philology, including a ritual of Philology’s
deification. Since Eriugena quite plausibly interprets Mercury and
Philology as figures of language and reason respectively, the marriage
of the two protagonists for him indirectly signifies the fusion of discourse
and thinking.44 Naturally, this represents a primary rather than exclusive
meaning of such an inherently polysemous text.45
Among Eriugena’s developments of Maximus the Confessor’s
teaching, those concerned with a threefold psychological process are
particularly important. Here, Eriugena sometimes contrasts two inner
cognitive functions: intelligence and thinking with an outer expressive
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function: sensation=sign-manipulation,46 but sometimes describes
three inner cognitive and expressive functions: intelligence=non-
interpretation, reason=expression, and interior sensation=quasi sign-
manipulation.47 The shift between the first and second formulations—
tantamount to replacing the traditional contrast of thought and
language with a more unusual combination of the two—results from
the contextual pressure of a Trinitarian analogy in the latter case.48
Just as God expresses himself to himself and to creation through his
Word, so does man reflect the same processes on a lower level of
being.
In order to appreciate these developments, one should pause
momentarily to recall Aristotle’s theory in On Interpretation that
spoken words are signs—symbola or s%meia—of mental affections and
that, although mental affections are identical for all mankind, spoken
words are different.49 Thanks to Boethius’ translation and commentary
on this text, the radical cleavage between thinking and language which
it advocated became a medieval commonplace.50 However, modern
linguistic theory in the tradition of Saussure’s Cours de linguistique
générale would insist that the acoustic image—the signifier, and the
concept—the signified, are inseparable components of one wholly
arbitrary linguistic sign.51
Further evidence for his concept of polysemy is provided by the
writer’s practice in connection with etymology. Here, Eriugena follows
the doctrine, established by the Stoics and transmitted to the Latin
West by Isidore of Seville, that study of the forms and derivations of
words leads to knowledge of the things which they represent.52 The
Periphyseon contains numerous examples of simple etymologies
exploited in this way. Because metoch% (‘participation’) is composed
of meta (‘after’) plus echein (‘to have’), it indicates the derivation of an
essence from a superior one (III. 632B) and because stere)ma
(‘firmament’) is composed of ster% (‘solid’) plus hama (‘together’), it
indicates the common boundary of all corporeal things (III. 694B).
Similarly the noun ousia (‘substance’) comes from the verb eimi (‘I
am’) and therefore signifies subsistence of each thing in its transcendent
causes whereas the noun phusis (‘nature’) comes from the verb phuomai
(‘I am born’) and therefore signifies the generation of each thing in
some material substratum.53 When Eriugena alternates etymologies of
a single term, the fusion of real and verbal begins to predominate over
the separation of the two.54 For example, the word theos (‘God’) is
derived both from the verb the)r) (‘I see’), so that God is the one who
sees all things in himself, and from the verb the) (‘I run’), so that he is
that which itself runs through all things. (I. 452B–C). The word angelos
(‘angel’) is connected both with the preposition engus (‘near’), meaning
that angels are the creatures immediately after God, and with the verb
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engigno (‘I engender’), meaning that they are the creatures who transmit
divine illuminations.55 When Eriugena connects etymologies of different
terms, the fusion of real and verbal completes its ascendancy over the
separation of the two. Because bonitas (‘goodness’) comes from the
verb bo) (‘I call’), while bo) is synonymous with kal), from which
comes the adjective kalos (‘beautiful’), the God who is both goodness
and beauty can be understood as calling all created things from non-
existence into existence.56
The writer’s practice in connection with metaphor provides yet more
evidence for his concept of polysemy.57 For Eriugena, ‘metaphor’
(metaphora/translatio) represents the application to something of a
name normally applied to something else (see I. 458C, 461C, 463B,
464D, 512B–D, 522A, etc.). This is a notion derived from such
textbooks as the pseudo-Ciceronian To Herennius, although Eriugena
does not specify the ground of this transference of names in the perceived
similarity between the objects concerned.58 ‘Metonymy’ (met)numia)
is defined as a more specific version of the above, involving the
application to the contained of a name normally applied to the container
(I. 480B. Cf. To Herennius IV. 32. 43). ‘Synecdoche’ (sunekdoch%) is a
more specific version of the above, involving the application to the
part of a name normally applied to the whole, or else the application
to the whole of a name normally applied to the part (II. 560A–B, III.
706B, IV. 744C. Cf. To Herennius IV. 33. 44). When Eriugena advocates
such transferences of terms either between a created thing and God59
or between one created thing and another, he remains within the
traditional theory. When he treats these transferences as simultaneously
metaphors, metonymies and synecdoches (I, 480B, III. 706B) he is
perhaps metaphysically rationalizing certain imprecisions in that
established teaching. But when he understands such transferences of
terms not as unilateral between a literal and a figurative sense but as
bilateral between two literal-figurative senses,60 he passes beyond the
traditional doctrine. In fact, the writer seems to have developed this
notion of ‘reciprocal metaphor’ (reciproca metaphora) (III. 706A)
against a twofold background. Within his theory of divine names, a
given term e.g. ‘goodness’ can be applied to the creator but is normally
applied to the creature while that same term can be applied to the
creature but is ultimately grounded in the creator.61 In connection with
his theory of the Incarnation, a certain term e.g. ‘air’ can be applied to
a higher element but is normally applied to a lower one, while another
term e.g. ‘light’ can be applied to a lower element but is normally applied
to a higher one. This example is particularly interesting since air and
light are already metaphors of human and divine respectively.62 Also in
connection with his theory of the Incarnation, a certain term relating
to salvation e.g. ‘flesh’ may be applied to the redeemed but is normally
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applied to the fallen, while another term e.g. ‘spirit’ may be applied to
the fallen but is normally applied to the redeemed.63
The understanding of metaphor emerging from such texts moves
away from that implying comparison of two spheres of meaning, and
associated with the classical tradition from Aristotle to Quintilian and
beyond, towards that based on fusion of two spheres of meaning and
advocated by Richards and other modern critics.64 Such a viewpoint
has one important consequence which Eriugena intuitively grasps: that
the traditional distinction between the verbal and the real is becoming
questionable. This is because the metaphorized and metaphorizing terms
are no longer contrasted as verbal and real but as equally verbal-real.
The same viewpoint has another consequence which he explicitly states:
that the habitual distinction between ‘figurative’ and ‘literal’ language
is almost unworkable (see III. 705Aff.).
It is because of this deliberate rather than accidental role of polysemy
in his thought that we should be less ready than some have been to
accuse Eriugena of philosophical confusion. For example, Marenbon
finds serious fault in the handling of substance ([6.33] 65–70). He rightly
notes that Eriugena’s substance is primarily universal but, since he has
confused two distinct types of universal: (a) classes of things where
whatever distinguishes their members is present wholly in each one,
and (b) universal qualities where whatever is characteristic of individuals
is present to different degrees in each, concludes that this substance is a
notion vitiated by ambivalence. However, it is also reasonable to see
deliberate polysemy rather than unconscious confusion here.65 Eriugena’s
‘substance’ is simply a lexeme whose semantic properties enter into
numerous configurations, forming a simple structure where it is opposed
to non-substance (I. 461 A–464A)—the affirmative and negative
theologies. It forms a more complex structure where the opposition of
universal and particular is discovered within it and it is opposed to
accident (I. 467D–468B, 470Dff.)—the Aristotelian categories. It forms
the most complex structure where it is combined with form, opposed
to quality in combination with form, metaphorically fused with ‘dry
land’, and opposed to quality metaphorically fused with ‘water’ (III.
698Cff.), the exegesis of Genesis 1:9–10. Any structure may actualize
semantic properties logically inconsistent with those of other structures.
That inconsistencies are an ineradicable feature of natural languages
and of all literature and philosophy derived from them is a fact which
Eriugena perhaps saw more clearly than did most of his contemporaries
and successors.
It had always been assumed by nineteenth-century historians of
philosophy that Eriugena exercised little influence over later thinkers.
Although various attempts have been made to counter this negative
assessment in recent times,66 the only hitherto undiscovered influences
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to be brought to light have been those on the immediately subsequent
generation. Thus, Eriugena’s studies of the Latin Fathers are known to
have influenced one set of Carolingian glosses on Augustine’s De Musica
(edited by Boeuff [6.45]) and his studies of Latin secular authors of
various glosses of the same period on the pseudo-Augustinian Ten
Categories.67 These latter glosses have been extensively discussed in
recent scholarship. From passages now published it is possible to see
that various commentators had grasped the semiotic ramifications of
Eriugena’s work. Indeed, certain glosses recall the structural
preoccupations of his thought in elaborating the notion of ‘nature’,68
and others its polysemic tendency by applying ideas concerning
homonymy, synonymy, and paronymy or etymological arguments to
metaphysics.69
If Eriugena had exercised influence over later thinkers, it would
undoubtedly have run counter to the norm of medieval intellectual
development. In general, writers of this period went back directly to
antique sources for their material, and during the tenth and eleventh
centuries this meant primarily Boethius, whom Eriugena had only
partially exploited.70 For example, Notker Labeo makes extensive use
of Boethius’ translation of Aristode’s Categories (see [6.63]), Abbo of
Fleury of the Boethian monographs on logical division and on various
kinds of syllogism (see [6.64]), Gerbert of Aurillac of Boethius’ first
commentary on Porphyry’s Isagoge, etc. Gerbert is arguably the most
important member of this group.71 His treatise De rationali et ratione
uti (On ‘rational’ and ‘to use reason’) is a discussion of logical problems
surrounding the extension of the two predicates ‘rational’ and ‘using
reason’ ([6.16] 1. 299) more interesting for the ideas arising en route
to the solution than for the solution itself. Here, Gerbert reveals the
structural preoccupation of a typical Platonist in establishing three
‘semiotic’ categories:72 act without potency, act with potency, and
potency without act, which are applied to hierarchies of physical and
metaphysical principles,73 yet a desire to reduce polysemy more
characteristic of the re-emergent Aristotelianism ([6.16] 9. 304).
ANSELM OF CANTERBURY
The next major figure in the Western intellectual tradition and the
dominant thinker of the late eleventh century is Anselm of Canterbury.74
Marenbon arrives at an ambivalent judgement in his case, on one hand
denying him the title of ‘philosopher’ because his argumentation does
not arrive finally at its conclusions but assumes them from the outset,
and on the other conceding it in recognition of his contributions to the
study of the language—thought relation and of the logic of possibility
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and necessity. Yet it is possible to reevaluate Anselm’s philosophical
contribution under the three headings proposed earlier: structure, text
and polysemy (see p. 125).
Anselm exploits the notion of structure in developing a variant of
the classical Platonic Theory of Forms during the early chapters of
Monologion which combines ontological and ‘semiotic’ criteria. The
ontological viewpoint is clearly indicated when he describes a set of
transcendent i.e. atemporal and non-spatial principles, each of which
is termed an ‘exemplar’ (exemplum), ‘form’ (forma), or ‘rule’ (regula)
(Monologion 9, 24. 7–20). It is either present in the divine mind or an
aspect of the divine essence,75 and is somehow the cause of lower i.e.
spatio-temporal things.76 The semiotic viewpoint is adopted implicitly
when Anselm introduces the set of transcendent principles with a
discourse based on semantic permutation.77
In the first place, there is an argument in the abstract. This is founded
on the following inventory of semantic elements: two terms—the
plurality of things having property x (a1,a2…) and the single property
x (b); two relations constitutive of terms—effect of another (R→) and
effect of itself (R←); two terms constituted by relations—the plurality
of things having property x through another (aa1, aa2…) and the single
property x through itself (bb); and three relations—greater than (R>),
less than (R<), and equal to (R=). The inventory is activated gradually
as the argument proceeds through six stages:
1 There are things having property x [a1, a2…];
2 A thing having property x to greater, lesser, or equal degree than
another thing having property x has this through the property x
3 The property x is itself x [b R←];
4 Things having property x are things having property x through
another [a1, a2…R=aa1, aa2…];
5 The property x is the property x through itself [b R=bb];
6 The property x through itself is greater than things having property
x through another [bb R> aa1, aa2…].
In the second place, the argument is applied to three concrete instances:
where property x is identified with ‘good’ sensed or understood, ‘great’
sensed or understood, and ‘existent’ sensed or understood respectively.78
Important features of Anselm’s philosophical method are revealed
here. For example, it seems that there is less an alternation of premisses
and conclusions—as in formal logic—than a permutation of semantic
properties. In fact, the whole discourse can be understood in semantic
terms with the exception of the idea (point 3 above) that the property
x is itself x. This is purely ontological in character, since it makes no
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sense to say that the semantic property x has the semantic property
x.79 Furthermore, it appears that the permutation of semantic properties
follows a largely symmetrical pattern, the clearest indication of a writer’s
thinking in structural terms.
It would be inappropriate to seek the relation to textual authorities
here which was apparent in Eriugena. The difference between the two
philosophers seems extreme, given that Anselm’s works—especially
Monologion and Proslogion—are attempts to construct a discourse
‘by reason alone’ (sola ratione) without explicit dependence on
sources.80 Nevertheless, Anselm’s relation to textual authorities is
different from that of his predecessor rather than non-existent.
Although numerous Latin patristic sources are mentioned in the
extant letters, the only authority cited in the treatises themselves is
Augustine. But this citation is of overwhelming interpretative
significance. In the preface to Monologion, the writer diverts potential
criticism that he is advocating novel or false teachings by stressing the
complete agreement between the doctrines of his book and those of
Augustine’s On the Trinity ([6.11] I:8. 8–14). Some modern scholars
would interpret this as the typical statement of a medieval writer
endeavouring to conceal the novelty of his thought behind a declaration
of traditionalism. However, Anselm’s remarks are more than a rhetorical
commonplace. This becomes clear on analysing the Monologion into
an assemblage of Augustinian materials reorganized according to the
structural principles described above.
Anselm’s relation to textual authorities is even indicated by the
Proslogion, which cites no source at all. This treatise contains a famous
passage where a premiss that God is ‘something than which nothing
greater can be thought’ (aliquid quo nihil maius cogitari possit) is
postulated as self-evident, the premiss then being used as the starting
point for an argument allegedly proceeding by the application of reason
alone to the conclusion that God exists ([6.11] I:101. 1–4, 104. 7). But
even if one were to concede the premiss to be self-evident—a dubious
point in itself—one could not consider it independent of textual
background. In fact, the premiss corresponds to a definition of God
found in Christian texts like Augustine’s On the Customs of the Catholic
Church and those of the Manicheans ([6.11] I:11. 24) and Boethius’ On
the Consolation of Philosophy ([6.11] I:10, 57–8), and in secular works
like Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods ([6.11] I:77) and Seneca’s Natural
Questions81 to name only the most obvious parallels. So Anselm’s purpose
was perhaps to recommend the faith to non-Christians by deducing it
from a premiss stated by Christian and non-Christian authors alike.
Anselm obviously does not exploit the notion of multiple meanings
in texts; indeed, the ideal of univocity would seem more consistent
with his method. Nevertheless, some of his ideas about signification,
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had they been extended in a different direction, would have supported
the exploitation of polysemy.
One suggestive idea is the distinction between appellation and
signification elaborated in the treatise De grammatico. Here, he argues
that in statements like ‘the horse is white’, the adjective is ‘appellative’
(appellativum) of the white thing but ‘significative’ (significativum) of
its possession of the property ([6.11] I:159. 12–15, 161. 21). Since he
stresses that what is appellated is an existent object but what is signified
is not, the distinction seems to approximate that between reference
and sense in modern linguistic theory.82 However, any Platonist would
maintain that in the statement ‘the horse is x’, the x signifies a
transcendentally existent x-ness in which Socrates participates. This is
the viewpoint which also seems to underlie the argument about divine
attributes in Monologion 1–4.83
Another aspect of Anselm’s theory of signification conducive to the
systematic exploitation of polysemy is his notion of a ‘speaking’ (locutio)
within the divine nature. By explaining that the exemplar in the divine
mind according to which all things are created is a speaking (see p.
133), he follows traditional patristic teachings regarding the Word as
second person of the Trinity.84 However, the use of the term ‘speaking’
also requires a rational justification. Anselm therefore proposes to
distinguish three ways of speaking about an object:85
1 Speaking of things by employing sensible signs in a sensible manner
e.g. signifying a man by using the word ‘man’—such signs being
unmotivated and non-universal;86
2 Thinking by employing sensible and external signs in an insensible
and internal manner e.g. silently thinking the word ‘man’—these
signs also being unmotivated and non-universal;
3 Speaking things themselves by employing sensible signs in neither a
sensible nor an insensible manner e.g. perceiving a man either by
imagining his sensible shape or by thinking his universal essence
‘animal, rational, mortal’—such signs being motivated and universal.87
It is the third type of speaking which can be attributed to the divine
mind.88 The exemplar in the latter, according to which all things are
created, can therefore be described as a thinking process coextensive
with rather than anterior to the manipulation of signs.89 With this
argument, Anselm points towards that elimination of the distinction
between cognitive and verbal characteristic of post-Saussurian linguistic
theory albeit from a restricted theological perspective (cf. pp. 128–9).
Another suggestive idea is the application of metaphor to philosophical
method underlying the entire Monologion. Towards the end of that
text Anselm raises an important question: given that the divine nature
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surpasses human understanding and is accessible only through words
whose meaning is transformed, how true are all the inferences constructed
from such words in respect of the divinity?90 He answers that there is a
certain truth in things signified ‘not properly but through some likeness’
(non proprie…sed per aliquam similitudinem). The passage should be
noted by those modern scholars who agonize over the cogency of
Anselm’s arguments about God, since he shows clearly that the ‘logic’
which they contain is intended to be not the embodiment but only the
reflection of truth.91 Apparently, logical metaphor is to logic in the
Monologion what arithmetical metaphor was to arithmetic in Eriugena’s
exposition of the divine names.
NOTES
1 See Leonardi, ‘Glosse eriugeniane a Marziano Capella in un codice leidense’, in
Roques [6.57].
2 For Eriugena and Greek Neoplatonism, see esp. Beierwaltes [6.44] and Gersh
[6.49]. Dermot Moran [6.54] explores the connections with German Idealism;
cf. also W.Beierwaltes, ‘Zur Wirkungsgeschichte Eriugenas im deutschen
Idealismus. Ein kurze, unsystematische Nachlese’, in [6.44] 313–20. Accounts
more directed to the historical context will be found in Jeauneau [6.51], Marenbon
[5–75] and Schrimpf [6.59].
3 On Anselm’s knowledge of logic, see Henry [6.69] and his editions of De
grammatico [6.14 and 6.15].
4 See Bibliography [6.75–6.82] for some modern treatments of the ontological proof.
5 On De grammatico, see the works by Henry listed in n. 3 above; on Anselm’s
theory of modality and philosophy of action, see Serene [6.73].
6 In addition, Marenbon stresses the relation between logic and language in general
explored by Fredegisus (p. 51), Gottschalk (pp. 55, 105), ninth-century writers
at St Gall (p. 105), the anonymous eleventh-century glossator of Priscian (p.
106ff), etc.
7 The most useful books providing a general introduction to Eriugena’s life and
works are Cappuyns [6.24] and Moran [6.54]. See O’Meara and Bieler [6.55],
Allard [6.38], Beierwaltes [6.42] and [6.43], Jeauneau [6.51], for essays on specific
aspects of his thought.
8 This is true not only of the original ‘structuralists’ but also of the semioticians
and even the deconstructionists who have followed them.
9 On these criteria see Lévi-Strauss, C., Structural Anthropology, English trans.,
New York, 1964, pp. 279–80 and Greimas, A.J., Structural Semantics, English
trans., Lincoln, Neb. 1983, pp. 18ff.
10 See Saussure, F. de Course in General Linguistics, English trans., New York, 1959,
pp. 114–15.
11 This theory is conveniently summarized by Barthes, R., Elements of Semiology,
English trans., London, 1984, pp. 135ff.
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12 See Hjelmslev, L., Prolegomena to a Theory of Language, English trans., Madison,
Wis., 1961, p. 23.
13 Eriugena, Periphyseon I. 466A–467C. References to Eriugena’s work give the
column numbers of Floss’s edition [6.1] which are reproduced in the modern
editions and translations and so provide a standard form of reference. Because of
his interpretation of pseudo-Augustine: The Ten Categories, Eriugena allows the
separate Aristotelian categories of relation and condition to coalesce. On Eriugena’s
theory see Flasch [6.48].
14 In discussing both Eriugena’s and Anselm’s notions of structure, I shall distinguish
‘ontological’ and ‘semiotic’ components. By the former is meant any aspects of
the metaphysical system stated in the texts, by the latter those aspects corresponding
to elements in the notion of structure described earlier. Of course, neither Eriugena
nor Anselm could have made such a distinction.
15 II. 529A–C. Elsewhere, Eriugena calls these ‘primordial causes’ (causae
primordiales). See III. 622Bff.
16 II. 616B. ‘And they are said to be the principles of all things since all things
whatsoever that are sensed or understood either in the visible or invisible creation
subsist by participation in them, while they themselves are participations in the
one cause of all things: that is, the most high and holy Trinity’. Cf. III. 630A–C,
III. 644A–B, III. 646B–C, III. 682B–C.
17 II. 546A–B. ‘But on considering the interpretations of many exegetes, nothing
strikes me as more probable or likely than that in the aforesaid words of Holy
Scripture—that is, within the meaning of “heaven” and “earth”—we should
understand the primordial causes of the entire creature which the Father had
created before the foundation of all other things in his only begotten Son who is
designated by the term “beginning”, and that by the word “heaven” we should
hold the primal causes of intelligible things and celestial essences to have been
signified, but by the word “earth” those of the sensible things in which the entire
corporeal world is completed’.
18 See note 14. That Eriugena was aware of the linguistic even if not semiotic starting
point of his analysis is suggested by his reference to nature as a ‘generic term’
(general nomen) rather than as a generic entity. See Cristiani, M., ‘Nature-essence
et nature-langage. Notes sur l’emploi du terme “natura” dans le “Periphyseon”
de Jean Erigène’, Miscellanea Mediaevalia 13/2: Sprache und Erkenntnis im
Mittelalter, Berlin and New York, 1981, pp. 707–17.
19 The square of opposition was a classificatory schema applied by Greek writers of
late antiquity to (a) substance and accident and (b) the numbers 1–10. Thus, in (a)
four terms: of a subject (A), not in a subject (D), in a subject (B), not of a subject
(C) are grouped into four combined terms: of a subject but not in a subject (1),
both in a subject and of a subject (2), in a subject but not of a subject (3), neither
of a subject nor in a subject (4) where 1=universal substance, 2=universal accident,
3=particular accident, 4=particular substance. See Porphyry, On the Categories
78, 25ff. In (b) four terms: generating (A), not generated (D), generated (B), not
generating (C) are grouped into four combined terms: generating but not generated
(1), both generated and generating (2), generated but not generating (3), neither
generating nor generated (4) where 1 =the numbers one, two, three, and five,
2=the number four, 3=the numbers six, eight, and nine, 4=the number seven. See
Theo of Smyrna, Exposition of Mathematical Matters 103. 1–16. Such schemata
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were repeated in Latin texts and thereby transmitted to Eriugena and others: see
Marius Victorinus, To Candidus 8. 1–21, Macrobius’ commentary on Cicero’s
Dream of Scipio I. 5. 16, Martianus Capella, On the Marriage of Mercury and
Philology VII. 738, Boethius, Commentary on Aristotle’s Categories I. 169Bff.
The square of opposition in antiquity has been discussed by Hadot [6.31] 148ff.,
Libera, A. de, ‘La sémiotique d’Aristote’, in Structures élémentaires de la signification,
ed. F.Nef, Brussels, 1976, pp. 28–55. The square of opposition in Eriugena has
been examined most recently by Onofrio [6.56] and Beierwaltes [6.43] 17–38. An
analogous schema applied to propositions was also traditional and certainly known
to Eriugena; see Martianus Capella, On the Marriage of Mercury and Philology
IV. 400–1.
20 See Martianus Capella, On the Marriage of Mercury and Philology IV. 352–4.
21 I. 441A–442B. Eriugena himself seems to envisage a diagram in the form:
The notation A, B…1, 2…is not provided by Eriugena.
22 I. 442A–B, II. 525A, II. 526C–527A, II. 527C. The fourfold schema is repeated
later in Periphyseon but with no additions to the basic doctrine. Cf. III. 688C–
689A, IV. 743B–C, V. 1019A–B.
23 See Eriugena, Homily on the Prologue to John [6.9] 14, 291B–C. The analogy
between the cosmos and a book was derived from Maximus the Confessor,
Ambigua 1245A–1248A. See Duclow [6.47] 131–40.
24 Eriugena is here elevating a standard Carolingian literary practice—illustrated by
Alcuin, Hrabanus Maurus, Ratramnus of Corbie, etc.—to a more philosophical
level.
25 For example, see Kristeva, J., S%mei)tik%. Recherches pour une sémanalyse, Paris,
1969, pp. 143ff., 181–2, etc.
26 A complete inventory can be found in Madec [6.53].
27 I. 509B–510B, II. 617A–620A. Cf. Eriugena, Commentary on pseudo-Dionysius’
Celestial Hierarchy, passim.
28 For the Augustinian citations see Madec [6.53]. These are peculiar in being (a)
extremely frequent, (b) generally brief, and (c) somewhat oblique.
29 I. 463Aff. This text is paraphrased rather than quoted. Eriugena associates the
material with ‘Aristotle’, and tends not to quote secular authors verbatim.
30 III. 716B–719A. Paraphrase only.
31 III. 654A–655C. Paraphrase only. For Eriugena, naturally, Boethius ranks among
the Christian authors. However, his On Arithmetic—the only text cited in
Periphyseon—is thoroughly secular in character.
32 On connotation and denotation in Eriugena see below.
33 The hierarchy is as follows: Greek Christian writers are preferred to Latin Christian
writers, and Christian writers to pagan writers.
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34 I. 476C–477B. ‘Plato’ may be considered a Latin author, since Eriugena knew
only Calcidius’ Latin translation of the Timaeus.
35 I. 458Aff. ‘Aristotle’ may be treated as a Latin author, since Eriugena relied entirely
on Aristotelian testimonia in pseudo-Augustine and others.
36 I. 446A–451C. A ‘theophany’ is an appearance of God. Eriugena held that God is
never cognized directly, but only in theophanies.
37 I. 486B–D, II. 567Aff. Cf. II. 602D–603C, 610B–611A. It is highly significant
that the references to the Greek Fathers are made by the ‘Teacher’ and those to
the Latin Fathers by the ‘Student’ in the Periphyseon’s dialogue.
38 For example, see Barthes, R., SZ, English trans., New York, 1974, pp. 1–16.
39 For example, see Derrida, J. Margins of Philosophy, English trans., Brighton,
1982, pp. 209ff.
40 I shall follow the predominant usage of modern semantic theory where the
‘denotation’ of a term is a primary meaning, the ‘connotation’ a secondary one.
In realist semantics, where denotation can be associated with a term’s ‘reference’
to an object and connotation with its ‘sense’—using Frege’s nomenclature—the
distinction between denotation and connotation is easy to maintain; but in strict
nominalism where denotation cannot be associated with a term’s ‘reference’ to
an object, the distinction between denotation and connotation becomes
problematic.
41 Given that early medieval theologians assume (a) that a spiritual meaning resides
behind the literal meaning of biblical texts and (b) that the spiritual meaning is
the ultimate truth underlying the derivative truth of the literal meaning, they
share one important assumption with the realist semantic theory discussed above:
that there is an ontologically grounded primary meaning. On the relation between
medieval exegesis and polysemy see Eco, U., Semiotics and the Philosophy of
Language, London, 1984, pp. 147–53.
42 See Eco, Semiotics, pp. 153ff.
43 Eriugena’s contribution to the understanding of this question—and therefore to
medieval semantic theory in general—has not been studied to date. However,
there are some useful comments in Beierwaltes [6.41],
44 Eriugena, Commentary on Martianus Capella [6.2] pr. 3, 16–22. ‘Wishing to
write about the seven liberal arts, he invented a certain story about the marriage
of Philology and Mercury. And this was not without the display of a most subtle
intelligence, for Philology represents the love of reason and Mercury the eloquence
of speech. If these have come together as though by a certain marriage in the souls
of those pursuing the study of wisdom, it is possible to arrive without any difficulty
at knowledge and possession of the liberal arts.’
45 The impact of the polysemous tendency initiated by Martianus Capella on medieval
writers has gone largely unnoticed. Thus Kristeva, S%mei)tik%, pp. 168–9, contrasts
a ‘Menippean’ polysemy with the theocentric monosemy of the medievals. Yet
On the Marriage of Mercury and Philology is one example of ancient Menippean
satire which became standard reading in medieval schools.
46 I. 454B ‘For our intellect, too, before it enters into thought and memory is not
unreasonably said not to be. It is invisible in itself and known to nobody besides
God and ourselves. But when it has entered into thoughts and acquires form in
certain phantasies, it is not undeservedly said to come into being. For it comes to
be in the memory when it acquires certain forms of things, sounds, colours, and
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other sensibles, having had no form before it entered into memory. Then it receives
a kind of second formation when it is formed in certain signs of forms or sounds—
I mean letters which are signs of sounds and figures which are signs of mathematical
forms—or in other sensible indicators by which it can be introduced into the
senses of those who are sentient.’
47 II. 572C–573B ‘There are three universal motions of soul of which the first is
according to mind, the second according to reason, and the third according to
sense. The first is simple, above the nature of the soul itself, and devoid of
interpretation: that is, knowledge of that around which it moves. “Through it, the
soul moves around the unknown God but, because of his excellence, in no way
has knowledge of him derived from anything which exists” as to what he is—that
is, it cannot find him in any essence or substance or in anything which can be said
or understood, for he surpasses everything which is or is not and cannot be defined
in any manner as to what he is. The second motion is that by which the soul
“defines the unknown God as being the cause” of all things. For it defines God to
be cause of all things, this motion being within the nature of soul. It is that “through
which the soul moved naturally imposes on itself through the activity of knowledge
all the natural reasons formative of all things which subsist as having been eternally
made in him who is known only causally”—for he is known because he is cause:
that is, it expresses them in itself through its knowledge of them, this knowledge
itself being born in the second motion from the first. The third motion is “the
composite one through which the soul comes into contact with eternal things and
reforms the reasons of the visible in itself as though through certain signs.” It is
described as composite not because it is not simple in itself as the first and second
motions are simple but because it begins to know the reasons of sensible things
not through themselves.’ In this passage, a good example of Eriugena’s intertextual
method, the words of Maximus appear between quotation marks.
48 The Trinitarian analogy will be more explicit in Anselm of Canterbury’s
development of the same theme. See p. 135.
49 Aristotle, On Interpretation 1, 16a1ff. See Kretzmann, N. ‘Aristotle on spoken sound
significant by convention’, in J.Corcoran (ed.) Ancient Logic and its Modern
Interpretations, Dordrecht, 1974, pp. 3–21; Lieb, H. ‘Das “semiotische Dreieck” bei
Ogden und Richards. Eine Neuformulierung des Zeichenmodells von Aristoteles’, in
H.Geckeler (ed.) Logos Semantikos, Berlin, 1981, pp. 137–56; and Weidemann, H.
‘Ansätze zu einer semantischen Theorie bei Aristoteles’, Zeitschrift for Semiotik 4
(1982): 241–57.
50 This influence is documented in standard works on the history of medieval
semantics. See especially, Kretzmann, N., ‘Semantics, History of, in P.Edwards
(ed.) The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, vol. 7, New York, 1967, pp. 362–3, 365ff.;
Pinborg [6.36] 29ff. and Eco [6.29].
51 See Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, pp. 65–70, 111ff. The same fusion
occurs in the semiotic theory of Peirce. See Peirce, C.S., Collected Papers, vol. 5,
ed. C.Hartshorne and P.Weiss, Cambridge, Mass., 1931–58, p. 314, etc.
52 See Klinck [6.32] for the medieval tradition in general.
53 V. 867A–B. These etymologies are all based on the Greek. However, Eriugena
also explores Graeco-Latin etymologies at III. 697A (ouranos/caelum), V. 954D–
955A (aid%s/infernus). An etymology based on the Latin occurs at I. 494D–
495A.
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54 This situation is naturally conducive to polysemy. Fusion of real and verbal parallels
and complements the fusion of cognitive and verbal described on p. 128.
55 III. 668C–D. Cf. Commentary on ‘Celestial Hierarchy’ 4. 314–25.
56 II 580C–581A. The passage is particularly interesting when combined with III.
624A–625A. Since this states that the order of the divine names is—according to
Eriugena’s philosophical idealism—partially dependent on the human mind’s
perception, the etymological activity of II. 580Cff. must be not only the discovery
but also the positing of ‘reality’ itself. There is another complex etymology at V.
1003B–D.
57 The precise nature of metaphor is a matter of controversy. However, it clearly
represents a specific application of the concept of polysemy where the primary
meaning of a metaphorized term is the secondary meaning of the metaphorizing
term and vice versa.
58 See To Herennius IV. 34. 45, Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory VIII. 6. 4ff.,
Martianus Capella, On the Marriage IV. 359–60, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies
I. 37. 5, etc.
59 See I. 458C, I. 461C, I. 463B, etc. This application of metaphor is discussed by
Beierwaltes, W., ‘Negati affirmatio. Welt als Metapher. Zur Grundlegung einer
mittelalterlichen Ästhetik durch Johannes Scotus Eriugena’, Philosophisches
Jahrbuch 83 (1976):237–65.
60 Traditionally, synecdoche occurs in two forms—transference from whole to part
and transference from part to whole—and is therefore already bilateral. See To
Herennius IV. 33. 44.
61 I. 459C. ‘But since the divine significations which are predicated of God by
transference from the creature to the creator in Holy Scripture—if indeed it is
rightly said that anything can be predicated of him (which we should consider
elsewhere)—are innumerable and cannot be discovered or collected together in
the smallness of our reasoning, only a few such divine names should be set down
by way of illustration’; I. 461C. ‘For the statement “It is Truth” does not affirm
that the divine nature is Truth in a proper sense but that it can be called by such
a name in a metaphor from the creature to the creator. It clothes the divine
essence which is naked and devoid of all proper signification with such words’;
I. 463B–C. ‘But as we have said above, just as almost all things which are
properly predicated of the nature of created things can be said metaphorically of
the creator of things in order to signify, so also the significations of the categories
which are discerned properly in created things can be uttered not absurdly
concerning the cause of all—not to signify properly what it is but to suggest in
a transferred mode what we should reasonably think about it when investigating
it in some fashion’; I. 480B. ‘So if all things which are are rightly predicated of
God not properly but by a kind of transference since they derive from him, why
is it surprising that all things which are in place—since they seem to be enclosed
everywhere by greater things—can be called places although none of them is
properly a place but is contained within what is place in its proper nature?’ Cf.
III. 624A–625A.
62 I. 480B–C. ‘We see that those things which are contained are named after the
things which contain them through metonymy—that is, transferred naming—
although they are not so contained by them that they are unable to subsist in their
natural limits without them. It is the common practice of mortals to call the wife
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or the family a “house” although these things are naturally distinct. For it is not
the house which confers substantial existence on the wife or the family but the
place of their own nature. Yet because they possess that existence in the house
they are accustomed to be named after it. Likewise the things which contain are
named after the things which are contained. For example: air contains light, and
so air which is illuminated is called “light”; the eye is called “sight” or “vision”
although according to its proper nature it is neither sight nor vision’. Cf. I. 450A–
B, I. 515B–C, V. 876A–B, V. 1021B.
63 III. 706A–B. ‘Not unreasonably, given that it is the most common practice of
Holy Scripture to signify the natural subsistences and reasons of invisible things
with words signifying visible things, in order to train pious philosophers. And
this is not surprising, since the same practice has the very frequent custom of
suggesting corporeal and sensible things with the names of spiritual and invisible
things. Since there are many and innumerable examples of this reciprocal
metaphoricity and they are very well known to all those trained in Holy Scripture,
it would appear to be a lengthy and superfluous task to amass them in the present
discussion. However, let us use a few illustrations: “That which is born of flesh is
flesh”—here the entire man born in original sin is called by the name “flesh”—
“And that which is born of the spirit is spirit”—the entire man reborn through
regeneration in Christ is expressed by the term “spirit”. And if somebody says
that it is not the entire man but only the flesh of a man that is born of flesh, I shall
reply that it is therefore not the entire man but only the soul that is born of spirit
and if so it follows that there is no grace to benefit the baptized bodies. But if the
entire man, namely soul and body, is reborn in Christ and becomes spirit, then
necessarily the entire man is born of flesh in Adam and is flesh, from which it is
concluded that the flesh is called spirit and the spirit flesh. The Word of God is
called flesh and flesh the Word, and there are similar cases where both synecdoche
and metaphor are understood simultaneously.’
64 See Richards, I.A., The Philosophy of Rhetoric, New York, 1936, pp. 89ff. The
distinction between ‘comparison’ and ‘fusion’ theories of metaphor owes
something to Black, M., Models and Metaphors, Ithaca, NY, 1962, pp. 25ff.,
who sets out a complete typology consisting of substitutive, comparative, and
inter-active approaches.
65 The problems associated with polysemy were formally discussed in pseudo-
Augustine, Ten Categories 9. 135, 13ff., a text with which Eriugena was
particularly familiar. Cf. Martianus Capella, On the Marriage IV. 355–7.
66 The volume of essays, Beierwaltes [6.42], setting out to prove that Eriugena
exercised significant influence over later medieval thinkers, has not achieved the
desired result. In fact, the following conclusions now seem to have been established:
(1) Eriugena’s influence was considerable for one or two generations after his
time (the evidence: Heiric of Auxerre, Remigius of Auxerre, and other glossators);
(2) In the eleventh century there are only a few traces of his influence, e.g. in
Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim; (3) Eriugena’s influence becomes more noticeable
from the beginning of the twelfth century but only in certain respects: (a) His
ideas influence many in a negative sense (the evidence: copies of Eriugenian MSS,
polemic against him), (b) He is influential as translator of pseudo-Dionysius, (c)
His ideas influence a few in a positive sense (the evidence: Honorius
Augustodunensis, ‘Marius’, On the Elements). See also Lucentini [6.52].
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67 Edited by Marenbon [5.84] 173ff. Eriugena also influenced the gloss tradition on
Martianus Capella in a manner now difficult to describe precisely; see Schrimpf
[6.58].
68 Gloss I in Marenbon’s edition.
69 Gloss IIIb in Marenbon’s edition.
70 On the Boethian logical tradition in the Middle Ages see van de Vyver [6.37] and
Minio-Paluello [6.34].
71 On Gerbert’s work in general see the collection Gerberto, Scienza, Storia e Mito
[6.61]. This includes papers by Riché [6.62]—stressing the important of Boethius—
and Frova [6.60].
72 On the term ‘semiotic’ see note 14.
73 Gerbert, [6.16] 6, pp. 301ff. Gerbert here systematizes material in Aristotle, On
Interpretation 13. 23a 21–5.
74 The most useful book providing a general introduction to Anselm’s life and works
is Hopkins [6.22]. Among other modern studies, Kohlenberger [6.70] and Evans,
G.R., Anselm and Talking about God, Oxford, 1978 should be mentioned.
75 The first interpretation predominates at 9, 24. 7 to 10, 25. 27, the second at 1,
13. 1 to 4, 18. 3. Both are perfectly standard in the Augustinian tradition which
Anselm represents.
76 The type of causality (efficient) is discussed at 6, 18. 18 to 7. 22, 10.
77 The semiotic always implies the semantic even though the reverse is not the case.
78 [6.11] I: 14. 5ff. ‘It is therefore easy for someone to say to himself silently: Since
the goods are so numerous whose great diversity we both perceive through the
bodily senses and discern by the reason of the mind, should we believe that there
is one thing through which alone whatever things are good are good or are things
which are good good through one another? But it is absolutely certain and clear
to all those willing to pay attention that whatever things are called something in
such a way as to be called this in greater or lesser or equal degree in respect of one
another, are called this through something which is understood not differently in
different things but the same in each case, whether it be considered as equally or
unequally present in them… Therefore, since it is certain that all good things, if
compared to one another, are either equally or unequally good, it is necessary
that all good things are good through something which is understood as the same
in different things, although sometimes good things seem to be called good through
one another… But who would doubt that that through which all good things are
good is a great good? So it is good through itself, since every good is good through
it. Therefore it follows that all other goods are good through something other
than that which they are themselves, and that only this other is good through
itself. But no good which is good through another is equal to or greater than that
good which is good through itself. So that alone is supremely good which is only
good through itself, for that is supreme which so excels others that it has neither
an equal nor a superior.’
79 This is one feature reinforcing the picture of Anselm as a Platonic realist. That he
was moving away from this position was argued by Schmitt [6.72]. However, the
only evidence for such an interpretation is an apparently non-realist handling of
abstract terms to be discussed on p. 135. Anselm’s position as a Platonic realist is
examined by Flasch [6.67] and Adams [6.65].
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80 In Anselm’s writing, the term ratio itself has a multiplicity of connotations given
by the earlier textual tradition: ontological, theological, epistemological,
psychological and logical. See Gersh [6.68].
81 [6.11] I, pr. 13 On the textual background to Anselm’s argument see Audet [6.66]
and Nothdurft [6.35].
82 The modern discussion seems to have begun with Frege about 1892. See Frege,
G., ‘On sense and reference’, pp. 118–40 and Russell, B., ‘On denoting’, pp. 143–
58, both in F.Zabeeh (ed.) Readings in Semantics, Urbana, Ill., 1974.
83 Cf. note 79. To the question whether Anselm saw any inconsistency between
these two positions the answer is uncertain. However, since he probably viewed
the signifieds of De grammatico but apparently not the transcendent properties
of Monologion as universals in the logical sense, the philosophical problems raised
by the two treatises were more easily separated for him than they are for his
modern reader. The issue of universality is first raised at Monologion 27, [6.11] I.
45. 1–22.
84 See Augustine, On the Trinity X. 1ff., XV. 10–16. On the history of this theory
see Colish [6.28] 50–1, 99.
85 The threefold division in this text: sensible signs+sensible manner, sensible
signs+insensible manner, sensible signs+neither sensible nor insensible manner,
juxtaposes semiotic categories in a manner recalling Eriugena. See n. 19.
86 Anselm does not himself employ the terms ‘unmotivated’ and ‘non-universal’
here. However, he clearly views the first type of sign as defined negatively with
respect to the third type. The latter will be specified as motivated and universal.
87 Anselm says that the third type of sign is ‘natural’ (naturalis) apparently meaning
that it is motivated. In modern linguistic theory, a motivated sign is one whose
signifier and signified are related analogically. See Barthes, SZ pp. 114ff.
88 Monologion 10 [6.11] 1:24. 29ff. ‘It is noted in common usage that we can speak
of a single thing in three ways. We speak of things either by using sensible signs—
that is, signs which can be perceived by bodily senses—in a sensible manner; or
by thinking the same signs which are sensible externally in an insensible manner
within ourselves; or by neither using these signs in a sensible nor an insensible
manner but by speaking of the things themselves inwardly in our mind through
imagination of the bodily or through a rational understanding in place of the
diversity of things themselves. For I speak of the man in one way when I signify
him with the name “man”, in another when I think the same name silently, and in
another when my mind contemplates that same man either through an image of
the bodily or through reason. It is through an image of the bodily when the mind
imagines his sensible shape, but it is through reason when it thinks his universal
essence which is “animal, rational, mortal”. Of these three ways of speaking each
consists of its own kind of words. However, the words of that speech which I
have posited as third and last—when they are of things which are not unknown—
are natural and the same among all races.’ In this passage, Anselm develops the
theory which he found in Aristotle’s On Interpretation; see p. 129.
89 Anselm states unambiguously that even the third type of speaking constitutes
sign-manipulation of a sort.
90 Monologiom 65 [6.11] I:75. 17–65, 77. 3. The reference to transformation of
meaning indicates metaphoricity.
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91 It is possible to treat the statement at Proslogion 15 [6.11] I:112. 12–17 that God
is ‘something greater than can be thought’ (quiddam maius quam cogitari possit)
as a correction of the famous premiss of Proslogion 2 [6.11] I:101. 4–5. If so,
Anselm is pointing out that the ontological argument is in the final analysis only
an image of the truth.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
Eriugena
6.1 Floss, H.J. (ed.) Joannis Scott of era quae supersunt omnia (MPL 122), Paris,
1853.
6.2 Lutz, C.E. (ed.) Annotationes in Marcianum, Cambridge, Mass., 1939.
6.3 Jeauneau, E. (ed.) Commentary on Martianus, Book I, in Oxford, Bodleian
Auct. T. II. 18, in Quatre thèmes érigéniens, Montreal and Paris, 1978.
6.4 Madec, G. (ed.) De praedestinatione, (CC c.m. 50), Turnhout, 1978.
6.5 Sheldon-Williams, I.P. (ed.) Periphyseon I–III with facing English translation,
Dublin, 1968–81 (Scriptores latini hiberniae 7, 9, 11). (On this problematic
edition, see P.Lucentini, ‘La nuova edizione del “Periphyseon” dell’Eriugena’,
Studi medievali, 3a serie, 17(1), 1976.)
6.6 Jeauneau, E. (ed.) Periphyseon IV with facing English translation by J.J.O’Meara
and I.P.Sheldon-Williams (Scriptores latini hiberniae 13), Dublin, 1995.
6.7 ——(ed.) Periphyseon I (CC c.m. 161), Turnhout, 1996.
6.8 Barbet, J. (ed.) Expositiones in Ierarchiam Coelestem (CC c.m. 31), Turnhout,
1975.
6.9 Jeauneau, E. (ed.) Homélie sur le Prologue de Jean with parallel French
translation (Sources chrétiennes 151), Paris, 1969.
6.10 ——(ed.) Commentaire sur Jean with parallel French translation (Sources
chrétiennes 180), Paris, 1972.
Anselm
6.11 Schmitt, F.S. (ed.) Opera omnia I, II, Edinburgh, 1946. (These volumes contain
all the philosophical works except for those in [6.12].)
6.12 Philosophical fragments, edited in F.S.Schmitt and R.W.Southern, Memorials
of St Anselm, Oxford, 1969.
6.13 Charlesworth, M.J. Proslogion with parallel English translation and
commentary, Oxford, 1965.
6.14 Henry, D.P. The De Grammatico of St Anselm: The Theory of Paronymy, Notre
Dame, Ind., 1964.
6.15 ——Commentary on De grammatico: the Historico-logical Dimensions of a
Dialogue of St Anselm’s, Dordrecht and Boston, 1974. (Both [6.14] and
[6.15] contain the text, translation and detailed commentary on this
dialogue.)
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Gerbert
6.16 Olleris, A. (ed.) Oeuvres de Gerbert, Clermont-Ferrand and Paris, 1867.
English Translations
Eriugena
6.17 Sheldon-Williams, I.P. (but issued under the name of J.J.O’Meara), Periphyseon
(The Division of Nature), Montreal and Washington, 1987.
6.18 Homily on Prologue to John, translated in J.J.O’Meara, Eriugena, Oxford,
1978.
Anselm
6.19 Hopkins, J. and Richardson, H. Anselm of Canterbury I–IV (complete
philosophical and theological works), London, Toronto and New York,
1974–6.
Bibliographies, Concordances and Handbooks
6.20 Brennan, M. A Guide to Eriugenian Studies, Fribourg and Paris, 1989.
6.21 G.H.Allard (ed.) Periphyseon—indices générales, Montreal and Paris, 1983.
6.22 Hopkins, J. A Companion to the Study of St Anselm, Minneapolis, Minn.,
1972.
6.23 Evans, G.R. (ed.) A Concordance for the Works of St Anselm, 4 vols, Millwood,
NY, 1984.
Biographies
6.24 Cappuyns, M. Jean Scot Erigène. Sa vie, son oeuvre, sa pensée, Louvain and
Paris, 1933.
6.25 Southern, R.W. (ed. and trans.) The Life of St Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury,
by Eadmer, London, 1962.
6.26 —— St Anselm and his Biographer: a Study of Monastic Life and Thought
1059–c. 1130, Cambridge, 1963.
6.27 —— Anselm, a Portrait in a Landscape, Cambridge, 1990.
General and Background Studies
6.28 Colish, M. The Mirror of Language: a Study in the Medieval Theory of
Knowledge, 2nd edn, Lincoln, Neb., 1983.
6.29 Eco, U. ‘Denotation’, in [6.30] 43–77.
6.30 Eco, U. and Marmo, C. (eds) On the Medieval Theory of Signs, Amsterdam
and Philadelphia, Pa., 1989.
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6.31 Hadot, P. Porphyre et Victorinus, Paris, 1968.
6.32 Klinck, R. Die lateinische Etymologie des Mittelalters, Munich, 1970.
6.33 Marenbon, J. Early Medieval Philosophy (480–1150): an Introduction, 2nd
edn, London, 1988.
6.34 Minio-Paluello, L. Opuscula: the Latin Aristotle, Amsterdam, 1972.
6.35 Nothdurft, K.D. Studien zum Einfluss Senecas auf die Philosophie und Theologie
des zwölften Jahrhunderts, Leiden and Cologne, 1963, pp. 192–7.
6.36 Pinborg, J. Logik und Semantik im Mittelalter. Ein Überblick, Stuttgart and
Bad Cannstatt, 1972.
6.37 Vyver, A. van de ‘Les étapes du développement philosophique du haut moyen
âge’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 8 (1929): 425–52.
Studies on Eriugena
6.38 Allard, G.-H. (ed.) Jean Scot écrivain, Montreal and Paris, 1986.
6.39 Beierwaltes, W. ‘Negati affirmatio. Welt als Metapher. Zur Grundlegung einer
mittelalterlichen Ästhetik durch Johannes Scotus Eriugena’, Philosophisches
Jahrbuch 83 (1976): 237–65; repr. in Beierwaltes [6.44], 115–58.
6.40 ——(ed.) Eriugena. Studien zu seinen Quellen, Heidelberg, 1980.
6.41 ——‘Language and object: Reflections on Eriugena’s valuation of the function
and capacities of language’, in [6.38] 209–28.
6.42 ——(ed.) Eriugena Redivivus: Zur Wirkungsgeschichte seines Denkens im
Mittelalter und im Übergang zur Neuzeit, Heidelberg, 1987.
6.43 ——(ed.) Eriugena: Begriff und Metapher, Heidelberg, 1990.
6.44 ——Eriugena. Grundzüge seines Denkens, Frankfurt, 1994.
6.45 Boeuff, P. le ‘Un commentaire érigénien du “De musica”’, Recherches
Augustiniennes 22 (1987): 271–309.
6.46 Cristiani, M. ‘Nature-essence et nature-langage: notes sur l’emploi du terme
“natura” dans le “Periphyseon” de Jean Erigène’, Sprache und Erkenntnis im
Mittelalter (Miscellanea Mediavalia 13, 2), Berlin and New York, 1981, pp.
707–17.
6.47 Duclow, D.F. ‘Nature as speech and book in John Scotus Eriugena’, Mediaevalia
3 (1977): 131–40.
6.48 Flasch, K. ‘Zur Rehabilitierung der Relation: Die Theorie der Beziehung bei
Johannes Eriugena’, Philosophie als Beziehungs—Wissenschaft (Festschrift
Schaaf), Frankfurt-On-Main, 1971, pp. 1–25.
6.49 Gersh, S. From lamblichus to Eriugena, Leiden, 1978.
6.50 ——‘Omnipresence in Eriugena: Some reflections on Augustino-Maximian
elements in Periphyseon’, in Beierwaltes [6.40] 55–74.
6.51 Jeauneau, E. Etudes érigéniennes, Paris, 1987.
6.52 Lucentini, P. Platonismo medievale: Contributi per la storia dell’Eriugenismo,
Florence, 1979.
6.53 Madec, G. ‘Jean Scot et ses auteurs’, in Allard [6.38] 143–86.
6.54 Moran, D. The Philosophy of John Scottus Eriugena, Cambridge, 1989.
6.55 O’Meara, J.J. and Bieler, L. (eds) The Mind of Eriugena, Dublin, 1973.
6.56 Onofrio, G. d’ ‘Über die Natur der Einteilung: Die dialektische Entfaltung von
Eriugenas Denken’, in Beierwaltes [6.43] 17–38.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
6.57 Roques, R. (ed.) Jean Scot Erigènt et l’histoire de la philosophie, Paris, 1977.
6.58 Schrimpf, G. ‘Zur Frage der Authentizität unserer Texte von Johannes Scottus’
“Annotationes in Martianum”’ in [6.55] 125–38.
6.59 ——Das Werk des Johannes Scottus Eriugena im Rahmen des
Wissenschaftsverständnisses seiner Zeit. Eine Hinführung zu Periphyseon
(BGPTMA 23), Münster, 1982.
Studies on Gerbert and his contemporaries
6.60 Frova, C. ‘Gerberto philosophus: II De rationali et ratione uti’, in [6.61]
351–77.
6.61 Gerberto, Scienza, Storia e Mito, Atti del Gerberti, Symposium, Bobbio, 1985.
6.62 Riché, P. ‘L’enseignement de Gerbert à Reims dans le contexte européen’,
Gerberto. Scienza, Storia e Mito [6.61] 51–69.
6.63 Rijk, L.M. de ‘On the curriculum of the arts of the Trivium at St Gall from c.
850–c. 1000’, Vivarium 1 (1963): 35–86.
6.64 ——‘Les oeuvres inédites d’Abbon de Fleury’, Revue bénédictine 47 (1935):
125–69.
Studies on Anselm
6.65 Adams, M.M. ‘Was Anselm a realist? The Monologium’, Franciscan Studies
32 (1972): 5–14.
6.66 Audet, T.A. ‘Une source augustinienne de l’argument de saint Anselme’, in
J.Maritain et al. Etienne Gilson, philosophe de la Chrétienté, Paris, 1949, pp.
105–42.
6.67 Flasch, K. ‘Der philosophische Ansatz des Anselm von Canterbury im
Monologion und sein Verhältnis zum augustinischen Neuplatonismus’,
Analecta Anselmiana 2 (1970): 1–43.
6.68 Gersh, S. ‘Anselm of Canterbury’, in P.Dronke (ed.) A History of Twelfth-
century Western Philosophy, Cambridge, 1988, pp. 255–78.
6.69 Henry, D.P. The Logic of St Anselm, Oxford, 1967.
6.70 Kohlenberger, H., Similitude und ratio. Überlegungen zur Methode bei Anselm
von Canterbury, Bonn, 1972.
6.71 Koyré, A. L’idée de Dieu dans la philosophie de saint Anselme, Paris, 1923.
6.72 Schmitt, F.S. ‘Anselm und der (Neu-)Platonismus’, Analecta Anselmiana 1
(1969): 39–71.
6.73 Serene, E. ‘Anselm’s modal conceptions’, in S.Knuuttila (ed.) Reforging the
Great Chain of Being (Synthese Historical Library 20), Dordrecht and Boston,
1981.
6.74 Vuillemin, J. Le Dieu d’Anselme et les apparences de la raison, Paris, 1971.
Studies of the Ontological Argument
6.75 Gale, R.M. On the Nature and Existence of God, Cambridge, 1991, pp.
201–37.
6.76 Gombocz, W. ‘Zur neueren Beiträgen zur Interpretation von Anselms
Proslogion’, Salzburger Jahrbuch für Philosophie 20 (1975): 131–5.
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6.77 Henry, D. ‘The Proslogion proofs’, Philosophical Quarterly 5 (1955): 147–51.
6.78 Hick, J. and McGill, A.C. The Many-Faced Argument, New York, 1967.
6.79 La Croix, R.R. Proslogion II and III: a Third Interpretation of Anselm’s
Argument, Leiden, 1972.
6.80 Lewis, D.K. ‘Anselm and actuality’, in Philosophical Papers I, New York, 1983.
6.81 Malcolm, N. ‘Anselm’s ontological arguments’, Philosophical Review 69 (1960):
41–62.
6.82 Plantinga, A. ‘God and necessity’, in The Nature of Necessity, Oxford, 1974.
149
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CHAPTER 7
The twelfth century
John Marenbon
INTRODUCTION
The twelfth century began and ended with events which mark it off, at
least symbolically, as a discrete period in the history of Western
philosophy. It was in about 1100 that Abelard—the most wide-ranging
and profound philosopher of the period—arrived in Paris to study,
and very soon to teach, logic. The competing, quarrelling, disorganized
schools of Paris, whose growth Abelard did so much to stimulate, would
be the setting for much of what was liveliest and most sophisticated in
twelfth-century philosophy. It was in the year 1200 that Philip Augustus
issued the privilege to the schools of Paris which, symbolically at least,
marks the beginning of Paris University. The schools would henceforth
become a more homogeneous and tightly-regulated organization,
imposing a rigid framework on thirteenth- and fourteenth-century
scholastic thought. Works newly translated from the Greek and Arabic
gradually entered the curriculum and the work of almost all the twelfth-
century philosophers was rapidly forgotten.
Modern historians of philosophy have set out to repair this neglect.
But (at least until very recently) they have characterized the period in
two main ways, each of which leaves in question whether twelfth-
century philosophy itself contains much worth studying. The first way
has been to see the time as one of beginnings. Between 1100 and 1200,
it is said, the ground was prepared for the great flourishing of
scholasticism in the mid- and late thirteenth century. Such a description
might well suggest that the twelfth century, fascinating as it may be for
the intellectual historian who wishes to see how, and against what
background, ideas develop, produced little of independent philosophical
interest.
The second way of characterizing the twelfth century has been in
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terms of its ‘humanism’ (and, closely linked to this, as a time of
‘renaissance’). The period is presented as one of revived activity in all
branches of learning, closely connected with a respect for the classical
past and a wish to rediscover its literature in all its various branches,
poetic, scientific, legal and philosophical. The achievements of the
thirteenth century are presented as being narrower: its sophistication
in logic, philosophy and theology must be balanced against the aridity
of the scholastics’ style, their rejection of the variety and complexity in
form found in twelfth-century writing, their apparent contempt for
poetry and fine latinity. Such a contrast can easily be turned against
the thinkers of the twelfth century by the modern reader of philosophy.
They are suspected of being dilettantes; their writings, full of interest
to the literary historian, are thought to lack the precision and single-
mindedness necessary for good philosophy.1
There is some truth in the rationale behind each approach. Twelfth-
century scholars did, indeed, elaborate the logical and theological
techniques which served the philosophers of the thirteenth- and
fourteenth-century universities. Many were attentive to the literary form
of their writings and enthusiasts of ancient literature as well as ancient
philosophy. And even the sharpest-minded of them, such as Abelard,
can be clumsy or imprecise in their technical vocabulary and sometimes
inattentive to the complexity of the issues they are treating; whilst some
well-known thinkers of the time, especially those most influenced by
Platonism, are more inclined to system building than to detailed
argument and analysis. Yet there is a substantial body of twelfth-century
thought sufficiently rigorous to require careful philosophical analysis
and certainly interesting and unusual enough to deserve attention in
its own right, rather than just as the forerunner of something else.
Much of it is linked to the most striking feature of intellectual life in
the period: the importance of the ‘trivium’: the three language-based
disciplines of grammar, rhetoric and, most prominently, logic. (Indeed,
the humanistic interest in ancient literature and in rhetoric was part of
a general enthusiasm for the verbal arts, among which logic was
dominant.)
This chapter must be selective. More than half of it is devoted to the
outstanding philosophers of the time: Peter Abelard and his near-
contemporary, Gilbert of Poitiers. The section following this one looks
more briefly at four important masters working at the turn of the
century. A later section sketches the Platonic current in twelfth-century
thought, looking especially at the work of William of Conches and
Thierry of Chartres. The concluding sections provide a quick
introduction to the logical schools and theological methods of the period
from 1150 to 1200, a time still far less well investigated than the
previous half century.
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FOUR MASTERS AT THE BEGINNING
OF THE CENTURY
Four masters, already established by 1100 or shortly afterwards, indicate
the most important directions philosophy would take in the century
which followed. Three of them, Garlandus of Besançon, Roscelin of
Compiègne and William of Champeaux, were logicians, although
Roscelin also put forward controversial views on the Trinity and William
would write on moral and theological topics, such as natural law, sin
and free will. Bernard of Chartres, however, was a grammarian, interested
both in grammatical theory and in careful reading of ancient pagan
philosophical texts, in particular Plato’s Timaeus.
The tradition of medieval logic was well established by the late eleventh
century. Like other branches of study in the Middle Ages, it was based
on ancient texts. Six were in common use by 1100: Aristotle’s Categories
and On Interpretation, Porphyry’s Isagoge (all in Boethius’ translations,
and approached using Boethius’ commentaries) and Boethius’ own On
Division, treatises on categorical and hypothetical syllogisms and On
Topical ‘differentiae’. Taken together, these works provided an
introduction to constructing and analysing arguments. The Isagoge and
the Categories could be read as guides to the various sorts of term which
can appear as subject or predicate in a statement. On Interpretation
explained how terms are combined to make statements, and how
statements are related to each other as, for instance, contraries (‘All men
are bald’—‘No man is bald’) or contradictories (‘All men are bald’—
‘Some man is not bald’). Students could then learn from Boethius’ own
textbooks how to construct syllogistic arguments, either using atomic
statements as premisses so as to form categorical syllogisms or molecular
statements as premisses to form hypothetical syllogisms, and they could
study arguments based on ‘topics’, commonly accepted maxims of
reasoning.2 These texts, especially the two by Aristotle, also contain far
more than such an introduction. The Categories can be read as the concise
statement of an ontology, whilst the On Interpretation raises problems
about the nature of truth and meaning, about perception and knowledge,
and about modality and free will. Sporadic evidence—occasional glosses,
and passages in Peter Damian and Anselm of Canterbury—suggests that
eleventh-century scholars were already aware of some wider implications
of the logical texts. But the main emphasis at this stage seems to have
been on mastering the basic skills of logic through careful study of the
texts. If more digressive discussion was wanted, the earliest commentators
were happy to turn to Boethius and copy passages of his commentaries
verbatim.3
Garlandus of Besançon is known for his Dialectica, a comprehensive
textbook on logic which was probably written at the turn of the twelfth
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century. Some scholars have described Garlandus as an early nominalist:
an exponent of the view that nothing exists which is not a particular.
But it is more accurate to see him as following a particular interpretative
method in his approach to the Isagoge and the Categories. In common
with a number of other scholars of the time (including the young
Abelard), Garlandus read these texts in voce rather than in re: as talking
not about things but about words.4 For instance, when Porphyry writes
about genera or about accidents, Garlandus takes his remarks as
concerning words such as ‘animal’ and ‘whiteness’. Roscelin’s views
can be surmised only from allusions (usually hostile) by other writers.
The most famous of these is Anselm of Canterbury’s comment that,
according to Roscelin, universals are merely the puffs of air made when
we speak. This might be just a jibe which draws out the consequences
of in voce exegesis. But some scholars—especially Jean Jolivet—have
given a more ambitious reconstruction of Roscelin’s thinking, using
other evidence too. Roscelin, they say, focused on the reference a word
has to an individual, whole object in the world. In the case of the
words ‘genus’ and ‘species’, he would have argued that there is no
individual object in the world to which they refer, so their reference is
just to other words (such as ‘animal’, ‘man’)—and, considered as things,
words are just puffs of air. Whether Roscelin ever propounded this
view coherently, and if so when (he was still alive in the early 1120s),
is uncertain.5
The earliest definite signs of a serious interest in the semantic and
metaphysical problems about universals comes from those logicians
who adopted a realist view. William of Champeaux, who taught at the
school of Notre Dame in Paris, was one of their leaders. For modern
philosophers, the problem of universals concerns properties and
relations. But William and his contemporaries approached the question
mainly in the context of a remark in Porphyry’s Isagoge about species
and genera, that is to say, universal substances. They had then to
consider primarily the semantics not of sentences such as ‘Socrates is
white’, but of those such as ‘Socrates is a man’. A simple view, derived
from Boethius, held that there is a universal essence shared by all men,
who are then individuated by their accidental attributes (being six foot
tall, sitting just here at six o’clock). William was forced to abandon
this theory (‘material/essential essence realism’) by the attacks of his
former pupil, Abelard, and then espoused an ‘indifference theory’,
according to which the many particulars of the same species are at the
same time one in that they are ‘not different’ from each other in respect
of their nature. William’s interests as a logician were not, however,
confined to speculations about universals. He was probably the author
of a general Introduction to logical method, and it is clear from
Abelard’s Dialectica that he discussed the problems raised by the
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different meanings of the verb ‘to be’—as the copula and as implying
present existence.
William was a theologian as well as a logician. He studied under
Anselm of Laon, a leading scriptural exegete. Like Anselm’s, William’s
theological teaching survives in the form of ‘Sentences’ (sententiae),
ranging in length from a couple of lines to several hundred words,
which may originally have been stimulated by dispute over the
interpretation of a passage from the Bible, but take the form of free-
standing discussions of a problem. William is more speculative and
more analytical than Anselm, ranging over topics such as intentions
and acts, the ontological status of evil, and implicit faith. He approaches
the question of divine prescience ([7.28] 195–6) and human free will
in the manner of a logician, trying (though not very successfully) to
show that the statement, ‘It is possible for things to happen other than
as they will happen’ does not imply ‘It is possible for God [who foresees
all things] to be mistaken.’
Bernard, master at the cathedral school of Chartres in the first two
decades of the century, represents a different tradition of early
medieval teaching. He concentrated, not on logic, but on grammar.
Part of his work as a grammarian was connected with the theory of
grammar, as expounded by Priscian in his elaborate Institutiones
grammaticae. Eleventh-century scholars had already composed a
running commentary (the Glosule) to the Institutiones, which dealt
with philosophical questions about semantics far more thoroughly
than Priscian himself had done. Unfortunately, Bernard’s work in
this area is known only through a few remarks made, long after his
death, by John of Salisbury.6 John also records how Bernard
commented on the Latin classics, drawing out their moral teaching
and he commemorates him as the leading Platonist of his time.
Bernard’s Platonism seems to have owed a good deal to Boethius’
Theological Treatises, especially in its introduction of secondary
forms, enmattered images of the immaterial primary forms. But there
was one work by Plato himself that was available to him and other
twelfth-century scholars: the Timaeus in Calcidius’ partial Latin
translation. Recently, a strong argument has been made for
attributing to Bernard a commentary on the Timaeus. Although
these Glosae in Platonem are for the most part straightforwardly
literal and heavily reliant on the commentary Calcidius had written,
they contain Bernard’s characteristic views about secondary forms
and they exercised an influence on later twelfth-century exegesis of
the work.7
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PETER ABELARD
Peter Abelard is probably better known than any medieval philosopher,
not as a thinker but as the husband of Heloise and participant in a
remarkable exchange of love-letters which have held their appeal from
the time of Petrarch to the present. It was in fact the castration plotted
by Heloise’s relatives and its consequences which gave Abelard’s career
its distinctive shape, splitting it roughly into two halves. From about
1102 until his castration in 1117, Abelard was a brilliant teacher of
logic in Paris and in Melun and Corbeil, small towns both connected
with the royal court. He had studied under both Roscelin and William
of Champeaux—and quarrelled with both. Although he did teach
Christian doctrine, it was a relatively unimportant part of his work.
The Dialectica, a textbook of logic, independent in form but closely
linked to exegesis of the six standard ancient texts, probably dates
from the end of this period. The Logica (‘Ingredientibui’)—logical
commentaries, of which those on the Isagoge, Categories, De
interpretatione survive in full—was probably written up a little later,
but it too reflects his teaching at this time.8
After the castration, Abelard became a monk of St Denis. Although
he continued to teach logic, theological questions came more and more
to occupy him. The first fruit of this new interest was the Theologia
summi boni, a treatise on the Trinity, rich in philosophical discussion,
which was promptly condemned at the Council of Soissons in 1121.
Undeterred, Abelard greatly extended the work, developing his logical
analysis of Trinitarian relations and adding a long eulogistic account
of the ancient philosophers and their virtues, to form the Theologia
Christiana. One logical work dates from the same time (the Glossulae
on Porphyry, often called the Logica Nostrorum petitioni sociorum),
but Abelard’s main energies were given to theology and, increasingly,
to ethical questions within theology. His Collationes (Dialogue between
a Christian, a Philosopher and Jew), probably written c. 1130, discuss
the virtues, evil and the highest good. By this time, Abelard—who had
left St Denis and, for a time, taught students at his own monastic/
eremitic foundation, the Paraclete—was abbot of St Gildas, a monastery
on a remote peninsula in Brittany. His attempts to reform the Breton
monks proved disastrous and, from about 1133 to (probably) 1140,
Abelard was teaching again in Paris. Although he gave some lectures
on logic, he devoted most of his energy to developing his ethically-
based theological system. The final version of his Theologia, the
Theologia scholarium, a commentary on St Paul’s letter to the Romans,
Sententie recording his theology lectures, and (from c. 1138 to 1139)
Scito teipsum (or, as he also called it, his Ethics) are the most important
works from this highly productive period. At the same time, Abelard
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wrote extensively at the request of Heloise, who had taken over the
Paraclete as abbess of a group of nuns, providing her with sermons,
letters, scriptural exegesis, answers to theological queries and poetry.
Even as a young logician in Paris, Abelard had been a controversial
figure, competing with William of Champeaux for students and
reputation and patronized by William’s enemies in the Church and at
court. From the time of the Council of Soissons onwards he became a
target for the hostility of the reforming party in the Church and, by the
late 1130s if not earlier, for that of its leader, Bernard of Clairvaux.
His campaign culminated in the Council of Sens of 1140, where Abelard
was accused of nineteen heresies listed by Bernard. Abelard denied all
charges of heresy, but the charges were upheld by the Pope. Abelard,
now sick, spent the last two years of his life at the great abbey of Cluny
and one of its dependencies. There the abbot, Peter the Venerable,
ensured that the sentence of excommunication was lifted and engineered
a reconciliation with Bernard.
Perhaps because of the controversies which accompanied and ended
his career, Abelard has gone down in the history of philosophy as a
brilliant, daring but unconstructive thinker: powerful as a logician but,
otherwise, to be blamed or praised for merely applying the tools of
logic to theology. This judgement is unjust, but it does reflect an
important difference between Abelard, the most wide-ranging and
inventive Western philosopher of the twelfth century, and the great
thinkers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Unlike Aquinas,
Duns Scotus and Ockham, Abelard did not combine his developments
in different areas of philosophy into a single, coherent and distinctive
pattern. Rather, his work falls into two separate parts, corresponding
roughly to the division in his career. In his logical works he not only
makes startling discoveries of a technical nature; he also reconsiders
the metaphysical questions raised by Porphyry and Aristotle in the
light of his nominalism, trying to arrive at an account of the basic
structure of things and tackling the various aspects, semantic and
metaphysical, of the problem of universals with great sophistication.
In his theological writing he concentrates on developing a philosophical
ethics which, where necessary, shapes the understanding of Christian
doctrine to suit its requirements.
The following pages can give only an impression of some of the
most philosophically interesting aspects of a thinker whose originality
and breadth of vision would entitle him to much more space in a History
of Philosophy had it not been his misfortune to live in the Middle
Ages. First, his ideas on two areas connected with the more formal
side of logic will be sketched: his treatment of conditionals, and his
analysis of modal statements. (Many other of his more formal
developments are also of great interest: for instance, his treatment of
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‘impersonal statements’, such as ‘It is good that you are here’, and his
discussion of die copula.)9 Second, after a glance at his basic
metaphysics, Abelard’s approach to the problem of universals will be
examined. Third, his account of a central area in ethics, the ethical act,
will be discussed and set in context.
Abelard developed his ideas about conditionals (‘if…then…’
statements) mainly in considering the theory of ‘topical arguments’
put forward by Boethius in On Topical ‘differentiae’.10 He did not,
however, believe that what Boethius said there about inferences could
be applied directly to conditionals, partly because many of Boethius’
maxims were concerned to provide probable, rhetorically convincing
arguments rather than irrefragable ones, partly because—unusually for
a medieval thinker—Abelard clearly distinguished between the validity
of an argument and the truth of a conditional. For the truth of a
conditional, his requirement was more stringent even than the modern
notion of strict implication (it is impossible for the antecedent to be
true and the consequent false): he also insisted on a strict criterion of
relevance. For Abelard, ‘if p then q’ is true if and only if p ‘of itself
requires’ q, by which Abelard means that the sense of q must be
contained in that of p (Abelard [7.19] 284:l–4). One of Abelard’s
reasons for imposing this criterion was that, from conditionals which
fail this criterion (for instance, ‘If it’s a man, it’s not a stone’, based on
the topic ‘from opposites’), Abelard was able to infer a conclusion of
the form ‘if p, then not-p’, and he looked on this as a reductio (although
most modern logicians would certainly not).11 Unfortunately for
Abelard, his great rival and critic in the 1130s, Alberic, was able to
show that, even observing Abelard’s criterion, arguments could be
constructed which led to ‘if p, then not-p’. Abelard appears to have
had no answer to this problem, which would exercise the next
generation of logicians (see below, pp. 175–6).
Abelard also thought deeply about the semantics of conditionals.12
On what does the truth of ‘if p, then q’ depend? He rules out two
apparently promising answers: that the truth of a conditional is based
on a relation between thoughts, or that it is based on the things to
which the conditional refers. Thoughts cannot provide the basis,
Abelard considers, since one can think of a true statement without
thinking of all the numberless statements it entails. Nor can things
provide the basis, because (for instance) the conditional ‘If it is a rose,
it is a flower’ would remain true even if there were no roses or flowers
of any kind. Abelard concludes that the truth of conditionals is based
on dicta: on ‘what is said’ by statements. ‘It is a rose’ says of something
that it is a rose. ‘It is a flower’ says of something that it is a flower. ‘If
it’s a rose, it’s a flower’ is true because that something is a rose not
only cannot be true unless it is also true that it is a flower, but also it
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requires that it is a flower. What, then, are dicta? Often, Abelard treats
them rather as some modern philosophers treat propositions. They are
non-linguistic bearers of truth and falsity. At other times Abelard seems
to regard them more as states of affairs, truth-makers rather than truth-
bearers. At all times, however, he insists that dicta are not things. This
position, too, is far from clear, since it suggests that statements about
dicta must be analysed into statements using some other terms, but it
is hard to see what these terms could be.
Abelard discussed modal logic in the Dialectica and, in greater detail,
in his Logica commentary on the On Interpretation.13 He was the first
medieval logician clearly to distinguish between the de dicto (or ‘de
sensu’) and de re readings of modal statements such as ‘It is possible
that the sitting man stands’. De dicto this is read as a false statement:
‘Possibly the man is sitting and standing.’ De re it is read as a statement
which (provided the man actually is sitting) is true: ‘The man is sitting
and possibly he is standing.’ But the exact interpretation of the de re
reading gave Abelard difficulties.
To a considerable extent, he shared an ancient view of modality
which did not allow for synchronous alternative possible states of
affairs. According to this view,
1 The man is sitting at t and possibly he is standing at t’
(where t’ is any time other than t) is, under the right circumstances,
true, but
2 The man is sitting at t and possibly he is standing at t
must be false. The de re modal statement ‘The man is sitting and possibly
he is standing’ must therefore be interpreted as (1). Yet Abelard also
believes that anything, according to its nature (the sort of thing it is),
always has various potencies: a man, for instance, can sit or stand at
any time. This view, it might seem, should have led him to acknowledge
synchronous possible states of affairs. Instead, Abelard prefers to think
about possibility just in terms of what is possible for some thing,
according to its nature, without thinking about the possibility or
impossibility of states of affairs involving the thing. For instance, being
able to walk is part of human nature. Therefore, Abelard believes, it is
possible for a man who has had his legs amputated to walk; but he
does not think that this commits him to holding that the man might
actually walk at some time in the future, nor does he explicitly recognize
any possible state of affairs in which the man has not lost his legs,
synchronous with the actual state of affairs in which the man is without
them ([7.20] 229:34–6, 273:39–274:18). Such an approach may be
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rather unsatisfactory, but it had its advantages when Abelard came to
the theological problem of predestination. Is it possible for God to
save a man who is predestined to damnation? Abelard thought not.
God would predestine to damnation only those fitting to be damned,
and it is not possible for God not to damn someone fit for damnation.
Yet, Abelard insisted, it is possible for the man to be saved, since this is
a possibility open to any man ([7.18] 521:669–79).
Abelard approached the question of what things there are with the
presumption of nominalism already firmly in mind. Everything, he
believed, is a particular. He thought he had strong arguments for
rejecting any of the positions according to which his contemporaries
held that there are some things which are not particulars but universals.14
As a consequence, Abelard had to make a radical adaptation of what
might be called the ‘traditional’ metaphysics of his time, taken over
from Aristotle’s Categories and Porphyry’s Isagoge. Here is a sketch
of this traditional metaphysics. It is not intended to give an accurate
account of Aristotle’s or Porphyry’s intentions, but rather an impression
of how their textbooks tended to be read by early twelfth-century
scholars. According to the traditional ontology, things are of four basic
sorts (see Figure 1). There are particular substances: the particular
members of natural kinds (such as this man, or Socrates, to take the
standard twelfth-century example of a particular substance). Natural
kinds like water which do not obviously divide into particular members
tend to be ignored. There are universal substances, the natural kinds
themselves such as Man and Animal. Then there are what were called
‘accidents’: non-essential properties, and relations, of substances. Like
substances, accidents were considered to be universal or particular; so,
for instance, Socrates would be white by his own particular whiteness.
In practice, however, particular accidents were rarely mentioned. These,
then, are the four basic sorts of things: particular substances, universal
substances, particular accidents and universal accidents. Man-made
objects (houses, ships and so on) were considered to be composites of
natural substances.
This picture derives mainly from the Categories. The Isagoge added
to it Porphyry’s famous ‘tree’ (see Figure 2). Universal substances are
arranged into a hierarchy of genera and species. ‘Genus’ and ‘species’
UNIVERSAL
PARTICULAR
SUBSTANCE
Animal, Man
Socrates, this man
Figure 1
159
ACCIDENT
colour, whiteness
this whiteness
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Figure 2
are relative terms: Man is a species of Animal, and so Animal is the
genus of Man, but Animal is itself a species of Living Thing. Each
species is distinguished from its genus by a specifying characteristic or,
as it was called, differentia: having-sense-perception is, for instance,
what differentiates Animal from Living Thing.
As a nominalist, Abelard had to make some drastic changes to this
traditional scheme.15 Holding that every thing is a particular, he simply
cancels out the first line in Figure 1. For him, things are of just two
sorts: particular substances and particular accidents (and differentiae).
And Abelard stresses that although particular accidents cannot exist
except in dependence on a particular substance, they are each separate
things, which might have been attached to different substances from
those to which in fact they are attached.16 Since there are no universal
substances, there cannot be a hierarchy of genera and species. But
Abelard translates Porphyry’s tree into the structure of particular things.
He regards differentiae as particular, non-substance things, exactly like
accidents (he had a convenient word which meant either an accident
or a differentia: a ‘form’), except that each substance of a given kind
must have attaching to it certain given sorts of differentiae, as indicated
by Porphyry’s tree: for instance, a man cannot be without rationality,
mortality, having-sense-perceptions and so on.
This scheme is not without problems. It might seem to imply that a
particular substance of a given kind is not really one thing at all, but
rather a bundle of differentiae. Some of Abelard’s discussions do appear
to favour a bundle theory, in which these bundles would be attached
to body, which would be regarded as fundamental rather than as just
one type of substance. But elsewhere Abelard explicitly recognizes that
particular substances exist in a way which, in theory, is independent
from the differentiae which must attach to them (see esp. [7.19] 420:30–
421:8, and cf. [7.68] 128–30). Another difficulty concerns accidents.
Aristotle had given nine classes of accidents, which included, for
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instance, relations, time and posture. Abelard initially accepted that
even accidents in these categories are particular things. In the mid-
1120s—after he had done his most important work as a logician—he
came to think it implausible that a relation such as fatherhood is a
thing of any sort. He therefore revised his treatment of accidents and
accepted the existence of particular accidental forms only in some
categories; but he was left (at least to judge by surviving texts) without
an account of accidents in the remaining categories.17
Abelard’s basic metaphysics set the problem which his treatment of
universals had to answer.18 As a nominalist, his explicit answer to the
question which his contemporaries usually posed—‘Are there universal
things or just universal words?’—was unequivocal: only words could
be universals. How then, he had to explain, could universal words be
used meaningfully? His theory of the semantics of universals is designed
to answer this question, and does so with remarkable success. But there
still remained a metaphysical question for Abelard to tackle: if species
and genera are not things, what is the real basis for the system of natural
kinds, which Abelard recognized as a feature of reality, not a mind or
language-imposed construct? Abelard’s answer to this question, less
satisfactory than his treatment of the semantic one, ends by taking an
unexpected turn.
To begin, however, with the semantic problem. It is not, as a modern
philosopher might expect, a problem about deciding the reference of
predicates. For Abelard (along with most of his contemporaries), in a
statement ‘S is P’, the reference of ‘S’ and ‘P’ is the same. Latin grammar
makes this position plausible: there are no articles, and an adjective ‘’
always includes the meaning of -man/woman/thing, according to its
gender. So in ‘Socrates est homo’, ‘Socrates’ and ‘homo’ (‘a/the man’)
are thought to refer to the same thing: Socrates; and similarly in ‘Socrates
est albus’, ‘albus’ (‘a/the white man’) is taken to refer to Socrates. There
is no difficulty about any of this for a nominalist, since Socrates is a
particular thing, a perfectly acceptable referent for words. The
nominalist’s problem concerns, rather, the signification of universal
words. To signify x to someone is to cause there to be a thought of x in
his mind. Twelfth-century logicians were primarily concerned with
signification in their semantic analyses. It is through the signification
of the predicate, they held, that the speaker conveys his meaning: that
Socrates is a man (not a donkey), that he is white (not turquoise or
indigo). And, whilst Socrates is a man on account of particular
differentiae of rationality and mortality, and white by a particular
accident of whiteness, in the statement ‘Socrates is white’ the
signification of ‘white’ is universal: it produces a thought of whiteness
in general, not of the particular whiteness by which Socrates happens
to be white. But, according to Abelard, there is nothing which is
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whiteness in general (or man-ness in general): there are just particular
accidents of whiteness, just particular men. So there seems to be no x
of which universals can produce a thought when they signify.
Abelard’s earlier way of tackling this problem, in the Logica ([7.20]
20:15–22:24), is to posit an x which is not a thing. When universal
words are heard, they produce a thought (which is a thing—a particular
accident—Abelard holds). They also cause a mental image which,
Abelard says, is not a thing at all, but a figment. (Abelard’s explanation
of why it is not a thing shows that he thinks of the image solely in
terms of its content: my mental image of a castle cannot be a thing
because it is not really made of stone, and so on.) In the case of universal
words, the mental image is a common, undifferentiated one, of man
rather than of Socrates. It is these common mental images or conceptions
which, he says, are the objects of the thoughts produced by universal
words. Abelard can therefore claim both that universal words signify—
there is an x of which they produce a thought—and that there is no
thing which they signify. In the Glossulae ([7.20] 530:24–531:29)
Abelard simplifies this picture. There he argues that a word signifies so
long as it produces in its hearers thoughts with content. The content of
the thoughts produced by universal words is (or, at least, can be)
universal, derived from particulars by a process of abstraction. And so
universal words signify, but it does not follow from this that there are
any universal things which they signify.
Although any account of signification must involve the mind, in
both Abelard’s earlier and his later theories universal words have their
signification as a result of how things really are. We form a common
conception of man—or, in the later theory, abstract a universal thought
content for man—because men are really alike. But, although the
signification of universal words is based on how things really are, it is
not always based on a complete understanding of how they really are.
Abelard takes it for granted that we unproblematically group things
correctly according to their natural kinds, but he considers that only in
some cases do we know the structure of differentiae characteristic of a
given natural kind. There is another semantic relationship, however,
which does link universal words to this very structure in all cases:
Abelard calls it ‘imposition’. He envisages the first user of a word
‘imposing’ a certain group of sounds on a particular substance and
every substance of the same kind. The impositor may well not know
what is the structure of differentiae that characterizes the substance in
question, but when he imposes the word he does so according to the
structure the substance really has, whatever that may be. He thus creates
a link—though an open, unspecified one—between the universal word
and the real structure of the objects to which it can be used to refer and
on which its signification is based.19
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The metaphysical side of the problem of universals for Abelard is to
explain in what the real resemblance between members of a kind
consists, given that there are no real universals. He tackles it with his
notion of status ([7.20] 19:21–20:14). Men, for instance, are alike in
sharing the status of man; and this, he explains, means just that they
are alike in being men or in that they are men. And the status of man
(being a man), he insists, is not a thing of any sort.
There is nothing wrong with this explanation, but it raises another
question in its turn. On what in reality is the status of man founded?
What is involved in being a man? Abelard has all along made it clear
that what characterizes men is a certain structure of particular
differentiae. No one is a man who does not have (his own particular)
differentiae of mortality, rationality and so on. Abelard might, at this
stage, have proposed a variety of resemblance nominalism, which would
hold that particular differentiae of a given sort are exactly similar and
this similarity is unanalysable. Each status would be defined as having
a certain structure of such particular differentiae; x would share the
status of y if and only if his particular differentiae were exactly similar
to y’s. Surprisingly, in the only discussion ([7.20] 569:32–573:5] where
he directly answers the question of what makes different particular
differentiae of the same sort similar, Abelard opts for a different solution.
He suggests that, whilst a man may have been rational by any one of
infinitely many actual or hypothetical particular rationalities, there is
a universal differentia of rationality, which no man can lack. He goes
on to say that, in a sense, this universal differentia is the same as a
particular differentia, since it differs from it not as one thing from
another, but merely by ‘definition’—a type of difference Abelard had
introduced in discussing the Trinity and never entirely clarified.20
Although this discussion therefore remains obscure, it suggests that,
pressed to give the metaphysical basis of his theory of universals,
Abelard has sacrificed much of the nominalist ground he so strenuously
defends at every other stage.
Abelard developed his ethical theory on three different levels. He
attempted (especially in the Collationes) to answer the most general
questions about the nature of good and evil and their relation to God
(see [7.65] and [7.68] 233–50). Whereas Abelard’s contemporaries and
medieval and patristic predecessors tended to argue, in Neoplatonic
fashion, that evil is a privation not a thing, Abelard was ready to admit
that there are evil things—particular accidents of, for instance, pain or
sorrow—although not evil substances. He reconciled this position with
God’s goodness and omnipotence by explaining that, when we assert
the goodness of God’s providence, we are predicating ‘good’ not of
things but of dicta: ‘it is good that there are evil things’ (‘good’ is
predicated of the dictum that-there-are-evil-things) and does not entail
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‘evil things are good’. In some of his sermons and poetry, the Rule he
wrote for Heloise and her nuns and a long poem of advice to his son
(the technocratically-named Astralabius), Abelard developed the
practical implications of his ethics and examined the tensions between
moral standards and the thoughts and feelings of individuals in difficult,
ethically problematic circumstances.21
At the centre of Abelard’s moral theory, however, is his discussion
of the ethical act; and, although his treatment of virtues and merit is
also interesting and innovative, it is Abelard’s treatment of sin which,
rightly, has attracted the interest of historians of philosophy.22 Yet it
has often been misconstrued. Historians have frequently described it
as ‘intentionalist’ and contrasted it with a crude, externalist approach
to ethical judgement, where a person’s guilt is judged solely according
to the sort of acts he performs, as assessed by an outside observer. A
moralist can be an ‘intentionalist’ in one or both of two ways. The
intentionalism may concern what is judged ethically (object
intentionalism). The object non-intentionalist considers that external
acts alone are to be judged, whereas the object intentionalist considers
that agents’ intentions must be judged as well as, or instead of, their
acts. Or the intentionalism may concern the basis for ethical judgement
(subject intentionalism). The subject intentionalist will hold that an
agent’s own beliefs about what is right and wrong are an important
element to be taken into account in reaching a judgement; the anti-
intentionalist will minimize their role or exclude them. Abelard is
certainly both an object and a subject intentionalist. But his object
intentionalism needs to be set alongside the different object
intentionalism of his contemporaries, not contrasted with an imaginary
externalism, and his subject intentionalism does not have the extreme
consequences which it might at first seem to threaten.
In their treatments of sin, Abelard’s contemporaries put great weight
on the intentions accompanying a sinful act. The most popular theory
envisaged them as mental acts preceding the external sinful act itself.
Its exponents analysed the psychological stages of committing a sin,
from contemplating the action, being tempted, indulging the temptation
to performing the act. Although these theorists held that the performance
of the external act added to the gravity of the sin, they considered that,
already at an early stage of contemplating the sinful action with pleasure,
the agent would be sinning to some degree, even if he went on successfully
to resist the temptation. They held, then, that it is worse actually to
sleep with a married woman than to be ready and about to do so but
prevented by the unexpected arrival of the husband. But they would
also consider that a man would have sinned to some degree if he merely
thought with pleasure about sleeping with her, even if he would never
have considered making any practical move to do so.
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By contrast, Abelard held that neither the performance of the external
act itself, nor any of the thoughts or feelings preceding it but not directly
linked to its real or planned performance need be considered in judging
sin. Before we perform an action, he believed, we perform a mental act
of willing it or (in the terminology he finally used, in Scito teipsum)
‘consenting’ to it. Consenting to an act means being entirely ready to
perform it, and so I can consent to an act which I do not perform
because it is thwarted. For Abelard, it is acts of consent—not any other
type of mental events, and not external actions—which alone can be
sins. The thwarted adulterer sins no less, having consented to adultery,
than the successful one; whilst, if he is inflamed with passion for a
married woman and incessantly imagines with pleasure the idea of
sleeping with her, but he resists the temptation to do so, then not only
does he not sin, he wins merit in the sight of God for his successful
struggle.23
The contrast made above between external acts and mental events
preceding them omits what many philosophers now would consider
the most important element in any theory of action: the idea that we
act under a description, which is linked to various of our mental and
external acts, both before and after the act in question. To some extent
Abelard seems to have grasped this idea. He is very concerned to
distinguish between consent and what he calls ‘willing’. When a man
consents to adultery, he does not will to commit adultery if he would
prefer it were the woman in question unmarried. When a man murders
his feudal overlord in self-defence, knowing that his supporters will
certainly try to take their revenge on him, he certainly does not will to
commit murder, although he consents to it and, for Abelard, he would
therefore be guilty of murder, just as, in the first example, he would be
guilty of adultery ([7.21] 6:24–8:20, 16:16–32). What does Abelard
mean by this notion of reluctant action, in which I do not will to perform
what I do in fact perform? Although he does not develop the idea
explicitly, he seems to have in mind that most acts fit a number of
descriptions. The adulterer does not will to commit adultery since he
would not choose to perform the act just under the description of
‘sleeping with a married woman’ (or ‘committing adultery’), nor the
murderer his act just under the description of ‘killing one’s overlord’.
In each case the agent consents to the act on account of other relevant
descriptions of it such as sleeping with the woman one desires, or saving
one’s life.
What determines for Abelard which acts of consent are sinful and
which not? We sin, Abelard believes, by showing contempt for God
(e.g. [7.21] 4:31–2). He explains what it is to show contempt for God
in two different ways: either as (a) doing what is not fitting (e.g.
[7.21] 4:27–8) or as (b) not doing what we believe we should do for
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God (e.g. [7.21] 6:3–6). The juxtaposition of two so different accounts
may seem puzzling. In any case, it seems that only (b) fits the equation
of sin with contempt of God. If I do what is unfitting but believe that
it is what I should do for God, I cannot be showing contempt for him
(unless my contempt consists in not having found out what really is
fitting and unfitting). The puzzle is solved, however, by Abelard’s
beliefs about natural law.24 Abelard considered that all mentally
competent adults (who alone he held capable of sinning) at all periods
of history naturally know the general moral precepts laid down by
God, such as the prohibitions of murder, adultery and theft. He also
believed that they all have the power of conscience, which he saw as
an ability to see how particular actions fall under the general
commands and prohibitions of moral law. There is then, for Abelard,
no gap between what is fitting for moral agents to do and what they
believe they should do for God. Although he is a subject intentionalist,
he thus avoids the danger of having to allow that someone might not
sin whatever action he performed simply by virtue of not believing
that the action is sinful.
There are, of course, difficulties about his view. Although, in his
discussions of ethics in practice, Abelard is acutely aware of the
possibility of moral conflict—where one and the same action is both
enjoined and forbidden by divine law—for theoretical purposes he
ignores such dilemmas. Moreover, Abelard has to account not just for
natural law, but for the revealed laws of the Old and the New Testament.
The Old Law raises a special difficulty for him. He considers, as in
consistency he must, that a Jew who accepts the Old Law and breaks
one of its special precepts, not contained in natural law, such as the
dietary laws, commits a sin because he is showing contempt for God
by his action ([7.16] 306:311–25). This, he grants, applies to a twelfth-
century Jew as much as to a biblical one. But Abelard also considers
that the twelfth-century Jew is mistaken to believe that God now enjoins
the dietary laws on him or on anyone. In practice, the point is of little
importance. But in principle the gap which Abelard has allowed between
moral belief and the truth about divine precepts upsets his whole theory,
for it is hard to see what limit he could place on the beliefs which
people or groups of people might sincerely hold about what are God’s
special laws for them.
GILBERT OF POITIERS
Next to Abelard, the most profound and adventurous thinker of the
twelfth century was Gilbert of Poitiers (1085/90–1154). Gilbert enjoyed
the successful and comparatively undramatic career for which Abelard
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might have hoped. A native of Poitiers, he was taught at Chartres by
Bernard and at Laon by Anselm. He became a canon and then chancellor
of Chartres, and taught both there and in Paris. In 1142 he was made
bishop of Poitiers. Like Abelard, Gilbert was the object of Bernard of
Clairvaux’s suspicion and hostility. Gilbert was forced to defend his
views on the Trinity and the Incarnation, first in front of Pope Eugene
III (April 1147) and then at a consistory after the Council of Rheims
(March 1148). As he had done with Abelard, Bernard used underhand
tactics to try to ensure Gilbert would be condemned. But this time he
was unsuccessful and Gilbert was allowed to return to his diocese
without harm to his reputation.25
Gilbert did not write prolifically. He produced biblical commentaries
(on the Psalms and the Pauline Letters), where he kept close to the
specifically Christian doctrinal themes, eschewing the opportunities
for ethical speculation so eagerly followed by Abelard. A set of
theological Sententie survives (in two versions). But they do not seem
to offer a close account of his lectures, and certainly incorporate the
views of other masters. Gilbert was an accomplished logician as well
as a theologian, and he gave rise to a distinctively Porretan school of
logic; but no logical work of his own is known. Gilbert’s contribution
to philosophy emerges only from his long and intricate commentary
on Boethius’ Theological Treatises (Opuscula sacra), probably written
early in the 1140s. Since Gilbert’s technique as a commentator is to
gloss every word of the original text, the character of Boethius’ treatises
has a deep influence on his work, but in ways that are unexpected.
Gilbert does not take over many of Boethius’ views or arguments
directly, even though he is supposedly explaining them. Rather, he strains
to fit Boethius’ words into his own often very different arguments, at
the cost of an unwieldily profuse terminology and frequent obliqueness
or obscurity in exposition. In his Opuscula, Boethius had been
concerned in the main to use logical and metaphysical ideas rather
straightforwardly as ways of elucidating and confirming orthodox
Christian doctrine about the Trinity and Christology. Gilbert, however,
insists that different principles of argument and ways of arguing must
be used in different disciplines. He claims that arguments devised in
connection with natural things (natural science), or in the course of
analysing them into their in reality inseparable constituents (what
Gilbert calls ‘mathematics’), cannot be used directly in talking about
God (theology). But these arguments can be used indirectly, by
‘proportionate transumption’, a process in which some of what a natural
or mathematical argument establishes is accepted as applicable to God,
but not all.26 This framework gives Gilbert the chance to develop his
philosophical account of the natural world more fully than Boethius
had done. But, in developing his natural and mathematical arguments,
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Gilbert is always at least in part concerned with how to ‘transume’
them proportionately so as to serve his, and Boethius’, ultimate
theological aims. Gilbert’s main philosophical discussions—of topics
such as predication, parts and wholes, individuation and the relation
between body and soul—are all coloured in this way, and sometimes
their rationale becomes clear only in the light of his doctrinal objectives.
Yet it would be wrong to see Gilbert merely as a theologian propounding
quasi-philosophical arguments to illustrate Christian doctrine. Parts
of his thinking take up the type of philosophical questions which had
been stimulated by the ancient logical texts and which had fascinated
Abelard; and nowhere more clearly than in his complex and original
treatment of the metaphysical structure of things.27
Gilbert makes a fundamental distinction between what he calls quo
est (‘from which it is’) and quod est (‘what it is’) (7.10] 91:51–8,
116:47–9).28 (Driven by the requirements of exegesis, he also uses a
bewildering variety of other terms to describe this distinction.)
Examples of what Gilbert considers quod ests are Socrates, this man,
that dog, this white thing. What he has in mind, it seems, are concrete
wholes made of substances along with their accidents. Although a
denominative word such as ‘white thing’ (album) is the word for a
quod est, Gilbert assumes that in any given case when it is used its
reference will be the same as that of a substance word and, often, of
a proper name. So, for instance, the quod est in question might be this
white thing, this labrador, Fido. (Gilbert does not envisage instances
where a denominative might sort things differently for purposes of
reference, for instance, ‘this white thing’ referring to Fido and the
white ball in his mouth taken together; nor does he indicate how he
thinks about man-made objects.) Quo ests are, for instance, whiteness,
bodiliness, rationality, humanity, Socrateity. They are not, however,
universal forms. Every quo est is singular (or one in number: Gilbert
uses the two notions interchangeably), and every quod est is what it
is from its own singular quo ests ([7.10] 144:58–60, 145:95–100).
So, for instance, I am rational (supposing I am) and six-foot tall from
a singular rationality and a singular being-six-foot-tall which are each
quo ests numerically distinct from Socrates’ rationality and being-six-
foot-tall.
As this account suggests, by ‘quo ests’ Gilbert means something
very close to what Abelard and others had in mind when they spoke
of particular forms (accidents or differentiae). So, for example,
Abelard would talk of the particular being-six-foot-tall and the
particular rationality attaching to Socrates by which he is six-foot tall
and rational. Yet there are important differences between the two
philosophers’ schemes. Abelard thinks of particular forms attaching
to substances and, although one element of his discussion (the ‘bundle
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theory’) points in a different direction, he accepts that, were a
substance per impossibile stripped of all forms, it would still retain an
identity. For Gilbert, however, the relationship between quo ests and
quod ests is causal and correlative. A quod est is made what it is by
its quo ests and there can be no quo ests apart from a quod est ([7.10]
278:8–279:12). The notion of bare substance may be problematic,
but that of a bare quod est would be simply ungrammatical, because
a quod est must be a ‘what’ (a white thing, a rational thing, Socrates),
made what it is by a quo est (whiteness, rationality, Socrateity).
Gilbert’s scheme thus avoids some of Abelard’s problems (but at a
price, since the notion of making or causing involved is thoroughly
obscure: what the quo est makes into the quod est cannot be the quod
est itself—so what is it?).
Another important development in Gilbert’s scheme has already
been indicated by mentioning the quo ests humanity and Socrateity.
As well as all his simple quo ests, such as rationality, mortality and
being-six-foot-tall, which make Socrates something which is mortal,
rational and six-foot tall, there are also his complex quo ests,
composed of two or more of the simple quo ests; so, for instance, his
humanity—that by which he is a man—would be composed of the
differentiae of the species man and of the differentiae of all the genera
of that species (rationality, mortality, having senses, being alive, being
bodily). The most complex of all these composite quo ests is called by
Gilbert the ‘collected property’ or ‘whole form’ of Socrates
(‘Socrateity’, for short). It is composed of all the quo ests ‘which both
in actuality and by nature have been, are and will be’ those of Socrates
([7.10] 144:73–8, 274:75–95).
Gilbert uses this idea of whole forms to make one of his most
characteristic distinctions. As already mentioned, Gilbert holds that
every quo est is singular; even composite quo ests, such as this
humanity or Socrateity, are singular ([7.10] 167:7–19, 301:86–95).
So too is every quod est singular. It is singular, Gilbert says, because
the quo est which makes it into a quod est is itself singular ([7.10]
144:58–62). To be singular is not, however, for Gilbert to be
individual. In his view everything which is individual is singular. But
only those singulars which are not ‘dividuals’ are individual. Whatever
is exactly similar (conformis) to something else, or could possibly be
exactly similar to something else, is a dividual. Although the quo ests
by which Socrates is rational and six-foot-tall are singular and distinct
from the singular quo ests by which Plato is rational and six-foot-tall,
each quo est of rationality and each quo est of being-six-foot-tall is
exactly similar to every other such quo est. The same is true of almost
every quo est, whether simple (mortality, whiteness) or complex
(animality, humanity). Even if it should happen that as a matter of
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fact there is not, never has been nor ever will be a quo est exactly
similar to a simple or complex quo est, then in almost every case it is
possible that there might be one exactly similar ([7.10] 143:52–144:78,
270:73–271:82). No one, suppose, has ever had or will ever have a
nose quite the same shape as mine; but ‘by nature’—hypothetically—
there might be such a person. Or consider the complex quo est sun-
ness which makes something into a sun. Gilbert thought (wrongly, of
course) that there was and would be only one thing like this: sun is a
species which contains only one member, the Sun. But by nature, he
believed, there is nothing to prevent there being infinitely many suns,
all made into what they are by quo ests of sun-ness, each singular but
exactly similar to each other. The (as a matter of fact unique) quo est
of sun-ness is therefore dividual just as the very many quo ests of
humanity are dividual ([7.10] 273:53–71).
There is just one type of quo est which, Gilbert claims, is not dividual
because it is not actually or possibly exactly similar to any other quo
est: the whole form of a quod est (for instance, Socrateity). Whole
forms, then, are individuals, and so are their quod ests, that is to say,
every quod est, since every quod est has a whole form. Where, then,
for Abelard (who makes no distinction between particularity, singularity
and individuality) a form such as this whiteness or that rationality is
no less a particular thing than Socrates himself, Gilbert is able to
discriminate more finely: this whiteness, that rationality and Socrates
are each singular, but only Socrates (and his whole form, Socrateity) is
individual.
Gilbert’s idea of individuality also provides him with his approach
to the problem of universals. Complex dividual quo ests fall into groups,
the members of each of which, although themselves all singular, are
completely similar to every other member of the group. In virtue of
this complete similarity all the members can be regarded as one
universal, a species: for example, humanity. Again, many complex
dividual quo ests are completely similar not just to some other quo ests
in every respect, but also to some in some respects; for instance, every
quo est of humanity and every quo est of horse-ness are completely
similar in respect of being bodily, being alive and having senses. They
can therefore be further grouped into what is also regarded as one
universal, the genus animality ([7.10] 269:34–50, 312:95–113). True
to the emphasis of the discussion at the time, Gilbert considers just
universals in the category of substance; presumably, though, he would
also consider that groups of exactly similar simple quo ests (such as
whitenesses or rationalities) are universals in other categories. Gilbert,
therefore, is a realist over universals, but his real universals are all quo
ests which cannot exist except in conjunction with quod ests which,
because they are individual, cannot be universal. To the objection that
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his real universals must, like any real universal, be contradictorily both
one and many, Gilbert could reply that, whereas it would be a
contradiction to assert of many individuals that they are one, it is
permissible to say of many singulars that they are one because of their
complete similarity to each other.29
All this rests on the presumption that whole forms are indeed
individual: there is nothing else to which any of them is, or could
possibly be, exactly similar. What entitles Gilbert to make this
presumption? Gilbert gives no explicit answer, but it is worth looking
carefully to see what, if anything, he had in mind. It seems obvious to
relate the individuality of whole forms to the principle that no two
bodily objects can be in the same place at the same time: they cannot
therefore have exactly similar accidents in these respects. Gilbert’s
comments in a different context ([7.10] 77:5–78:13, 148:88–92) show
that he was highly aware of this point. Yet, at first sight, such an
explanation seems not to fit Gilbert’s view (see above, p. 169) that the
whole form of Socrates is composed, not only of all the quo ests that
have, do and will make him what he is, but also of all those that he has
‘by nature’. The spatio-temporal dissimilarity principle does not rule
out Plato having by nature the very same space-time accidents as
Socrates actually has. Indeed, if Socrates’ complex quo est is composed
of all the quo ests he has ‘by nature’, it seems that it must include every
sort of quo est that can attach to a man, and that therefore the whole
form of each member of a species is exactly similar to that of every
other member of that species—and therefore, contrary to what Gilbert
maintains, is dividual.
What must be implicit, it seems, in Gilbert’s view is a distinction
between quo ests which apply to alternative, different ways things might
be (or, at least, a distinction between those quo ests which something
has in actuality, and those which it has only by nature). This would
accord with Simo Knuuttila’s view that Gilbert was one of the earliest
thinkers who, influenced by the doctrine of divine omnipotence, was
willing to admit synchronous alternative possible state of affairs, each
belonging to different providential programmes, any of which God
could put into effect although only one is the actual programme he
chooses.30 Gilbert would, then, be able to insist that, in any given
providential scheme—and so in whatever scheme is the actual one—
Socrates does not share his spatio-temporal quo ests with anyone else,
and that therefore his whole form is not the same as anyone else’s.
None the less, Gilbert did not in fact think out his views on modality
this far; had he done so, he might not have wished to accept the many
difficulties this view brings with it.31
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THE PLATONIC CURRENT
Most of the main twelfth-century thinkers owed something to Plato.
Abelard, for instance, argued that the description of the World Soul in
the Timaeus was an allegory of the Holy Spirit, and he used this surmise
as evidence that the pagan philosophers knew of the Trinity before the
coming of Christ. He also took the few comments about the Republic
at the beginning of the Timaeus and used them as the basis for his own
political ideal of cities where everything is done for the common good
([7.68] 304–7). Abelard’s Platonism, however, is opportunistic. He takes
themes from Plato and transforms them for his own purposes, using
them within a structure of thought which itself owes remarkably little
to Plato. Some scholars have argued that there is an important Platonic
element in Abelard’s treatment of universals and dicta (see [7.61] 149
and [7.56]). The interpretation offered here does not support that view.
Similarly, historians have often held, contrary to the reading advanced
here, that Gilbert rests his metaphysics on a notion of Platonic Ideas.
There is, at any rate, room for dispute about the Platonism of Abelard
and Gilbert, but neither continues the tradition of Bernard of Chartres
in the direct way that was done, as John of Salisbury recognized, by
William of Conches.
William of Conches was already teaching and writing in the early
1120s and appears to have remained active until the 1150s; he taught
perhaps at Paris or, so some have argued, at Chartres, and later taught
at the court of the Duke of Normandy. Like Bernard, he was a grammar
teacher. He wrote a commentary on Priscian’s Institutiones grammaticae
(Principles of grammar), drawing extensively on the anonymous
eleventh-century Glosule to Priscian; and he made detailed
commentaries on a series of classical texts. These include poetry (he is
known to have glossed Iuvenal) but he concentrated on Platonic writers:
Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy, Macrobius’ commentary on
Cicero’s Dream of Scipio and, most important, the Timaeus itself. In
interpreting these texts, William drew on the already well-established
medieval tradition of reading pagan texts as allegories of Christian
truth. He went beyond his predecessors in the thoroughness with which
he applied this method. He would admit, if necessary, that, being pagans,
the ancient authors could not be trusted in everything they said. Usually,
however, he discovered a satisfactory reading. He shared with Abelard
(and may have taken from him—but the chronology is not clear) the
identification of Plato’s World Soul with the Holy Spirit. But unlike
Abelard, for whom it carried important implications about the
knowability of God, he was willing to drop the identification. For
William, it was merely a convenient reading of an ancient text, which
could if necessary be sacrificed.
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The ideas in his texts which William took most were scientific, rather
than philosophical or theological ones.32 The Timaeus and Macrobius
were regarded as important sources for natural science, and William
developed this interest independently, in his Philosophia (c. 1125) and
his later dialogue (part extension, part more cautious revision of the
Philosophia), the Dragmaticon (between 1144 and 1149). In these
works he also made use of, and sometimes combined or developed in
an original way, medical and scientific sources translated from the
Arabic and Greek. In the Philosophia and the Dragmaticon, and in the
commentary to the Timaeus, William tried to show how all things
came into being through the natural interaction of the four elements
(fire, air, water and earth). Only the creation of the human soul required
a separate intervention by God. William was firmly committed to this
search for naturalistic explanations: he accused of pride and ignorance
those who wished to explain everything by divine intervention, and
claimed that he illustrated God’s power by his explanations of how
God worked through nature ([7.31] 39–40).
The other leading Platonist of the mid-twelfth century (he was
described by a pupil, Hermann of Carinthia, as ‘the soul of Plato restored
to mankind from heaven’) was Thierry ‘the Breton’, known also as
Thierry of Chartres, where he was chancellor in the 1140s; previously
he had taught both there and almost certainly at Paris. As well as an
interest in rhetoric, logic and the various branches of mathematics, Thierry
shared William of Conches’s penchant for naturalistic explanation of
what many of their contemporaries would have described in terms of
direct divine intervention. But Thierry gave his most distinctive
philosophical teaching—and that which shows his Platonism most
clearly—in the course of commenting on Boethius’ Theological
Treatises.33 A commentary known as Librum hunc (written late 1140s;
incipit ‘Inchoantibus librum hunc’) can be shown to be fairly closely
based on this teaching. Together with two other commentaries on the
work from the same period (Incipit ‘Intentio auctoris’ and ‘Aggreditur
propositum’), which contain close parallels to it and each other but
also differ sharply in some of their doctrines, Librum hunc shows how
Plato’s Theory of Ideas was adopted and transformed.
The first stage in the transformation was Boethius’ doubling of the
forms: ‘From those forms which are beyond matter’, writes Boethius,
‘come those forms which are in matter and make the body’—forms
which therefore, more properly, should be called ‘images’. All three
commentaries go on to argue that only the images which come into
contact with matter are many, and that the forms from which they
derive are really one form, God, the form of forms. The argument is
developed in two main ways. Librum hunc asserts that the forms of all
things ‘emanate’ (emanare) from the one, simple divine form. These
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forms have it in common with the one true form that they are an
‘equality of being’. By this he apparently means that a particular
substance s is what it is (an s) from its form f, so that f can be called
‘the equality of being an s’. God’s form, ‘the wholeness and perfection
of all things’, stands in the same relation to God as f to s. None the
less, the commentator insists that all forms besides that of God are not
really forms, but simply the images of form. Plurality, he goes on to
explain, arises solely through the coming together of form, which is
one, and matter, which is also in itself one.34 In the two other
commentaries, the talk is not of emanation but rather of God’s
thinking.35 When an artificer wishes to produce a mental exemplar of
what he will make, he must think of the material of which it will be
made: the exemplar is not itself enmattered, but it must be conceived
in relation to matter. Similarly, God, who is himself the form of forms,
conceives the forms of all things in relation to their matter. He then
unites them with matter, at which point they cease to be forms and
become images.
In the second half of the century, the Platonic current (no longer
closely connected with exegesis of the Timaeus or with natural science)
intermingles often curiously with other influences. For example, there
survives a fragment (itself book-length) of a very lengthy commentary
on a work by the fifth-century Greek Neoplatonist known as ‘pseudo-
Dionysius’ (because he issued his works under attribution to Dionysius,
the Areopagite converted by St Paul). The commentary was written
between 1169 and 1177 by William of Lucca. William was probably
the author of a logical textbook based on Abelard’s teaching (see below,
p. 175); he was certainly deeply influenced in his theology by Gilbert
of Poitiers; and, like Thierry of Chartres, he formulated his thoughts
about Platonic Ideas (which, in what remains of his commentary, are
far from clear) with Boethius’ Theological Treatises in mind.36 Alan of
Lille (see below, pp. 177–8) provides another example of late twelfth-
century syncretic Platonism.
THE LOGICAL SCHOOLS OF THE LATER
TWELFTH CENTURY
In the second half of the twelfth century, logicians divided themselves
into a number of self-consciously distinct schools, all probably based
in Paris.37 Each of these schools derived from one of the leading logical
masters of the preceding period. The Porretani (or Gilebertini) were
the followers of Gilbert of Poitiers (who was called Gilbert
Porretanus). Abelard’s followers were called the Nominales.38 The
Parvipontani (or Adamitae) were the followers of another influential
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logical, Adam of Balsham (d. 1159), called Parvipontanus because his
school was at the Petit-Pont, whose Ars disserendi (c. 1132) offers a
highly innovative approach to logic, both in its terminology and
arrangement of material. The Meludinenses or Robertini were almost
certainly the followers of Robert of Melun, although at present only
Robert’s work as a theologian, not as a logician is known. Another
important logician of the 1130s and 1140s was Alberic, a determined
opponent of Abelard’s. Although no surviving text can be definitely
assigned to him, his views are frequently and respectfully cited in the
logical commentaries of the 1140s, some of which can be closely
linked to him.39 The logicians who called themselves the Albricani
were certainly his followers; whether they can be identified with the
Montani (from the Mont Ste Geneviève, where Alberic, but also
Abelard and others taught) is unclear.
The later twelfth-century masters who ran these schools remain
anonymous, but a number of texts survive which show their
sophistication and ingenuity. From the Porretans there is a substantial
textbook of logic (called by its editors the Compendium logicae
Porretanum), probably written between 1155 and 1170. William of
Lucca’s Summa dialetice artis (where Abelard is throughout the supreme
authority, called the Philosophus) illustrates the thinking of the
nominalists; the Introductions montane maiores that of the Montani;
the Ars meliduna—the longest and most sophisticated of all—the work
of the Melidunenses.40
The division of these logicians into schools is not a mere convenience
of the historian: it reflects how the scholars thought of themselves. For
each school there was a set of basic theses to which all those who
belonged had to subscribe. The Porretan Compendium takes the form
of a commentary of each of the Porretani’s theses, and there survive
similar lists of theses with discussion for the Melidunenses and the
Nominales.41 Most of the theses concern controversies which arose in
connection with the Isagoge, Categories and On Interpretation over
topics such as universals, predication, parts and wholes and entailment.
Often they are stated in a deliberately paradoxical fashion; for instance,
according to the Melidunenses, ‘Socrates and Plato are not Socrates
and Plato’; according to the Nominales, ‘Nothing grows’. The divisions
between the schools emerge very clearly in the differing solutions each
proposed to the objection Alberic had raised to Abelard’s theory of
conditionals (see above, pp. 157–8). Alberic’s argument begins from
the principle that, if p implies q, then p and r implies q, and it chooses
as an exemplification of this argument-pattern one in which the
conjunction of p and r is an impossibility. The Porretani rejected this
argument-pattern, because it leaves one of the conjuncts without a
role in the implication, whilst the Montani refused to accept conditionals
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where the antecedent is impossible. The Nominales, Abelard’s own
followers, seem (not surprisingly) to have been left in some confusion;
the Melidunenses argued that nothing follows from a false statement;
whilst the Parvipontani alone did not treat Alberic’s argument as a
reductio, but accepted it along with its conclusion and therefore the
paradoxes of strict implication: from an impossibility anything follows,
and a necessity follows from anything.42
It would be very wrong, however, to imagine that the logicians of
the later twelfth century did no more than react to and systematize the
ideas of their founders. First, even on the most closely discussed
questions of the previous decades, the new masters had their own
thoughts. So, for example, the Ars meliduna proposes a sophisticated
Platonic theory. Universals are all ‘intelligible things’. What the mind
grasps when it considers a universal is not, though, a relation of
similarity, but the ‘coming together’ (communio) of things which—in
the case of genera and species (Animal, Man), but not that of other
universals (white, rational)—brings it about that what participates in
it is something.43
Second, the later twelfth century was a time when previously
unknown Aristotelian logical texts (the logica nova) first became
known: the Prior Analytics, the Topics and On Sophistical Refutations.
All three, for instance, are used in the Ars meliduna. This development
is less important, however, than it might seem. It was only the third of
these texts, Aristotle’s treatise on sophisms (arguments which are
incorrect but superficially plausible) that was studied enthusiastically.
On Sophistical Refutations was known before the others, by the 1120s;
Alberic and his followers were greatly impressed by it; and it continued
to fascinate logicians for the rest of the century. Although its value in
detecting logical fallacies in theological arguments may have initially
recommended the treatise, it came to fuel a growing interest in the
principles of deductive argument.44
The third and most important development of the years 1150–1200
may help to explain the generally slight impression made by the logica
nova. It was in this period that medieval logicians broke away from
the framework of study set by the ancient authorities. For instance,
whereas Abelard’s Dialectica had mainly followed the pattern of the
textbooks by Aristotle, Porphyry and Boethius, both the Porretan
Compendium and the Ars meliduna reorganize the whole subject-matter
of logic into four parts: terms, statements (propositiones), what terms
signify, what statements signify (see [7.77] II, 1, 539). The new approach
went beyond matters of organization. Almost all the branches of what
would be called the logica modernorum—those parts of logic not
covered in the ancient texts—began to be developed at this time: besides
the theory of conditionals (which Abelard had already begun to
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develop), the theory of the (semantic) properties of terms; the study of
sophisms and of words such as ‘only’, ‘except’, ‘begins’, ‘ceases’; the
treatment of semantic paradoxes and the special sort of logical
disputation called ‘obligations’.45
PHILOSOPHICAL THEMES IN LATER
TWELFTH-CENTURY THEOLOGY
The divisions between schools were less clear-cut among the theologians
than the logicians. There were, certainly, those who followed Gilbert
of Poitiers either very closely or with more freedom. Abelard, too, was
highly influential; but his more controversial theological doctrines were
usually rejected and his distinctive ethics adopted piecemeal, if at all.
Although there are a number of references to Nominales in theological
contexts, they seem not to be to any distinctively nominalist theology,
but rather to nominalist logical positions which were used in a
theological discussion.
There was, by contrast, far more variety in the manner of pursuing
theology than was the case for logic, even leaving aside the monastic
theologians such as William of St Thierry, Ailred of Rievaulx and
Bernard of Clairvaux himself, who distanced themselves from the
schools. At the Abbey of St Victor in Paris, where William of
Champeaux had founded a theological tradition, which was carried
on in the 1130s and 1140s especially by Hugh (of St Victor), Richard
(of St Victor) wrote, sometime after about 1150, a long and carefully-
worked De trinitate. Its aim is to show (rather as Anselm had tried in
the Monologion) that there are strong rational grounds for holding,
not merely that God exists, but that he is triune. Richard, however,
writes to illuminate the faithful, not to convince non-believers. If he
figures less in the history of philosophy than some of his contemporaries,
it is not because his arguments lack sophistication but rather because
his views are not easily detached from their theological context.
In the theology of the schools—mainly the schools of Paris—there
were two main approaches to method. Gilbert of Poitiers’ idea that
each branch of knowledge, including theology, has its own fundamental
rules, combined with the axiomatic method used in the third of
Boethius’ Theological Treatises (and Gilbert’s own use of it in his
commentary on that treatise), led to the attempt to produce an axiomatic
theology. Peter of Vienna (or of Poitiers) places near to the beginning
of his Summa (c. 1150) a set of rules which apply to created things
(many of them read like the theses of the logical schools) but according
to some of which we may also gain knowledge about God. In his
Regulae caelestis iuris (c. 1170–80) Alan of Lille sets out no fewer
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than 134 special theological rules, which he expounds and attempts to
justify in the work, sometimes deriving one from another.46 Axiomatic
theology turned out, however, to be a passing fashion. The most
influential of all twelfth-century theological works turned out to be
the Sentences written by Peter the Lombard in about 1155–7. Glosses
began to be written on the Lombard’s Sentences in the later twelfth
century and, from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries, commentary
on what were simply called ‘the Sentences’ was the vehicle for much of
the most important theological and philosophical work (see pp. 194–
5). The Lombard probably based his Sentences on the discussion of
doctrinal difficulties which took place in his lectures on the Bible, but
he drew together his material in a systematic way, to provide an orderly
consideration, problem by problem, of the whole area of theological
debate.
The Lombard’s Sentences were valued, above all, for their
orthodoxy—although many passages show a powerful logical mind,
fully abreast of the subtleties of an Abelard or a Gilbert of Poitiers.
Some of those who followed his methods were far more openly
enthusiastic for logical analysis; few more so than his pupil, Peter of
Poitiers (not to be confused with the Porretan Peter, also from
Poitiers). Peter’s discussion of divine omnipotence ([7.23] 48–68) in
his Sentences (c. 1176) provides a good example of this logically
intricate approach to doctrinal problems, since Peter borrows some of
the best ideas of theologians from the past two decades and also adds
his own.47
Like Abelard, he argues that ‘God is omnipotent’ does not mean
that he can do all things, since he cannot walk or eat or sin, but rather
(following Augustine) that God can do whatever he wills. Peter adds
to this the requirement, mentioned by Peter the Lombard, that ‘nothing
whatsoever can be done to God’ (which would seem to entail that he
can not do whatever he does not will to do). Peter does not explain
why, but this extra requirement would overcome the objection that
Augustine’s definition is too weak since it makes omnipotent whoever
limits his wishes to his capabilities. He goes on to consider the position
(Abelard’s, but he is not named) that God can do only what he does,
which is supposedly entailed by a variety of considerations of the form:
God does only and all what is good (what is fitting, what his justice
requires). Peter’s solution is to distinguish between ‘good’ predicated
of men and of God. Men are good because what they do is good, but
what God does is good because it is done by God. He can then—
making a similar distinction to that used by Abelard between de dicto
and de re modalities—distinguish two senses of ‘God can do only what
it is good to be done by him’. They are a composite (de dicto) sense:
‘God can do only that-which-if-done-by-him-is-good’; and a divided
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(de re) sense: ‘God can do only that which is good: i.e. he cannot do
that which is now bad.’ Only the composite sense yields a true statement,
and the composite sense does not limit what God can do, but merely
affirms that whatever he in fact does is good (because he does it). Peter
then works through a number of more purely logical fallacies which
seem to limit God’s power. Peter finishes the section with a long
discussion of God’s power to alter natural necessities. God, he argues,
can bring about what is impossible according to natural causality, for
instance, that a man is an ass. But ‘the man is an ass’ is true only if it is
interpreted as saying that, according to natural causes, he is man, but
according to a higher cause, he is an ass.
CONCLUSION: OLD SOURCES, NEW
SOURCES AND THE ACHIEVEMENTS
OF TWELFTH-CENTURY PHILOSOPHY
The preceding sections will have given the impression that, in most
important respects, twelfth-century thinkers used only a narrow range
of ancient and late antique texts, most which had been available since
the ninth century: the logica vetus, Plato’s Timaeus, Boethius’ On the
Consolation of Philosophy and Theological Treatises, complemented
by Latin philosophical and scientific texts by Cicero, Macrobius and
Martianus Capella; the only exception seems to be Aristotle’s On
Sophistical Refutations, the one work of the logica nova which was
taken up with enthusiasm in this period. The twelfth century thus
appears to present a stark contrast to the thirteenth, when philosophy
in the Latin West was transformed by contact with the whole range of
Aristotle’s writings, and with work by the great medieval Arab and
Jewish thinkers, such as Avicenna, Averroes and Maimonides.
In one way, this impression is misleading. A number of the
translations which would be influential during the thirteenth century
were made in the years from 1150, especially in Toledo (see pp. 226–
7). One of the most important of these translators, Dominicus
Gundissalinus (d. after 1181), wrote a number of independent works
which combine the influence of Avicenna and Latin authors such as
Boethius.48 There were writers such as Adelard of Bath (writing between
c. 1110 and 1145) and Hermann of Carinthia (fl. 1138–43) who learned
Arabic and exploited Arabic sources—though their interests were more
scientific than philosophical.49 The Liber de causis (Book about Causes),
a translation of an Arabic adaptation of the late Neoplatonist Proclus’
Elements of Theology, was known to Alan of Lille. Some of Aristotle’s
non-logical works were being used in Salerno late in the century; around
1200 or shortly afterwards, David of Dinant, who had travelled in
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Greece, translated and used passages from Aristotle’s scientific writings,
and John Blund wrote a De anima (On the Soul) using Aristotle and,
especially, Avicenna.50
Despite these reservations, it would still be right to conclude that
the main achievement of twelfth-century philosophy was not related
to newly available ancient or Arabic material. Nor, indeed, despite
many of these scholars’ great reverence for the ancients, should it be
seen in terms of a deeper assimilation of the ancient texts previously
known, or even of a new approach to them. The great writers of the
first half of the century—Abelard, Gilbert of Poitiers (and some would
wish to add William of Conches and Thierry of Chartres)—posed and
tackled philosophical questions with an originality which makes the
model of assimilation inappropriate. The second half of the century
did not produce any philosophers of the same stature, but it saw two
important developments, largely unrelated to ancient sources: the
development of a systematic, argumentative method of theology, and
the elaboration of sophisticated logical techniques for semantic analysis
and the study of argument. It would be these, along with the effects of
the new Aristotelian and Arabic material, that would provide the
framework for the impressive philosophical developments in thirteenth-
and fourteenth-century Paris and Oxford.
NOTES
1 For a fuller sketch of the historiography of twelfth-century philosophy, see
Marenbon [7.66] 101–6.
2 See Chapter 1, pp. 14–15 for fuller discussion.
3 See Marenbon [7.42] 80–4; for a wider study of the themes in early medieval
commentaries and glosses on Aristotle and Porphyry, see Marenbon [7.67].
4 For the identification of Garlandus and material on in voce exegesis, see
Iwakuma [7.52] 47–54; for this interpretation, see Marenbon [7.68] 108–16.
5 See Jolivet [7.57] where the material is collected and this interpretation advanced;
cf. de Libera ([7.61] 142–5) and M.Tweedale, ‘Logic: to the time of Abelard’ in
Dronke [7.49] 204–5.
6 John of Salisbury [7.13] III, 2, pp. 124–5; trans. in [7.34] 151–2.
7 The arguments for attributing the Glosae to Bernard, along with a full account of
Bernard’s life and the testimony (mainly from John of Salisbury) to his teaching,
are given by Dutton, in his edition of the Glosae [7.7] 21–45, 239–49.
8 The dating of the Dialectica is controversial: see Mews [7.70] 74–104 and
Marenbon [7.68] 41–3.
9 On impersonal statements, see Jacobi [7.53]; on the copula, see de Rijk [7.76]
(acute discussion and full bibliography on the question).
10 Christopher Martin (see especially [7.69]) has been the first modern scholar to
explain Abelard’s theory of entailment. He also brings out the parallels between
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Abelard’s approach and that in modern ‘relevant’ logics. The following paragraph
depends entirely on his work. On the theory of topics, see above, Chapter 1, pp.
14–15.
11 On the close connection between the principle observed by Boethius (see above,
Chapter 1, p. 14) that it is not possible that p implies q and p implies not-q, and
the principle that it is not possible that p implies not-p (arguably the two principles
are equivalent), see Martin [7.69] 381.
12 See esp. Abelard [7.19] 153:33–160:36 and [7.20] 365:13–370:3 and cf. de Libera,
‘Abélard et le dictisme’ in [7.44] 59–92; Martin, ‘The logic of the Nominales’, in
Courtenay [7.48] 110–26; de Rijk, ‘La signification de la proposition (dictum
propositionis) chez Abélard’, in [7.74] 547–55; Marenbon [7.68] 222–9.
13 See Abelard [7.19] 199–210 and Abelard [7.14] (entirely on modality). On this
subject, see Knuuttila [7.59] 82–96 and Marenbon [7.68] 221–5.
14 He presents these at Abelard [7.20] 10:17–16:18, 513:15–522:9; cf. Tweedale
[7.81] 89–132.
15 Abelard develops this ontology in the Dialectica and the Logica: for a full discussion
and references, see Marenbon [7.68] 117–37.
16 See Abelard [7.20] 129:33–6 and (on differentiae: see below) 84:14–21, 92:22–
9; cf. Marenbon [7.68] 119–22.
17 See esp. Abelard [7.17] 342:2434–344:2532; the whole question is discussed and
other texts are given in Marenbon [7.68] 138–61.
18 There is a large literature on Abelard’s theory of universals. Among the important
modern discussions are Tweedale [7.81], de Rijk, ‘The semantical impact of
Abailard’s solution of the problem of universals’, in Thomas [7.80] 139–50 and
Jolivet [7.57]. The following paragraphs summarize the rather different view
proposed in Marenbon [7.68] 174–201.
19 On imposition, see Abelard [7.19] 595:11–31.
20 The fullest treatment of various types of difference is in the Theologia Christiana,
Abelard [7.17], 247:1677–255:1936; cf. Marenbon [7.68] 150–5.
21 In Marenbon [7.68] 213–331, the three levels of Abelard’s ethical theory are
examined. The following section draws especially on chapters 11 and 12 (pp.
251–81).
22 Valuable discussions are given by Blomme [7.46] and M.de Gandillac, ‘Intention
et loi dans l’éthique d’Abélard’ in [7.74] 585–608.
23 Abelard [7.21] 10:28–14:25. Abelard puts forward his analysis of the ethical act
in a number of works, including the commentary on Romans and the Sententie.
References here are made, wherever possible, to Scito teipsum, both because it
contains Abelard’s latest formulation of his ideas and it is easily accessible in
good translation.
24 See esp. Marenbon [7.64]; Abelard develops his ideas about natural law especially
in Book II of the Theologia Christiana and in the Collationes.
25 On Gilbert’s life, see Nielsen [7.73] 25–39.
26 For Gilbert’s distinction between the different disciplines, see esp. [7.10] 79:43–
88:69; on proportional transumption, see e.g. 143:42–7, 170:87–93. On the whole
question of Gilbert’s method, see Marenbon, ‘Gilbert of Poitiers’, in Dronke [7.49]
330–6.
27 In my piece on Gilbert (cited in the previous note—esp. 329–30, 351–2) I lay
strong (in retrospect too strong) emphasis on the extent to which Gilbert’s doctrinal
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aims shaped his arguments, without bringing out how Gilbert was also contributing
to the philosophical debate of his times. De Rijk’s criticism [7.75] 34–5, though
mistaken in attributing to me a hostile intention towards Gilbert, is in this way
very just.
28 Valuable analyses of Gilbert’s theory of quo est and quod est are provided in de
Rijk [7.75] and Gracia [7.50] 155–77.
29 Many scholars consider (on the basis, especially, of [7.10] 195:100–7) that, for
Gilbert, quo ests are images of disembodied Platonic Ideas. In ‘Gilbert of Poitiers’,
in Dronke [7.49] 349–51, I argue that this is a misinterpretation: Gilbert introduces
disembodied forms merely in his account of the creation of the elements, not as
the archetypes of quo ests. For a different view again, see de Libera [7.58] 170–5.
30 See Knuuttila [7.59], esp. 211–17; Knuuttila discusses the passage in question at
pp. 216–17.
31 On this view, ‘Socrates’ would have to be a rigid designator, picking out the
individual Socrates in every possible world where he exists, however different he
is from one world to another. But Gilbert’s statement about the whole form
comprising every quo est that belongs to the thing by nature seems to leave the
room for variation disturbingly wide. There seems, for instance, no guarantee
that Socrates must have the same parents from one possible world to another,
and it becomes unclear how at all we should identify Socrates.
32 See esp. Elford, ‘William of Conches’, in Dronke [7.49] 308–27; more generally
on William, see Gregory [7.51].
33 For reconstructions of Thierry’s underlying ideas, see Dronke, ‘Thierry of
Chartres’, in Dronke [7.49] 358–85 and Gersh, ‘Platonism-Neoplatonism-
Aristotelianism: a twelfth-century metaphysical system and its sources’, in Benson
and Constable [7.45] 512–34.
34 [7.27] 81:1–7, 82:25–33; this passage is analysed and its sources discussed by
Gersh in the article cited in the previous note, pp. 517–24.
35 ‘Aggreditur propositum…’ (printed as Thierry’s Glosa), [7.27] 275:11–276:39
and ‘Intentio auctoris…’ (printed as Thierry’s Lectiones), [7.27] 168:76–170:33,
176:45–50, which in this discussion puts forward, somewhat less clearly, almost
exactly the same view as ‘Aggreditur propositum…’.
36 See William of Lucca, commentary on ps–Dionysius, ed. F.Gastaldelli, Florence,
1984, xcii–xciii for dating, and xxi–xxvii for the authorship of the Summa dialetice
artis. For Platonic Ideas, see especially pp. 100–2. For further discussion of this
and a related, unpublished text, see Marenbon [7.66] 114–17.
37 The various articles in Courtenay [7.48] provide the best guide to what is known
about these schools. See especially Iwakuma and Ebbesen, ‘Logico-theological
schools from the second half of the twelfth century: a list of sources’ (pp. 173–
210), which I follow closely here. A very intelligent discussion of the material is
given by de Libera [7.61] 132–7. A wealth of material is collected in de Rijk
[7.77] II, 2. For a survey, see Jacobi, ‘Logic: the later twelfth century’, in Dronke
[7.49] 227–51.
38 This has been disputed, but two contributions to Courtenay [7.48]: Normore
(‘Abelard and the school of the Nominales’, pp. 80–96) and Iwakuma (‘Twelfth-
century Nominales: the posthumous school of Peter Abelard’, pp. 97–109), put
the identification beyond reasonable doubt.
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39 See de Rijk [7.78] and Marenbon, ‘Vocalism, nominalism and commentaries on
the Categories from the earlier twelfth century’, in Courtenay [7.48] 51–61, at
54–5.
40 Both the Introductiones montane maiores and the Ars meliduna remain
unpublished; de Rijk discusses and prints extracts from them in [7.78] 12–22 and
[7.77] II, 1, 264–390. For the Summa dialetice artis, see [7.32].
41 For the Melidunenses, the so-called Secta Meliduna (see de Rijk [7.77] II, 1, 282–
6, where the list of these is printed); for the Nominales, the so-called Positio
‘nominalium’, ed. Ebbesen [7.4] 430–2.
42 These observations are taken from Martin [7.69] 394–400, where much fuller
details are given.
43 The most important parts of the discussion are printed by de Rijk [7.77] II, 1,
306–9; I am grateful to Dr Yukio Iwakuma for supplying me with a transcript of
further material from the Ars. De Libera ([7.61] 158–67) discusses the treatment
of universals in the Ars at length. He suggests that the theory had a further
refinement, in that universals are complex intelligible structures, which are
expressed not by common names but by complex expressions.
44 The reception of On Sophistical Refutations is examined in detail in de Rijk
[7.77] I.
45 See below, Chapter 17, where most of these areas are discussed.
46 For a brief guide to the extensive bibliography on Porretan theologians, see my
‘A note on the Porretani’, in Dronke [7.49] 353–7. There is no space here to do
justice to the varied work of Alan of Lille (c. 1120–1203), which includes
philosophical allegories, sermons and two more straightforward theological
textbooks; the best guide is in the introduction to Alan of Lille [7.3].
47 There is a fine analysis of discussions of this subject (and of Peter of Poitiers) in
Boh [7.47] ; I follow Boh in some of my discussion in the next paragraph.
48 See Jolivet, ‘The Arabic inheritance’, in Dronke [7.49] 134–45 for a detailed
discussion and full bibliography.
49 See Burnett, ‘Hermann of Carinthia’, in Dronke [7.49] 386–404.
50 On David of Dinant, see Maccagnolo, ‘David of Dinant and the beginnings of
Aristotelianism in Paris’, in Dronke [7.49] 429–42; on John Blund, see Jolivet,
‘The Arabic inheritance’, in Dronke [7.49] 146–7.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
7.1 Adam of Balsham Ars disserendi, in L.Minio-Paluello (ed.) Twelfth-century
Logic, Texts and Studies I, Rome, 1956.
7.2 Alan of Lille Regulae caelestis iuris, ed. N.Häring, Archives d’histoire doctrinale
et littéraire du moyen âge 48 (1981): 97–226.
7.3 Alan of Lille Textes inédits, ed. M.-T. d’Alverny (Etudes de philosophie médiévale
52), Paris, 1965.
7.4 Anonymous ‘Two nominalist texts’, ed. S.Ebbesen, CIMAGL 61 (1991):
429–40.
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7.5 Anonymous Compendium Logicae Porretanum, ed. S.Ebbesen, K.Fredborg,
L. Nielsen, CIMAGL (1983): 46.
7.6 Anonymous, twelfth-century logical works on sophisms and on properties of
terms, in de Rijk [7.77], vol. I and vol. II, 2 respectively.
7.7 Bernard of Chartres (?) Glose super Platonem, ed. P.E.Dutton (PIMSST 107),
Toronto, 1991.
7.8 David of Dinant Quaternuli (fragments), ed. M.Kurzialek (Studi mediewistyczne
3), Warsaw, 1963.
7.9 Garlandus (of Besançon) Dialectica, ed. L.M.de Rijk, Assen, 1959.
7.10 Gilbert of Poitiers Commentaries on Boethius, ed. N.Häring (PIMSST 13),
Toronto, 1966.
7.11 Hermann of Carinthia De essentiis, ed. C.Burnett, Leiden and Cologne, 1982.
7.12 John Blund Tractatus de anima, ed. D.A.Callus and R.W.Hunt (Auctores
Britanni Medii Aevi 2), London, 1970.
7.13 John of Salisbury Metalogicon, ed. J.B.Hall (CC c.m. 98), Turnhout, 1991.
7.14 Peter Abelard, authentic ending of De interpretation commentary, in L. Minio-
Paluello (ed.) Twelfth-century Logic II: Abaelardiana inedita, Rome, 1958.
7.15 ——Collationes, ed. R.Thomas, Stuttgart and Bad Cannstatt, 1970.
7.16, 7.17, 7.18 published in Petri Abaelardi opera theologica (CC c.m. 11–13),
Turnhout, 1969–1987:
7.16 Peter Abelard Commentary on Romans, ed. E.Buytaert (11).
7.17 ——Theologia Christiana, ed. E.Buytaert (12).
7.18 ——Theologia summi boni, Theologia scholarium, ed. E.Buytaert and C.Mews
(13).
7.19 ——Dialectica, ed. L.M.de Rijk, 2nd edn, Assen, 1970.
7.20 ——Logica and Glossulae in B.Geyer (ed.) Peter Abaelards philosophische
Schriften (BGPTMA 21), Münster, 1919–31.
7.21 ——Scito teipsum (Ethics), ed. D.Luscombe, Oxford, 1971.
7.22 ——Sententie, ed. S.Buzzetti, Florence, 1983.
7.23 Peter of Poitiers Sentences, I and II (only these two vols published), ed. P.S.
Moore and M.Dulong, Notre Dame, Ind., 1943, 1950.
7.24 Peter of Vienna (Poitiers) Summa, ed. N.Häring, as Die Zwettler Summe
(BGPTMA n.f. 15), Münster, 1971.
7.25 Peter the Lombard Sentences, 2 vols (Spicilegium Bonaventurianum),
Grottaferrata, 1971, 1981.
7.26 Richard of St Victor De trinitate, ed. G.Salet (Sources Chrétiennes 63), Paris,
1959.
7.27 Thierry of Chartres and others, Commentaries on Boethius, in N.M.Häring
(ed.) Commentaries on Boethius by Thierry of Chartres and his School
(PIMSST 20), Toronto, 1971.
7.28 William of Champeaux Sententiae, in O.Lottin, Psychologie et morale aux XIIe
et XIIIe siècles, V, Gembloux, 1959, pp. 189–227.
7.29 William of Conches, Commentary on Timaeus (Glosae super Platonem), ed. E.
Jeauneau, Paris, 1965.
7.30 ——Dragmaticon, ed. W.Gratarolus (as Dialogus de substantiis physicis),
Strasbourg, 1567; repr. Frankfurt, 1967.
7.31 ——Philosophia mundi, ed. G.Maurach, Pretoria, 1980.
7.32 William of Lucca Summa dialetice artis, ed. L.Pozzi (Testi e saggi 7), Padua,
1975.
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Translations
7.33 Anonymous Abbreviatio montana, in N.Kretzmann and E.Stump (eds)
Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts: Logic and the
Philosophy of Language, Cambridge, 1988, pp. 39–78.
7.34 John of Salisbury Metalogicon, trans. D.D.McGarry, Gloucester, Mass., 1971.
7.35 Peter Abelard, discussion of universals from Logica in P.Spade, Five Texts on
the Mediaeval Problem of Universals, Indianapolis, Ind. and Cambridge, 1994,
pp. 26–56.
7.36 ——Theologia Christiana (extracts), trans. J.R.McCallum, Oxford, 1948.
7.37 ——Collationes, trans. J.Payer (as Dialogue between a Jew, a Christian and a
Philosopher) (Mediaeval Sources in Translation 20), Toronto, 1979.
7.38 ——Scito teipsum, in the edition by Luscombe [7.21].
7.39 ——selections (in French) in J.Jolivet, Abélard ou la philosophie dans le langage
(Vestigia 14), Freiburg, Switzerland, 1994.
7.40 ——Letters and Historia calamitatum, trans. B.Radice, Harmondsworth, 1974.
Bibliographies, Catalogues and Biographies
7.41 Barrow, J., Burnett, C. and Luscombe, D. ‘A checklist of the manuscripts
containing the writings of Peter Abelard and Héloïse and other works closely
associated with Abelard and his school’, Revue d’histoire des textes 14–15
(1984–5): 183–302.
7.42 Marenbon, J. ‘Medieval Latin commentaries and glosses on Aristotelian logical
texts before c. 1150 AD’, in C.Burnett (ed.) Glosses and Commentaries on
Aristotelian Logical Texts (Warburg Institute Surveys and Texts 23), London,
1993, pp. 77–127.
7.43 Mews, C. and Jolivet, J. ‘Peter Abelard and his influence’, in Contemporary
Philosophy: a New Survey, 6/1, Dordrecht, 1991, pp. 105–40.
Rich bibliographical information will be found in Dronke [7.49], especially in the
bio-bibliographies, pp. 443–57.
For biographies, see the bio-bibliographies in Dronke [7.49] 443–557; for Abelard,
see Marenbon [7.68] 7–35 and Mews [7.71].
Studies
7.44 Abélard: Le ‘Dialogus’, la philosophie de la logique (Cahiers de la revue de
théologie et de philosophie 6), Geneva, Lausanne and Neuchâtel, 1981.
7.45 Benson, R.L. and G.Constable (eds) Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth
Century, Oxford, 1980.
7.46 Blomme, R. La Doctrine du péché dans les écoles théologiques de la première
moitié du XIIe siècle (Universitas catholica Lovaniensis. Dissertationes ad
gradum magistri…consequendum conscriptae, series III, 6), Louvain and
Gembloux, 1958.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
7.47 Boh, I. ‘Divine omnipotence in the early Sentences’, in T.Rudavsky (ed.) Divine
Omniscience and Omnipotence in Medieval Philosophy (Synthese historical
library 25), Dordrecht, 1985, pp. 185–211.
7.48 Courtenay, W. (ed.) a collection of articles on twelfth-century nominalism,
Vivarium 30 (1992).
7.49 Dronke, P. (ed.) A History of Twelfth-Century Western Philosophy, Cambridge,
1988.
7.50 Gracia, J. Introduction to the Problem of Individuation in Early Medieval
Philosophy, Munich and Vienna, 1984.
7.51 Gregory, T. Anima mundi: La filosofia di Guglielmo di Conches e la Scuola di
Chartres, Florence, 1955.
7.52 Iwakuma, Y. ‘“Vocales”, or early nominalists’, Traditio 47 (1992): 37–111.
7.53 Jacobi, K. ‘Diskussionen über unpersönlichen Aussagen in Peter Abaelards
Kommentar zu Peri Hermeneias’, in E.P.Bos (ed.) Mediaeval Semantics and
Metaphysics (Artistarium supplements 2), Nijmegen, 1985, pp. 1–63.
7.54 Jeauneau, E. Lectio philosophorum, Amsterdam, 1973.
7.55 Jolivet, J. Arts du langage et théologie chez Abélard, 2nd edn (Etudes de
philosophie médiévale 57), Paris, 1982.
7.56 ——‘Non-réalisme et platonisme chez Abélard: Essai d’interprétation’, in J. Jolivet
(ed.) Abélard en son temps, Paris 1981; repr. in Jolivet, Aspects de la pensée
médiévale: Abélard: doctrine du langage, Paris, 1987.
7.57 ——‘Trois variations médiévales sur l’universel et l’individu: Roscelin, Abélard,
Gilbert de la Porrée’, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale 1 (1992): 111–55.
7.58 Jolivet, J. and Libera, A. de Gilbert de Poitiers et ses contemporains: aux origines
de la ‘logica modernorum’ (History of Logic 5), Naples, 1987.
7.59 Knuuttila, S. Modalities in Medieval Philosophy, London and New York, 1993.
7.60 Landgraf, A. Introduction à l’histoire de la littérature théologique de la
scolastique naissante, French edn prepared by A.-M.Landry (Publications de
l’institut d’études médiévales, Montreal 22), Montreal and Paris, 1973.
7.61 Libera, A. de La Querelle des universaux: De Platon à la fin du Moyen Âge,
Paris, 1996.
7.62 Lottin, O. Psychologie et morale au XIIe et XIIIe siècles, V, Gembloux, 1959.
7.63 Luscombe, D. ‘From Paris to the Paraclete: the correspondence of Abelard and
Heloise’, Proceedings of the British Academy 74 (1988): 247–83.
7.64 Marenbon, J. ‘Abelard and natural law’, in A.Zimmermann (ed.) Miscellanea
Mediaevalia 21(2): Mensch und Natur im Mittelalter, Berlin and New York,
1992, pp. 609–21.
7.65 ——‘Abelard’s ethical theory: two definitions from the Collationes’, in H.J.
Westra (ed.) From Athens to Chartres, Leiden, New York and Cologne, 1992,
pp. 301–14.
7.66 ——‘Platonismus im 12. Jahrhundert: alte und neue Zugangsweisen’, in T.
Kobusch and B.Mojsisch (eds) Platon in der abendländischen
Geistesgeschichte: neue Forschungen zum Platonsimus, Darmstadt, 1997, pp.
101–19.
7.67 ——‘Glosses and commentaries on the Categories and De interpretations before
Abelard’, in J.Fried (ed.) Dialektik und Rhetorik im früheren und hohen
Mittelalter, Munich, 1997, pp. 21–49.
7.68 ——The Philosophy of Peter Abelard, Cambridge, 1997.
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THE TWELFTH CENTURY
7.69 Martin, C.J. ‘Embarrassing arguments and surprising conclusions in the
development of theories of the conditional in the twelfth century’, in J.Jolivet
and A.de Libera (eds) Gilbert de Poitiers et ses contemporains (History of
Logic 5), Naples, 1987, pp. 377–400.
7.70 Mews, C. ‘On dating the works of Peter Abelard’, Archives de l’histoire
doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 52 (1985): 73–134.
7.71 ——Peter Abelard (Authors of the Middle Ages II, 5: Historical and religious
writers of the Latin West), Aldershot, 1995.
7.72 ——‘Nominalism and theology before Abelard: new light on Roscelin of
Compiègne’, Vivarium 30 (1992): 4–33.
7.73 Nielsen, L.O. Theology and Philosophy in the Twelfth Century: A Study of
Gilbert Porreta’s Thinking and the Theological Expositions of the Doctrine
of the Incarnation during the Period 1130–1180 (Acta theologica danica 15),
Leiden, 1982.
7.74 Pierre Abélard, Pierre le Vénérable (Colloques internationaux du Centre
National de la Recherche Scientifique 546), Paris, 1975.
7.75 Rijk, L.M. de ‘Semantics and metaphysics in Gilbert of Poitiers: A study in
twelfth-century metaphysics’, Vivarium 26 (1988): 73–112; 27 (1989): 1–35.
7.76 ——‘Peter Abelard’s semantics and his doctrine of being’, Vivarium 24 (1986):
85–128.
7.77 ——Logica modernorum I and II, Assen, 1962, 1967.
7.78 ——‘Some new evidence on twelfth-century logic: Alberic and the school of
Mont Ste Geneviève’, Vivarium 4 (1966): 1–57.
7.79 Southern, R.W. ‘Humanism and the school of Chartres’, in Medieval Humanism
and Other Studies, Oxford, 1970, pp. 61–85.
7.80 Thomas, R. (ed.) Petrus Abaelardus (1079–1142): Person, Werk und Wirkung
(Trier theologische Studien 38), Trier, 1980.
7.81 Tweedale, M. Abailard on Universals, Amsterdam, New York and Oxford,
1976.
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CHAPTER 8
The intellectual context of
later medieval philosophy:
universities, Aristotle, arts,
theology
Stephen Brown
ORIGIN OF THE UNIVERSITIES
A number of medieval towns in the twelfth century owed a large portion
of their renown to their schools. Chartres was both respected and
criticized for its efforts to reconcile Plato and Aristotle. Reims was a
centre for the study of Scripture and the Fathers. Anselm of Laon
brought fame to his home as a centre of developing theology. Paris was
a magnet attracting famous teachers: Abelard, the dialectician and
theologian; Hugh, Richard, and Andrew of St Victor, who brought to
their Parisian abbey a justly respected name in the study of Scripture
and a reverential awe for its level of mysticism; and Peter Lombard,
whose Sentences became, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century,
the ordinary textbook of theology. Toledo’s cathedral school became a
place of contact between the Christian and Muslim intellectual worlds
and offered a home for translators and commentators. In that school
Dominic Gundissalinus, Gerard of Cremona, the Scotsman Michael
Scotus, and the Englishman Alfred of Sareschal provided translations
of Aristotle and his Islamic commentators that would later serve as
key curriculum texts in the nascent universities.1 Bologna grew famous
for the study of law, owing mainly to the stature of the legal advisers of
Frederick Barbarossa and to the masters who explained Gratian’s great
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canonical collection, the Decretum. Salerno drew students for medicine
owing to the fame of Constantine the African, translator of the Articelli
or Art of Medicine, a collection of texts that became the heart of the
medical curriculum. Under the leadership of Bartholomew of Salerno,
Maurus and Urso of Calabria, Salerno stood as the centre for the study
of medicine from 1050 to 1200 before yielding its place of primacy to
Montpellier and Paris ([8.22] 65–88).
At the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries
great consolidations occurred. If we limit ourselves to the consideration
of theology, Paris led the way on the Continent. With the support of
Popes Innocent III and Gregory IX, the University of Paris became the
theological stronghold of the Christian world. The cathedral school of
Notre Dame, the abbey of St Victor, the houses of the newly arrived
Dominicans and Franciscans, formed an intellectual guild or
corporation of masters and students, a universitas magistorum et
scholarium. In the pursuit of their common interests they became a
unified and autonomous community. This guild took the title ‘University
of Paris’. Across the Channel, Oxford outstripped the other English
schools, owing mainly to the influence of Robert Grosseteste, student
of scriptural wisdom, translator of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics,
commentator on the Greek philosopher’s Posterior Analytics, bishop
of Lincoln, and chancellor of the young university ([8.21] 3–48).
THE AUGUSTINIAN MODEL OF STUDY
The programme of study for the cathedral, monastery and palace
schools of the twelfth century, and for the early universities of the late
twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, was inspired by St Augustine’s
On Christian Doctrine. Book II of Augustine’s work viewed traditional
pagan studies, if approached prudently, as helpful to those seeking
understanding of the divine wisdom found in the sacred Scriptures.
The seven liberal arts (the trivium of grammar, rhetoric and dialectic
and the quadrivium of arithmetic, astronomy, geometry and music),
along with geography, botany, geology and the mechanical arts all could
assist those who read the Scriptures to attain a fuller grasp of the divine
message. The twelfth-century schools of liberal arts became the faculties
of arts in the universities of the thirteenth century. The arts faculty was
a preparatory faculty, training students for further studies in law,
medicine, and especially theology.
Richard Fishacre, in a sermon that he preached on the first day of
class at Oxford in 1246, tells us that there is a threefold wisdom. The
first kind of wisdom is that which is written in the book of life. This
form of wisdom is the wisdom of God himself. To see God’s meaning
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and plan for everything, to the degree that is possible for man, is the
goal that all studies should strive to achieve. The way of attaining this
goal is by carefully studying the two other books that manifest the
divine wisdom found in the book of life: the book of the Scriptures and
the book of nature. The Scriptures provide God’s revelation to
humankind of the riches of his own wisdom. The Bible is, thus, the
principal help in coming to some understanding of divine wisdom. The
Scriptures also give us a view of the book of nature that differs from the
portraits of nature given by philosophers who are unaided by divine
revelation. The Scriptures tell us that the natural world is a world created
by and cared for by God. They likewise tell us that the created world
provides vestiges and images of its Creator. The Bible uses natural things
and the events of history to lead us to deeper understandings of God’s
wisdom. We must therefore study the Scriptures to learn what they
themselves say of God; but we must also, guided by the Bible, study the
natural world to see how richly it tells us about the God who creates
and cares for it, and whose imprint it bears. Both the Bible and creation
thus help us to discover ‘the depths of the riches both of the wisdom
and knowledge of God’ (Rom. 11:33) ([8.11] 23–36 and [8.20]).
This sermon of Richard Fishacre at Oxford, following the Augustinian
model of study, shows the way of investigation in the early medieval
universities. The final goal of all study is to come to a greater understanding
of God’s view of reality, by taking as primary source the sacred Scriptures,
which reveal the divine wisdom. The secondary instrument for discovering
divine wisdom is found in the created world, which provides all the
analogies for coming to a fuller understanding of God. They are the
analogies used in the Scriptures: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard
seed’; ‘You are the salt of the earth’; ‘Behold the lamb of God, who takes
away the sins of the world’; ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’ All other
studies serve as helps in pursuing the divine wisdom that lies hidden in
such scriptural declarations and that is manifested in some way in the
created images of mustard seeds, salt, lamb, and earthly kingdoms that
the Scriptures employ to speak of the hidden things of God. All the human
disciplines, principally those of grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic,
geometry, astronomy, music—and philosophy, in the more technical sense
of the term—are handmaids to be put at the service of the mistress, the
wisdom of the Scriptures ([8.11] 26–32).
THE STUDY OF ARISTOTLE
At the beginning of the universities, only in the area of dialectic (logic)
did Aristotle fit into the traditional curriculum of studies that prepared
students for the study of the sacred Scriptures. What became known as
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the logica vetus, or old logic, included Aristotle’s Categories and On
Interpretation. This old logic, available in Latin to the schools since
the time of Boethius (480–525), also included the introduction to the
Categories made by Porphyry and the commentaries on these two works
of Aristotle done by Boethius himself. Before the middle of the twelfth
century the logica nova, or new logic (the Prior Analytics, Posterior
Analytics, Topics and On Sophistical Refutations) was also in use. Some
of these works derived from the translation efforts of Boethius, but
had been lost or neglected; others, by 1150, had been newly translated
by James of Venice.2 Thus the whole of Aristotle’s Organon or logic
was available and had an ever deepening influence, transforming
medieval Christian thinking from a sacramental or symbolic form of
knowledge to a more scientific discipline through the study of various
causal connections.
As the more properly philosophical works of Aristotle (e.g. On the
Soul, Physics, Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics and Politics) were
translated and began to be studied, more than the style or character of
Christian knowledge was changed. The contents of Aristotle’s works,
his natural philosophy, slowly but surely also began to have their
influence: his view of man, his teaching on the eternity of the world, his
portrait of the unmoved Mover or supreme Being, his doctrine of virtues,
his focus on the natural fulfilment or end of man. For the first time since
the patristic era, Christian thinkers encountered a pagan philosopher
directly. Many were struck by the brilliance of his intelligence and the
strength of his argumentation; others were troubled by those of his
teachings that seemed incompatible with those of the Christian faith.3
DIFFICULTIES WITH ARISTOTLE’S
NATURAL PHILOSOPHY
Attempts at moderating the disturbing influence that Aristotle’s
philosophy might have were made a number of times. The first
intervention came in 1210 from the Provincial Council of Sens, presided
over by Peter of Corbeil; it forbade the reading of Aristotle’s ‘natural
philosophy’ at Paris. Five years later, the papal legate Robert de Courçon
also prohibited the reading of Aristotle’s ‘natural philosophy’. In 1231,
Pope Gregory IX appointed a commission of William of Auxerre, Simon
of Authie and Stephen of Provins to correct the prohibited books. Since
William of Auxerre died shortly thereafter, the commission never met.
Furthermore, this effort made by Gregory to correct Aristotle gradually
became viewed as an admission that Aristotle was not necessarily wrong,
but only wrong on certain issues. Little by little the prohibition against
his natural philosophy was ignored. By 1255, all the known works of
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Aristotle, at least at an introductory level of understanding, were
required in the arts faculty of the University of Paris ([8.26] 132–81).
Aristotle’s works were read at many different levels. There was the
introductory or beginner’s level, where a first approach was made to
one of his texts. In this beginning lectio, or reading, the Aristotelian
text was read aloud and the basic direction and outline of the work
was indicated. In a more advanced lectio, the text was explained in
detail. In commentaries on the philosopher’s works, the text was
sometimes evaluated and on certain points questions were posed and
answered. At the more advanced level of study, ‘questions’ concerning
a text usually involved a deeper examination of the philosophical issues
raised. In such a questioning approach, both sides of a debate were
presented, and then a solution to the conflict was offered by the master.
As teachers and students became more and more familiar with
Aristotle’s texts and philosophical positions, more specific conflicts
between what he seemed to teach and what were matters of Christian
belief became more evident.
Some points of Aristotelian teaching that caused problems for
Christians had been passed down from the patristic era. St Augustine,
for instance, had attributed to Aristotle the position that the world
was eternal and therefore was not created in time. This was one of the
grounds for the prohibitions at Paris against the public reading, before
correction, of the natural philosophy of Aristotle in the early
thirteenth century. Teachers who saw benefits for Christian theology
that might come from the study of Aristotle, argued, however, that
Aristotle never dealt with the question of creation. Aristotle, according
to their reading of his texts, was simply giving a physical explanation,
claiming that time did not exist before the world itself came to exist.
Philip the Chancellor and Alexander of Hales, for instance, claimed
that metaphysics dealt with the issue of creation and that Aristotle did
not pass metaphysical judgements on the nature of the world.
According to their interpretation, Aristotle was only speaking as a
physicist or natural philosopher: describing the world as it actually
exists, not taking a position on whether it was created or not (see
[8.16] 57–70).
Other problems concerning Aristotle’s teachings none the less
gradually came to the fore as Christian thinkers became more familiar
with his positions and with the commentaries made on them by earlier
authors, especially the often conflicting commentaries of the Arabic
philosophers, Avicenna and Averroes. St Bonaventure, in his Lenten
sermons at Paris in the late 1260s and early 1270s, pointed out a
number of problems in Aristotelian teaching at the university. The
disturbing views at times might not clearly be positions of Aristotle
himself, but rather positions of those in the arts faculty who show the
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strong influence of Averroes’ interpretations of the Greek philosopher.
The principal difficulties were: (1) the unicity of man’s intellect,
implying no personal immortality, and thus undermining individual
moral responsibility; (2) the eternity of the world, entailing its
independence from divine creation and a denial of divine concern or
providence; (3) the independent study of philosophy—pretending to
be a supreme and definitive wisdom separated from Christian
wisdom.4
The most detailed catalogue of the difficulties raised by the teaching
of certain heterodox or radical Aristotelians in the arts faculty,
however, is found in the list of 216 propositions condemned at Paris
in 1277. They might be divided into two basic groups: (1)
propositions concerned with the nature of philosophy and its relation
to divinely revealed truths; (2) propositions of a specific kind that
challenge particular truths of the faith. Among the first type of
propositions we can find these condemned statements: (a) there is no
more excellent state than to dedicate oneself to philosophy; (b) the
only wise men of the world are the philosophers; (c) for a man to
have any certitude about a conclusion, it is necessary for him to base
his argument on self-evident principles; (d) nothing should be
admitted as true unless it can be proved by a self-evident principle or
by something based on self-evident principles; (e) man should not be
content merely with authority if he is to achieve absolute certitude in
regard to any question; (f) the Christian faith impedes learning; (g)
there are fables and false things in the Christian religion just as in
other faiths. Among the specific positions condemned we find the
propositions: (a) God does not know anything but himself; (b) the
world, including all the species that are contained in it, is eternal; (c)
it is impossible to refute the reasons of the philosopher concerning the
eternity of the world without admitting that the will of God contains
incompatibles; (d) the intellect is numerically one for all men; (e)
happiness is had in this life, not in another.
There were, then, in the late 1260s and throughout the 1270s– 1280s
signs of a real challenge to the Augustinian model of study, which
stressed the unity of Christian wisdom. This challenge, of necessity,
also affected studies in the faculty of theology as teachers and students
moved there after learning or teaching in the arts faculty.5
THEOLOGY AS A DEDUCTIVE SCIENCE
The 1253 university statutes at Oxford, confirming actually existing
practice, indicate that a student could attain his degree in theology (which
was considered a higher degree, as opposed to the degree taken earlier
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
in the arts) by one of three routes: (1) he could study the Bible, a practice
that usually entailed writing commentaries, using earlier exegetical efforts,
on at least one book of the Old Testament and one book of the New
Testament; (2) he could present a commentary on Peter Comestor’s
Scholastic History which presented a broader overview of all history,
based primarily on the biblical account; (3) he could comment on the
Sentences of Peter Lombard, a collection of doctrinal questions organized
in four books according to logical principles. The same options in practice
were available even earlier in Paris, as is clear not only from the statutes
of the Dominican Order listing these three options, but also from the
practices that were in vogue after Alexander of Hales made the Sentences
of Lombard a course textbook. Generally, we can say that the third
option, the commentary on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, was the one
most frequently followed in the universities by the 1250s, if not earlier.
Theology, through this instrument, thus became more and more a
logically organized or scientific discipline (see [8.1] 112, [8.2] 49).
The logical organization of doctrinal questions is evident in the many
earlier authors, who followed Peter Lombard’s Sentences by
commenting in the margins of his text. His text was their text. It is also
evident in the Summae of the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries,
which for the most part patterned themselves on his schema of
questions. Explicit efforts to justify this procedure only come later.
They can be found, for example, in the Summa quaestionum written
by William of Auxerre in the 1220s, with its close structural
correspondence to Lombard’s Sentences. Lombard (d. 1160) provides
no discussion or justification of his method; nor do the people who
gloss his Sentences or write summae quaestionum that slightly alter
Lombard’s organization. William of Auxerre, living in a university
world more strongly touched by Aristotle’s logical works, tries to give
a methodological justification for writing such a work. For William,
theology starts with certain principles or premisses and makes explicit,
or deduces, the further knowledge implied in these premisses. The
primary premisses in theology are the articles of the Christian faith.
They are the starting points for theological reflection. They also set the
boundaries for theological studies, in the sense that theology should
not deviate from the articles of the faith nor pursue questions unrelated
to basic Christian beliefs ([8.6] 17).
Other theologians immediately following William of Auxerre more
deliberately attempted to set up parallel structures between Aristotle’s
model of science and their intellectual efforts in theology. Odo Rigaud,
speaking of a ‘science of the faith’ maps out the correspondences and
differences between the method he follows and the method sketched
by Aristotle in the Posterior Analytics (see [8.23] II, 12–13). Thomas
Aquinas set up a parallel between Aristotle’s description of a
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subalternated science, like optics, which used principles borrowed from
a higher or subalternating science such as geometry, and the
subalternated science of theology that uses principles borrowed from
the higher science possessed by God and the blessed—principles that
God has revealed in the Scriptures. Just as geometry, which studies
lines, helps the student of optics, which studies lines of vision, come to
an understanding of the lines of vision, so God’s knowledge of all that
he has revealed provides the ultimate first principles which allow the
student of theology to come to a knowledge or understanding of God
and all things as they are related to him. Theology, then, is a science in
the same way that optics is a science ([8.15] 67–92).
CRITIQUES OF THEOLOGY AS A
DEDUCTIVE SCIENCE
As we have indicated, the intellectual atmosphere in the late 1260s
and throughout the 1270s–1280s had altered. Argument had become
more precise and hard-nosed. Godfrey of Fontaines, who was a student
at Paris during most of Thomas Aquinas’ second teaching period there
(1269–72) attacked, in question 10 of his Quodlibet IV (1287),
Aquinas’ claim that theology was like a subaltern science. Godfrey
distinguishes two kinds of certitude: the certitude based on evidence
and the certitude based on faith. Technically, he calls them certitude of
evidence and certitude of adherence. He then argues that if we start
with principles or premisses that we hold because of faith, then no
matter how sure we are that the conclusions are true, still they will
never be science, since science is based on evidence. Of course, a correctly
argued conclusion can be a certain conclusion. Yet, since it still is based
on faith, it is not an evident conclusion, and thus is not science. We
might want to speak of the necessary way in which a faith conclusion
flows from faith premisses and argue that there is a science of the
consequence. Yet this in no way supplies evidence for the consequent
or conclusion.
Godfrey also contested the example given by Aquinas. He argues
that where a subaltern science must rely on principles received from an
expert in a higher science which, within the subaltern science, are
believed but cannot be known, then the subaltern science is not truly a
science at all. Yet this is the case in theology as Aquinas presents it: the
principles of theology, in so far as they are revealed by God, are believed.
Just as human authority begets opinion which is a state of mind lacking
both kinds of certitude, so divine authority produces faith which is a
state of mind that only has the certitude of adherence. Of what
advantage is it, asks Godfrey, for a theologian who is relying on such
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principles, which he cannot know but must accept as a matter of faith,
that they are known evidently and with certitude to the blessed and
that, in themselves, they are evident and certain? This does not bring
the believing theologian evidence. He remains essentially a believer,
without evidence. Theology is not a science, at least in the sense that it
brings evidence for theological truths (see [8.3] 260–4; cf. [8.25]
120–31).
Henry of Ghent (d. 1293) was also a critic of Thomas Aquinas.
Whereas Godfrey of Fontaines criticized Aquinas from an Aristotelian
viewpoint, Henry criticized him from an Augustinian one. One of
Henry’s main efforts in his approach to philosophy and theology was
to show that Aristotle had a limited vision of reality, that he was
deprived of the riches of Christian revelation, and that his philosophy
was too pretentious in presenting itself as a complete human wisdom.
In his discussion of the nature of theology, Henry gave the strictest
literal analysis of Aristotle’s theory of subalternation, as found in the
Posterior Analytics. Then he declared that none of the philosopher’s
types exactly fit what Thomas tried to make them fit. In effect, the
philosopher never knew a case of subalternation of the kind that
Thomas was speaking about (see [8.8] 52r–4r; cf. [8.12] 337–45, [8.14]
194–206).
GODFREY’S AND HENRY’S ALTERNATIVES
TO DEDUCTIVE THEOLOGY
Godfrey’s critique of Aquinas argued that any conclusion deduced from
premisses held on faith could only be a conclusion of faith. In proceeding
to such a conclusion or consequent we gain no evidence. The only way
in which one might speak of any scientific progress is in the logical
realm: we can by correct logical procedure guarantee science of the
consequence. This critical side of Godfrey moved at least one later
author to place Godfrey in the camp of those who held that theology is
a science of consequences (see [8.25] 108). For Godfrey, however,
theology is, beyond a science of consequences, a science of Sacred
Scripture. In a way that a layman does not, a theologian develops a
habit whereby he can show in the texts of Sacred Scripture the
justifications or warrants for the truths of the Christian faith. He knows,
for instance, that the Trinity and the Incarnation are taught or
anticipated in such and such texts of the Old and New Testament. He
thus knows not only the truths of the faith as presented in the Creed;
he knows the scriptural bases on which the Church supports herself in
teaching them. And this knowledge is not just a habit based on
memorization. A theologian comes to understand the Scriptures and
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sees that sense cannot be made of certain passages unless one admits a
plurality of persons in God and a plurality of natures in Christ.
Godfrey’s full position might even claim more of a role for a
theologian than what we have stated so far, but most later portraits of
his stance limit him to holding that theology is a science of Sacred
Scripture (see [8.4] 69–82; 4. [8.25] 155–67). Theology as a science of
Sacred Scripture was far too restrictive for Henry of Ghent, since it
seemed to leave aside any knowledge of the realities of which Sacred
Scripture speaks. It seemed to him that Godfrey’s position abandoned
the study of reality to philosophers and awarded simply the study of
the sacred texts to the theologians. In question 2 of Quodlibet XII
(1288), Henry waged his attack on Godfrey:
It is very striking that teachers in every other faculty do their
best to praise their science. It is only certain theologians, in
an effort to promote philosophy, who put down theology,
saying that it is not properly a science and that it cannot
make the realities we believe in truly intelligible in the
present life. Such theologians block any way of knowing or
understanding the things we believe in. They lead others to
the point of having no hope of understanding these realities.
Surely, this is pernicious, dangerous to those who hear it, and
harmful to the Church.
([8.7] 485v, trans. SFB)
It is in reaction to Godfrey’s main thesis, that theology is a science of
Sacred Scripture, that Henry of Ghent was forced to pursue another
route, which would admit a science of the realities spoken of in the
Scriptures and presented by the Church for Christian belief. He claimed
that theologians receive extra assistance from God to understand the
realities of which the Scriptures speak.
It is important to realize that, for Henry, any certain knowledge that
man might attain requires at least God’s general assistance or
illumination. A helpful analogy might be found by imagining a person
inside a cathedral, looking at the colours and shapes of the stained
glass windows. What that person immediately focuses on, of course,
are the colours and shapes of the figures in the windows. When we
reflect on the situation, however, we realize that this person could not
see the colours or determine the shapes unless the sun, hidden from
immediate perception, were present and active. Similarly, we would
grasp nothing for certain, because of the darkness of the objects or the
weakness of our sight, unless God, like the sun, were illuminating the
objects and assisting our sight. For Henry, this is the general illumination
required for any certain knowledge. In the case, however, when a
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theologian is dealing with the objects of faith, objects beyond man’s
natural perception even when aided with the general assistance of God’s
illumination, he needs a special assistance or illumination to grasp these
supernatural objects of faith.
Henry presents this special light as a middle light between the light
of faith, which elevates men with faith to know, by hearing the authority
of Scripture, things that are above anything Aristotle ever grasped. It is
also a light below that possessed by the blessed who behold the realities
that at one time they may have only believed. This middle light is a
special illumination given to theologians, as distinct from laymen and
the blessed, to grasp the realities they believe in.
In regard to the divine world, by knowing the natures of the
terms of faith, such as ‘Father’, ‘Son’, and ‘Holy Spirit’, he
can, by the intellect’s search, with the aid of supernatural
light [faith] and with special divine illumination [the middle
light], come to know that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the
Father and the Son, and not from the Father alone. And the
same holds for other realities that are proper to the science of
theology and that pertain to faith.
([8.8] 94v–95r, trans. SFB)
The science of theology as developed by Henry thus appeals to a middle
light between the light of faith and the light of glory. Theology thereby
is very definitely aimed beyond the study of the Scriptures as such
to a study of the higher realities of which the Scriptures speak ([8.7]
485r–486v).
THE DECLARATIVE THEOLOGY OF
PETER AUREOLI
Criticisms of Henry of Ghent’s position were strong. Godfrey thought
that Henry was placing theologians beyond academic accountability.
They could merely claim a superior light that others lacked ([8.4] 71).
John Duns Scotus points to a predecessor who wondered why students
and teachers spent so much time in the classroom sweating over
theological arguments rather than in chapel praying for this theological
light ([8.9] 43). In brief, to many theologians Henry seemed to be
claiming more than he could warrant.
Peter Aureoli (d. 1328) thought that the direction of theology had
gone awry since the time of William of Auxerre, often acclaimed as the
thirteenth-century apostle of deductive theology. Aureoli gives one of
the most extensive discussions on the nature of theology that can be
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found among medieval authors. He presents in great detail the positions
of Thomas, Godfrey, Henry and Duns Scotus, refutes each in terms of
his own view of the character of theology, and then tells us what
theology is really about.
When we say that he presents and criticizes the opinions of these
theologians, he does not simply repeat the critiques others have given
of these opinions. It is from his own perspective concerning the nature
of theology that he produces his critique. What is that perspective? It
is this: theologians develop many cognitive habits when they study
theology. Since they make many deductions, they develop strong
logical skills. Since they use among their premisses, besides the
premisses of faith, materials from physics and metaphysics, they
become very able in Averroes’ philosophy of nature and Avicenna’s
metaphysics. Since they trace revealed truths back to their biblical
sources, they become very knowledgable in the texts of the Scriptures.
Theologians thus develop cognitive abilities in many fields of learning.
Yet none of the intellectual habits that we have mentioned are the
proper habit of a theologian. Most recent theology, according to
Aureoli, has been led astray from what it is really about. It has been
led astray by the limping analogy that the articles of the faith are
principles or quasi-principles in theology. Theology in the proper sense
is surely about the articles of the faith, but not as principles from
which we deduce new truths. It is rather about the articles themselves.
Properly speaking, theology is declarative: it brings light to these very
articles of the faith.
When Aureoli says that theology is declarative, he means first of all
that the theologian, using analogies and probable reasons taken from
other sciences, is able to gain and offer some understanding of the
things he believes in, and is able to overcome doubts raised against
them. He can, furthermore, make clear the meanings of terms that are
used to express the truths of the Christian faith, and can appeal to and
explain the scriptural bases that sustain these truths. In brief, he is
‘ready to render an account of those things that are in him by faith’ (I
Peter 3:15). Now, none of these abilities makes him believe. His faith
is the ground for accepting these truths. Theology is declarative: it is a
habit that makes the theologian more clearly grasp with his mind the
things that the Church believes in. In the words of St Augustine in
Book XIV of On the Trinity, theology is the kind of ‘knowledge by
which the most wholesome faith is begotten, nourished, defended, and
strengthened’.
According to Peter Aureoli, Augustine, Thomas Aquinas and all
doctors of theology in their practice formed questions concerning the
very articles of the faith. They asked: Is there only one God? Is there in
God a trinity of persons? Is the incarnation possible? They tried to
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answer such questions in their summae or commentaries on Lombard’s
Sentences. It is not that they doubted their truth. The question as a
learning instrument was not developed to undermine the faith, nor to
produce faith. It was a method designed to bring greater clarity to
what they already believed. Instead of speaking of the articles of the
faith as principles or premisses, as theologians have done since at least
the time of William of Auxerre, Aureoli would have them speak of the
articles of faith almost as conclusions. By responding to the quaestio,
by clarifying the terms employed, by answering objections, by finding
suitable analogies, and developing strong arguments, theologians not
only make it clearer that there is one God, or that there are three persons
in God, or that the incarnation is possible, but they make it clearer
how these things are so ([8.10] 132–75; cf. [8.24] 20–78).
GREGORY OF RIMINI’S CASE FOR
DEDUCTIVE THEOLOGY
In the opening question of the prologue to his Commentary on Book I
of Lombard’s Sentences in 1342, Gregory of Rimini certainly had Peter
Aureoli in mind when he tried to determine what is proper theological
discourse. Proper theological discourse must focus, he contends, on
the articles of the faith, not on the probable arguments that might be
employed to bring some clarity to the articles of the faith. Probable
arguments in themselves only beget opinion, and surely theology is
not primarily a discipline aimed at producing opinion.
Gregory’s own view of properly theological discourse is the type of
argument made up of propositions contained in Sacred Scripture or
propositions deduced from scriptural propositions. Everyone realizes,
he argues, that something is proved theologically when it is proved
from the words of Scripture. If a theologian proves that God is eternal
and does so on the basis of the eternity of motion, as Aristotle does in
Book XII of the Metaphysics, he is not involved in theological discourse.
If he bases himself on John’s Gospel (‘In the beginning was the Word…’
[John 1:1]), then this is proper theological discourse. This is the kind
of discourse that marks Augustine’s arguments in On the Trinity: he
does not prove the Trinity by probable propositions, but rather by the
authority of Scripture. Likewise, when the Church determined as a
matter of Christian belief that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father
and the Son, it did not declare this to be an article of faith because of
analogies or probable arguments. It was because the Church saw that
this truth followed necessarily from the statements of Sacred Scripture.
The ultimate resolution of all theological discourse, according to
Gregory, is the truth of the sacred canon of the Scriptures. It is from
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the truths of Scripture that all other theological truths are ultimately
deduced. Theology, then, according to Gregory, properly is deductive,
not declarative ([8.5] 13–23; [8.18] 610–44).
THEOLOGY AS DECLARATIVE AND
DEDUCTIVE
Some theologians, such as Peter of Candia, who commented on
Lombard’s Sentences at Paris in 1378–80, evaluated the declarative
theology of Peter Aureoli and the deductive theology of Gregory of
Rimini, and judged that both approaches were necessary. He argued
that the articles of the faith can, in fact, be appreciated in themselves
and also as premisses for extending the domain of faith by deducing
further legitimate conclusions. The method followed when the articles
of the faith are considered in themselves is a direct or immediate
approach to revealed truth: all the truths are seen as parts of a cohesive
whole and are affirmed in an equal manner. When the articles of the
faith are viewed as premisses, then the theological conclusions drawn
from them are not affirmed directly. The believer adheres to them as
derived, and as due to his adherence to the premisses from which they
are derived and to which he directly assents. In admitting that both
declarative and deductive theology are proper theological habits, Peter
of Candia claims that he was following in the footsteps of John Duns
Scotus and William of Ockham. He also was imitating the actual
practice of almost all medieval university theologians up to the time of
Gregory of Rimini (see [8.13] 156–90).
NOTES
1 For the beginnings of the translation movement, see above, Chapter 7, pp. 179–
80.
2 On the logica vetus and logica nova, see also above, Chapter 7, pp.
176–7.
3 See Dod [8.17] 45–79 and Lohr [8.19] 80–98. For a fuller account of the
translations (and Arab commentaries), see below, Chapter 10, pp. 226–7.
4 See Van Steenberghen [8.27] 3–114. On Bonaventure, see also below, Chapter
10, pp. 227–30.
5 See Denifle-Chatelain [8.1] 543–60 for the relevant charters.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
8.1 Denifle, H.S. and Chatelain, A. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, 4 vols,
Paris, Delain, 1889–97.
8.2 Gibson, S. Statuta antiqua universitatis Oxoniensis, Oxford, Clarendon Press,
1931.
8.3 Godfrey of Fontaines Les quatres premiers Quodlibets de Godefroid de
Fontaines, M.De Wulf and A.Pelzer (eds) Les Philosophes belges, vol. 3,
Louvain, Institut Supérieur de Philosophie de l’Université, 1904.
8.4 ——Le huitième Quodlibet, Le neuvième Quodlibet, Le dixième Quodlibet,
J.Hoffmans (ed.) Les Philosophes belges, vol. 4, Louvain, Institut Supérieur
de Philosophie de l’Université, 1924.
8.5 Gregory of Rimini Lectura super primum et secundum Sententiarum, ed.
A.D. Trapp and V.Marcolino (Spätmittelalter und Reformation. Texte
und Untersuchung 6), Berlin and New York, De Gruyter, 1981.
8.6 William of Auxerre Summa aurea, J.Ribaillier (ed.) Spicilegium
Bonaventurianum, vol. 16, Paris and Grottaferrata, Editions du Centre
National de la Recherche Scientifique et Editiones Collegii S.Bonaventurae
ad Claras Aquas, 1980.
8.7 Henry of Ghent Quodlibeta, Paris, I.Badius Ascensius, 1518.
8.8 ——Summa quaestionum ordinariarum, Paris, I.Badius Ascensius, 1520.
8.9 John Duns Scotus Opera omnia, vol. XV, Paris, Vivès, 1893.
8.10 Peter Aureoli Scriptum super Primum Sententiarum, ed. E.M.Buytaert, St
Bonaventure, NY, Louvain and Paderborn, Franciscan Institute, E.Nauwelaerts
and F.Schöningh, 1952.
Studies
8.11 Brown, S.F. ‘Richard Fishacre on the need for “philosophy”’, R.Link-Salinger,
J.Hackett, M.S.Hyman, R.J.Long and C.H.Marekin (eds) A Straight Path:
Studies in Medieval Philosophy and Culture, Washington, DC, Catholic
University of America Press, 1988.
8.12 ——‘Henry of Ghent’s critique of Aquinas’ subalternation theory and the early
Thomistic response’, R.Työrinoja, A.I.Lehtinen and D.Føllesdal (eds)
Knowledge and the Sciences in Medieval Philosophy, Helsinki, Annals of the
Finnish Society for Missiology and Ecumenics, vol. 55, 1990.
8.13 ——‘Peter of Candia’s hundred year “History” of the theologian’s role’,
Medieval Philosophy and Theology 1 (1991): 156–90.
8.14 ——‘Henry of Ghent’s Reductio artium ad theologiam’, D.Gallagher (ed.)
Thomas Aquinas and his Influence in the Middle Ages, Washington, DC,
Catholic University of America Press, 1994.
8.15 Chenu, M.-D. La Théologie comme science au XIIIe siècle, Paris, Vrin, 1957.
8.16 Dales, R.C. Medieval Discussions of the Eternity of the World, Leiden, New
York, Copenhagen and Cologne, E.J.Brill, 1990.
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8.17 Dod, B.G. ‘Aristoteles Latinus’, in CHLMP.
8.18 Grassi, O. ‘La questione della teologia come scienza in Gregorio da Rimini’,
Rivista di filosofia neo-scolastica 68 (1976): 610–44.
8.19 Lohr, C. ‘The medieval interpretation of Aristotle’, in CHLMP.
8.20 Long, R.J. ‘The science of theology according to Richard Fishacre: edition of
the Prologue to his Commentary on the Sentences’, Mediaeval Studies 34
(1972): 71–98.
8.21 McEvoy, J. The Philosophy of Robert Grosseteste, Oxford, Clarendon Press,
1982.
8.22 Montero-Cartelle, E. ‘Encuentro de culturas en Salerno: Constantino el Africano,
Traductor’, J.Hamesse et al. (eds) Rencontres de cultures dans la philosophie
médiévale, Louvain and Cassino, Publications de l’Institut d’Etudes médiévales,
1990.
8.23 Sileo, L. Teoria della scienza teologica, Rome, Pontificium Athenaeum
Antonianum, 1984.
8.24 Streuer, S.R. Die theologische Einleitungslehre des Petrus Aureoli, Werl in
Westphalia, Franziskanische Forschungen, 1968.
8.25 Tihon, P. Foi et théologie selon Godefroid de Fontaines, Paris and Bruges,
Desclée de Brouwer, 1966.
8.26 Van Steenberghen, F. La Philosophie au XIIIe siècle, Louvain and Paris,
Publications Universitaires and Béatrice-Nauwelaerts, 1966.
8.27 ——Thomas Aquinas and Radical Aristotelianism, Washington, DC, Catholic
University of America Press, 1980.
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CHAPTER 9
Metaphysics and science in
the thirteenth century:
William of Auvergne, Robert
Grosseteste and Roger Bacon
Steven Marrone
By the third decade of the thirteenth century there emerge the first
signs of a new metaphysics. Alongside Neoplatonizing idealism we
now see attempts to lay greater emphasis on the ontological density of
the created world and to structure reality without resorting to the terms
of a relation to the divine ideal. The ensuing philosophical reassessment
was more systematic, more technically precise and more self-conscious
than anything the medieval West had seen before. Given the catalysing
role played by logic, it was only natural that much of this programme
was carried out within the confines of an attempt to explain knowledge.
For the early thirteenth century, metaphysics and epistemology went
hand in hand.
The two figures who did the most to promote the new metaphysics,
as well as a profoundly Aristotelianizing campaign to establish the
criteria for knowledge, were masters whose important work was done
between 1220 and 1235 in the schools of theology at the new
universities. Robert Grosseteste (d. 1253) was born in England probably
before 1170, studied and taught the arts curriculum in provincial
schools and perhaps at Paris and Oxford, and began to lecture on
theology at Oxford after 1214 but no later than 1225. His activity as
a philosopher effectively ended with his appointment as bishop of
Lincoln in 1235. William of Auvergne (d. 1249) was born in France
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around 1180, went to Paris to study, and began teaching there first in
arts and then by the 1220s in theology. He was named bishop of Paris
in 1228, although he continued to write about philosophical matters
for some years thereafter.
In Grosseteste’s earlier works there is, to be sure, no hint of the new
attitude. His treatise On Truth (De veritate) offers an ontology still
firmly grounded in the Neoplatonic world-view. Quoting Anselm, he
defines truth as a kind of ontological obligation: the correctness
(rectitudo) of objective things ([9.3] 135:3–6). Such obligation is met
inasmuch as things conform to God’s eternal word, or, more specifically,
to an idea or reason (ratio, ratio aeterna) in God’s mind, eternally
representing the object as it ought to be ([9.3] 137:1–2, 139:29–30).
This idealized notion of truth is directly manifest in Grosseteste’s
noetics. Drawing on an image commonplace in Latin Christian
discourse since the time of Augustine, he explains that the intellect can
attain the truth, its proper object, only in an intelligible light shining
from God himself ([9.3] 137:2–4). The image surely serves in part as
shorthand for a more complicated epistemic argument. If objective
truth is a quality arising out of the conformity between an object and
its divine ideal, then the mind can seize the truth only when it perceives,
and can compare, both thing (res) and idea (ratio) ([9.3] 138:4–11). It
is clear, however, that Grosseteste also takes quite literally the existence
of a higher light in which truth must be known. He goes on to say that
just as the eye can see a coloured body only when it is bathed in visible
light, so the mind can know a thing in its truth only if the divine light
is shining on it ([9.3] 137:19–25).
Yet when Grosseteste came to analysing Aristotle’s ideas about true
knowledge, a dramatically different vision took shape in his mind. In
the Commentary on the Posterior Analytics, his most mature account
of the relation between intellect and objective reality, dating probably
from the late 1220s, he speaks of truth as a simple thing in the world
(illud quod est), with no mention of a comparison to God’s ideal ([9.6]
99:17–18). The source of this view goes back to On Truth, where for
one uncharacteristic moment Grosseteste had recalled Augustine’s
definition of truth as ‘what a thing is’ (id, quod est), adding, in violation
of traditional Boethian language, that this was the same as its being
(esse) ([9.3] 141:13–15). But what was merely an interesting aside in
the early work now takes centre stage. Grosseteste in the Aristotle
commentary is prepared to argue that the truth of a thing is exclusively
its substantial presence in external reality. Another word for this is
‘essence’, taken as a thing’s formal core shorn of all the accidents of
material circumstance (puritas essentiae suae non cum admixtione
conditionum materialium ([9.6] 406–7:82–4). So patent a breach of
Neoplatonizing principles appealed to William of Auvergne as well,
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for in his treatise On the Universe (De universo) from the early 1230s
he similarly defines the objective truth of a thing as its ‘substance, or
essence, or being’. It is what is left to an object once all accidentals
(circumvestitio accidentium) have been stripped away ([9.1] I:836aE;
also I: 794bF).
The new notion of truth opened the way for both thinkers to attack
Neoplatonizing ontology and the conditions of knowledge it entailed.
Referring to Plato and the Timaeus, William concedes in On the
Universe that it is correct to posit an archetypal world of exemplary
ideals (exemplaria) of which things in the perceived world are imitations
(exempla), providing one locates the exemplary world in the mind of
God. The problem with Plato is that he took the idea too far ([9.1] I:
823aC, 823bC, 835aA). As should be clear from the definition of an
object’s truth as its being or substance, the truth of something in the
world and the truth of an idea in God’s mind are not the same ([9.1] I:
837a(B-C)). Aristotle was right when he criticized Plato’s notion of the
reference of simple terms. Words such as ‘earth’, ‘fire’, ‘water’ and ‘air’
refer immediately to simple substances in the world and imply no
comparison or reference to the Creator ([9.1] I: 835aB). A
Neoplatonizing theory of truth—like that we have seen in Grosseteste’s
On Truth—is both semantically and ontologically misleading.
The Grosseteste of the Commentary on the Posterior Analytics
agreed. A long, often misinterpreted passage outlines five sorts of object
that might serve as immediate referent for terms of universal predication
([9.6] 139–41:99–145). The first are the eternal reasons (rationes) in
God, ‘what Plato called ideas or the archetypal world’; the second are
exemplary forms impressed by God on the minds of angels; the third
are the causal reasons (rationes causales) of earthly things residing in
the celestial spheres; the fourth, the inherent forms of real things
themselves, taken as signifying the whole substance; and the fifth,
accidents read as signs of the substantial reality to which they adhere.
Grosseteste comments that it was according to the fourth way that
Aristotle explained the predication of kinds and types (genera et species),
and it is clear from what he says throughout the work that he accepts
this as the norm for human knowledge in the world.1 Echoing William,
he claims that Plato’s kinds and types—separate substances in an
archetypal world held to be properly predicated of subjects in this,
their exemplified imitator—are monsters produced by an erring intellect
(prodigia quae format error intellectus) ([9.6] 224:142–8).
For all their sympathy to Aristotle’s theory of reference, however, William
and Grosseteste shared an ontology of essence quite unlike anything
Aristotle had in mind. William rejects the authentically Aristotelian position
of Boethius whereby specific essences are individuated by the accidents
of their particular—or material—instantiation ([9.1] I: 802a (E-F)).
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Instead he maintains that individuals are both fully particular and fully
specific—that is to say, general—in their essence, which was, for him, their
substance as well. Indeed, he insists that the numerical distinction of
individuals of the same species can be reduced to what he calls an ‘essential
difference’ (differentia essentialis): the fact that the essence of this thing is
not precisely the essence of that ([9.1] I:858b–59a(G-A)). Recognizing
the awkwardness of his language, he hastens to add that the difference
does not amount to a dissimilitude (dissimilitudo), which might sever the
unity of the specific type, but should technically be referred to as a diversity
(diversitas) among particulars ([9.1] I:802aG). Grosseteste, too, held to
the view that the essential nature of things was in and of itself individual
([9.6] 213:221–4). Despite the philosophical ambiguity of such a position,
it continued to be defended throughout the thirteenth century, nowhere
more loyally than among Franciscans of the so-called Augustinian school,
and provided the impetus for Scotus’ famous theory of the formal
distinction.
A notion of essence as of itself fully individualized naturally
complicated the explanation of universal predication, which by the
terms of William’s and Grosseteste’s semantics entailed direct reference
to the very instantiated essences of which individuals were comprised.
William never addressed the matter, but Grosseteste tried his hand at a
solution that appears inspired by the terminist logic of his day.
According to the Commentary on the Posterior Analytics, although
universal predication cannot be reduced to an ontological configuration
exactly the same as that of singularity, it must be founded on one that
is not entirely different ([9.6] 245:127–34). The notion of essence as
simultaneously singular and general demanded as much. If, therefore,
as Aristotle maintained, the universal is ‘one thing from and in many’
([9.6] 161:329–35)—a single predicate drawn from the knowledge of
many singulars and referring to them all—this is because the universal
taken in itself (universale secundum se) is neither one nor many (nec
unum nec multa) but somehow capable of being construed as both. In
Grosseteste’s words, it ‘falls to’ (accidit) the universal, most probably
through the agency of the intellect, to be one thing while representing
many ([9.6] 244:110–14). Certainly Grosseteste had in mind here the
logician’s understanding of the supposition of terms, by which linguistic
markers that in themselves could signify either the singular or general
aspect of an essence—words like ‘horse’ or ‘man’—took on either
universal or particular reference according to the demands of the
propositions in which they were employed. Universals, in short, were
terms: words denoting essence used for the purposes of universal
predication (see [9.20] 185–7). The ambiguity of the term before
supposition—of the ‘universal in itself’—simply mirrored the fact that
it signified an essence that was also in itself both singular and general.
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By now we have reached an ontology and a semantics almost
anticipating the nominalism of the fourteenth century. There was,
however, at least for William still room for Neoplatonizing views. As
he explains in On the Universe, while most words by which we describe
created things refer directly to substances in the world, there are some
that point more immediately to God and divine attributes. The reason
is that the objective truth for which such words stand lies more precisely
in God than in anything in the created world. When these words are
used in discourse they consequently signify a divine object most
properly—which is to say, univocally—and a created object only by
equivocation, via an explicit or implied comparison (comparatio) to
God ([9.1] I:834a(F-G), 834b(G-H), 837b(A,B,D)). In short, for these
cases the Anselmian view of reality and human knowledge of it seen
earlier in Grosseteste’s On Truth applies without qualification.
What is most interesting about these special cases is the kind of
knowledge they entail. Although in On the Universe William speaks
of words implicating the ‘magnificence or excellence’ of God (like
‘being’, ‘good’, ‘true’, ‘power’ and ‘powerful’) it is evident from what
he says in his nearly contemporaneous treatise On the Soul (De anima)
that he also has in mind a class of terms like ‘whole’, ‘part’, ‘equal’ and
‘odd’ out of which are constructed the fundamental propositions of
rational argument. The latter are, William notes, what ‘the philosophers’
called ‘axioms’ (dignitates) or ‘first impressions’ (primae impressiones),
what he refers to as the self-evident principles of science (principia
scientiarum nota per semetipsa) ([9.1] II suppl.: 209b). They constituted
Aristotle’s common principles of demonstration, of which the most
basic were the rules of non-contradiction and exclusive alternation.
Relying on the Neoplatonizing interpretation of Avicenna, William adds
that Aristotle posited a separate agent intellect—a higher intelligence
hovering above human souls—to impress on the mind the intelligible
forms (signa vel formae intelligibiles) by which such terms were known.
He insists, instead, that it is God himself, the authentic archetypal world,
who supplies the mind with these forms through his spiritual
illumination ([9.1] II suppl.: 211a-b).
Substantial concession to Neoplatonizing concerns, this theory of
principal cognition was, none the less, an anomaly, a flashback to a
world-view fast disappearing in William’s and Grosseteste’s thought.
In all other respects, they worked singlemindedly to tie their theories
of knowledge ever more tightly to an ontology of absolutes in the
perceived world. Indeed they thought they could lay out a taxonomy
of cognition true to the principles of evidence and argumentation found
in Aristotle, rivalling his ability to account for everything without
recourse to a Neoplatonizing ideal in a world above. Nowhere is this
more apparent than in their explanation of the greatest degree of
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certitude to which knowledge could lay claim. Here both scholastics
fully accepted Aristotle’s views. Grosseteste’s Commentary on the
Posterior Analytics was in fact a principal conduit by which
Aristotelianizing epistemology was made available to the medieval
university world.
The key was scientia or science, the Latinate equivalent of Aristotle’s
episte-me-, which constituted knowledge that could be regarded as
absolutely certain. As Grosseteste makes plain in his Commentary,
scientific knowledge is demonstrated knowledge: knowledge of the truth
of a proposition that has been proved by means of syllogistic argument.
What renders the syllogism scientific—that is, properly demonstrative—
is that the middle term picks out the immutable, or necessary, cause
making the subject—whether it be a simple nature or a complex state
of affairs—what it is ([9.6] 99–100:16–27, 406:76–9, 407:92–3). Of
course all this has to be approached from the essentialist perspective of
Aristotle, by which the reality of things was immutably determined
according to fixed natures, but given this essentialism, one could easily
believe that a clear understanding of the nature yielded the appropriate
middle. From there it was simply a matter of logic to fashion a fully
reasonable (propter quid)—and absolutely certain—defence of a
statement of the truth ([9.6] 189:23–30).
Naturally, any such demonstration of the truth of a statement—the
demonstrated conclusion—depended on knowledge of the premisses
from which the demonstrative syllogism was drawn, and if there were
not to be an infinite regress in arguments for truth, there had to exist
some premisses whose truth was evident without any syllogism at all.
These were Aristotle’s principles of science, whose truth was grasped
immediately by nous, a non-discursive habit of mind Latinized as
intellectus and translatable as something like prepositional intuition.
Following Aristotle to the letter, Grosseteste explains that it is by means
of the two modes of cognition, intellectus and scientia, that all absolutely
certain knowledge is attained, the former differing from the latter in
involving no argument (no syllogism or middle term) and constituting
the epistemic basis upon which the latter must reside ([9.6] 406–7:76–
89 and 98–9, 281:89–91). It is, he says, the undemonstrated knowledge
of first principles (prima principia), themselves the indemonstrable
foundation for all demonstration ([9.6] 103:92–3, 278:3–7, 407:91;
and 281:91–2, 407:93–5). William, too, accepts Aristotle’s
epistemological scheme, referring to the classic exposition of it in the
Posterior Analytics and directing his readers to its exemplary application
in the Physics ([9.1] II suppl.: 210a).
In so far as the formal elaboration of this science-oriented
epistemology entailed the application of the rules of prepositional and
syllogistic logic, it had little bearing on ontology, but there was at least
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one aspect of an Aristotelianized theory of science that raised questions
about being and reality. Scientific truths were supposed to be immutable.
For Grosseteste, that meant that they had somehow to be perpetual
and incorruptible ([9.6] 139:89–95).
One way to take this was simply to recognize that demonstrations
consisted of propositions employing universal terms. The immutability
of science was thereby reduced to the incorruptibility of universals, a
quality easily accounted for with Grosseteste’s essentially terminist
theory of the universal in itself. As he says in the Commentary, universals
are corrupted not in themselves (ex non se ipsis) but only in so far as
the singular entities in which they are instantiated (deferentia) pass
away ([9.6] 141:145–9). The instantiating entities might be the words
standing for universal terms in actual utterances or the existing
referential base of such terms at any given time, but either way the
universal itself as a term available for supposition—a logical entity—
escapes the existential restraints of its real base. And just in case this
answer is deemed insufficient, Grosseteste proposes another, focusing
more on the real referents themselves. The perpetuity of universals can
be saved even in a world of constant change because for all valid general
terms, there is always somewhere at least one real individual to serve
as referent and thus ontological anchor. After all, even though some
things die away in winter, there is always summer somewhere on earth
where objects of the same type can flourish ([9.6] 141:149–54).2
Yet the immutability of science might also be taken to mean that the
propositions themselves, and not just their conditions of truth, had to
be perpetual. This demand was commonly made in the Neoplatonizing
traditions from which both Grosseteste and William drew, and in On
Truth Grosseteste presented a most Neoplatonizing way of satisfying
it. Faithful to the tradition, he there takes perpetuity to mean eternity,
as with the eternity of God. It is, he explains, possible to account for
immutable truth in a world where no human utterances are
incorruptible or unchanging so long as one concedes that it is legitimate
to fall back on the eternal utterance propositions are given in God’s
mind ([9.3] 139–41). But such an account would have sat uneasily in
the Aristotelianizing context of the Commentary on the Posterior
Analytics, and in fact Grosseteste neither mentions it nor raises the
question of the immutability of propositions in that work.
We must turn to William’s writings for a theory to fill the gap. In
On the Universe he states quite plainly that people commit a grievous
error when they try to explain the eternal verity of statements which
are always true by pointing to an eternal ontological base in the First
Truth, God himself ([9.1] I: 793aA). Instead, it is possible to account
for such truths without having recourse to any supratemporal
conditions at all. One need merely take advantage of scholastic
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innovations in prepositional logic. Drawing on a familiar definition of
prepositional truth (derived from Avicenna) as the accommodation of
speech and reality (adaequatio orationis et rerum), William insists that
the truth implicated in a true statement is nothing more than a relation.
As such, it does not imply a reality beyond that of the related extremes:
an utterance and its complex referent ([9.1] I: 795a(B-D)).
Here is where the new logic is relevant, for the precise words William
uses for utterance and referent (enunciatio and enunciabile) reflect the
increasing agreement among logicians that a true statement refers to a
truth-bearing entity, what we would call the proposition, separate from
any referential conditions in the real world.3 Thus, as William makes
clear, neither extreme of the relation of truth has more than a tenuous
connection to real existence. Utterances are as fleeting as words or
thoughts, and propositions (enunciabilia) are merely the logical
representations of reality as it is or might be. This being so, truth, a
relation that places no additional ontological burden on the extremes
it relates, need have no greater existential presence than normal
utterances or propositions, even if it is held to be immutable. Something
can be said always to be true without there having to exist at every
moment an utterance expressing the truth or an actual referential base
([9.1] I: 795b-96a(D-E)). Prepositional truth is, William concludes,
‘rational or logical’ (veritas rationales sive logica) and thereby formally
independent of the question of actual existence ([9.1] I: 796aE). In
short, the perpetuity of immutable truth was not so much an ontological
as a logical condition, having little to do with the eternity of God.
There remained one kind of scientific truth particularly perplexing
to Grosseteste just because his own attenuated account of the
immutability of science seemed inadequate to explain it. He had
predicated the perpetuity of universals partially upon his confidence
that there was always somewhere at least one real instance of every
general term, but this was not the case for some of the truths of what
we would call natural science. There are not always lunar eclipses,
although we feel justified in making universal statements about them.
Or, to shift attention from the term to the proposition, we say it is
universally true that heavy objects fall, even though any heavy object
can be prevented from doing so. Such truths, Grosseteste notes in the
Commentary, while not absolutely necessary, are regular enough—in
scholastic parlance, their complex referents occur with sufficient
frequency (frequenter evenientia)—to satisfy the demands of science
([9.6] 264:119–22). Still, how can they be called immutable? Grosseteste
offers two explanations, but the most relevant for us speculates that
Aristotle intended to account for the perpetuity of such truths by
insisting that their demonstrations specify the conditions under which
they would be true ([9.6] 144–5:200–19). Framed in conditional rather
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than categorical terms, such truths become just as immutable as those
of the more necessary sciences, for whenever the conditions are met,
they are indeed always true. Grosseteste appears here to be anticipating
the notion of ex suppositione demonstration first fully elaborated later
in the century by Albert the Great and by means of which even Galileo
still defended the epistemic force of natural science.4
Aristotle, however, had also talked about experience; it was, as he
said at the beginning of the Metaphysics, along with memory one of
the fundamental sources of scientific knowledge. The same term had
considerable resonance for Grosseteste and William, and not only in
ways Aristotle might have intended. Grosseteste’s ideas about experience
have especially attracted the attention of historians of science ever since
Crombie insisted that it was here we should look to find the medieval
origins of the modern experimental method ([9.18] 1 and 10–11). Yet
before accepting Crombie’s judgement, we must remember that the
words employed by thirteenth-century scholastics to talk about what
can be loosely translated as ‘experience’ were varied, including most
prominently experientia and experimentum, and it is not easy to
ascertain the precise meaning of any of them. Historians must not
assume too readily that their use has anything to do with our
understanding of experimental method.
There is, in fact, only one occasion where Grosseteste talks about
experientia in a way suggestive of what we most often mean by
‘experiment’. The passage, in the Commentary on the Posterior
Analytics, begins by stating the intention of sketching out a method
for establishing what Grosseteste calls ‘experimental universal
principles’ (principia universalia experimentalia) (see [9.6] 214–15:252–
71). In other words, he will propose an empirical way to certify some
of the principles—that is, syllogistic premisses—to be used for scientific
demonstration. From the context it is clear that the principles in question
will all belong to natural science, constituting truths that can be held
neither with the absolute certitude of the principles of logic and
mathematics nor with the still evident certitude of statements in natural
science about the essential natures of things, for instance, the definitions
of man or animal. Experimental principles are fundamental propositions
for which there is no immediate or, in Aristotle’s terms, purely analytical
way to determine their truth.
According to Grosseteste, the first inkling of the shape of these truths
comes to the mind after repeated sensory exposure to a sequence of
events in the external world. For example, one might witness the eating
of scammony followed by the passing of red bile often enough to suspect
a relation of cause and effect. The intellect then goes on to form the
proposition, ‘Scammony purges red bile’, but it is not yet able to claim
with scientific certitude that the proposition is true. For this, it must
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turn to experiment (convertere [se] ad experientiam). In the example
under consideration, one must feed scammony to a subject after having
carefully removed all other agents that might purge red bile and then
watch what happens. If one does this many times and the result is that
the subject invariably passes red bile, then one is justified in holding
the proposition about scammony and bile to be universally true.
It is impossible not to interpret all this as an account of experiment
in the modern sense of the word, the controlled verification of a
hypothesis or, in Grosseteste’s terms, of a candidate for inclusion among
the principles of science. Although there is no evidence that anyone in
the thirteenth century considered the practical possibilities of a
programme of experimentation set upon this theoretical foundation,
or saw in any such programme the potential for a reformation of the
sciences as was to be attempted in the seventeenth century, it is clear
that at least Grosseteste appreciated the philosophical principle that
classical experimenters would later employ to dramatic effect.
Yet this use of the idea of experiment constitutes an exception to the
rule. For the most part, when thirteenth-century scholastics spoke of
experientia or experimentum they had something quite different in
mind. Often the reference was to what Hackett advises us to call
personal experience, very like what Aristotle meant by his classic
mention of experimenta in the Metaphysics. This is surely what William
is thinking of with his numerous appeals to experience, combined with
teaching (doctrina et experientia) as a source for scientific knowledge
([9.1] II suppl.: 212a, 214a; [9.2] 95:54–64). He even directs the reader
to the passage in the Metaphysics for clarification ([9.1] II suppl.: 216b).
The cognitive process intended involved a complicated induction from
sensation, bringing the intellect by means of Aristotle’s logic of division
to knowledge of one of the typical principles of natural science, such
as those defining essential natures like ‘dog’ and ‘man’. Grosseteste
has the same noetic procedure of discovery in mind when in his
Commentary he talks about the induction of universal principles
(universalia composita) from sensible data ([9.6] 406:67–72). Inductive
experience of this sort was perfectly natural and commonplace, as is
indicated by William’s contrasting it to infused knowledge of the sort
that Solomon received from God ([9.1] II suppl. 214a).
There was, however, yet another, dramatically non-Aristotelianizing
notion one might have of the place of ‘experience’ in science, and this
too appears in both Grosseteste’s and William’s thought. It was William
who gave it the greatest attention. In the part of On the Universe
investigating the powers and operations of demons, he refers with
considerable fascination to the ‘experimenters’ (experimentatores), who
in their writings describe the marvellous works they can do to the
astonishment of the uninitiated ([9.1] I: 1059a–60a). He calls these
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writings ‘books of experiments’ (libri experimentorum), and it is clear
that by this term he does not mean the controlled testing of hypotheses
but rather the miraculous feats associated with magic (opera magica).
Among the numerous examples he cites are fashioning a candle out of
wax and serpent skin which, when lit, can make a room strewn with
dried grass appear to be filled with writhing snakes, creating the illusion
of water or a river where none really exists, and neutralizing the powers
of enchanters or magicians by exposing them to certain snakes, or to
quicksilver inserted just the right way into a reed tube. Such marvels
and occult operations (occultae operationes et mirabilia) are, he adds,
what physicians and natural philosophers are accustomed to call
empirica, a term drawn from the lexicon of the medical arts ([9.1] I:
929bA).
According to William the ignorant gaze upon such works and
attribute them erroneously to devilish powers, an error in which they
are encouraged by the fact that some philosophers refer to the art by
which the marvels are arranged as necromancy. The truth is, instead,
that the ‘experiments’ of which he speaks, for all their miraculous
appearance, can be traced back to the forces with which God has
imbued his creation (virtutes a Creators inditae). In this case the forces
are deeply submerged, hidden to all but those trained to see them, but
they are still fully natural, and their manipulation should be attributed
to ‘natural magic’ (magia naturalis) ([9.1] I: 69bD).
Here William is mining an intellectual tradition of great antiquity
and readily available to him and his scholarly contemporaries through
translations from Hebrew, Arabic and Greek. In this tradition, the
words ‘experiment’ and ‘experience’ evoke the illusory and the
unexpected. According to William, the surprise and wonder are due
to the fact that all the phenomena making up ‘experience’ in this
sense arise from hidden forces (virtutes occultae) lying behind natural
powers with which we are more familiar ([9.1] I: 1060a (E,H)).
Grosseteste, too, was acquainted with the tradition and refers
respectfully to the experimentatores, although he includes in this class
those who simply have seen odd things and faraway places, like the
north pole, and written down their experiences for us to share ([9.3]
68). He also counts among the experimenters scholars of optics who
‘experiment’ with lenses, the power of which to make far-away things
seem near is itself wonderful (admirandum, mirabile) and thereby
part of the marvellous world with which all experiment of this sort is
tied ([9.3] 41, 73–4).
What must be kept in mind is that despite the suspicion and fear
with which the writings of this tradition were often viewed, both
William and Grosseteste believed that, if correctly received, they were
not only benign but also a welcome addition to human knowledge.
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William insists that natural magic, when not pursued with vain curiosity
or used to do evil, is not harmful and does no offence to God ([9.1] I:
663bD). It constitutes, in fact, a legitimate part of natural science ([9.1]
I: 69bD, 648aG). Those that know it, and perform the operations or
experiments it reveals, are called magi, that is, doers of great things
(magna agentes), and the association of them with evil, as well as the
charge that magus means ‘evil-doer’ (male agens), is simply uninformed
([9.1] I: 1058bH). Grosseteste, too, understands that many associate
the word magus with sorcerers (malefici), quoting Isidore to that effect,
but he recognizes that others maintain that the true magi are wise men,
like the learned divines of ancient Persia ([9.5] 23:17–34). William
even holds great expectations for the application of natural magic,
asserting that it is not beyond magic’s powers to produce things never
before encountered on earth, including completely new animals ([9.1]
I: 7aE). All that is wanting to see such things happen even in his own
day is the right knowledge and an abundance of the proper tools and
supplies ([9.1] I: 1058bH).
This was not to deny that there was evil magic, too, or that some
experimenters and their experiments were malign and caught up with
devils. William was familiar with what he thought were truly execrable
magical books, like the Sworn Book of Honorius (Liber sacratus), and
he admits that even some potentially useful pieces of occult literature
might mislead, just as the On the God of Gods (De deo deorum)
attributed to Hermes (Mercurius)—whom he calls an Egyptian
magician—had encouraged him in his youth to believe that with little
effort he could raise himself to prophetic splendours ([9.1] I: 70aF,
1056a-b(H-E), 1060bF; cf. 78aF). Then, too, there was astrology, a
science related to magic, which William said should be fought with
sword and fire, at least in so far as it was taken to imply the necessity
of all events ([9.1] 785aC, 785bB, 929bA). Grosseteste was likewise
wary of astrology, although perhaps somewhat more ambivalent. In
his early On the Liberal Arts he praises astronomy, clearly signifying
judicial astrology, as most useful for the understanding and application
of natural science ([9.3] 5–6). Yet in the Hexaëmeron, from the early
1230s, he sets the science of astral motion—astronomy—against the
science of judging from the stars—astrology—condemning any attempt
to use the latter to bind the will ([9.5] 41:24–33). Later in the same
work he warns Christians to have nothing to do with astrologers, or
mathematici, and calls for their works to be burned ([9.5] 170:4–7,
172:3–5).
Even farther from Aristotle was an aspect of Grosseteste’s science
more deeply and authentically mathematical than astronomy or
astrology. Again Crombie’s picture of the thirteenth century must be
recalled, for it was he who drew attention to Grosseteste as a medieval
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source for the modern orientation of science towards mathematics
([9.18] 60, 132–4). At a level not central to Crombie’s view,
Grosseteste’s interest in mathematics takes us back to Aristotle.
Grosseteste draws on the Aristotelian notion of the subordination of
some sciences to others that explain more fully the subject of
investigation and occasionally even supply demonstrative principles.
He shows how it is common for scientific disciplines that investigate
only the simple why and wherefore of a subject—in Aristotle’s terms,
pointing out only the fact (quia)—to stand in such subordination to
other disciplines that can actually supply demonstrative reasons—
again, in Aristotelian language, laying out the reasoned fact (propter
quid) ([9.6] 194:126–36). It is the various mathematical sciences that
typically take this subordinating role, and Grosseteste mentions
among other cases the science of radiant lines and figures (what we
would call optics) subordinated to geometry, the science of harmony
subordinated to arithmetic, and the science of navigation to
astronomy.
Of greater interest to Crombie was a more ambitious theory inspired
by Neoplatonic currents originating with Plotinus and taken to be the
keystone of what is often called Grosseteste’s ‘metaphysics of light’.5
Since most of what is attributed to this ‘metaphysics’ is not metaphysical
at all, Lindberg wisely advises us to refer to it as a ‘philosophy of light’
([9.19] 95). Of its four parts as Lindberg sketches them out, it is what
he calls a ‘cosmogony of light’ (that concerns us here. In his treatise
On Light (De luce) Grosseteste argues that light is the first corporeal
form—corporeity, itself—by which matter, on its own absolutely simple
and dimensionless, takes on extension or, as we would say, dimension.
Light manages this through its quite special power of instantaneous
self-diffusion in all directions from the point of origin, by which means
as first form it literally carries all matter along with it ([9.3] 51:10–
52:9). This is the way the universe was generated by God’s command
at the beginning of time, the reverberations of light from central point
out to the limits of a spherical extreme, and then back and forth again
and again, rarefying and condensing matter until it took the form of
the nine celestial spheres and the elemental regions of the sublunar
world ([9.3] 52:17–21, 54:11–56:18). A cosmogony of this sort would
seem to give light, and the mathematically-formulated optics by which
it is understood, pride of place in our understanding of nature. That is,
at least, what Crombie assumed.
Yet though Grosseteste must have been sensitive to the
methodological implications of his cosmogony, it is instead a different
element in his thought, the part of his ‘philosophy of light’ Lindberg
calls the ‘physics of light’, upon which he based his principal argument
for the relevance of mathematics to natural philosophy. Extrapolating
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not only from Neoplatonism but also from the tradition of Arabic
optics, Grosseteste fashioned a universal theory of natural causation
referred to as the doctrine of the multiplication of species ([9.19] 97–
8). The Neoplatonic element is laid out in On Lines, Angles and Figures
(De lineis angulis et figuris). According to this treatise, all natural agents
work by multiplying or transmitting their power (virtus) in the form of
species (species) or likenesses (similitudines) sent out into the
surrounding medium, whether sensory or inert ([9.3] 60:16–29). The
significant thing about this multiplication is that it occurs in conformity
to the rules of luminous radiation laid out in the science of optics. As
both On Lines and On the Nature of Place (De natura locorum) make
clear, any agent’s species or likenesses are induced in all directions from
the point of origin along straight lines which are bent, just like light
rays, as they pass through media of contrasting density ([9.3] 60:14–
15, 66:1–3). It is, therefore, possible to describe all natural causation
by means of the geometrical principles of lines, angles and figures
established in optics ([9.3] 65:27–9).
Here Grosseteste turns again to the notion of subordination. The
geometric explanation of all natural causation offered by optics—and
Grosseteste uses the medieval name, perspectiva—is, because of its
formal precision, also the most fundamental. It gives the ‘reasoned’
(propter quid) account of what the natural philosopher (physicus)
otherwise knows only as fact ([9.3] 72:12–13, also 60:15–16). Indeed
it is legitimate to say that one cannot truly know natural philosophy
without recourse to the laws of optical science ([9.3] 59:27–60:1).
Because of the way nature works, the science of natural philosophy is
subordinate to optics, and therefore mathematics, to which optics itself
is subordinated, must be the primary explanatory tool of the natural
scientist.
Taken together, William and Grosseteste bequeathed a rich
metaphysical and epistemological heritage to the rest of the thirteenth
century. They were the first to weave the lines of Aristotelianism,
Neoplatonism and Arabic and Jewish mathematics and magic into a
texture alluring enough to engage the imagination of scholars in the
new schools. From their fertile beginnings can be traced much of the
scientific and philosophical achievement of the thirteenth century. But
just as their own sources were varied, so the lines of inspiration trailing
out from them into the rest of the century took several different paths.
In so far as they sought to bring Neoplatonic traditions, especially in
epistemology and noetics, into line with the logical and linguistic
expectations of Aristotelianizing analysis, they laid the foundations
for what is often called the Neo-Augustinianism of Bonaventure and
his successors from the 1250s on. Equally important, however, was
the debt owed to them by the more authentically Aristotelian current
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that emerged in the late 1240s with Albert the Great and continued
with his even greater pupil, Thomas Aquinas.
Yet the figure who most literally reproduced the scientific ideal seen
in William and Grosseteste—or perhaps who most dramatically
amplified their idiosyncrasies—was Roger Bacon. Born in England
around 1210, Bacon studied and taught arts at Oxford up to the late
1230s, moving on then to Paris where he lectured in the arts faculty
until about 1247. Around 1257 he joined the Franciscan order, a
decision which terminated his scholarly career for a decade until Pope
Clement IV gave it new life with his request for Bacon’s ideas on the
reformation of learning. Perhaps in part because of this sign of papal
favour, Bacon fell into an increasingly bitter conflict with his superiors,
culminating in the condemnation of his work by the minister general
of his order in 1278 and his probable incarceration. Apparently free
again but still tormented by his fate, he died in 1292 or shortly
thereafter.6
Like Grosseteste, whose lectures he may have attended while at
Oxford, Bacon placed mathematics at the foundation of natural
science—perhaps, indeed, of science altogether. He was even more
insistent on this score than his illustrious forebear. In The Character of
the Natural Sciences (Communia naturalium) he criticizes Aristotle
for neglecting mathematics and excoriates renowned scholars of his
day, among whom is certainly intended Albert the Great, for their
ignorance of the subject ([9.10] 2:5, 11), reserving his praise in the
Opus maius and the Opus tertium for Grosseteste and the nearly
idolized Peter Peregrinus of Maricourt, whom Bacon considered the
mathematicizing prophets of his century ([9.8] I: 108; [9.7] 34–5). For
Bacon—just as, he thought, for Grosseteste and the ancient sages and
divines—only by means of mathematics, the ‘door and key’ to full
knowledge, could the other sciences be grasped with absolute certitude
([9.8] I: 97, 98, 107).
His defence of this assertion is partly delivered in Grosseteste’s
Aristotelianizing language of the subordination of sciences, whereby
mathematics supplies the reasoned explanation (per causam) of
phenomena that the natural sciences can describe only as fact (per
effectum) ([9.8] I: 169). Of greater weight for him, however, is the
description of physical reality that Grosseteste had used to justify the
subordination at the epistemic level, the doctrine of causation by the
transmission of species or similitudes. Bacon enthusiastically embraces
Grosseteste’s view, embellishing it with a theoretical exactitude that
made Bacon’s version the model exposition of the matter for the next
century and a half ([9.8] I: 111; [9.7] 37; [9.9] 2). He goes so far as to
devote a whole treatise to the process, referring to it with the precise
name by which it has since been known: On the Multiplication of
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Species. Just as Grosseteste had argued in On Lines and On the Nature
of Place, so Bacon reasons that, because the species by which all natural
causality is achieved are generated in straight lines in exact replication
of the phenomenon of luminous radiation, the science of optics offers
the only universal means of accounting for all natural effects ([9.10] II:
24:21–9; [9.8] I: 112, II: 31; [9.9] 90–4). This not only makes optics
(perspectiva) the most special and very first of the natural sciences
(prima specialis scientia) but also explains why natural phenomena
cannot be truly understood without the power of mathematics ([9.10]
II: 5:25–31; [9.8] I: 110).
Yet it is what Bacon made of Grosseteste’s and William’s comments
on experience or experiment for which he is best known, leading many
to view him as the forerunner of his seventeenth-century namesake,
Francis Bacon. To Roger’s way of seeing things there is in fact a discrete
experimental science, scientia experimentalis, which is the most certain
of all and certifier for the others ([9.10] II: 9:1–6). Despite its ostensible
unity, this science is composed of three parts, each playing a different
role—prerogatives or dignities as Bacon calls them—and for us to
understand the whole we have to recognize that three constituents do
not tend precisely to the same end ([9.10] II: 9:9–12; [9.8] II: 172;
[9.7] 43–4).
According to its first role, experimental science certifies by experience
the demonstrated conclusions of the other sciences ([9.8] II: 172–3).
Here Bacon has recourse to his conviction, surely evolved from weaker
notions found in both William and Grosseteste, that while scientific
demonstration in the Aristotelian sense can make known the truth,
only experience removes all doubt ([9.8] I: 105–6, II: 167; [9.7] 297).7
One might know by reasoned argument that fire burns, but only the
experience of a scorched finger teaches one to avoid the flame. It is
tempting to see in this a version of the theory of verification by
experimentation, as many who praise Bacon have done. There is, after
all, the precedent of Grosseteste with his example of testing the power
of scammony to purge bile. But in fact Bacon, who is aware of the sort
of verification Grosseteste described, takes it as having nothing to do
with the ‘experiment’ he has in mind. Natural sciences often do, as
Grosseteste realized, establish their principles by experiment or from
experience; they then anchor their conclusions to the principles in
Aristotelian fashion by demonstrative argument. Such methods, Bacon
admits, have a legitimate place at the foundation of demonstrative
science. Yet he wants his experimental science to go beyond Aristotle
and bring the mind to adhere to conclusions, in contrast to principles,
with the assent only experience, not argument, can induce ([9.8] II:
172–3; [9.7] 43). Experience in this case is not the controlled testing of
a hypothesized principle but rather the empirical confirmation of an
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
already proved conclusion. Bacon’s first prerogative is thus a use of
experience unlike anything Aristotle, or William and Grosseteste, had
conceived, pointing to the growing prestige of singular perception in
the noetics and epistemology of the late thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries.
The second and third roles of experimental science are, if anything,
even more un-Aristotelianizing, although not so novel. With them we
return to the traditional notions of experimenta so well represented in
William’s thought. By its second prerogative, experimental science
reveals truths about the subject-matter of the other sciences, which
none of them can prove or dare to claim as true. The emphasis here is
on practical accomplishments that are both marvellous and strange,
as, for example, the construction of an astrolabe that would revolve
daily on its own natural power, or a knowledge of how to use medicines
dramatically to prolong human life ([9.8] II: 202–4). Experimental
science’s third prerogative is more awesome still, making known things
not even dreamed of in the rest of scientific discourse. It penetrates all
the way to the secrets of nature and surpasses judicial astrology, with
which it seems to compete, by making firmer predictions about the
future and doing far more miraculous works (opera admiranda,
mirabilia opera) ([9.8] II: 215; [9.7] 44). It is primarily by this
prerogative that experimental science commands all other sciences as
their mistress (domina), and it is here that its practical value is realized
in the extreme ([9.8] II: 221; [9.7] 46).
By now Bacon is clearly navigating in the waters of magical art, as
is surely betrayed by his claim that the third prerogative explores the
occult (opera occulta) ([9.10] II: 9:11–12). Times have changed,
however, and Bacon is far more squeamish than William was about
being associated with anything labelled ‘magic’. He not only refuses
to call any aspect of experimental science ‘magical’ but also insists
that one of his science’s functions is to lay open the falsehood of the
magical arts (magicae artes) ([9.10] II: 9:21–6). Yet more than just
fear of censure separates Bacon from William of Auvergne. He is, like
William, willing to accept an art like astrology that is traditionally
associated with magic, so long as it does not postulate the absolute
necessity of all events or resort to the power of demons or fraud to
impress its audience. He even gives acceptable astrologers the name of
‘true mathematicians’ (veri mathematici) in contrast to the ‘false
mathematician’ (falsi mathematici) who dabble in magic ([9.8] I: 240–
2). But Bacon’s vision of experimental science, for all its debt to
traditional magic, aspires to more than marvel. It presumes to draw
the power of knowledge, especially scientific knowledge, into a
campaign to transform the world. Indeed, the impetus behind most of
Bacon’s later work is his desire to lay the cognitive foundations for
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the reformation of human life. Such practical ideals are not foreign to
the magic of William’s mental landscape, but as distilled in Bacon’s
experimental science they savour for the first time of the ambition
and energy of the seventeenth century.
NOTES
1 For an analysis of the passage and an argument for what constituted Grosseteste’s
own view, see Marrone [9.20] 166–78.
2 How this sort of perpetuity might suffice for a Christian like Grosseteste, who
held the world to have a temporal beginning and end, is argued in Marrone
[9.20] 234–9.
3 See G.Nuchelmans, Theories of the Proposition, Amsterdam, North Holland,
1973, esp. ch. 10.
4 See W.A.Wallace, ‘Aristotle and Galileo: The uses of hypothesis (suppositio) in
scientific reasoning’, in D.J.O’Meara (ed.) Studies in Aristotle, Washington, DC,
Catholic University, 1981, pp. 47–77.
5 See Baur [9.29] and [9.30] 77–92; and the origin of the term (Lichtmetaphysik)
in C.Baeumker, Witelo, ein Philosoph und Naturforscher des XIII. Jahrhunderts,
Münster, Aschendorff, 1908, pp. 257–422.
6 For the dates of Bacon’s life, see Hackett [9.40], especially pp. 46–7.
7 Marrone ([9.20] 36) points out William’s assertion of the mildly obscurative
effect of demonstration, echoed (p. 223) by Grosseteste’s preference for principal
cognition. A bias for particular experience appears in On the Nature of Place
([9.3] 66).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
William of Auvergne
9.1 Opera omnia, 2 vols, Paris and Orleans, Hotot, 1674; repr. in 2 vols, Frankfurt
on Main, Minerva, 1963.
9.2 Switalksi, B. (ed.) De trinitate, Toronto, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies,
1976.
Robert Grosseteste
9.3 Baur, L. (ed.) Die philosophischen Werke des Robert Grosseteste, Bischofs von
Lincoln, Münster, Aschendorff, 1912.
9.4 Dales, R.C. (ed.) Commentarius in VIII libros Physicorum Aristotelis, Boulder,
Colo., University of Colorado Press, 1963.
9.5 Dales, R.C. and Gieben, S. (eds) Hexaëmeron, London, British Academy, 1982.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
9.6 Rossi, P. (ed.) Commentarius in Posteriorum analyticorum libros, Florence,
Olschki, 1981.
Roger Bacon
9.7 Brewer, J.S. (ed.) Fr. Rogeri Bacon Opera quaedam hactenus inedita, London,
Longman, 1859.
9.8 Bridges, J.H. (ed.) The ‘Opus Majus’ of Roger Bacon, 2 vols, Oxford, Clarendon
Press, 1897; Suppl., London, Williams & Norgate, 1900.
9.9 Lindberg, D.C. (ed.) Roger Bacon’s Philosophy of Nature, Oxford, Clarendon
Press, 1983.
9.10 Steele, R. (ed.) Opera hactenus inedita Rogeri Baconi, Fasc. 2–4: Communia
naturalium, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1905?–1913.
English Translations
9.11 The Opus Majus of Roger Bacon, 2 vols, trans. R.B.Burke, Philadelphia, Pa.,
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1928.
9.12 Robert Grosseteste On Light, trans. C.R.Riedl, Milwaukee, Wis., Marquette,
1942.
9.13 A Source Book in Medieval Science, ed. E.Grant, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard
University Press, 1974.
Bibliographies
9.14 Alessio, F. ‘Un secolo di studi su Ruggero Bacone (1848–1957)’, Rivista critica
di storia della filosofia 14 (1959): 81–102.
9.15 Gieben, S. ‘Bibliographia universa Roberti Grosseteste ab an. 1473 ad an. 1969’,
Collectanea Franciscana 39 (1969): 362–418.
9.16 Hackett, J.M.G. and Maloney, T.S. ‘A Roger Bacon Bibliography (1957–1985)’,
The New Scholasticism 61 (1987): 184–207.
9.17 Huber, M. ‘Bibliographie zu Roger Bacon’, Franziskanische Studien 65 (1983):
98–102.
General Studies
9.18 Crombie, A.C. Robert Grosseteste and the Origins of Experimental Science
1100–1700, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1953.
9.19 Lindberg, D.C. Theories of Vision from Al-Kindi to Kepler, Chicago, University
of Chicago Press, 1976.
9.20 Marrone, S.P. William of Auvergne and Robert Grosseteste: New Ideas of Truth
in the Early Thirteenth Century, Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press,
1983.
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METAPHYSICS AND SCIENCE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
9.21 Thorndike, L. A History of Magic and Experimental Science, vol. 2, New York,
Macmillan, 1923.
Studies on William of Auvergne
9.22 Baumgartner, M. Die Erkenntnislehre des Wilhelm von Auvergne, Münster,
Aschendorff, 1893.
9.23 Jüssen, G. ‘Wilhelm von Auvergne und die Entwicklung der Philosophie im
Übergang zur Hochscholastik’, in W.Kluxen (ed.) Thomas von Aquin im
philosophischen Gespräch, Freiburg and Munich, Alber, 1975, pp. 185–203.
9.24 ——‘Wilhelm von Auvergne und die Transformation der scholastischen
Philosophie im 13. Jahrhundert’, in J.P.Beckmann et al. (eds) Philosophie im
Mittelalter, Hamburg, Meiner, 1987, pp. 141–64.
9.25 Masnovo, A. Da Guglielmo d’Auvergne a s. Tommaso d’Aquino, 3 vols, 2nd
edn, Milan, Vita e Pensiero, 1945–6.
9.26 Moody, E.A. ‘William of Auvergne and his Treatise De anima’, in Studies in
Medieval Philosophy, Science, and Logic, Berkeley, Calif., University of
California Press, 1975, pp. 1–109.
9.27 Rohls, J. Wilhelm von Auvergne und der mittelalterliche Aristotelismus, Munich,
Kaiser, 1980.
9.28 Teske, R.J. ‘William of Auvergne on the individuation of human souls’, Traditio
49 (1994): 77–93.
Studies on Robert Grosseteste
9.29 Baur, L. ‘Das Licht in der Naturphilosophie des Robert Grosseteste’, Festgabe
zum 70. Geburtstag Georg Freiherrn von Hertling, Freiburg im Breisgau,
Herder, 1913, pp. 41–55.
9.30 ——Die Philosophie des Robert Grosseteste, Bischofs von Lincoln (gest. 1253),
Münster, Aschendorff, 1917.
9.31 Callus, D.A. (ed.) Robert Grosseteste, Scholar and Bishop, Oxford, Clarendon
Press, 1955.
9.32 Dales, R.C. ‘Robert Grosseteste’s scientific works’, Isis 52 (1961): 381–402.
9.33 Eastwood, B.S. ‘Medieval empiricism. The case of Grosseteste’s optics’,
Speculum 43 (1968): 306–21.
9.34 ——‘Robert Grosseteste’s theory of the rainbow: a chapter in the history of
non-experimental science’, Archives Internationales d’Histoire des Sciences
77 (1966): 313–32.
9.35 McEvoy, J. The Philosophy of Robert Grosseteste, Oxford, Clarendon Press,
1982.
9.36 Southern, R.W. Robert Grosseteste: The Growth of an English Mind in Medieval
Europe, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 2nd ed., 1992.
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Studies on Roger Bacon
9.37 Easton, S.C. Roger Bacon and his Search for a Universal Science, New York,
Columbia University Press, 1952.
9.38 Fisher, N.W. and Unguru, S. ‘Experimental science and mathematics in Roger
Bacon’s thought’, Traditio 27 (1971): 353–78.
9.39 Hackett, J.M.G. ‘The attitude of Roger Bacon to the scientia of Albertus
Magnus’, in J.A.Weisheipl (ed.) Albertus Magnus and the Sciences:
Commemorative Essays 1980, Toronto, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval
Studies, 1980, pp. 53–72.
9.40 ——‘The meaning of experimental science (scientia experimentalis) in the
philosophy of Roger Bacon’, Ph.D. dissertation, University of Toronto, 1983.
9.41 Lindberg, D.C. Studies in the History of Medieval Optics, London, Variorum,
1983.
9.42 Molland, A.G. ‘Roger Bacon as magician’, Traditio 30 (1974): 445–60.
9.43 Williams, S.J. ‘Roger Bacon and his edition of the pseudo-Aristotelian Secretum
secretorum’, Speculum 69 (1994): 57–73.
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CHAPTER 10
Bonaventure, the German
Dominicans and the new
translations
John Marenbon
As the previous chapter has illustrated, even in the first half of the
thirteenth century the outlook of thinkers was much affected by the
newly available translations of Aristotle and of Arabic commentaries
and treatises.1 By the mid-1250s, the arts course in Paris included almost
the whole body of Aristotle’s works and, within a couple of decades,
nearly all the translations from the Greek and Arabic which would be
used in the medieval universities were already available. The three
leading theologians of this generation are the Dominicans, Thomas
Aquinas and his teacher, Albert the Great, and the Franciscan,
Bonaventure.2 As philosophers, it may be argued, they form an unequal
triumvirate. Aquinas is, by almost any account, among the greatest
philosophers of his, or any, period; the next chapter will be devoted to
him. Neither Bonaventure nor Albert came near to his ability at devising
and interlinking, on a wide variety of philosophical questions, clear
and powerful arguments which modern philosophers still find it
worthwhile to scrutinize. Each, however, developed a range of distinctive
positions. They include striking views on the nature of philosophy and
its relation to their Work as theologians; and, in Albert’s case at least,
these were adapted (and ultimately transformed) by a school of
followers. It is these views on which the present, brief discussion will
concentrate. But first some further details about the new translations
are necessary, since they provide the background both to the thinking
of Bonaventure and Albert, and to the work which all the following
chapters will be examining.
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THE TRANSLATIONS
Aristotle, the old textbooks used to say, reached the West through the
Arabs. Literally, this statement is false. For the most part, Aristotle reached
Western scholars in direct translations from the Greek: Boethius’
translations of nearly all the logic (which became available gradually
from the ninth to the twelfth centuries); James of Venice’s versions (c.
1130–50) of the Posterior Analytics, Physics, On the Soul, some shorter
scientific works; other twelfth-century translations of On Generation
and Corruption and the Physics. As for the Ethics and the Metaphysics,
there was a twelfth-century version of Nicomachean Ethics II and III
(known as the ‘Old Ethics’); the whole work was translated early in the
thirteenth century, though only Book I (known as the ‘New Ethics’)
circulated; and then (c. 1246–7) Robert Grosseteste and his assistants
made a new translation of the whole work (they also translated part of
On the Heavens). James of Venice translated Metaphysics I–III and part
of IV; an early thirteenth-century revision of this translation, conflated
with the unrevised text, formed the ‘Old Metaphysics’, whilst a twelfth-
century translation of the whole work except Book XI was known as
the ‘Middle Metaphysics’ (it seems not to have been used until the mid-
thirteenth century). Finally, between 1260 and 1280 William of Moerbeke
revised or retranslated almost all Aristotle’s works, as well as making
the Politics and Poetics available for the first time. William’s translations
became standard, except for the logic, for which Boethius’ translations
(and, for the Posterior Analytics, James of Venice’s) were generally used.3
But there is, none the less, an important element of truth in the idea
of ‘Aristotle through the Arabs’. Some translations were made from
the Arabic: for example those of Gerard of Cremona, who worked in
Toledo, of the Posterior Analytics, Physics and some of the scientific
works. A version of the Metaphysics (the ‘New Metaphysics’; Book I,
minus beginning, to X and most of XII) translated from the lemmata
of Averroes’ commentary was used in the early to mid-thirteenth
century.4 More important, Aristotle’s non-logical works reached the
West along with (or preceded by) a corpus of commentary by Arabic
philosophers. In mid-twelfth-century Toledo, Dominic Gundissalinus,
a canon of the cathedral there, helped by Arabic-speaking assistants,
translated parts—including those corresponding to On the Soul and
the Metaphysics—of Ibn Sina’s (Avicenna’s) paraphrase-commentary
of Aristotle, the Shif&’ (Book of Healing); further sections were
translated late in the thirteenth century.5 In the 1220s in Sicily, Michael
Scotus translated a number of commentaries by Ibn Rushd (Averroes),
including the ‘great’ commentaries (full-scale, detailed sentence by
sentence discussions) on On the Soul, the Physics, Metaphysics and
On the Heavens. Averroes’ shorter ‘middle’ commentaries to a variety
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BONAVENTURE AND THE GERMAN DOMINICANS
of Aristotle’s works, including the logic, On Generation and Corruption
and Nicomachean Ethics, were translated either by Scotus, or a little
later by others. All these commentaries profoundly affected the ways
Western thinkers read Aristotle. In addition, the Toledan translators of
the twelfth century made Latin versions of various works by al-Kind(
and al-F&r&b(, more or less connected with Aristotle, as well as al-
Ghazz&l(’s Intentions of the Philosophers.
Plato did not benefit directly from this busy period of translation.
Although Henry Aristippus made Latin versions of the Meno and
Phaedo in Sicily shortly before 1150, they hardly circulated, so the
Timaeus in Calcidius’ incomplete translation remained the one text by
Plato himself well known in the Middle Ages.6 A good deal of
Neoplatonic material, however, became available, partly in the
commentaries and other works related to Aristotle, because the Arab
philosophical tradition before Averroes was heavily influenced by
Neoplatonism in its approach to Aristotle, and also more directly: an
Arabic adaptation of some of Proclus’ Elements of Theology was
translated into Latin by Gerard of Cremona as the Book about Causes
(Liber de causis) and adopted into the Aristotelian curriculum (see
below, pp. 230–1); later, William of Moerbeke translated the whole of
the Elements of Theology directly from the Greek.
Jewish philosophy was also translated. The Toledan translators put
into Latin Isaac Israeli’s Book on Definitions and Solomon ibn Gabirol’s
(‘Avicebron’ or ‘Avencebrol’) Fountain of Life. Maimonides’ great
Guide of the Perplexed was put into Latin in the 1220s, from the
Hebrew translation of Judah al-Harisi (see [10.32]).
BONAVENTURE
John of Fidanza, known as Bonaventure, was born c. 1217. He studied
arts in Paris from 1234 or 1235 until 1243. He then joined the
Franciscans and studied theology, also in Paris, where he was taught
by Alexander of Hales, the first of the Franciscan masters of theology.
Bonaventure himself held the Franciscan chair from 1253 to 1255. In
1257 he was elected Minister General of his Order, but he still
maintained close contacts with the university and continued his
theological writing up until nearly the time of his death in 1274. Among
his most important works are his commentary on the Sentences (1250–
5), a systematic textbook of theology called the Breviloquium, the brief
Journey of the Mind towards God (1259) which expresses in a concise
personal style many of his central ideas, and the sets of university
sermons (Collationes) he gave in his last years, especially those on the
Work of the Six Days (Hexaemeron), from 1273.
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Bonaventure knew many of the newly translated texts and
commentaries well. Theology, as he and his contemporaries
recognized it, was a discipline which used arguments. Aristotelian
logic had long been regarded as one of the theologian’s essential
argumentative tools, and by the 1250s the terminology and concepts
of Aristotle’s metaphysics and natural science were also
indispensable. Bonaventure used this intellectual equipment, but his
commitment to argument and conceptual analysis was far weaker
than Aquinas’, nor did he share much of Aquinas’ belief that, on
many questions, a full and accurate grasp of Aristotle’s views was the
best way to the right answer. Not surprisingly, then, he tended to
adapt Aristotelian positions and combine them with others in the
ways which best suited his overriding theological aims. For example,
he accepted a roughly Aristotelian account of sense-cognition as the
first stage of his theory of knowledge, but insisted that for knowledge
of the truth direct divine illumination was required. Aristotle’s theory
of matter and form became, for Bonaventure (perhaps influenced by
Solomon ibn Gabirol, see p. 75), a doctrine of universal
hylomorphism. Everything, with the sole exception of God, is a
composite of matter and form. Human body and human intellective
soul are not, therefore, related—as in Aristotle, and Aquinas—as
matter to form, but as matter—form composite to matter—form
composite; a position which may be less satisfying than Aristotle’s
intellectually but fits well with Christian belief about individual
immortality. The difference between Bonaventure and Aquinas is
particularly pointed on the question of the eternity of the universe.
This view, clearly contrary to Christian belief, was (rightly)
recognized by many at the time to have been Aristotle’s—though
there were also doubts about the attribution. Aquinas insisted that,
although ‘the universe is not eternal’ is a truth known by faith, it
cannot be demonstrated; towards the end of his life, indeed, he
argued that God could have created an eternal universe had he so
chosen. By contrast, Bonaventure thought that he could
demonstrate—using arguments based on Aristotle’s own views about
the infinite—that the universe is not and could not have been eternal.7
One of Aristotle’s special failings, in Bonaventure’s view, was his
rejection of Platonic Ideas. In using the Ideas—considered, in the usual
way since patristic times, as being in the mind of God—as a way of
explaining the relationship between the creator and the universe,
Bonaventure was merely doing the same as almost every other
thirteenth-century theologian, Aquinas included. He was exceptional,
however, in the weight he gave to explaining exemplarism which, along
with the discussion of creation and divine illumination, he held
constituted the whole of true metaphysics. This emphasis reveals the
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underlying direction of his thought. We reach the divine exemplars,
and through them, God, by seeking in all things that which they
exemplify. For Bonaventure, the main task of a Christian thinker is
not so much to argue or analyse (though sometimes this is necessary)
as to learn how to read creation, finding in it the hidden patterns and
resemblances which lead back to God. We have been provided, he
says, with a threefold aid for reaching ‘the exemplary reasons’ of things:
sensibly-perceptible creation, where God has left his traces (vestigia);
man’s soul, which is made in the image of God; and Scripture, with its
riches of inner meaning.
In The Journey of the Mind, Bonaventure develops this way of
thinking in the most explicit way. The universe is ‘a ladder for climbing
to God’: we must ascend through the traces of God, which we find in
what is bodily, temporal and outside us, through the image of God,
which we find within our immortal, spiritual selves, and finally raise
ourselves to the eternal being. To these three stages correspond the
threefold existence of things: in matter, in understanding and in God’s
mind, and Christ’s threefold substance, bodily, spiritual and divine (I,
2–3). Each stage, however, is itself divided in two, for in each we can
find God either through his mirror or in his mirror. The six steps yielded
by this multiplication correspond to six powers of our soul: sense,
imagination, reason, intellect (intellectus), intelligence (intelligentia) and
the ‘summit of the mind’ or ‘spark of synderesis’. Bonaventure also
provides various scriptural parallels: the six days of creation, the six
steps of Solomon’s throne, the six wings of the Seraphim seen by Isaiah,
the six days after which God called Moses from the midst of darkness
and the six days after which Christ summoned his disciples on the
mountain where he was transfigured (I, 5–6). This elaborate set of
parallels and analogies is itself merely the framework for the analogies
which make up each of the individual steps. So, for example, the fourth
stage of ascent—contemplating God in his image—involves considering
the Trinity in the image of man reformed by grace, his soul purified,
illumined and perfected by the three theological virtues of faith, hope
and charity. ‘Hierarchized’ in this way, the human spirit is compared
to the hierarchy of angels (three groups of three), and a parallel is
drawn between the three laws (of nature, of the Old Testament and of
grace) and the three senses of Scripture, moral, allegorical and
anagogical, which purify, illumine and perfect (IV, 1–6).
All the great Franciscan theologians of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries looked back to Bonaventure with respect, and often his
positions influenced their discussions of individual questions. But they
did not share his fondness for reading signs and elaborating patterns
as opposed to constructing and criticizing arguments; and it is on this
point of difference, rather than on any of the intellectual debts they
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owed to the founder of their tradition, that depends their importance
as philosophers.
ALBERT THE GREAT
Born in Swabia at the turn of the thirteenth century (1193, c. 1200,
1206–7 have been suggested), Albert died in extreme old age in 1280,
outliving by six years his most famous pupil, Thomas Aquinas. After
studying in Italy and Germany, and joining the Dominicans, he was a
master of theology in Paris from 1245 to 1248 and then taught theology
at Cologne until he became provincial of the German Dominicans
(1254–7). Although he had no fixed teaching position after this, Albert
continued his work on natural science, philosophy and theology with
great energy until after 1270. His writings are among the most
voluminous of any medieval thinker. They include, among many others,
two comprehensive theological textbooks, a commentary on the
Sentences completed in 1249, long paraphrase commentaries (in the
manner of Avicenna) on many of Aristotle’s works, including On the
Soul (c. 1254–7), the Ethics (1252–3) and the Metaphysics (1263–7),
a work On the Causes and Procession of the Universe based on the
Book about Causes and on al-Ghazz&l( (after 1263) and commentaries
on pseudo-Dionysius (some, at least, written between 1248 and 1250).
As even this bare list indicates, Albert’s attitude to the translations
of Aristotle and of the related Arab material was, quite unlike
Bonaventure’s, one of unrestrained enthusiasm. Historians have indeed
been agreed in giving him a central role in making Aristotle the supreme
human authority for university theologians. Yet a glance at his
Aristotelian commentaries shows that Albert’s Aristotelianism is mixed
with a host of characteristically Neoplatonic themes and views, and
this—combined with the variety of his interests and works—has led to
the impression that Albert was a muddled writer, overwhelmed by the
mass of new material and unable to resolve the incompatible positions
of his various sources or reach any coherent theories of his own. Thanks
to Alain de Libera, however, it is now clear that, at least in one main
aspect of his work, Albert is putting forward a bold and clear view, not
so much about any individual problem in philosophy as about the
nature and aim of the very practice of philosophizing.8
For Albert, Aristotelian metaphysics, the study of being, needed to
be complemented and completed by an Aristotelian theology, the study
of God. Albert found his Aristotelian theology in the Book about Causes
which he took, along with his contemporaries, to be a work by Aristotle
himself. When, late in Albert’s life, Thomas Aquinas, using William of
Moerbeke’s translation of Proclus’ Elements of Theology, showed that
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the Book about Causes was an adaptation of this Neoplatonic work,
Albert took no notice. No wonder—for, had he done so, he would
have had to give up the claim which runs through his life’s work that
he is expounding what he calls the ‘peripatetic’ position. Albert’s
peripateticism, then, builds on Aristotle, on the Book about Causes
and on Avicenna’s interpretation of Aristotle, which posits a hierarchy
of Intelligences, each lower Intelligence emanating from the higher.
Albert adapts these models, however, striving to maintain an absolute
distinction between God, who is the being of all things only in so far as
he is the cause of their being, and his creation, and to avoid any
implication that the universe emanates eternally from God—a view
which could not fit the Christian doctrine, which Albert accepted, of a
created universe with a beginning.
Through our intellects, Albert believed, even in the present life we
belong to the hierarchy of Intelligences. Here Albert both used and
broke with his Arab mentors. Avicenna had identified the lowest of
the Intelligences with the active intellect which Aristotle had mentioned
briefly in On the Soul as being necessary if the potential intellect
(intellectus possibilis), in itself purely receptive, is to be able to think.
Averroes, in the view of Albert and all his Latin interpreters from the
1250s onwards, had gone even further and supposed that there was
only one potential intellect for all men. Avicenna’s position could easily
be adapted to Christianity by taking the active intellect as God himself;
Averroes’, which precluded individual immortality, could not. Albert,
however, holds that each human has its own individual active and
potential intellect; like Bonaventure and Aquinas, he attacks the
Averroist theory of a single intellect for all men; and yet he also proclaims
his closeness to Averroes’ theories about the intellect. These positions
are not, as they might seem, in conflict with one another. Albert, like
Averroes, held that human thought involves contact with an eternal,
single intellect. But he considered that this came about through each
human’s individual agent intellect which was itself an emanation from
the single, separate agent intellect. We engage in thought through the
joining of our individual agent intellects to our individual potential
intellects, which are predisposed to receive intelligible forms in the
same way as our senses are predisposed to receive sensory ones. The
conjunction is not a simple matter. Although the agent intellect is part
of our soul, and in this sense is joined to it, the conjunction Albert has
in mind is of its ‘light, by which it activates the things understood’ to
the potential intellect.
By describing how this conjunction takes place, Albert sketches a
view of the highest human happiness, which it is for philosophers to
achieve ([10.49] III: 221–3). He bases himself on Aristotle’s comments
in Nicomachean Ethics X about theoretical contemplation as the best
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life for man. We can engage in intellectual speculation in two ways, he
explains: through thinking the self-evident truths which we know
simply by thinking of them, and through what we choose to learn by
investigating and by listening to those who are learned. In both routes,
we grasp intelligibles only because our agent intellect makes them
intelligible, and ‘in making them actually understood, the agent
intellect is joined to us as an efficient cause’. What we are
contemplating in this process, Albert believes, are not—as the
description so far might suggest—eternal truths, but separate
substances. The more our potential intellect is filled with these
intelligibles, the more it comes to resemble the agent intellect, and
when it has been filled with every intelligible thing, the light of the
agent intellect has become the form to its matter, and the composite
of agent and potential intellect is called the ‘adopted’ (adeptus) or
divine intellect: ‘and then the man has been perfected to carry out the
work which is his work in so far as he is man—to contemplate
perfectly through himself and grasp in thought the separate substances’
([10.49] III: 222:6–9). ‘This state of adopted intellect’, Albert adds, ‘is
wonderful and best, for through it a man becomes in a certain way
like God, because in this way he can activate divine things and bestow
on himself and others divine understandings and in a certain way
receive everything that is understood’ ([10.49] III: 222:80–4).
ALBERT’S SCHOOL: THE GERMAN
DOMINICANS
Albert’s influence worked on three different groups in three different
directions. Most explicitly associated with him, though most distant
in time, are the fifteenth-century thinkers who set up Albert as their
authority and described themselves as ‘Albertists’; they are discussed
below in Chapter 18. Albert was also an important figure for those in
the arts faculties who looked to Averroes as the most faithful interpreter
of Aristotle and who, while respecting Christian doctrine, considered
their own role as arts masters was to reason without resort to revelation.
Some of these thinkers from the thirteenth century are discussed below
in Chapter 12; the movement they began lasted through to the end of
the Middle Ages. John of Jandun (1285/9–1328) was one of the most
outspoken advocates of Averroes (and learned from Albert), and
Averroism was then taken up in Bologna and Padua, in Erfurt in the
late fourteenth century and in Krakow in the mid-fifteenth.9 But Albert’s
closest followers—those who carried on his tradition chronologically
and developed what was most characteristic in his thought—were a
group of thinkers who were all, like him, German Dominicans.10 They
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knew Albert’s work well, both directly and through Hugh Ripelin of
Strasbourg’s Compendium of Theological Truth (c. 1260–8) which
drew up some of the main themes of his work in textbook fashion.
The first important member of the group was Ulrich of Strasbourg
(born c. 1220–5), a student of Albert’s at Paris and then Cologne. He
returned to Paris in 1272 to complete his studies in theology, but died
before he was finished. He had already written a large summa, On the
Highest Good, which uses, and develops even more explicitly than
Albert himself, the idea of the divinization of the intellect.
In the work of Dietrich of Freiberg, Albert’s thinking is given a new
and highly original twist. Dietrich (c. 1250–1318/20) belonged to a
younger generation. He was active in Germany (from 1293 to 1296 he
was provincial of the Dominican Province of Teutonia) but also in the
University of Paris, where he studied between 1272 and 1274 and
some time between 1281 and 1293, and where he was master of
theology in 1296–7. He is an important figure in the history of natural
science (see [10.73]), but his most remarkable philosophical ideas
concern the human intellect. As mentioned above, medieval theologians
generally accepted the view that God knows (and produces) his creation
through ideas in his intellect. Dietrich accepted this common view with
regard to the relation between God and all things except for intellects.
The human intellect, he argues in On the Intellect and the Intelligible,
is related to God in a different, closer way, which it has in common
only with other intellects, such as (if they exist) the Intelligences posited
by the philosophers. An intellect proceeds from God ‘in so far as it is
an image of God’. Like God’s thinking, the object of the intellect’s
thinking is God himself. It is just this knowing God which constitutes
the intellect; in the same act of knowing the intellect knows itself as
that which knows God, and through knowing its essence it also knows
all other things outside itself, since it is their exemplar: ‘in one look
(intuitus) knowing its origin and thus coming into being it knows the
entirety of things.’11 In this way, Dietrich argues that intellects exist in
a special sort of way, which he describes as ‘conceptional being’: an
intellect should not be considered as a something, which has a certain
power—that of intellectually thinking. Rather, the thinking by which
an intellect knows God is what the intellect is. Whereas Albert had
explained how the human intellect could become God-like through
what it could contemplate (the separate substances), Dietrich
emphasizes the God-likeness of the intellect in its very manner of being.
In another work (On the Origin of the Things which belong to the
Aristotelian Categories), Dietrich argues that, in an important sense,
the objects which we encounter in experience, and which can be
described according to Aristotle’s ten categories, are made by our
intellects. Since the intellect knows these objects, it must bear a relation
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
to them. The only three possible relations are that (1) it is identical to
them, (2) they cause it, or (3) it causes them. Dietrich dismisses (1) and
rejects (2) because a cause must have a ‘greater power of forming’
(formalior virtus) than that which it causes, whereas the intellect is
‘incomparably more form-like and simpler than these things’.12
Although Dietrich goes on to qualify his position, allowing that the
intellect is not the only cause of these objects, he has given, to say the
least, a surprisingly large role to the human intellect in constituting the
world it grasps.13
The most celebrated of the German Dominicans is Eckhart (1260–
1328). But Eckhart’s fame has been linked more to his reputation as
a mystic and as the instigator of a popular mystical movement,
especially among women, than to his philosophical arguments. Unlike
any other of the Western thinkers treated in this volume, Eckhart
produced a body of work in the vernacular (Middle High German);
and it is in these sermons that he develops some of his most striking
ideas. Yet, until shortly before his death, when the process began
which would lead to his posthumous condemnation in 1329, Eckhart
had followed an outstanding career as a university theologian. He
was a master of theology in Paris from 1302 to 1303 and, a rare
honour, master again (magister actu regens) in 1311–13; from 1322
to 1325 he was in charge of the Dominican studium in Cologne.
Recent scholars have emphasized the philosophical aspects of
Eckhart’s work (found both in the Latin Parisian Questions and
Three-part Work, and in the German sermons and treatises) and have
seen it as part of the tradition going back to Dietrich of Freiberg and
Albert. Here there is room to touch on just three of these aspects of
Eckhart’s rich and many-faceted work.
In the second of his Parisian Questions (1302–3), Eckhart argues
the position that in God, being (esse) and thinking (intelligere) are the
same. In itself, there is nothing unusual about this position; Aquinas
had held it too, and Eckhart quotes Aquinas’ arguments for it. But
Eckhart develops the idea in a particular direction, arguing—in a way
which parallels what Dietrich of Freiberg says about the human
intellect—that God is intellect, and his being follows from this: it is
not ‘because he is, that God thinks but because he thinks that he is; so
that God is intellect and thinking and this thinking is the basis of his
being’. The Gospel of John does not begin, Eckhart goes on to remark,
with the words ‘In the beginning was an existing thing (ens) and the
existing thing was God’, but ‘In the beginning was the Word’; but the
Word is ‘in itself entirely relative to the intellect’. ‘Neither being nor
being existent (ens) is appropriate for God but something higher than
what is existing.’ Eckhart’s line of argument threatens to undermine
the whole tradition of theology based on God as supreme being;
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although it too is rooted in theological tradition, the tradition of negative
theology which goes back to pseudo-Dionysius.14
Eckhart’s idea of the ‘basis’ (grunt) or the ‘spark’ (vunke) of the
soul, developed especially in his German sermons, is even more daring,
especially according to the interpretation recently advanced by Burkhard
Mojsisch who, more than previous writers, has explored the
philosophical, rather than the mystical, aspects of these writings.15
Dietrich of Freiberg had already described the active intellect as the
basis of the soul: the cause from which it springs. For Eckhart, however,
the grunt or vunke does not belong to the soul, although it is in it.
Eckhart must insist on this because he also claims that this ‘something’
is ‘uncreated and uncreatable’ (see [10.69] 133–4). When, in order to
leave behind the false I and discover the true one, our possible intellect
turns away from forms—wishing nothing, knowing nothing, letting
nothing act upon it—it is to this ‘something in the soul’ which it must
turn. Eckhart is willing to identify the uncreated grunt with God, but
also, it seems, to go even further: the idea of God, he argues, implies a
relation to something else, to creation; the grunt, or the ‘I as I’, by
contrast, bears no relation to anything but itself. It is its own cause and
even the cause of God (see [10.70] 27).
Eckhart thus transforms the theme he inherited from the tradition
of Albert, according to which the highest part of man’s soul, the intellect,
is divinized through its ability to be filled with intelligible contents
derived from God’s thought itself. For Eckhart, the spark in the soul is
itself divine or even more than divine, and only by turning away from
anything outside myself and from any content whatsoever, do I discover
myself as this ‘I as I’. He also makes a parallel transformation of the
moral outlook linked to Albert’s theme. In place of the philosophical
ideal of nobility, found in the contemplation enjoyed by the philosopher,
Eckhart substitutes a nobility of renunciation which he expresses by
the word ‘detachment’ (abegescheidenheit), and an ideal of poverty
and humility: ‘Were a man truly humble’, he writes, ‘God would have
either to lose his own divinity and be entirely bereft of it, or else diffuse
himself and flow entirely into this man. Yesterday evening I had this
thought: God’s greatness depends on my humility; the more humble I
make myself, the more God will be raised up.’16
The tradition of Albert takes a different twist in the writings of
Berthold of Moosburg (fl. c. 1335–c. 1361). His known work comprises
just an incomplete, but none the less vast, commentary on Proclus’
Elements of Theology. This choice of a life’s work was no accident.
Berthold believed that the ‘Platonic philosophers’, of whom he
considered Proclus an outstanding example, had arrived at the true
philosophy, by contrast with Aristotle and his followers. For Berthold,
the main distinction to be considered is no longer between the teachings
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
of the philosophers and those of Christian faith, but between the two
main schools of ancient philosophy: the Aristotelians, whose
metaphysics, the knowledge of being qua being, is seen in opposition
to the theology developed by Christians and Neoplatonists alike (see
[10.63] 317–442).
NOTES
1 Readers of this chapter are requested to look at what I say in my Introduction
(above, p. 9, n. 8) about its aims and, especially, its limitations.
2 Aristotle was also studied intensively in Oxford: see above, Chapter 9, and
Marenbon [10.34].
3 It is not certain that William was responsible for the revision of Grosseteste’s
translation that became standard.
4 For an authoritative summary of present knowledge about the translations of
Aristotle, see Dod [10.30]. The preceding paragraph and a half is based especially
on this study.
5 On Latin versions of Avicenna, see d’Alverny [10.27].
6 Part of the Parmenides was to be found in the lemmata of William of Moerbeke’s
translation of Proclus’ commentary, but neither the commentary nor the text was
generally known: see Steel [10.35] 306.
7 See Weber [10.47]. On the history of these arguments based on the idea of infinity,
many of which appear to go back to the sixth-century Greek Christian thinker
John Philoponus, see R.Sorabji, Time, Creation and the Continuum, London,
1983, esp. pp. 210–31.
8 See de Libera [10.64]. My comments on Albert draw especially from de Libera,
but they offer only a crude reflection of de Libera’s subtle views. See also de
Libera [10.63] for a development of his views about Albert within a wider context.
9 See Schmugge [10.71] for John of Jandun and Kuksewicz [10.62] for later
Averroism.
10 An excellent guide to this tradition, and argument for its unity, is provided in de
Libera [10.63].
11 De intellectu et intelligibili II, 36; for the whole discussion, see II, 34–6, and III,
37; cf. Mojsisch [10.68].
12 De origine rerum praedicamentalium V2.
13 Flasch was the first scholar to bring out the nature and importance of Dietrich’s
position here: see [10.59].
14 For a thorough study of the background to the Parisian questions 1 and 2, see
Zum Brunn and others [10.74] and Imbach [10.60].
15 See Mojsisch [10.69] and [10.70]. Not all Eckhart scholars accept Mojsisch’s
views: for a critique, see [10.72], esp. 307–12.
16 Sermon 14 [10.53, Deutsch. Werke, I 237:1–5], quoted by de Libera [10.65] 325;
on Eckhart’s transformation of the ideal of nobility, see de Libera [10.65] 299–
347.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Editions of Latin Translations from Greek, Arabic and Hebrew
This is a list of some of the most important translations of philosophical works: for
fuller lists, see Marenbon [Intr. 10] 194–7, with additions noted in Marenbon [10.33]
1009, n. 1.
10.1
Al-Ghazz&l( (Algazel) Intentions of the Philosophers, sections on physics
and metaphysics, in J.Muckle (ed.) Algazel’s Metaphysics, Toronto,
1933.
10.2
Al-Ghazz&l( (Algazel) Intentions of the Philosophers (complete text),
Venice, 1506.
10.3–10.8 Aristotle: Logic (translations by Boethius, William of Moerbeke and
others), ed. L.Minio-Paluello et al. (AL 1–6) Bruges and Paris, 1961–
75).
10.9
——Metaphysics (translations by James of Venice, translatio vetus,
translatio media), ed. G.Vuillemin-Diem (AL 25), Bruges and Paris,
1970, 1976.
10.10
——Nicomachean Ethics (various translations), ed. R.Gauthier (AL 26),
Bruges and Paris, 1972–4.
Aristotle’s On the Soul (Michael Scotus’s version) appears as lemmata in his
translation of Averroes’ Great commentary [10.14].
10.11
——On the Soul (William of Moerbeke’s version), as lemmata in
Aquinas’s commentary, ed. R.Gauthier (Leonine edition 45), Rome
and Paris, 1984.
10.12
Ibn Rushd (Averroes) Aristotelis opera cum Averrois commentariis,
Venice, 1560. (A large collection of his commentaries, uncritically
edited.)
10.13
——The 1562–74 edition of the above work, which contains fewer
commentaries, has been reprinted in Frankfurt, 1962.
10.14
——Great commentary on Aristotle, On the Soul, ed. F.Crawford,
Cambridge, Mass., 1953.
Averroes’ Great commentary on Aristotle, Metaphysics is published as a
whole in [10.13] vol. 8, and on individual books as follows:
10.15
——on Book II, ed. G.Darms, Freiburg, Switzerland, 1966.
10.16
——on Book V, ed. R.Ponzalli, Berne, 1971.
10.17
——on Book XI, ed. B.Burke, Berne, 1969.
10.18
Ibn Sina (Avicenna): book on On the Soul from the Shif&’, in S.van Riet
(ed.) De anima, 2 vols, Bruges and Paris, 1968, 1972.
10.19
——book on the Metaphysics from the Shif&’, in S.van Riet (ed.) Liber
de philosophia prima sive scientia divina, 3 vols, Bruges and Paris,
1977–83.
10.20
Liber de causis (Book about Causes), ed. A.Pattin, Louvain, undated.
10.21
Maimonides Guide of the Perplexed, Latin translation of the Hebrew
translation by al-Harisi, Dux seu director dubitantium vel
perplexorum, Paris, 1520; repr. Frankfurt, 1964.
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10.22
10.23
10.24
10.25
10.26
MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Plato Timaeus (Calcidius’ version, with his commentary), ed. J.Waszink,
2nd edn, London, 1975.
——Meno, translated by Henry Aristippus, ed. V.Kordeuter and C.
Labowsky, London, 1940.
——Phaedo, translated by Henry Aristippus, ed. L.Minio-Paluello,
London, 1950.
Porphyry Isagoge, translations by Boethius and others, ed. L.Minio-
Paluello, (AL 1, fasc. 5–6), Bruges and Paris, 1966.
Proclus Elements of Theology, translated by William of Moerbeke, ed.
H. Boese, Leuven, 1987.
Bibliographies and catalogues
Very full bibliographical information will be found in Daiber [10.29].
10.27
d’Alverny, M.-T. ‘Avicenna Latinus’, Archives de l’histoire doctrinale et
littéraire du moyen âge (1961–72): 28, 281–316; 29, 217–33; 30,
221–72; 31, 271–86; 32, 259–302; 33, 305–27; 34, 315–3; 36, 243–
80; 37, 327–61; 39, 321–41.
10.28
10.29
10.30
10.31
10.32
10.33
10.34
10.35
Studies
Brams, J. ‘Guillaume de Moerbeke et Aristote’, in Hamesse and Fattori
[10.31] 315–36.
Daiber, H. ‘Lateinische Übersetzungen arabischer Texte zur Philosophie
und ihre Bedeutung für die Scholastik des Mittelalters’, in Hamesse
and Fattori [10.31] 203–50.
Dod, B.G. ‘Aristoteles Latinus’, in CHLMP, 45–79.
Hamesse, J. and Fattori, M. (eds) Rencontres de cultures dans la
philosophie médiévale, Louvain and Cassino, 1990.
Kluxen, W. ‘Literaturgeschichtliches zum lateinischen Moses Maimonides’,
Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 2l (1954): 23–50.
Marenbon, J. ‘Medieval Christian and Jewish Europe’, in S.H.Nasr and
O.Leaman (eds) History of Islamic Philosophy, vol. II, London, 1996.
——(ed.) Aristotle in Britain during the Middle Ages, Turnhout, 1996.
Steel, C. ‘Plato Latinus’, in Hamesse and Fattori [10.31] 300–16.
10.36
10.37
10.38
Bonaventure
Original language editions
Opera omnia, ed. P.P.Collegii S.Bonaventurae, 10 vols, Quaracchi, 1882–
1902.
Collationes, ed. F.Delorme (Bibliotheca Franciscana medii aevi 8),
Quaracchi, 1934.
Itinerarium mentis ad Deum (text of Opera omnia with French parallel
trans. and notes by H.Duméry), Paris, 1960.
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10.40
10.41
10.42
10.43
10.44
10.45
10.46
10.47
BONAVENTURE AND THE GERMAN DOMINICANS
Translations
Breviloquium, trans. J.de Vinck, Paterson, NJ, 1963.
Itinerarium mentis ad Deum (The mind’s journey to God), trans.
P.Boehner, St Bonaventure, NY, 1956. (Other translations are also
available.)
De reductione artium ad theologiam, trans. E.T.Healy, St Bonaventure,
NY, 1955.
Collationes on the Hexaemeron, trans. (into French) M.Ozilon, as Les
six jours de la. création, Paris, c. 1991.
Studies
Bougerol, J. Introduction à l’étude de Saint Bonaventure, Tournai, 196l.
Gilson, E. La Philosophie de Saint Bonaventure, 3rd edn (Etudes de
philosophie médiévale 4) Paris, 1953. (There is an English translation
of the first, 1924, edn of this book: The Philosophy of St Bonaventure,
trans I.Trethowan and F.J.Sheed, New York, 1938.)
Quinn, J. The Historical Constitution of St Bonaventure’s Philosophy,
Toronto, 1973.
Van Steenberghen, F. La Philosophie au XIIIe siècle, Louvain, 1966.
Weber, E.H. Dialogue et dissensions entre Saint Bonaventure et Saint Thomas
d’Aquin à Paris, 1252–73 (Bibliothèque thomiste 41), Paris, 1974.
10.48
10.49
10.50
10.51
10.52
10.53
10.54
10.55
Albert the Great and his Influence
Original language editions
Albert the Great Opera omnia, ed. A. and E.Borgnet, Paris, 1890–9.
——Opera omnia, chief ed. B.Geyer, Münster, 1951–.
Berthold of Moosburg, Commentary on the Elements of Theology, partial
ed. by L.Sturlese, Rome, 1974.
Dietrich of Freiberg Opera omnia, ed. K.Flasch et al., Hamburg, 1977–83.
——De origine rerum praedicamentalium, ed. F.Stegmüller, ‘Meister
Dietrich von Freiburg über den Ursprung der Kategorien’, Archives
d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 24 (1957): 115–201.
(This edition has been replaced by that in [10.51] but may be more
readily available.)
Eckhart Die deutschen und lateinischen Werke, ed. J.Quint et al.
(Stuttgart, 1930–).
Translations
Eckhart, Sermons and treatises, trans. M.O’C.Walshe, London and
Dulverton, 1979.
Meister Eckhart: the Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises and
Defence, trans. E.Colledge and B.McGinn, London, 1981.
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Meister Eckhart: Teacher and Preacher, trans. B.McGinn, NJ, 1986.
Eckhart Parisian Questions and Prologues, trans. A.Maurer, Toronto,
1974.
Bibliographies and catalogues
10.58
Larger, N. Bibliographie zu Meister Eckhart (Dokimion 9), Freiburg,
Switzerland, 1989.
A wide bibliography to the whole area is given in de Libera [10.63].
10.59
10.60
10.61
10.62
10.63
10.64
10.65
10.66
10.67
10.68
10.69
10.70
10.71
10.72
10.73
10.74
Studies
Flasch, K. ‘Kennt die mittelalterliche Philosophie die konstitutive Funktion
des menschlichen Denkens? Eine Untersuchung zu Dietrich von
Freiberg’, Kant-Studien 63 (1972): 182–206.
Imbach, R. Deus est intelligere, Freiburg, Switzerland, 1976.
Krebs, E. Meister Dietrich (Theodoricus Teutonicus de Vriberg): sein
Leben, seine Werke, seine Wissenschaft (BGPT MA 5, 5–6), Münster,
1906.
Kuksewicz, Z. ‘L’influence d’Averroes sur les universités en Europe
centrale: l’expansion de l’averroisme latin’, in J.Jolivet (ed.) Multiple
Averroes, Paris, 1978, pp. 275–86.
Libera, A.de Introduction à la mystique rhénane d’Albert le Grand à Maître
Eckhart, Paris, 1984. Repr. as La mystique rhénane, Paris, 1994.
——Albert le Grand et la philosophie, Paris, 1990.
——Penser au moyen âge, Paris, 1991.
Lossky, V. Théologie négative et connaissance de Dieu chez Eckhart,
Paris, 1960.
Meyer, G. and Zimmermann, A. Albertus Magnus: Doctor Universalis
1280/1980 (Walberger Studien 6), Mainz, 1980.
Mojsisch, B. Die Theorie des Intellects bei Dietrich von Freiberg,
Hamburg, 1977.
——Meister Eckhart. Analogie, Univozität und Einheit, Hamburg, 1983.
——‘“Le moi”: la conception du moi de Maître Eckhart: une contribution
aux “lumières” du Moyen-Age’, Revue des sciences religieuses 70
(1996): 18–30.
Schmugge, L. Johannes von Jandun (1285/9–1328), Stuttgart, 1966.
Waldschütz, E. Denken und Erfahren des Grundes. Zur philosophische
Deutung Meister Eckharts, Vienna, Freiburg and Basel, 1986.
Wallace, W.A. The Scientific Methodology of Theoderic of Freiberg (Studia
Friburgensia, NS 25), Freiburg, Switzerland, 1959.
Zum Brunn, E., Kaluza, Z., Libera, A. de, Vignaux, P. and Wéber, E.
Maître Eckhart à Paris. Une critique médiévale de l’ontothéologie
(Bibliothèque de l’école des hautes études, sciences religieuses 86),
Paris, 1984.
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CHAPTER 11
Thomas Aquinas
Brian Davies OP
Thomas Aquinas, son of Landulf d’Aquino and his wife Theodora,
was born sometime between 1224 and 1226 in what was then the
Kingdom of Naples.1 After a childhood education at the Benedictine
monastery of Monte Cassino, he studied at the university of Naples.
Here, possibly under Irish influence, he encountered the philosophy of
Aristotle, which subsequently became a major source of philosophical
inspiration to him.2 The thinking of Aristotle and Aquinas differ in
many ways. So it would be wrong to say, as some have, that Aquinas is
just an ‘Aristotelian’, implying that he merely echoed Aristotle.3 But he
certainly used Aristotle to help him say much that he wanted to say for
himself. And he did more than any other medieval philosopher to make
subsequent generations aware of the importance of Aristotle.
In 1242 or 1243 Aquinas entered the Dominican Order of preaching
friars founded by St Dominic (c. 1170–1221).4 He subsequently studied
under St Albert the Great (c. 1200–80) in Cologne and Paris, and by
1256 he was a professor at the University of Paris. The rest of his life
was devoted to teaching, preaching, administration and writing—not
only in Paris, but elsewhere as well. He taught, for example, at Orvieto
and Rome. He was assigned to establish a house of studies in Rome in
1265. In 1272 he moved to Naples, where he became responsible for
studies at the priory of San Domenico. But by 1274 his working life
was over. In December 1273 he suffered some kind of breakdown. At
around the same time he was asked to attend the second Council of
Lyons. He set out for Lyons, but he became seriously ill on the way
and he died in the Cistercian Abbey of Fossanova.
After his death Aquinas came near to being condemned at the
University of Paris. And teachings thought to derive from him were
condemned at Oxford in 1277. But his standing as a thinker grew
steadily and, in spite of continued opposition to his teaching, he was
canonized as a saint of the Catholic Church in 1323. Later medieval
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authors often quote him and discuss him, and, though his influence
waned between the later medieval period and the age of the Counter-
Reformation, his impact on post-Reformation figures was considerable,
chiefly because St Ignatius Loyola arranged for his writings to be used
in the training of Jesuits. After another period in which his thinking
came to be lightly regarded, the study of Aquinas was encouraged by
the papacy in the nineteenth century.
PHILOSOPHER OR THEOLOGIAN?
Does Aquinas deserve a place in a book on the history of philosophy?
Anthony Kenny has described him as ‘one of the dozen greatest
philosophers of the western world’ ([11.27] 1). But others have
expressed a different view. Take, for example, Bertrand Russell.
According to him:
There is little of the true philosophic spirit in Aquinas. He
does not, like the Platonic Socrates, set out to follow
wherever the argument may lead. He is not engaged in an
inquiry, the result of which it is impossible to know in
advance. Before he begins to philosophize, he already knows
the truth; it is declared in the Catholic faith.5
Russell had little time for Aquinas considered as a philosopher. And
even Aquinas’s supporters have sometimes characterized him as a
theologian rather than a philosopher. According to Etienne Gilson, the
philosophy in Aquinas is indistinguishable from the theology.6 The
same opinion is expressed by Armand Maurer. Commenting on
Aquinas’s Summa theologiae, he says that, in this work,
everything is theological, even the philosophical reasoning
that makes up such a large part of it. The water of
philosophy and the other secular disciplines it contains has
been changed into the wine of theology. That is why we
cannot extract from the Summa its philosophical parts and
treat them as pure philosophy.7
Russell’s judgement will strike most modern philosophers as a dubious
one. And, as Kenny nicely observes, it ‘comes oddly from a philosopher
who [in Principia Mathematica] took three hundred and sixty dense
pages to offer a proof that 1+1=2’ ([11.27] 2). But there are good
reasons for agreeing with Gilson and Maurer. Aquinas was a priest
and a Dominican friar. And most of his writings can be properly classed
as ‘theology’. We have reason to believe that his greatest literary
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achievement, the Summa theologiae, was chiefly intended as a textbook
for working friars.8 And there is reason to suppose that his second
best-known work, the Summa contra Gentiles, had an equally pastoral
and Christian motive.9
Yet any modern philosopher who reads Aquinas will be struck by
the fact that he was more than your average theologian. His writings
show him to have been expert in matters of philosophical logic. And,
like many medieval theology teachers, he presented his theology with
an eye, not just on Scripture and the authority of Christian tradition,
but also on what follows from what, what it is per se reasonable to
believe, and what it makes sense to say in general. If Aquinas is first
and foremost a theologian, he is also a philosopher’s theologian who
is worthy of attention from philosophers. He had an enviable knowledge
of philosophical writings and he was deeply concerned to theologize
on the basis of this knowledge. He was also a writer of considerable
ability with theses of his own, which are not just restatements of
positions received from the Christian tradition and the history of
philosophy. Whether one calls him a ‘theological’ thinker or a
‘philosophical’ thinker does not really matter. The fact remains that
his writings are full of philosophical interest.
AQUINAS AND GOD
Readers who want to get an overall sense of Aquinas’s teaching are
best advised to see it as defending what is usually called an exitusreditus
picture of reality ([11.12] ch. 11). God, says Aquinas, is ‘the beginning
and end of all things’.10 Creatures derive from God (exitus), who is
therefore their first efficient cause (that which accounts for them being
there).11 But God is also the final cause of creatures, that to which they
aim, tend, or return (reditus), that which contains the perfection or
goal of all created things.12 According to Aquinas, everything comes
from God and is geared to him. God accounts for there being anything
apart from himself, and he is what is aimed at by anything moving
towards its perfection. Aristotle says that everything aims for its good
(Ethics I, i, 1094a3). Aquinas says that any created good derives from
God who contains in himself all the perfections found in creatures. In
so far as a creature moves to its perfection, Aquinas goes on to argue,
the creature is tending to what is to be found in God himself.13 As
Father, Son, and Spirit, Aquinas adds, God is the special goal of rational
individuals. For these can share in what God is by nature.14
Aquinas is sometimes reported as teaching that someone who claims
rationally to believe in the existence of God must be able to prove that
God exists. But this is not what Aquinas teaches. He says that people
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can have a rational belief in the existence of God without being able to
prove God’s existence.15 And he holds that, apart from the question of
God’s existence, people may be rational in believing what they cannot
prove. Following Aristotle, he maintains that people may rationally
believe indemonstrable principles of logic.16 He also maintains that
one may rationally believe what a teacher imparts to one, even though
one is in no position to demonstrate the truth of what the teacher has
told one.17 He does, however, contend that belief in God’s existence is
one for which good philosophical reasons can be given. This is clear
from Summa theologiae Ia, 2, 2 and Summa contra Gentiles I, 9, where
he says that ‘we can demonstrate…that God exists’ and that God can
be made known as we ‘proceed through demonstrative arguments’.
‘Demonstrative arguments’ here means what it does for Aristotle, i.e.
arguments using premisses which entail a given conclusion on pain of
contradiction.
Aquinas denies that proof of God’s existence is given by arguing
that ‘God does not exist’ is a contradiction. So he rejects the suggestion,
commonly associated with St Anselm, that the existence of God can be
demonstrated from the absurdity of denying that God exists.18 He also
rejects the view that human beings are naturally capable of perceiving
or experiencing God as they perceive or experience the things with
which they are normally acquainted. According to Aquinas, our
perception and seeing of things is based on sensory experience.19 Since
God is not a physical object, Aquinas concludes that there can be no
natural perception or seeing of God on the part of human beings.20 He
does not deny that people might have a knowledge of God without the
medium of physical objects. In talking of life after death, he says that
people can have a vision of God which is nothing like knowing a
physical object.21 But he denies that human beings in this world have a
direct and unmediated knowledge of God. On his account, our
knowledge of God starts from what we know of the world in which
we live. According to him, we can know that God exists because the
world in which we find ourselves cannot account for itself.
Aquinas considers whether we can prove that God exists in many
places in his writings. But his best-known arguments for the existence
of God come in Ia, 2, 3 (the ‘Five Ways’). His thinking in this text is
clearly indebted to earlier authors, especially Aristotle, Maimonides,
Avicenna and Averroes.22 And it would be foolish to suggest that the
reasoning of the Five Ways can be quickly summarized in a way that
does them justice. But their substance can be indicated in fairly
uncomplicated terms.
In general, Aquinas’s Five Ways employ a simple pattern of argument.
Each begins by drawing attention to some general feature of things
known to us on the basis of experience. It is then suggested that none
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of these features can be accounted for in ordinary mundane terms, and
that we must move to a level of explanation which transcends any
with which we are familiar.23
Another way of putting it is to say that, according to the Five Ways,
questions we can raise with respect to what we encounter in day to
day life raise further questions the answer to which can only be thought
of as lying beyond what we encounter.
Take, for example, the First Way, in which the influence of Aristotle
is particularly prevalent.24 Here the argument starts from change or
motion in the world.25 It is clear, says Aquinas, that there is such a
thing—he cites as an instance the change involved in wood becoming
hot when subjected to fire.26 How, then, may we account for it?
According to Aquinas, anything changed or moved is changed or
moved by something else. Omne quod movetur ab alio movetur. This,
he reasons, is because a thing which has changed has become what it
was not to begin with, which can only happen if there is something
from which the reality attained by the thing as changed somehow
derives.27 Therefore, he concludes, there must be a first cause of things
being changed or moved. For there cannot be an endless series of things
changed or moved by other things. If every change in a series of
connected changes depends on a prior changer, the whole system of
changing things is only derivatively an initiator of change and still
requires something to initiate its change. There must be something
which causes change or motion in things without itself being changed
or moved by anything. There must an unchanged changer or an
unmoved mover.
Anything which is moved is moved by something else… To
cause motion is to bring into being what was previously only
able to be, and this can only be done by something that
already is… Now the same thing cannot at the same time be
both actually x and potentially x, though it can be actually x
and potentially y: the actually hot cannot at the same time be
potentially hot, though it can be potentially cold.
Consequently, a thing which is moved cannot itself cause
that same movement; it cannot move itself. Of necessity
therefore anything moved is moved by something else…
Now we must stop somewhere, otherwise there will be no
first cause of the movement and as a result no subsequent
causes… Hence one is bound to arrive at some first cause of
things being moved which is not itself moved by anything,
and this is what everybody understands by God.
(Summa theologiae I q. 2, a. 3)
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If we bear in mind that Aquinas believes that time can be said to exist
because changes occur, the First Way is arguing that the reality of time
is a reason for believing in God.28 Aquinas is suggesting that the present
becomes the past because something non-temporal enables the present
to become past.
The pattern of the First Way is repeated in the rest of the Five Ways.
According to the Second Way, there are causes in the world which
bring it about that other things come to be. There are, as Aquinas puts
it, causes which are related as members of a series. In that case, however,
there must be a first cause, or something which is not itself caused to
be by anything. For causes arranged in series must have a first member.
In the observable world causes are found to be ordered in
series; we never observe, nor ever could, something causing
itself, for this would mean it preceded itself, and this is not
possible. Such a series of causes must however stop
somewhere; for in it an earlier member causes an intermediate
and the intermediate a last… Now if you eliminate a cause
you also eliminate its effects, so that you cannot have a last
cause, nor an intermediate one, unless you have a first.
(ibid.)
According to the Third Way29 there are things which are perishable
(e.g. plants) and things which are imperishable (in Aquinas’s language,
imperishable things are ‘necessary’ beings or things which ‘must be’).30
But why should this be so? The answer, says Aquinas, has to lie in
something imperishable and dependent for its existence on nothing.31
Now a thing that must be, may or may not owe this necessity
to something else. But just as we must stop somewhere in a
series of causes, so also in the series of things which must be
and owe this to other things.
(ibid.)
In the Fourth and Fifth Ways Aquinas turns to different questions.
Why are there things with varying degrees of perfection?32 And how
does it come about that in nature there are things which, while not
themselves intelligent, operate in a regular or goal-directed way?33
Aquinas suggests that perfections in things imply a source of perfections.
He thinks that where there are degrees of a perfection there must be
something which maximally embodies that perfection and which causes
it to occur in other things. And he thinks that the goal-directed activity
of non-rational things suggests that they are governed by what is
rational.
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Some things are found to be more good, more true, more noble,
and so on, and other things less. But such comparative terms
describe varying degrees of approximation to a superlative; for
example, things are hotter and hotter the nearer they approach
to what is hottest. Something therefore is the truest and best
and most noble of things. Now when many things possess some
property in common, the one most fully possessing it causes it
in the others: fire, to use Aristotle’s example, the hottest of all
things, causes all other things to be hot. There is therefore
something which causes in all other things their being, their
goodness, and whatever other perfections they have.
Some things which lack awareness, namely bodies, operate in
accordance with an end… Nothing however that lacks
awareness tends to a goal except under the direction of
someone with awareness and with understanding…
Everything in nature, therefore is directed to its goal by
someone with understanding.
(ibid.)
WHAT IS GOD LIKE?
Aquinas is often described as someone who first tries to prove the
existence of God and then tries to show that God has various attributes.
But, though this description can be partly defended, it is also misleading.
For Aquinas holds that the attributes we ascribe to God are not, in
reality, anything distinct from God himself. According to Aquinas, God
is good, perfect, knowledgeable, powerful and eternal. But he does not
think that, for example, ‘the goodness of God’ signifies anything other
than God himself. In the thinking of Aquinas, God does not have
attributes or properties. God is his attributes or properties.34 Aquinas
also maintains that, though we speak of God and ascribe certain
attributes to him, we do not know what God is. Aquinas is often thought
of as someone with a precise or definite concept of God, someone who
thinks he can explain just what God is. But in a passage immediately
following the text of the Five Ways, he writes,
Having recognized that a certain thing exists, we have still to
investigate the way in which it exists, that we may come to
understand what it is that exists. Now we cannot know what
God is, but only what he is not; we must therefore consider
the ways in which God does not exist, rather than the ways
in which he does.
(ibid.)
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The same move is made in the Summa Contra Gentiles. Book I, Chapter
13 of the treatise is called ‘Arguments in proof of the existence of God’.
Chapter 14 begins with the assertion, ‘The divine substance surpasses
every form that our intellect reaches. Thus we are unable to apprehend
it by knowing what it is.’
In saying that God and his attributes are identical, Aquinas is not
saying that, for example, ‘God is good’ means the same as ‘God exists’.
And he is certainly not saying that God is a property.35 He means that
certain things that are true of creatures are not true of God. More
precisely, he means that God is nothing material. On Aquinas’s account,
material things possessing a nature cannot be identified with the nature
they possess. Thus, for example, Socrates is not identical with human
nature. But what is it that allows us to distinguish between Socrates
and other human beings? Aquinas says that Socrates is different from
other human beings not because of his nature but because of his matter.
Socrates is different from me because he was one parcel of matter and
I am another. It is materiality which allows Socrates to be a human
being rather than human nature. And, since Aquinas denies that God
is something material, he therefore concludes that God and his nature
are not distinguishable. He also reasons that angels and their natures
are not distinguishable. The angel Gabriel is not a material object.
And neither is the angel Michael. So, says Aquinas, Gabriel is his nature,
and Michael is his nature. Or, as we may put it, God, Gabriel and
Michael are not individual members of a species or genus.36
With respect to the question of knowing what God is, we need to be
warned that Aquinas does not deny that we can know ourselves to
speak truly when we make certain statements about God.37 Aquinas
spends a great deal of time arguing that many propositions concerning
God can be proved to be true in philosophical terms. But he denies
that we can understand the nature of God. On his account, our
knowledge of what things are depends on our ability to experience
them by means of our senses and to classify them accordingly. Since he
holds that God is nothing material, he therefore denies that God is
known by the senses and classifiable on the basis of sensory experience.
The knowledge that is natural to us has its source in the
senses and extends just so far as it can be led by sensible
things; from these, however, our understanding cannot reach
to the divine essence… In the present life our intellect has a
natural relation to the natures of material things; thus it
understands nothing except by turning to sense images… In
this sense it is obvious that we cannot, primarily and
essentially, in the mode of knowing that we experience,
understand immaterial substances since they are not subject
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to the senses and imagination… What is understood first by
us in the present life is the whatness of material
things…[hence]… we arrive at a knowledge of God by way
of creatures.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 12, 12; 88, 1; 88, 3)
On Aquinas’s account, our knowledge of God is derived from what
we know of things in the world and from what we can sensibly deny
or affirm of God given that he is not something in the world. So, says
Aquinas, God is not a physical object which can be individuated as a
member of a class of things which can be distinguished from each other
with reference to genus and species. Among other things, Aquinas also
argues that God is unchangeable and non-temporal (since he is the
first cause of change, and since time is real since changes occur).38
In distinguishing God from creatures, however, Aquinas lays the
greatest stress on the teaching that God is uncreated. One way in which
he does so is to say that there is no ‘potentiality’ in God. To understand
his teaching on God it will help if we try to understand what he means
by saying this.
We can start by noting what Aquinas means by ‘potentiality’. And
we can do so by thinking of my cat Fergus. He is a lovely and loving
creature, and I am deeply fond of him. But he is no Platonic form.
Plato thought of the forms as unchangeable. But Fergus is changing all
the time. He gets fat as I feed him. And he is constantly changing his
position. So he is a serious threat to the local mice.
Aquinas would say that when Fergus weighs nine pounds he is also
potentially eight and ten pounds in weight. Fergus might weigh nine
pounds, but he could slim to eight pounds or grow to ten pounds.
Aquinas would also say that when Fergus is in the kitchen, he is
potentially in the living room. For Fergus has a habit of moving around.
What if Fergus ends up strolling on to a busy road? He stands a
strong chance of becoming a defunct cat. Or, as Aquinas would say,
Fergus is actually a cat and potentially a corpse. Fergus is vulnerable to
the activity of things in the world. And some of them can bring it
about that he ceases to be the thing that he is.
We can put this by saying that Fergus is potentially non-existent as
a cat. And that is what Aquinas would say. But he would add that
there is a sense in which Fergus is potentially non-existent quite apart
from the threat of a busy road and the like. For there might be no
Fergus at all, not just in the sense that there might never have been cats
who acted so that Fergus was born, but in the sense that Fergus might
not continue to exist. According to Aquinas, anything created is
potential since its existence depends on God (since anything created is
potentially non-existent). In his view, we are entitled to ask why
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anything we come across is there. And, so he thinks, in asking this
question we need not be concerned with temporally prior causes or
identifiable causes in the world which sustain things in the state in
which they are. We can be asking about the fact that there is anything
there to be produced or to be sustained. What accounts for the fact
that such things exist at all? What accounts for there being a world in
which we can ask what accounts for what within it?
Aquinas holds that, if we take these questions seriously, we must
believe in the existence of something which is wholly lacking in
potentiality, i.e. God. Fergus can change physically and he has
potentiality accordingly. But God is no physical thing, and, since he
accounts for there being a world, he cannot be potentially non-existent.
He does not ‘have’ existence. His existence is not received or derived
from another. He is his own existence (ipsum esse subsistens) and the
reason why other things have it.
Properties that belong to a thing over and above its own
nature must derive from somewhere, either from that nature
itself…or from an external cause… If therefore the existence
of a thing is to be other than its nature, that existence must
either derive from the nature or have an external cause. Now
it cannot derive merely from the nature, for nothing with
derived existence suffices to bring itself into being. It follows
then that, if a thing’s existence differs from its nature, that
existence must be externally caused. But we cannot say this
about God, whom we have seen to be the first cause. Neither
then can we say that God’s existence is other than his nature.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 3, 4)
In Aquinas’s view, this would be true even if the created order contained
things which are not material. For suppose there were immaterial beings
other than God, as Aquinas took angels to be.39 They would differ
from material things since they would have no in-built tendency to
perish or move around. In the language of Aquinas, they would be
‘necessary’ beings rather than ‘contingent’ ones. They would also be
identical with their natures, for, as we have seen, Aquinas held that
there are no two angels of the same kind or ‘species’. But they would
still be potentially non-existent since they would receive their existence
from God. And, though they could not decay or perish at the hands of
other creatures, it would be possible for God to de-create (annihilate)
them. They would not therefore exist simply by being what they are.
‘Without doubt’, says Aquinas, ‘the angels, and all that is other than
God, were made by God. For only God is his existence; in all else
essence and existence are distinct.’40 Or, as he also explains,
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Some things are of a nature that cannot exist except as
instantiated in individual matter—all bodies are of this kind.
This is one way of being. There are other things whose
natures are instantiated by themselves and not by being in
matter. These have existence simply by being the natures they
are: yet existence is still something they have, it is not what
they are—the incorporeal beings we call angels are of this
kind. Finally there is the way of being that belongs to God
alone, for his existence is what he is.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 12, 4)
GOD AND HIS CREATION
How does Aquinas think of God as relating to his creation? In writing
about the relation between God and creatures, one of the things he
says is that God is not really related to creatures, though creatures are
really related to God. In his own words:
Since God is altogether outside the order of creatures, since
they are ordered to him but not he to them, it is clear that
being related to God is a reality in creatures, but being
related to creatures is not a reality in God.41
But what does he mean in saying this? And how does what he says
connect with his belief that God is the creator and sustainer of everything
other than himself?
One might suppose that the words of Aquinas just quoted constitute
a flagrant violation of obvious truths. If A is related to B, then B must
be related to A. What could be more obvious than that? But Aquinas’s
teaching on God and his relation to creatures is not a denial of the
principle ‘If aRb, then bRa’. If one reads him on the question of God’s
relation to creatures, one will find him endorsing all of the following
propositions.
1 We can speak of God as related to his creatures in view of the purely
formal point that if one thing can be said to be related to another,
then the second thing can be said to be related to the first.
2 Since God can be compared to creatures, since he can be spoken of
as being like them, he can be thought of as related to them.
3 Since God knows creatures, he can be said to be related to them.
4 Since God moves creatures, he can be said to be related to them.
5 Since God can be spoken of as ‘first’, ‘highest’ and so on, he can be
said to be related to creatures since these terms are relational ones.42
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In saying that ‘being related to creatures is not a reality in God’, Aquinas’s
primary concern is to deny that God is changed because he has created.
Aquinas denies that God is something which has to create. In his view,
God creates freely, and to understand what God is essentially would not
be to see that he is Creator of the world. God, indeed, has created the
world. But, says Aquinas, he does not produce the world as kidneys produce
urine. For him, God is able to create, but he is not essentially a creator (as
kidneys are essentially producers of urine).43 So Aquinas reasons that the
essence of God is in no way affected by the existence of created things and
that being the Creator of creatures is not something in God. God does not
become different by becoming the Creator of things. Nor does he change
because his creatures change. For Aquinas, the fact that there are creatures
makes no difference to God, just as the fact that my coming to know that
Fred is bald makes no difference to Fred (my coming to know that Fred is
bald does not change him, even though he might be deeply affected by
learning that I have come to know of his baldness). In Aquinas’s view,
God is unchangeably himself. And he remains so even though it is true
that there are things created and sustained by him.
This aspect of Aquinas’s teaching allows him to take a view of God’s
activity which is quite at odds with that to be found in the work of
many philosophers and theologians both ancient and modern. It has
often been said that the action of God is a process undergone by God
with effects in the world of created things. When I act, I do something
in addition to what I have been previously doing. I go through a series
of successive states. And my going through these states sometimes leads
to changes in things apart from myself. By the same token, so it has
often been argued, God acts by being a subject under-going successive
states some of which have effects in things other than him. But this is
not Aquinas’s position. On his account, the action of God is not a
process undergone by him. It is a process undergone in things other
than God. For Aquinas, God’s action is the history of created things.
One of the things which Aquinas takes this to mean is that God
cannot, strictly speaking, be thought of as intervening in the world.
According to the usual sense of ‘intervene’, to say that X has intervened
is to say that X has come to be present in some situation from which X
was previously absent. Thus, for example, to say that I intervened in a
brawl is to say that I moved into a fight of which I was not originally
a part. But Aquinas holds that God can never be absent from anything.
On his account, God is everywhere as making all places.44 He also says
that God is in all things as making them to be. Hence, for example, he
refuses to think of miracles as cases of divine intervention. It is often
said that to believe in miracles is to believe in a God who can intervene.
The idea seems to be that a God capable of performing miracles must
be one who observes a given scenario and then steps in to tinker with
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it. But God, for Aquinas, can never intervene in his creation in this
sense. He therefore maintains that God is as present in what is not
miraculous as he is in the miraculous. Miracles, for him, do not occur
because of an extra added wonder ingredient (i.e. God). They occur
because something is not present (i.e. a cause other than God, or a
collection of such causes).45
This thought of Aquinas should be connected with another of his
prevailing theses: that free human actions are caused by God. He
frequently alludes to arguments suggesting that people cannot be free
under God’s providence. In On Evil VI, for instance, we find the three
following arguments, from the twenty-four in all, against the thesis
that human beings have a free choice of their actions:
If change is initiated in the human will in a fixed way by
God, it follows that human beings do not have free choice of
their actions. Moreover, an action is forced when its
originating principle is outside the subject, and the victim of
force does not contribute anything to it. So if the originating
principle of a choice which is made voluntarily is outside the
subject—in God—then it seems that the will is changed by
force and of necessity. So we do not have free choice of our
actions. Moreover, it is impossible that a human will should
not be in accordance with God’s will: as Augustine says in
the Enchiridion, either a human being does what God wills
or God fulfils his will in that person. But God’s will is
changeless; so the human will is too. So all human choices
spring from a fixed choice.
A similar kind of argument constitutes the third objection to Ia, 83, 1:
What is free is cause of itself, as the Philosopher says
(Metaphysics 1.2). Therefore what is moved by another is
not free. But God moves the will, for it is written (Prov.
21:1): The heart of the king is in the hand of the Lord;
whithersoever He will He shall turn it; and (Phil. 2:13): It is
God Who worketh in you both to will and to accomplish.
Therefore people do not have free-will.
Yet Aquinas insists that the reality of providence (which means the
reality of God working in all things as first cause and sustainer) is not
incompatible with human freedom.
To begin with, he says, people certainly have freedom. For one thing,
the Bible holds that they do (in Ia, 83, 1 Aquinas cites Ecclesiasticus
15:14 to this effect). For another, people, as rational agents, have it in
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them to choose between alternative courses of action (unlike inanimate
objects or animals acting by instinct).46 They also have it in them to act
or refrain from acting. In fact, says Aquinas, human freedom is a
prerequisite of moral thinking.
If there is nothing free in us, but the change which we desire
comes about of necessity, then we lose deliberation,
exhortation, command and punishment, and praise and
blame, which are what moral philosophy is based on.
(On Power, VI; Summa theologiae, Ia, 83, 1)
Secondly, so Aquinas continues, human actions falling under providence
can be free precisely because of what providence involves. In his view
we are not free in spite of God, but because of God.
God does indeed change the will, however, in an unchanging
manner, because of the manner of acting of God’s change-
initiating power, which cannot fail. But because of the nature
of the will which is changed—which is such that it is related
indifferently to different things—this does not lead to
necessity, but leaves freedom untouched. In the same way
divine providence works unfailingly in everything, but
nevertheless effects come from contingent causes in a
contingent manner, since God changes everything in a
relative way, relative to the manner of existence of each
thing… The will does contribute something when change is
initiated in it by God: it is the will itself that acts, though the
change is initiated by God. So though its change does come
from outside as far as the first originating principle is
concerned, it is nevertheless not a forced change.
(On Evil, VI)
In other words, human freedom is compatible with providence because
only by virtue of providence is there any human freedom. God, for
Aquinas, really does act in everything. And since ‘everything’ includes
human free actions, Aquinas concludes that God works in them as
much as in anything else.
People are in charge of their acts, including those of willing and
of not willing, because of the deliberative activity of reason,
which can be turned to one side or the other. But that someone
should deliberate or not deliberate, supposing that one were in
charge of this too, would have to come about by a preceding
deliberation. And since this may not proceed to infinity, one
would finally have to reach the point at which a person’s free
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decision is moved by some external principle superior to the
human mind, namely by God, as Aristotle himself
demonstrated. Thus the minds even of healthy people are not so
much in charge of their acts as not to need to be moved by God.
(Summa theologiae, Ia2ae, 109, 3, ad. 1)
The same idea is expressed in Aquinas’s commentary on Aristotle’s
On Interpretation:
If divine providence is, in its own right, the cause of
everything that happens, or at least of everything good, it
seems that everything happens of necessity… God’s will
cannot be thwarted: so it seems that whatever he wants to
happen happens of necessity… [But] we have to notice a
difference as regards the divine will. The divine will should
be thought of as being outside the ordering of existent
things. It is the cause which grounds every existent, and all
the differences there are between them. One of the
differences between existents is between those that are
possible and those that are necessary. Hence necessity and
contingency in things have their origin in the divine will, as
does the distinction between them, which follows from a
description of their proximate causes. God lays down
necessary causes for the effects that he wants to be necessary,
and he lays down causes that act contingently—i.e. that can
fail of their effect—for the effects that he wants to be
contingent. It is according to this characteristic of their
causes that effects are said to be necessary or contingent,
even though they all depend on the divine will, which
transcends the ordering of necessity and contingency, as their
first cause… The will of God cannot fail: but in spite of that,
not all its effects are necessary; some are contingent.
(On ‘On Interpretation’, Bk I, lectio 14)
By ‘necessary’ here Aquinas means ‘determined’ or ‘brought about by
causes necessitating their effects’. By ‘contingent’ he means ‘undetermined’
or ‘able to be or not to be’. His suggestion, therefore, is that God wills
both what is determined and what is undetermined. Since he believes
that each must derive from God’s will, he locates them within the context
of providence. But since he also believes that the determined and
undetermined are genuinely different, he concludes that providence can
effect what is undetermined as well as what is determined. And, on this
basis, he holds that it can effect human free actions.
One may, of course, say that if my actions are ultimately caused by
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God then I do not act freely at all. But Aquinas would reply that my
actions are free if nothing in the world is acting on me so as to make
me perform them, not if God is not acting in me. According to him,
what is incompatible with human free will is ‘necessity of coercion’ or
the effect of violence, as when something acts on one and ‘applies force
to the point where one cannot act otherwise’.47 As Herbert McCabe
explains, Aquinas’s position is that ‘to be free means not to be under
the influence of some other creature, it is to be independent of other
bits of the universe; it is not and could not mean to e independent of
God’.48 For Aquinas, God does not interfere with created free agents
to push them into action in a way that infringes their freedom. He
does not act on them (as Aquinas thinks created things do when they
cause others to act as determined by them). He makes them to be what
they are, namely freely acting agents. In Aquinas’s words,
Free-will is the cause of its own movement, because by their
free-will people move themselves to act. But it does not of
necessity belong to liberty that what is free should be the first
cause of itself, as neither for one thing to be the cause of
another need it be the first cause. God, therefore, is the first
cause, who moves causes both natural and voluntary. And
just as by moving natural causes he does not prevent their
acts being natural, so by moving voluntary causes he does
not deprive their actions of being voluntary: but rather is he
the cause of this very thing in them; for he operates in each
thing according to its own nature.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 83, 1, ad. 3)
HUMAN BEINGS
On this account, people are totally dependent on God for all that they
are. But the account is a very theological one. And one might wonder
how Aquinas thinks of people without also thinking about God. What,
for example, would he write if asked to contribute to a modern
philosophical book on the nature of human beings?49
The first thing he would say is that human beings are animals. So
they are, for example, capable of physical movement. And they have
biological characteristics. They have the capacity to grow and
reproduce. They have the need and capacity to eat. These characteristics
are not, for Aquinas, optional extras which people can take up and
discard while remaining people. They are essential elements in the make-
up of any human being. And they are very much bound up with what
is physical or material.
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This line of thinking, of course, immediately sets Aquinas apart from
writers who embrace a ‘dualistic’ understanding of human beings—
writers like Descartes, for instance.50 For Aquinas, my body is not
distinct from me because it is a different substance or thing from me.
On his account, if a human being is there, then so is a human body.
For as it belongs to the very conception of ‘this human being’
that there should be this soul, flesh and bone, so it belongs to
the very conception of ‘human being’ that there be soul, flesh
and bone. For the substance of a species has to contain
whatever belongs in general to every one of the individuals
comprising that species.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 4)
Aquinas often refers to the thesis that people are essentially substances
different from bodies on which they act (a view which he ascribes to
Plato). But he emphatically rejects this thesis.
Plato and his followers asserted that the intellectual soul is not
united to the body as form to matter, but only as mover to
movable, for Plato said that the soul is in the body ‘as a sailor
in a ship’. Thus the union of soul and body would only be by
contact of power… But this doctrine seems not to fit the facts.
(Summa contra Gentiles, II, 57)
If our souls moved our bodies as sailors move ships, says Aquinas, my
soul and my body would not be a unity. He adds that if we are souls
using bodies, then we are essentially immaterial, which is not the case.
We are ‘sensible and natural realities’ and cannot, therefore, be
essentially immaterial.51
But this is not to say that Aquinas thinks of people as irreducibly
material. He is not, in the modern sense, a philosophical ‘physicalist’.52
We have just seen that he is prepared to speak about people as having
souls. And, on his account, a proper account of the human soul (anima)
will deny that it is wholly material. By ‘soul’, Aquinas means something
like ‘principle of life’. ‘Inquiry into the nature of the soul’, he writes,
‘presupposes an understanding of the soul as the root principle of life
in living things within our experience’.53 And, in Aquinas’s thinking,
the root principle of life in human beings (the human soul) is non-
material. It is also something ‘subsisting’.
In arguing for the non-corporeal nature of the human soul, Aquinas
begins by reminding us what anima means, i.e. ‘that which makes living
things live’. And, with that understanding in mind, he contends that
soul cannot be something bodily. There must, he says, be some principle
of life which distinguishes living things from non-living things, and
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this cannot be a body. Why not? Because if it were a body it would
follow that any material thing would be living, which is not the case. A
body is alive not just because it is a body. It is alive because of a principle
of life which is not a body.
It is obvious that not every principle of vital activity is a soul.
Otherwise the eye would be a soul, since it is a principle of
sight; and so with the other organs of the soul. What we call
the soul is the root principle of life. Now though something
corporeal can be some sort of principle of life, as the heart is
for animals, nevertheless a body cannot be the root principle
of life. For it is obvious that to be the principle of life, or that
which is alive, does not belong to any bodily thing from the
mere fact of its being a body; otherwise every bodily thing
would be alive or a life-source. Consequently any particular
body that is alive, or even indeed a source of life, is so from
being a body of such-and-such a kind. Now whatever is
actually such, as distinct from not-such, has this from some
principle which we call its actuating principle. Therefore a
soul, as the primary principle of life, is not a body but that
which actuates a body.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 1)
In other words, if bodily things are alive just because they are bodies,
all bodily things (e.g. my alarm clock) would be alive, which they are
not. So what makes something a living thing cannot be a body.
But why say that the human soul is something subsisting? The main
point made by Aquinas in anticipating this question is that the human
animal has powers or functions which are not simply bodily, even
though they depend on bodily ones. For example, people can know
and understand, which is not the case with that which is wholly material.
As Aquinas puts it, people enjoy an intellectual life and they are things
of the kind they are (rational animals) because of this. Aquinas calls
that by virtue of which people are things of the kind they are their
‘souls’. So he can say that human beings are bodily, but also that they
are or have both body and soul. The two cannot be torn apart in any
way that would leave what remained a human being. But they can be
distinguished from each other and the soul of a human being can
therefore be thought of as something subsisting immaterially.
The principle of the act of understanding, which is called the
human soul, must of necessity be some kind of incorporeal
and subsistent principle. For it is obvious that the
understanding of people enables them to know the natures of
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all bodily things. But what can in this way take in things must
have nothing of their nature in its own, for the form that was
in it by nature would obstruct knowledge of anything else. For
example, we observe how the tongue of someone sick with
fever and bitter infection cannot perceive anything sweet, for
everything tastes sour. Accordingly, if the intellectual principle
had in it the physical nature of any bodily thing, it would be
unable to know all bodies. Each of them has its own
determinate nature. Impossible, therefore, that the principle of
understanding be something bodily. And in the same way it is
impossible for it to understand through and in a bodily organ,
for the determinate nature of that bodily organ would prevent
knowledge of all bodies. Thus if you had a colour filter over
the eye, and had a glass vessel of the same colour, it would not
matter what you poured into the glass, it would always appear
the same colour. The principle of understanding, therefore,
which is called mind or intellect, has its own activity in which
body takes no intrinsic part. But nothing can act of itself
unless it subsists in its own right. For only what actually exists
acts, and its manner of acting follows its manner of being. So
it is that we do not say that heat heats, but that something hot
heats. Consequently the human soul, which is called an
intellect or mind, is something incorporeal and subsisting.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 2)
Aquinas’s notion that the human soul ‘subsists’ does not entail that it
is a complete and self-contained entity, as, for example, Descartes
thought the soul to be. For Aquinas, my human soul subsists because
I have an intellectual life which cannot be reduced to what is simply
bodily. It does not subsist as something with its own life apart from
me, any more than my left hand does, or my right eye. Both of these
can be spoken of as things, but they are really parts of me. We do not
say, ‘My left hand feels’ or ‘My right eye sees’; rather we say, ‘I feel
with my left hand’ and ‘I see with my right eye’. And Aquinas thinks
that something similar should be said about my soul. I have a human
soul because I have intellect and will. But it is not my soul which
understands and wills. I do.
One might put this by saying that my soul is not I. And Aquinas
says exactly this in his Commentary of St Paul’s first letter to the
Corinthians.54 In that case, however, what happens to me when I die?
Aquinas maintains that people are essentially corporeal. This means
that I am essentially corporeal. For I am a human being. So am I to
conclude from what Aquinas holds that I cease to exist at death? Can
I look forward to nothing in the way of an afterlife?
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Aquinas has a number of answers to these questions. Since he thinks
of people as essentially corporeal, he agrees that there is a sense in
which they cease to exist at death. But, since he believes that God can
raise the dead to bodily life, he denies that the fact that I die entails
that I cease to exist. On the other hand, he does not believe that most
of those who have died have been raised to bodily life. He is certain
that Christ has been raised to bodily life. But he would deny that the
same can be truly asserted of, for example, Julius Caesar. He would
therefore say that the soul of Caesar survives, though Caesar himself
does not.
Given what we have now seen of Aquinas’s teaching, it should be
evident why he would deny that now, when he has not been raised to
bodily life, Caesar survives his death. But why should Aquinas think
that Caesar’s soul would survive his death? Does he subscribe to the
view that the human soul is immortal? Does he maintain that, though
Caesar might die, his soul must survive the death of his body?
The answer to the last two questions is ‘Yes’. Aquinas does believe
that human souls are immortal. He also believes that they must survive
the death of human beings. That by virtue of which I understand and
think, he reasons, is not the sort of thing which can die as bodies can
die.55 He is well aware that people die and that their bodies perish. As
we have seen, however, people, for Aquinas, are rational, understanding
animals who are what they are by virtue of what is not material. He
therefore concludes that there must be something about them capable
of surviving the destruction of what is material. He does not think we
can prove that the soul of Caesar must survive his death. In Aquinas’s
view, whether or not Caesar’s soul survives the death of Caesar depends
on whether God wills to keep it in being. And Aquinas does not think
that we are in any position to prove that God must do that. For him,
therefore, there is no ‘proof of the immortality of the soul’. He holds
that Caesar’s soul could cease to exist at any time. But he also thinks
that it is not the sort of thing of which it makes sense to say that it can
perish as bodies can perish.
On the other hand, however, he does not think of it as the sort of
thing which can survive as a human animal can survive. So the survival
of Caesar’s soul is not the survival of the human being we call ‘Julius
Caesar’. People, for Aquinas, are very much part of the physical world.
Take that world away and what you are left with is not a human person.
You are not, for example, left with something able to know by means
of sense experience.56 Nor are you left with something able to undergo
the feelings or sensations that go with being bodily. On Aquinas’s
account, therefore, a human soul can only be said to survive its body
as something purely intellectual, as the locus of thought and will.
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Understanding through imagery is the proper operation of
the soul so far as it has the body united to it. Once separated
from the body it will have another mode of understanding,
like that of other disembodied natures… It is said, people are
constituted of two substantial elements, the soul with its
reasoning power, the flesh with its senses. Therefore when
the flesh dies the sense powers do not remain… Certain
powers, namely understanding and will, are related to the
soul taken on its own as their subject of inhesion, and
powers of this kind have to remain in the soul after the death
of the body. But some powers have the body-soul compound
for subject; this is the case with all the powers of sensation
and nutrition. Now when the subject goes the accident
cannot stay. Hence when the compound corrupts such
powers do not remain in actual existence. They survive in the
soul in a virtual state only, as in their source or root. And so
it is wrong to say, as some do, that these powers remain in
the soul after the dissolution of the body. And it is much
more wrong to say that the acts of these powers continue in
the disembodied soul, because such powers have no activity
except through a bodily organ.
(Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 6 ad. 3 and Ia, 77, 8)
Peter Geach observes that Aquinas’s description of the life that would
be possible for disembodied souls is ‘meagre and unattractive’.57 And
many will agree. But the description now in question is all that Aquinas
feels able to offer as a philosopher. As a Christian theologian he feels
able to say that the dead will be raised to a newness of life of a highly
attractive kind. His final position is that, following the Incarnation of
God in Christ, people can be raised in their bodies to share in God’s
life.58 But the truth of this position, on Aquinas’s own admission, is in
no way demonstrable by means of philosophical argument. It follows
from the teachings of Christ. On Aquinas’s account, we are warranted
in believing what Christ taught. For Christ was divine. Yet, so Aquinas
adds, though we can give some rational grounds for believing in the
divinity of Christ, we cannot prove that Christ was God.59 Belief in the
divinity of Christ is a matter of faith. It is not a matter of knowledge.
Though it is not unreasonable, it is not demonstrably true. If we
subscribe to it, that can only be because God has given us the theological
virtue of faith.60
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FAITH AND PHILOSOPHY
Aquinas’s writings on faith provide good examples of texts which
should lead us to challenge a view of medieval philosophy which has
been referred to as ‘separationism’.61 Some students of Aquinas try
rigidly to separate his theology from his philosophy. They then go on
to write about him on the assumption that some of his texts are
‘theological’ while others are ‘philosophical’. But Aquinas himself made
no such sharp distinction between theology and philosophy. And even
what he says of faith shows him to be weaving together what later
authors separate under the headings ‘theology’ and ‘philosophy’. The
object of faith is God, he says.62 Some will call this a statement of
theology. The virtue of faith, he continues, involves holding fast to
truths which philosophy cannot demonstrate.63 That, too, might be
called a theological conclusion. But in calling God the object of faith
Aquinas draws on views about truth, falsity, belief and propositions
which, in his opinion, ought to seem rationally acceptable to anyone.
And in arguing that philosophy cannot demonstrate the truths of faith
he defends himself with reference to what he thinks about human
knowledge in general (apart from revelation) and what he thinks we
must conclude given what our reason can tell us of God. So his teaching
on faith can also be viewed as philosophical.
These facts bring us back again to the question touched on earlier. Is
Aquinas really a philosopher? From what we have now seen of his
thinking, it should be clear why the question cannot be answered if an
answer must presume on our being able to draw a clear and obvious
distinction between the philosophy of Aquinas and the theology of
Aquinas. In his writings, philosophical arguments and theses are used
to reach conclusions of theological import. And theses of theological
import lead to judgements which can readily be called philosophical.
And the result can be studied as something containing matters of interest
to thinkers with any religious belief or none. In this chapter I have
tried to give some indication of what these matters are. A complete
account of Aquinas’s thinking would have to report more than space
here allows me. Those who read Aquinas for themselves, however, will
quickly get a sense of what that might involve.
NOTES
1 For discussion of the date of Aquinas’s birth see Tugwell [11.8], 291ff.
2 For the Irish influence on Aquinas see Michael Bertram Crowe, ‘Peter of Ireland:
Aquinas’s teacher of the ARTES LIBERALES’, in Arts Liberaux et Philosophie
au Moyen Age, Paris, 1969.
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3 As well as being influenced by Aristotle, Aquinas was also indebted to elements in the
thought of Plato and to later writers of a ‘Platonic’ caste of mind. He commented on
the Book about Causes (Liber de causis), an excerpted and adapted version of the
Elements of Theology by the late Neoplatonist Proclus (c. 410–85). He also commented
on Dionysu the Areopagite. And ‘Platonic’ theories and styles of argument abound in
his writings.
4 Readers interested in understanding the origins and spirit of the Dominicans are
best advised to consult Simon Tugwell OP (ed.) Early Dominicans, New York,
Ramsey and Toronto, 1982.
5 Bertrand Russell, A History of Western Philosophy, London, 1946, pp. 484ff.
6 For an exposition of Gilson on this matter see John F.Wippel, ‘Etienne Gilson
and Christian philosophy’, in [11.40].
7 St Thomas Aquinas: Faith, Reason and Theology: Questions I–IV of his
Commentary on the De Trinitate of Boethius, translated with introduction and
notes by Armand Maurer, Toronto, 1987, p. xv. Pegis elaborates his position in
‘Sub ratione Dei: a reply to Professor Anderson’, The New Scholasticism 39 (1965).
Pegis is here responding to James Anderson’s ‘Was St Thomas a Philosopher?’, The
New Scholasticism 38 (1964). Anderson asked whether Aquinas was a philosopher
and replied that he was.
8 Cf. Leonard E.Boyle, The Setting of the Summa Theologiae of Saint Thomas
(Etienne Gilson Series 5), Toronto, 1982, pp. 17 and 30.
9 On the basis of a fourteenth-century life of St Raymund of Peñafort (c. 1178–
1280), tradition holds that the Summa contra Gentiles was commissioned as an
aid for Dominican missionaries preaching against Muslims, Jews and heretical
Christians in Spain and North Africa. This theory has been subject to recent
criticism, but it has also been recently defended. Cf. Summa contra Gentiles, I,
text and French translation, with an Introduction by A.Gauthier, Paris, 1961,
and A.Patfoort, Thomas d’Aquin: les Clés d’une Théologie, Paris, 1983.
10 Introduction to Summa theologiae, Ia, 2.
11 Summa theologiae, Ia, 44, 1.
12 Summa theologiae, Ia, 44, 4
13 Summa theologiae, Ia, 6, 1.
14 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 12, 5; Ia2ae, 62, 1; Ia2ae, 110, 1; Ia2ae, 112, 1.
15 Cf. Summa theologiae, 2a2ae, 2, 4.
16 For Aristotle, see Posterior Analytics, I, 10. For Aquinas, see Summa theologiae,
Ia, 2, 1; On Truth, I, 12; XV, 1. I am using ‘believe’ here in the loose sense of ‘take
to be true or accept’. Aquinas himself would not speak of believing first principles
of demonstration. These, for him, are known or understood.
17 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 1, 1; 2a2ae, 2, 3. See also Aquinas’s inaugural lecture
(principium) as Master in Theology at Paris (1256). This text can be found in the
Marietti edition of Aquinas’s Opuscula theologica, Turin, 1954, and is translated
in Tugwell [11.8], 355ff.
18 For Anselm, see Proslogion, II and III. For Aquinas, see Summa theologiae, Ia, 2, 1;
Summa contra Gentiles, I, 11. The argument discussed in the passages from Aquinas
just cited was not so much Anselm’s as a version of Anselm’s argument current in
the thirteenth century and offered by writers such as Alexander of Hales (c. 1186–
1245). For a discussion of the matter, see Jean Chatillon, ‘De Guillaume d’Auxerre
à saint Thomas d’Aquin: l’argument de saint Anselme chez les premiers scholastiques
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du XIIIe siècle’, in Jean Chatillon, D’Isidore de Séville à saint Thomas d’Aquin,
London, 1985.
19 Cf. On Truth, X, 4–6; Summa theologiae, Ia, 84–8. For reasons of space I am not
here going into details on Aquinas’s teaching on the source of human knowledge.
For an introductory account see Marenbon [Intr. 10], 11631 and 134–5.
20 Cf. Summa contra Gentiles, I, 14; Summa theologiae, Ia, 12, 4 and 11.
21 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 12, 1.
22 See William Lane Craig, The Cosmological Argument from Plato to Leibniz,
London, 1980, ch. 5; Elders [11.16], ch. 3; van Steenberghen [11.36], 165ff.
23 One might reasonably deny that God is an ‘explanation’ of anything for Aquinas.
One might say that an explanation of such and such is something we understand
better than the thing with respect to which we invoke it as an explanation. Aquinas
would agree with this observation. But if ‘explanation’ means ‘cause’, he would
insist that God is an ‘explanation’ of what we find around us.
24 Aristotle presents an argument like that of Aquinas in Physics VII. Aquinas
acknowledges his debt to Aristotle’s argument in Summa contra Gentiles, I, 13
where he offers a longer version of what appears in the Summa theologiae as the
First Way.
25 Aquinas here is concerned with what he calls motus. For him this includes change
of quality, quantity or place (hence the legitimacy of translating motus as ‘change’
or ‘movement’).
26 Aquinas calls the First Way ‘the most obvious’ (manifestior) proof. That, I presume,
is chiefly because what he calls motus is something which impinges on us all the
time. Maimonides and Averroes are two other authors who thought that the
truth of the reasoning which surfaces in the First Way is particularly evident. Cf.
Maimonides (see [4.13], I, 70) and Averroes (see [3.17] IV).
27 Aquinas does not mean that the world does not contain things which can be thought
of as changing themselves, e.g. people. He means that nothing in the world is wholly
the source of its change. Cf. Christopher Martin [11.22] 61.
28 For Aquinas on time and change see Summa theologiae, Ia, 10, 1 and Lectures
15–20 of Aquinas’s commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. That the First Way is an
argument from the reality of time is suggested by David Braine, The Reality of
Time and the Existence of God, Oxford, 1988.
29 Some of the key concepts in the Third Way are found in Aristotle. Maimonides
offers an argument very similar to that of the Third Way in The Guide of the
Perplexed II, 1. One can also compare the Third Way with a proof of God’s
existence given by Avicenna (cf. Arthur J.Arberry, Avicenna on Theology, London,
1951, p. 25 for the text in English). But Aquinas’s Third Way is a distinct argument
and not just a straightforward repetition of earlier arguments with which it may
be compared.
30 Cf. Patterson Brown, ‘St Thomas’ doctrine of necessary being’, in Kenny [11.27].
31 There is a textual problem concerning the Third Way which my brief account of
it bypasses. For a discussion of the issues and for a treatment of different
interpretations of the Third Way see van Steenberghen [11.36] 188–201, and
Craig, Cosmological Argument, pp. 182–94.
32 In the Fourth Way the background to the argument seems chiefly Platonic. Aquinas
holds that perfection admits of degrees, a notion found in Plato, St Augustine, St
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Anselm and many others. The Platonic theory which seems to lie behind the Fourth
Way is expounded with reference to the Way in Kenny [11.28] ch. 5.
33 Here Aquinas invokes the notion of final causality or teleological explanation,
which can be found in Book II of Aristotle’s Physics. For Aristotle, a final cause
or a teleological explanation was an answer to the question ‘To what end or
purpose is this happening?’ For an exposition and discussion of Aristotle on
purpose in nature, see Richard Sorabji, Necessity, Cause and Blame: Perspectives
on Aristotle’s Theory, London, 1980, chs 10 and 11. The argument of the Fifth
Way is given in more detail by Aquinas in On Truth, V, 2.
34 For a more detailed account of this proposal see Brian Davies, ‘Classical theism
and the doctrine of divine simplicity’, in Brian Davies (ed.) Language, Meaning
and God, London, 1987.
35 In Does God have a Nature?, Milwaukee, 1980, Alvin Plantinga erroneously
attributes to Aquinas the suggestion that God is a property.
36 Summa theologiae, Ia, 50, 4.
37 P.T.Geach properly draws attention to this point in Three Philosophers, Oxford,
1973, p. 117.
38 Cf. note 27 above.
39 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 50, 2.
40 Summa theologiae, Ia, 61, 2.
41 Summa theologiae, Ia, 13, 7. Cf. also Summa contra Gentiles, II, 11 and On
Power, VII, 8–11. For modern philosophical discussion of the suggestion, see
Peter Geach, ‘God’s relation to the world’, Sophia 8, 2 (1969):1–9 and C.J.
F.Williams, ‘Is God really related to his creatures?’, Sophia 8, 3 (1969):1–10.
42 On Power, VII, 10.
43 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 19, 1, 3, 10.
44 Summa theologiae, Ia, 8, 2.
45 Aquinas therefore holds that only God can produce miracles (Summa theologiae, Ia,
110, 4). Aquinas treats of miracles at some length in Summa theologiae, Ia, 105, Summa
contra Gentiles, III, 98–102, and De potentia, VI.
46 Summa theologiae, Ia, 83, 1 and On Evil, VI.
47 Summa theologiae, Ia, 82, 1.
48 Herbert McCabe OP, God Matters, London, 1987, p. 14.
49 The honest answer to the question is, ‘We do not know’. What follows is merely
an opinion based on what Aquinas actually said.
50 Cf. René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy. For modern presentations
of dualism see H.D.Lewis, The Elusive Self, London, 1982 and R.G.Swinburne,
The Evolution of the Soul, Oxford, 1986.
51 Summa contra Gentiles, II, 57, 3–5.
52 I take physicalism to be the belief that people are nothing but bodies operating in
certain ways. Cf. J.J.C.Smart, ‘Sensations and brain processes’, Philosophical
Review, 68 (1950): 141–56.
53 Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 1.
54 Lecture on the first letter to the Corinthians, XV; cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 77, 8.
55 Cf. Summa theologiae, Ia, 75, 6.
56 Cf. On Truth, XIX.
57 Anscombe and Geach [11.11] 100.
58 Summa contra Gentiles, IV, 82–6.
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59 Cf. Summa theologiae, 2a2ae, 1, 4, ad. 2.
60 For Aquinas on the virtue of faith see Summa theologiae, 2a2ae, 1–16.
61 Marenbon [Intr. 10], 83ff.
62 Summa theologiae, 2a2ae, 1, 1.
63 Summa theologiae, 2a2ae, 1, 4–5.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
The most authoritative study in English of Aquinas’s works is I.T.Eschmann, ‘A
catalogue of St Thomas’s works: Bibliographical notes’, in Gilson [11.17]. It is
supplemented by ‘A brief catalogue of authentic works’, in Weisheipl [11.9]. The
definitive text of Aquinas’s writings is being published by the Leonine Commission,
established by Pope Leo XIII in 1880, which has already produced editions of Aquinas’s
most important works (e.g. Summa contra Gentiles, Summa theologiae). But the
work of the Leonine Commission is still unfinished.
Publication of Aquinas’s writings prior to the Leonine edition include Opera omnia,
Parma, 1852–73 (the Parma edition), and Opera omnia, Paris, 1871–82 (the Vivès
edition). Over many years most of Aquinas’s writings have also been published in
manual size by the Casa Marietti, Turin and Rome.
Translations
For a modern English translation of the Summa theologiae, with notes and
commentary, readers are best advised to consult the Blackfriars edition of the Summa
theologiae, London 1964–81. The translation is, unfortunately, sometimes
unreliable. For a more literal rendering of the text, see St Thomas Aquinas Summa
Theologica, translated by Fathers of the English Dominican Province, London, 1911
and Westminster, Maryland, 1981. For an English translation of the Summa contra
Gentiles see Saint Thomas Aquinas: Summa contra Gentiles, translated by Anton
C.Pegis, James F. Anderson, Vernon J.Bourke and Charles J.O’Neil, Notre Dame,
Ind. and London, 1975. The best modern translation of De ente et essentia is
Aquinas on Being and Essence: a Translation and Interpretation by Joseph Bobik,
Notre Dame, Ind., 1965. For other English translations of Aquinas, see the Brief
Catalogue in Weisheipl [1 1.9].
Bibliographical Works
11.1
11.2
Bourke, Vernon J. Thomistic Bibliography: 1920–1940, suppl. to The
Modern Schoolman, St Louis, MO., 1921.
Ingardia, Richard (ed.) Thomas Aquinas: International Bibliography 1977–
1990, Bowling Green, Oh., 1993.
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11.3
11.4
THOMAS AQUINAS
Mandonnet, P. and Destrez, J. Bibliographie Thomiste, 2nd edn, revised by
M.-D.Chenu, Paris, 1960.
Miethe, Terry L. and Bourke, Vernon J. Thomistic Bibliography, 1940–1978,
Westport, Conn. and London, 1980.
Biographical Works
11.5
11.6
11.7
11.8
11.9
Ferrua, A. (ed.) Thomae Aquinatis vitae fontes praecipuae, Alba, 1968.
Foster, Kenelm (ed.) The Life of Thomas Aquinas, London and Baltimore,
Md., 1959.
Torrell, Jean-Pierre, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1, The Person and his Work,
Washington, DC, 1996.
Tugwell, Simon (ed.) Albert and Thomas: Selected Writing, New York,
Mahwah and London, 1988.
Weisheipl, James A. Friar Thomas D’Aquino, Oxford, 1974: republished
with corrigenda and addenda, Washington, DC, 1983.
General Studies and Introductions
11.10
11.11
11.12
11.13
11.14
11.15
11.16
11.17
11.18
11.19
11.20
11.21
11.22
Aertsen, Jan Nature and Creature: Thomas Aquinas’s Way of Thought,
Leiden, 1988.
Anscombe, G.E.M. and Geach, P.T. Three Philosophers, Oxford, 1961.
Chenu, M.-D. Towards Understanding Saint Thomas, trans. A.M.Landry
and D.Hughes, Chicago, 1964.
Chesterton, G.K. St Thomas Aquinas, London, 1943.
Copleston, F.C. Aquinas, Harmondsworth, 1955.
Davies, Brian The Thought of Thomas Aquinas, Oxford, 1992.
Elders, Leo J. The Philosophical Theology of St Thomas Aquinas, Leiden,
1990.
Gilson, Etienne The Christian Philosophy of St Thomas Aquinas, London,
1957.
Kenny, Anthony Aquinas, Oxford, 1980.
Kretzmann, Norman and Stump, Eleonore (eds) The Cambridge Companion
to Aquinas, Cambridge, 1993.
McInerny, Ralph St Thomas Aquinas, Notre Dame, Ind. and London 1982.
——A First Glance at St Thomas Aquinas: a Handbook for Peeping
Thomists, Notre Dame, Ind. and London, 1990.
Martin, Christopher (ed.) The Philosophy of Thomas Aquinas, London and
New York, 1988.
Studies of Particular Topics
11.23 Boland, Vivian Ideas in God according to Saint Thomas Aquinas, Leiden,
1996.
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11.24
11.25
11.26
11.27
11.28
11.29
11.30
11.31
11.32
11.33
11.34
11.35
11.36
11.37
11.38
11.39
11.40
Bonnette, D. Aquinas’ Proofs of God’s Existence, La Haye, 1972.
Hankey, W.J. God in Himself Aquinas’s Doctrine of God as expounded in
the Summa Theologiae, Oxford, 1987.
Henle, R.J. Saint Thomas and Platonism, The Hague, 1956.
Kenny, Anthony (ed.) Aquinas: a Collection of Critical Essays, London and
Melbourne, 1969.
——The Five Ways, London, 1969.
——Aquinas on Mind, London and New York, 1993.
Kretzmann, N. The Metaphysics of Theism: Aquinas’s Natural Theology in
‘Summa contra Gentiles’ I, Oxford, 1996.
Lisska, Anthony Aquinas’s Theory of Natural Law, Oxford, 1996.
Lonergan, Bernard Verbum: Word and Idea in Aquinas, ed. D.B.Burrell,
Notre Dame, Ind., 1967.
McInerny, Ralph Aquinas on Human Action, Washington, DC, 1992.
Owens, Joseph St Thomas Aquinas on the Existence of God: Collected Papers
of Joseph Owens S.Ss.R., ed. J.R.Catan, Albany, NY, 1980.
Person, Per Erik Sacra Doctrina: Reason and Revelation in Aquinas, Oxford,
1970.
Steenberghen, Fernand van Le Problème de l’existence de Dieu dans les
écrits de S.Thomas d’Aquino, Louvain, 1980.
——Thomas Aquinas and Radical Aristotelianism, Washington, DC, 1980.
te Velde, Rudi A. Participation and Substantiality in Thomas Aquinas, Leiden,
1995.
Westberg, Daniel Right Practical Reason: Aristotle, Action, and Prudence
in Aquinas, Oxford, 1994.
Wippel, John F. Metaphysical Themes in Thomas Aquinas, Washington,
DC, 1984.
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CHAPTER 12
The Paris arts faculty:
Siger of Brabant, Boethius of
Dacia, Radulphus Brito
Sten Ebbesen
Throughout the thirteenth century Paris overshadowed all other
universities in the arts as in theology. This chapter will deal almost
exclusively with Paris.
In pagan antiquity philosophy had not only been the pursuit of an
ever better understanding in all sorts of fields, it had also been expected
to provide the intellectuals with a sense of purpose in life, reconcile
them with death and console them in difficult times. In a Christian
society philosophy must leave the second task to religion. The division
into arts and theology faculties at the universities institutionalized the
division of tasks, leaving the artists with the obligation not to offer
their own way to salvation, but also with a freedom to do penetrating
research in a wide spectrum of disciplines, unfettered by demands that
their insights be relevant to the achievement of existential satisfaction.
On the whole, the division of tasks worked well, but problems arose
when a considerable body of non-Christian literature on ethics,
cosmology and natural theology became available to the artists and
was taught in class. A crisis occurred in Paris in the 1270s.
An episcopal condemnation of thirteen theses in 1270 marks the
beginning of the crisis. Then in 1272 the artists (that is, those teaching
and studying in the arts faculty) think it necessary to codify their own
obligation not to meddle in theological matters, ‘overstepping, as it
were, the limits set’ for them. Finally, in 1277 the bishop, Stephen
Tempier, issues a stern letter in which unnamed members of the arts
faculty are accused of actually ‘overstepping the limits of the faculty’s
competence’, and of thinking that theories found in the writings of
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pagan philosophers could be true notwithstanding the fact that they
conflict with the truth of Scripture. Tempier appends a list of 219 theses
and threatens severe sanctions against anyone who may teach any such
errors in the future or who has already done so.
Among the condemned theses some appear to deny creation, some
to deny the immortality of individual souls, others are less obviously
relevant to Christian dogma. The bishop had culled most of them from
writings by arts masters. However, his attack on the artists was only
the first move in a campaign designed, it seems, to culminate in a
condemnation of a recently deceased theologian, Thomas Aquinas.
The artists had less powerful supporters than the theologians;
attacking them first meant beginning with the weakest opponent, but
it also meant striking at the root. It was the study of non-Christian
writers that inspired the theories that Tempier would not tolerate, and
that study had its permanent base in the arts faculty, whence it infiltrated
the higher faculty of theology. Aristotelizing theologians could, in turn,
influence the artists. In the 1260s and 1270s Thomas Aquinas made a
strong impact; masters like Siger of Brabant borrowed freely from
Thomas, though also occasionally polemicizing against him.
The contents of the arts had changed considerably since the twelfth
century. Traditional Latin rhetoric had all but vanished. Grammar
thrived, and conscious attempts were made to develop it into an
axiomatized science of the type delineated by Aristotle in his Posterior
Analytics. Logic underwent a deep transformation; the twelfth century
had revelled in detailed propositional analysis; a technical vocabulary
had been developed and theorems established that permitted much
preciser determination of the possible interpretations of a sentence and
of its truth-conditions than Aristotle’s logic could provide. This was
the ‘native tradition’ of Western logic, already highly developed before
the entry of the ‘New Aristotle’ after 1130. At first the native tradition
had been enriched by the encounter with the new books, in particular
with the On Sophistical Refutations whose subject-matter, fallacious
reasoning, lay within the existing sphere of interest. But in the thirteenth
century the New Aristotle started to act as a cuckoo in the nest. His
Topics killed the study of Boethius. His Posterior Analytics,
Metaphysics, Ethics, Physics, etc. drew the attention away from the
niceties or technical logic. The theorems (regulae, ‘rules’) formulated
by the preceding generations were repeated in elementary handbooks
but provoked little discussion and were not significantly added to. The
foci of the masters’ interest were elsewhere.
In logic, one focus of interest was metalogical problems; what sort
of things are the objects (arguments, universals, topics, etc.) logicians
deal with? Another was how to apply basic notions of metaphysics,
such as substance, subject and accident, matter and form, movement
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and rest to the analysis of the meaning (significatio) of terms. Above
all, there was a lively interest in the theory of scientia: knowledge,
science. At the same time the old logic course expanded into a general
course of philosophy, comprising metaphysics, ethics, natural
philosophy and all.
It looks as if Oxford kept the native tradition more alive, and that
this prepared for the spectacular breakthrough of English logic in the
fourteenth century. But be that as it may, the thirteenth century was
Paris’s.
The present state of scholarship allows no clear picture of theoretical
developments prior to c. 1265–70. We get fascinating glimpses only.
Thus one anonymous logician from about the middle of the century
considers the relations ‘parenthood’ (paternitas) and ‘being a child’
(filiatio); they are one species of relation, he says, in conformity with
tradition, but then he proposes that a father plus his child will be one
individual of that species, just as one unity plus another unity are an
individual of the species ‘set of two’ (binarius). This seems to amount
to treating dyadic relations as predicates or properties of (ordered)
pairs of things. Is this theory peculiar to the one text in which I found
it? Perhaps; but it is quite possible that an examination of unedited
texts will show that it was widely known.
Though nobody can claim to be able to survey the extant writings
from the early Parisian arts faculty, it is possible to name some of the
most important masters. One was John Lepage, who was active in the
1230s. Another was Robert Kilwardby (d. 1279), archbishop of
Canterbury from 1272, who, teaching in the years round 1240, was to
influence his successors for several decades. When Albert the Great (c.
1200–80) compiled the logical part of his vast encyclopaedia, he relied
on Kilwardby to an extent that nowadays would be called plagiarizing.
Though full of inconsistencies, Albert’s encyclopaedia became popular
as a work of reference among the artists, much to the regret of Roger
Bacon (d. 1292 or slightly later). Bacon seems to have taught at Paris in
the 1240s, but the extent of his influence is difficult to gauge. John of
Secheville was a promine nt master in the 1240–50s who found a lot of
inspiration in Averroes, who was now eclipsing Avicenna as the leading
authority on what Aristotelian philosophy was about. Secheville is now
best known for his De principiis naturae (On the Principles of Nature),
a treatise on fundamental physics, probably written in the 1260s after
the author’s return to his native England. About 1250 there also was
Nicholas of Paris, author of several logical works with some later success.
The generation who started their career as masters about 1265 are
reasonably well known, though it must be admitted that modern
research has been lopsided, the lion’s share of attention going to texts
and subjects relevant to the 1277 condemnation or Thomas Aquinas.
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The fact that a Belgian and a Dane figured prominently among the
masters targeted by the condemnation helped launch a Belgian and
Danish project to edit each country’s medieval philosophers, thus
making the work of artists from those parts of Europe much better
known than that done by their French or Italian colleagues. The Belgian
was Siger of Brabant, the Dane Boethius of Dacia (‘Bo from Denmark’).
All evidence of Boethius’ life before 1277 is contained in the epithet
indicating his nationality and the number and nature of his extant or
attested writings. He is likely to have commenced teaching about the
mid-1260s. His best known works are the short treatises, On the
Highest Good and On the Eternity of the World, but considerable
parts of his œuvre in the fields of logic, natural philosophy and grammar
have also survived. He wrote one of the very first Latin commentaries
on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, but unfortunately it has been lost, and little is
known about the early reception of the Rhetoric. Extant sources suggest
that the book was rarely taught and then with an emphasis on general
problems of logic, ethics or psychology without much attention to the
specific problems of rhetorical communication. Scholastics never quite
got a firm grip of the art of persuasion.
It is the general, but unproven, assumption that Boethius was still
teaching in 1277 and that the condemnation stopped his university
career. He was almost certainly a secular during his regency in arts, yet
his works occur in a medieval catalogue of books composed by
blackfriars. It is permissible to speculate that the condemnation made
him seek a new life among the friars, but actually his fate is unknown.
While some of his works enjoyed wide diffusion, the author’s person
was soon forgotten. Only in the twentieth century has he re-emerged
as an important figure in the history of philosophy.
Siger of Brabant always had more publicity, in life and in death. His
very entry into history is spectacular: according to a document from
1265 he was suspected of complicity in the kidnapping of a member of
the French nation of the university by scholars from the Picard nation.
In 1271 the faculty of arts was split in two; the Normans and one
Picard seceded from the rest. The Normans rewarded the Picard by
electing him as rector. The Picard was Siger. When the nations were
reunited in 1275 through the intervention of a papal legate, the blame
was put on the Normans and this may have prompted Siger to leave
Paris for Liège where he was a canon. In 1276 he was summoned to
appear before an inquisitor to face charges of heresy; he was probably
acquitted, but the next year propositions culled from his books were
among those condemned in Paris. He himself may have been in Liège
and thus out of harm’s way. In 1281 or shortly afterwards he met his
end in the papal residential town of Orvieto, stabbed by his own
secretary who had gone insane, it is said.
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Siger was magister regens (i.e. actually teaching) for some ten years
(c. 1265–75) and several works from that period have survived, notably
his questions on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, on the Liber de causis (Book
about Causes), some psychological works, and one about the eternity
of the world.
Siger’s name was never forgotten. Some decades after his death Dante
portrayed him as a denizen of Paradise and let Thomas Aquinas point
him out with the words:
This is the eternal light of Siger
who, when lecturing in rue de la Fouarre [site of the schools of
arts],
concluded unwelcome truths.
(Paradiso 10.136–8)
In Italy some people continued to read Siger until the early sixteenth
century.
The pope’s legate who in 1275 reunited the university that Siger
had helped split installed Peter of Auvergne (d. 1303) as rector—
probably a wise choice. Peter’s voluminous (and mostly unedited)
writings reveal him as a mainstream thinker, a competent man, but a
man of compromises rather than one of sharp or innovative positions.
Peter later advanced to master of theology and in 1302 was awarded a
bishopric. In the 1270s he and Boethius had some sort of collaboration
as teachers, though they disagreed on many points, and discretely
polemicized against each other. Peter was, after Thomas Aquinas, the
first important Latin commentator on Aristotle’s Politics, but his
political philosophy is only just beginning to be seriously studied.
Simon of Faversham (d. 1306) is another mainstream author of some
repute. He is likely to have been somewhat younger than Peter; his
Parisian regency in arts probably fell around 1280. Later he taught
theology in Oxford. Much of his œuvre is preserved but only some
logical works have been edited and doctrinal studies have been sporadic.
About the early 1270s Martin of Denmark (Martinus de Dacia, d.
1304) composed a remarkably well-organized grammar, Modi
Significandi, which became widely used. In the 1440s the humanist
Lorenzo Valla paid tribute to its continuing actuality by specifically
mentioning Martin and his ‘sickening’ Modi Significandi in a virulent
attack on scholastic grammar. Martin became master of theology in
the 1280s, served as chancellor to the Danish king about 1287–97,
and then seems to have returned to Paris; at least he was buried in
Notre Dame, of whose chapter he was a member.
Modus significandi, ‘way’ or ‘mode of signifying’, is a term with a
long history before 1270, but now it had become a key concept of
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linguistics. Virtually all late thirteenth-century Parisian arts masters
were ‘modists’ in the sense that this concept with its complements,
modi intelligendi (ways or modes of understanding) and modi essendi
(ways or modes of being) played a major role in their thought.
The basic idea of modism is this: each constituent of reality (each
res) has a number of ways or modes of being (modi essendi) which
determine the number of ways in which it can be correctly
conceptualized; the ways in which it can be conceptualized (modi
intelligendi) in turn determine in which ways it can be signified.
Assume that pain is a constituent of reality. Pain is in a way like a
substance: a stable thing in its own right that can have changing
properties (be intense or weak, precisely located or diffuse, for example);
in a way it is like a process occurring in some subject. The concept of
pain will then be able to present itself to our mind in two ways and we
will consequently be capable of signifying pain in two ways. Any word
that signifies it as the stable carrier of properties (per modum habitus
et permanentiae) is a noun; any word that signifies it as a process in a
subject (per modum fieri) is a verb. The English words ‘a pain’ and ‘to
ache’ signify the same thing or ‘common nature’ under two different
modes. A third mode is expressed by the interjection ‘ouch’.
‘Whatever can be conceived of by the mind may be signified by any
part of speech’, says Boethius; his only restriction on this rule is that
the mode of signifying of the part of speech must not be incompatible
with the thing to be signified.
Fully elaborated theories of modes of signifying would, by similar
means, account for all the traditional grammatical categories, not only
parts of speech, but also cases, tenses, etc. Latin provided the examples
used, but the modes were assumed to be completely independent of
any particular language. What is around to be talked about is
independent of the speaker’s cultural background; ‘what is there’ (ens)
is things (res) and their ways or modes of being; we can form concepts
of no more things than there are and conceive of things only in as
many ways as things are. Moreover, we can express whatever we can
understand, but no more.
All peoples, then, have the same intellectual equipment (concepts
plus ways of understanding) with which to grasp a common reality
(things plus ways of being); the several ways of being of things determine
the ways in which they may be known (modi sciendi), and those ways
are what logic is about. So logic must be pan-human, says Boethius,
and so must language in the sense that whichever thing can be signified
in one tongue can be signified in another, and whichever mode of
signifying is actualized in one tongue can be so (or even: is so) in any
other. All languages have the same grammar and total translatability is
guaranteed. True, some peoples may know things others don’t and
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have a richer vocabulary, but this is accidental; new words can always
be added to a language. Grammar is not disturbed by the fact that the
same thing is called ‘homo’, ‘anthropos’, and ‘man’ in different
languages; how to match sounds with concepts is a matter of convention
(though it was generally assumed that some sort of mimetic system
underlay the choice of sounds for the basic vocabulary of each
language). Similarly, any device can be used to express masculinity
(more precisely modus significandi per modum agentis)—suffixes,
particles, whatever—but you cannot have a language incapable of
expressing that fundamental category. Nor can you have a significative
word with the lexical component [male human] and the grammatical
category [female], as the result would be incomprehensible and hence
non-significative. Such clashes between lexical component (significatum)
and mode of signifying apart, there are no restraints on which
combinations of significate and mode of signifying a particular language
may choose to lexicalize by assigning them a certain sound value. Thus
the same thing, X, may have a feminine name in language A and a
masculine name in language B. The difference only means that the
‘impositor’, i.e. whoever introduced the word in A, paid attention to
one mode of being of X (‘as something acting’), whereas the B-impositor
paid attention to another mode (‘as something acted on’).
Various strategies were used to block simple-minded inferences from
surface grammar to reality; one would not like to be saddled with
‘nothing’ as a genuine thing in its own right just because ‘nothing’ is a
noun, but at least in the 1270s and 1280s it must have seemed to most
men as if such difficulties were surmountable. It was possible to describe
a grammar that abstracted totally from phonetic realization, yet was
easily correlatable to it, and which promised to yield a list of elementary
modes of cognition all with a sure foundation in the reality subject to
cognition.
Modistic theories promised easy shifts between the levels of being,
understanding and signifying. Some went so far as to hold that the
modes of signifying, understanding and being are fundamentally
identical, just, said Martin, as the thing that is signified and the thing
that is understood are basically identical with the thing out there. In
other words, the mode of being is a mode of understanding when
cognized by an intellect, and a mode of signifying when related to a
linguistic sign.
Others, notably Boethius of Dacia, strongly opposed this
identification, which threatened to leave the intellect as a mere mirror
of extramental reality with the result that there could not be different
sciences based on the same modes of being of things; thus logical
relationships (habitudines locales) and grammatical modes of signifying
would be strictly identical when derived from the same modes of being.
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Moreover the way would be open to facile deductions from expressions
and thoughts to extramental reality.
One weakness of all variants of modistic theory was that it was
difficult to combine it with a theory of reference, for whatever the
‘things’ (res) of modistic theory were, they certainly were not singular
extramental entities. On the other hand, no one wanted to be a
fullfledged Platonist. There was a tendency to answer all questions
about the relation between words and reality by referring to the set of
significate and modes of signifying encoded in each lexical item when
it was ‘imposed’. Modistic semantics possessed few tools to deal with
the contribution of linguistic context to the meaning of a term, and
none at all to explain how extralinguistic context contributes to the
way an expression is understood. Nor was it possible to offer a plausible
modistic account of figurative expressions, metaphors, and the like.
Desperate attempts were made to explain how ‘man’ can change its
meaning from ‘living rational body’ into ‘lifeless irrational body’ on
being joined by the adjective ‘dead’. ‘Man’ was declared an ‘analogical’
term, and as such equipped on imposition not only with signification
and modes of signifying but also with a rule to the effect that in isolation
it signifies its primary significate (living human being), but its secondary
significate (cadaver) when combined with the adjective ‘dead’.
Radulphus Brito in the 1290s gave up many of the makeshift
solutions proposed by the generation before him, but then he introduced
instead a factor that simply does not belong in a modistic theory: the
intelligent listener’s ability to correct badly transmitted information
and understand ‘dead body’ when the message strictly speaking says
‘dead living body’.
Another, and ultimately related, difficulty was that it was not obvious
why one should resist the temptation to describe all sorts of distinctions
in terms of modes of signifying, thus endangering the position of
grammar as a separate science. In works from the late thirteenth century
there is an uneasy relationship between the properly grammatical modes
of signifying (such as the substantive’s modus per se stantis) and so-
called modes of category (modi praedicamentorum, such as the modus
substantiae of ‘whatever’).
Finally, the old trick of introducing non-things called modes to make
distinctions without splitting one entity into several, always leaves the
unpleasant question, ‘What is the thing without the modes?’ Perhaps
the best answer is ‘Nothing’, for the ‘common nature’ hiding under
the modes has no job in isolation. Its job is to glue together a number
of items: thing-cum-mode-A, thing-cum-mode-B, etc.
Traditionally the common nature was identified with the essence of
a thing which, according to Avicenna, is nothing except self-identical:
horsehood is horsehood, blackness is blackness (well, you may add a
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few trivial analytical statements, like ‘blackness is a sort of colour’, but
that’s all you can say about it). A common nature neither exists nor
does not exist, it is neither universal nor particular. It can be thus
modified, but in itself is beyond those oppositions.
There was in Avicenna and in the Latin tradition an ambiguity. On
one hand the essence or common nature was thought to be prior to
such determinations, on the other hand it was given positive
determinations: it does not exist, but it has essential being; it is not
concrete, but it is abstract.
The identification of the common nature with what was felt to be
the least determinately modified alternative was a major source of
theoretical inconsistency. Boethius may have sensed the problem, for
he discusses whether it is possible to signify a thing under no mode.
Since he believes we can think of it thus, he must—and does—hold
that we can signify it thus, i.e. that it would be possible to institute a
word for pain, for example, that would belong to no part of speech.
However, he does not enter into a closer investigation of how such a
word could be significative. The root of the trouble with the common
nature seems not to have been localized till Radulphus Brito did so.
Brito may have been born about 1270. He was regent master of arts
in the 1290s and possibly also in the first decade of the next century,
while preparing for his degree in theology (obtained 1311/12). He may
have died in the 1320s. The bulk of his extant œuvre is non-theological,
consisting of questions on Aristotle, Manlius Boethius and Priscian
plus some sophismata.
Brito’s work may be seen as a clever attempt to mend and save a
theoretical framework in crisis, though in his day the crisis of modism
would not be obvious. Sometime around 1300 a new handbook was
written by Thomas of Erfurt; called Novi modi significandi it was to
dominate in German schools, while the old Modi significandi by Martin
continued to be used in Italy. Philosophy began to drop the modes
only about 1315, and in grammar they lived till much later.
Some of the problems besetting modistic theories had been realized
as early as the 1270s. Thus it had been shown that explaining a lexical
unity in terms of its modes of signifying had the awkward result that
an equivocal noun, say canis=‘dog, dog-fish, dog-star’, could not
actually be one noun but would have to be as many nouns as it had
meanings. An attempt was made to save the situation through a
distinction: each of the things signified would possess its own passive
mode of signifying (i.e. mode of being signified) as a noun, but to the
three passive modes of signifying would correspond only one active
mode on the vocal level. Canis would be one noun. This, on the other
hand, threatened the basic modistic idea of isomorphy between the
levels of being, understanding, and signifying. Radulphus therefore
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proposed that the distinction between active and passive modes is merely
notional. It is, after all, a question of a relation of signification between
word and thing. If you look at the relation from one end it is an
accidental property of the word, if from the other, then of the thing. It
is called active or passive according to which end it is viewed from.
The lengths to which Brito had to go to save the fundamental ideas of
modism are signs of a theory in trouble.
The greatest of the modists, Boethius, did not have to worry about
any ‘crisis for modism’. But he found other worries when Bishop
Tempier in 1277 lashed out against him and Siger because he thought
they had said objectionable things about the human soul, creation,
and the ultimate aim of human life.
There always was a hot debate about the nature of the human soul,
but it was unusually hot in the 1260–70s. It centred on four questions,
namely:
(1) On the common presupposition that the intellect (=intellective soul)
has two components, an active one (intellectus agens) which, inter alia,
forms universal concepts on the basis of the particular pieces of
information provided by the senses, and a passive one (intellectus
possibilis or potentialis or materialis) which is the initially blank wax
tablet on which the active one leaves its imprints in the form of concepts
and knowledge acquired. On this presupposition, is the agent intellect
a genuinely different thing from the ‘possible’ one, or are they
fundamentally identical?
There was an old tradition for treating the two as genuinely different
and considering the agent intellect to be an extra-human separate
substance. Roger Bacon and many others had identified the agent
intellect with God, others had held that this ‘Giver of Forms’ was a
created intelligence, closer to God than men are but not identical with
the First. On either view the agent intellect would be the same for all
men; the common source of our intellectual insights would explain the
possibility of communication. The individuality of our passive intellects
would explain why we do not share all thoughts with one another.
However, the radical separation of the agent intellect from the
possible one had become rather old-fashioned in the 1260s and 1270s;
the main combatants of the time agreed that the two intellects are not
as many substances.
(2) Is the intellect an extra-human separate substance? This was assumed
to be Averroes’ opinion (though earlier in the century he had been
taken to represent the opposite view). Siger of Brabant seems to have
gradually changed his mind on this question, but initially, at least, he
thought Averroes was right.
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This position allows the vegetative and sensitive souls to die without
this affecting the intellect. Like the old assumption of a separate agent
intellect it also accounts for men’s ability to share knowledge, but it
has a weakness that the old theory has not: however much such an
‘Averroistic’ intellect is supposed to exercise its activity in corporeal
men it is hard to see how it can be individualized so that my intellect is
different from yours. Siger accepted the consequence that there is just
one shared intellect for all men, but tried to save some private thought
for the individual by making the operation of the intellect in a particular
human depend on representations (intentiones imaginatae) with an
origin in sensation and formed without the help of the intellect. When
explaining how the individual ‘plugs into’ (continuatur) the supra-
individual intellect Siger relies heavily on Averroes, but is no less obscure
than his master.
Contemporaries were alert to the ‘Averroistic’ theory’s inability to
explain how men can share an intellect without sharing all thoughts.
However, the gravest objection against such ‘monopsychism’ (a modern
term) was that it could leave no individual rational soul to carry
responsibility for a deceased person’s acts. Nor was it easy to see how
an immaterial intellect could fail to be eternal; but it was Christian
doctrine that God creates new souls every day and that they are in
principle perishable (God could annihilate a soul, if he so wished).
(3) If each living man has his own intellect, this may be assumed to be
the substantial form that makes him a member of the human species
rather than of the asinine one. But is the intellect fundamentally identical
with the sub-rational ‘parts’ of the soul? Or is a man constituted by a
compound of hierarchically ordered substantial forms (corporeality,
vegetative, sensitive and intellectual soul), corresponding to the definition
‘man is a rational animal’=‘man is a rational, sensitive, vegetative body’?
Such was the traditional view about 1270. It could be used to explain
how human semen develops into an irrational embryo and thence into a
genuine human by successive acquisition of higher forms, and it might
seem to allow the highest form to survive bodily death.
However, it may be doubted if the notion of a plurality of substantial
forms is at all consistent; a substantial form is supposed to make its
thing into the kind of thing it is; several such forms would seem to
dissolve it into several things, as was often pointed out by medieval
critics. Thomas Aquinas was the leading proponent of the thesis that
one substance can have one substantial form only: a nobler form enables
its owner to do anything a lower form would, and so no independent
‘vegetative soul’ is needed to explain the fact that intelligent beings
metabolize. A main problem with this theory is that the embryo cannot
acquire rationality without shedding its previous substantial form and
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thus becoming a new thing; nor can the dead Christ’s body have been
identical with that which existed before he expired on the cross or that
which existed after the resurrection.
The form-question was intensively debated both among theologians
and among artists. Boethius of Denmark was for the unity of form.
John of Denmark—a contemporary about whose life nothing is
known—believed in a plurality; in the short run, at least, he was on
the winning side, for Stephen Tempier had the same belief and so had
Robert Kilwardby, who in 1277 made the University of Oxford
condemn the unity thesis.
(4) How can the corporeal man’s form survive bodily death? Aristotle
had indicated that the intellect should not be treated as an ordinary
material form; for a material form to be there, is for some matter to be
organized in some particular way. The intellect, he felt, was of a different
type; matter is no essential ingredient of thought.
If Aristotle could sit on the fence, so can we, many medievals thought.
Thus Aquinas came to argue that the intellect is a self-subsistent form,
substance-like in its capability of being on its own, but like a material
form in that it is an incomplete entity if deprived of its matter. A
disembodied Thoman intellect has the capacity for metabolizing, it
just does not have the requisite tools for so doing. Siger of Brabant
scoffed at this notion and Boethius did not like it either. He agreed that
a man has just one substantial form, namely his soul, which, of course,
is rational. It is a material form and can only in a very weak sense be
called a substance. It must perish if it ceases to inform its body. If the
intellect survives somehow—and Boethius does leave this possibility
open—it does not do so as a disembodied Thoman form craving for a
body; a separate intellect is neither a soul nor a form at all, it is a
substance. One would like to ask Boethius which sort of identity such
a substance has with the living man’s form, and whether separate
intellects can have individuality. It is a fair guess that he would answer
‘No’ to the second question, but I have no idea how he would tackle
the first one.
The discussions about the soul ended in an impasse. The soul was
required to do too many jobs. It was required to be a form that vivifies
a body, yet to be a substance capable of surviving the body; to be
individualized, yet to be totally immaterial qua intellect; to bestow
identity over time, yet be able to acquire or lose essential properties; to
have an intellective ingredient which is immaterial and not naturally
generable, yet with a beginning in time and capacity for being
annihilated as well as a capacity for lasting forever.
There are clear signs that many artists felt that all these requirements
could not be simultaneously satisfied. Stephen Tempier forbade them
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to obtain consistency by dropping one or more of the requirements.
Although his ruling was legally binding only in Paris, it effectively
provided the framework within which philosophers could move for
the next two and a half centuries, and it became a standard procedure
to describe first the philosophically tenable theories, namely (1) the
whole soul is a material form and perishes with bodily life (ascribed to
Alexander of Aphrodisias); (2) the intellect is as a whole an eternal and
supra-individual substance (ascribed to Averroes). Then, after indicating
which alternative he favours, the author will add, ‘But according to
truth and the catholic faith neither of these theories is acceptable, but…’,
without seriously trying to provide reasons for the ‘true’ theory.
Incidentally, such tactics had already been used by Siger and others
before 1277 and were denounced by Tempier, but to no avail.
The late ancient philosophical way to salvation was an ascent from the
miserable world of matter towards ultimate being or even to the
transcendent One. This ascent was effected via the theoretical study of
ever more exalted objects: from the earthly you pass to the heavenly,
etc. This way of thinking with its strict hierarchy of beings gained new
impetus in the thirteenth century. Avicenna’s theory of emanation from
The First played a major role and the anonymous Book about Causes
(based on Proclus’ Elements of Theology) helped cement the notion of
a hierarchically structured universe in which each species of thing was
ultimately conditioned by its relative proximity to The First (Cause),
no two species being equidistant from The First. Averroes’ and Greek
authors’ panegyrics of the blessings of the theoretical life lent support
to the belief that an intellectual ascent up the ladder of being was
possible, and when Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics became commonly
known after 1250 everybody could see in Book X that ultimate
happiness for man consists in theoretical insight.
Such intellectualism appealed to an age which had reasons for
epistemological optimism in view of the rapid growth of knowledge,
as all the disciplines treated by Aristotle plus some more were coming
to the artists’ attention. It was, of course, agreed on that no man can
know all particular things, but both Siger of Brabant and others held
that a human intellect may in principle achieve exhaustive knowledge
of all genuine objects of knowledge. This would be impossible if the
proper objects of knowledge were infinitely many, or if there were
infinitely many avenues to knowledge, or if knowledge of some object
could be more or less clear on a scale going on to infinity. But none of
these cases obtain, they held. There is a limited number of proper
objects, the natural species; there is a limited number of avenues to
knowledge: demonstration and definition; demonstration does not go
on ad infinitum and definition provides an insight which is not just
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optimal in the sense that we cannot manage better, but in the sense
that it exhausts what there is to be known about the object.
The climate was there for claiming that immaterial beings (‘separate
substances’), and even The First, are not outside the reach of the
human intellect. Proud assertions to this effect almost became a
commonplace in introductions to Aristotelian commentaries;
mastering the theoretical sciences is what makes a man a man in the
fullest sense, says one artist, echoing Averroes. Simon of Faversham
invokes the support of Proclus for the claim that all things strive to
assimilate themselves to the things that are one step higher up the
ontological ladder, and that it is therefore natural for man to desire
knowledge, which is the means through which we may assimilate
ourselves to the separate substances. Radulphus Brito also repeatedly
says that philosophizing can make us godlike, and gives the thought
a special twist by also stressing Seneca’s Stoic description of the effects
of philosophy: it makes a man free. Such exaltations of the
intellectual’s life hardly ever contain any reference to the standard
doctrine of two types of highest good, one obtainable in this life,
another obtainable only afterwards. Few appear to have been
shocked.
There is no sign either that any authority was shocked by Boethius’
disparaging remark that ‘laymen…are only quasi-human (deminuti
homines) since they do not have the human perfection bestowed by
theoretical sciences’. But Stephen Tempier did not like Boethius for
saying that ‘when a man is occupied with this [the best and most perfect
of the operations of the intellective power] he is in the best state possible
for a man. And the people [who get into that state] are the philosophers,
for they spend their life in the study of wisdom.’ The formulation is
provocative because it seems to allude to the theological notion of a
‘state of perfection’ attaching to the taking of religious vows. Moreover,
Boethius’ views on perfection enter into a fairly coherent set of views
about human knowledge, and he also declares that
there can be no question which is debatable with reasons and
which nevertheless the philosopher ought not debate and
determine how it is with truth in the matter as far as it [i.e.
the truth] can be grasped by human reason. This is so
because all reasons by means of which the debate is carried
out are derived from reality, or else they would be a figment
of the mind. Now, the philosopher teaches the natures of all
things, for as philosophy teaches being, so the parts of
philosophy teach the parts of being… Therefore it is the
philosopher’s job to determine every question that is
debatable with reasons, for every question which is debatable
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with reasons falls in some part of being, and the philosopher
investigates every being, the natural, the mathematical and
the divine alike.
Boethius’ philosopher is the perfect man, he studies and gains an
understanding of all sections of reality and in particular the most noble
of all, the First Cause; his is human happiness in this life. On one
occasion Boethius says that such earthly perfection also brings its
possessor closer to happiness in the next life. Only the repeated phrase
‘debatable with reasons’ suggests there may be questions about which
it is no use to reason.
Up to the early 1270s there had been some intense debates about
the compatibility of certain Aristotelian doctrines and Christianity, and
whether un-Christian doctrines could be refuted without using
arguments from faith. By the early 1270s it must have been clear to
nearly everybody in the arts faculty that Aristotle did not think the
world as a whole or any of its biological species has once begun to be.
It was further clear that his sempiternalism is logically coherent, and it
was clear that creationism is so too. This had not always been obvious;
Siger of Brabant seems to have realized only gradually that the main
argument against creationism relies on an unwarranted subsumption
of the un-Aristotelian concept of creation under the Aristotelian notion
of change (mutatio); considered as a species of change, creation is an
inconsistent concept, since change presupposes the existence before
the change of that which was changed.
But does not Aristotelian science require the sempiternity of the
world? If scientific axioms are necessary, and necessity means being
always true, a biological axiom like ‘every man is an animal’ would
seem to require sempiternal existence of men to act as verifiers. A
standard question in our period was ‘Is the proposition “every man is
by necessity an animal” true if no man exists?’ Some answered ‘Yes’
and held it was enough if some intelligent being still had a concept of
man and animal; some used the Avicennian idea that existence is an
accident of essences to hold that even with no men around the essence
of man could be, though could not exist, and could act as verifier.
Siger thought the question involved a pragmatic inconsistency, for the
condition that there exists no man can never be fulfilled, he held. In an
Aristotelian universe any species is always represented by existing
members, and so there are always individuals to verify the proposition.
Boethius answered ‘No’. He accepted the permissibility of the
hypothesis that there might at some time be no men, and firmly held
that with no existents around there would be no essences, and that
analyticity is no guarantee of truth; with no men in existence even
‘man is man’ would be false. He held a simple correspondence theory
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of truth; an affirmative proposition is true if and only if such things as
its subject and predicate signify are actually combined in the way the
proposition indicates; a negative proposition is true if and only if such
things are not combined. This means that all negative propositions
about non-existents are true and all affirmative propositions about
non-existents are false.
As ‘every man is an animal’ would be false in the case posited, so
‘every man is by necessity an animal’ would a fortiori be so. But even
when men exist the modal proposition is false, for there can be no
necessary, i.e. unchangeable, truths about changeable and corruptible
beings.
Apparently, then, God and the separate substances (intelligences,
angels) are the only objects about which there can be scientific
knowledge. But Boethius holds that natural science is possible, for
science only requires a weaker form of necessity, namely that the causal
relationships stated in its propositions obtain without fail presupposing
that such things as the propositions are about exist. Whenever there is
a man there is in him a cause why ‘animal’ should inhere in him.
Boethius does not go so far as to call categorical scientific propositions
covert conditionals (‘man is an animal’=‘if there is a man, he is an
animal’)—that was left for the next century—but he comes close to so
doing.
Natural science takes the existence of the physical world with its
population of natural species for granted. And it has to do so, Boethius
thought, for every science must presuppose the existence of its subject
and the truth of its axioms. Aristotelian natural science is a science
about the material world and thus cannot incorporate a theory of
how things may come to be otherwise than through matter acquiring
a form.
Boethius stresses that each science is an autonomous system of
primitive terms, axioms and derived theorems. There is, he admits,
more to be said about the structure of reality than natural science can
say, and in fact there are causes stronger than those proper to the
sublunary sphere and thus capable of eliminating the work of natural
causes. Hence in a particular case, the expected effect may fail to follow
its natural causes, or an effect may be due to other causes than natural
ones. Reality is organized in a hierarchy of entities of increasing causal
power the closer one gets to the First Cause. When doing natural science
we deal with cause-effect relationships that hold invariably provided
no superior, non-natural cause intervenes. Similarly within natural
science there may be sub-sciences, it seems, the causal laws of one of
which may occasionally annihilate the effects of those of another.
The important thing for Boethius’ scientist is always to remember
which science he is doing at the moment; whatever he may know as a
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metaphysician, for example, he is not permitted to use it in any other
science unless it is incorporated in the principles of that science. And
men have access to information which simply cannot be incorporated
into the principles of natural science, because it would turn it into an
inconsistent set of propositions. This is the case with some information
which only faith provides, such as that the world started its existence a
definite time ago and there was a first couple of humans. Such revealed
information the Christian has to accept; but when he is doing biology
he has to stick to the principle that every human being has two parents,
and, Boethius expressly says, he has to deny the allegation that someone
was the first man.
Boethius’ terminology suggests that to him a scientist at work was
like someone participating in one of the formalized ‘games’ of
disputation practised at the university. Doing science, then, is partaking
in an activity governed by rules about what you have to concede or
deny, these being the ‘principles’ of the science in case. In a dialectical
disputation it is a rule that only generally accepted propositions be
taken as premisses, and Boethius explicitly says that a disputant commits
a mistake and ‘lies’ if he uses a premiss which is not generally acceptable,
although it may as a matter of fact be true.
In other words, saying that a universal theorem p is true in science A
does not amount to a claim that p is true in the fundamental sense of
corresponding with particularized reality. It only means that it follows
from the rules (axioms) of that science and will apply to particular
cases if no causality the description of which belongs in another science
intervenes. Scientific truth is truth relative to some assumptions, not
truth simpliciter.
The superior cause could impede the applicability of p by failing to
provide entities of the sort p describes or by making some of them
have other causal relationships than described by p. It could not, of
course, make all instantiations of p false, for then p would be a theorem
of a pseudo-science whose axioms could not be based or tested on
observation.
But wouldn’t it be possible to create a super-science that would take
all causes into account? Couldn’t metaphysics provide an adequate
description of all matter-less causes, including the First Cause? No,
Boethius holds, metaphysical reasoning can lead to some knowledge
of The First, but given the assumption of a Free Divine Will, there is no
way to give a full account of causation. It can be rationally inferred
that the world is created, but not that it is not co-eternal with its creator.
The First Cause endowed its creation with a causal structure that we
can partly understand; but part of a correct understanding is the
realization that at the head of the causal chain stands an inscrutable
cause.
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Thomas Aquinas would allow no genuine conflicts between scientific
propositions and articles of faith; apparent conflicts arise from flaws
in the scientific argumentation; in principle a unified system of
knowledge must be possible. Scripture is an answer book which can
tell us if a rational theory needs revision. Thomist man may have a
hard job to spot the flaw in the theory, but he is not troubled by the
spectre of an inconsistent world.
Siger of Brabant rather took the attitude that there are irresolvable
inconsistencies between the data of revelation and correctly derived
scientific theorems. To Sigerian man the clash between science and
revelation is catastrophic, because he has to sacrifice one of the two; if
he does not want to become a heretic, he must decide that the results of
rational enquiry are wrong though he cannot see how they could be so.
To Boethian man it comes as no surprise that historical facts do not
always exemplify the causal mechanisms described in scientific
propositions. It is exactly what scientific metaphysics should make us
expect: it leads to the assumption of a first cause, but cannot possibly
tell exactly how this cause wields its power. Boethian man bows to
Scripture without abandoning any scientific theorems.
Boethius toiled to find a philosophically tenable way out of the
apparent contradiction between Christian dogma and philosophy. His
deference to faith was probably sincere. Siger’s is more suspect; his
true belief may have been that philosophy was right but that Christianity
could be shown to conform with philosophy if properly
demythologized. In his Questions on the Metaphysics he follows
Averroes in holding that man-made religions (leges) contain
mythological elements, falsehoods designed to scare the plebs and make
them behave. As an example the Pythagorean doctrine is mentioned
that a good man’s soul will migrate to that of a good body after death,
while a bad man’s will enter a beast’s body. It is easy to see a parallel to
Christian doctrines about purgatory, heaven and hell, and, in fact, Siger
once tried to show that fire could not affect a disembodied soul. Stephen
Tempier did not forget to condemn that view, just as he remembered
one that Siger did not openly profess, but very nearly did so, namely
that there are mythological falsehoods in all religions, including the
Christian one.
Sometimes the reader feels that Siger is mocking would-be censors
or other philosophical opponents. Investigating whether there must be
just one first principle and cause, he refutes all serious arguments for
the necessity of this and then presents various bad arguments for it as
if they were conclusive. When discussing whether any natural desire
could be in vain, he introduces the class of those desires which are
directed to aims that cannot possibly be achieved, like immortality.
Isn’t that mocking the idea espoused by, among others, Thomas, that
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there must be an eternal life since men have a desire for it and no
natural desire can be in vain?
The debate about philosophy versus faith did not stop in 1277, but
for a long time it was rather low-key. Philosophers avoided any
Boethian attitudes that were provocative, while generally following
the trail he had blazed, considering creation and other unpredictable
manifestations of divine power as irrelevant to the construction of
scientific theories.
Important as the collision between philosophy and religion was, it
should be stressed that there is no sign that the driving force behind
the philosophers was a wish to do away with traditional Christian
doctrine. Their primary occupation was with a rational enquiry into
all aspects of reality, including the divine. They just happened to arrive
at conclusions that did not harmonize well with standard beliefs.
The ‘invention’ for which Radulphus Brito was best known to
posterity is a good example of theologically neutral everyday work
from the arts faculty. Radulphus invented a fourfold division of
‘intentions’ to account for the genesis and ontological status of
universals.
There was a well-entrenched distinction between primary intentions
such as ‘horse’ and secondary ones such as ‘species’, which presuppose
the primary ones. Some would say that ‘species’ etc. are concepts of
concepts, but Brito wished to tie them more securely to extramental
reality. He then divided both primary and secondary intentions into
abstract and concrete ones.
The abstract primary intention is a formal concept like ‘humanity’.
It is based on the modes of being or manifestations (apparentia) of
some essence (or ‘nature’); reasoning, for example, is a manifestation
of human nature. An abstract primary intention is a mental entity, a
thought (cognitio) whose object is man, but it does not include its
object.
The concrete primary intention is the object of the abstract one, but
it is not a purely extramental thing. It is the thing (man, for instance)
qua thought of by means of the formal concept (humanity).
The concrete primary intention has one foot in the mental and one
in the extramental world. Brito also describes it as an aggregate of the
thing out there and the thought by which we grasp it. This ontological
duplicity was often criticized in later times, but Brito’s theory was at
least a brave attempt to secure the lifeline between concepts and their
objects without moving the objects into the mind. True, he would
need a mechanism by which an essence can function as quiddity, i.e.
basis of understanding, via its manifest modes of being, but such a
mechanism was provided by fairly standard theory of sensation and
abstraction.
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Apart from the primary intentions Brito operates with a set of two
secondary ones; once again the modes of being form the basis of
concept-formation, but this time we are not dealing with modes proper
to some nature but common ones, as follows.
The abstract secondary intention, universality for instance, is a
concept derived from the common feature (mode of being) of being
capable of occurring in several individuals or types; this feature is shared
by man and donkey, for example, both of which can occur in several
individuals, and also by animal which can occur in several species.
Our intellect can grasp this, and it can do so without comparison: it
can construct a Porphyrian tree on the basis of sensory acquaintance
with a single individual, recognizing, for instance, that sensing (which
characterizes animals) is a trait apt to be shared by more beings than is
reasoning (which is reserved for humans).
The corresponding concrete secondary intention (in our example:
‘universal’) is the thing (man, for example) qua conceived of by means
of the formal concept of universality.
Concrete secondary intentions like universals and syllogisms are the
sort of things logic is about—that was commonly agreed. Some forty
or fifty years before Brito, Robert Kilwardby had said that secondary
intentions are thus called because they arise from inspection and
comparison of things already grasped by the mind. Brito wants to
generate secondary intentions through direct inspection of the entities
that gave rise to the first intentions. Why will he not allow the mind to
operate on the products of its primary inspection, and why will he
allow no comparison? Because this might leave the mind too much
power over which secondary intentions there are to be and make them
much too mental—thoughts of thoughts.
If secondary intentions were mere mental constructs, the whole of
logic would be so. And it could quickly be shown that grammar, physics,
in fact any science would be in the same situation, for all theoretical
entities—modes of signifying, causes, effects, whatever—must have a
genesis similar to that of the secondary intentions of logic.
If one endeavour pervaded the work done by Parisian artists in the
second half of the thirteenth century it was the endeavour to secure an
extramental anchoring of scientific knowledge by deriving its categories
from features of reality. That was what the modistic triad of ways of
being, understanding, and signifying was all about, and that was Brito’s
central preoccupation. He tried relentlessly to mend the cracks that
had appeared in the edifice of theories built with and around the
modistic triad. There was no easy way to fix the cracks, the complexity
of Brito’s own theories showed that; the time was ripe for a radically
new approach such as the one that John Buridan was to introduce in
Paris about the 1330s.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
12.1
12.2
12.3
12.4
12.5
12.6
12.7
Ebbesen, S., Izbicki, T., Longeway, J., del Punta, F. and Stump, E. (eds) Simon
of Faversham, Quaestiones super Libro Elenchorum (Studies and Texts 60),
Toronto, PIMS, 1984.
Fauser, W.F. Der Kommentar des Radulphus Brito zu Buch III De anima
(BGPTM n.f. 12), Münster, Aschendorff, 1974.
CIMAGL (journal with a large number of relevant text editions).
Enders, H.W. and Pinborg, J. (eds) Radulphus Brito, Quaestiones super
Priscianum minorem (Grammatica Speculativa 3.1–2), Stuttgart, Bad
Cannstatt, Frommann-Holzboog, 1980.
Roos, H., Otto, A., Pinborg, J. and Ebbesen, S. (eds) Corpus Philosophorum
Danicorum Medii Aevi, Copenhagen, Gad/DSL, 1955–. (Contains several
relevant works, including those of Boethius, John and Martin of Denmark.)
Pinborg, J. ‘Radulphus Brito’s sophism on second intentions’, Vivarium 13
(1975): 119–52.
Van Steenbergen, F. (ed.) Philosophes Médiévaux, Louvain, Institut Supérieur
de Philosophie de l’Université de Louvain, 1948–. (Contains several relevant
works; the works of Siger of Brabant are in vols 12–14 and 24–5.)
English Translations
12.8
12.9
McDermott, A.C.S. Godfrey of Fontaine’s Abridgement of Boethius of Dacia’s
Modi Significandi sive Quaestiones super Priscianum maiorem (Amsterdam
Studies in the Theory and History of Linguistic Science 22), Amsterdam,
John Benjamins, 1980.
Wippel, J.F. Boethius of Dacia, On the supreme good, On the eternity of the
world, On dreams (Mediaeval Sources in Translation 30), Toronto, Pontifical
Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1987.
Studies
12.10 Ebbesen, S. ‘Concrete accidental terms: late thirteenth-century debates about
problems relating to such terms as “album”’, in N.Kretzmann (ed.) Meaning
and Inference in Medieval Philosophy, Dordrecht, Kluwer, 1988.
12.11 Gauthier, R.A. ‘Notes sur Siger de Brabant, I–II’, Revue des Sciences
Philosophiques et Théologiques 67 (1983): 201–32 and 68 (1984): 3–49.
12.12 Hisette, R. Enquête sur les 219 articles condamnés à Paris le 7 mars 1277
(Philosophes Médiévaux 22), Paris and Louvain, Publications Universitaires
and Vander-Oyez, 1977.
12.13 Marmo, C. Semiotica e Linguaggio nella Scolastica: Parigi, Bologna, Erfurt
1270–1330. La semiotica dei Modisti (Nuovi studi storici 26), Rome, Istituto
storico italiano per il medio evo, 1994.
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12.14 Pinborg, J. Die Entwicklung der Sprachtheorie im Mittelalter (BGPTMA 42.2),
Münster and Copenhagen, Aschendorff and Frost-Hansen, 1967.
12.15 ——Logik und Semantik im Mittelalter, Stuttgart and Bad Cannstatt,
Frommann-Holzboog, 1972.
12.16 ——Medieval Semantics: Selected Studies on Medieval Logic and Grammar,
London, Variorum, 1984.
12.17 Rosier, I. La Grammaire spéculative des Modistes, Lille, Presses Universitaires
de Lille, 1983.
12.18 Van Steenbergen, F. Maître Siger de Brabant (Philosophes Médiévaux 21),
Paris and Louvain, Publications Universitaires and Vander-Oyez, 1977.
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CHAPTER 13
Henry of Ghent and
Duns Scotus
Stephen Dumont
LIFE AND WORKS
Henry of Ghent
Henry of Ghent was arguably the most influential Latin theologian
between Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus, regent as a leading master
of theology at the University of Paris for the better part of the last
quarter of the thirteenth century. Henry’s true importance for the period
has been increasingly recognized, owing first to the edition of the works
of Scotus, for whom Henry was by far the leading contemporary source,
and more recently to the critical editions of his own works, which
establish his relation to such important figures as Giles of Rome,
Godfrey of Fontaines, and Aquinas himself.
Reckoned to have been born in Ghent sometime before 1240, Henry
undertook early studies at the cathedral school in Tournai, where he
maintained lifelong and influential connections. He studied theology
at Paris, where he became master in 1275 and actively taught and
disputed for nearly twenty years. As a young master, Henry participated
in Bishop Stephen Tempier’s sweeping actions against Aristotelianism
at Paris in March of 1277 involving the arts faculty, Giles of Rome,
and certain doctrines of Aquinas. In fact, personal remarks by Henry
about these closely connected events provide otherwise unknown
details. Henry himself says that he sat on Tempier’s episcopal
commission (assessores episcopi) of sixteen masters that produced the
syllabus of 219 propositions condemned by Tempier on 7 March 1277.
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The syllabus comprised in large measure the more extreme Aristotelian
and Arabic philosophical positions taught in the arts faculty. Henry
certainly represented a critical attitude to Aristotelianism on the
commission, and indeed several articles on Tempier’s syllabus appear
traceable to him. Henry was also present at the immediately ensuing
meetings of the theology faculty that resulted in the censure of the
younger theologian, Giles of Rome, and in the masters’ own
condemnation (damnatio per sententiam magistrorum) of Aquinas’s
doctrine of unicity of substantial form. Henry’s Augustinian orientation,
so evident in Tempier’s actions, continued throughout his career,
encountering new Aristotelian foes within the faculty after 1285, when
Giles of Rome was rehabilitated at the order of Honorius IV and
Godfrey of Fontaines became master. A secular, Henry was also known
as a strident critic of the mendicant privileges granted by Martin IV in
1281. His opposition was such that he was reprimanded and suspended
in 1290 by the future Boniface VIII. Henry’s death is usually given as
29 June 1293.
Henry’s two major works are the direct products of his long teaching
career at Paris. The first is his Summa of Ordinary Questions and the
second his fifteen series of Quodlibetal Questions. Cross-references
establish that both works were disputed and written concurrently over
the length of his career. His regular or ‘ordinary’ questions derived
from his disputations held as master during the normal course of term.
Revised for publication as a massive Summa, these ordinary questions
represent Henry’s systematic investigation of the nature of theology
(articles 1–20), the divine nature and attributes (articles 21–52), and
the Trinity (articles 53–75). Henry intended his Summa to include a
part on creatures, but he never completed it. As such, Henry’s Summa
corresponds roughly in plan to the first forty-three questions of the
first part of Aquinas’s own Summa theologiae, yet approaches Aquinas’s
entire work in length. Unlike ordinary questions, which were disputed
by the master at regular class hours throughout the academic year,
quodlibetal questions were special university disputations only held
before Christmas and Easter. Here the questions were not posed by the
master himself on controlled topics, but by the audience, on any issue
of interest. Hence they were designated quodlibetales or ‘on anything
whatever’. Accordingly, while ordinary questions allowed for systematic
investigation, quodlibetal questions forced the master to address the
current controversies in the university community that at times involved
the master himself. Henry’s fifteen quodlibetal disputes represent one
for nearly every academic year from 1276 to 1292. Each dispute itself
contains up to forty separate questions, which were considerably
expanded and revised by Henry for publication, including lengthy
insertions, cancellations and digressions. Henry brought the quodlibetal
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question to its apex as a literary form of scholastic theology and was
the first to make the quodlibet a principal vehicle for his thought.
Duns Scotus
It is perhaps no exaggeration to claim that less is known with certainty
about the life, career and works of Duns Scotus than about any
scholastic thinker of his rank. Aside from his own writings, only six
slight documents provide what scattered facts are known of his life.
Of Scottish origin, Scotus is thought to have been born about 1266,
on the basis of the established date of his ordination to the priesthood
on 17 March 1291. The once widely accepted details of Scotus’s place
of birth, family, early education and entry into the Franciscan order
are now considered unreliable owing their source to the discredited
chronicle Monasticon Scoticanum of Marian Brockie. From about
1288, Scotus studied theology at Oxford, although it is disputed
whether this was interrupted after his ordination in 1291 by several
years of study at Paris. In either case, Scotus was certainly studying
theology at the Oxford convent by 1300. On 6 July 1300, he was one
of twenty-two Franciscans from the Oxford diocese presented to John
Dalderby, bishop of Lincoln, for permission to hear confessions. About
this same time, he was beginning to revise his lectures on the Sentences,
given as a bachelor at Oxford. This revised commentary on the
Sentences, known as the Ordinatio (see below), was under way in
1300, because in the prologue Scotus himself says that he is writing
in that year. Further evidence of his activities as bachelor at Oxford
during this same period is given by his participation in a disputation
of the Franciscan master Philip Bridlington, who was also in the same
group presented to Dalderby. Scotus, however, never incepted as
master at Oxford. He was instead sent in the autumn of 1302 to
study theology at Paris, where he began a new set of lectures on the
Sentences. These were interrupted in June 1303 when, together with
some eighty other Franciscans, he was expelled from France for
declaring allegiance to Pope Boniface VIII against Philip the Fair in
their escalating dispute over taxation of church property. Where Scotus
went during his exile from Paris is unknown, but it is commonly
assumed that he either returned to Oxford or went to Cambridge,
where he is believed to have lectured at some point in his career.
Scotus was back in Paris at the latest by the autumn of 1304 to finish
lecturing on the Sentences. It is inferred that Scotus must have incepted
as master at Paris by early 1305, because in a letter dated 18 November
1304, Gonsalvus of Spain, the newly elected Minister General of the
Franciscans and the Franciscan regent master when Scotus first arrived
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at Paris, recommended Scotus as next in line for promotion to master.
In his letter, Gonsalvus testifies to Scotus’s reputation, which he says
had ‘already spread everywhere’. During his regency at Paris, Scotus
held one quodlibetal disputation and debated with the Dominican
William Peter Godinus on the principle of individuation. For reasons
unknown, Scotus was replaced as the Franciscan regent at Paris by
Alexander of Alexandria in the autumn of 1307 and abruptly
transferred to the Franciscan convent in Cologne, where he is listed as
a lector in early 1308. Nothing is known of his activities during his
Cologne period. Before his career could reach full maturity and with
his major work the Ordinatio still in a state of revision, Scotus died
in Cologne later that year, where he remains buried today. The date
of his death is traditionally given as 8 November 1308.
As with the details of his life and career, uncertainty about Scotus’s
writings is unparalleled for a medieval thinker of his stature. While
much progress has been made in establishing Scotus’s genuine corpus,
important questions of chronology and canon still remain. Scotus’s
genuine works can be divided into philosophical and theological
writings, and roughly speaking the former are regarded as earlier.
Scotus’s logical works are generally considered to be his earliest. These
include sets of questions on Porphyry and the Categories, two works
on De interpretatione, and questions on the Sophistical Refutations.
The important Questions on the Metaphysics have traditionally been
considered an earlier work as well, though somewhat later than the
logical treatises, but this has been disputed by commentators since the
sixteenth century. Current evidence suggests that the latter books, VII–
IX (only the first nine books are authentic), show revision from later
in Scotus’s career, perhaps even very late. Finally, there are two
philosophical works that fall outside this main group owing to
uncertainty over their dating and degree of authenticity: questions on
On the Soul and the Theoremata. While On the Soul is surely Scotistic,
manuscripts attest that it has been edited by a follower of Scotus
(scotellus), perhaps Antonius Andreas (d. c. 1320). Both manuscripts
and contemporaries assign the Theoremata to Scotus, but their
authenticity has been debated owing to a section entitled Treatise on
Articles of Faith (Tractatus de creditis), which denies the philosophical
demonstrability of the existence of God.
The bulk of Scotus’s reputation rests, however, on his more mature
and longer theological writings. These are essentially four: various
versions of his commentaries on the Sentences, two sets of disputes
known as Collationes, a set of twenty Quodlibetal Questions, and the
Treatise on God as First Principle (De primo principio). The textual
situation of Scotus’s commentaries on the Sentences is one of the most
complicated in medieval scholarship. First of all, Scotus lectured on
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the text at Oxford, again at Paris and, at an undetermined time, at
Cambridge. Second, his secretaries and students conflated these
different versions in an effort to fill in places apparently left incomplete
at his death. Finally, Scotus revised by means of numerous additions
and annotations to the primitive text, so that these had to be
distinguished from the intrusions inserted by his students and
secretaries. The better part of modern textual criticism on Scotus has
been devoted to teasing apart these various versions and layers of his
Sentences. This research has established that there are two versions of
his Oxford Sentences, an earlier Lectura, which was then considerably
expanded to form the Ordinatio, previously termed the Opus
oxoniense. As indicated, Scotus read the Sentences again when he went
to Paris in the autumn of 1302, which commentary survives as neither
a lectura nor an ordinatio but as what students’ reports called
reportationes. A major point of dispute is the chronological relation of
these Parisian Reports (Reportationes parisienses) to the Oxford
Ordinatio. The long-held view was that Scotus constructed the
Ordinatio from both the early Oxford Lectura and the Parisian
Sentences, rendering the Ordinatio later than the Parisian commentary
and according it a status as the most definitive of Scotus’s works.
Recent studies have tended to revise this view, placing at least the first
book of the Ordinatio before rather than after the corresponding part
of the Parisian Sentences. This revised chronology seems required not
only by Scotus’s own statement dating the prologue of the Ordinatio
to 1300, two years prior to his theological studies in Paris, but also by
the Parisian commentary’s noticeable independence in organization,
topic and treatment relative to both of its Oxford counterparts.
Scotus’s two series of Collationes, one held at Oxford and the other at
Paris, are known from the eye-witness testimony of his secretary,
William of Alnwick, to represent the proceedings of oral disputation.
It has been suggested that these Collationes were exercises carried out
by Scotus within the Franciscan houses while still a bachelor, but this
is not certain. His Quodlibetal Questions are assigned to his regency
at Paris, perhaps in the academic year 1306/7. As the product of a
formal university disputation by a regent master in theology, they must
certainly be regarded as Scotus’s mature thought. Finally, the De primo
principio is a systematic treatise on the transcendentals, containing
Scotus’s proof for the existence and infinity of God. While the
authenticity of the De primo is uncontested, it none the less betrays
the influence of an editor. More than half of the De primo has been
supplied verbatim from the Ordinatio, indicating that it is to some
extent a compilation of material. Despite this, it has received more
contemporary attention by way of translation and commentary than
any other single work in Scotus’s corpus.
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RELATION OF HENRY OF GHENT
TO DUNS SCOTUS
Henry’s significance, both historically and philosophically, stems from
his position in the thirteenth century of having an important and
immediate relationship to both Aquinas and Scotus. On the one side,
Henry mounted the most sustained and sophisticated Augustinian
response in the later thirteenth century to the Aristotelianism of Aquinas.
Adopting a critical attitude towards Aristotle on fundamental points,
Henry returned to more Augustinian principles, which he infused with
certain elements of Avicenna. In comparison with Aquinas, Henry can
fairly be said to exhibit a doctrinal tendency called Avicennizing
Augustinianism’, a label coined by Etienne Gilson to describe the
exploitation by certain scholastic thinkers of similarities between
Augustine and Avicenna, such as their mutual denial of knowledge by
abstraction. Thus, where Aquinas argues ‘according to Aristotle and the
truth’ (secundum Aristotelem et veritatem rei), Henry will instead argue
‘according to Augustine, Avicenna, and the truth’ (secundum Avicennam
et veritatem rei; secundum Augustinum et Avicennam).1 In particular,
Henry reverted to certain positions considered Augustinian by thirteenth-
century standards, such as the compatibility of faith and demonstration,
a need for a special divine illumination in natural knowledge, a heavy
emphasis on the reality of the divine ideas and their role in both
knowledge and creation, and above all a strong voluntarism against the
intellectualism of Aristotle. Henry specifically criticized Aquinas on
numerous points, including the concept of theology as a subalternated
science, the exclusivity of faith and demonstrative reasoning, the definition
of self-evidence and related criticism of Anselm’s ontological argument,
the pre-eminence given to Aristotle’s argument for the unmoved mover,
the denial of any positive knowledge of God’s essence (quid est) in the
present life, the limitation of each Aristotelian separate form or angel to
a species in itself, the real distinction of essence and existence (at least as
defended by Giles of Rome), the indemonstrability of the temporal
beginning of the world, and a variety of theses connected to the
relationship of the intellect to the will. In the words of one of Henry’s
editors, ‘No theologian immediately after the death of Aquinas so sharply
criticized the philosophical basis of his theology as Henry of Ghent.’2
On the other side, Henry’s own revised Augustinian outlook was itself
subjected to an extensive, critical evaluation by Duns Scotus. What led
Scotus to focus on Henry is not known. Perhaps in view of the restrictions
placed by the Franciscans in 1282 on reading Aquinas’s Summa, the
Order turned to Henry’s Summa to supply the systematic training in
current theology during Scotus’s formation. A high regard for Henry is
evident in Oxford Franciscans just prior to Scotus, such as Roger Marston,
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who in 1283 described Henry as ‘a recent, solemn doctor, renowned and
studious in philosophy from infancy’.3 Whatever the explanation, Henry
constitutes not just a source, but the source, for Scotus’s thought. This is
in fact so true that Scotus appears to be the first major scholastic thinker
to base his principal work explicitly on the systematic examination of a
contemporary. On many important questions, Scotus develops his own
position as a critical reaction to that of Henry, often after extensive
reporting, analysis and refutation of Henry’s reasoning. This is the case,
for example, on such fundamental issues as the relation of faith and reason,
natural knowledge of God, the nature of transcendental concepts, the
primary object of the intellect, necessity and contingency, the divine ideas,
creation, illumination, causality of the will, connection of the virtues and
on numerous points of Trinitarian theology. All the same, however, it
would be a distortion to see Scotus as simply rejecting Henry’s positions.
Even when clearly repudiating a view of Henry, Scotus will none the less
presuppose much of Henry’s underlying philosophical framework and
formulate his own position in terms of Henry’s basic concepts, distinctions
and technical vocabulary. This is not to say that Scotus was unoriginal
and derivative but only that his originality cannot be fully understood
apart from his relationship to Henry. Nowhere is the relationship between
Scotus and Henry better illustrated than in their dispute over the nature
of the transcendental concepts.
UNIVOCITY AND ANALOGY
One of the most striking results of the metaphysics of Duns Scotus was
that the concepts of being and the other transcendentals applied
univocally to God and creatures, substance and accidents. Scotus broke
with the unanimous and traditional view that being, conceived in its
utmost generality, could only be predicated analogously and not
univocally of substance and accident, much less of God and creatures.
Scotus made his innovative move to univocity in specific and explicit
response to the peculiar version of analogy advanced by Henry of Ghent.
Indeed, it would be more accurate to say that Scotus’s path to univocity
was paved by Henry’s prior and equally innovative interpretation of
the traditional view of analogy itself. Here, perhaps more than in any
other area of disagreement between them, it would be a distortion to
portray Scotus as simply rejecting, rather than building upon, an
antecedent position of Henry. None the less, in advancing beyond
Henry’s own version of analogy to univocity, Scotus had to solve
fundamental difficulties connected with univocity that had always been
compelling motivations for the traditional view of analogy, difficulties
which Henry evidently saw but could not resolve.
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Scotus advances his theory of univocity as part of a critical and
exhaustive revision of Henry’s account of our natural knowledge of
God. At issue was an abiding concern of the period: how to reconcile
the possibility of attaining some knowledge of the divine nature from
creatures with God’s total transcendence of creatures. The difficulty
involved was long recognized, having a formulation as far back as
Gaunilo’s reply to Anselm that the argument of the Proslogion appeared
to put God in a genus or species. In order for God to be totally
transcendent, the divine nature can have no reality in common with
creatures. But if God and creatures agree in nothing real, then a creature
can never yield a positive notion of the divine nature that conveys any
of its reality. One standard solution was to stress the negative character
of natural knowledge of God. For instance, Aquinas attempted to
reconcile divine transcendence with our natural knowledge of God by
way of the Aristotelian distinction between knowing that something is
(quia est; si est) versus knowing its essence or nature (quid est). According
to Aquinas, our intellect in its present, natural state can only know
through sensible creatures that God is or exists (si est). As for the divine
essence, we cannot know what it is (quid est) but only what it is not.4
This solution was attacked in the condemnations issued by Stephen
Tempier on 7 March 1277. Article 215 on Tempier’s syllabus repudiated
such attempts to protect the transcendence of God at the expense of
restricting natural knowledge of the divine nature to the bare fact of its
existence. As censured the article read, ‘That it can only be known that
God is, or that God exists.’ (Quod de Deo non potest cognosci nisi
quia ipse est, sive ipsum esse.) Both Henry and Scotus agreed that some
positive knowledge of the divine nature and attributes was naturally
attainable from creatures, thereby fully reinstating the tension between
the transcendence and knowledge of God. Henry, for his part, attempted
to account for this positive knowledge while maintaining the traditional
view that being and the other transcendentals were only analogously
common to God and creatures. Henry none the less saw that he had to
revise the traditional doctrine of analogy, and in so doing extended that
traditional view as far as it could go without actually becoming a doctrine
of univocity. Scotus rejected Henry’s revised theory as unworkable and
argued that only univocity could ensure a naturally attainable concept
of the divine essence.
Henry of Ghent on Analogy
Henry of Ghent followed the common opinion in holding that being is
predicated of God and creatures neither univocally, nor purely
equivocally, but analogously.5 The traditional understanding of the terms
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was based on Aristotle. The definitions of univocity and equivocity
derived from the opening chapter of the Categories, while the notion of
analogy was taken chiefly from the treatment of being as an equivocal
by reference (
ad unum) in the Metaphysics.6 Thus, a term is
univocal if it has a single meaning or concept (ratio, intentio, intellectus,
conceptus) when applied, such as ‘animal’ when predicated of a horse
and a human being. It is a pure or chance equivocal (aequivocum in
casu) if it is applied according to completely discrete and unrelated
meanings, such as the ‘bark’ of a dog and a tree. Analogy, however, is
intermediate between these two extremes of univocity and equivocity.
An analogous term has different but connected meanings, so that one is
primary and the other is related to it, usually either as a cause or an
effect. Aristotle’s own example of ‘healthy’ served as the standard
illustration. The primary meaning of ‘healthy’ is the state of a well-
functioning, living organism, yet clearly things are said to be healthy
which do not possess health in this sense. Both medicine and urine, for
example, are called ‘healthy’ not because they possess health in the
primary sense, for they are not living at all, but because they bear some
relationship to it. Medicine is a cause of health and urine a sign or effect
of it. The scholastics adapted Aristotle’s conception of analogy as a
middle way between the extreme positions of univocity and equivocity,
to account for some knowledge of God based on creatures while ensuring
divine transcendence. Being was not univocal to God and creatures,
but rather analogous, so that it applied to God primarily and to creatures
in a secondary but related sense, although appropriate distinctions had
to be made to avoid equating the relation of divine and created being
with that of substance and accident. In this regard, Henry was in
conformity with the common view.
Being therefore does not belong to God univocally…nor
purely equivocally…but in a middle way, namely, by analogy,
because it signifies one thing primarily and principally and the
other as in some way ordered, related, or proportional to
what is primary… And in this way, being in the most common
sense primarily signifies God, secondarily creature, just as
created being primarily signifies substance and secondarily
accidents, although the relation in each case is different.
(Summa a.21 q.2 (ed. 1520, I, f.124r))
Aristotle, however, was not the only authority on the transcendentals.
Even more important for the scholastics was Avicenna, who had not
only made being, in explicit contradistinction to God, the subject of
metaphysics, but also one of the primary conceptions of the mind.
These claims of Avicenna for the primacy of being had to be addressed,
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for together they implied that there was a concept of being antecedent
to either God or creatures. Henry’s formulation of the Avicennian
objection is important, not only because it states sharply the impediment
to univocity, but also because in Henry’s reply Scotus clearly saw that
the denial of univocity involved highly unacceptable consequences.
What is predicated of several things, but has an essential
concept different from the concepts of those things [of which
it is predicated], is something really common to them, for
every concept is based upon some thing. Being is this sort,
because according to Avicenna, ‘Being is imprinted on the
mind by a first impression,’ even before the concept of God
or creature are impressed on it. [Therefore, being is
something really common to God and creatures.]
(Summa a.21 q.2 (ed. 1520, I, f.123v))
The argument is that being must have a concept different from those
of God or creature, because it is known prior to either one. Since being
is predicated of both God and creature, that concept must also be
common. Thus, the noetic primacy of being entails that it have a concept
distinct from and common to those proper to God and creatures.
Because any such common concept must be based on some common
reality, being must be something really common to God and creature.
It is the major premiss which constitutes the underlying impediment
to making any concept univocally common to God and creatures: every
concept must be based on some reality (omnis conceptus fundatur in
re aliqua). Accordingly, a common concept must be of some common
reality. But, obviously, no reality can be admitted as common to God
and creatures. This will prove to be the most formidable difficulty for
Scotus’s doctrine of univocity: how to sustain a real concept univocally
common to God and creatures without positing any reality common
to them. The minor premiss, based on Avicenna’s famous text on the
primary intelligibles, is meant to establish that being has a concept
outside of those of God and creatures owing to its position as a primary
notion. The burden of Henry’s reply will be to deny that there is any
concept of being apart from those of God and creatures. It is in this
reply that Scotus will find his argument that, on the contrary, being
must be a distinct concept, and hence univocal.
In reply to Avicenna’s text, Henry is emphatic that there can be no
concept of being absolutely taken apart from the concepts of God and
creature, as if there were some single, simple concept of being common
to them (aliquis unicus intellects simplex communes), for there can be
no such concept. Rather, any real concept of being is either of the
being proper to God or of the being proper to creatures, but not of
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anything common to them. Henry’s position is governed by the
requirement in the major premiss that a real community must
underwrite a real, common concept. Since there can be no such real
community between God and creatures, there can be no real common
concept. Demanding therefore a strict correspondence in unity between
a real concept and its foundation in reality, Henry concludes that at
the transcendental level being forms two proper and distinct concepts
corresponding to the two separate and diverse realities of divine and
created being. These concepts, while proper and diverse, none the less
have a community of analogy, the real foundation for which is the
causal dependence of the creature on God. This agreement in being by
virtue of the connection cause and effect, while real, is not sufficient to
support a single, common notion of being but only two proper concepts
related as primary and secondary.
Had Henry gone no further than this in his reply to Avicenna, his
account would have conformed to what Peter Aureoli later identified
as the common opinion. Being conceived at its most general level does
not form a single, simple ratio common to God and creatures, but two
proper rationes related in attribution as primary and secondary. Henry,
however, did go further in his reply, motivated by a need not only to
explain Avicenna’s text on the primary intelligibles, upon which he
would depend heavily in his proof for the existence of God, but also to
account for how the mind could move from a concept proper to
creatures to one proper to God.
Henry explains that if there appears to be some common concept of
being, this is only because the divine being or created beings have been
conceived in an indistinct or indeterminate way. But to conceive of
either the being proper to God or proper to creatures in an indistinct
way is not to have some third, distinct concept of being as absolutely
undetermined and common to both. That is, there is no separate concept
of being as absolutely undetermined that can be abstracted from the
proper concepts of God and creature, as if each proper concept
comprised a common notion of being as undetermined and a
determining concept, such as finite and infinite or created and uncreated.
Rather, the proper concepts of God and creatures are in each case
already concepts of being as undetermined. Any concept of being as
absolutely undetermined, which appears to be single, simple, and prior
to the proper concepts of God and creature, is merely the result of
confusing the two different ways in which the being proper to God
and creatures is in each instance undetermined.
Divine being is undetermined in the sense that it cannot be determined
by any advening perfection or entity. This is what it means to say that
the divine being is infinite, for it cannot be determined or limited.
Created being, however, when taken in its utmost generality as common
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to all creatures, is undetermined in the sense that it has been abstracted
from all determinations with which it is found in reality, such as ‘existing
in itself’ and ‘existing in another’, which determine or limit created
being to substance and accident. Henry’s technical terminology for
this distinction is that divine being is undetermined negatively, for it is
to be denied all determination, and created being privatively, for it can
be conceived without the determinations with which it is found. As
Henry explains in slightly different terms elsewhere, to conceive of
being absolutely, that is, without any determination or qualification,
can mean two different things. It can mean either being in its singular,
most perfect instance (in quadam singularitate) or in its widest generality
(in quadam universalitate). Being taken absolutely in the first way is
God, in the second way is the notion of being common to the categories.
There is no sense in which being can be conceived as undetermined
apart from these two.7
Having made this distinction, Henry replies to the objection that
what appears to be an absolutely undetermined concept of being
univocally common to God and creatures is in fact a confusion of the
two different ways in which being is undetermined. The divine being is
undetermined by negation, because it lacks all determination in both
act and potency; created being is undetermined by privation, because
it is conceived as lacking determination in act but not in potency. The
confusion between the two arises because both are concepts of being
without determination, and to this extent they are similar. The mistake
is to think that from this similarity one can extract a single notion of
being as absolutely undetermined common to both God and creatures.
Rather, what appears to be a simple, common notion of undetermined
being is in fact a conflation of two proper notions of being, which
resemble each other in their removal of determination.
Against the challenge presented by Avicenna’s text that there is a
concept of being common to God and creatures because, as a primary
notion of the mind, the concept of being is prior to both, Henry upholds
the traditional position of analogy. Being, conceived in its utmost
generality, cannot be reduced to a single notion but only to two distinct
concepts, one proper to God and the other to creatures, which are
none the less related through attribution or analogy. Yet, in his answer
to Avicenna Henry went considerably beyond this traditional view by
explaining that being could be conceived with sufficient indeterminacy
so as to appear univocal. While insisting that there was in truth no
univocal notion of being, Henry none the less allowed that the being
of either God or creatures could be conceived so indistinctly that the
concept proper to the one actually was known in a confused way along
with the concept of the other, because both were concepts of being
without determination. This was a critical move past the traditional
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view of analogy and was clearly but a step away from Scotus’s univocity,
where a simple common concept would replace a confusion of two
proper but similar concepts. After Henry went so far as to admit an
apparently univocal concept of being, Scotus would conclude that such
a concept must in fact be univocal.
Thus Henry revised the common opinion on analogy, according to
which the concepts of being proper to God and creatures were united
through attribution, by adding that they were also united by confusion
in an indistinct notion that appeared univocal. Henry’s underlying
motivation for this extension of the traditional view was to provide
some cognitive bridge between the two proper notions of being which
allowed the human mind to pass from its knowledge of creatures to
one of the divine nature. This bridge could not be provided by any
concept common to both, so Henry supplied it by allowing the two
concepts to be conceived together as though they were one. That is,
Henry permitted the being of a creature to be conceived in such an
indeterminate fashion that it in fact comprised, in an indistinct and
confused fashion, the concept of being proper to God. In this way,
Henry was attempting to explain, where the traditional view of analogy
had not, how one could arrive at a proper concept of the divine nature
from creatures. This is clear from Henry’s account of the mind’s ascent
from creatures to God.
In the context of Tempier’s condemnation of the position that we
can only know that God exists (si est), but not what God’s nature is
(quid est), Henry undertook an extensive examination in nine
questions of the categories of si est and quid est as they applied to
our knowledge of God, paying particular attention to the extent to
which knowledge of the divine nature had to be negative (quid est
non). In express opposition to the assertion of Aquinas, Henry denied
that in the present life we cannot know what God is but only what
God is not. If our knowledge of the divine nature were limited only
to negations about creatures, then we would know no more about
the nature of God from creatures than we would about Socrates by
saying that he is not a rock. That is, to have purely negative knowledge
of the divine essence is to have no knowledge of it at all. The reason
is that negation is always negation of something, so that all meaningful
knowledge of what something is not presupposes, to some degree,
knowledge of what it is. Furthermore, a purely negative knowledge
of the divine nature could not account for our love and desire of God
in the present life, for, as Augustine says, we can love what is unseen
but not what is unknown. Accordingly, against the assertion of
Aquinas, Henry concludes that there must be some positive knowledge
of the divine quid est naturally available in the present life from
creatures.
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In effect, Henry sees a complete reduction of our knowledge of the
divine nature to negations about creatures as inconsistent with analogy,
because it is tantamount to making all predication about God purely
equivocal. On the other hand, the positive knowledge of the divine
nature provided by analogy does not compromise the transcendence
of God to the human mind, because it is not of God’s essence in its
own particularity and individuality. Analogy can only yield a knowledge
of God’s quid est which is general, indistinct and, as it were, incidental
to the substance of the divine nature itself. Yet, even this imperfect
knowledge of the divine nature provided by analogy requires a
sophisticated manoeuvre by Henry, utilizing his special understanding
of the doctrine of analogy itself.8
Henry’s account of the mind’s ascent to the divine quid est from
creatures involves three main stages, designed to conform broadly to
the traditional understanding of the pseudo-Dionysian ways of causality,
eminence and negation. At each stage the divine essence is known in a
progressively less general fashion, so that ascent is made by degrees to
an increasingly distinct knowledge of God, which none the less always
remains in some way general and universal. In these three stages Henry
says that God is known most generally (generalissime), less generally
(generalius), and least generally (generaliter), which involve, respectively,
abstraction, eminence and negation. The first or generalissime stage is
both the most elaborate and important, for it is here that the initial
move is made from creatures to God. This first stage itself comprises
three degrees of knowledge based on two types of ‘abstraction’
(abstractio).
According to Henry, a formal perfection can be abstracted from its
instances in two ways: either as a universal or as something separate.
In the first type of abstraction, for example, goodness can be
abstracted from this or that particular good as a common and
universal form in which they share (commune quoddam et universale).
Here, while the form is abstracted from its instances, it is none the less
still seen in relation to them as that in which they all participate, for
the universal is ‘one in many’. In the second type, the form is
considered in absolute separation from any material instance, for it is
seen not as something common divided among many particulars but
as transcendent and subsistent in itself (in se subsistens). Quite clearly,
these two types of ‘abstraction’ are for Henry the noetic procedures
that result in the concepts of being, goodness or any other perfection
as indeterminate by privation and negation. These two kinds of
abstraction produce the three steps of the generalissime way of
knowing the divine nature.
In the first step of most general knowledge of God, any perfection
in a creature already reveals, at least in a very confused and indistinct
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fashion, something of the divine nature. For instance, in knowing this
or that particular, created good, Henry says that we know two things:
the ‘this’ and ‘that’, which are proper to creatures, and ‘good’ which is
something common to God and creatures. Thus, even in ‘this created
good’ we know something of the divine good, even if it is not known
as distinct from the creature. If, however, by the first type of abstraction
we remove the ‘this’ proper to the creature, we attain a notion of the
good that is less determined to the creature than before, and this is the
second step of the generalissime stage. Here the good is not seen as
proper to creatures or God but as something analogously common to
both (commune analogum ad Deum et creaturam). Although in fact
the good of God and of the creature form two diverse and distinct
concepts (diversos intellectus distinctos faciunt), just as is the case with
being, nevertheless these notions are so similar that our intellect at this
point conceives both together in a confused way as one (quia tamen
proximi sunt, intellectus noster concipit modo confuso utrumque ut
unum).9 By performing a second abstraction, we can distinguish within
this confused, analogous notion those two proper concepts, so that we
differentiate between what is abstract in the sense of universal and in
the sense of separate. This is the third and final step of most general
knowledge of the divine nature, where some perfection, such as
goodness or being, is viewed as subsistent in itself. Such a concept is
proper to God alone.
Once Henry has reached this point, he can easily apply the Dionysian
techniques of eminence (prae-eminentia) and negation (remotio) to this
proper concept to ascend to respectively the generalius and generaliter
levels of knowing the divine essence. In eminence, the note of excellence
is added to that of subsistence to result in the notion of God as a most
perfect nature. In negation, all composition and diversity are removed
from this most perfect nature, so that its goodness, wisdom and so
forth are taken to be identical with its being. In this way, Henry
concludes, we can know what God is, not just what God is not, from
creatures in the present life, although ‘by comparison to the beatific
vision of God’s nature, this knowledge is almost nothing’.
Henry’s claim for a natural knowledge of the divine quid est from
creatures would appear to face an insuperable obstacle in his denial of
any conceptual community between God and creatures. By restricting
our knowledge of God and creatures solely to two wholly proper,
simple, and diverse notions, Henry seems to have completely
undermined any epistemological basis for claiming that we can derive
any concept of the one from the other. Henry clearly saw this obstacle
and used considerable ingenuity to overcome it. He conceded that God
and creature could be brought together in a common concept, yet found
a way to deny that such a notion was univocal.
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Henry’s strategy, naturally enough, is to explain the derivation of
knowledge of God from creatures by means of abstraction. Thus, as
outlined above, we begin with some perfection of a creature, such as
being or goodness, and detach the particularizing and determining
elements with which that perfection is found in its material existence
to reach a universal and general notion of it. In Henry’s above scheme
this abstraction marks the transition from the first level of most general
knowledge, in which being and goodness are conceived as most proper
to creatures, to the second. Henry is clear that in this step he has in
mind the familiar and broadly Aristotelian kind of abstraction that
yields common and universal concepts. When taken to its end, however,
this process of abstraction does not result merely in a universal concept
of being or goodness applicable to creatures alone, which is to say one
proper to them, but in one that is common to both creator and creature
(quod dicitur ‘bonum’, hoc est commune creatori et creaturae.)10 To
be sure, this notion is not univocally common, for it is not a distinct
concept included in both those of God and creature. It is rather
‘analogously common’, for it includes both the concepts of God and
creature in a confused way as one. Thus, for Henry, a perfection can
be abstracted from a creature and conceived with such indeterminacy
that it is not just the universal knowledge of a creature but a confused
knowledge of both God and creature. This exceedingly abstract notion,
which Henry calls ‘analogously common’, provides the necessary
epistemological bridge from creature to God by constituting a concept
of both at once.
Henry attempts to span the cognitive gulf between God and creatures,
the knowledge of which he has otherwise limited to proper, simple and
diverse notions, by means of his ‘analogously common’ concept. He
has constructed it to perform the required epistemological functions
of a truly common concept, for it is universal and applicable to both of
its instances, but in such a way that it cannot be called univocal. None
the less, Henry’s solution is remarkable for how close it comes to an
admission of univocity. Indeed, his analogous common concept so
nearly functions as a univocal one that even Henry himself at times
slips into seeing it as such. In describing how we abstract the general
notions of being and the other transcendentals from creatures, so that
we do not distinguish in such a notion what is proper to God from
what is proper to creatures, Henry adds, ‘just as also in univocal things
we abstract a common nature’ (sicut etiam in univocis abstrahitur natura
communis). Elsewhere, Henry describes the universal concept of being
abstracted from creatures as ‘indifferently common to what belongs to
God and creature’ (conceptus generalis ut entis…qui indifferenter
communis est ad id quod est creatoris et ad id quod est creaturae).11 It
is little wonder that Scotus will argue that Henry cannot consistently
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deny univocity, if for no other reason than he appears to have all but
admitted it.
As will be clear, the distance between Henry’s revised analogous concept
and Scotus’s univocal one is accordingly not as great as the opposition in
their positions might suggest. They both agree that being and the other
transcendental perfections can be thought of without determination to
either God or creature and that this is the result of abstraction from
creatures. They diverge sharply, however, on the exact nature of this
indeterminate conception. Henry denies that it is in fact a separate and
distinct concept but holds rather that it is a confusion of two proper notions
of being which are themselves simple, ultimate and irreducible. Scotus
argues against Henry that to admit such an indeterminate apprehension
of being and then to deny that it forms a bona fide, distinct, simple and
univocal concept is a contradiction. However, in seeking to avoid the
inconsistencies that he sees lurking within Henry’s analogously common
concept, Scotus must show that a truly univocal notion does not violate
the real transcendence of God, which Henry’s revised doctrine of analogy,
whatever its faults, tried to preserve.
Duns Scotus on Univocity
In his commentaries on the Sentences, Scotus addresses the issue of the
univocal concept of being in three separate but related contexts: the
natural knowledge of God, the primary object of the human intellect
and divine simplicity. All three discussions are closely connected, as
Scotus’s own numerous cross-references indicate. The first, on natural
knowledge of God, is a lengthy, critical examination of Henry’s position
and contains Scotus’s most sustained arguments for univocity.12 After a
detailed and systematic summary of Henry’s account of our knowledge
of God, Scotus replies that, while agreeing with Henry that such
knowledge is possible, he departs from his position on five points. In the
second of these five points, Scotus maintains against Henry that God is
known not only in a concept analogous with, but also in one univocal
to, creatures. It is an important but at times overlooked point that Scotus
is not here rejecting the traditional view, upheld by Henry, that we have
proper notions of God and creatures united by analogy or attribution.
Rather, he is rejecting Henry’s view that there can be only such proper
concepts united only in that way. Scotus’s point against Henry is that
when perfections such as being and goodness are conceived in their utmost
generality, they must be univocal not analogous notions. The precise
target of Scotus’s attack, then, is not Henry’s commitment to a traditional
doctrine of analogy, a version of which they both concede, but his
conclusion that such excludes any univocal conception of being.
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In an annotation to his criticism of Henry, Scotus at one point itemizes
as many as ten arguments in favour of univocity, but gives five main
proofs in the body of his discussion. Three of these are generally singled
out as most important. The first of the five, the so-called arguments
from ‘certain and doubtful concepts’, Scotus’s own contemporaries
labelled the ‘Achilles’ of his position. It runs as follows:
Major: An intellect certain about one concept, but doubtful about
others, has a concept about which it is certain that is
different from the concepts about which it is doubtful.
Minor: We can be certain that God is a being, but doubt whether
God is infinite or finite being.
∴
The concept of being is different from the concept of infinite
or finite being, and hence univocal, since asserted of both.
Scotus takes the major premiss to be evident, for one cannot be both
certain and doubtful of the same concept. That is, one and the same
concept predicated of the same subject cannot result in a proposition
whose truth is both certain and doubtful. The minor premiss is de
facto true, because past thinkers, such as the pre-Socratics, never
doubted that the first principle was a being, but disagreed as to whether
it was even material or immaterial, much less finite or infinite. Since
the concept of being is different from those of infinite and finite being,
but obviously predicated of both, it must be univocal.
Scotus’s point, which he establishes more explicitly in the ensuing
arguments, is that some univocal notion of being is presupposed in
any natural knowledge of God. Ultimately, however much one doubts
whether the concepts of infinite being or uncaused cause apply truly to
God, such concepts are doubtful with respect to something that is
certain. To be doubtful in all respects of some notion of God is simply
to concede that one has no meaningful concept at all.
While Scotus has formulated his argument in sufficiently general
terms to give it a universal force and appeal, he has none the less
engineered it to expose what he sees as a fundamental absurdity lurking
in Henry’s analogously common concept of being. In effect, Scotus
has crafted the minor premiss around Henry’s analogous concept,
substituting his own terminology of infinite and finite being for Henry’s
corresponding notions of negatively and privatively undetermined
being. According to Henry, this analogously common notion of being
is so abstract that we are in doubt as to whether it is a concept of
negatively or privatively undetermined being. At the same time, Henry
denies that there is any concept of being apart from these two proper
concepts about which we are in doubt. Scotus’s argument points out
the inconsistency of these two claims: Henry must either concede that
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we have no certain knowledge of being at all in this analogous concept,
for he allows only the two proper concepts of which we are admittedly
doubtful, or that we are both certain and doubtful of the same concept.
Thus, Henry’s abstract, indeterminate notion of being is either vacuous
or else it must be distinct from, and hence common to, either of the
concepts proper to God and creature.
Recall that Henry’s explanation was that there is no concept of being
distinct from these two proper ones, but only a confused notion of
both which appears univocal owing to their similarity. Accordingly,
Henry would reply to Scotus that we are not certain of some distinct,
common concept, as Scotus concludes, but only of a confused notion
that seemed common. Scotus perceives Henry’s manoeuvre as
introducing scepticism at the most fundamental level of human
knowledge. According to Scotus, it would destroy all univocity, for
any allegedly univocal concept could always be denied on the grounds
it was not one but two very similar notions which merely seemed to be
one. Scotus’s evident point is that if univocity cannot be ascertained
with certainty at the level of our most abstract concepts, which are
therefore primary, simple and irreducible, then it can never be
determined. Furthermore, according to Henry, these two proper
concepts of being must be ultimate and hence wholly simple—otherwise
they would be resolvable into more primitive notions—and are therefore
known in their totality and distinctly or not at all. Therefore, either
they will always be seen as one or never will be, for, being wholly
simple, no distinguishing element can be discovered in them which
was not evident in the first place. Finally, either they were initially seen
as wholly different concepts of being proper to God and creatures,
and then it seems impossible in view of their disparity that they could
have ever been confused as one, or they were seen in a relation of
similarity owing to analogy. In the latter case they could not be initially
known as one, for any two things seen as united in some relation must
first be known as distinct. Therefore, these two notions would never
appear to be one, simple concept, but only as distinct under a relation
of similarity.
Scotus’s first argument, then, attempts to draw out the apparent
inconsistency in Henry’s open admission, on the one side, that the
intellect can conceive of being without determining it to God or creature,
and his emphatic denial, on the other, that there is any concept of
being distinct from those proper to God and creature. Scotus argues
that Henry cannot claim that this indeterminate conception contains
any certain knowledge of being at all unless he admits that it is a concept
distinct from the concepts of being proper to God and creature. The
reason is that, by Henry’s own admission, the intellect is not certain at
this point that it has either proper concept, for it has not yet
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distinguished between the two. It thus is either certain of no concept of
being or is certain and doubtful of the same concept. Henry’s device of
making this analogous concept an apparently common and univocal
concept, which is then later discerned to be two proper notions,
collapses under scrutiny. Even if the simplicity of these two proper
concepts of being did not make it impossible for them to be confused
at one time and distinguished at another, they can only be seen as
similar, and hence one, after first having been known as distinct and
proper. As an epistemological explanation for the natural origin of our
proper concept of God, Henry’s analogously common notion simply
begs the question. It presupposes the very proper concept of God that
it is supposed to explain.
In his second argument, Scotus is explicit that denial of a univocal
concept renders natural knowledge of God impossible. Specifically,
Scotus attacks Henry’s position on the grounds that no creature can be
the immediate cause of a concept which is both simple and wholly
proper to God. Yet this is Henry’s only available account for the natural
origins of our knowledge of God, given that he admits only two proper
and simple concepts of being and excludes any which is common. Scotus
maintains that it is patently absurd to hold that a creature can directly
cause a simple and wholly proper concept of God, simply because such
cannot be the concept of anything contained within the creature. Scotus
argues that an object can only cause a concept of that which it contains
either as an essential part (e.g. its differentia or genus) or virtually (e.g.
an essential property). Obviously, the creature contains nothing proper
to God as an essential part. Similarly, a creature cannot virtually contain
anything proper to God, for one thing virtually contains another as
the naturally prior contains the posterior or the cause its effect. For
instance, premisses virtually contain their conclusions in the sense that
their greater truth and certitude has the ‘power’ (virtus) to produce or
cause certitude of the conclusion. The creature, however, is naturally
posterior and inferior to divine nature as its effect and therefore cannot
virtually contain anything proper to God. Rather, just the reverse is
true; God virtually contains the creature. Thus, if a creature can produce
any concept of God at all, it must be one that is common to both,
which Henry denies.
Scotus pursues a similar line of reasoning in his fourth proof, which
examines the commonly admitted basis for natural knowledge of God,
the so-called ‘pure perfections’ (perfectiones simpliciter), such as
intellect, will or wisdom. Scotus argues that either these perfections
have some meaning common to God and creature or not. If not, this is
either because they are wholly proper to creatures, which no one admits,
or they are wholly proper to God. If they are wholly proper to God,
then they are not attributed to God because they are pure perfections,
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but are rather pure perfections because they are attributed to God.
This, however, would violate the traditional and universally accepted
procedure given by Anselm for determining what can be assigned to
the divine nature. According to Anselm, we attribute to God those
perfections which are pure in the sense that they contain of themselves
no imperfection. As defined by Anselm, such a perfection is ‘what
absolutely taken is better to be than not’.13 (For instance, colours are
not pure perfections, since it is not absolutely better to be coloured
than not.) But on Anselm’s definition, one can determine what is a
pure perfection without any reference to God. That is, on the received
and accepted account of natural knowledge of God, something is first
determined to constitute a pure perfection and then on that basis
attributed to God, not the reverse. Consequently, something is not a
pure perfection precisely because it is attributed to God but is such
prior to that attribution. Pure perfections must therefore have some
meaning that is common apart from the meaning it has as attributed
and proper to God alone.
Once again Scotus argues that some common and hence univocal
notion is presupposed by our analogous, proper concepts of God. In
this case, the traditional doctrine of ‘pure perfections’ is seen to entail
just such a common notion. If there were no common but only proper
concepts of these perfections, then they could not be known apart from
their attribution to God. Yet, exactly the opposite is prescribed by the
traditional concept of pure perfections, for they are known
independently of and prior to any relation to God.
Scotus makes the same point in a confirmation of this argument,
this time using the equally traditional Dionysian procedures of removal
and eminence. According to Scotus, all metaphysical enquiry about
God proceeds by taking some formal notion (ratio formalis) and
removing from it all imperfections with which it is found in a creature.
For example, we take the formal notion of the will—a power for
opposites—and remove any limitations connected with its existence in
a creature, such as variability in its act of willing over time. We then
attribute will to God by conceiving of it not just as lacking imperfection,
but as possessing the greatest degree of perfection, such that it is
infinitely powerful. This process presumes that the formal notion of
the will which has been stripped of creaturely limitations is the same
notion of will as is assigned the highest degree of perfection. If this is
not the case, so that nothing of the notion of will abstracted from
creatures remains when we attribute will to God, then perfections found
in creatures tell us nothing about the perfection of God. As Scotus puts
it, we could then no more say that the divine nature was an intellect, a
will or wise than it was a rock. That is, the distinction traditionally
made within creatures between pure perfections, which can be applied
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to God, and their other formal features, which cannot, would be
meaningless on denial of any common notion of such perfections. If to
be a ‘perfection’ has absolutely no common meaning as applied to
God and creature, then perfection in creatures becomes tantamount to
imperfection. Thus, ‘wisdom’ would be no more applicable to God
than ‘rock’.
The point of Scotus’s fourth proof and its confirmation is that the
traditional concepts and methods that are the accepted basis for
natural knowledge of God presuppose a common notion of being and
other such perfections. Elsewhere Scotus is more pointed: ‘All masters
and theologians seem to use a concept common to God and creature,
although they deny this verbally when they apply it’.14 There can be
little doubt, however, that Scotus has Henry specifically in view. This
is particularly evident in Scotus’s corroborative argument based on
the Dionysian procedure, from which, as shown, Henry constructed
his own three-stage ascent to God. Scotus has pared this procedure to
the two minimal steps of removal and eminence, which correspond
respectively to what Henry calls knowing God generalissime and
generalius. (In his third point of disagreement with Henry, Scotus
discards Henry’s final stage of conceiving God as wholly simple
through negation and limits our highest simple concept of God to
that of a pre-eminent or infinite being.) Scotus’s point is that the
Dionysian procedure requires that the notion or meaning (ratio)
yielded by removal be the same notion to which eminence is applied,
otherwise the first step would simply have no relevance to the second.
Removal and eminence would not, as all theologians assume, form
two stages of a continuous process of reasoning leading from a
knowledge of creatures to God. As Scotus says, ‘There would be no
such process, but inquiry of this kind would have to be avoided’
(nullus esset talis processus, sed vitanda esset talis inquisitio).15 But
this is exactly the situation in Henry’s interpretation of the Dionysian
process, for he holds that the ratio of a perfection arrived at by the
abstraction and removal of created limitations is wholly other than
that to which eminence is applied (illud est alterius et alterius rationis).
Distinguishing between the epistemological functions of the ways of
causality and eminence, Scotus denies that these two diverse rationes
can be sufficiently connected by means of causal dependence, as Henry
maintains. Something is not formally or essentially predicated of God,
in the manner of a pure perfection, simply because it is an effect. A
rock is an effect of God as exemplary cause in so far as it has an idea
in the divine mind, yet the formal notion of ‘rock’ cannot be
predicated of God in the same way as that of goodness, justice, truth
or any other such perfection. Rather, perfections found in creatures
must have some univocally common concept if they are to be
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predicated essentially of God as divine attributes, whereas things
predicated of God as their cause need not have such a common notion.
Henry cannot therefore use the way of causality to underwrite the
way of eminence, for the epistemological requirements for the latter
are greater than for the former. Thus, he must admit that his first
stage issues in some notion common to God and creature.
The force of all this argumentation is that Henry cannot consistently
uphold natural knowledge of the divine nature and then deny that
being has some concept common to creatures and God. If being and
the other perfections have only two simple and wholly diverse rationes
or notions, one proper to creatures and the other to God, then creatures
simply cannot yield any concepts relevant to the divine nature. The
causal dependence of the creature on God is irrelevant here, because
being, goodness and such are seen as divine attributes revelatory of
God’s nature, not because they are effects, but because they are
perfections of a certain sort. Henry himself seems to have appreciated
the limitations of the way of causality and attempted to supply the
required conceptual unity by means of an ‘analogously common notion’,
in which the two proper and diverse rationes were conceived in a
confused way so as to appear univocal. Scotus saw this as an
unworkable contrivance vulnerable to the most obvious of absurdities,
such as that the intellect could lack certitude about its most fundamental
concepts. In the face of Henry’s strained and artificial attempts to sustain
natural knowledge of God while denying any bona fide common
concept, Scotus replaced Henry’s ‘analogous’, confused notion of two
proper rationes that appeared univocal with a distinct concept of a
single, simple ratio that in fact was univocal. Accordingly, where for
Henry being conceived in its utmost generality and community was a
complex and confused concept, and the concepts proper to God and
creatures were simple and distinct, for Scotus just the reverse became
the case. The most general and indeterminate concept of being was
irreducibly simple and common, and thus known in a distinct rather
than a confused way, while the concepts of being proper to God and
creature were complex, or at least not irreducibly simple. By admitting
a simple and univocal concept of being, Scotus provided a true
conceptual community between God and creature and placed the project
of natural knowledge of the divine nature on a firm epistemological
footing.
Scotus’s univocal concept of being clearly had great epistemological
advantages over Henry’s revised version of analogy. It eliminated
Henry’s unsatisfactory attempt to make an unstable conflation of
equivocal notions do the epistemological work of a genuinely univocal
concept merely because such a conflation appeared univocal. Univocity
not only provided a true conceptual community between God and
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creature, but made being suitable as a primary object of the mind by
rendering its conception certain, simple and prior. In granting univocity,
Scotus replaced Henry’s two concepts of being with a single one, his
doubtful concepts with a certain one, his relational concepts with an
absolute one, and his confused concepts with a distinct one. Yet these
epistemological advantages of univocity came at a very high
metaphysical cost, which is precisely why Henry went to such extreme
lengths to deny that there was in truth any such concept. The cost of
Scotus’s univocal concept of being, as one objector put it, was nothing
less than ‘to destroy the whole of philosophy’.16
While Scotus portrayed univocity as contained with the tradition of
natural theology, so that it could be found in ‘arguments frequently
made or implied by doctors and the saints’, he had to reconcile it with
a daunting array of philosophical authorities to the contrary. Scotus
himself did not fail to raise and confront the various conflicts that a
univocal concept of being appeared to present to the philosophical
tradition, particularly that of Aristotle. Thus, for instance, univocity
would remove a pillar of Aristotle’s metaphysics, namely, that ‘being is
said in many ways’, which meant that being was not univocal but a
type of equivocal. It would destroy the categories as ultimate
classifications or genera, for they would become species under the higher
class of being. Similarly, it would render the five predicables of Porphyry
inadequate, for being would form a sixth universal. Worst of all, God
would enter a community of being with creatures. The divine nature
would not be a wholly simple and pure act, but a composite of being
and difference.
All of these impossible conclusions really expressed one and the
same difficulty in different ways. Scotus’s univocal concept of being
appeared to his contemporaries to destroy all of philosophy—
Aristotle’s conception of metaphysics, the categories, the predicables,
and even the distinction between God and creatures—because it
appeared to destroy being itself as a transcendental. On the common
view, a ‘univocal transcendental’ was a contradiction in terms,
precisely because the categories or supreme genera were regarded as
the highest classes of univocal predicates. Since a transcendental was
by definition beyond the categories, it could not be univocal. This
conviction was clearly stated by Peter Olivi, a theologian writing in
the generation before Scotus: ‘The nature of being, one, and true is so
common to all things that it transcends the nature of a genus and
everything univocal.’17 In other words, on the common view, univocity
destroyed being as a transcendental because it reduced being to a
genus. Indicative of this common view was the use of Aristotle’s claim
that being and one could not fall under a genus as a standard authority
against univocity.
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This conventional identification of univocal and generic concepts
resulted from the requirement, explicitly invoked by Henry in this
connection, that there must be a strict correspondence between real
and conceptual community. Any real, univocal concept, as opposed
to a purely logical or mind-dependent notion, had to be based on
some type of corresponding real community or agreement. Since the
categories by definition constituted the highest classes of reality, they
formed the outer boundaries of real agreement. Accordingly, there
could be no univocal concept of anything more universal than these
categories or genera, for to such a notion would correspond no real
community. If this was true of the categories, so much more of God
and creatures, whose real diversity was immeasurably greater than
that between any two genera. The challenge facing Scotus was thus
clear if his doctrine of univocity was not to destroy all of philosophy
by reducing being to a genus. He had to explain how there could be
a truly univocal notion of being to which there corresponded no real
agreement. Scotus himself was completely aware that this was the
universally perceived impasse to making being and the other
transcendentals univocal. The central difficulty to be overcome was
that ‘God and creatures are wholly diverse in reality, agreeing in no
reality…and nevertheless agree in one concept’ (Deus et creatura
realiter sunt primo diversa, in nulla realitate convenientia…et tamen
conveniunt in uno conceptu).18
This is the problem Henry saw but could not solve. He could not
see how to unite God and creatures under some common concept of
being without also uniting them in some common reality, that is,
without bringing them under being as a genus. For Henry the one
required the other, as exemplified by Plato, who held being was
univocal because it was a genus (Plato ponens ens esse genus, tanquam
sit nominis entis unum aliquid commune conceptum).19 Because
Henry could not resolve this difficulty, he tried to construct a type of
conceptual community by conflating proper concepts rather than
admit a single, common one. Scotus was the first to find a way around
this impasse, and his solution involved some of the most innovative
aspects of his metaphysics.
Scotus’s solution is found in his question on divine simplicity, which
he specifically formulated to draw out just his difficulty: ‘Is it compatible
with divine simplicity that God, or anything formally predicated of
God, be in a genus?’20 As the lead objection to the question makes
clear, the issue is whether Scotus’s position of univocity, previously
established in distinction 3, entails that God is in a genus.
It seems that [God is in a genus], because God is formally a
being. Being, however, signifies a concept predicated of God
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quidditatively (in quid). This concept of being is not proper
to God, but common to God and creature, as was said in
distinction 3. Therefore, in order for this common concept to
become proper [to God] it must be determined by some
determining concept. That determining concept is related to
the concept of being just as a qualitative concept (quale) to a
quidditative concept (quid), and consequently as the concept
of a differentia to a genus.
(Ord. 1 d.8 n.39 (Vat. 4.169))
The above line of argument is precisely why Henry so adamantly refused
to admit both a common and proper concept of divine being and
allowed only a proper one. It is impossible to admit both concepts of
God without conceding that the proper one itself is a composite of
common and distinguishing notions which must be related in effect as
potency and act, or as the objection puts it, as determined and
determining. This is simply to admit that the common notion is a genus
and the distinguishing one a differentia. This conclusion follows
especially from Scotus’s position, because he admits that the common
concept of being applies to God quidditatively, which means that it is
the concept of a ‘what’ (quid). The distinguishing concept will
accordingly specify or qualify being as a kind (quale), so that the two
will conform exactly to the classical relation of genus to differentia as
quid to quale.
In his lengthy reply to the objection, Scotus concedes that there is
a common concept of being and that it is ‘contracted’ or determined
by the notions of infinite and finite to result in concepts proper to
God and creatures. He even concedes that the common and
contracting or determining concepts are related as quid and quale. He
denies, however, that they are respectively concepts of a genus and its
differentiae. As for the first point, Scotus argues that the univocal
concept of being cannot be that of a genus. The reason is that being
so conceived is common to both the finite (creatures) and the infinite
(God), and this community exceeds that of any genus. No generic
concept can be so common, for by definition the concept of a genus
is that of a reality potential to some further, perfecting reality added
by the differentia. What is infinite in being, however, cannot be
potential to any further reality. Accordingly, since a genus by definition
involves potentiality, the concept of being common to God and
creatures cannot be that of a genus, for the infinite being of God can
never be conceived, however commonly or indeterminately, as some
reality potential to further perfection. The second part of Scotus’s
response is that the determining concepts of infinite and finite do not
correspond to those of specific differentiae. Here the reason is that
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infinity and finitude do not indicate the addition of some reality
outside that given in the common concept of being, but only degrees
or grades of perfection intrinsic to the reality of being. The concept of
a differentia, however, is always of some reality outside of and added
to that of the genus.
Scotus’s response relies on his technical conception of a formal,
extramental distinction of two realities, on the one hand, and his so-
called ‘modal’ distinction between a reality and its intrinsic grades or
modes of perfection, on the other. As for the first, Scotus recognizes
within one and the same thing (res) a distinction of realities, formalities
or entities (realitates, formalitates, entitates), as he variously calls them,
corresponding to our different concepts of that thing. Such realities
are said to be ‘formally distinct’, but really identical or united within
one and the same thing.21 Such a ‘formal distinction’ is for Scotus not
merely conceptual but real in the sense that it obtains prior to any
consideration of the intellect. Scotus holds that at minimum this formal
distinction between two realities is required to provide a real basis for
the concepts of genus and differentia. According to Scotus, this degree
of distinction is minimally needed to sustain any real relationship of
potency to act required for genus and difference. The concept of a
genus is taken from the one reality, which is perfected by and potential
to, the formally distinct reality from which the difference is taken. Scotus
argues that unless genus and differentia are at least formally distinct
realities, the concept of the genus would coincide with the entire reality
of the species, rendering the addition of specific differentia in a definition
redundant.
In addition to this formal distinction of realities in one and the same
thing, Scotus recognizes a lesser distinction between a reality and its
degree of perfection, or in Scotus’s terminology, its intrinsic mode. This
is the distinction, for instance, between an accidental form, such as
white, and the degrees of intensity with which it is actually found. For
example, white can be differentiated into degrees or shades, yet these
degrees do not form different species of colour. Or again, a species of
precious stone, such as diamond, can be distinguished according to
the various degrees of perfection that make up the gemmologist’s scale,
from imperfect to flawless, yet these gradations do not each one
constitute a different species of gem. Such grades or modes are said to
be ‘intrinsic’ because they do not add, as a specific differentia does to a
genus, a new reality extrinsic to the form of which they are the grades.
They rather indicate different quantitative degrees, as it were, of one
and the same reality or form. Scotus’s model here is the medieval theory
of intension and remission of accidental forms. According to this theory,
accidental forms, such as colours, heat, and cognitive and moral habits,
are said to have a certain extension or ‘latitude’ (latitudo) within which
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
they can be increased (intensio) or decreased (remissio) without a change
in the essence or species of the form itself.22
In light of these technical refinements, Scotus’s answer to the above
objection is that the relationship of the common concept of being to
its contracting or determining notions of infinity and finitude does
not correspond to that of genus and differentia, for this requires two
formally distinct realities related as potency and act. The common
concept of being cannot involve the element of potentiality found in
a genus, for this would render it inapplicable in any way to the divine
being, and hence not common to God and creatures. Rather, being
and its qualifying concepts of infinity and finitude correspond to the
relation of a reality and its intrinsic modes of perfection. The
categorical analogue for the common concept of transcendental being
is not therefore a genus and its specific differences, but rather a specific
form and its grades of intension and remission. Clearly, Scotus thinks
he has found in this categorical analogue of intension and remission
a model for common and differentiating concepts which escapes the
real relation of potency and act required in genus and differentia. The
various degrees of intensity are real but not specific differentiae of a
form. As it actually exists, white is found in different degrees of
brilliance or intensity, and these are real differentiae of that form. Yet
this diversity within the form of whiteness is not one produced by
specific differentiae, otherwise every shade of white would constitute
a different species of colour. Rather, the intensive grades of a form
result from differentiae less than specific, albeit real, because they are
intrinsic to the nature of the form itself. Specific differentiae by
contrast always add a new reality in kind. By appealing to a recognized
distinction within the categories between a form and its degrees, which
is less than that of genus and differentia, Scotus thinks he can explain
how the common concept of being can be ‘contracted’ by the finite
and infinite without reducing being to a genus.
Yet Scotus realizes that this reply does not fully resolve the
difficulty of the real basis for this common concept of being, so that
univocity still poses a threat to divine simplicity. The problem is that
Scotus holds that the concept of being univocally common to God
and creatures is both real and distinct from the concept of infinite
being proper to God. Since this common concept is real, it must be
taken from some corresponding reality in God that is common. The
original objection now reappears, because Scotus still has to admit
that there will be two realities in God, one which is common to
account for the real, common concept of being and another to
account for the proper concept of God. These realities will be related
as potency to act and hence as genus and differentia. The problem
thus seems inescapable. If the common concept of being is real, it
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HENRY OF GHENT AND DUNS SCOTUS
must be of something real in God. But to admit a common reality in
God is nothing less than to place God under a genus. Scotus himself
sharply focuses the difficulty: ‘Here is doubted how a real concept
common to God and creature is possible unless it is taken from some
reality of the same genus.’23
Scotus replies that both the common concept of being univocal to
God and creatures and the concept proper to God are taken from one
and the same reality of infinite being. The implicit assumption of the
objection denied by Scotus is that in order for a common concept to
be real, it must always be an adequate or perfect concept of the reality
conceived. Rather, the common and proper concepts of God are
related as imperfect and perfect conceptions of one and the same
reality, not as perfect or adequate concepts of two distinct realities.
Scotus’s response exploits his distinction between a reality and its
intrinsic mode or grade of perfection to account for how one and the
same reality can cause both a perfect concept, which is proper, and an
imperfect concept, which is common. For example, some particular
instance of white existing at the tenth grade of intensity can be
conceived perfectly, and then it is known according to the degree of
perfection with which it is actually found. That same instance of
white can be conceived imperfectly, and then only the nature of
‘whiteness’ as such, apart from the real condition of its grade of
intensity, is known. The former is a proper concept of whiteness in
some determinate grade, the latter a concept common to the various
instances of white differing in degrees. No concept common as a
genus, however, can ever result simply from conceiving a reality in an
imperfect way. Rather, as just seen, to the concepts of genus and
differentia there must correspond two different realities, and, in each
case, there can be a perfect and adequate concept of the corresponding
reality.
As applied to the renewed form of the initial objection, Scotus’s
distinction means that our univocally common concept of being does
not entail a corresponding common reality in God, because that
common concept is not a perfect or adequate concept of any reality.
Rather, it is an imperfect concept of the reality of infinite being proper
to God or of finite being proper to creatures. To put it another way,
that concept of being is common to God and creatures because in it
the two wholly diverse realities of infinite and finite being are conceived
in an imperfect way. In an annotation to this reply, Scotus expresses in
technical language his answer to the difficulty of the real basis for the
univocal concept of being:
Note [in this answer] how there can be a primary intention
[i.e. a real as opposed to a secondary or merely logical
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
concept] of ‘a’ and ‘b’ that is common and nothing of a
single nature corresponds in reality, but two wholly diverse
formal objects [i.e. God and creature] are understood in one
first intention, although either imperfectly.
(Ordinatio 1 d.8 n.136 (Vat. 4.221))
This constitutes Scotus’s ultimate resolution of the metaphysical
impasse to a univocal concept of being. It consists of recognizing a
distinction that is real but less than that of two different realities.
Only given such a lesser distinction is it possible to provide an
ontological foundation for common and proper concepts that not are
related as genus and differentia. Scotus himself is clear that the
solution to the objective basis for a univocal concept of being requires
such a lesser distinction, namely, that of a reality and its intrinsic
mode: ‘Therefore, a distinction is required between that from which
the common concept [of being] is taken and that from which the
proper concept is taken, not a distinction of reality and reality, but of
reality and the proper and intrinsic mode of the same reality’ (Ord. 1
d.8 n.139 [13.29] 4, 222). In Scotus’s view, Henry and his
contemporaries were led to deny univocity because they demanded
that every distinction in real concepts be based upon a corresponding
distinction of realities. They failed to see that the boundaries between
our concepts can be more refined, so that they do not always answer
to a distinction of realities but can be based on one between a reality
and its degree of perfection. Such is sufficient for perfect and imperfect
conceptions of the same reality, which are related as proper and
common concepts of it. A concept of being which is common by
virtue of its imperfection is all that is required for it to be univocal to
God and creature.
Having solved this problem, however, Scotus faced a final hurdle to
univocity in the authority of Aristotle, who repeatedly states that being
is a type of equivocal. From this it is concluded that being cannot be
univocal. Scotus replies that this reasoning assumes that analogy and
univocity are incompatible, which he denies. First, according to Aristotle
himself, there is a first in every genus, which is the measure of all in
that class (Metaphysics 10.1 (1052b18)), such as is the case with human
being in the genus of animal. Despite this relationship of attribution,
in which human being constitutes the primary instance of animal to
which all others are referred, Scotus argues that all still admit a single
notion of animal univocal to all in the genus. Similarly, the order and
attribution existing between the proper and analogous concepts of being
is consistent with some univocal notion common to both. Second, the
real or natural philosopher (i.e. the physicist, who deals with material
beings) takes as equivocal the diverse genera which the logician sees as
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HENRY OF GHENT AND DUNS SCOTUS
univocal, for in reality only the form of the ultimate species is truly
univocal. So, Scotus concludes, all of the citations of Aristotle where
being is claimed to be analogous should be read as referring to a real
diversity of beings among which there is attribution, which is none the
less consistent with some univocally common concept abstracted from
them.24 Scotus’s second response will form the basis for ensuing attempts
by Scotists to reconcile his doctrine of univocity with Aquinas’s position
on analogy. In reconciling the two views, Aquinas is portrayed as
maintaining real analogy among beings, while Scotus is seen as holding
a purely conceptual unity.
CONCLUSION
There can be no question that in maintaining a concept of being
univocally common to God and creatures, Scotus moved beyond the
common view of the transcendentals in a dramatic and important way.
The doctrine of univocity counts as one of the genuinely original results
of Latin medieval philosophy, and its impact was felt well into the
modern period. At the same time, Scotus’s achievement depended in
an intimate way on prior developments by Henry of Ghent. As has
been repeatedly stressed, this is in fact so true that Scotus’s doctrine of
univocity should properly be seen not as a complete rejection but as a
revision of Henry’s own unique understanding of analogy. Specifically,
Scotus’s simple, univocal concept was a modification of Henry’s revised
‘analogously common’ notion of being. Henry’s extended sense of an
‘analogous concept’ had many features in common with Scotus’s
univocal one: it was a conception of being as completely undetermined,
the result of abstraction from creatures, and the epistemological
foundation for natural knowledge of the divine nature. Scotus accepted
these aspects of Henry’s indeterminate conception of being, and then
argued that Henry could not consistently deny that such a conception
formed a truly unified, distinct, and common notion unto itself. Scotus
accordingly abandoned Henry’s analogous notion of being, but did so
by making it into the very univocal concept Henry claimed it appeared
to be, but in truth was not. In other words, the univocal concept of
being for which Scotus argues is, in many important respects, the very
one that Henry described but rejected as merely apparent: a single,
simple concept common to God and creature and different from
concepts of both (aliquis unicus intellectus simplex communis ad Deum
et creaturam, alius praeter intellectum Dei aut creaturae).25 These words
of Henry answer quite closely to the concept demonstrated by Scotus,
particularly in his first argument for univocity. To be sure, in upholding
the univocal notion which Henry had rejected Scotus had to move
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
beyond Henry’s understanding of univocity in an important and creative
way, most notably by detaching univocal community from the
ontological limitations of a genus. On the other hand, it is not true
that Scotus advanced a univocal concept of being which Henry had
simply failed to see altogether; Henry saw a good part of it, but could
not see how to sustain it.
The close connection between Scotus and Henry examined here in
their disagreement over the nature of transcendental concepts is found
to various degrees in many other areas of their thought. For example,
Scotus rejects more and appropriates less in his attacks on Henry’s
version of Augustinian illumination and his theory of exemplar
causality, according to which creatures have a necessary and eternal
‘essential being’ (esse essentiae) as divine ideas. In other areas, Scotus
appropriates more and rejects less, such as in his proofs for the existence
of God. In nearly all cases, however, a proper understanding of Scotus
will depend on appreciating his relationship to Henry.
NOTES
1 Henry, Summa a.22 q.5 ([13.2] I f. 134v).
2 L.Hödl, ‘Introduction à l’edition de la Summa d’Henry de Gand’, in Macken’s
edition of Henry’s Summa articles 31–4 [13.3] xiii–xiv.
3 Roger Marston, Quaestiones disputatae De emanatione divine, De statu naturae
lapsae, De anima, Grottaferrata, 1932, p. 412.
4 Aquinas’s own position is more nuanced, but this is the aspect of it stressed by
Henry. See J.Wippel [13.27] 215–42.
5 Henry’s express treatment of analogy is given in Summa a.21 q.2 ([13.2] I f.
123v–125v).
6 See Aristotle, Categories 1 (1a1–15) and especially Metaphysics 4.1 (1003a32–
b5). For Aristotle’s notion of equivocity, which the scholastics called analogy, see
J. Owens, The Doctrine of Being in the Aristotelian Metaphysics, 3rd edn, Toronto,
1978, pp. 107–36.
7 Cf. Henry, Quodlibeta 13 q.10 ([13.3] (1985) 65–7).
8 Henry’s account of natural knowledge of the divine quid est occupies Summa a.24,
especially qq. 4, 7 and 9. See the second article by Pegis in [13.23].
9 Summa a.24 q.6 ([13.2] I f. 142v).
10 Summa a.24 q.6 ([13.2] I f. 142v).
11 For these two quotations, see Henry Summa a.24 q.7 ([13.2] I f. 144v).
12 This part of Scotus’s discussion, which is the basis of what follows, is found
translated according to the Vivès edition in Wolter [13.35] 13–33.
13 Scotus cites Anselm, Monologion c. 15 (ed. Schmitt [6.11] I: 28–9) in this
connection, but the association of this doctrine with Anselm was a commonplace.
14 Duns Scotus 1 Lectura d.3 n.29 ([13.29] 16.235).
15 1 Lectura d.8 n.79 ([13.29] 17.27).
16 1 Lectura d.3 n.105 ([13.29] 16.264).
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HENRY OF GHENT AND DUNS SCOTUS
17 S.Brown, ‘Petrus Joannis Olivi, Quaestiones logicales: critical text’, Traditio 52
(1986): 36–7.
18 1 Lectura d.8 n.129 ([13.29] 17.46).
19 Summa a.21 q.2 ([13.2] I f. 124v).
20 Scotus, 1 Ordinatio d.8 p. 1 q.3 ([13.29] 4.169–230).
21 See the entries under ‘Formal Distinction’ in the bibliography. Scotus varied both
his terminology and definition of the formal distinction between Oxford and
Paris, but this does not affect the present point.
22 On this theory, see for example J.Wippel, ‘Godfrey of Fontaines on intension and
remission of accidental forms’, Franciscan Studies 39 (1979): 343–55.
23 1 Ordinatio d.8 n.137 ([13.29] 4.221).
24 1 Ordinatio d.8 n.48, 83 ([13.29] 4.172, 191–2).
25 Summa a.21 q.2 ([13.2] I f. 124v).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Henry of Ghent
Original language editions
13.1
13.2
13.3
Quodlibeta Magistri Henrici Goethals a Gandavo Doctoris Solemnis, Paris,
I. Badius, 1518; repr. in 2 vols, Louvain, Bibliothèque, SJ, 1961. (Referred
to as the Badius edition, after its printer.)
Summae quaestionum ordinariarum, Paris, 1520; repr. in 2 vols, St.
Bonaventure, NY, Franciscan Institute, 1953 (Summa).
Henrici de Gandavo opera omnia, general editor R.Macken, Leuven, University
Press, 1979–. (The planned critical edition is expected to run to some 40
volumes including several on the manuscripts of Henry’s works and his
life. To date eight Quodlibeta have appeared: I (ed. R.Macken, 1979), II
(ed. R.Wielockx, 1983), VI (ed. G.Wilson, 1987), VII (ed. G. Wilson, 1991),
IX (ed. R.Macken, 1983), X (ed. R.Macken, 1981), XII qq. 1–30 (ed.
J.Decorte, 1987), XII q. 31=Tractatus super facto praelatorum et fratrum
(ed. L.Hödl, 1989) and XIII (ed. J.Decorte, 1985). The edition of the Summa
is also under way, and two volumes have appeared: articles 31–4 (ed.
R.Macken, 1991) and articles 35–40 (ed. G.Wilson, 1994).)
English translations
13.4
13.5
Wippel, J.F. and Wolter, A.B. (eds) Medieval Philosophy, New York, Free
Press, 1969, pp. 378–89. (Translation of Henry of Ghent’s proof for die
existence of God in Summa a.22 q.4).
Quodlibetal Questions on Free Will, trans. R.J.Teske, Milwaukee, Wis.,
Marquette University Press, 1993.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Bibliographies
13.6
13.7
Laarmann, M. ‘Bibliographia auxiliaris de vita, operibus et doctrina Henrici
de Gandavo’, Franzikanische Studien 73 (1991): 324–66.
Macken, R. Bibliographie d’Henri de Gand, Leuven, 1994. (More a
bibliography of late thirteenth-century philosophy. Inaccurate in
places.)
Studies
13.8 Brown, J.V. ‘Duns Scotus on Henry of Ghent’s arguments for divine
illumination: the statement of the case’, Vivarium 14 (1976): 94–113.
13.9 ——‘Duns Scotus on the possibility of knowing genuine truth: the reply to
Henry of Ghent in the Lectura prima, and in the Ordinatio’, Recherches
de théologie ancienne et médiévale 51 (1984): 136–82.
13.10 Brown, S. ‘Avicenna and the unity of the concept of being: the interpretations
of Henry of Ghent, Duns Scotus, Gerard of Bologna and Peter Aureoli’,
Franciscan Studies 25 (1965): 117–50.
13.11 ——‘Henry of Ghent’, in Individuation in Scholasticism: the Later Middle
Ages and the Counter-Reformation, 1150–1650, ed. J.J.E.Gracia, Albany,
NY, State University of New York Press, 1994, pp. 195–220.
13.12 Dumont, S.D. ‘The quaestio si est and the metaphysical proof for the existence
of God according to Henry of Ghent and J.Duns Scotus’, Franziskanische
Studien 66 (1984): 335–67.
13.13 ——‘Time, contradiction and free will in the late thirteenth century’,
Documenti e studi sulla Tradizione Filosofica Medievale 3.2(1992):
199–235.
13.14 Macken, R. ‘La temporalité radicale de la créature selon Henri de Gand’,
Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 38 (1971): 211–72.
13.15 ——‘La théorie de l’illumination divine dans la philosophie d’Henri de Gand’,
Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 39 (1972): 82–112.
13.16 ——‘La volonté humaine, faculté plus élevée que l’intelligence selon Henri
de Gand’, Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 42 (1975):
5–51.
13.17 ——‘The metaphysical proof for the existence of God in the philosophy of
Henry of Ghent’, Franziskanische Studien 68 (1986): 247–60.
13.18 Marrone, S.P. Truth and Scientific Knowledge in the Thought of Henry of
Ghent, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1985.
13.19 ——‘Matthew of Aquasparta, Henry of Ghent and Augustinian epistemology
after Bonaventure’, Franziskanische Studien 65 (1983): 252–90.
13.20 ——‘Henry of Ghent and Duns Scotus on the knowledge of being’, Speculum
63 (1988): 22–57.
13.21 Mediaevalia: Textos e Estudos (Porto), ed. M.Pachecho, 3 (1993). (Special
issue devoted to Henry of Ghent.)
13.22 Paulus, J. Henri de Gand: Essai sur les tendances de sa métaphysique, Paris,
Vrin, 1938.
13.23 Pegis, A. ‘Toward a new way to God: Henry of Ghent’, Mediaeval Studies 30
(1968): 226–47; 31 (1969): 93–116; 33 (1971): 158–79.
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HENRY OF GHENT AND DUNS SCOTUS
13.24 Porro, P. Enrico di Gand: La via delle proposizioni universali, Bari, 1993.
(Contains complete bibliography on Henry, arranged chronologically.)
13.25 Wielockx, R. (ed.) Aegidii Romani Opera Omnia III.1: Apologia, Florence,
Olschki, 1985. (Contains much material on Henry of Ghent, especially
concerning his role in the condemnations of 1277 and the censure of Giles
of Rome.)
13.26 Wippel, J.F. ‘The relationship between essence and existence in late
thirteenth-century thought: Giles of Rome, Henry of Ghent, Godfrey
of Fontaines, James of Viterbo’, in Philosophies of Existence: Ancient
and Medieval, ed. P.Morewedge, New York, Fordham University Press,
1982, pp. 131–64.
13.27 ——‘Divine knowledge, divine power and human freedom in Thomas
Aquinas and Henry of Ghent’, in Metaphysical Themes in Thomas
Aquinas, Washington, DC, Catholic University of America Press, 1984,
pp. 243–70.
Duns Scotus
Original language editions
13.28 Opera omnia. Editio nova iuxta editionem Waddingi XII tomos continentem
a patribus Franciscanis de observantia accurante recognita, 26 vols, Paris,
Vivès, 1891–5. (Vivès edition. Modernized reprint of the Wadding edition
(Lyons, 1639). Contains many spurious works. For the certainly authentic
works, see C.Balic, John Duns Scotus: Some Reflections on the Occasion
of the Seventh Centenary of his Birth, Rome, 1966, pp. 29–44. Since the
critical, Vatican edition is far from complete, this is still the only text for
many of Scotus’s writings. Even for those texts which have been critically
edited, the edition remains valuable for the scholia, parallel citations and
commentaries by later Scotists.)
13.29 Opera omnia studio et cura Commissions Scotisticae ad fidem codicum edita,
Vatican City, Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1950–. (Vatican edition. Planned
critical edition of Scotus’s writings. To date: vols 1–7=Ordinatio (to 2 d.
3); vols 16–19=Lectura.)
13.30 John Duns Scotus: a Treatise on God as First Principle, ed. A.B.Wolter,
Chicago, Franciscan Herald Press, 1966; 2nd rev. edn, 1983. (The revised
edition adds an extensive commentary.)
13.31 Obras del Doctor Sutil, Juan Duns Escoto: Cuestiones Cuodlibetales, ed. F.
Alluntis, Madrid, Biblioteca De Autores Cristianos, 1968. (Revision of
Vivès text of the Quodlibetal Questions.)
English translations
13.32 A Scholastic Miscellany: Anselm to Ockham, ed. E.Fairweather, Philadelphia,
Pa., Westminster Press, 1956, pp. 428–39. (Translation of Ordinatio
question on whether God’s existence is self-evident.)
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
13.33 Contingency and Freedom: John Duns Scotus, Lectura I 39, trans. A.Vos,
Dordrecht, Kluwer, 1994. (Translation of Lectura questions on divine
foreknowledge.)
13.34 Duns Scotus on the Will and Morality, ed. and trans. A.B.Wolter, Washington,
DC, Catholic University of America Press, 1987.
13.35 Duns Scotus, Philosophical Writings, trans. A.B.Wolter, Indianapolis, Ind.
and Cambridge, Hackett, 1987. (Translation of selections from the
Ordinatio with facing Latin text of the Vivès edition.)
13.36 Five Texts on the Medieval Problem of Universals, trans. P.V.Spade,
Indianapolis, Ind. and Cambridge, Hackett, 1994, 57–113. (Translation
of Ordinatio questions on the principle of individuation.)
13.37 God and Creatures: the Quodlibetal Questions, trans. F.Alluntis and A.B.
Wolter, Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1975; repr. Washington,
DC, Catholic University of America Press, 1987. (Includes helpful glossary
of Scotistic vocabulary.)
13.38 Wippel, J.F. and Wolter, A. (eds) [13.4] 402–19. (Lectura or early version of
Scotus’s proof for the existence of God.)
13.39 Wolter, A. ‘Duns Scotus on the necessity of revealed knowledge’, Franciscan
Studies 11 (1951): 231–71. (Translation of the prologue to the Ordinatio.)
13.40 Wolter, A. and Adams, M. ‘Duns Scotus’ Parisian proof for the existence of
God’, Franciscan Studies 42 (1982): 248–321.
13.41 Wolter, A.B. and Frank, W.A. Duns Scotus, metaphysician, West Lafayette,
Ind., Purdue University Press, 1995. (Selected texts with facing Latin and
commentary.)
Bibliographies
13.42 Schaefer, O. Bibliographia de vita operibus et doctrina Ioannis Duns Scott,
Saec. XIX–XX, Rome, Orbis Catholicus-Herder, 1955.
13.43 ——‘Resenha abreviada da bibliographia escotista mais recente (1954–1966)’,
Revistas Portuguesa de Filosofia 23 (1967): 338–63.
13.44 Cress, D. ‘Toward a bibliography on Duns Scotus on the existence of God’,
Franciscan Studies 35 (1975): 45–65.
Collections of articles
(The first five items below are proceedings of the International Scotistic Congress
(Congressus Scotisticus Internationalis) and contain many articles on all aspects of
Scotus’s thought.)
13.45 De doctrina Ioannis Duns Scott, 4 vols, Rome, Cura Commissionis Scotisticae,
1968.
13.46 Deus et homo ad mentem I.Duns Scoti, Rome, Societas Internationalis
Scotisticae, 1972.
13.47 Regnum hominis et regnum Dei, 2 vols, ed. C.Bérubé, Rome, Societas
Internationalis Scotistica, 1978.
13.48 Homo et Mundus, ed. C.Bérubé, Rome, Societas Internationalis Scotistica,
1981.
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13.49 Via Scoti. Methodologica ad mentem Joannis Duns Scoti, 2 vols, ed. L.Sileo,
Rome, Edizioni Antonianum, 1995.
13.50 Duns Scotus, ed. A.B.Wolter, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, 67
(1993).
13.51 John Duns Scotus, 1265–1965, in J.K.Ryan and B.Bonansea (eds) Studies in
Philosophy and the History of Philosophy 3, Washington, DC, Catholic
University of America, 1965.
13.52 Metaphysik und Ethik bei Johannes Duns Scotus: Neue Forschungsperspektiven,
ed. M.Dreyer and R.Wood, Leiden, E.J.Brill, 1996.
13.53 Philosophy of John Duns Scotus in Commemoration of the 700th Anniversary
of his Birth, Monist 49 (1965).
13.54 Wolter, A.B. The Philosophical Theology of John Duns Scotus, ed. M.Adams,
Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1990. (Collection of many of Wolter’s
articles on Scotus.)
General studies
13.55 Gilson, E. Jean Duns Scot: Introduction à ses positions fondamentales, Paris,
Vrin, 1952. (A comprehensive book on Scotus’s philosophy, but of limited
value owing to its failure to take account of Henry of Ghent.)
13.56 Honnefelder, L. Ens inquantum ens. Der Begriff des Seienden als solchen als
Gegenstand der Metaphysik nach der Lehre des Johannes Duns Scotus
(BGPTMA, n.f. 16), Münster, Aschendorff, 1979. (Extensive work on
Scotus’s conception of the science of metaphysics.)
13.57 Wolter, A.B. The Transcendentals and their Function in the Philosophy of
Duns Scotus, St Bonaventure, NY, Franciscan Institute, 1946. (A study
still regarded as the best introduction to Scotus’s metaphysics.)
Univocity
13.58 Boulnois, O. Jean Duns Scot: Sur la connaissance de Dieu et l’univocié de
l’étant, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1988.
13.59 Dumont, S.D. ‘The univocity of being in the fourteenth century’, Mediaeval Studies
49 (1987): 1–75; 50 (1988): 186–256; (with S. Brown) 51 (1989): 1–129.
13.60 ——‘Transcendental being: Scotus and Scotists’, Topoi 11 (1992): 135–48.
13.61 Marrone, S.P. ‘The notion of univocity in Duns Scotus’s early works’,
Franciscan Studies 43 (1983): 347–95.
Individuation
13.62 Dumont, S.D. ‘The question on individuation in Scotus’s Quaestiones in
Metaphysicam’, in [13.49] I, 193–227.
13.63 King, P. ‘Duns Scotus on the common nature and the individual difference’,
Philosophical Topics 20, 2 (1992): 51–76.
13.64 Rudavsky, T. ‘The doctrine of individuation in Duns Scotus’, Franziskanische
Studien 59 (1977): 320–77 and 62 (1980): 62–83.
13.65 Wolter, A.B. ‘Scotus’s individuation theory’, in [13.54] 98–124.
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Formal distinction
13.66 Adams, M.M. ‘Universals in the fourteenth century’, in CHLMP pp. 411–39.
13.67 Wolter, A.B. ‘The formal distinction’, in [13.54] 45–60.
Epistemology
13.68 Dumont, S.D. ‘The scientific character of theology and the origin of Duns
Scotus’s distinction between intuitive and abstractive cognition’, Speculum
64 (1989): 579–99.
13.69 Marenbon, J. Later Medieval Philosophy (1150–1350), London, Routledge,
1987, pp. 154–68.
13.70 Wolter, A.B. ‘Duns Scotus on intuition, memory and our knowledge of
individuals’, in [13.54] 98–124.
Virtues, will and freedom
13.71 Boler, J. ‘Transcending the natural: Duns Scotus on the two affections of the
will’, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 67 (1993): 109–22.
13.72 Dumont, S.D. ‘The necessary connection of prudence to the moral virtues
according to John Duns Scotus—revisited’, Recherches de théologie
ancienne et médiévale 55 (1988): 184–206.
13.73 ——‘The origin of Scotus’s theory of synchronic contingency’, The Modern
Schoolman (1995): 149–68.
13.74 Frank, W.A. ‘Duns Scotus on autonomous freedom and divine co-causality’,
Medieval Philosophy and Theology 2 (1992): 142–64.
13.75 Ingham, M.E. Ethics and Freedom: an Historical-Critical Investigation of
Scotist Ethical Thought, Washington, DC, University Press of America,
1989.
13.76 Prentice, R. ‘The voluntarism of Duns Scotus as seen in his comparison of the
intellect and the will’, Franciscan Studies 28 (1968): 63–103.
13.77 Wolter, A.B. ‘Native freedom of the will as the key to the ethics of Scotus’, in
[13.54] 148–62.
13.78 ——‘Duns Scotus on the will as rational potency’, in [13.54] 163–80.
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CHAPTER 14
Ockham’s world and future
Arthur Gibson
PHILOSOPHICAL BIOGRAPHY
Ockham was born in about 1285, certainly before 1290, probably in
the village of Ockham, Surrey, near London. If his epitaph is accurate,
he died on 10 April 1347. Yet Conrad of Megenberg, when writing to
experts in the know, appears to assign to Ockham a piece written after
November 1347, so perhaps the epitaph was doctored. It has been
affirmed that he died in Munich, possibly of the Black Death, though
perhaps the Plague had not yet reached Germany or Bohemia by that
date (see [14.55] 27–8). Whatever the correct view, the beginning and
end of his biography are subject to some uncertainty.
Ockham’s intellectual life is replete with confident redefinition of
contemporary philosophical concepts, often drawing on, or sharing
in, the work of other theologians doing philosophy. This redefinition
was not a source of pleasure to the powers that be. Medieval Christian
philosophy was the manifestation of complex axioms, the restatement
of which was a constant attraction as well as a risky endeavour. Arriving
at Oxford in 1309, the Franciscan Ockham was eventually perceived
by the Chancellor of the university and secular theologian, John Lutterel,
to have fallen from grace. This was partly because Ockham did not
accept this Chancellor’s own Thomistic doctrines. Lutterel was fighting
a rather lonely rearguard defence of Aquinas, since Ockham’s
philosophy was preoccupying most of the English scholars in his
subject.1 Ockham had studied under the previous Oxford Chancellor,
Henry Harclay (who died in 1317),2 and he had embraced the latter’s
criticism of Duns Scotus on universals. In about 1315 we find Peter
Aureoli developing similar criticism. Ockham was not, then, the sole
dissenting original thinker in a burgeoning trend of new reflection,
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which was stimulated in part by the unexpected revival, and
modification, of concepts of supposition (denotation) theory. Scotus’s
work acted as both a major focus for and influence upon scholars at
Oxford. He had reformulated aspects of recently past scholarship in
ways that attracted Ockham’s debt, often through disagreement.
Moving to London, after a less than peaceful time at Oxford, Ockham
continued undeterred to compose his philosophy until 1324, even though
in the previous year John Lutterel had already attempted to procure
from the Pope in Avignon a judgement of heresy on fiftysix of Ockham’s
theses. The papal legal process was commenced in spring 1327, and,
even in June 1328, after a year’s work of the inquisition on Ockham, it
had not yet managed to furnish a case against him using Lutterel’s
evidence.3 Francis of Meyronnes counselled that Franciscan scholars in
the interim should eschew public and unqualified determinationes of
their traditional position (see [14.55] 57–9). Ockham’s conscience,
leading him to open dispute, aggravated the situation. When at Oxford
Ockham was carefully listened to by a number of scholars, including
Walter Chatton and Adam Wodeham. Chatton was the most likely source
of Lutterel’s indirect knowledge of Ockham’s views, though he did not
purposely act as an inside-dealer against Ockham. Rather, Chatton was
attentive to him because of his own interest in Ockham’s epistemology,
which departed from the perspectivist theories with which he was familiar.
The political conflict between Ockham’s Franciscan order and Pope
John XXII (concerning the criterion of application for poverty) occupied
a central place in his attention at Avignon, not least since he was asked
to read the disputed papal bulls on this issue (see [14.11] xvii). By the
time Ockham left Avignon he was a defendant in a heresy accusation
concerning his earlier writings. But the principal reason Ockham departed
was that he accused the Pope of heresy regarding his teaching on rights
and poverty. Ockham departed from Avignon for the protection of the
Holy Roman Emperor, Louis of Bavaria. Excommunicated, he
thenceforth composed political philosophy for the rest of his life.
A PRELIMINARY PICTURE OF OCKHAM’S
WRITINGS AND PHILOSOPHY
Ockham had finished writing his non-political philosophy by 1324.
He had lectured on the Sentences at Oxford between 1317 and 1319.
The next compositions were his Expositio aurea (‘Golden Exposition’,
of Aristotle’s logic) and the Exposition of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’ (Books
I–IV); all these were written during 1321–3. In addition to these, by
1324 he had produced his Summa logicae (Textbook of logic), the
Quodlibets, the remainder of the Exposition of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’
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(Books V–VII), and his two treatises on quantity. As well as a reportatio
of his Oxford Sentences commentary, Books II–IV, there is a revised
version of his lectures on Book I, an Ordinatio, probably dating from
1319–24. With the implicit reference to and condemnation of Ockham
as a heretic by Pope John XXII (6 June 1328) in his bull Quia
quorundam, Ockham’s work was disrupted. By 1332–4 Ockham
commenced writing his, eventually very extensive, political philosophy,
the first volume of which is Opus nonaginta dierum (Work of Ninety
Days). Its extraordinary length and impartiality are amazing in view
of his personal circumstances. Yet by late 1334 he had also composed
and sent his Epistola ad Fratres Minores (Letter to the Franciscans), as
well as having written I Dialogus, a very long neutral treatise on the
concept of heresy and its application to papal authority, both now in
English thanks to the fine editions of Stephen McGrade and John
Kilcullen (see [14.11] and [14.7]).
As with other medieval scholars, we should reckon on our possessing
less than Ockham’s complete works. Non-extant writings and their
detail, deemed to be obscure or of marginal significance, may not have
been so regarded by Ockham or some of his contemporaries. It is
possible that his lost writings, if rediscovered, would change topics in
his philosophy. For example, Rega Wood draws attention to citations
attributed to Ockham which do not occur anywhere in his extant
writings ([14.102] 30–1; cf. her n. 25). These appear in the sole extant
copy of John of Reading’s Sentences. This Reading, a Franciscan, typifies
the lesser, yet ecclesiastically significant, type of figure who contributed
to the battleground of dispute with Ockham. By 1323 Reading,
interestingly a former student of Lutterel’s, was to be found as a
consultant to the Pope at Avignon prior to Ockham’s arrival. Reading
disputed Ockham’s view of intuitive cognition. He maintained that
intuitive cognition of non-existents is possible ([14.2]). Although he
was influenced by Duns Scotus, Reading here disagrees with him (see
[14.93] 166–74), and he bases his case on God’s absolute power.
God was central to Ockham’s philosophy. He was a theologian who
did philosophy, with a penchant for logic. Although his researches in
logic are detailed and widespread, they are not a formal system in our
modern sense. Ockham was more explicitly interested in formal
questions of logic than Aquinas, yet his instinct and understanding fall
short of Aquinas’s.
His fundamental principle for God and logic is simplicity. This is
not a project about presentation—it is easy to think him ironic about
simplicity when we view the often torturous complexities of his logic,
though his writings betray no sense of whimsicality. His simplicity has
its ideal in God: the unity, the necessity. ‘Ockham’s razor’ is a label for
the philosophical counterpart of God: a principle to reduce, or keep,
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entities to a minimum. Just as a theologian views polytheism as a
corruption threatening monotheism, so Ockham’s philosophy treated
the multiplication of species as a corrosive infecting our perception of
world-structure that mirrored God. Ockham’s programme relies on
the reduction of ontological categories to just two, substance and
quality—though he has no systematic logic worked out for
implementing such a scheme.
Ockham produced an extensive formal philosophy. Yet, rather like
Bertrand Russell, he did not integrate his formal interests with his
dialectical (for example, ethical) writings. This perspective is only slightly
misleading, since Ockham’s dialectically presented political philosophy
only obliquely embodies some of his other philosophical concerns. But
Ockham sometimes makes an explicit, albeit unexpected, connection
between the dialectic of obligationes and the logic in his Summa Logica.
For example, Ockham’s philosophical logic there deals with the concept
of ‘consequence’ and impossibility in its varying paradoxical forms under
this general heading. In twentieth century terms, Ockham might be
described as carrying out a thought experiment. Eleonore Stump
illuminates the way Ockham connects the topics of ‘obligations’ and
‘insolubles’ (see [14.92] ch. 12). ‘Insolubles’ were forms of conundrums
or paradoxes, and this linking of the two topics together was usual in
Ockham’s lifetime. He attempted to show how impossible propositions
might not, in disputations, obviously entail a contradiction. As Spade
shows,4 Ockham permits self-reference in his logic. Ockham’s technique
modifying Walter Burley’s, is to submerge the collisions in premisses
concerning relevance to yield a possible world which both satisfies typical
conditions of possibility, yet produces a state of affairs that unexpectedly
reconfigures subjunctive conditional boundaries. This is not unlike
Lewis’s [14.59] wider pluralising of worlds, increasing entities, not
reducing them. Gensler has recently shown how one might discover
such interconnections, more secure than Ockham’s ([14.39]). Although
Ockham did not develop his work on obligations theory within his
political philosophy, it seems clear that he was implicitly injecting the
results of research into his political and ethical theory, in the way he
combines canon law, logic and case-precedent technique, for example
in his III Dialogus ([14.7]).
Research on logic readily inclines a philosopher to give attention to
the mental bedrock that facilitates the use of logic, and the perceptual
spheres which are its media of operation. Although Ockham was
committed to Aristotle’s maxim that ‘man is a rational animal’, he
believed that this truth is often submerged by other psychological and
dispositional tendencies, and certainly his political philosophy (see
below) indicates that this is true of humanity. But unfortunately,
Ockham’s own stress on the roles of the mind and universals provoked
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him too readily to internalize the grounds of knowing. A contemporary
of Ockham’s, Durandus of Saint-Pourçain, stressed the person who
observes—the agent, rather than the object known—as the ground for
knowledge. Ockham was so impressed with this approach, that with
the aid of divine intervention he supposed that one might have an
intuitive cognition of a non-existent thing. But in usual circumstances,
‘intuitive cognition’ for Ockham marks the knowledge of a present
singular individual with properties. This situation is partially causal
and conjoins with one’s simultaneous abstractive cognition of the
individual with properties. Abstractive cognition of this state of affairs
lays the perceptual and prepositional mental grounds for repeating,
and thus extending, the process and cognitions to like individuals.
Memory is partly composed from such cognitions, and when there is a
temporal lapse after intuitive cognition, there remains an imperfect
intuitive cognition permitting the observer to infer the truth of the
relevant past tense proposition representing a given experience (see
[14.64] 186). These distinctions were the subject of extreme technical
debate, bound into the science of the times. Adam Wodeham (see
[14.93] ch. 10) was inclined to follow John Duns Scotus and dispute
Aureoli’s view that intuitive cognition is understanding by means of
which the individual is either present or appears to be. Wodeham
nevertheless learnt from Aureoli that it would be possible for a
perception to satisfy the same truth conditions if an absent entity were
simulated, and so, on Ockham’s hypothesis, delude the observer by
causing intuitive cognition. This is quite a different problem, Ockham
thought, from having intuitive cognition by means of miracle. It is
interesting to consider how the science and technology of a period
affect philosophical theorizing: would televised individuals have been
a convenient ‘presence’ for Wodeham with which to challenge Ockham?
OUR DIFFICULTY IN DEFINING OCKHAM
Controversy and misrepresentation attended Ockham’s philosophy in
his own time and later. Philosophers of today display some qualified
parallels with Ockham’s relation to his, not always intended,
deconstruction of elements in medieval philosophical traditions. His
philosophy contributed to the medieval ‘new modernism’; this is a
designation Stephen Nicholls employed to characterize French medieval
cultural contexts (see [14.71]). One might extend the depiction of this
‘new modernism’ to Ockham, and to others, by describing it as a claim
to return to the past whilst reinventing it as a new future for, and to
dispute with, the present. Typical of this is Ockham’s break with the
medieval world in his treatment of logical and metaphysical relations.
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As with post-Enlightenment French romantic modernists, however,
Ockham wished to look back to past archetypes (such as Aristotle)
whom he moulded in his own image for the future.
Central to the assessment of Ockham is the problem of measuring
our own sounding-boards. In the late nineteenth, and twentieth century,
what can be termed modernist logic5 and its philosophy of language
are often presupposed by philosophers, in differing ways and sometimes
indirectly by contrast, as the correct or true frequencies for observing
the quite different universe of Ockham. These modernist logic
developments stem principally from the work of Gottlob Frege([l4.34]–
[l4.36]), though there have been many developments since his last
publication in 1923.6 Conversely sometimes there is a romantic
disposition to give the privileged status to Ockham’s logic as if it should
remain unchallenged by our analytical philosophy’s research and logic.
This priority has not entirely escaped the epoch-making study by
Marilyn McCord Adams,7 to which the reader is referred as the principal
research resource on Ockham. For example, Adams judges ‘Peter Geach
[to be one] who writes from a Fregean bias’ ([14.12] 393 and n. 34).
Geach criticized Ockham’s two-name theory of predication.8 Adams
does not attempt to prove her curt partisan dismissal of Geach and
Frege. The problem here is not a matter of local in-house debate. It is a
dispute about the identity of logic; to what extent should a logician’s
work be judged by timeless, absolute standards? To what extent must
it be seen in the context of its times?
Some fresh general considerations expressed here require more
research, not least since the generality and boldness of Ockham’s
theories lay claim to answers outside his, and sometimes our, logical
ken. But as we now attempt to look back at him, a straight contrast
between, say, twentieth-century philosophical logic and Ockham’s
medieval world obscures, fails to account for, explore, or sufficiently
query, complex interconnections and differences between Ockham’s
own philosophical prehistory and our contemporary philosophy (cf.
[14.80]). Assuming that there is such a thing as logical truth, however,
or if we presuppose that humans have made some progress in
understanding logic, it would be surprising to conclude that Ockham’s
position did not need revision or development after over 600 years.
For Ockham, the expression of language which is the soul-home of
concepts and utterance is in the mind—the mental language (peculiarly
like, but not quite identical to Latin)—as Paul Spade points out (see
[14.89]). In Ockham the strongest version of meaning is an internal
utterance within the mind. This mental model is accordingly
psychologistic, and it is reductionist. Is the concept of a mental language
that is not itself the intention with which one speaks credible? Could
Ockham’s philosophy benefit from modern work which argues that
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all natural languages can be treated as manifestations of underlying
neurophysiological genetic syntaxes or semantics? Even were there to
be an affirmative answer to this question, do we yet possess the, or
most of the, formal elements which would constitute understanding of
the logical ingredients of such a map? Does the Latin of Ockham display
relativity which is in tension against this purported universality? Is it
proper to employ our modern formal logic ‘languages’ to symbolize
(and thus to interpret) Ockham’s philosophical language and logic?
Our contemporary logics are highly formalized and explicit, with their
symbolically refined artificial functions and operators. These logic
languages are partially alien to Ockham’s philosophical language. For
example, as Spade remarked,9 Ockham’s significatio (signification)
cannot be translated by Frege’s Sinn (sense) without distortion. This is
not because of untranslatability, however; it is owing to their competing
theses: Frege’s is semantic logic, whereas Ockham’s is based on mental
understanding. The medieval Latin he used, a hybrid of oral and written
forms evolved into a sort of formal—often obscure—technical ‘dialect’,
falls far short of the explicit and technical symbolism of our own logics.
So an upshot of these questions is another one: when a medievalist
paraphrases philosophical Latin employing our logics, can synonymy
be preserved between the medieval ambiguity, and our contemporary
often complex razor-sharp logic?
Geach has demonstrated how well Buridan initiated the resolution
of problems in ‘quantification into opaque contexts’ which are still
partly intractable in our current philosophical research (see [14.38]
161–3, then 129–38, 148). One of these topics is intentional identity,
i.e. only seeming to refer to a referent by use of a quasi-name with
intentional verbs, as in, ‘I believe that I am referring to a square-circle
drawn on the ground.’ Could this sort of intentional approach
unexpectedly be utilized to map Ockham’s own thesis that there is a
‘mental’ language to which he only intentionally refers? Is the mental
language a non-existent intentional identity falsely invoked by a quasi-
name and quasi-language? Is it a conceptual fiction? Ockham’s
supposition theory is itself so subject to equivocation that confusion
over intentional verbs cannot be clarified. Ockham posits (in his actual
Latin analytical language) his alleged mental language as a vehicle by
which to override and secure his logic and reference. If his (linguistic)
analytical language in Latin is itself an intentional medium of
expression, then he cannot actually succeed in referring to his ideal
mental language since it would be an intentional fictive object. On this
account, Ockham’s mental language, and its two class domains, inhere
solely as a myth: a complex abstract object of his imagination.
Perhaps we should look synchronically at differences within our
own contemporary philosophical traditions and controversies to gain
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a clearer sense of the diachronic problem for us of identifying
Ockham’s philosophy. Difficulties of paraphrasing Ockham into
modern philosophy are not like problems in (in the required sense
and to the relevant degree) unexpectedly new developments of our
analytical philosophy. For example Russell’s basic logic has been
developed in directions of which, one would judge, he did not or
would not approve. A case in point is David Lewis (see [14.59]); he
is rather like an Ockham in reverse. Where Ockham wanted to reduce
ontological plurality, Lewis goes forth and multiplies it. His theory is
that we can ‘invent’ ontologies by making counterpart universes for
other space-times. The universes he reproduces are modelled from
our own indexicals of location (here/there), person (you/me), time
(now/then), etc., that mirror our own world. I believe that Russell
would have thought that this sort of subjunctive conditional
philosophizing to be like confusing ‘fairy tales’ with real-life
ontology.10 But we can derive Lewis’s logic from Russell’s (and thus
choose to ignore the latter’s lifelong neglect of modal logic), even
though some ingenuity is required. Yet we cannot derive Whitehead
and Russell ([14.98]) from Ockham’s logic. This sort of enterprise,
generalized, indicates that Ockham cannot consistently, in this arena,
be paraphrased into modern analytical philosophy without inventing
a logic and philosophy.11 In any case, what it is to be a criterion of
logical possibility, as a basis for refining or transforming a concept, is
obviously not the criterion to assess what Ockham thought. Beyond
this issue is another one: if one classifies logic as a subset of scientific
knowledge, then one is committed to admitting some type of
invariance to allow for the increasing explanatory power of theory.
But this presupposes a questionable form of individuation in the
philosophy of history, and of originality. Can we properly offer an
intellectual biography of Ockham that in some way does not consider
non-scientific creative originality in Ockham’s philosophy?12 We may
wish to direct such queries to the ethical and political domains of
Ockham, but the interplay of logic as a discovery procedure for
inference, and creative intuition, requires more attention in research,
though it would take us too far to investigate this axis for tracing
Ockham’s consciousness in his compositions.13
Impinging on attempts to access Ockham for us in our worldviews
is the issue of the status of extending a concept beyond its framed
origin. Using a ‘function’ to formulate a predicate and quantifier logic
(as Russell did, following Frege [14.34]) has revolutionized the identity
of inferences involving generalization. We should not underestimate
the scope of this revolution, though problems remain (see [14.84]).
The logical power of the predicate calculus also enables sentence-
forming operators (‘and’, ‘or’, ‘if, etc.) and quantifiers (‘some’, ‘all’,
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‘the’, ‘few’, ‘scarcely’) to be defined using logical predicates. This
calculus has many other transforming roles, which contrast with
Ockham’s doctrine of terms.
These issues compound the simple problem of what it is for a modern
logical concept to be ‘contained in Ockham’s general premisses’.14 Can
there be a relation of inference between Ockham’s philosophy of logic
and the achievements in logic research over 600 years later? When we
consider our contemporary philosophical defence and criticism of
Ockham, do they embody merely the sort of narrow-mindedness Russell
might have displayed toward Lewis, and did show Ockham?15
Consideration of such questions will contribute to our assessing
Ockham’s modernity, limitations and potential more clearly, while
guarding against charges of anachronism or overestimation.
OCKHAM AND REFERENCE
Names are fundamental for Ockham. Adams mentions that Ockham
adopts the traditional distinction (see [14.12] 71), inspired by
Aristotle’s On Interpretation, that there are three kinds of names:
spoken, written and mental.16 Ockham uses the word for ‘name’ that
he employs to classify a subject and a predicate. Yet they are
functionally different. For Ockham, the proposition ‘The Titanic is
wrecked’ is composed of two names: one for the subject ‘The Titanic’;
and the same ‘name’ for the quite differently functioning predicate
‘wrecked’. Logic should preserve differences of use in language;
Ockham’s naming strategy destroys it: the subject and the predicate
in the above proposition are actually asymmetric in use. ‘The Titanic’
refers to an object. The predicate ‘is wrecked’ is a state of affairs
which is true of its subject (if or when true). Once wrecked, the Titanic
has the contingently necessary property of ‘is wrecked’. This predicate
is a self-inhering term, though before striking the iceberg it was not
even a property of the Titanic. The notion of identity is bound into
‘the Titanic’ in a way in which it is not in ‘is wrecked’. And that is not
preserved by using ‘name’ for both parts of the proposition ‘The
Titanic is wrecked.’
If, before the Titanic sank, someone called out and named: ‘The
Titanic!’, it could logically yield the question: ‘Where?’ and the answer:
‘There!’ But if someone called out: ‘is wrecked’, at most this peculiar
response would attract the question: ‘What is?’ This latter question
advertises the problem: with a predicate one does not know the identity
of the thing of which the predicate is true (or false, as the case may be).
Contrariwise, with the subject ‘Titanic’, the identity of the subject
referred to is the self-contained sense which is the use of the term.17
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This difference is fundamental in oral, written and the mental language
accessible for us to test.
Therefore it is basic to a knowledge of Ockham’s use of names to
appreciate that his theory about ‘name’ is contradicted by the foregoing
argument. His explanation does not work for linguistic use, and if a
language were constructed according to his rules, we could not
communicate when using a large portion of it (witness, ‘I name this
ship “is wrecked”’).
Although he regarded Aristotle as his general inspiration, Ockham’s
application of names to propositions is quite contrary to Aristotle’s
concept of the asymmetry of subject and predicate in On Interpretation,
as Geach observes ([14.38] 290–1).18 In claiming to retrieve Aristotle’s
teaching, Ockham followed medieval contemporary tradition which
reinterpreted some aspects of Aristotle’s later doctrine of terms. Ockham
uses ‘name’ to represent two allegedly identical mental universals which
constitute a proposition: the subject and the predicate. These are often
translated nowadays into the letter-names: ‘N’ and ‘P’. For Ockham,
there is here no naming difference between a subject and predicate. But
in the above work by Aristotle, the subject and predicate are asymmetrical
in functions, even though in the Prior Analytics Aristotle later dropped
the scheme in favour of a doctrine of terms. (Although Plato’s Sophist
was not available to Ockham, it is worth noting that elements of
Aristotle’s asymmetry conception parallel distinctions in the Sophist,
though for Plato the verb is classified in relation to its extension, whereas
for Aristotle it is as a function in a statement. It is true that the distinction
between name and predicate (or verb) in Aristotle is not as explicitly
and exclusively defined as it is in our contemporary logic; but the central
ingredients are there.) Now one would therefore think that Ockham
was, in principle, in a position to choose to adopt the distinction of the
functional asymmetry identities of logical subject and predicate, especially
with his devotion to Aristotle. Yet he did not. Did it dawn on him that
this asymmetry was in Aristotle, citing as he did from the same work in
which this doctrine appears? It might be replied that since the doctrine
of terms appears later in Aristotle, it is not surprising that Ockham, in
any case, chose this instead of the concept of asymmetry between logical
subject and predicate. Even so, for those who wish to ‘modernize’
Ockham’s logic, or paraphrase it into our logics, Ockham’s not choosing
Aristotle’s asymmetry distinction, fundamental to most modern logics,
implies a judgement against Ockham’s instinct for the deeper foundations
of logic as they have been developed long after Aristotle’s, and then
subsequent to his, lifetime.
For Frege, for Russell, and most analytical philosophers, the predicate
has no reference of its own because it is incomplete. It is like a function.
On this interpretation, a predicate has to be linked to a logical name,
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which refers. By the mediation of the logical subject the predicate is
attached to the name that refers, and is thereby true (or false) of the
name’s referent; it has an ascriptive function to create its link with the
refrent. There are issues to be addressed in these areas, such as the
need to concentrate on the role of quantified general terms, rather
than Russell’s own views of ‘definite descriptions’, and the effect it has
had on interpretation of the predicate calculus. But, after all this is
assessed, the difference between the enormous capabilities of the
predicate calculus, as against the two-name theory with its supposition
doctrine, is like contrasting alchemy with nuclear physics with regard
to the transformation of metals.
Ockham had absorbed the common doctrine of terms (in which a
proposition is made up of names). The enormous grip that this doctrine,
together with supposition theory, had on Ockham, and much of the
medieval world, is hardly to be explained by this, less than ideal, at
points implausible, interpretation of Aristotle and its amalgam of
supposition. Why did Ockham adopt this position? One answer, apart
from it being a trend at the time, is that a doctrine of terms, or names,
enables one to play more freely with imaginative possibility. A reason
for this is that the doctrine of terms helps one evade the features of the
actual relations required by language to represent the external world,
while pretending a logical guarantee of true meaning. In other words,
it is a covert theory of equivocation which subverts the relations between
semantics, ontology and mental understanding.
Ockham’s two-name theory is undermined by two other
considerations which reflect thinking by Dummett ([14.30] 223–4,
294). The target of the two concepts is the relation of a predicate to
the mental realm, as they go proxy for parts of the external world.
Dummett’s research has explored some hitherto ill-defined areas of
reference. First, if predicates were to have the sort of name-reference
Ockham ascribes to them and their mental and ontological
counterparts, then to what does this commit Ockham? We would have
to admit quantification over the referents of these predicates.19 Ockham
opposed Aquinas’s view that ‘matter, already understood under
corporeity and dimensions, can be understood as distinct in different
parts’.20 For Ockham, the referents would need to be the indivisible
‘essence’ or ‘substance’ which is prior to quantification. But second,
even if quantification over predicate-referents were compatible with
Ockham’s philosophy, then this would commit him to an impossible
position. That is to say, if we presuppose with Ockham that predicates
refer—as his subjects do—they cannot refer to a complete entity. For if
a predicate refers, its referent would have to be incomplete (i.e. ‘is
wrecked’ is a semantic mirror of its ontology: there is no subject in it
by which to refer to pick out this ontological subject). This is exactly
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the opposite of what Ockham needs. He requires a nominal universal
in the mental realm to be referred to, which would have to be complete.
Ockham could hardly allow an incomplete entity referred to by
supposition. Ockham’s theory of naming is rather like one’s pointing
to a ship-wreck in thick fog, or down through deep water; the ‘name’
does not locate its own object, and it locates a wrong position because
it has no knowledge of the effect of refraction on perception.
The conflation of subjects with predicates, we have seen above, is
triggered by Ockham’s use of a ‘name’ category for subject and for
predicate. Ockham absorbed the common doctrine of terms. He and
Walter Burley, with some differences, embraced the theory of
supposition, which had been strangely restored from near-oblivion.
Yet Aquinas, before Ockham, employed applicatives (quantifiers) such
as ‘some’, ‘every’, ‘only’ to explain that a predicate does not itself refer
but indicates a nature.21
Ockham attempted to avoid the problem, created through his failure
to recognize the asymmetry of subject and predicate, by looking to his
idea of mental language. Ockham viewed mental language as a
phenomenon that mediated us directly to the world it represents.
Shortcomings when trying to implement his two-name theory in oral
and written language provoke him to download the elusive mental
language.22
How did Ockham suppose that the theory of supposition, linked to
naming, connects with the mind? He supplied the connection through
a theory of signification. An important study by Spade exposes aspects
of the relation. Spade cites Buridan and Augustine to indicate concepts
of signification which were influential in Ockham’s time ([14.87] 215).
According to them, signification establishes the understanding of a thing,
and that signs are causal lexemes which produce mental effects beyond
the impression the thing makes on the senses. As Spade notes ([14.87]
218), the stress on mentality reflects, minus the sense-impression element,
Aristotle’s On Interpretation (I, 16a3f): ‘Spoken words are the symbols
of mental experience.’ Stated very roughly, the later medieval trend is
to treat supposition theory as a semantic hypothesis (proposing
connections between a term’s referring and its referent). In contrast,
signification is an epistemological theory, concerned with understanding.
The conjunction of these two approaches targets the conditions for
knowing and learning in the medium of language. Ockham claimed to
have direct knowledge of individuals. A term deployed in simple
supposition in this perspective goes proxy for the concept to which it is
subject. As Spade explains [[14.87] 222), by contrast, Burley’s view is
that terms stand in simple supposition for what they signify. This involves
a social view of language as a tool to communicate with others. Ockham
proposed, in other contexts,23 that there is a triangular relation in some
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acts of assent between mental language, spoken language and the referent.
In these contexts he argued that the consequence of such a relation is
that a person may know something which is the product of it (for example,
that one entity is not another), yet (to express it in a way Ockham does
not) the person may not possess the recognitional capacity for having a
concept of that concept (see [14.61]). Ockham’s main emphasis is on
the grounds of a person’s own knowledge, not social interaction, and
on the causal efficacy of signification for mental states, together with
the denial of natures.
From various twentieth-century philosophical standpoints,
Ockham’s causal theory of understanding is not well grounded in its
own or our terms. Two contemporary views on the philosophy of mind
are first, that of the theory-theorists (see [14.58]) (i.e. those who
maintain that to speak of the mind at all we have (at least implicitly) to
have a theory of it); second, that of the simulationists ([14.48]) (i.e.
those disposed to argue that we have no adequate theory of the mental,
and in any case we simulate the mental states of others in our mental
activity without presupposing a theory). Both could be partially
integrated by utilizing the function of ‘implicit’ in the theory-theory
view. This could mark an innate mental capacity tantamount to a theory,
along the lines of Fodor (see [14.33]), which is partially activated by a
simulationist model. Each of these approaches is concerned with the
role of collective social learning in the way Ockham was not, and as
such they complement Burley’s attitude.24 As the simulationist Heal
points out ([14.48]), justification or epistemic status is a holistic notion,
and the notion of relevance is extraordinarily complex and
undetermined. These points count against Ockham’s signification. His
signification is a semantics which naïvely causes mental language effects.
Or, more precisely, mental states (thoughts, etc.) cause linguistic (spoken,
written) signification. Ockham had no grasp of the instantiation of
relevance theory, complexity theory, or simulation of others’ states.
In relation to these issues, we now have fairly firm grounds for
accepting the instability of linguistic signs, and their frequent
indeterminacy relating to mental and oral uses, originally from research
by Saussure into written Latin (and its interpretation by Starobinski,
see [14.91]) and work by Jakobson (see [14.54]) as well as Anscombe’s
rather different work on intention and mental causality in the contexts
of their expression (see [14.16], [14.17]). We also have the latter author’s
study on the difficulties of classifying the first pronoun (in agreement
with Kant). To this one can add, for example, Chomsky’s more recent
theories on indeterminacy in mind and orality in relation to the abstract
identities of concrete entities. As Chomsky remarks, ‘the abstract
character of London is crucial to its individuation’ ([14.24] 21). These
have generally been taken to have fractured and dismantled the almost
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mechanistic symmetry that the Ockham scenario presupposes between
spoken, written and mental terms. Even if there are criteria of identity
appropriate to each, it does not follow that for each there is a fixed
content to the criterion of identity (Moses’ identity may be fixed in
varying ways (see [14.99] §§20–110)). One cannot sustain the view
that there is a mapping criterion for which there is an equivalence of
the relevant sort between Ockham’s supposition in respect of spoken,
written and mental terms. Ockham had a naïve realist view about the
way terms fix to referents.
Adams speaks of Ockham’s view that the division between personal,
material and simple supposition applies equally to spoken, written and
mental terms.25 This has been criticized by Spade (see [14.89] XIII).
He judged that it follows from Ockham’s way of relating concept,
thought, personal supposition and signification, that, with mental terms
which may have personal or material supposition, we do not always
know what we are asserting. Spade’s view has been countered by Adams
supposing
that the issue is not really whether or not one of our
thoughts could be about something (in the sense of a term’s
standing for some particular) without our knowing it.
Ockham allows that when I think ‘Every man is an animal’,
the term ‘man’ supposits for lots of things without my
knowing that it does, since I have no awareness of those
particular men. Rather the question is whether on the above
proposal anything would make it the case that the term was
suppositing for these rather than those.
(see [14.12] 351 n. 104)
It is wrong to argue here that, ‘the term “man” supposits for lots of
things without my knowing that it does, since I have no awareness of
those particular men ’. If a person knows the meaning of the term
‘men’, that person will know from experience and cognition that it is
true or false that there are men. So at the very least, for those terms for
which that person holds concepts which supposit in the singular and
have (even conjecturally) more than one referent, it is not possible that
‘the term “man” supposits for lots of things without [that person]
knowing it does’. This advertises the problem that, in Ockham,
equivocation and ignorance are functions of his failure, not only to
possess a viable theory of reference in his signification, but also of his
system’s inability to explain the complex presence and scope of
relevance. His system does not explain introspection of pertinent
contents in one’s own consciousness. The presence of equivocation in
Ockham’s supposition and signification is a mask for his failure to
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explain mental choice and the invasive role of complex relevance
conditions in holding, knowing as well as using concepts. A suppressed
general premiss behind Ockham’s positions here is his misconception
that if one conjoins the functioning mind to the world, then it will
‘read off’ the true interpretation of both regarding terms. Consequently,
his need for equivocating between supposition and signification is hardly
surprising in view of his principle of parsimony.
In practice, however, Ockham’s procedure is sometimes the negation
of simplicity, since he approaches a simple situation by multiplying
entities. He invents mental classes to which the signifiers supposedly
refer, though people using language seem strangely unaware that these
classes exist. For Ockham, ‘Socrates is a man’ is an instance of a
categorical proposition. But Ockham has no general account of what it
is to be a proposition. Following Ockham, Marilyn Adams paraphrases
this sort of proposition as: ‘N is P if and only if N has P-ness or P-ness
inheres in N.’26 This contravenes Ockham’s razor, since it multiplies
entities for ‘N is P’ (and the technique requires increasingly complex ad
hoc devices). The paraphrase mediates on behalf of ‘N is P’, intervening
allegedly to make explicit the mental-language contract with the simple
statement. This is at the centre of the two-class theory. In Ockham’s
two-name theory ‘man’ is a mental sign, a nominal or conceptualist-
nominalist supposition that inheres not only in Socrates but other male
humans. So, in the term ‘man’ employed of Socrates, it also denotes all
humans. Aquinas would have had none of this,27 since he did not allow
that a general term, such as ‘nature’, had direct reference, for it is true
of individuals—ascribed, not referring to an identity. The appeal to ‘P-
ness’ invents a class that is not derivable from P, without the addition of
a new entity: abstractions of the mind. Since ‘Socrates’ is symmetric in
logical form to ‘man’ (in ‘N is Socrates’), we should be able to redistribute
its ‘Socrates’-ness over other men. Obviously Ockham wanted to construe
‘Socrates’ as a uniquely suppositing term, with ‘is a man’ differently
represented as a class name term. Yet he classifies them as names, which
Adams formalizes identically. So here their representation in logic is
uniform. But their interpretation as to function is distinct; that is
inconsistent. We should here insist on that to which Ockham commits
himself. Symmetry of syntactic formalization (the predicate has a unitary
symbol, ‘P’, as has the subject) is the identity of its entities. No doubt
we will be told Ockham did not intend this by his depicting the predicate-
name as a complete entity. Quite so; but that is the problem: intentionality.
Intentions do not rule words.
Can the two-name theory of Ockham be salvaged? It appears not.
But imagine Ockham reading the foregoing with the foresight of (and
disagreements in) our contemporary analytical philosophy. Ockham
might respond:
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‘I see the explanatory power of a logical singular term which
presupposes a criterion of identity. It strikes a fundamental distinction
with the logical predicate which I did not understand, and I admit that
it is more accurate to represent the predicate as a function, asymmetric
in role to the logical subject, along the lines of Fn. Despite these
concessions, it seems that their scopes have been overstated. Your
predicate calculus is correct, and my formalism crude, and I consider
that supposition might be replaced with the following strategy, which
I think achieves the same results. I restore something parallel with my
two-name theory as follows, using your philosophical logic.
‘I want to disturb your confidence by exposing some weaknesses in
twentieth-century analytical philosophy and logic, to make space for
my own use of your distinctions. First, Frege used the analogy of a
logical name to craft part of his concept of a logical predicate. And I
understand that this analogy collapsed in a messy way ([14.29]). I can
reconstruct my two names by taking the analogy, though I am unclear
whether or not I was incorrect in degree or type to use “name” of the
predicate. Second, twentieth-century philosophers when pushed have
some difficulty making definitively explicit what they mean by
“referring”. There is the “pointing” origin of the word for “reference”
(German Bedeutung) in Frege.28 Many twentieth-century philosophers
sympathetic to Frege do not seem able precisely to inform me what
“referring” semantically is, except to say that it is what a singular term
does: it picks out a single referent, by acting to implement one of the
subject’s criteria of identity. Well, I wish to come back to this concession
of ignorance. Why can this singular ability be achieved only by your
logical name? I agree that my use of “name” was itself foggy, but I was
aiming at a label for a particular, not the narrower sense later ascribed
to me. I am willing to drop, for my predicates, what you term “referring”,
and Geach’s analyses have convinced me that supposition theory is
best eliminated completely, including from logically proper names. But
I would like to conclude, with Recanati ([14.77] 401), that the differences
between indexicals and proper names is largely pragmatic.
‘Now here is my original move. You have developed a logic of
indexicals: “here”, “there”, “me”, “you”, “past”, “present” (David
Lewis builds a whole universe from them). But I understand that you
have a problem with the first person pronoun “I”. Logicians often
deem that the first person “‘I” can be replaced by the person’s proper
name. But of course that will not do, it fails some truth-conditions,
including the third person proper name contexts when you substitute
it with a proper name. And if Kant and Anscombe ([14.16]) are right
to affirm that “I” does not refer, we have an indexical particular. It is
more like a unique (categorial) predicate. It picks out a person in
particular context. Now why may I not generalize this over large sets
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of indexicals? I can paraphrase my predicate-name scheme into an
indexical programme. If I may borrow an expression from Heal, this
procedure can be called ‘indexical predication’.29 I appreciate that this
leads to complex semantic analysis, and a proposal to analyse
propositions according to a deep structure which I cannot describe
within my own terms. But for any abstract form such as “the property
of whiteness” there is a paraphrase back to the surface form, e.g. “The
donkey is white”.30 So a two-name theory can be replaced with
something that is almost parallel, yet it satisfies the notion of asymmetry
between the subject and predicate. Although we had no refined
quantifier logic in the medieval world that treated quantifiers as
predicates in the Frege manner, I see no reason why indexical predication
cannot be extended to general terms and variables. As for the mental
language, I shall have to exchange it for the Fregean metalanguage
according to which object-languages are its manifestation. All this does
not augur well for my principle of parsimony, but I may have to resort
to the larger questions of cosmology to re-state it.’
OCKHAM’S RAZORS
When Ockham was a young man, his fellow Franciscan Roger Bacon
(1220–92) had only recently died. Ockham’s razor (as his principle of
parsimony was later to be termed) is to some degree a reaction against
Bacon’s theory of the multiplication of species. Bacon broke with other
perspectivists (though their influence was less pervasive than Aristotle’s
theory of knowledge)31 to argue that, for example, light multiplies in
time, though this thesis was not, in his view, a matter of observation
([14.93] 16–26). Bacon’s notion of multiplication of entities has some
concurrence in a modern logician such as Arthur Prior, with Prior’s
counter-maxim: Entia non sunt subtrahenda praeter necessitate.
([14.75] 31) (Entities should not be subtracted unless it is necessary).
Later in Bacon’s career (On Signs, 1267, and his final work, the
Compendium of Theology, 1292), he began to restore and re-state
aspects of the confused doctrines of supposition, while intending to
remove some of its confusions, rejecting the notion of univocal
supposition. It was left to the young Ockham to mull over the relation
of his aversion to Bacon’s multiplication sum, and his attraction to
Bacon’s late change of heart on supposition.
Ockham was averse to Platonism, and conceived Aristotle as a
champion of this dislike. Everything in the world was singular, and
there was no principle of individuation. Real universals do not exist.
Ockham believed that the grammar of propositions might bewitch us
into thinking that their complexity mirrored structures in the world,
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but below this semantic surface the universe’s ontology has a proclivity
for singularity, and so does our mental structure. He was convinced
that we must therefore reduce the number of entities appropriate to
these circumstances. Semantic expressions can be universal, as can
mental concepts. Ockham’s synthesis of these hypotheses comprised
an original, not to say problematic, equation of semantics and ontology,
not least when Ockham conferred his unexpected gaze on a similar
tradition or the fragmentarily parallel views of his peers. In practice
‘the’ parsimonious razor, which is the emblem of the perceived influence
of Ockham, is often applied piecemeal, and episodically, by his
successors, which in effect falsifies it as a universal principle. There
was also contemporary opposition from writers such as Walter Chatton,
who asserted a rule contravening Ockham’s: ‘If three things are not
sufficient to verify an affirmative proposition about things, a fourth
must be added, and so on.’32
‘Ockham’s razor’ simplifies the quite various attempts by Ockham
to formulate a principle of parsimony. This state of affairs could be
evidence that Ockham did not succeed in specifying the vaunted
singular razor. The popularizing aphorism, ‘do not multiply entities
beyond necessity’, does not occur in Ockham. It arises from a number
of sources, mediated, for example, by the editor John Ponce of Cork,
in a 1639 note added to Duns Scotus.33 This aphorism is usually
taken to echo the spirit of Ockham’s ontology, however. In the form
just given, one might be excused for giving it short shrift, by remarking
that the only entity which exists by necessity is God, so according to
this maxim nothing else exists. Therefore is it not false? But the razor
is resonant with Aristotle’s maxim, according to which a single means,
rather than plurality, is favoured by nature and transcendent power.34
In this form Aristotle has no use for ‘necessity’, though his ‘plurality’
is akin to one of Ockham’s versions: ‘Plurality is not to be assumed
without necessity.’35 Quite what ‘necessity’ has supposedly to entail
according to Ockham is not, by him, definitively or consistently
specified, though he does seem aware of some of the variety of different
modal necessities.
Perhaps intuitively sensitive to some counter-intuitive modal
complexities, Ockham in some contexts excises ‘necessity’ and, for
example, introduces us instead to: ‘No plurality is to be assumed
except it be proved by reason, experience or infallible authority.’36
Ockham’s razor use of ‘proved by experience’ conflates practical
reason with logical theory (as a logical axiom). In the required sense,
logically necessity is not derivable from experience. That, in this type
of rule, ‘experience’ should be taken as a criterion for logical uses of
‘plurality’ (elsewhere in Ockham guaranteed by ‘necessity’) is a
category-error. Possibly such blemishes kept Ockham on the move to
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attempt other formulae to meet his taste for restricting plurality, or
they reflect his confusion, despite his central logical motivation, i.e.
his wish to follow a law of non-contradiction. Ockham does not
prove his principle of parsimony. This inclination is compatible with
an anti-realist position, and with the admission of truth-conditions
for a minimal set of statements, which serve as the core for a theory
of meaning (see [14.28]). But there is a problem with this approach
and the various forms of Ockham’s principle of parsimony. As Wright
argues in the context of late twentieth-century anti-realist versus realist
debates (see [14.103] 120–4 etc.), there is no way anyone could
possibly arrive at a conception of what it is for a verification-
transcendent state of affairs to be true as a result of training in the use
of language. Ockham did not leave us with one principle. The plural
occurrence of his parsimony itself reduces to a contradiction of the
principle. And even if we allow this to pass by, it follows that we have
no consistent criterion by which to identify the form or test the
purported existence of the razor, and so on.
Marilyn Adams claims that the principles Ockham states as versions
of the razor are, ‘in the first instance, methodological principles, and it
is not obvious how they are related to truth or probability’ ([14.12]
157). It is not formally evident what a ‘methodological principle’ is
here, and anyway many cases of Ockham’s use of philosophical or
logical terms in his formulations of the principle might be drawn upon
to illustrate that Ockham is not in the first instance expressing what
would normally be considered methodological principles. Let us
consider the foregoing employment of ‘assumed’ (ponenda) in the form
(also quoted by Adams): ‘plurality is not to be assumed without
necessity’. This version seems to presuppose the negation of Adams’s
view, since its terms are those employed in Ockham’s discussion of
logic to express logic, in the first instance, not those of method or the
logic of method. There are problems in mapping razor terminology on
to our modern logics. For example, ‘assumed’ (ponenda) is rooted in
the term for ‘possibility’, in its use here. Generally in medieval uses it
has something to do with modally positing (what we would term) a
prepositional function, whilst it does not fully comply with this latter
type of modern usage.37 If one were to attempt an equation of it with
terms in our predicate calculuses, it tends towards a premiss, whilst
also partially contributing a function independently of that, of sharing
a property of a presupposition, together with a weakened sense of the
‘assertion’ sign.38 In other words, there is a breakdown in an attempt
to fit it uniformly and broadly, or narrowly, into the concepts attending
our standard logical terminology. Nevertheless, this version of
Ockham’s razor is no mere ‘methodological principle’, since it displaces
space in logic otherwise occupied by different axioms and makes claims
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on the domain of logic and its putative ontology. If we draw on the
traditions of ponenda on which Ockham rests, and attempt a partial
alignment with our logics, we meet a complex hybrid of assumption,
premiss, assertion and presupposition, bound into the conditional
negation of ‘necessity’, generalization (‘plurality’), and axiom, applied
with some confusion extensionally to ontology. It is thus apparent that
Ockham is talking logic, not methodological principles. He is proposing
a logic for ontology, not devising methodological principles, and is
asserting reductionist logic rules of quantification, not methodological
principles.
One of the difficulties in aligning Ockham’s use of ‘assumption’
and other logical terms, including those in his razor versions, is that
in typical cases he accepts generalized logical laws, whilst he deems
that they have exceptions in theology (for example, in his view of the
Trinity). His belief was that arguments of given general logical forms
of syllogism are universally valid when applied to all matters in the
world; but the same logical forms are invalid if applied to the Trinity,
or need to be so interpreted through a nominalist or conceptualist
supposition theory that they cannot ‘properly’ be so applied. As Geach
makes clear,39 Ockham was confused about the relation of inference
to ontology, and muddled about logical relations between first and
second intention terms in logic. I leave aside here, as far as is
practicable, other issues of ‘nominalism’ and doctrine, so as to isolate
difficulties in his philosophy of logic. These exceptions are also ones
often anticipated and rejected by, for example, Aquinas. So it is not
self-evident that Ockham theologically needed to contravene the scope
of logical laws, while it is clear that he held such collisions of his
interpretations between logic and theology as a matter of sincere
conviction. Consequently a reader of Ockham has to face a problem
in Ockham’s examination of the Trinity. Where one might hope for a
resolution of tension in the use of assumption and razor, there at the
centre of the theological conception most important to him, Ockham
admits that he has exceptions to logic.
Unfortunately this is not a deployment of methodological principle.
Clearly it is a contradictory exception involving accepting true
premisses that imply false conclusions which, therefore, disprove his
inferences, the razor rule, or his theological interpretation. This
follows from Ockham’s own rule of non-contradiction. It was an
embarrassment to Ockham that Chatton employed the law of non-
contradiction to demonstrate the (alleged) truth of the anti-razor by
considering the multiple components that constitute causal relations
in an action (for example, wood burning) (see [14.66] 469f). Ockham
attempts to head off a possible accusation of heresy by limiting the
scope of his logic and introducing a nominal or conceptualist
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interpretation of abstract nouns into incarnation theology. So at this
juncture he opts for semantic speculation to warrant rigging his logic,
which is itself a violation of his ‘necessity’ and adoption of a law of
non-contradiction.
Ockham’s attempted justification of his failure to apply the razor
in some doctrinal contexts appears in his extended version of the
razor: ‘No plurality is to be assumed unless it can be proved…by
some infallible authority’, in which, in addition to his appeal to
Scripture, he adds ‘certain sayings of the saints and the determinations
of the Church’.40 As Adams acknowledges: ‘Ockham always allows
the claims of reason and experience to be defeated by contrary
pronouncements of the Church, which should lead “every thought
captive”.’41 But Ockham does not feel obliged to take the further step
of embracing the fully general theory of which such ecclesiastical
determinations are instances. Although he prizes generality as a
desirable feature in theories, he is more committed to the maxim: a
theory-maker should not multiply miracles, i.e. theses contrary to
reason and experience, beyond necessity.42 There are deep fractures in
these viewpoints. First, there is no logical or philosophical necessity at
all to accept pronouncements of an institution, especially if they are
contrary to reason.
Second, there is a suppressed contrariety in his employment of the
foregoing quotation, ‘every captive thought’. Ockham himself
distinguishes between the authority of Scripture, which is infallible,
and of the authority of the Church, which can on occasions—
according to him—be wrong. But the quotation about ‘every captive
thought’ comes from the New Testament, not from the Church’s
pronouncements (which are clearly distinct from the New Testament
in this context, on his own interpretation). It is wrong, then, on
Ockham’s own terms, to use this quotation form as infallible authority,
to underwrite the authority of an external institution which, he agrees,
can be wrong in its judgements. Ockham deployed that guarantee to
prevent himself allowing his razor its full generality. It is tragic, in the
perspective of the medieval contemporary opposition to Ockham, to
observe this internal inconsistency in Ockham’s philosophy: a sincere
believer painfully doing his best, as he sees it, to pacify antagonistic
inconsistent Church authorities by attempting artificially to
manufacture agreement with them, when neither logic nor his razor
demands it. Clearly we should position all this with problems any
thinker has when living in a quasi-totalitarian regime in which the
threat against life is not uncommon, as a device for achieving
conformity in belief. In contrast, Ockham’s campaign, in the last
twenty years of his life, to convict the Pope of heresy manifests a
certain resilience and independence of mind.
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We stand outside the limitations of Ockham’s own life situation
(but, as he would have done, have difficulty in standing outside our
own) and are aware of the influence of our own times on our picture
of Ockham. Nevertheless, could we attempt some damage-limitation
or reconstruction of the fragments of Ockham’s philosophy criticized
above? First, he could have dropped his nominalist analysis and
reinterpretation of the Trinity. Second, one might argue, irrespective
of his presentation of the razor’s exceptions, that Ockham should
accept (what we would now term) deviant logics as having equal
status to the bivalent one, and allow him subjunctive conditional
certainty in a plural world. This of course would not leave him happy,
since it would entail that his options are only possibly true. Third,
someone could designate the Trinitarian doctrine itself as incorrect,
and so the false conclusions thereby implied by the true antecedents
simply identify a route on which Ockham did not continue (or of
which he was not aware). This issue might be expressed as follows: in
the foregoing discussion we have seen that Ockham used the Bible to
develop some of his positions (as he did more extensively in his
political philosophy, as the section below shows). Almost none of the
defining terms of the Trinity occur in the Bible (nor do synonyms of
them). So Ockham could have redefined the incarnation so as to
avoid the troublesome terms which he judged require a restriction in
the scope of his logic. Unfortunately, incarnation terminology in the
Bible is not nominalist-conceptualist, and the propositions there do
not fit the two-name theory.
Fourth, one might utilize Alféri’s research (see [14.14]), and propose
that a post-structuralist estimation of Ockham’s razor removes the need
for the type of logical consistency which Ockham sought in formal
theory. Fifth, one could transform hints in Ockham, and argue that his
unconscious is ahead of his formal consciousness. One would thus
propose that the solution to his formal logic problems is to dump his
formal programme, and accept that, underneath his apparently ‘logical
inferences’, at the crossroads where the collision occurs between
inference using the razor and the incarnation, the answer to some of
Ockham’s problems could be to metaphorize, as a ‘game’, areas of his
whole logic. Although of course Wittgenstein did not suggest this type
of enterprise,43 it might be envisaged as a possible upshot of his analyses
of what it is ‘to follow a rule’ in his Philosophical Investigations.44 Of
course, this is revolutionary even by our contemporary standards. Sixth,
an Ockhamist could attempt to circumvent the foregoing and other
criticisms by adopting the sort of paraconsistent logic that Priest
devises,45 fragments of which occupied some medieval logicians. In a
paraconsistent scenario, there are limits to cognition (in Ockham’s case
the Trinity), and there are semantic closures smaller than the set of all
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propositions, yet which facilitate access to transcendence in part using
set-theoretic reductionism. A paraconsistent approach has the drawback
that it requires a given proposition to be (or that it could be) true and
false. This would help support Ockham’s treatment of the Trinity, whilst
eliminating his law of non-contradiction. A reason for mentioning some
of these ideas is to indicate that, taken together, Ockham’s philosophy
of logic and his philosophy amount to a partial hybrid of competing
logics.
But brute forms of Ockham’s razor have been accepted and popular
since his time, increasingly with the emergence of experimental science,
though with exceptions. J.S.Mill is rightly regarded as a mediator of
Ockham’s logic from the medieval world to modern philosophy
([14.69]). Nevertheless, in respect of parsimony, Mill was appalled by
Ockham’s razor. In 1865 Mill attacked Sir William Hamilton for his
use of a version of the razor ([14.70] 418–19). Hamilton’s own positions
on logic were sometimes incompatible with Ockham’s. He was moving
towards a quantification theory which, if it had any relation to Ockham,
was one of contrast,46 in which there is a closer relation to Frege’s
quantificational logic than the sort of Ockhamist logic that Mill (apart
from the razor) had espoused. Later, Russell’s practice of eliminating,
where possible, existential quantification, and Hans Reichenbach’s
concern with simplicity evinced in his idea of logical empiricism, as
Sober ([14.86]) notices have similarities with some uses of Ockham’s
razor, though neither philosopher is generally compatible with Ockham.
Dummett applies a restrained use of Ockham’s razor in mathematical
theory, while he notes that denying a thought by the process of negation
is intrinsically complex ([14.29] 38, 317).
ANTI-REALISM’S TRUE RAZOR?
The foregoing challenged Adams’s claim that the various versions of
Ockham’s razor are ‘in the first instance, methodological principles,
and it is not obvious how they are related to truth or probability’.
Surely it is, in relevant respects, clear how Ockham relates at least
some of them to truth. Adams’s view does not account for at least one
version of Ockham’s razor, which she quotes: ‘When a proposition
comes out true for things, if two things suffice for its truth, it is
superfluous to assume a third.’47 The expression ‘comes out true’
(verificatur) and the word ‘truth’ are related to truth explicitly, by being
the purported measure for true propositions in a thesis canvassing for
a reductionist use of numerical principles as the basis for an austere
ontology regulating generalization in logic. For Ockham, number
relations are real. Such relational propositions have truth-conditions
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and substitution instances. They accord with a rough correspondence
theory (not as well developed as those of Paul of Venice, and adopted
without Duns Scotus’s full realism, while yet they are not mind-
dependent). Of truth, Ockham states that, ‘truth, i.e. the concept truth,
in addition to the proposition it signifies, connotes that things are such
in reality as they are conveyed to be by means of the proposition’.48
Although Ockham’s theses are distinct from the semantics of Tarski-
Davidson (in which to give the truth-conditions is a way of giving the
meaning of a sentence),49 yet the various features of Ockham’s
‘correspondence’ presuppositions partially parallel these modern
authors, principally because of the way he is attracted to anti-realism.50
Ockham’s ‘correspondence’ position was pressed by his anti-realism,
a view which had some similarity with Peter Aureoli’s and Henry
Harclay’s disposition to dismantle direct realism.
Marenbon’s view appears to offer the most explanatory promise:
Ockham’s rejection of essential essence realism, together with his
acceptance of truth-conditions for the semantics of the external world,
eventually imply that his adoption of a conceptual system for
understanding the world in terms of species and genera is merely one
possible system—whereas for his contemporary opponents it is a system
which has to be used if one is to achieve a full understanding of reality.
Any of these interpretations involve a use of truth which restores to it
the role nor accorded it by Adams’s opinion that the above forms of
the razor are methodological and that it is not obvious how they are
related to truth.51 Indeed, the razor’s purported theory-generating
informativeness seems to be its merit. But on occasions the razor is
contradicted by the presence of informative complexity in a new more
productive theory (as with fundamental physics and superstrings52),
which is more informative than a previous simpler theory. Although
scientists appeal to Ockham’s razor, their use of it often explicitly
conflicts with Ockham’s own express claim that it should only be
employed outside the scope of observation statements,53 which complies
well with his desire to press demonstrative science into admission of
uncertainty.
Ockham was aiming at a reduction of individuation in ontology,
and he denied that some relational states between propositions have
to be distinct.54 Ockham’s use of a complex procedure using negation
to achieve reduction of entities, is itself also a negation of parsimony,
since its strategy is to acknowledge complex propositions while positing
them as such, then negating them to achieve their elimination.55
Ockham’s desire to bring parsimony to ontology internalizes a
tension between realism and epistemology. If one conceives that
necessity in reason is a criterion of identity for restricting ontological
plurality, then ontological contingencies may be unwarrantably
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censored (and this can cut against empirical productivity, as much as it
can against semantics). Ockham’s way of meeting this tension is to
internalize a version of anti-realism into his epistemological programme.
But this ‘anti-realism’ is precariously positioned in relation to the
traditions which he controverts, in particular if contrasted with
twentieth-century opponents of realism. Ockham, after what appears
to be an early position in which he agrees with Scotus, attacks Duns
Scotus’s strong realism,56 though concurring with Duns Scotus that
real relations are mind-independent.57 His aim is commendable, in his
parsimonious wish to place limits on excessively strong claims about
empiricism, and at a time when scientific mythology and ignorance
falsely generalized local experience.
We can concur with Goddu that this tendency is in keeping with our
contemporary physics ([14.44] 208–31). Goddu furnishes us with the
Quantum Mechanical Bell theorem’s scope, as an example to flesh out
Ockham in current physics. This theorem is to the effect that, in
universalizing realist claims in science, we must relinquish claims on
locality or determinism respecting universal claims for empiricism.
Clearly Ockham is a far cry from Bell. Ockham was concerned to argue
that positing additional entities is not in principle a strategy for resolving
realist problems in favour of a strong realism, just as the proposal that
there are hidden variables in quantum mechanics does not resolve the
issue of action at a distance without a medium. It seems clear that his
view was being opposed by William of Crathorn, who lectured at
Oxford in 1331 ([14.93] 255–74, etc.). Crathorn held that viewing
was through a medium. He devised an original theory of knowledge
that disagreed with Ockham (and Holcot, [14.93] 93). In particular,
Crathorn, concerned with the purported uncertainty involved in
intuitive cognition, affirms that incomplete objects in a prepositional
context are complex, disputing Ockham’s reductionism and
epistemological certainty. Although Crathorn’s theories are often uneven
and cavalier in their attention to views of opponents, they illustrate
that Ockham was part of a general trend of exploration in Oxford.
Crathorn’s comprehension of prepositional complexity in the context
of incomplete objects is an unexpected partial parallel with our modern
concepts of the incompleteness of a logical predicate (to be attached to
a subject term), which pulls against Ockham’s two-name theory. But
while disagreeing with Crathorn and others, Ockham was impelled by
the razors to admit incompleteness as a conceptual condition, so as to
meet the restrictions of ignorance and yet adequacy according to
empirical reductionism.58
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FUTURE CONTINGENTS
Looking from the present at the universe, Ockham was to some
degree aware that we are observing its past. If psychoanalysis has any
lesson to teach here ([14.22] 38–46), it is that analysis of the future
is intentional, and the future is a sort of metonymy for present
concerns, as well as a series of codes for covert absorption and
transference of our pasts. No doubt such matters can be overstated.
But with Ockham and his contemporaries, the most obvious
constituent in their talk of future contingents, only slightly off stage,
is their personal interest in that future. The study of God’s knowledge
of the future is an understanding of how he deals with his people. The
conditionality of present life requires guidance by instruction in the
principles according to which God knows the future in relation to
people in the present.
In practice, however, the scholarly debates about such topics were
often highly abstract technical affairs, and even used to feed earthly
vendettas, networking through generations. Boethius refined the
conception (cf. Chapter 1), which is followed by Peter the Lombard in
his Sentences, that God is timeless and has present capacity to know
from all eternity everything he knows in the present. Thomas
Buckingham took up this thesis in his On the Contingency of the Future,
and Free Will. His thesis was an attack on Thomas Bradwardine’s De
causa Dei contra Pelagium (In God’s defence, against Pelagius).
Bradwardine’s view was that humanity exercised freedom to choose,
or not, to obey God’s will without the interference of preordination.
As de la Torre has demonstrated (14.94] ch. 5), Buckingham carefully
refrains from explaining that Bradwardine accepted that the First Cause
regiments people, yet they are able to act freely in secondary cause
contexts. For Bradwardine, God, from all eternity, chose freely from
the array of future contingents. Such contingency (contingentia ad
utrumlibet) applies also to humans in the secondary cause contexts.
A generation earlier Ockham had attempted to apply his sense of
simplicity to reduce confusion. For him, duration was the foundation
feature of time. God has knowledge of the future. Ockham was troubled
by Aristotle’s On Interpretation. In accordance with the standard
medieval view, Ockham took Aristotle to have argued that singular
propositions about future affairs are not, prior to the time of which
they speak, true or false. Since for Ockham this violates the doctrine
that all propositions are true or false (to cut a long story short), there
must never have been future contingents, or they are illogical.59
Ockham, then, interprets Aristotle as maintaining that God is, in a
special sense, possibly ignorant of a future contingent. A reason for
this is that—expressed that way—it is not an epistemological existent.
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That is to say, the future does not exist, thus future contingents do
not instantiate, self-inhere, or obtain now, for the future, since it is
not there nor here to refer to. But God’s absolute power, for Ockham,
alters this bald state of affairs. Although in a narrow sense an
individual, for Ockham and for Scotus, only intuition can deform this
boundary for God ([14.64] 184–5), if and can only exercise intuitive
cognition of an existing thing, the conjunction of God’s absolute
power and if the law of non-contradiction is not violated. We should
appreciate in this context that for Ockham logic is possibility for
ontology as well as for propositions; this is partly why he was
agreeable to ‘limiting’ God’s knowledge of future contingents: in a
strict sense, they do not exist, do not supposit. Despite this, God’s
omnipotence infinitely empowers his intuition, and God is also able,
as well as willing, to make and implement promises about the future,60
which both inform his use of epistemological possibility and construct
intuitive cognition.
OCKHAM’S ETHICS AND POLITICAL
PHILOSOPHY
Ockham has waited over 600 years for the first publication in any
modern language of his political philosophy.61
The castigation of Ockham by the ‘humble’ Christian Lutterel, with
his complaint to the Pope at Avignon in 1323, embodied and generated
an attitude to Ockham which outlawed him for some of his
contemporary, and later, would-be readers. Lutterel was generally
disliked and opposed at Oxford university. His appointment seems
one of those conundrums that can attend an institution: the contrary
of its identity is appointed to lead it. Possibly, since Ockham bore the
brunt of Lutterel’s vehemence, as part of a tactic for the latter to
ingratiate himself with the Pope’s power-base, this was a cause of the
alienation Ockham increasingly experienced, though we ought to
contend with his own sense of embodying the Oxford tradition which
Lutterel dared to change.
No doubt, alienation was nevertheless a growing component in
Ockham’s identity, while yet it is only one thread in a complex fabric.
Alienation is a property of ‘romantic modernism’, for example in French
modernism, emerging in the early eighteenth century. Holland has
identified schizoid behaviour in Baudelaire, induced by his alienation.
In this case, narcissism encouraged by an elitist perspective was projected
on to the society, which was challenged to conform to the writer’s
perspective.62 Offler judged that Ockham was prisoner of his own
elitism and had no interest in following the democratizing move to
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popularize scholasticism in the vernacular ([14.72] 341–2) such as
Conrad of Megenberg displayed. Indeed, Offler mentions that the latter
was fighting against the vogue of Ockhamist ‘modernism’.
Fundamental to a modernism is individualism, and this held true
for Ockham’s ethics and political action. As McGrade explains (see
[14.62] 17ff.), there is a puzzling tension between Ockham’s
individualism in practice (Ockham emphasizes not just individuality,
but this property for sets of individuals) in contrast with the explicit
abstractness, or impersonal style (even when writing of personal
matters) of much of his writing on the topic. One could interpret this
as a splitting of psychological identity along modernist lines. We do
not know enough about his time at Avignon, nor of Lutterel’s, to
understand what party politics made up the pressure on Ockham to
provoke, or Lutterel act as foil for, his fracture with the Church. It was
quite usual for a theologian of Ockham’s ilk to write political
philosophy and ethics, not least if he were following Aristotle as the
ideal. Offler observed that it looks as if Ockham seriously attended to
Aristotle’s Politics and Ethics in 1339–40 ([14.72] 340), after he had
written a considerable amount of the political philosophy. (See
Ockham’s reference in III Dialogus, I, to Aristotle’s Politics V, 8.)
It was some time later, in the 1340s, subsequent to more general
compositions on political philosophy, that Ockham responded to the
Pope’s assertion of supreme political authority and its relation to
poverty, with his A Short Discourse on the Tyrannical Goverrnment:
Over Things Divine and Human, but Especially the Empire and Those
Subject to the Empire Usurped by Some Who Are Called Highest
Pontiffs (see [14.11]). Hardly a basis for ecumenical rapprochement.
In the convention of the time this title measures Ockham’s antagonism,
individualism and pragmatism. It is a surprise if one is familiar only
with the intellectual range circumscribed by his theoretical philosophy
and logic. Consider for example Ockham’s intensive use of the Bible,
for example in The Work of Ninety Days (in [14.7]). In his
confrontation of the Pope’s extravagant riches, he sounds like a member
of a theological underground of, say, Peter Waldo of Lyon in the twelfth
century. He reminds the Pope that Jesus and the Apostles had no riches,
concluding with the allegation that in such matters the Pope follows
Constantine, not Peter ([14.7] 105). This policy-aim to contextualize
the Bible does not expand to its internal limits, however, though one
should not minimize its radical strategy. For example, it does not occur
to Ockham to use the function of implication or dialectic within the
New Testament narrative presuppositions to discover their own internal
limiting parameters. (He uses the citations, instead, as checks for
excesses in papal misuse of its rightful original position.) Ockham might,
for example, have questioned, within the foregoing debate, how it is
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that the authority of Peter in Matthew 16 extends beyond the lifetime
of Peter to others. Nevertheless his philosophical questioning about
the relation of divine narratology to political institutions is bold and
his new recognition of a repressed connection, in an atmosphere of
intolerance, should not be underestimated.63
Ockham can be usefully placed by seeing him in relation to John of
Paris,64 a Dominican who had supported Aquinas against Ockham’s
order, the Franciscans. These two theologians, the former a disciple of
the latter, spoke of law, discipline, and education as ruling functions of
the state over the individual, though Aquinas stressed the natural law,
in accordance with his view of Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics.
Like Aristotle, John is interested in what it is to be human, rather than
secular power-bases, whilst the state is the decision-maker and custodian
of the common good. John’s synthesis, which was influential in the
law of states, lays a foundation for fourteenth-century individualism
and the state authority which denies it. So Ockham came at a time
when there was a growing awareness of individualism and yet a lack
of a counterpart discrimination in its corollary: the state should not
obtrude on rights and liberty. Ockham argues that these come from
God, instantiated in nature.65 Consequently papal authority should
not usurp God’s power and provision by countermanding
individualism. It is in the identity of a human experiencing this nature
that general laws are derived from nature, and from revelation, on
personal liberty and its collective form. There is some similarity on
facets of individualism and freedom between Ockham and more recent
philosophies of freedom.66 Holopainen has proposed that Ockham
advanced a single theory of divine command ethics ([14.51] 133–49,
etc.), which allows two moralities. Divine morality, transcendent with
respect to cultural variables, supervenes on, and yet is manifest in,
nature.67 But the relation between Ockham’s individualism and the
logic of his various analyses is complex. The reader may with particular
profit read Adams’s work on the extent of Ockham’s use or
manifestation of individualisms (see [14.13]). She writes of the
polyvalency of individualism, plausibly arguing that Ockham’s variety
of individualisms are logically independent of each other, and warning
against the seductive lure to integrate this variety into a singularity
which can then easily be fitted into a grand historical sweep. These are
important points, and ones which can be used to probe the extent and
veracity of his parsimony.
There are other considerations to complement such explorations.
Logically, independence does not of course imply that separate
individualisms cannot be consistent with each other, just as tokens are
values of a single type. When we are attempting to assess a complex
original figure such as Ockham, who also derives many of his patterns
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of thought from his contemporaries, it is problematic to develop
connections, as Adams is aware. Given his sometimes original use of
contemporary influences, Ockham can be elusive and difficult; he is a
nuanced mirror of his era, which dislocates his period’s self-perception
of continuity.
NOTES
Ockham is a central figure in fourteenth-century philosophy and his thought is
discussed in a number of chapters. Readers may find the presentation of some of his
main ideas in Chapters 15 and 17 below a useful introduction to the wider-ranging
and more speculative discussion in the present chapter. [EDITOR]
1 At least, those of whom manuscripts are extant. See Courtenay [14.26].
2 See Ockham [14.5] Ordinatio, I, d. 2, q. 7.
3 See Knysh [14.55] 25–6, who suggests that the liber suus of 1327 was a technical
stumbling-block for the authorities.
4 Spade [1 4. 89] IV shows how Thomas Bradwardine’s research on insolubilia
assisted him to craft a theory of signification that has correspondence-theory
properties.
5 I propose that ‘modernist logic’ be used to mark philosophical trends that run
contemporarily with the familiar use of the term ‘modernism’ for a general cultural
context. There is a need for research on cross-currents between these contexts and
philosophy in nineteenth-century European modernisms.
6 See Frege, ‘Compound logical thoughts’, in [14.36]; cf. Dummett [14.30].
7 Adams [14.12]. Adams has only one brief reference to Frege (p. 388), and four to
Russell (pp. 136–7, 150, 536, 797).
8 Adams [14.12] refers to the 1st edn (Ithaca, NY, 1962) of Geach’s book. There have
in fact been two edns of the book since 1962. The 2nd in 1964, 3rd in 1980. Adams
was published in 1987. In his 3rd edn, Geach ([14.37] 13), explains that he rewrote
parts of the book, noting, ‘The sections most affected by these changes are sections
32, 34, and 35… The only major change in Chapter Three is in section 36.’ These
include the main sections to which Adams refers. Adams ([14.12] 388), having only
one brief reference to Frege, offers no presentation or proof of what the ‘Frege bias’
is supposed to be.
9 See Spade [14.87] 216, and the section.below, ‘Ockham on reference’.
10 Russell was unable to judge that work. Smiley [14.84] assesses Russell on
descriptions.
11 Adams ([14.12] 897–9) briefly refers to David Lewis in a taxonomical remark on
Ockham, noting his indexical theory of actuality. She observes that Ockham’s
‘uniform assumption that temporal indicators cannot be eliminated in favour of
an eternal-present show that he was not an Indexicalist’.
12 The relation between metaphoric language in scientific theory and logical space
in philosophy is a facet of ‘logic as a work of art’. A starting point for this new
area of research is the use in Wittgenstein [14.100] of a proposition as a projection
in space, together with the role of space and geometry in Mallarmé [14.63]. For
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studies on this latter aspect, see Bowie [14.21], Gibson [14.42], Reynolds [14.79],
Scott [14.83].
13 Bowie [14.22] 37–42, 103–4, etc., relates logic to creativity.
14 Russell [14.98] regularly confuses premisses with assumptions.
15 Someone might wish to adapt Ockham’s theory of a ‘mental language’ by using the
sort of innate syntaxes devised by Chomsky. Chomsky [14.24] proposed a thesis
that incorporates indeterminacy into his theories of mind, however. According to
Chomsky, our ordinary uses, not some ideal language, are nested innately. This
would be the opposite of what Ockham needs. Chomsky’s generalization of
indeterminacy is also alien to Ockham, and it destabilizes his nominal and causal
relations. Russell’s misinterpretation of Ockham has been noted by Offler [14.72]
338 and n. 1.
16 Ockham [14.5] Summa logicae I, c. 1.
17 Dummett ([14.29] 59–62, etc.) offers valuable analysis of proper names and other
subject/predicate differences.
18 See Aristotle On Interpretation 1–3, 10, 11.
19 This argument follows Quine’s work as presented by Dummett [(14.30] 223–4,
294).
20 Aquinas Summa theologiae I, q. 76, a. 6, ad 2. Cf. [14.12] 13–16, 679–997.
21 As Geach [14.37] 201–2.
22 On links between these ideas of Ockham’s and Wodeham and Rodington, see
Tachau [14.93] 203–5. Walter Chatton attacked this aspect of Ockham’s thought.
23 As White [14.97] 173, referring to Ockham [14.5] Quodlibet III q. 8.
24 Kripke’s [14.56] approach amplifies in a different mould social and causal roles,
for which, if adjusted, one could develop aspects of Burley’s approach.
25 As Adams ([14.12] 329) states it. On the different types of supposition see below,
Chapter 17, pp. 412–14.
26 Adams [14.12] 387–8 mentions that Frege’s use of ‘is’ could be brought into the
semantic analysis; but Frege’s approach to predication and the role of ‘is’ in such
uses is the contrary of Ockham’s.
27 Aquinas, Summa, Ia, q. 13, art. 12.
28 Frege uses this one German term with the three senses of ‘referring’, ‘referent’
and the relation of ‘reference’. Dummett [14.29] maintains that Frege does not
confuse these separate uses. So do we here have one term, also containing two
polysemes, or a metaphor?
29 Suggested by Jane Heal. I should stress that this whole ‘Ockham’ reconstruction
has nothing to do with Heal’s theory and is not suggested by her, though I am
indebted to her reaction to my above idea.
30 A suggestion about paraphrasing (e.g. ‘she’s a right one’) indexicality, not in a
referential role, not in an Ockham context, and without my generalizing thesis
over whole general predicates, comes from Heal’s working paper delivered at the
Cambridge Moral Sciences Club, 21 January 1997. I acknowledge her permission
to mention it.
31 Marenbon [14.65], [14.64] 57 for Bacon’s Paris study and teaching of Aristotle.
32 See Walter Chatton [14.4] I, d. 30, q. 1, a. 4.
33 Duns Scotus, Opera omnia, ed. L.Wadding, J.Ponce et al., Duran, Lyons, 1639,
vol. VII, p. 723.
34 Aristotle On the Heavens II, xii, 292a–b25.
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35 Ockham [14.5], Ordinatio I, d. 30, q. 2.
36 Ockham [14.5], Treatise on Quantity II i, q. 1.
37 Aspects of this use of ponenda are not unlike a notion that Dummett ([14.29]
309) pointed out in Gentzen’s use of ‘suppose’. Gentzen formalized inference to
allow for a use similar to natural language reasoning, ‘Suppose that…’. If
contradictory inferences follow from that use, one can withdraw the premisses
which led to it. This complies well with Ockham’s desire for non-contradiction.
38 See Haack’s [14.46] treatment of Frege’s ‘presupposition’. For scrutiny of
‘assertion-sign’ see Dummett [14.29] 328–9.
39 Geach [14.38] 288–301. Adams [14.12] 989–90 quotes him ([14.38] 296–7),
concerning Ockham’s use of humanitas and regarding Nestorianism. Although
demurring from Geach’s view, Adams never attempts to fault Geach’s use of logic.
40 Ockham [14.5], Treatise on Quantity I, q. 1.
41 Adams [14.12] 1008–10. She is citing Ockham [14.5], Ordinatio I, d. 2. q. 1.
42 Adams [14.12] 1008–10 numbers this maxim 7.
43 White [14.97] serves as a framework for this suggestion.
44 This point could be applied with profit to any of Ockham’s logic. There is a
profound treatment of the research in Boghassian [14.19].
45 Priest [14.74]; cf. Smiley’s [14.85] criticisms.
46 Geach ([14.37] 27) points out that the expression ‘quantify’ and ‘quantification’
appear to derive from Hamilton.
47 Adams [14.12] 156: ‘Quando propositio verificatur pro rebus, si duae res sufficiunt
ad eius veritatem, superfluum est ponere tertiam.’ Adams refers to its use in
Ockham [14.5], Quodlibet IV, q. 24.
48 Ockham [14.5], Quodlibet VI, q. 29.
49 D.Davidson, ‘Truth and meaning’, in Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation,
Oxford, 1984, pp. 24ff.
50 Boler ([14.20] 470; see Spade [14.87]) suggests that Ockham might be committed
to adopting a sophisticated coherence theory of truth. Coherence theory
(inadvertently) allows internal contradictions: they only have internally to cohere.
51 A response to defend this use of ‘methodological principle’ might be envisaged:
does not Dummett [14.31] 164 employ the expression to describe an approach
advocated by Wittgenstein [14.99], and is not criticism of Adams’s ‘methodological
principles’ unwarranted? No, because Dummett is contrasting Frege’s (and others’)
truth-conditional theory of meaning with Wittgenstein’s methodological principle
concerning use, whereas Ockham’s ‘razors’ use logical terms to govern logic and
its ontology, in which Ockham proposed truth-conditional logic.
52 See Gross [14.45], and resumption of this theme below in the section Anti-realism’s
true razor?
53 Ockham [14.5], Reportatio II, q. 150.
54 Ockham [14.5], Ordinatio I, d. 30, q. 1.
55 Cf. Horst [14.52] 365–70 (from a perspective outside Ockham studies).
56 See Ockham [14.5], Ordinatio I, d. 30, q. 1, and Quodlibet VI, qq. 8–19, etc.
57 See Ockham [14.5], Ordinatio I, d. 30, q. 1.
58 An interesting extension of the principle of parsimony is provided by the
astrophysical cosmology of the early universe, where some scientists seek a single
equation functioning as the universal for the whole universe: see Rees [14.78],
but cf. Hunt [14.53]. On the problems posed by such science (can its formulations
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OCKHAM’S WORLD AND FUTURE
be taken literally?), see Dallaporta [14.27] and Bell [14.18]. Perhaps Ockham,
like these cosmologists, arrives at counter-intuitive consequences in his search for
simplicity. On this whole question see Popper [14.73], Lewy [14.61] and Gibson
[14.40].
59 See Aristotle On Interpretation, IX, 1–16, 18–25. Few modern interpreters would
accept this view. Cf. Anscombe [14.15] 53. See also Milbank [14.67] on Ockham’s
confusion in this case.
60 Ockham [14.5], On Predestination q. 1.
61 McGrade [14.11] ix. As he points out (n. 1) E.Lewis [14.60] translated 23 chapters,
and F.Oakley 4 chapters, in Lerner [14.57].
62 This term is used in the sense of Holland [14.50]. In Gibson [14.42] Pt I, there is
a comparative conception of ‘modernism’ complementary to the present study.
63 On the problems about connecting theoretical with political philosophy, and on
criteria for difference and identity, see Milbank [14.68] chs. 7 and 8; Ward [14.96]
24–8, and also, more broadly, Dummett [14.29] 73–80.
64 John of Paris, On Royal and Papal Power.
65 On the Power of Emperors and Popes, in Ockham’s Opera Politics IV, ed. H.S.
Offler, Oxford, British Academy, 1997, 278–355. Volumes I–III are edited by
J.Sikes et al., Manchester, 1940–63.
66 Rawls [14.76], and with regard to Aristotle Ethics V; Dworkin [14.32] on
inalienability of individual rights.
67 See Coleman ([14.25] 27) and generally for a concise valuable study on Ockham’s
nature and rights.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions and Manuscripts
14.1
14.2
14.3
14.4
14.5
Adam Wodeham Sentences 1, I, I, ed. G.Gál, in ‘Adam of Wodeham’s question
on the “complexe significabile”…’, in Franciscan Studies 37 (1973): 66–
102.
John of Reading Sentences I, Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, MS
conventi soppressi D.IV.95.
Thomas Buckingham De contingentia futurorum et arbitrii libertate, in B.R.
de la Torre, Thomas Buckingham [14.94].
Walter Chatton Reportatio, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, lat. 15887.
William of Ockham Opera philosophica et theologica, 17 vols, St Bonaventure,
NY, Franciscan Institute, 1967–88.
Translations
14.6
14.7
William of Ockham ‘Five Questions on Universals’ (from the Ordinatio), in
P.V.Spade (ed. and trans.) Five Texts on the Medieval Problem of Universals,
Indianapolis, Ind., Hackett, 1994.
——A Letter to the Friars Minor and Other Writings, ed. A.S.McGrade and
J.Kilcullen, trans. J.Kilcullen, Cambridge, 1995. (Note: this is the volume
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
announced before publication, in the Preface, p. ix, to A Short Discourse
[14.11], as Selections from the Major Political Works.)
14.8 ——Philosophical Writings, trans., intro. and notes by P.Boehner, Latin text
and trans. revised by S.F.Brown with new Foreword, Indianapolis, Ind.,
Hackett, 1990.
14.9 ——Predestination, God’s Foreknowledge and Future Contingents, 2nd edn,
trans., intro., notes and appendices by M.M.Adams and N.Kretzmann,
Indianapolis, Ind., Hackett, 1983.
14.10 ——Quodlibetal Questions, vols 1 and 2, trans. A.J.Freddoso and F.E. Kelley,
New Haven, Conn., Yale University Press, 1991.
14.11 ——A Short Discourse on the Tyrannical Government, ed. A.S.McGrade,
trans. J.Kilcullen, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1992.
Editor’s Bibliographical Note
Since the ‘Studies’ section of Arthur Gibson’s bibliography is mainly occupied by
details of the wide range of comparative material cited in his chapter, it may be useful
to give a quick guide to the basic secondary bibliography on Ockham and his followers.
Where the works are listed by Gibson below, just the author’s name and reference
number are given.
Biography
L.Baudry, Guillaume d’Occam: sa vie, ses oeuvres, ses idées sociales et politiques,
Paris, Vrin, 1949.
Bibliography
V.Heynck, ‘Ockham—Literatur: 1919–1949’, Franziskanische Studien 32 (1950):
164–83; J.Reilley, ‘Ockham bibliography, 1950–67’, Franciscan Studies 28 (1968):
19–214.
General philosophical studies
Adams [14.12] is fundamental. Other general studies include Alféri [14.14], L. Baudry,
Lexique philosophique de Guillaume d’Occam: étude des notions fondamentales,
Paris, Léthielleux, 1975; G.Leff, William of Ockham: the Metamorphosis of Scholastic
Discourse, Manchester and Totowa, NJ, Manchester University Press/Rowman &
Littlefield, 1975; and C.Panaccio, Les Mots, les concepts et les choses: la sémentique
de Guillaume d’Occam et le nominalisme d’aujourd’hui (Analytiques 3), Montreal
and Paris, Bellarmin/Vrin, 1991 (this compares Ockham’s semantics with modem
Anglo-American discussions; a useful foil for the rather different comparison made
in this chapter). P.Boehner’s important articles are collected as Collected Articles on
Ockham, ed. E.Buytaert, St Bonaventure, NY, Louvain and Paderborn, Franciscan
Institute, Nauwelaerts and Schöningh, 1958. Vossenkuhl [14.95] contains excellent
articles by specialists on different aspects of Ockham’s work.
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OCKHAM’S WORLD AND FUTURE
Particular areas
Logic E.Moody, The Logic of William of Ockham, London, Sheed & Ward, 1935,
was groundbreaking but is now rather dated. Adams [14.12] covers this area
thoroughly in volume I of her study; see also Chapter 17 below and bibliography
there.
Epistemology Tachau [14.93] places Ockham’s views in context and assesses their
influence.
Ethics Holopainen [14.51].
Future contingents A.Plantinga, ‘On Ockham’s way out’, Faith and Philosophy 3
(1986): 171–200, repr. in T.V.Morris (ed.) The Concept of God, Oxford, Oxford
University Press, 1987; D.Perler, Prädestination, Zeit und Kontingenz: philosophisch-
historische Untersuchungen zu Wilhelm van Ockhams ‘Tractatus de praedestinatione
et de praescientia Dei respectu futurorum contingentium’ (Bochumer Studien zur
Philosophie 12), Amsterdam, Grüner, 1988.
Political theory McGrade [14.62] and J.Miethke, Ockhams Weg zur Sozial-
philosophie, Berlin, De Gruyter, 1969.
Contemporaries, followers and the next generation of Oxford
philosophers
Tachau [14.93] revises previous views about Ockham’s relation to his contemporaries
and his influence; see also Chapters 15 and 16 below. Important general studies and
collections include: J.Biard, Logique et théorie du signe au XIVe siècle; A.Hudson
and M.Wilks (eds) From Ockham to Wyclif, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1987; Z.
Kaluza and P.Vignaux (eds) Preuve et raisons à l’Université de Paris: Logique, ontologie
et théologie au XIVe siècle, Paris, Vrin, 1984.
Particular thinkers: Adam Wodeham W.J.Courtenay, Adam Wodeham: an Introduction
to his Life and Writings, Leiden, E.J.Brill, 1978;
Henry of Harclay C.Balic, ‘Henricus de Harclay et Ioannes Duns Scotus’,
Mélanges offerts à Etienne Gilson, Toronto, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies,
1959.
Oxford calculators (in general) E.D.Sylla, ‘The Oxford Calculators’, ch. 27 in CHLMP,
provides a good introduction; see also M.Clagett, The Science of Mechanics on the
Middle Ages, Madison, Wis., University of Wisconsin Press, 1959; E.D.Sylla, ‘Medieval
concepts of the latitude of forms: the Oxford Calculators’, Archives de l’histoire
doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 40 (1973): 223–83.
Richard Swineshead J.A.Weisheipl, ‘Roger Swyneshed, OSB, logician, natural
philosopher and theologian’, in Oxford Studies Presented to Daniel Callus, Oxford,
Oxford University Press, 1964.
Robert Holcot F.Hoffmann, Die theologische Methode des Oxford Dominikanlehrers
Robert Holcot (BGPTMA) (Münster, Aschendorff, 1972) (wider in scope than its
title suggests).
Thomas Bradwardine G.Leff, Bradwardine and the Pelagians, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1957; H.A.Oberman, Archbishop Thomas Bradwardine: a
Fourteenth-century Augustinian, Utrecht, Zemink and Zoon, 1957; E.W. Dolniowski,
Thomas Bradwardine: a View of Time and a Vision of Eternity in Fourteenth-century
Thought, Leiden, E.J.Brill, 1995.
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
Thomas Buckingham J.-F.Genest, Prédétermination et liberté crée à Oxford au XIVe
siècle: Buckingham contre Bradwardine (Etudes de philosophie médiévale 70), Paris,
Vrin, 1992.
William Heytesbury W.Curtis, William Heytesbury: Medieval Logic and the Rise of
Mathematical Physics (University of Wisconsin Publications in Medieval Science 3),
Madison, Wis., University of Wisconsin Press, 1956.
Studies
14.12 Adams, M.M. William Ockham, 2 vols, Notre Dame, Ind., University of
Notre Dame Press, 1987.
14.13 ——‘Ockham’s individualisms’, in [14.95].
14.14 Alféri, P. Guillaume D’Ockham le singulier, Paris, Minuit, 1989.
14.15 Anscombe, G.E.M. ‘Aristotle and the sea battle’, in The Collected Philosophical
Papers of G.E.M. Anscombe, vol. 1, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1981.
14.16 ——‘The first person’, in The Collected Papers of G.E.M. Anscombe, Oxford,
Blackwell Publishers, 1981.
14.17 ——Intention, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1957.
14.18 Bell, J.S. Speakable and Unspeakable in Quantum Physics, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press, 1987.
14.19 Boghassian, P. ‘The rule-following consideration’, in Mind 98 (1989):
507–49.
14.20 Boler, J.F. ‘Intuitive and abstractive intuition’, in CHLMP.
14.21 Bowie, M. Mallarmé and the Art of Being Difficult, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1978.
14.22 ——Psychoanalysis and the Future of Theory, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers,
1993.
14.23 Butler, C. Early Modernism, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1994.
14.24 Chomsky, N. ‘Language and nature’, in Mind 104 (1995): 1–62.
14.25 Coleman, J. ‘The individual and the medieval state’, in J.Coleman (ed.) The
Individual in Political Theory and Practice, Oxford, Oxford University
Press, 1996.
14.26 Courtenay, W.J. ‘Theology and theologians from Ockham to Wyclif’, in
J.I.Catto and R.Evans (eds) The History of the University of Oxford, vol.
II, Late Medieval Oxford, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1992.
14.27 Dallaporta, N. ‘The different levels of connection between science and objective
reality’, in G.Ellis, M.Lanza and J.Miller (eds) The Renaissance of
Generality, Relativity and Cosmology, Cambridge, Cambridge University
Press, 1993.
14.28 Dummett, M. The Elements of Intuitionism, Oxford, Oxford University Press,
1977.
14.29 ——Frege: Philosophy of Language, 2nd edn, Duckworth, London, 1980.
14.30 ——Frege and Other Philosophers, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1991.
14.31 ——Origins of Analytical Philosophy, Duckworth, London, 1993.
14.32 Dworkin, R. Taking Human Rights Seriously, London, Duckworth, 1977.
14.33 Fodor, J. ‘A theory of the child’s theory of mind’, in Cognition 44 (1992):
283–96.
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14.34 Frege, G. The Foundations of Arithmetic, 2nd edn, trans. J.L.Austin, Oxford,
Blackwell Publishers, 1953 (German and English texts).
14.35 ——Nachgelassene Schriften, vol. 1, ed. H.Hermes, F.Kambartel and
F.Kaulbach, Hamburg, Meiner, 1969.
14.36 ——Logical Investigations, trans. P.T.Geach and M.Black, Oxford, Blackwell
Publishers, 1977.
14.37 Geach, P.T. Reference and Generality, 3rd edn, Ithaca, NY, Cornell University
Press, 1980.
14.38 ——Logic Matters, corrected reprint, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1981.
14.39 Gensler, H. Formal Ethics, London, Routledge, 1996.
14.40 Gibson, A. Counter-Intuition (forthcoming).
14.41 ——Divining Cosmology (forthcoming).
14.42 ——What is Literature? (forthcoming).
14.43 ——‘Transcending the “limits” of logic?’ (forthcoming).
14.44 Goddu, A. ‘William of Ockham’s “empiricism” and constructive empiricism’,
in [14.95].
14.45 Gross, D.J. ‘Strings at superplanckian energies’, in M.Atiyah et al. (eds) Physics
and Mathematics of Strings, Proceedings of a Royal Society discussion,
London, 1989.
14.46 Haack, S. Deviant Logic, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1974.
14.47 Heal, J. ‘Wittgenstein and dialogue’, in T.Smiley (ed.) Philosophical Dialogues,
Proceedings of the British Academy, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1995.
14.48 ——‘Simulation, theory, and content’, in P.Carruthers and P.K.Smith (eds)
Theories of Theories of the Mind, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,
1996.
14.49 Henninger, M.G. Relations: Medieval Theories 1250–1325, Oxford,
Clarendon Press, 1989.
14.50 Holland, E. Baudelaire and Schizoanalysis, Cambridge, Cambridge University
Press, 1993.
14.51 Holopainen, T.M. William Ockham’s Theory of the Foundations of Ethics,
Publications of the Luther Agricola Society B20, Helsinki, 1991.
14.52 Horst, S.W. Symbols, Computation and Intentionality, Berkeley, Calif.,
University of California Press, 1996.
14.53 Hunt, G.M.K. ‘Is philosophy a “theory of everything”?’, in A.P.Griffiths (ed.)
The Impulse to Philosophise, Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement
33, Cambridge, 1992.
14.54 Jakobson, R. Questions de poétique, Paris, Seuil, 1873.
14.55 Knysh, G. Ockham Perspectives, Ukrainian Academy of Arts and Sciences in
Canada (UVAN), Winnipeg, 1994.
14.56 Kripke, S.A. Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language, Oxford, Blackwell
Publishers, 1982.
14.57 Lerner, R. and Mahdu, M. (eds) Medieval Political Philosophy, Glencoe, Ill.,
Free Press and Toronto, Collier Macmillan, 1966.
14.58 Lewis, D. ‘An argument for the identity theory’, in Journal of Philosophy 63
(1966): 17–25.
14.59 ——On the Plurality of Worlds, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1986.
14.60 Lewis, E. Medieval Political Ideas, London, 1954.
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14.61 Lewy, C. Meaning and Modality, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,
1976.
14.62 McGrade, A.S. The Political Thought of William of Ockham, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press, 1974.
14.63 Mallarmé, S. Un Coup de Dés, Paris, Bonniot, 1914.
14.64 Marenbon, J. Later Medieval Philosophy (1150–1350), London, Routledge,
1987.
14.65 ——Review of Tachau Vision and Certitude, in Journal of Ecclesiastical
History 41 (1990) 105–6.
14.66 Maurer, A. ‘Ockham’s razor and Chatton’s anti-razor’, in Mediaeval Studies
46 (1984): 463–75.
14.67 Milbank, J. Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason, Oxford,
Blackwell Publishers, 1990.
14.68 ——The Word Made Strange, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1997.
14.69 Mill, J.S. ‘A system of logic, ratiocinative and inductive’, in Collected Works,
2nd edn, ed. J.M.Robson, Introduction by R.F.McRae, London, Routledge,
1996.
14.70 ——‘An examination of Sir William Hamilton’s philosophy’, in Collected
Works, ed. J.M.Robson and A.Ryan, London, University of Toronto and
Routledge, 1996.
14.71 Nicholls, S.G., Brownlee, M.S. and Brownlee, K. (eds) The New Medievalism,
Baltimore, Md. and London, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991.
14.72 Offler, H.S. The “influence” of Ockham’s political thinking’, in [14.95].
14.73 Popper, K.R. Objective Knowledge, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1972.
14.74 Priest, G. Beyond the Limits of Thought, Cambridge, Cambridge University
Press, 1995.
14.75 Prior, A. ‘Entities’, in P.T.Geach and A.Kenny (eds) Papers in Logic and Ethics,
Duckworth, London, 1976.
14.76 Rawls, J. A Theory of Justice, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press,
1972.
14.77 Recanati, F. Direct Reference: from Language to Thought, Oxford, Blackwell
Publishers, 1993.
14.78 Rees, M. Perspectives in Astrophysical Cosmology, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1995.
14.79 Reynolds, D. Symbolist Aesthetics and Early Abstract Art, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press, 1995.
14.80 Rorty, R. ‘The historiography of philosophy’, in R.Rorty, J.B.Schneewind
and Q.D.Skinner (eds) Philosophy in History, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 1984.
14.81 Ryan, J.J. The Nature, Structure, and Function of the Church in William of
Ockham (AAR Studies in Religion 16), Missoula, Mont., Scholars Press,
1979.
14.82 Sainsbury, R.M. Paradoxes, 2nd edn, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,
1995.
14.83 Scott, D. Pictorialist Poetics, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988.
14.84 Smiley, T.J. ‘The theory of descriptions’, Proceedings of the British Academy,
Oxford (1982): 321–37.
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OCKHAM’S WORLD AND FUTURE
14.85 ——‘Can contradictions be true?’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society,
suppl. vol. 67 (1993): 17–33.
14.86 Sober, E. Simplicity, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1975.
14.87 Spade, P.V. ‘Some epistemological implications of the Burley-Ockham
dispute’, Franciscan Studies 35 (13) (1975): 212–23.
14.88 ——‘Medieval philosophy’, in A.Kenny (ed.) The Oxford Illustrated History
of Western Philosophy, Oxford, 1994.
14.89 ——Lies, Language and Logic in the Middle Ages, London, Variorum
Reprints, 1988.
14.90 ——‘Quasi-Aristotelianism’, in N.Kretzmann (ed.) Infinity and Continuity
in Ancient and Medieval Thought, Ithaca, NY and London, Cornell
University Press, 1982.
14.91 Starobinski, J. Les Mots sous les mots: les anagrammes de Ferdinand de
Saussure, Paris, Gallimard, 1971.
14.92 Stump, E. Dialectic and its Place in the Development of Medieval Logic,
Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1989.
14.93 Tachau, K.H. Vision and Certitude in the Age of Ockham, Leiden, E.J.Brill,
1988.
14.94 Torre, B.R. de la Thomas Buckingham and the Contingency of Futures, a
study and edition of Thomas Buckingham’s De contingentia futurorum
et arbitrii libertate, Notre Dame, Ind., University of Notre Dame Press,
1987.
14.95 Vossenkuhl, W. von and Schonberger, R. (eds) Die Gegenwart Ockhams,
Weinheim, VCH Acta humaniora, 1990.
14.96 Ward, G. Theology and Contemporary Critical Theory, London, Macmillan,
1996.
14.97 White, G. ‘Ockham and Wittgenstein’, in [14.95].
14.98 Whitehead, A.N. and Russell, B. Principia Mathematica, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press, 1910.
14.99 Wittgenstein, L. Philosophical Investigations, ed. G.E.M.Anscombe, R.Rhees
and G.H.von Wright, trans. G.E.M.Anscombe, Oxford, Blackwell
Publishers, 1953.
14.100 ——The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. D.F.Pears and B.
McGuinness, London, Routledge, 1963.
14.101 ——On Certainty, ed. G.E.M.Anscombe and G.H.von Wright, trans. D.Paul
and G.E.M.Anscombe, corrected reprint, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers,
1974.
14.102 Wood, R. ‘Ockham on essentially-ordered causes: logic misapplied’, in
[14.95].
14.103 Wright, C. Realism, Meaning and Truth, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1987.
367
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CHAPTER 15
Walter Burley, Peter Aureoli
and Gregory of Rimini
Stephen Brown
THE END OF THE GREAT ERA
Immediately after the glorious age of Bonaventure and Thomas Aquinas,
the University of Paris, as we have seen, had a number of outstanding
teachers. Henry of Ghent, following in the path of Bonaventure, was
the reigning figure until about 1285 ([15.14] 121–78; 221–3).1 Godfrey
of Fontaines, the pupil of Aquinas and his defender against the 1277
condemnation of propositions associated with the great Dominican
thinker, developed his own voice and gradually replaced Henry as the
principal master at the university ([15.32] xv–xxi, 382–5; [15.14] 3–
41 and passim; [15.21] 193–207). Giles of Rome, a student of Aquinas
from 1269 to 1272, whose teaching was delayed by a censure against
him in 1277, was restored to good standing by Pope Honorius IV in
1285 ([15.14] 223–5). He established an early form of Augustinian
teaching that held sway with the Augustinian Hermits until a more
English-influenced approach was established in 1342–4 by Gregory of
Rimini ([15.29] 182–207). As the fourteenth century began, the most
outstanding figure was a visitor from Oxford, John Duns Scotus. His
lectures at Paris survive in the form of student reports, bearing the
appropriate name, Reportata Parisiensia. With the death of the Subtle
Doctor in 1308, an era of famous Parisian teachers came to an end.
The influence of these great thinkers, however, remained at Paris in
the period (1308–50) that now concerns us. Henry, as we shall see, is
the opponent of Peter Aureoli on the unity of the concept of being and
on God’s knowledge of future contingents. Although many Parisian
authors continued to criticize his theory of illumination, Henry still
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found a staunch ally in Hugolinus of Orvieto (see [15.16] 151–4).
Godfrey was a strong influence on the Carmelite John Baconthorpe,
who taught in Paris as well as England and on John of Pouilly, who
quoted him favourably in his Quodlibeta ([15.32] 386). Giles influenced
members of his order at Paris in different ways: Gerard of Siena and
Thomas of Strasbourg stayed close to Giles in their teaching, whereas
Michael of Massa in his later writings sacrified the metaphysical interests
of Giles to the study of natural philosophy in order to refute William
of Ockham’s teachings on physics ([15.36] 196–214). Scotus had so
many followers at Paris in the decade after his death that one might
even speak of them (William of Alnwich, Antonius Andreas, Hugh of
Newcastle, Francis of Marchia, Francis Meyronnes, and others) as
forming the first Scotist school ([15.14] 9–24).
WALTER BURLEY
If, however, we want to move beyond the echoes of Henry, Godfrey,
Giles and John Duns to the new philosophical voices of the era after
Scotus’s death, we might well begin with Walter Burley. Burley, as is
known, did his early and his late work in England. However, he arrived
in Paris before 1310 to study theology and he stayed there until 1327.
In effect, then, the central years of the life and activity of Walter, who
was born around the year 1275, were spent in Paris. The Tractatus
primus (First Treatise), which is Walter’s defence of certain theses of
his Commentary on the ‘Sentences’ that were attacked by Thomas
Wilton, was written in Paris. So was his Treatise on Forms, perhaps
his first reaction to William of Ockham’s physics. If the first version of
his De puritate artis logicae (On the Purity of the Art of Logic), with
its attack on Ockham’s theory of supposition, did not have its origin
in Paris, it at least existed there in a number of copies—one, an
abbreviation—before 1350. His detailed attack on Ockham’s physics
began with his Exposition of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’, whose books I–VI
were completed at Paris ([15.31] 180–6). Around 1340 Walter’s
continued influence at Paris is confirmed by the Danish commentator
on the Prior Analytics, Nicholas Drukken, who defended Ockham’s
position on supposition against Burley, whom he explicitly names and
cites ([15.27] 51–3). Certainly he must be considered one of the great
voices of Parisian realism. Burley served as an envoy of Edward III at
the papal court in Avignon from 1327 to 1330. Although he finished
his career in England, often under the patronage of Richard of Bury,
the Bishop of Durham, he made frequent trips to the Continent ([15.30]
30–8). During his later years in England, he commented on the Ethics,
wrote his Super artem veterem (On the ‘logica vetus’), and produced
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an Exposition of Aristotle’s ‘Politics’, books VII and VIII of which
were heavily indebted, even in phraseology, to the Parisian commentary
of Peter of Alvernia ([15.31] 186–8; [15.27] II: 13–22).
The early works of Walter Burley place him at Oxford in 1301 and
1302, though he seems to have lectured there even earlier. We have, for
example, at least four different commentaries by him on Aristotle’s
On Interpretation that have survived. It is the Questions on ‘On
Interpretation’ that dates from 1301. This work, however, in a quaestio
format, is somewhat advanced. There is a more basic commentary, a
précis of Aristotle’s work, found along with parallel abbreviations of
Porphyry’s Isagoge and Aristotle’s Categories in Cambridge, MS St.
John’s College 100, ff. 47ra–54vb. Such cursory lectiones, which simply
list the general content of Aristotle’s works for beginners, most likely
antedated the more developed quaestiones arising from the Aristotle’s
text and aimed at an advanced group of scholars. Such summary works
do not reveal much about Burley. Anyone could have done such
summaries. Also among the works associated with the years 1301 and
1302 is a Treatise on Supposition ([15.1] 16, [15.3] 200–1).
What is characteristic of these early works, as we should well expect,
is the total absence of any reference to William of Ockham or his
philosophy. In other words, during his early days at Oxford we find
no conflict between Burley’s form of realism and the nominalistic
realism of Ockham. The Treatise on Supposition is very instructive,
since it was both a positive and negative source for Ockham’s Summa
logicae. Ockham, in his presentation of the supposition of relative terms,
copied extensively from Burley’s work, and in treating improper
supposition, summarized his statements. Ockham, however, disagrees
with Burley over simple and personal supposition. One must, however,
tread softly in establishing the interplay of the two authors. The
Venerable Inceptor’s own words inform us that Burley is not his only
opponent: ‘From this argument the falsity of the common opinion which
declares that simple supposition takes place when a term supposits for
its significate is clear’ ([14.5] II, 141). Burley himself, when he attacks
Ockham’s Summa logicae in the later De puritate artis logicae, implies
his own agreement with the traditional way by informing us that
William is out of accord with the ancients ([15.11] 7).
BURLEY’S REALISM AND OCKHAM’S
NOMINALISM
Walter Burley did not see his form of realism as something new. Yet,
despite its claim to roots in the ancients, it does have its own
peculiarities. In his 1301 Questions on ‘On Interpretation’ he asks:
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Does a spoken word signify a thing (res) or a concept (passio animae)?
Realizing that Aristotle had answered this question by saying that a
spoken word does not signify a thing but the passio animae or concept,
Burley explains: a spoken word does not signify the thing (res) with its
individuating differences; it signifies the passio animae. But what is
this passio animae or concept, for him? Claiming to follow Ammonius,
Burley contends that the passio animae is the thing itself in so far as it
is proportionate to the intellect. A name is imposed on something only
to the degree that it is known by the mind. Now nothing is known by
the mind except in so far as it is capable of moving the intellect. So a
name cannot be imposed on anything unless it is proportionate to the
mind. There is, according to Burley, a parallel between the act of
signifying and the act of knowing. In regard to the act of knowing,
Burley explains, there are three things to be considered: the thing known,
the intellect knowing, and the species by means of which a thing is
known. The species is not what is first known; the res or thing is the
first object known even though it is known by means of the species.
Likewise, the act of signifying has three elements: the word which is
signifying, the thing signified, and the species by means of which the
thing is signified. And just as the species is not that which is first known,
so it is not that which is first signified. The thing itself is that which is
first signified, though by means of the species ([15.3] 211).
In a later commentary on On Interpretation, which bears the title
Middle Commentary because it fits between the Questions and the
late Commentary of 1337 both in size and time, he holds the same
position as in the Questions. He adds, however, a second point: not
only are there universal concepts and singular concepts, but because
the concept is the thing itself, there are in propositions universal things
as well as singular things ([15.2] 84–5). In the last redaction of his On
Interpretation commentary, he underscores this point even more
forcefully: ‘Supposing, nonetheless, that universals are things outside
the mind—which is the more true position—we have to state that the
name of a first intention is the name of a thing as it falls under the first
concept of the intellect.’ In a direct attack on William of Ockham in
the same work he establishes a third point, declaring, ‘It can be noted
that outside the mind there are some universal things and some singular
things… Propositions are composed of things outside the mind which
are universal and things that are singular. These are both outside the
mind. And still such noteworthy considerations are not pleasing to the
moderns who do not posit universals outside the mind and who do
not admit that propositions are made up of things outside the mind’
([15.9] ff. 67va, 75vb).
When one sees these three theses of Burley’s commentaries on On
Interpretation, it is hard to resist the conclusion that William of Ockham
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had him (and perhaps also Walter Chatton) in mind in the prologue to
his Commentary on ‘On Interpretation’, when he attacks an opinion
that claims:
That the concept is the thing outside the mind as conceived
or understood (res extra concepta sive intellecta) in the way
that some grant that besides singular things there are
universal things, and that singular things conceived are
subjects in singular propositions and universal things
conceived are subjects of universal propositions. Now this
opinion, in regard to this: that it places some things outside
the mind besides the singulars and existing in them, I think
altogether absurd and destructive of the whole philosophy of
Aristotle and all science and all truth and reason, and that it
is the worst error in philosophy and rejected by Aristotle in
Book VII of the Metaphysics, and that those holding such a
view are incapable of science.
([14.5] Op. Phil. II: 362–3)
For Ockham himself there are no such res universales in singular things
which correspond to our common names. As he declares near the end
of the Book II of his Commentary on ‘On Interpretation’, ‘Names of
this type, “man”, “animal”, “lion”, and universally all first intention
names primarily and principally signify the things themselves outside
the mind. The word man primarily signifies all men, and the word
animal primarily signifies all animals. And the same holds for other
words of this type’ ([14.5] Op. Phil. II, 502). For Ockham, ‘man’ and
‘animal’ signify that men and animals are really alike, and they are
really alike prior to any activity of the mind that recognizes that they
are alike; yet they are similar because they are men or animals, not
because of some common similarity that exists in each of them ([14.5]
Op. Th. IV: 287–310). These competing theories concerning common
nouns and the objects they signify took on the already existing labels
‘realism’ and ‘nominalism’, even though in the works of Burley and
Ockham these positions might have some particular characteristics of
their own.
The debate over the significates of common nouns led realists—and
Burley claims his position is the traditional one—to hold that
supposition is simple when a common noun stands for its significate
([15.11] 7). The nominalists—and Ockham claims that he is opposing
the common position—hold that supposition is personal when a
common noun stands for its significate. For the nominalists, supposition
is simple when a term stands for the intention or concept in the mind,
which properly is not the significate of the term, for such a first intention
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term signifies true things and not concepts (see [14.5] Op. Phil. I: 196).
In brief, Ockham, whose theory of supposition parallels his theory of
universals, rejects any common reality existing among and in individuals
and interprets earlier theories of simple supposition, like that of Burley,
as holding a common reality corresponding to our common concepts.
Ockham redefines simple supposition by declaring that the supposition
of a term is simple when the term supposits for what is common: the
concept. For Ockham and the nominalists, when the suppositing term
in a proposition stands for its significate (a real thing) then you have
personal supposition, since the only true things are individuals. It is, in
Ockham’s judgement, this error—the error of those realists, like Burley,
who believed that there is something in things besides the singular
thing itself, and that humanity, for example, is some thing distinct from
singular men and found in them, and that this distinct thing is their
essence—that led them astray both in their theories of signification
and supposition ([14.5] Op. Phil. I: 204). Both camps held that common
nouns signified things. The realists and nominalists differed because
the first focused on common things, while the second denied the
existence of common realities. Burley entitled his work De puritate
artis logicae, to return to the pure logic of the ancients in contrast to
the contaminated logic of Ockham’s Summa logicae. In this work,
Burley claims to follow Aristotle, Boethius, Priscian and Averroes when
he argues that when someone employs the word ‘man’ in a meaningful
or significative way, he is not directing his attention to Peter or John or
any other particular person that is now present. He is rather focusing
on that which is common to Peter, John or anyone else. In other words,
‘man’ does not signify particular men but rather the common reality
by which each individual is a man ([15.11] 7–8).
Perhaps the example that Burley believes best illustrates the
differences in signification and supposition theory between the realist
and nominalist positions is the proposition ‘Man is the most noble of
all creatures.’ What possibly could you mean when you make such a
statement? Surely you do not want to say, when you make this
declaration, that some particular man is the most noble of all creatures.
In this statement, ‘man’ has simple supposition since it stands for its
significate, i.e. for something common, the species ‘man’, which is the
most noble of all creatures ([15.1] 24, [15.11] 7).
Burley also disagreed with Ockham in regard to the nature of the
ten categories. In cases where they are dealing with singular substances,
both men would treat such substances as things, and there would be
no controversy. However, as we have seen, Ockham denies that there
are universal substances. Since science is of the universal, then, for
Ockham, science cannot, strictly speaking, be about things, since all
things are particular. For Walter Burley, scientific propositions stand
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
for universal things outside the mind. This understanding was, in his
judgement, the only way to guard real sciences. Since, in Ockham’s
theory, universals are only concepts, all sciences are about concepts.
According to him, this does not obliterate the distinction between real
and rational sciences. Such a division, he argues, depends not on whether
the science is about things or concepts, but whether the concepts which
are the components of all scientific propositions stand for things or for
other concepts. In the former case we have a real science; in the latter
we have a rational science ([14.5] Op. Th. II: 136–8; [15.18] 112–15).
When they deal with inhering qualities, such as whiteness, sweetness
or heat, both William and Walter consider them to be things. In
Ockham’s analysis of reality, however, not all qualities are inhering
qualities and thus not all qualities express things distinct from their
substances. The same holds for all the remaining categories: they signify
something real but not a distinct thing existing subjectively in singular
substances like individual inhering qualities.
Ockham’s favourite example should help us understand what he
means. ‘Similarity’ signifies something real. It does not, however, signify
a thing over and above the really inhering quality (e.g. whiteness) in
two or more subjects. ‘Similarity’ does not itself signify a further really
existing quality (i.e. similarity) in the white subjects. If this were the
case, argues Ockham, the distinction of the categories would be
obliterated, since the category of relation would be reduced to the
category of quality ([14.5] Op. Phil. I: 167–8). If Socrates is white and
Plato is white, then Socrates is, without the addition of any other thing,
similar to Plato. The white Socrates does not gain a new reality in
Plato’s becoming white. He gains a new predicate, a new denomination,
and it is a real predicate he gains, but it is not a new predicate signifying
a new res or thing. By the very fact that both Socrates and Plato are
white, they are similar. Given this condition that both are white, even
God cannot take away their similarity. Furthermore, they are similar
independently of our mind, so they are really similar. Yet neither Socrates
nor Plato has similarity as a quality subjectively inhering in them. If
Plato ceases to be white, he would lose an inhering quality of whiteness,
but he would not lose an inhering quality of likeness to Socrates
according to whiteness. He would lose such a predicate or
denomination, but not a res (see [15.18] 120).
As it is in the case of ‘similitude’, which expresses one type of relation,
so is it with the remaining categories. They do not signify things, but
are nomina (concepts or words) which signify something real but not
things distinct from substances and inhering qualities. Even some terms
in the category of quality do not signify inhering qualities. Some terms
indicating the figure of something, e.g. that something is curved or
straight, do not signify a new res added to that thing. As Ockham
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states in the Summa logicae, ‘Such predicables “curved” and “straight”
are able to be affirmed successively just because of local motion. When
something is straight, if its parts afterwards, simply by local motion
and without the arrival of any new thing, are closer together so that
they are less distant than before, it is said to be curved’ ([14.5] Op.
Phil. I: 180).
A discrete quantity also is a concept or word which does not signify
a distinct reality over and above the things which are numbered. When
we speak about two men, one in Cambridge and one in Paris, we do
not signify by the term ‘two’ a duality that exists subjectively in them.
If ‘two’ signified a thing over and above the men, would it exist
subjectively in each? In this case each man would be two, since this
thing ‘duality’ would exist in each. If one part of the accident ‘duality’
existed in one man and another part in the other, then two parts of an
accidental quality distinct in subject and place, even by hundreds of
kilometres, would make one accidental quality or res—which seems
unimaginable. ‘Two’ thus does not signify a distinct thing over and
above the two things, which makes the two things two; it stands for
the two things themselves and connotes that the two things do not
make a per se unum ([15.18] 121).2 Ockham in the Summa logicae
goes through each of the categories attempting to show that they do
not signify distinct things from substances and inhering qualities and
arguing that terms in each of the distinct categories do not necessarily
signify distinct things.
Burley, in his late Commentary on Aristotle’s ‘Categories’, attacks
the nominalistic view of the categories presented by Ockham. The
categories cannot simply signify names or concepts; they must signify
things. If we look at Ockham’s favourite example, that of similarity,
we see that there are many reasons that militate against similarity being
reduced to a name or concept. A likeness, for instance, admits of degrees:
things can be more or less like one another. When we look at two
things we can see that they are more alike than two other things. Yet
names or concepts do not admit of degrees. Furthermore, it is impossible
to know one of the things that are relative without knowing the other.
But you can know one noun or concept without knowing another
noun. Moreover, according to Aristotle, relative things exist at the same
time, so that if one of them is destroyed, then the other is affected. If a
father is killed, then his son ceases to be actually a son anymore. But if
you destroy a word, such as ‘father’, the word ‘son’ is not affected
([15.7] ff. e4vb–e5ra).
Neither is the nominalist account of discrete quantity acceptable to
Burley. What a nominalist like Ockham assumes is that every accident
that is numerically one has to have a subject that is numerically one.
Yet this is not the way that Averroes explains discrete quantities in his
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Commentary on Book III of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’. There he explains
that it is characteristic of a discrete quantity that it is present in many
subjects by reason of its parts. When we are talking about two things,
then, this does not mean that ‘duality’ taken as a whole is in each subject.
What it means is that the parts of a duality each exist in a subject, so
that one of its parts is in one subject and another of its parts is in another
subject. It is in this way that an accident that is numerically one can be
in diverse subjects even separated by great distances. There is no reason
why an accident that is per se one in the sense of being one discrete
quantity has to have a subject that is per se one ([15.7] f. e2rb).
In a way parallel to Ockham’s treatment in the Summa logicae and
his Commentary on Aristotle’s ‘Categories’, Burley thus unfolds his
realistic interpretation of all the categories in his On the ‘logica vetus’.
Nor is the story different if we compare Ockham and Burley’s views
concerning natural philosophy. Basically the same principles are at
work. For Ockham, many of the terms of natural philosophy, i.e.
‘change’, ‘motion’, ‘time’, ‘instant’, etc., are interpreted as absolute
terms that point to things that exactly correspond to them. According
to Ockham, many such terms of physics are not absolute terms; they
are connotative terms. What does this distinction mean? If you take a
word like albedo (‘whiteness’), it is an absolute term that signifies a
colour. However, if you take a word like albus, it signifies more than
one thing. To avoid complications, let us say albus signifies ‘a man
who is white’ or ‘whiteness in a man’. In short, it just doesn’t signify
one thing; it signifies one thing and co-signifies or connotes another.
Ockham explains that a word like ‘motion’, because it is a noun, can
lead us into thinking that there is an absolute thing that corresponds
to it. In fact, he argues, ‘motion’ is not an absolute term, but is a short
hand way of saying ‘something is moving’. Another way of saying this
is that ‘motion’ is a connotative term that signifies more than one thing.
It is a term that we should really translate into connotative language
(‘something is moving’) in order to avoid thinking it is an absolute
term that has a distinct or separate reality corresponding to it. In his
Exposition of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’ he expresses well the problem he
sees: ‘Wherefore, this proposition “Something is moving” is more
explicit and more clear than the proposition “A motion exists”. The
latter statement is ambiguous, because some understand by it that there
is something distinct from a movable object and other permanent things
that exists, the way some moderns do. Others, however, do not
understand by the statement “A motion exists” anything more than
“Something is moving”, where you convert the noun form into a verbal
form. It is for this reason alone that Aristotle says that “motion” is not
something that you can point to; and he says the same about other
terms of this kind’ ([14.5] Op. Phil. V: 243).
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Walter Burley certainly belonged to the first, realist group of
interpreters. ‘Motion’, ‘change’, ‘time’, ‘instant’—all such words point
to exactly corresponding realities. In Book I of his Exposition on the
Books of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’ he announces boldly, ‘Fourthly, I prove
that an instant is something in reality, something that is completely
indivisible’ ([15.10] col. 38A).
Burley is not the only champion of realism at Paris in the first half of
the fourteenth century, but his is a strong voice and one that found
followers and opponents during this period. Ockham, likewise, is not
the only champion of nominalism. In fact, he was not then an actual
presence, except through some of his writings and followers, as well as
through the voice of some of his opponents like Burley (see [15.23]
53–96). Burley’s voice is a real one. It was in Paris that he began his
attacks on Ockham’s logic and physics.
PETER AUREOLI
If one could debate whether Burley was an English thinker or a Parisian
one, there is no doubt about the Parisian association of Peter Aureoli.
He was in Paris during the first decade of the century and perhaps was
a student of Scotus. Even if he was not an actual student of Scotus, he
later became central in the life of Parisian Scotism. After teaching at
Bologna (1312) and Toulouse (1314), this French Franciscan returned
to Paris where he lectured from 1316 to 1320. His most famous work,
the Scriptum in primum Sententiarum (Writing on the First Book of
the ‘Sentences’), was produced before he taught at Paris. His Paris
production is a complex issue that will not be settled until the First
Book of his Reportatio (student reports) there is edited. Two important
issues from the First Book show the independent character of his
thought.
The Unity of the Concept of Being
The first issue concerns the unity of the concept of being. Aureoli treated
the matter both in his earlier Scriptum and in his Paris Reportatio. The
treatments are substantially the same, even though Aureoli has reworked
his Reportatio presentation in such a way that the two works have no
text in common. The account in both is the same, although the Scriptum
rendition provides names. Aureoli has a number of authors as
opponents. Henry of Ghent, for example, sets the framework for
Aureoli’s discussion. For Henry, our concept of ‘being’ is a confused
concept. This has to be understood in a very precise sense: ‘Confused’
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has the sense of ‘con-fused’. In other words, we do not have one concept
of being unless we take one concept in the sense of a psychological
unity. When we analyse what we at first think is one concept we find
that we have two concepts. One of these concepts is the concept of
‘privatively undetermined being’. In short, this concept of being is
arrived at by examining creatures and then leaving aside or depriving
them of their many differences. The other concept is the concept of
‘negatively undetermined being’. This concept of being is proper to
God alone, since God cannot be determined or limited at all; he is
totally undetermined or unlimited. Since the concept of being predicable
of creatures is a concept that is a common concept of created being
without the differences included and the concept of being predicable
of God is a concept of a being that admits no limits or differences, our
mind mistakes them and views the two kinds of indetermination as
one. When we analyse the nature of the indetermination and divide it
into privatively and negatively undetermined being, we realize that we
are dealing with two different concepts of being: one predicable of
God, the other predicable of creatures.
Furthermore, for Henry, because of his theory of illumination, the
first concept we have is the concept of negatively undetermined being,
or of God. We only know other things because of the light of divine
being. We are not aware of the divine being when we perceive created
beings, but when we examine how we can know created beings, we
realize that God provides the light that makes their being and truth
shine forth—somewhat in the way that the light behind a stained glass
window allows us to see the colours and shapes of the windows. We
focus on the colours and shapes, so that is what we think we know
first. Yet, when we analyse the situation of seeing the colours and shapes
we realize that the light is in a sense the first thing we know, even
though it is not the first thing we focus on.
John Duns Scotus rejected Henry’s theory of illumination and had
to find another explanation for our knowledge of being. For Scotus,
our concept of being is not a confused concept in the way that Henry
meant ‘con-fused’. ‘Being’ is the most distinct concept we have. ‘Being’
leaves aside all determinations or differences. Of course, the realities
have their differences: created beings are finite and the uncreated being
is infinite. But we can, according to Scotus, leave these differences
outside our concept of being. Modes of being, such as ‘infinite’ or
‘finite’, if left outside our concept of being, provide us with a distinct
concept of being in contrast to the con-fused concept that Henry affirms.
Whatever could confuse it is left outside. We thus end up, according to
Scotus, with a concept of being that is univocal. It is predicable of God
and creatures in the same sense, since whatever could compromise this
single sense is left outside the concept.3
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Aureoli’s third set of opponents are the Dominican Hervaeus Natalis
(Hervé Nedellec or Hervé Nöel) and the Carmelite Gerard of Bologna.
Each of these Parisian thinkers treads a middle way between the
equivocal concept of being that is affirmed by Henry of Ghent and the
univocal concept of being defended by John Duns Scotus. In effect,
they lean more toward Henry by declaring, like Aristotle, that ‘being is
said in many ways’. They follow the model of Aristotle in Book IV of
the Metaphysics: ‘Being’ is like ‘health’. We say that many different
kinds of things are healthy. Not only is a man healthy, but also the diet
that preserves his energy, the complexion that indicates that he is robust,
the urine sample that a doctor takes to test the state of his condition,
all are called ‘healthy’. They have this name because they all are
connected with the health of a man. So with ‘being’: whatever is related
to a substance, the primary meaning of ‘being’, is also called ‘being’.
The colour of a substance, the size of a substance, the location of a
substance also are ‘being’ in some sense, since they are all related to
the substance in the same way that diets, complexions, and urine
samples are related to the health of a human being or other animal.
‘Being’, then is said ‘in many ways’, but because of the relation of all
the different types of being to the substances to which they are linked,
they are united in some way. There are thus many concepts of being,
but because of the connection among the realities they signify, they are
in a certain way unified. They are, in short, analogous.
Peter Aureoli’s own position will contest each of these three opposing
theories concerning the unity of the concept of being, yet it will in a
way include elements from each of them. In contrast to Henry, Gerard
and Hervaeus, he will side with Scotus and stress the true simple unity
of the concept of being. Yet the concept of being is not univocal in the
sense that it leaves outside its ambit the differences. It is thus not a
distinct concept, since it includes all the differences of being within it.
Like Henry, at least in his vocabulary, Aureoli’s view of the concept of
being is that it is a confused concept. However, he does not understand
it as a con-fused concept that needs to be corrected. It is confused in
the sense that the simple concept of being includes all differences within
it. The realities that can have ‘being’ predicated of them have, of course,
their real differences; but still we can, Aureoli argues, have a most
indistinct concept that can be predicated of all of them. The
transcendental concept of ‘being’ is a certain total implicit ratio and
the categorical concepts of substance and accidents are explicit partial
rationes. There is not in a stone one ratio which makes it a being and
a diverse ratio which makes it a stone. The ratio making it a stone and
everything in a stone is formally being. In this way, Aureoli separates
himself from the ‘health’ employed by Aristotle that is so strongly
stressed by Gerard of Bologna and Hervaeus Natalis. ‘Healthy’ points
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to the formal presence of health in a man or other animal; diets,
complexions, etc. are not formally healthy. With ‘being’ the case is
different. Each kind of being is formally being. The analogy of extrinsic
attribution, exemplified by ‘healthy’, does not tell the whole story,
according to Aureoli. All realities and all aspects of reality are formally
being. There must be a concept predicable of all of them. It is an implicit
concept containing all rationes of being. A proper concept of a particular
thing is attained not by adding some ratio that is not being or some
ratio that is being in another sense of the term ‘being’; it is an explicit
concept of ‘a particular kind of being’ in contrast to the implicit concept
of being that is predicable of all that is not nothing (see [15.17] 117–
50; [15.19] 118–120).
Aureoli’s position on the unity of the concept of being was attacked
by a number of the followers of John Duns Scotus. Walter Chatton
defended Scotus against Aureoli’s challenge both in his London
Reportatio of 1321–3 and his Oxford Lectura of 1328–30 (see [15.4]
127–77). Peter Thomae attacked Aureoli’s teaching in his Questions
on Being, disputed at the Franciscan house of studies in Barcelona
around 1325 (see [15.25] 216). Gerard Odon, at Paris, distinguished
between Aureoli’s logical concept of being and the metaphysical concept
of being that was defended by Duns Scotus (Geraldus, MS Paris BN
6441, ff. 7va–9rb).
God’s Knowledge of Future Contingent Events
The second issue that garnered immediate attention for Aureoli was
his theory concerning God’s knowledge of future contingent events.
Although his treatment of this issue arises immediately from the
discussion of it in John Duns Scotus, the problem, as he treats it, has
its more precise origin in William de la Mare’s representation of Thomas
Aquinas’s position on God’s knowledge of future contingent events,
an interpretation that Henry of Ghent judged to be true and to be the
position of Aquinas. According to this view temporal things, not just
causally but actually, have a reality in the eternal ‘now’ of God. Most
likely, Henry introduced this understanding to establish the point that
changes in this world do not entail any change in God’s knowledge of
them. To escape the implication that the eternal presence of things to
God’s knowledge entails their actual eternal existence, Aureoli refuses
to speak of the presence of creatures in the eternal ‘now’. It is improper
to speak of future things as present to eternity, since what is not present
in itself is not able to be present to something else. He forges a new
word to describe how God knows temporal things. Temporal things
are non-distant (indistantes) to God’s eternity. Aureoli’s new term
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‘non-distant’ expresses a negative relation: it means ‘present, but not
in a temporal way’. Future contingent events, then, are not future to
God; but neither are they present in a present-tense manner that points
to a present temporal moment (see [15.13] 114–24).
Since God’s knowledge of events that for us are future is not future,
and thus does not precede the event, Aureoli contends that singular
propositions about future contingent events are neither determinately
true nor determinately false in themselves. For him, they are completely
neutral or indeterminate. If, he argues, they were determinately true or
false because God knew them before they happened, then all future
events would take place immutably. This position was strongly attacked
by John Baconthorpe, Francis Meyronnes, Francis of Marchia,
Landulph Caracciolo and a number of other masters who taught at
Paris before 1350 (see [15.13] 126–31, 78). Aureoli had to wait for
Peter of Candia, who commented on Book I of the Sentences at Paris
in 1378, before he found an ally for the possibility of his position.
Aureoli’s effect on this issue, however, was long-lasting: his position
was revived by Peter of Rivo at Louvain in the 1460s in a battle with
Henry of Zomeren. This debate led to the censure of Peter of Rivo in
1473 for ‘opinions ill-sounding, scandalous and offensive to Christian
ears’. Some of the censured statements also might be attributed to Peter
Aureoli (see [15.26] 12–15).
If Aureoli is significant for the independent power of his thought, he
is also important for the thorough knowledge of his contemporaries
whom he blended into his own synthesis. Francis Meyronnes praises
him highly for his portrait of the positions of others when he simply
declares, ‘If you want to see the opinions of others presented distinctly,
look everywhere in Aureoli’ ([15.24] 24). Almost a hundred years later,
Capreolus uses Aureoli as a main source book. This is immediately
evident in the question on the unity of the concept of being, where it is
easy to see that Capreolus does not know Henry of Ghent, Duns Scotus,
Gerard of Bologna or Hervaeus Natalis directly. All of them people his
text, yet all their citations are taken verbatim from the text of the
Scriptum of Peter Aureoli. In short, Capreolus’ knowledge of these
and many other authors is through the reports of Peter Aureoli (see
[15.12] xxii).
GREGORY OF RIMINI
Our final focus will be on Gregory of Rimini, an Augustinian Hermit,
who brought to Paris a more detailed knowledge of William of Ockham,
along with a developed knowledge of Ockham’s English critic, Walter
Chatton, as well as Ockham’s somewhat independent follower, Adam
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Wodeham. It was also Gregory who introduced the thought of Richard
Fitzralph, and to a lesser degree that of Thomas Bradwardine, Richard
Kilvington, William of Heytesbury, Thomas Buckingham, and Robert
of Halifax to Paris. In effect, these influences led Gregory in his own
works to supplant the Augustinian Hermit tradition of Giles of Rome
with his own more English-initiated philosophy and theology (see
[15.22] 311–13).4
Gregory had been a student in Paris from 1323 to 1329, before
teaching at the Augustinian houses of Bologna, Padua, and Perugia.
He returned to Paris in 1341 or 1342 to prepare for his lectures on the
Sentences of Peter Lombard. His Lectures on Books I and II of the
Sentences (1342–3 or 1343–4) show that during this preparatory year
he deepened his acquaintance with Ockham, Chatton and Wodeham.
When we spoke above of Ockham’s and Burley’s views of science, we
stressed that science is of the universal and necessary. Since there are
universal and necessary realities for Burley, science has as its object the
universal and necessary realities that exist in individual things and make
them to be the kind of things they are. Since there are no universal
realities for Ockham, the objects of science for him are then the
propositions or conclusions that alone are universal and necessary.
Ockham’s position was not only attacked by Burley; it was also attacked
by Walter Chatton. Ockham’s student Adam Wodeham disagreed with
both his teacher and Chatton and forged a new alternative, which was
endorsed by Gregory. The alternative was based on the argument against
Chatton that there are no necessary beings besides God. Creatures then
cannot be the objects of science since they are neither necessary nor
universal. Yet Adam Wodeham and Gregory disagreed with Ockham
as well. The objects of science are not identified with propositions, but
are somehow real. They are not the real contingent things, but rather a
real state of affairs. The universal and necessary knowledge of science
is located by them in the total overall significate of the conclusion of a
syllogism. The total significate of the proposition ‘Man is rational’ is
thus neither the proposition ‘Man is rational’, nor individual contingent
men, but rather the state of affairs that might be expressed as ‘man-
being-rational’. It is thus the dictum or state of affairs that is expressed
by the proposition that is the object of scientific knowledge (see [15.5]
66–70; [15.35] 40–3).5
If Gregory disagrees with Ockham on the object of knowledge, there
are other places where he follows him quite closely. He argues that ‘a
universal is not some thing outside the mind but is rather a concept
created (fictus) or formed by the soul that is common to many things’
([15.6] I: 396). This fictum theory concerning the nature of the concept
seems to have originated with Henry of Harclay. It was frequently
defended as one alternative explanation by Ockham. Ockham does
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not make it his explanation of choice in his Quodlibet, where he has to
pick one explanation over any other, but (as Gregory shows) Walter
Chatton’s critique of the fictum theory was not definitive.
In his natural philosophy, Gregory follows the more economical
theories of Ockham, denying that motion, time, and sudden change
are distinct entities in themselves. ‘Sudden change’ does not, for Gregory,
signify some thing beyond the permanent things involved in the change.
There is the subject that is changed, the form gained by the subject that
was not there before, and the form lost by the subject that previously
had it. There is no need to posit any extra entities.
The Augustinian background of Gregory is very developed. He chides
Peter Aureoli for inexact citations of Augustine. He quotes long passages
from the On Free Will to establish our intellectual knowledge of
singulars. His claims of loyalty to Augustine appear most staunch,
however, when he criticizes Ockham and Wodeham about man’s
powers. He accuses them of being modern Pelagians and underscores
the weakness of fallen human nature. According to Gregory, we are
wounded both in our ability to know what we should choose or avoid
and also in our ability to carry out properly our tasks even if we were
to have the correct knowledge (see [15.22] 194).
Philosophy at Paris in the first half of the fourteenth century is still
in need of a great deal of exploration. As we indicated, one of the
principal conflicts that developed gradually was the debate between
the realists and the nominalists. But the labels of realism and nominalism
swelled from an affirmation or denial of real entities corresponding to
our universal concepts to include numerous other points. The
investigation of the exploding aspects of these two orientations will
complete the introductory treatment and manifestation of some of the
riches to be found that we have presented.
NOTES
1 See also above, Chapter 13.
2 See also below, Chapter 17, pp. 418–20, for Ockham’s idea of connotation.
3 For a detailed discussion of Henry of Ghent’s and Duns Scotus’ contrasting views
on whether ‘being’ is an equivocal or univocal term, see above, Chapter 13, pp.
297–321.
4 Further discussion of Gregory of Rimini’s relation to Oxford thought will be
found in Chapter 16, pp. 391–3.
5 See also below, Chapter 17, pp. 410–11 for discussion of the complexe significabile.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
15.1 Brown, S.F. ‘Walter Burley’s Tractatus de supposition and its relation to
William of Ockham’s Summa logicae’, Franciscan Studies 32 (1972): 15–
64.
15.2 ——‘Walter Burley’s Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s Perihermenias’,
Franciscan Studies 33 (1973): 42–139.
15.3 ——‘Walter Burley’s Quaestiones in librum Perihermenias’, Franciscan Studies
34 (1974): 200–95.
15.4 Fitzpatrick, N. ‘Walter Chatton on the univocity of being: a reaction to Peter
Aureoli and William of Ockham’, Franciscan Studies 31 (1971): 88–177.
15.5 Gál, G. ‘Adam Wodeham’s question on the complexe significabile as the
immediate object of scientific knowledge’, Franciscan Studies 37 (1977):
66–102.
15.6 Gregory of Rimini Lectura super primum et secundum Sententianum, 7 vols,
ed. D.Trapp, V.Marcolino, Berlin, De Gruyter, 1979–87.
15.7 Walter Burley In Categorias etc., Venice, 1478.
15.8 ——Super artem veterem, Venice, 1497.
15.9 ——In artem ueterem, Venice, 1541.
15.10 ——In Physicam Aristotelis, Venice, 1589.
15.11 ——De puritate artis logicae tractatus longior, ed. P.Boehner (Franciscan
Institute text series 9), St Bonaventure, NY, Franciscan Institute, 1955.
15.12 Paban, C. and Pèques, T. Joannes Capreolus, defensiones theologiae Thomae
Aquinatis, Turin, Albred Cattier, 1900.
15.13 Schabel, C. ‘Peter Aureoli on divine foreknowledge and future contingents:
Scriptum in primum librum Sententiarum, dd. 38–39’, CIMAGL 65 (1995):
63–212.
15.14 Wielockx, R. Aegidii Romani, Apologia (Opera omnia III.1), Florence, Olschki,
1985.
Studies
15.15 Berubé, C. ‘La première école scotiste’, in Z.Kaluza and P.Vignaux (eds) Preuve
et raisons à l’Université de Paris: logique, ontologie et théologie au XIVe
siècle, Paris, Vrin, 1984.
15.16 Beumer, J. ‘Erleuchteter Glaube: die Theorie Henrichs von Gent und ihr Fortleben
in der Spätscholastik’, Franziskanische Studien 37 (1955): 129–60.
15.17 Brown, S.F. ‘Avicenna and the unity of the concept of being’, Franciscan Studies
25 (1965): 117–50.
15.18 ——A modern prologue to Ockham’s natural philosophy’, Miscellanea
Mediaevalia 13, 1 (Sprache und Erkenntnis in Mittelalter) (1981):
107–29.
15.19 ——‘Nicholas of Lyra’s Critique of Scotus’ Univocity’ in B.Mojsisch and
O.Pluta (eds) Historia Philosophiae Medii Aevi. Studien zur Geschichte
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der Philosophie des Mittelalters. Festschrift für Kurt Flasch zu seinem 60.
Geburtstag. Amsterdam, Philadelphia, B.R.Grüner, 1991:115–127.
15.20 ——‘Guido Terrena, O.Carm., and the analogy of being’, Documenti e studi
sulla tradizione filosofica medievale II–1 (1994): 237–69.
15.21 ——‘Godfrey of Fontaines and Henry of Ghent: individuation and the
condemnations of 1277’, Société et église (Rencontres de philosophie
médiévale, 4) (1995): 193–207.
15.22 Courtenay, W.J. Schools and Scholars in Fourteenth-century England,
Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1987.
15.23 Courtenay, W.J. and Tachau, K. ‘Ockham, Ockhamists, and the English-
German nation at Paris, 1339–1441’, History of Universities 2 (1982):
53–96.
15.24 Dreiling, R. Der Konzeptualismus in der Universalienlehre des
Franziskanererbischofs Petrus Aureoli (BGPTMA, XI, 6). Münster,
Aschendorff, 1913.
15.25 Dumont, S. ‘The Univocity of the Concept of Being in the Fourteenth Century:
II: The De ente of Peter Thomae’ Mediaeval Studies 50 (1988): 186–256.
15.26 Etzkorn, G.J. and Brown, S.F. ‘A Symposium on God’s Knowledge of Future
Contingents’, Miscellanea Francescana 96 (1996): 561–620.
15.27 Flüeler, C. Rezeption und Interpretation der Aristotelischen ‘Politica’ im späten
Mittelalter (Bochumer Studien zur Philosophie 19), Amsterdam and
Philadelphia, Pa., B.R.Grüner, 1992.
15.28 Green-Pedersen, N.J. ‘Nicholaus Drukken de Dacia’s commentary on the Prior
Analytics, with special regard to the theory of consequences’, CIMAGL
37 (1981): 42–69.
15.29 Trapp, D. ‘Augustinian theology of the 14th century’, Augustiniana 6 (1956):
146–274.
15.30 Uña Juárez, A. La filosofia del siglo XIV: contexto cultural de Walter Burley,
Real Monasterio de el Escorial, 1978.
15.31 Weisheipl, J. ‘Ockham and some Mertonians’, Mediaeval Studies 30 (1968):
163–213.
15.32 Wippel, J. The Metaphysical Thought of Godfrey of Fontaines: a Study in
Late Thirteenth Century Philosophy, Washington, DC, Catholic University
of America Press, 1981.
15.33 Würsdorfer, J. Erkennen und Wissen nach Gregor van Rimini (BGPTMA
20), Münster, Aschendorff, 1917.
15.34 Zumkeller, A. ‘Die Augustinerschule des Mittelalters: Vertreter und
philosophisch-theologische Lehre’, Analecta Augustiniana 27 (1964):
167–262.
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CHAPTER 16
Paris and Oxford between
Aureoli and Rimini
Chris Schabel
Oxford ideas in logic and natural philosophy were readily received,
analysed, and partially incorporated into corresponding writings of a
logical or natural philosophical nature at the University of Paris
throughout the 1320s, 1330s, and 1340s. Precise dating, however, is
usually not possible. There was a strong Parisian reaction to Ockham’s
physics before 1327, particularly on the part of Walter Burley, and
Ockham’s Summa logicae was available to the influential Parisian arts
master John Buridan.1 Statutes of the Parisian arts faculty show that
Ockham’s logic was playing a significant role there by 1339 ([16.10],
[16.26]). The logical writings of the Oxford Calculators from the late
1320s and 1330s were important in Parisian works of natural
philosophy from the 1340s and afterwards ([16.19]). Buridan and
Nicole Oresme used the more abstract Oxford geometrical and
mathematical concepts, but made their application to physical theory
a fundamental aim, and this contributed to their interesting treatments
of such topics as the motion of projectiles and the Earth’s rotation.
With philosophical theology the story is different. A common view
of theology at the University of Paris in the quarter century between
Peter Aureoli and Gregory of Rimini is that Paris ignored Oxford just
when Oxford was experiencing its golden age. After Aureoli lectured
on the Sentences in 1316–18, Parisian scholars busied themselves in
stagnant isolation refuting his opinions for a few years until about
1326, when Parisian thought went into what has been labelled as a
‘dormition’, only to be reawakened in 1343–4 by Rimini, who brought
much of the new Oxford thought into Paris. Thus in this period Paris
not only lost its customary dominance to Oxford, it actually went into
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sharp decline in absolute terms because it failed to maintain intellectual
contacts with the main English studium generale (see [16.9] 153).
The aim of this chapter is to review and revise this scenario. Although
Parisian theology was isolated from Oxford, for the most part, between
1318 and 1343, Oxford was equally ignorant of Paris. Moreover, where
scholars have looked, Paris was alive, awake, and productive at least
until 1330, and remained the intellectual focal point of continental
education. The Parisian ‘products’, of course, differed from those of
Oxford, as one would expect from such mutual isolation, but when
both rigorous currents came together at Paris in the 1340s, they created
a dynamic synthesis.
THE BEGINNINGS OF ISOLATION
In the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, Paris was the top school
in philosophy and theology for the secular clergy, and the international
and hierarchical educational systems of the mendicant orders helped
ensure that the leading students in Barcelona, Bologna, Cologne and
Oxford eventually made their way to Paris. When scholars left this
international market of ideas, they carried those ideas with them. For
reasons that are unclear, however, English scholars began to stay at
home in the 1310s, and most of the English had left Paris by 1320.
Some remained, but few new English students arrived at Paris in the
1320s and 1330s. This fact alone accounts for Oxford’s rise in these
decades: the best of Britain’s students stayed at home.
In Paris it was business as usual, with two exceptions: first, it lost its
English scholars; second, the end of the 1320s and the early 1330s
were troubled times for the Church. Scholarly energies were sometimes
turned to issues like the quarrel between John XXII and the mendicants,
and John XXII’s other doctrinal ‘interests’, such as the beatific vision,
matters which produced some important writings in political
philosophy, for example, although not always directly connected with
Paris. Otherwise, things went on without the English. Between 1315
and 1340 we find at Paris many significant Spanish, Italian and of
course French scholars, although a few Germans also left a mark, such
as Thomas of Strasbourg. Only in the early 1320s were there any
‘leftover’ English, such as John Baconthorpe, Thomas Wilton and
Walter Burley. Moreover, this composition of Spanish, Italian and
French scholars continued even after Rimini’s ‘recovery’, so that in the
1340s we find that our remaining Sentences commentaries come from
Alphonsus Vargas of Toledo of Spain; Rimini, Hugolinus of Orvieto,
Paul of Perugia, and John of Ripa from Italy; and John of Mirecourt
and Pierre Ceffons from France. The English never really did return in
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
force to Paris, whereas the German presence increased there markedly,
until the creation of the new German universities in the wake of the
Great Schism.
To a degree English thought had always played a role in Paris, but it
was primarily English scholars who had also studied theology in Paris,
such as Scotus, William of Alnwick, Wilton, Baconthorpe and Burley,
who were known to their fellow Parisians. This was consistently the
case even in the thirteenth century, and continued until around 1340.
One can take Henry of Harclay as an example: he was cited by name
in, for example, distinction 39 of Peter Aureoli’s Scriptum version of
his commentary on book I of the Sentences ([16.4] 185–6). Through
Aureoli, almost all Parisian theologians came to learn of Harclay’s
position. Furthermore, Aufredo Gonteri Brito OFM literally absorbed
the whole of Harclay’s Parisian Sentences commentary into his own,
when lecturing at Paris in the 1320s. English influence at Paris in the
1320s did not depend on their physical presence there.
What about the influence of contemporary Oxford scholars in this
period, in Paris? Before 1326 we have practically no evidence of the
new English theology in Paris, and yet this was a highly productive
period. There are several possible reasons for the lack of English
influence at Paris after 1326, however: Pope John XXII’s movements
after 1326 against the suspect opinions and actions of Ockham, Peter
Olivi, Meister Eckhart, Michael of Cesena and Thomas of Wales, which
may have stifled philosophical flamboyance; the straining of cross-
Channel relations at the approach of the Hundred Years War; and the
extreme decrease in the numbers of English scholars at Paris after 1325
(see, e.g. [16.7] 45–6). The most plausible explanation for the Parisian
attitude toward Oxford in both periods is that Parisian thinkers were
too busy dealing with Aureoli.
Peter Aureoli’s stature in medieval thought has not been fully
appreciated, partly because until recently few have bothered to look at
Parisian thought in the decade after him, when we would expect his
impact to be felt most intensely. Aureoli comprehensively dismantled
the systems of Aquinas and Scotus, and created a new, internally
coherent system of thought that could not be ignored. It was so large,
however, that it left little room for anyone else. Thus Landulph
Caracciolo, for example, sometimes seems content to attack Aureoli
as if there were no one else. Looked at from this perspective, it is no
wonder Ockham and the English failed to make an impact.
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SOURCES FOR STUDYING PARISIAN
THEOLOGY, 1315–40
Between 1315 and 1340 many significant scholars studied at the
University of Paris. When we look at Parisian thought in this era we
are struck with the large number of extant Sentences commentaries
from the period 1315–30. In this period, these commentaries are the
main source for current issues not only in theology per se, but also
science and philosophy more generally (see [16.17] 274–80). There
are about twenty named authors with major extant theological works,
several anonymous commentaries (mostly Franciscan) that can be
assigned to this period, and we find many of Wilton’s ideas via
Baconthorpe and Pierre Roger’s from Francis Meyronnes (see [16.23]).
We have only two commentaries that we can assign with certainty to
the 1330s, those of Strasbourg and Peter of Aquila, both conservative
thinkers. Although we do have the fascinating letters between Nicholas
of Autrecourt and Bernard of Arezzo, their Sentences commentaries
do not survive. Autrecourt’s was in fact burned. Thus we have about
thirty theologians participating in a twenty-five-year discussion, but
most of the discussion had apparently ended by the early 1330s.
There is some evidence for the lasting influence of the theologians in
these decades. Although Early Modern motives in publishing were
complex, it is still interesting that at least ten Parisians of this period,
for the most part not well known to us, had major theological works
printed in the late fifteenth through to the early seventeenth centuries,
but this could be said for only five Oxford scholars from the same
era.2 Yet very few historians have tried to trace the course of any debate
in the Paris of that time. Even the editors of Rimini had little success in
finding the Parisian sources with whom he agreed, though this was
partly because he did not cite them himself. In truth, later theologians,
especially Franciscans, looked back upon these decades as a golden
age in Parisian thought, at least Franciscan thought. The fifteenth-
century English Scotist John Foxoles placed the ultimate origin of three
schools of roughly Scotist thought in the 1320s and 1330s: Meyronnists,
Bonetists and pure Scotists (see [16.5] 270–1). In some areas of
philosophy there arose a ‘Marchist’ school as well, arising from Francis
of Marchia, and further articulated by Michael of Massa and William
of Rubione. By Rimini’s time some of their ideas were common enough
to be used without reference.
It is too early to tell the story of Paris between Aureoli and Rimini
with any degree of accuracy. Indeed, we are unsure of important basic
dates for many works, e.g. the versions of Aureoli’s Sentences
commentary; Peter Thomae’s and Peter of Navarre’s lectures; and
Rubione’s commentary (see [16.1] 199–207; [16.4] 78–82). Recently
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changes have been made to the chronology of several figures in the
1330s: Peter of Aquila, Thomas of Strasbourg, Nicholas of Autrecourt
and Bernard of Arezzo (see [16.13]). Book I of Marchia’s Sentences
commentary, from lectures given just after Aureoli’s, survives in two
main versions in at least fifteen manuscripts and five fragments, but
remains unedited. In light of the inchoate nature of the research, a
general view of the period is simply impossible. Therefore, let us examine
the theory of Oxford superiority and Parisian isolation, stagnation,
dormition and reception of Oxford thought by comparing more closely
the discussion of Parisian and Oxford scholars in two of the four areas
in philosophical theology that Courtenay deems ‘worthy of special
mention’ in Oxford theology in the very same period: epistemology
and future contingents ([16.11] 22–9).
FUTURE CONTINGENTS
No fewer than ten theologians active from 1315 to 1340 have had all
or much of their Oxford treatments of future contingents published in
modern critical editions.3 For Paris, by contrast, this is true for two
figures only: Aureoli and Navarre. Lest this philosophical issue be
considered an area of particular strength for Oxford and weakness for
Paris, it must be added that Gregory of Rimini, the Parisian theologian
who is considered most responsible for the integration of the ‘New
English Theology’ into the Parisian milieu in the early 1340s, devoted
most of his energy to refuting Aureoli, building on Parisian tradition.
Moreover, during the celebrated quarrel over future contingents at
Louvain in the later fifteenth century, a controversy that grew to include
issues of divine power and will, Aureoli, Meyronnes, Marchia and
Nicholas Bonet played explicit roles, but none of the Oxford theologians
did (see [16.21] 407–8). So we must be prepared from the outset to
admit that the supposed superiority of Oxford thought in this era is
perhaps more a reflection of modern scholarly interests than of medieval
considerations.
Aside from the verbatim copying (reading secundum alium) of
Durandus by Bernard the Lombard and Dionysus de Burgo Sancti
Sepulchri, and of Harclay by Gonteri as mentioned, scholars active
between 1318 and 1330 focused on Aureoli’s opinions. The main
elements of Aureoli’s position have been outlined above. Temporal
things are indistant or non-distant to God’s eternity, and future-tensed
propositions are neither true nor false determinately; nor does God’s
knowledge make them so, since it does not temporally precede the
future. In addition, Aureoli’s emphasis on absolute divine necessity
left little room for any divine action, so Aureoli developed an awkward
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division between the intrinsic divine will of ‘complacency’ which was
immutable and absolutely necessary, and the extrinsic will of
‘operation’, by which God actually acts, as in creation.4
The reaction to Aureoli’s theory in England was slight. Ockham
showed no awareness. Chatton knew some of Aureoli, and quoted the
basics of his ideas on propositions and prophecy, so he must have known
Aureoli’s distinction 38, article three. In refuting this fragment of
Aureoli’s treatment, Chatton even said, ‘this would be a nice
explanation, if it were true’. Adam Wodeham demonstrated about the
same cognizance of Aureoli as had Chatton, and perhaps knew a bit
more about the Parisian debate generally. Otherwise, there was little
response. Some of Bradwardine’s remarks in his De causa Dei which
appeared to some scholars to refer to Aureoli personally, really did
not, and Bradwardine was a bit confused if he meant that the position
that he heard defended in Avignon and Oxford was Aureoli’s own.
Aureoli never played a big role in the Oxford debate, which instead
went in other, interesting directions, examining in depth issues
surrounding prophecy, the ontological status of divine foreknowledge
(and the complexe significabile), and finally the different types of
necessity with respect to both the past and future.5
These last ‘Oxford’ issues only came to prominence in Paris with
Rimini. In the intervening years, almost every Parisian theologian whose
pertinent works can be securely dated to between 1318 and 1330
focused much of his discussion on Aureoli. Every one of Aureoli’s main
points was attacked, since he appeared to have denied foreknowledge
and prophecy altogether. In the 1320s, Baconthorpe, Caracciolo, and
his follower the anonymous author of Vienna ÖNB 1439 criticized
Aureoli’s vulnerable concept of the twofold divine will; Caracciolo
wondered whether creation came from God at all under Aureoli’s
scheme, if the act of creation were somehow ‘extrinsic’ to God.
Meyronnes, Caracciolo, Gerard of Siena, Bonet, and in an odd way
Gerard Odon rejected Aureoli’s notion of indistance, maintaining that
such a negative relation made little positive sense. Meyronnes, Marchia,
and Michael of Massa opposed the neutrality of future contingent
propositions, making use of both logical arguments and Scripture in
their defence of bivalence.
Several scholars defended Scotus’s account and appealed to the
traditional distinctions between the composite and divided senses of
such propositions as ‘what God foreknows will necessarily come about’,
and between the necessities of the consequent and of the consequence
(and parallel distinctions) in such consequences as ‘God foreknows X;
X will be’. All of these Aureoli had refuted at length, so this constitutes
the major ‘conservative’ point shared by many of these thinkers.
Nevertheless, interesting positive theories came out of the debate. For
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Wilton, whose ideas in this context we know via Baconthorpe, what
was needed was to show that there are different levels of determination
in human activities anyway, and that we need not fear all such
‘predetermination’. Thus God can know ‘contingent’ futures. Francis
of Marchia developed a similar solution, although in much greater
depth. In short, he distinguished between different types of
determinations and indeterminations de inesse and de possibili. Humans
in fact determine themselves beforehand with respect to what they are
actually going to do; this is determination de inesse, about what is in
reality, without which no one would or could actually do anything.
This does not mean that they are determined de possibili, however, in
a way that the possibility to do otherwise is removed. Determination
de inesse was the basis of divine foreknowledge and was required for
human action, while indetermination de possibili preserved human
freedom and left God’s foreknowledge intact. Aureoli would have found
several problems with this theory, but it was expressed eloquently and
systematically. Massa and Rubione accepted Marchia’s solution as their
own, and by Rimini’s time it seems to have been a commonplace.
Through Rimini it was passed to later theologians, and used in the late
fifteenth century by the well-read Fernand of Cordoba against Peter of
Rivo’s defence of Aureoli’s doctrine.
Rimini does not cite Marchia by name in his Sentences commentary
in this context, nor do the editors trace Marchia’s influence. Like most
scholastics, Rimini was not in the habit of citing by name those with
whom he agreed. When he devoted an entire question to refuting
Aristotle and Aureoli’s opinion on future contingent propositions, he
did not cite his Parisian predecessors who did the same thing. His
Augustinian confrère Massa, in particular, focused much energy on
this very point, and may have been Rimini’s immediate source for
Marchia’s de inessel de possibili distinction. Nevertheless, he was not
cited by name either and historians have doomed him to oblivion even
in his own order. Moreover, the Parisian Nicholas Bonet was probably
Rimini’s reason for treating propositions yet again after so many others
had. During the Louvain controversy in the 1470s, Cardinal Bessarion
and Francesco della Rovere (Pope Sixtus IV) would remember and
applaud their fellow Franciscan Bonet’s refutation of Aureoli’s
indistance notion in the former’s Natural Theology of around 1330,
but they looked less favourably on Bonet’s apparent agreement with
Aureoli that future contingent propositions could not be true or false
without entailing fatalism. Indeed, Bonet seems to have limited the
certainty of divine foreknowledge, in a way Aureoli himself would not
have approved (see [16.20] 127–279, 714–69).
Rimini’s main goal in his impressive and exhaustive treatment is to
defeat Aureoli once and for all on the issue of propositions. In doing
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so, Rimini defended foreknowledge per se, and only then did he go on
to other sub-issues, some of which came from Oxford. Rimini shows
his familiarity in this context with Wodeham, Chatton, Ockham and
the Monachus Niger. This is well known, but it does not seem possible
with future contingents to show when exactly these Oxford ideas were
in circulation in Paris. Probably it was not before 1330, but certainly
by 1343. Unfortunately the paucity and conservative nature of pertinent
sources from the 1330s do not allow any more specificity.
EPISTEMOLOGY
Katherine Tachau has looked at the Oxford discussion of epistemology
in these decades, and at Aureoli and some of his Parisian successors.
With the help of other works, we are able to piece the Parisian picture
together fairly comprehensively. In epistemology as in future contingents
Aureoli played a pivotal role. Although he was emphasizing vision,
Aureoli’s successors interpreted his theories as a radical departure from
previous epistemologies, primarily Scotus’s. Scotus had differentiated
between intuitive and abstractive cognition basically by saying that
intuitive cognition was of objects immediately present, and abstractive
cognition was the knowledge one had when the object was absent.
Aureoli put forth a redefinition of intuition and abstraction, taking
various erroneous visual ‘experiences’ (he gives eight examples) as his
starting point to define intuition. In doing so, Aureoli maintained that
intuition occurred when one thought the object was immediately
present, and in that case the ‘apparent being’ (esse apparens) was in
fact present to the mind, even with veridical intuition. For example,
when one is on a moving ship, one experiences the motion of objects
on the shore. Since one intuits the apparent being of such motion
without its real presence, or even existence, outside the mind, and since
even in Veridical’ intuition one in fact intuits only apparent being,
then one cannot infer the real presence or existence of the objects of
‘normal’ experiences, Aureoli argued. Moreover, if produced by God,
an erroneous intuition would be indistinguishable from a veridical one.
For some of Aureoli’s successors, this jeopardized all certainty, although
Aureoli apparently did not intend this (see [16.24] 85–112).
By his own admission, Ockham had limited access to Aureoli’s
Scriptum, but Ockham learned enough about Aureoli to treat the latter’s
position in a confused way in his Ordinatio, written while at the London
convent in 1320–4. The most idiosyncratic aspects of Ockham’s
treatment are his claims that one can have a true intuition that something
does not exist, and that God could give us a false intuition of something
not present, but we would still discern its falsity. These awkward
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opinions were easy targets for those who followed in the English
discussion. In debates with his confrère Walter Chatton, Ockham
modified some of his views ([16.24] 113–53). Chatton himself,
composing his Sentences commentary in 1321–3, knew Aureoli’s
Scriptum better, but Chatton’s readers were not able to distinguish
clearly between Ockham and Aureoli in Chatton’s work, and this led
to further confusion ([16.24] 180, 185–6, 207–8). Adam Wodeham
was Chatton’s rapporteur at the Franciscan London studium, and when
he in turn lectured on the Sentences at Norwich, London and Oxford,
beginning perhaps in 1328 or even earlier, Wodeham came to explore
Aureoli’s views directly, so that he knew him better than anyone else in
England.6
From the discussions of future contingents and epistemology we
can perhaps infer that the Franciscans’ London convent housed the
only manuscript of Aureoli’s Scriptum in England, since Ockham,
Chatton and Wodeham, who show the most extensive knowledge of
Aureoli, seem to have examined his work there. Unfortunately we know
less about epistemology at Oxford after Wodeham, but the London
convent and Adam Wodeham may be the key to the passage of English
theology to Paris beginning in the 1330s.
As in the case of future contingents, Aureoli’s thought played a
significant role in Parisian epistemological discussions in the 1320s
and 1330s. Of the theologians Tachau inspected from this period, she
found that only Strasbourg appeared unfamiliar with Aureoli’s
epistemology, and even Strasbourg has been added to those who treated
Aureoli in that context (see [16.13] 455). The same can be said of
some of the theologians Tachau has not studied, such as Baconthorpe
(see [16.14] 57). In many cases, these theologians had difficulty
understanding Aureoli’s position because they approached his text
wearing Scotist glasses, reading into Aureoli Scotus’s definition of
intuition and abstraction. Still, the epistemological debate that followed
Aureoli in Paris had a continuing impact even after the full reception
of English thought. Caracciolo’s treatment, for example, was well
known to Pierre Ceffons, lecturing in 1345 (see [16.24] 321).
In epistemology, however, English thought is already present by 1332.
Parallel passages in Chatton and William of Rubione reveal a close
connection in the context of epistemology, and other evidence reinforces
such an early cross-Channel link (see [16.15] 39–40; [16.13] 447–8).
Rubione’s commentary could have been written any time between 1323
and 1332, however, so Chatton’s commentary may have even been
available in Paris immediately following his own Sentences lectures.
There is another difficulty: we cannot be certain about Rubione’s
testimony until we examine Marchia’s works exhaustively. In other
contexts, Marchia influenced both Chatton and Rubione, and although
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an inspection of the two main versions of Marchia’s Sentences
commentary did not reveal the relevant discussion of abstractive and
intuitive cognition, perhaps there was another source. It would be odd
for such an original thinker as Marchia to have been perhaps unique
in ignoring Aureoli on this issue.
Chatton’s impact is certainly present, however, in the most famous
epistemological debate of the time, perhaps of the entire Middle Ages,
the exchanges of letters between Nicholas of Autrecourt and Bernard
of Arezzo in 1336–7. Taking the lead from Aureoli and the Parisian
discussion following his lectures, Autrecourt took the next step and
denied the possibility of certainty based on sensory perception. No
apparent perception of an extramental object could provide certainty
of the existence of that object. Moreover, even assuming the existence
of those objects, one could never be certain of cause and effect relations,
the bases of natural philosophy. If it is possible for us to be mistaken
about the external world and efficient causation because of God’s
action, Autrecourt maintained that it is possible without qualification
to be so mistaken. There have been many treatments, even monograph-
length accounts, of the radically sceptical aspects of Autrecourt’s
thought. Until recently this debate was seen as evidence of the influence
of that ubiquitous ‘Ockhamism’, but Tachau shows convincingly that
this historiographical interpretation is based on a long series of errors
and false suppositions. In fact, there is no evidence for Ockham’s
influence on Autrecourt in the debate (see [16.24] 335–52; [16.13]
453–9; [16.25] 248–50).
Still, there are strong indications that Autrecourt knew Chatton’s
work, if not Ockham’s. In 1340 the arts faculty restricted a proposition
that Autrecourt, while being reviewed in 1346, admitted he had held,
presumably in the 1330s: ‘God and a creature are nothing.’ Although
in 1346 Autrecourt used the term complexe significabile to describe
what he had held, and Tachau therefore links the proposition to
Wodeham, it could just as easily be the case that Autrecourt came to
hold the proposition via Chatton’s influence, and only later learned
Wodeham’s terminology. Indeed, Tachau says that Autrecourt conflated
the views of the two English Franciscans ([16.24] 353–6).
The first strong evidence for Wodeham’s presence, and for Ockham’s,
comes again with Rimini. As in the case of future contingents, Rimini
combined a concern with Aureoli and Parisian currents with a close
knowledge of the English debate, although he was less negative toward
Aureoli in this context. Rimini opposed Ockham’s position, as had
most Oxford scholars, but Wodeham played a positive part in the
development of the Italian Augustinian’s opinion. Here as well we see
the introduction of the complexe significabile to yet another
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philosophical problem, and in the decade following Rimini the English
and Parisian trends merged ([16.24] 357–83).
THE IMPACT OF ENGLISH THOUGHT
IN PARIS AFTER 1340
The impact of English thought in Parisian philosophical theology in
the 1330s appears to be mostly limited to Oxford writers active in
London before 1323, e.g. Ockham in his non-theological works,
Chatton in his Sentences commentary, and perhaps Wodeham. By 1343,
however, Rimini was using a very wide range of English philosophical
and theological works. There is reason to believe that there was an
important Italian connection here. William of Alnwick was named lector
at the Franciscan studium in Bologna in 1323, and Thomas Waleys
was lector at the Dominican convent there in 1326–7. Walter Burley,
who by 1327 knew so much of the intellectual currents of both Oxford
and Paris, was in Bologna in 1341. Ockham himself was in Italy for a
while after 1328, although it is doubtful that he had much of an impact
there just then. These English scholars brought their minds and their
books, and by about 1340 parts of Burley’s, Ockham’s, Rodington’s
and Chatton’s Sentences commentaries and no doubt many other
English works were available in Bologna. Finally, before returning to
Paris in 1342, Gregory of Rimini lectured in Bologna, Padua and Perugia
(see [16.6] 13–32; [16.13] 449–50). This may help explain how Rimini
brought so much with him, and why the full introduction of English
thought into Paris seems so abrupt.
After 1343 there was definitely an English influence in Paris, but
how much of an impact? In theology, Courtenay points to four English
trends. First, Sentences commentaries shrunk in size. Second, Sentences
commentaries were restructured, so that they departed from Lombard’s
organization and focused on sophismata. Third, schools of thought
disappeared, and more emphasis was placed on individual thinking
than on system building. Finally, new logical, physical and mathematical
ideas were applied to theological issues ([16.8] 111–14).
The size of Sentences commentaries at Paris does not seem to have
shrunk appreciably after 1343, although we must remember that the
size of commentaries depended on whether they were revised by the
author into longer forms (ordinationes). The structuring of
commentaries is a different matter. Here we find that after 1343
theologians such as Mirecourt, Henry Totting of Oyta, Peter d’Ailly
and Peter of Candia do depart from Lombard’s distinction organization,
the last three, writing in the 1370s, asking a mere handful of very large
questions. Still, many stuck close to Lombard’s system, such as John
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of Ripa and John Hiltalingen of Basel. And even Mirecourt and Candia
followed Lombard’s basic order, usually finishing off their commentaries
on the first book with questions on divine knowledge, foreknowledge,
power and will. Moreover, some of this was already present in, for
example, Francis of Marchia. Although Marchia superficially keeps to
Lombard’s distinctions, the contents of the questions do not correspond
to Lombard’s. Thus in one version Marchia devoted all of distinctions
35, 36, 38 and 39 to future contingents.
It is a difficult question as to whether school traditions existed in
an important way in Paris before 1343, or whether there was a big
change afterwards. Both before and after 1343, mendicants for the
most part kept their discussion within their own orders, at least. The
traditional view, however, has been that Paris was pretty much a
Scotist university in these early decades, or that Parisians were less
individualistic than their Oxford counterparts. We have seen that there
are a few examples of reading secundum alium, hardly an original
activity. It is also true that Marchia and Caracciolo, for example, had
their own groups of close followers on certain issues, and that many
theologians were content to modify a Scotist account in reply to
Aureoli. The trend of paraphrasing and even copying others
continued, however, long after the Oxford currents had been absorbed
into the Paris environment. But how do we assess this situation? Their
aim continued to be system building: Aureoli had a new system;
Marchia tried to develop a new system, leaving much of Scotus
behind; his followers tried to hammer it out; Rimini himself wanted
a system. The Parisian scholars may have looked at the big picture
more than did those at Oxford, who focused on individual problems.
This does not mean that Parisians did not criticize. They had no
choice but to be fundamentally negative in their works in response to
Peter Aureoli’s complete revision of most aspects of philosophical
theology. It is simply that after their attacks on Aureoli, they tended
to either develop new systems or seek refuge in old ones. It did no
good if one’s ideas did not hold together, after all. Especially telling in
this regard was a tendency, already in Wilton and later in Bonet (at
least in future contingents), to throw up one’s hands where no
systematic solution could be found. This is exactly what Hiltalingen
and Candia did later on (see [16.20] 713, 804).
Finally, there is the new logic, mathematics and physics in theology.
This was a trend already evident in Paris in the late 1310s and 1320s
in the writings of Aureoli, Marchia, Massa and Odon. Scholars of the
1340s make increasing use of Oxford geometrical, mathematical and
logical ‘measure’ language to discuss such topics in philosophical
theology as the infinite, already one of Rimini’s favourite subjects. Even
if the new language of Oxford was not developed in Paris, certainly
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the problems associated with and presupposed in that language were
explored before 1343, however. In this way, Oxford thought reinforced
a Parisian trend already in motion, and the writings of Rimini,
Mirecourt and Ceffons abound with the fruits of the new merger, both
in terms of new tools and in terms of new topics. Ceffons even develops
the tools and techniques further (see [16.16], [16.18]).
Ultimately, the safest basis for claiming that English scholarship
played a big new role in Paris after 1343 is citations. One need look
no further than the master of citations himself, the Augustinian John
Hiltalingen of Basel, who lectured on the Sentences at Paris in 1365–
6. He cited some twenty Oxford scholars from the previous fifty
years, and in his discussion of foreknowledge and predestination
alone, Hiltalingen cited Bradwardine, Heytesbury, Richard of
Kilvington, Wodeham, Fitzralph and Nicholas Aston (see [16.27]
242–50; [16.20] 789–807). English thought had permanently
penetrated the ‘mainstream’ of European philosophy by 1365. One
finds impressive numbers of English citations in the 1340s with
Rimini and Hugolino of Orvieto. In many places John of Mirecourt’s
commentary appears to be a simple matter of cutting and pasting
from Wodeham, Halifax, Bradwardine, Kilvington, Langeley and
Buckingham, which suggests that Parisians may have used Oxford
material, without attribution, to show off and gain a reputation as
innovators (see [16.12]).
This may even be the case with Rimini himself. It is telling that in
the period after Scotus, Rimini’s editors found that he cited Aureoli
and Ockham about 200 times each. Only three other scholars between
1320 and 1343 have more than ten references in Rimini: Wodeham
(66), Fitzralph (34) and Burley (58), although the editors have found a
few references to several other theologians from the period on both
sides of the Channel. It is hard to believe that Rimini would treat Aureoli
so often while ignoring the intervening Parisian debates which
undoubtedly provided ammunition. As we have seen, Rimini was less
likely to cite Parisians explicitly (although he used their material), but
it is also the case that English citations and ideas would have been
more interesting to an audience who had heard all of the anti-Aureoli
arguments before.
CONCLUSION
There is no doubt that Oxford thought between 1315 and 1340 was
truly exciting. The main reason for this was that more English scholars
simply stayed at home. There is also little doubt that Rimini to a large
extent was responsible for first explicitly introducing many of the
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stimulating English developments into the Parisian discussion, and that
English thought outside of natural philosophy and logic was largely
ignored in Paris in the meantime, at least until around 1330, when
Walter Chatton’s Sentences commentary was probably available in
Paris. But Rimini’s Aureoli citations and much present research show
that there is also considerable evidence that Parisian theology, at least
until the 1330s, continued to be illuminated by brilliant minds as it
had before 1318 and as it would after 1343. What happened after
1343 was that newer English techniques and even English theological
problems further enriched what was already a lively affair at the
continental university. After 1343, in future contingents for example,
there are more issues to discuss. But from the period 1318 to 1343,
Oxford, although to a lesser extent than Paris, was not conversant
with trends in the other city, and in many cases awareness of, say, the
Parisian debate on future contingents, would have stimulated the
English treatment of the same issue.
Whether Oxford thought was ‘better’ than Parisian thought in this
period, or vice versa, is in the final analysis a matter of taste. Modern
taste thus far has leaned heavily toward Oxford. Late medieval and
Early Modern tastes, perhaps more conservatively, went in the direction
of Paris. It really does not matter. Surely, however, the continued
flourishing of Paris and the unique developments at Oxford between
1315 and 1350 can only mean a high point in European philosophy
generally, both universities contributing and deserving further study.
NOTES
1. On Burley’s reaction to Ockham, see above, Chapter 15, pp. 369–77; on Buridan
and the Summa logicae, see John Buridan [16.2] xxx–xxxv.
2. For Paris there are all or part of the Sentences commentaries of Durandus, Aureoli,
Meyronnes, Baconthorpe, Landulph Caracciolo, Gerard of Siena, William of
Rubione, Strasbourg and Aquila, and Nicholas Bonet’s Natural Theology; for
Oxford, those of Ockham, Holcot, Wodeham and Buckingham, and Bradwardine’s
De causa Dei.
3. For some Oxford theologians, see above, Chapter 14, pp. 354–5; for Paris,
Aureoli’s contribution to the dispute is edited by Schabel [16.4] and Peter of
Navarre’s in Petrus de Navarra [16.3].
4. See above, Chapter 15, pp. 380–1 and cf. Schabel [16.4] 75–8, 175–80.
5. Some of these issues are discussed in Chapter 17, below: see especially pp. 410–
11 (complexly significables).
6. [16.24] 276, 290; and see above, Chapter 14, pp. 330, 333, 346 and
348–9 on Chatton and Wodeham.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
16.1 Brown, S.F. ‘Peter Aureol: De unitate conceptus entis (Reportatio Parisiensis
in I Sententiarum dist. 2, p. 1, qq. 1–3 et p. 2, qq. 1–2)’, Traditio 50
(1995): 199–248.
16.2 John Buridan Questiones Elencorum, ed. R.van der Lecq and H.Braakhuis,
Nijmegen, 1994.
16.3 Peter of Navarre In Primum Sententiarum Scriptum I, ed. P.Azcona, Madrid,
1974.
16.4 Schabel, C. ‘Peter Aureol on divine foreknowledge and future contingents:
Scriptum in Primum Librum Sententiarum, distinctions 38–39’, CIMAGL
65 (1995): 63–212.
Studies
16.5 Catto, J.I. ‘Theology after Wycliffism’, in Catto and R.Evans (eds) The History
of the University of Oxford, vol. II, Late Medieval Oxford, Oxford, 1992,
pp. 263–80.
16.6 Courtenay, W.J. ‘The early stages in the introduction of Oxford logic into
Italy’, in A.Maierù (ed.) English Logic in Italy in the 14th and 15th
Centuries, Naples, 1982, pp. 13–22.
16.7 ——‘The reception of Ockham’s thought at the University of Paris’, in Z.
Kaluza and P.Vignaux (eds) Logique, ontologie, théologie au XIVe siècle:
preuve et raisons à l’Université de Paris, Paris, 1984, pp. 43–64.
16.8 ——‘The role of English thought in the transformation of university education
in the late Middle Ages’, in J.Kittelson and P.Transue (eds) Rebirth, Reform,
and Resilience: Universities in Transition 1300–1700, Columbus, Ohio,
1984, pp. 103–62.
16.9 ——Schools and Scholars in Fourteenth-century England, Princeton, NJ, 1987.
16.10 ——‘The registers of the University of Paris and the statutes against the Scientia
Occamica’, Vivarium 29 (1991): 13–49.
16.11 ——‘Theology and theologians from Ockham to Wyclif’, in The History of
the University of Oxford, vol. II, 1992, pp. 1–34.
16.12 Genest, J-F. and Vignaux, P. ‘La bibliothèque anglaise de Jean de Mirecourt:
subtilitas ou plagiat?’, in O.Pluta (ed.) Die Philosophie im 14. und 15.
Jahrhundert. In memoriam Konstanty Michalski (1879–1947), Amsterdam,
1988, pp. 275–301.
16.13 Kaluza, Z. ‘Serbi un sasso il nome: une inscription de San Gimignano et la
rencontre entre Bernard d’Arezzo et Nicolas d’Autrecourt’, Historia
Philosophiae Medii Aevi 1 (1991): 437–66.
16.14 Michalski, K. Le Criticisme et le scepticisme dans la philosophie du XIVe
siècle, Cracow, 1926; repr. in Michalski, La Philosophie au XIVe siècle,
ed. K. Flasch, Frankfurt, 1969, pp. 67–149.
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16.15 ——Les Courants critiques et sceptiques dans la philosophie du XIVe siècle,
Cracow, 1927; repr. in Michalski, La Philosophie au XIVe siècle, 1969,
pp. 151–203.
16.16 Murdoch, J. ‘Mathesis in philosophiam scholasticam introducta’. The rise
and development of the application of mathematics in fourteenth-century
philosophy and theology’, in Arts Libéraux et Philosophie au Moyen Âge,
Montreal, 1969, pp. 215–49.
16.17 ——‘From social into intellectual factors: an aspect of the unitary character
of late medieval learning’, in Murdoch and E.Sylla (eds) The Cultural
Context of Medieval Learning, Dordrecht, 1975, pp. 271–348.
16.18 ——‘Subtilitates Anglicanae in fourteenth-century Paris: John of Mirecourt
and Peter Ceffons’, in M.Cosman and B.Chandler (eds) Machaut’s World:
Science and Art in the Fourteenth Century, New York, 1978, pp. 51–86.
16.19 Sarnowsky, J. ‘Natural philosophy at Oxford and Paris in the mid-fourteenth
century’, in A.Hudson and M.Wilks (eds) From Ockham to Wyclif, Oxford,
1987, pp. 125–34.
16.20 Schabel, C. ‘The quarrel with Aureol: Peter Aureol’s role in the late-medieval
debate over divine foreknowledge and future contingents, 1315–1475’,
Ph.D. dissertation, University of Iowa, 1994.
16.21 ——‘Peter de Rivo and the quarrel over future contingents at Louvain: new
evidence and new perspectives (Part I)’, in Documenti e studi sulla tradizione
filosofica medievale 6 (1995): 363–473.
16.22 ——‘Peter de Rivo and the quarrel over future contingents at Louvain: new
evidence and new perspectives (Part II)’, Documenti e studi sulla tradizione
filosofica medievale 7 (1996): 369–435.
16.23 Schabel, C. and Friedman, R.L. ‘The vitality of Franciscan theology at Paris
in the 1320s: MS Wien Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Palatinus
1439’, Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 63 (1996):
357–72.
16.24 Tachau, K. Vision and Certitude in the Age of Ockham: Optics, Epistemology,
and the Foundations of Semantics 1250–1345, Leiden, 1988.
16.25 Thijssen, J.M.M.H. ‘John Buridan and Nicholas of Autrecourt on causality
and induction’, Traditio 43 (1987): 237–55.
16.26 ——‘Once again the Ockhamist statutes of 1339 and 1340: some new
perspectives’, Vivarium 28 (1990): 136–67.
16.27 Trapp, D. ‘Augustinian theology in the 14th century’, Augustiniana 6 (1956):
146–274.
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CHAPTER 17
Late medieval logic
Paul Vincent Spade
I
Medieval logic encompassed more than what we call logic today. It
included semantics, philosophy of language, parts of physics, of
philosophy of mind and of epistemology.
Late medieval logic began around 1300 and lasted through at least
the fifteenth century. With some noteworthy exceptions, its most
original contributions were made by 1350, particularly at Oxford.
Hence the focus of this chapter will be on the period 1300–1500, with
special emphasis on Oxford before 1350.
But first some background concerning the earlier period. The logical
writings of Aristotle were all available in Latin by the mid-twelfth
century.1 In addition, except for the theory of ‘proofs of propositions’2
(see section VIII below), the characteristic new ingredients of medieval
logic were already in place or at least in progress by the end of the
twelfth century or the beginning of the thirteenth.
The theory of inference or ‘consequence’, for example, was studied
as early as Peter Abelard (1079–1142). Again, after about 1120 the
circulation of Aristotle’s Sophistical Refutations in Latin stimulated a
study of fallacies and the many features of language that produce them.
Out of this investigation there arose twelfth- and thirteenth-century
writings on semantic ‘properties of terms’, like ‘supposition’ and
‘ampliation’ (see section VI below).3 At the same time, treatises on
sophismata or puzzle-sentences in logic, theology or philosophy of
nature began to be produced. (A good analogy for this literature may
be found in modern discussions of Frege’s ‘The morning star is the
evening star’.) Likewise, studies were written about the logical effects
of words like ‘only’, ‘except’, ‘begins’ and ‘ceases’ that offer many
opportunities for fallacies and involve complications going far beyond
syllogistic or the theory of topical inferences.4 Treatises on ‘insolubles’
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or semantic paradoxes began to appear late in the twelfth century
([17.42], [17.49]). Simultaneously, a literature developed on a new
kind of disputation called ‘obligations’.5 Collectively, these new logical
genres are known as ‘terminist’ logic because of the important role
played in them by the ‘properties of terms’.
These developments continued into the thirteenth century. By mid-
century, authors such as Peter of Spain, Lambert of Auxerre and William
of Sherwood were writing summary treatises (summulae) covering the
whole of logic, including the material in Aristotle’s writings as well as
new terminist developments.6
Then, after about 1270, something odd happened, both in England
and on the Continent. In France, terminism was eclipsed by an entirely
different theory called ‘speculative grammar’, which appealed to the
notion of ‘modes of signifying’ and is therefore sometimes called
‘modism’. This theory prevailed in France until the 1320s, when John
Buridan (b. c. 1295/1300, d. after 1358) suddenly restored the theory
of supposition and associated terminist doctrines. After Buridan,
supposition theory was the leading vehicle for semantic (as distinct
from grammatical) analysis until the end of the Middle Ages.
Modism never dominated England as it did elsewhere; terminism
survived there during its period of neglect on the Continent. Still,
few innovations in supposition theory or its satellite doctrines were
made in England during the last quarter of the thirteenth century.
But then, in the very early fourteenth century, Walter Burley (or
Burleigh, b. c. 1275, d. 1344/5) began to do new work in the terminist
tradition.
This temporary decline of terminism on both sides of the Channel
at the end of the thirteenth century, and its sudden revival shortly after
1300, are mysterious events. But, whatever the underlying causes, when
supposition theory and related doctrines re-emerged in the early
fourteenth century, they were importantly different from how they had
been earlier.7
II
This section will survey the main stages of late medieval logic, and
introduce important names. Later sections will focus on particular
theoretical topics.8
In England,9 logic after 1300 may be divided into three stages: first,
1300–50, when the best work was done. Burley and William of Ockham
(c. 1285–1347) were the paramount figures during this period. Both
made important contributions to supposition theory, and Ockham in
particular developed sophisticated theories of ‘mental language’ and
‘connotation’.
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In the next generation, several men associated with Merton College,
Oxford, were influential in specific areas. Richard Kilvington (early
fourteenth century, d. 1361) and William Heytesbury (b. before 1313,
d. 1372/3), among others, applied the techniques of sophismata to
questions in natural philosophy, epistemic logic and other fields.
Thomas Bradwardine (c. 1295–1349) wrote an Insolubles that was
perhaps the most influential treatise on semantic paradoxes
throughout the Middle Ages. Around 1330–2, Adam Wodeham
devised an important theory of ‘complexly significables’ (complexe
significabilia), the closest medieval equivalent to the modern notion
of ‘proposition’. Richard Billingham (fl. 1340s or 1350s) seems to
have originated the important theory of ‘proofs of propositions’. His
treatise Speculum puerorum or Youths’ Mirror will be discussed in
section VIII below.
The second stage of English logic after 1300 lasted from 1350 to
1400. This was a time of consolidation, of sophisticated but no longer
especially original work. The period has not yet been well researched,
but at least three trends can be distinguished. First, there was a
remarkable number of school-manuals written in logic, compilations
of standard doctrine with little innovation. Works of Richard Lavenham
(d. 1399 or after) provide a good example. Gradually, certain of these
school-texts congealed into two collections called the Libelli
sophistarum (Little Books for Arguers), one for Oxford and one for
Cambridge. These were printed in several editions around 1500.
Second, English logic from 1350 to 1400 had a special interest in
the doctrine of ‘proofs of propositions’ associated with Billingham. As
time passed, the labour devoted to this topic grew enormously. John
Wyclif dedicated a large part of his Logic (before 1368) and especially
of his Continuation of the Logic (1371–4) to this theory. So did Ralph
Strode, a contemporary of Wyclif s, in his own Logic. John Huntman
wrote a Logic sometime near the end of the century, showing the
continued expansion of the Billingham tradition.
A third concern of English logic in this period was the signification
of propositions. The most influential work here was probably On the
Truth and Falsehood of Propositions by Henry Hopton (fl. 1357).
There Hopton discussed and rejected several previous views before
setting out his own theory.10 (See section V below.)
Several other English authors during this period should be mentioned,
although their works are not yet fully understood. They include Richard
Feribrigge (fl. probably 1360s), author of an important Consequences
and a Logic or Treatise on the Truth of Propositions. Of lesser
importance are: Robert Fland (fl. 1335–60); Richard Brinkley, the
author of a Summa of logic probably between 1360 and 1373; Thomas
Manlevelt (or Mauvelt), who wrote several treatises around mid-century
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that were influential on the Continent; and near the end of the century,
Robert Alington, William Ware, Robert Stonham, and others.
One of the most significant events in English logic late in the century
was the arrival at Oxford in 1390 of the Italian Paul of Venice (c.
1369–1429). Paul studied there for some three years. On his return to
Italy, he taught at Padua and elsewhere, and was an important conduit
through which English logic became known in Italy in the fifteenth
century. His writings include a widely circulated Little Logic (Logica
parva) and the enormous Big Logic (Logica magna).
The third stage of late medieval English logic includes the whole
fifteenth century. This was a period of shocking decline. Except for a
few insignificant figures around 1400, not even second-rate authors
are known. The manuscripts from this period—and by 1500, early
printed books—offer little hope that further research will change this
assessment. The Oxford and Cambridge Little Books for Arguers,
already mentioned, testify to the deterioration of logic during this
period. Medieval logic was effectively dead in England after 1400.
Logic on the Continent during these same two centuries cannot be
so neatly divided into stages. Still, there as in England, the most
important work was done before about 1350. The pre-eminent figure
was doubtless Buridan. His writings include a Consequences, a
Sophismata and a Summulae of Dialectic. Buridan’s students included
many influential logicians of the next generation, among them: Albert
of Saxony (d. 1390), the author of a Sophismata and A Very Useful
Logic, and the first rector of the University of Vienna; and Marsilius of
Inghen (c. 1330–96), the first rector of the University of Heidelberg
and the author of an Insolubles and of treatises on ‘properties of terms’.
On many points, Buridan’s logical views were like Burley’s or
especially Ockham’s in England. There are differences, but the
similarities are more striking, especially when contrasted with logic on
either side of the Channel before 1300. The extent of Ockham’s own
influence on Buridan is doubtful, but Ockham’s confrère Adam
Wodeham was instrumental in transmitting much English learning to
Paris. In particular, Wodeham’s theory of ‘complexly significables’ was
adopted by Gregory of Rimini (c. 1300–58).
The Parisian Peter of Ailly (1350–1420/1) wrote several interesting
logical works, including: Concepts and Insolubles, a pair of treatises
on ‘mental language’ and the Liar Paradox; Destructions of the Modes
of Signifying, against ‘modism’; Treatise on Exponibles (see section
VIII below); and Treatise on the Art of ‘Obligating’ (perhaps by
Marsilius of Inghen instead).
Before 1400, the Italian Peter of Mantua (fl. 1387–1400) wrote a
Logic that already shows knowledge of earlier English work,
particularly that stemming from Billingham. Around 1400 Angelo of
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Fossombrone, who taught at Bologna (1395–1400) and Padua (1400–
2), wrote an Insolubles maintaining an elaborated version of
Heytesbury’s theory. About the same time, the newly returned Paul of
Venice spread the gospel of Oxford logic further in Italy. Among his
students, Paul of Pergula (d. 1451/5) wrote a Logic and a treatise On
the Composite and the Divided Sense (on the scope of certain logical
operators) based on Heytesbury’s own work of that name, and Gaetano
of Thiene (1387–1465) wrote detailed commentaries on works by
Heytesbury and Strode. Other authors in Italy and elsewhere continued
to write on logic to the end of the Middle Ages and beyond.11
Even these few names will suffice to show that the logical landscape
after about 1400 was by no means so desolate on the Continent as in
England. Still, on either side of the Channel logical work after 1350
was largely derivative and, while sometimes very sophisticated, not
very innovative. There was certainly no one, for example, with the
stature of Burley, Ockham or Buridan.
III
This and the following sections will concentrate on five important topics
in late medieval logic: (a) the theory of ‘mental language’, (b) the
signification of propositions, (c) developments in supposition-theory,
(d) semantic paradoxes, and (e) connotation-theory and the ‘proofs of
propositions’.
In On Interpretation, 16a3–4, Aristotle stated that ‘spoken sounds
are symbols of affections in the soul, and written marks symbols of
spoken sounds’. These words were translated by Boethius and
interpreted as implying three levels of language: spoken, written and
mental. Through Boethius this three-level hierarchy of language became
a commonplace in medieval logical literature.
Of the three, mental language was regarded as the most basic. Its
semantic properties are natural ones;12 they do not originate from any
convention or custom, and cannot be changed at will. Unlike spoken
and written languages, mental language is the same for everyone.
Careful authors sometimes distinguished ‘proper’ from ‘improper’
mental language. The latter occurs when we think ‘in English’ or ‘in
French’. Thus a public speaker might rehearse a speech by running
through silently the words he will later utter aloud. What goes on there
is a kind of ‘let’s pretend’ speaking that takes place in imagination and
is in that sense ‘mental’. But it is not what most authors meant by
‘mental language’. Since silent recitation varies with the spoken language
one is rehearsing, it is not the same for everyone. Proper mental language
is different. It includes, for example, what happens when one suddenly
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‘sees’ the force of a mathematical proof; in that case there is a ‘flash of
insight’, an understanding or judgement that need not yet be put into
words, even silently. This kind of mental language, the theory goes, is
the same for everyone.13
Spoken language, by contrast, has its semantic function parasitically,
through a conventional correlation between its expressions and mental
ones. The arbitrariness of this convention is what allows the multitude
of spoken languages. Written language plays an even more derivative
role, through a conventional correlation between its inscriptions and
the sounds of spoken language. The arbitrariness of this convention
too allows for different scripts among written languages. Only through
the mediation of spoken language, the theory went, are inscriptions
correlated with thoughts in mental language. This view implies that
one cannot read a language one does not know how to speak. Most
medieval authors accepted this consequence.
Following Boethius, the correlations between written and spoken
language and between spoken and mental language were often regarded
as relations of ‘signification’. This claim had theoretical consequences,
since signification was a well-defined notion in the Middle Ages. A
term ‘signifies’ what it makes one think of (‘establishes an understanding
of’=constituit intellectum+genitive).14 While there was dispute about
what occupies the object-pole of this relation, there was agreement
over the criterion. Signification is thus a special case of causality, and
so transitive. (Certain authors added to signification in general the
particular notions of immediate and ultimate signification. The general
relation of signification thus became what modern logicians call the
‘ancestral’ of the relation of immediate signification;15 a term t then
ultimately signifies x if and only if t signifies x and x does not signify
anything else.) Terms in mental language signify (make one think of)
external objects only in the degenerate sense that they are the thoughts
of those external objects.
According to this view, to say that expressions of spoken language
immediately signify expressions of mental language is to say that the
function of speech is to convey thoughts. Certain authors, e.g. Duns
Scotus (c. 1265–1308), Burley and Ockham, regarded this as too
restrictive. For them, spoken (and written) terms may be made to signify
anything, not only the speaker’s thoughts. In fact spoken words do
not always make us think of thoughts; sometimes we are made to think
directly of external objects. For these authors, the relations between
written and spoken language and between either of these and mental
language are not relations of signification. Ockham described them
neutrally as relations of ‘subordination’.16
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IV
Although authors since Boethius had recognized mental language, it
was not until the fourteenth century that it began to be investigated in
detail. Ockham was the first to develop a full theory of mental language
and put it to philosophical use. Shortly thereafter, Buridan began to
work out his own view. His theory agrees with Ockham’s on the whole,
although Ockham’s is the more detailed. In the early 1340s, Gregory
of Rimini refined certain parts of the theory, and applied it to a solution
to the Liar Paradox. In 1372, Peter of Ailly’s Concepts and Insolubles
incorporated the work of both Ockham and Gregory.17 Other authors
made contributions to the theory, but these were the major ones. The
presentation below will follow Ockham’s account except as indicated.
Terms in mental language are concepts; its propositions are
judgements. The fact that mental language is the same for everyone
explains how it is possible to translate one spoken (or written) language
into another. A sentence in Spanish is a correct translation of a sentence
in English if and only if the two are subordinated to the same mental
sentence. More generally, any two spoken or written expressions—
from the same or different languages—are synonymous if and only if
they are subordinated to the same mental expression. Again, any spoken
or written expression is equivocal if and only if it is subordinated to
more than one mental expression.
If mental language accounts for synonymy and equivocation in
spoken and written languages, can there be synonymy or equivocation
in mental language itself? The textual evidence is mixed. There are
passages in Ockham (Summa logicae I, 3=[17.7] OP 1:11; Summa
logicae I, 13=[17.7] OP 1:44) supporting a negative answer in both
cases. Nevertheless other texts (Ordinatio, I, d. 3, q. 2=[17.7] OT 2:405;
Ordinatio I, d. 3, q. 3=[17.7] OT 2:425; Quodlibet 5, q. 9= [17.7] OT
9:513–18), where Ockham is discussing the semantics of certain
connotative terms (see section VIII below), perhaps imply the existence
of mental synonymy. As for equivocation, Ockham’s theory of tense
and modality, as well as his theory of supposition (see section VI below),
commits him outright to certain kinds of equivocation in mental
language.18 But apart from textual considerations, there are
philosophical reasons for saying that, given other features of Ockham’s
theory, mental synonymy or equivocation makes no sense.19
What is included in mental language? In two passages (Summa
logicae, I, 3=[17.7] OP 1:11.1–26; Quodlibet 5, q. 8=[17.7] OT 9:508–
13), Ockham remarks that, just as for spoken and written language,
the vocabulary of mental language is divided into ‘parts of speech’.
Thus there are mental nouns, verbs, prepositions, conjunctions, etc.
But not all features of spoken and written language are found in mental
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language. Ockham acknowledges doubts about mental participles (their
job could be performed by verbs) and pronouns (presumably ‘pronouns
of laziness’, as for example in ‘Socrates is a man and he is an animal’).
Moreover, not all characteristics of spoken and written syntax are found
in mental language. While mental nouns and adjectives have case and
number, and mental adjectives admit of positive, comparative and
superlative degrees, they do not have gender and are not divided into
grammatical declensions (like Latin’s five declensions). Mental verbs
have person, number, tense, voice and mood, but are not divided into
grammatical conjugations.
Ockham’s mental language looks remarkably like Latin. This fact
led some modern writers to reject the theory as a foolish attempt to
‘explain’ features of Latin by merely duplicating them in mental
language, which is then regarded as somehow more ‘basic’ ([17.39] §
23). But more is involved than that. Ockham’s strategy is to admit into
mental language exactly those features of spoken or written language
that affect the truth-values of propositions. All other features of spoken
and written language, Ockham says, are only for the sake of decorative
style, or in the interest of brevity. They are not present in mental
language.20
Mental language is thus a logically perspicuous language for
describing the world. It has whatever is needed to distinguish truth
from falsehood, nothing more. In this respect, mental language is
reminiscent of the ‘ideal languages’ proposed by early twentieth-century
philosophers ([17.51]).
How are mental words combined in mental propositions? What is
the difference, for example, between the true mental proposition
‘Every man is an animal’ and the false ‘Every animal is a man’? In
written language, the difference is the spatial configuration of the
words. But the mind does not take up space, so that there can be no
such difference there. In speech the difference lies in the temporal
sequence of the words. But since proper mental language at least
sometimes involves a ‘flash of insight’ that happens all at once, neither
can temporal word order account for the difference between the two
mental propositions.
Because of such difficulties, authors such as Gregory of Rimini and
Peter of Ailly held that mental propositions (although not all of them
for Peter) are simple mental acts not really composed of distinct mental
words at all.21 Ockham too had considered such a theory (In Sententias
II, qq. 12–13=[17.7] OT 5:279; Exposition of ‘On Interpretation’,
proem=[17.7] OP 2:356). It is hard to reconcile this view with the
claim that mental vocabulary is divided into ‘parts of speech’; distinct
mental words would appear to have no job to do if they do not enter
into the structure of mental propositions.
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V
Besides the disagreement over the immediate signification of spoken
and written terms (see section III above), there was a dispute over
ultimate signification. Metaphysical realists, such as Burley, maintained
the traditional view that general terms ultimately signify universal
entities, while nominalists (e.g. Ockham and Buridan) held that they
ultimately signify only individuals.
Some authors extended the notion of signification to ask not only
about the signification of terms but also about the signification of whole
propositions. Do they signify anything besides what their component
terms signify separately? Do they signify, for example, states of affairs
or facts?
Ockham did not explicitly address this question. But Buridan did,
and his answer was no. For him ([17.16] II, conclusion 5), a
proposition—and in general any complex expression—signifies
whatever its categorematic terms signify, nothing more. (‘Categorematic’
terms are those that can serve as subject or predicate in a proposition;
they were regarded as having their own signification. Other words
were called ‘syncategorematic’ and were regarded as not having any
signification of their own; they are ‘logical particles’ used for combining
categorematic terms into propositions and other complex expressions.)
Thus in the spoken proposition ‘The cat is on the mat’, when I hear the
word ‘cat’ I am, on Buridan’s account, made to think of all cats and
when I hear ‘mat’ I am made to think of all mats. That is all the
proposition makes me think of, and so all it signifies.
Elsewhere Buridan maintained a different and incompatible theory
([17.16] II, sophism 5 and conclusions 3–7). The proposition ‘Socrates
is sitting’, for example, signifies Socrates to be sitting. And what is that?
Buridan held that if Socrates really is sitting, then Socrates to be sitting
is just Socrates himself. But if he is not sitting, then Socrates to be sitting
is nothing at all.22 This view bears some similarity to a theory held
earlier at Oxford by Walter Chatton (1285–1344) and discussed as the
first previous view in Henry Hopton’s On the Truth and Falsehood of
Propositions. Similar views were defended by Richard Feribrigge and
John Huntman. The details of their texts have not been thoroughly
investigated, and there is much that is still obscure; it is not certain that
all these authors maintained variants of the same doctrine. Still, the
motivation is the same in each case: to find something to serve as the
significate of a proposition in an ontology that does not allow anything
like facts, states of affairs or ‘propositions’ in the modern sense.
But there were other opinions. As early as Abelard, some authors
held that what propositions signify falls outside the Aristotelian
categories, and is something like the modern notion of ‘proposition’.
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Sometimes this new entity was called a ‘mode’, sometimes a dictum.23
In the fourteenth century, such theories continued to find their
defenders. Perhaps a version of it may be seen in the early 1330s in
William of Crathorn. Perhaps too Henry Hopton intended such a theory
as the second previous view he considered, according to which a
proposition signifies a ‘mode’ of a thing, where a ‘mode’ is not a
something but a being-somehow (esse aliqualiter). But an unequivocal
statement can be found in the theory of ‘complexly significables’
([17.38]; see also [17.35] chs 14–15). According to this theory,
complexly significables are the bearers of truth-value. They are not
propositions in the medieval sense, not even mental propositions, but
are what is expressed by propositions. They are the significates of
propositions, and the objects of knowledge, belief and prepositional
attitudes generally. Complexly significables do not exist in the way
substances and accidents do. Before creation, for example, only God
existed. But even then God knew that the world was going to exist.
This complexly significable cannot be identified with God himself, since
God is a necessary being but it was contingent that the world was
going to exist. Yet as distinct from God, it cannot have existed before
creation. Such extralogical considerations were an important motivation
for the theory of complexly significables. Authors such as Buridan and
Peter of Ailly rejected the theory; Peter, for example, claimed that the
argument about God’s knowledge before creation is based on an
illegitimate substitution of identicals in an opaque context involving
necessity ([17.27] 62).
All these theories offered a real entity (even if an odd one, like a
‘complexly significable’) as the correlate of a true proposition, and so
as the ontological basis for a ‘correspondence’ theory of truth. Other
authors took a different approach. They too maintained a
correspondence theory, often expressed as: a proposition is true if and
only if it ‘precisely signifies as is the case’, or if and only if ‘howsoever
[the proposition] signifies, so it is the case’. For them, the proper
question is not what but how a proposition signifies. This ‘adverbial’
notion of signification allowed a correspondence theory without being
obliged to find any ontological correlate for a true proposition to
correspond to. After rejecting earlier views, Henry Hopton’s own theory
was like this. Heytesbury had earlier held a similar view, as did Peter of
Ailly later ([17.22] 61–5; [17.27] 10, 48–54 and nn.).
VI
The theory of ‘supposition’ is a mystery. Although it is central to the
theories of ‘properties of terms’ that developed from the twelfth century
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on, it is not clear what the theory was intended to accomplish, or indeed
what the theory as a whole was about.24
Throughout its history, there were two main parts to supposition
theory. One was a theory of the reference of terms in propositions, and
how that reference is affected by syntactic and semantic features of
propositions. The question this part of the theory was intended to
answer is, ‘What does a term refer to (supposit for, stand for) in a
proposition?’ That much is clear. But from the beginning, there was
another part of supposition theory, an account of how one might validly
‘descend to singulars’ under a given occurrence of a term in a
proposition, sometimes combined with a correlative account of ‘ascent
from singulars’. The mystery surrounds this second part.
Before the decline of terminism after 1270, there is some evidence
that the second part of supposition theory, like the first, was intended
to answer the question of what a term refers to in a proposition. The
first part of the theory says what kind of thing a given term-occurrence
refers to, while the second specifies how many such things it refers to
(in much the way one finds even today accounts purporting to say
whether the terms of a syllogism are about ‘all’ or ‘some’ of a class).
The evidence for this is mixed, but even if this was the original intent
of the second part of supposition theory, some authors quite early
realized its theoretical difficulties.
When supposition theory re-emerged with Burley in England and
later with Buridan in France, the two parts of the theory had been
separated once and for all. By that time the theory of descent and
ascent clearly was not about what a term refers to in a proposition.
What it was about instead is uncertain.
The account below will mainly follow Ockham, although other
authors will be mentioned. Their theories differed from his in detail,
sometimes in important detail, but Ockham’s is fairly typical.
The first part of supposition theory divided supposition or reference
first into proper (literal) and improper (metaphorical). The latter is
illustrated by ‘England fights’, where ‘England’ refers by metonymy to
England’s inhabitants. Medieval logic, like modern logic, did not have
an adequate theory of metaphor. Ockham, Burley and a few others list
some haphazard subdivisions of improper supposition, but really
mention it only to set it aside. Their emphasis is on proper supposition.
Proper supposition was divided into three kinds: personal, simple
and material. The origin of these names is unclear, although the term
‘personal’ suggests a connection with the theology of the Trinity and
the Incarnation. But it should not be thought that personal supposition
has anything especially to do with persons.
Personal supposition occurs when a term refers to everything of which
it is truly predicable. Thus in ‘Every man is running’, ‘man’ refers to all
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men and so is in personal supposition. But so too ‘running’ refers there
to all things now running, and hence is likewise in personal supposition.
It does not refer there only to some running things, for example, only
to the running men. Again, in ‘Some man is running’, ‘man’ refers to
all men, not just to running ones.
A term has material supposition when it refers to a spoken or written
word or expression and is not in personal supposition. Thus, ‘man’ in
‘Man has three letters’ has material supposition. Although there are
obvious similarities, material supposition is not merely a medieval
version of modern quotation marks. For in ‘It is possible for Socrates
to run’, the phrase ‘for Socrates to run’ has material supposition. But it
refers to the proposition ‘Socrates is running’, of which the phrase ‘for
Socrates to run’ is not a quotation. (For Ockham, there are no states of
affairs or complexly significables that can be said to be possible. Only
propositions are possible in this sense.)
The definition of simple supposition was a matter of dispute,
depending in part on an author’s metaphysical views and in part on
his theory about the role of language in general ([17.46]). As a paradigm,
‘man’ in ‘Man is a species’ has simple supposition. In general, terms in
simple supposition refer to universals. But for nominalists like Ockham,
there are no metaphysical universals; the only universals are universal
terms in language, most properly universal concepts in mental language.
Thus for Ockham terms in simple supposition refer to concepts. It is
they that are properly said to be species or genera. To prevent the term
‘concept’ in ‘Every concept is a being’ from having simple supposition
(it has personal supposition, since it refers to everything it signifies—
to all concepts), Ockham added that a term in simple supposition must
not be ‘taken significatively’, i.e. that it not be in personal supposition.
But for a realist like Burley, terms in simple supposition refer to real
universals outside the mind. It is they that are species and genera.
Furthermore, for Burley and certain others, general terms in language
signify those extramental universals. Thus the term ‘man’ signifies
universal human nature, not any one individual man or group of men,
and not all men collectively. For Burley, therefore, it is in simple
supposition that a term refers to what it signifies. For Ockham, general
terms do not signify universals, not even universal concepts; they signify
individuals. Even a term like ‘universal’ signifies individuals, since it
signifies concepts, which are metaphysically individuals and are
‘universal’ only in the sense of being predicable of many things. Hence
for Ockham, it is in personal supposition, not simple, that a term refers
to what it signifies.
Personal supposition is the default case. Any term in any proposition
can be taken in personal supposition. It may alternatively be taken in
simple or material supposition only if the other terms in the proposition
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provide a suitable context. In such cases, the proposition is strictly
ambiguous and may be read in either sense.25
From this first part of supposition theory alone, certain authors,
e.g. Ockham and Buridan, although not Burley, developed a theory
of truth-conditions for categorical propositions on the square of
opposition. Thus, a universal affirmative ‘Every A is B’ is true if and
only if everything the subject term refers to the predicate term also
refers to (although it may refer to other things as well). Truth-
conditions for other propositions on the square of opposition can be
derived from this.
Subordinated to this first part of supposition theory was a theory of
‘ampliation’, accounting for the effects of modality and tense on
personal supposition. A term in personal supposition may always be
taken to refer to the things of which it is presently predicable. But in
the context of past or future tenses, the term may also be taken to refer
to the things of which it was or will be predicable. Likewise, in a modal
context (possibility, necessity), the term may also be taken to refer to
the things of which it can be truly predicable. This expansion of the
range of referents was called ‘ampliation’.
Ockham and Burley regarded the new referents provided by
ampliation as alternatives to the normal ones. Thus in the proposition
‘Every man was running’, ‘man’ may be taken as referring either to all
presently existing men or to all men existing in the past. The proposition
is thus equivocal. But on the Continent, Buridan and others regarded
the new referents as additions to the normal ones. For them, in the
proposition ‘Every man was running’ ‘man’ refers to all presently
existing men and all past men as well.26
The second main part of supposition theory, the theory of descent
and ascent, was a theory subdividing personal supposition only, into
several kinds. First, there is discrete supposition, possessed by proper
names, demonstrative pronouns or demonstrative phrases (e.g. ‘this
man’). All other personal supposition is common, and was typically
subdivided into: determinate (e.g. ‘man’ in ‘Some man is running’),
confused and distributive (e.g. ‘man’ in ‘Every man is an animal’), and
merely confused (e.g. ‘animal’ in ‘Every man is an animal’). The details
varied with the author.
Sometimes these subdivisions were described via the positions of
terms in categorical propositions. Subjects and predicates of particular
affirmatives, and subjects of particular negatives, have determinate
supposition. Subjects of universal affirmatives and negatives, and
predicates of universal and particular negatives, have confused and
distributive supposition. Only predicates of universal affirmatives have
merely confused supposition.
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More helpful is the description in terms of descent and ascent. For
Ockham (Burley’s and Buridan’s theories are equivalent), a term has
determinate supposition in a proposition if and only if it is possible to
‘descend’ under that term to a disjunction of singulars, and to ‘ascend’
to the original proposition from any singular. The exact specification
of the notions of ‘descent’, ‘ascent’ and ‘singular’ is subtle, but an
example should suffice. In ‘Some man is running’ one can ‘descend’
under ‘man’ to a disjunction: ‘Some man is running; therefore, this
man is running or that man is running’, etc., for all men. Likewise one
can ‘ascend’ to the original proposition from any singular: ‘This man
is running; therefore, some man is running.’ Hence ‘man’ in the original
proposition has determinate supposition.
A term has confused and distributive supposition in a proposition if
and only if it is possible to ‘descend’ under that term to a conjunction
of singulars but not possible to ‘ascend’ to the original proposition
from any singular. Thus in ‘Every man is running’ it is possible to
descend under ‘man’: ‘Every man is running; therefore, this man is
running and that man is running’, etc., for all men. But the ascent from
any singular ‘This man is running; therefore, every man is running’ is
invalid. Hence the term ‘man’ in the original proposition has confused
and distributive supposition.
A term has merely confused supposition in a proposition if and only
if (a) it is not possible to descend under that term either to a disjunction
or to a conjunction, but it is possible to descend to a disjoint term, and
(b) it is possible to ascend to the original proposition from any singular.
Thus in ‘Every man is an animal’ it is not possible to descend under
‘animal’ to either a disjunction or a conjunction, since if every man is
an animal, it does not follow that every man is this animal or every
man is that animal, etc. Much less does it follow that every man is this
animal and every man is that animal, etc. But it does follow that every
man is this animal or that animal or, etc. Again, if it happens that every
man is this animal (i.e. there is only one man and he is an animal), then
every man is an animal. Hence the term ‘animal’ in that proposition
has merely confused supposition.
It is hard to see what this doctrine was intended to accomplish,
particularly with its appeal to odd ‘disjoint terms’ in merely confused
supposition. At first, modern scholars thought it was an attempt to
provide truth-conditions for quantified propositions in terms of
(infinite) disjunctions or conjunctions. But if that was its purpose,
the doctrine is a failure. The predicate of the particular negative ‘Some
man is not a Greek’ has confused and distributive supposition
according to the above definitions, but the conjunction to which one
can descend under ‘Greek’ does not give the truth-conditions for the
original proposition. Suppose Socrates and Plato are the only men.
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Then the conjunction ‘Some man is not this Greek [Socrates] and
some man is not that Greek [Plato]’ is true, but the original proposition
is false.
The problem is that rules for ascent always concern ascent from any
one singular, never from a conjunction. Certain later authors, e.g. Ralph
Strode, Richard Brinkley and Paul of Venice, do explicitly discuss ascent
from conjunctions.27 But earlier writers such as Burley, Ockham and
Buridan conspicuously did not.
Another attempt to explain this second part of supposition theory
suggests that the rules for ascent and descent were used in detecting
and diagnosing fallacies. This is doubtless correct as far as it goes, but
does not account for the details in the theory as we actually find it. In
the end, the exact function of this part of the theory in the early
fourteenth century remains a mystery.
VII
Medieval discussions of ‘insolubles’ (semantic paradoxes like the Liar
Paradox, ‘The sentence I am now saying is false’) began in the late
twelfth century. By around 1200, theories on how to solve them can
be distinguished. Thereafter, three periods in the medieval insolubles
literature can be distinguished: (1) c. 1200–c. 1320, (2) c. 1320– c.
1350 and (3) everything after that.
The earliest known medieval theory of insolubles (cassatio or
cancelling) maintained that one who utters an insoluble is simply ‘not
saying anything’, in the sense that his words do not succeed in making
a claim. This view, although it has its supporters today, quickly
disappeared in the Middle Ages. Other early theories rejected some or
all self-reference; these too have their modern counterparts. Still other
early theories sound less familiar to modern ears. A few authors argued
that, despite the surface grammar, the reference in insolubles is always
to some previous proposition. For example, ‘What I am saying is false’
really amounts to ‘What I said a moment ago is false’. The insoluble is
true or false depending on whether I did in fact say something false a
moment ago. Others, e.g. Duns Scotus, appealed to a distinction
between signified acts and exercised acts. This is the distinction between
what the speaker of an insoluble proposition says he is doing (the
signified act) and what he is really doing (the exercised act). Although
the distinction is suggestive, it is far from clear how it solves the
paradoxes.
Many of these early views are cast in the framework of Aristotle’s
fallacy of what is said ‘absolutely’ and what is said ‘in a certain respect’.
Discussing that fallacy in his Sophistical Refutations, Aristotle made
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some enigmatic remarks (180a38–b3) that suggested the Liar Paradox
[17.42]. Consequently, many medieval authors tried to treat insolubles
as instances of that fallacy, although there was little agreement on the
details. Some held that insoluble propositions are true ‘absolutely’ but
false ‘in a certain respect’. Some had it the other way around. Others
said they were both true and false, each ‘in a certain respect’. Still
others applied the Aristotelian distinction not to truth but to
supposition, so that they distinguished between supposition absolutely
and supposition in a certain respect. Long after the early period in the
medieval literature, the fallacy absolutely/in a certain respect was
retained as an authoritative framework for many authors’ discussions,
even when the real point of their theories was elsewhere.
These early theories predominated until about 1320; some of them
survived much longer. Burley and Ockham offered nothing new here.
Both maintained a theory that merely rejected problematic cases of
self-reference without being able to identify which those problematic
cases were.
The first to break new ground was Thomas Bradwardine, in the
early 1320s. Bradwardine’s theory was based on a view linking
signification with consequence. He appears to have been the first to
hold that a proposition signifies exactly what follows from it.28 Since
he was also committed to saying that every proposition implies its
own truth (e.g. Socrates is running, therefore ‘Socrates is running’ is
true), this means that the insoluble ‘This proposition is false’ signifies
that it itself is true. Since it also signifies that it is false, it signifies a
contradiction, and so is simply false. The paradox is broken.29
Bradwardine’s view was enormously influential. Buridan later
maintained a broadly similar theory, and others held variants of it to
the end of the Middle Ages; it was one of the predominant theories.
Shortly after Bradwardine, Roger Swyneshed (fl. before 1335, d. c.
1365), an Englishman associated with Merton College, proposed a
theory in which truth is distinguished from correspondence with reality.
For a proposition to be true, it must not only correspond with reality
(‘signify principally as is the case’), it must also not ‘falsify itself, i.e.
not be ‘relevant to inferring that it is false’. (This notion of ‘relevance’
is not well understood.) Swyneshed drew three famous conclusions
from his theory: (1) There are false propositions (namely, insolubles)
that nevertheless correspond with reality. (2) Valid inference sometimes
lead from truth to falsehood. Validity does not necessarily preserve
truth, although it does preserve correspondence with reality. (3)
Sometimes, two contradictory propositions are both false. The insoluble
‘This proposition is false’ is false because it ‘falsifies’ itself. But its
contradictory ‘That proposition is true’ (referring to the previous
proposition) is also false, since it fails to correspond with reality—the
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previous proposition is not true. These conclusions generated much
discussion in the later literature. Swyneshed’s theory did not have many
followers, but it had at least one important one: Paul of Venice
maintained a version of Swyneshed’s theory in his Big Logic.
In 1335, William Heytesbury proposed a theory that rivalled and
may have surpassed Bradwardine’s in influence. He maintained that in
circumstances that would make a proposition insoluble if it signified
just as it normally does (‘precisely as its terms pretend’), it cannot signify
that way only, but must signify some other way too. Thus ‘Socrates is
uttering a falsehood’, if Socrates himself utters it and nothing else,
cannot on pain of contradiction signify only that Socrates is uttering a
falsehood, but must signify that and more. Depending on what else it
signifies, and how it is related to the ordinary signification of the
proposition, different verdicts about the insoluble are appropriate.
Heytesbury himself refused to say what else an insoluble might signify
besides its ordinary signification; that could not be predicted. But some
late authors went on to fill in Heytesbury’s silence. They stipulated
that insolubles in addition signify that they are true, thus linking
Heytesbury’s theory with Bradwardine’s.
Heytesbury’s view has an important consequence. Since signification
in mental language is fixed by nature, not by voluntary convention,
mental propositions can never signify otherwise than they ordinarily
do. Given Heytesbury’s account of insolubility, this means that there
can be no insolubles in mental language. Heytesbury himself did not
draw this conclusion, but it is there none the less.
All important developments concerning insolubles between 1320
and 1350 originated with Englishmen and are associated in one way
or another with Merton College. Later writers, in the third and last
stage of the medieval insolubles literature, sometimes developed this
English material in interesting new ways. Thus Gregory of Rimini and
Peter of Ailly took the above consequence of Heytesbury’s theory to
heart. They maintained that there are no insolubles in mental language,
and that insolubles arise in spoken and written language only because
they correspond (are subordinated) to two propositions in the mind,
one true and the other false. Apart from these developments of earlier
views, there seem to be no radically original theories of insolubles in
the Middle Ages after about 1350.
VIII
Ockham’s theory of connotation has antecedents in Aristotle’s remarks
on paronymy (Categories, 1a12–15). It is the most highly developed
such theory in the Middle Ages.
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For Ockham, some categorematic terms are absolute; others are
connotative. ‘Bravery’ is absolute since it signifies only bravery, a quality
in the soul. But ‘brave’ is connotative since it signifies certain persons
(brave ones), but only by making an oblique reference to (‘connoting’)
their bravery. Connotative terms have nominal definitions; absolute
terms do not. The notion of a nominal definition is difficult to state
exactly ([17.44]), but all nominal definitions of a connotative term are
‘equivalent’ for Ockham in a sense that is perhaps as strong as
synonymy. Furthermore, it appears that the connotative term itself is
synonymous with each of its nominal definitions, and may be viewed
in fact as a kind of shorthand abbreviation for them. Thus the adjective
‘white’ is a connotative term having the nominal definition ‘something
having a whiteness’ or ‘something informed by a whiteness’. All three
expressions are synonymous for Ockham.
Since Ockham’s ‘better doctrine’ is that there is no mental synonymy,
the elementary vocabulary of mental language (simple concepts)
includes no connotative terms. Mental language contains the absolute
term ‘whiteness’ and syntactical devices to form nominal definitions
like those above. But it does not, on pain of synonymy, contain a distinct
mental adjective ‘white’. (But see section IV, above.)
All primitive categorematic mental terms are thus absolute. This
has important consequences for Ockham’s philosophy. For (barring
miracles) the mind has simple concepts only for things of which it has
had direct experience (‘intuitive cognition’). The supply of absolute
concepts is therefore a guide to ontology.
There is a related theory in Ockham, the theory of ‘exposition’ or
analysis (see [17.34] 412–27). The outlines of this theory were
established by the mid-thirteenth century. In brief, an exponible
proposition is one containing a word (the ‘exponible term’) that
obscures the sense of the whole proposition. It is to be analysed or
‘expounded’ into a plurality of simpler propositions, called ‘exponents’,
that together capture the sense of the original. Thus ‘Socrates is
beginning to run’ might be expounded by ‘Socrates is not running’ and
‘Immediately hereafter Socrates will be running’.
Ockham’s own theory of exposition is not especially innovative,
except that he explicitly links it with the theory of connotation. This is
an attractive move, since whereas the theory of connotation provides
explicit nominal definitions for connotative terms, it is plausible to
view exposition theory as providing contextual definitions of exponible
terms treated as incomplete symbols. Hence, just as the absence of
synonymy in mental language means that it contains no simple
connotative terms, so too it would mean that mental language contains
no exponible propositions, but only their exponents. Since contextual
definitions provide the more general approach, it is not surprising that
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connotation theory quickly declined after Ockham, and is treated only
perfunctorily in Strode and Wyclif. Its place is taken there by much
more elaborate treatments of exponibles. Buridan does retain a fairly
full theory of connotation, but it is not so detailed as Ockham’s.30
Although the theory of exposition continued to have a life of its
own, by mid-century it had also been incorporated into the theory of
‘proofs of propositions’.31 Billingham’s Youth’s Mirror was a seminal
work here.
The notion of ‘proof’ involved in this literature was broader than
the Aristotelian demonstration of the Posterior Analytics. It meant any
argument showing that a certain proposition is true. Not all
propositions can be ‘proved’. Some of them serve as ultimate premisses
of all proofs; they must be learned another way. Such elementary
propositions Billingham calls ‘immediate’ propositions, containing only
‘immediate’ terms that cannot be ‘resolved’ into more elementary terms.
Immediate terms include indexicals such as ‘I’, ‘he’, ‘this’, ‘here’ and
‘now’, and very general verbs such as ‘is’ and ‘can’ and their tenses.
Hence a proposition like ‘This is now here’ is immediate.
Other propositions can ultimately be ‘proved’ from immediate
propositions. Billingham recognized three methods for such proofs:
exposition, ‘resolution’ and proof using an ‘auxiliary’ (officialis) term.
Exposition has already been explained. Resolution amounts to proof
by expository syllogism. Thus ‘A man runs’ is ‘proved’ by the inference
‘This runs and this is a man; therefore, a man runs’. But there is a
problem. The premisses of this inference are not immediate, since their
predicates are not immediate terms. And there appears to be no way to
reduce them to yet more basic propositions by any of the three ways
Billingham recognizes.
‘Auxiliary’ terms govern indirect discourse. They include epistemic
verbs such as ‘knows’, ‘believes’, etc., and modal terms such as ‘it is
contingent’. To ‘prove’ a proposition containing an auxiliary term is to
provide an argument spelling out the role of the auxiliary term. One of
the premisses of this argument states how the proposition referred to in
indirect discourse ‘precisely signifies’. Thus ‘It is contingent for him to
run’ is proved by: ‘“He runs” is contingent; and “He runs” precisely
signifies for him to run; therefore, it is contingent for him to run.’
There are still many obscurities in the theory of ‘proofs of
propositions’. But it was very widespread.
IX
Our knowledge of late medieval logic has advanced enormously since
the 1960s. The availability of previously unpublished texts has shed
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great light on this fertile period. Yet, as this chapter shows, there is still
much that is unknown. The general reader should regard the claims in
this chapter as tentative. Readers with specialized training or interest
should regard them as an invitation to further research.
NOTES
1 CHLMP, pp. 46, 74–5. See also Chapter 7 above, p. 176.
2 In medieval terminology, a ‘proposition’ is a declarative sentence, often a sentence-
token. The term was not typically used in its modern sense, to mean what is
expressed by a sentence(-token). I shall use ‘proposition’ in its medieval sense
throughout this chapter except where indicated.
3 De Rijk [17.29], especially vol. 1. On consequentiae in the twelfth century, see
Chapter 7 above, pp. 157–8, 175–6.
4 CHLMP, ch. 11.
5 CHLMP, ch. 16. Despite the name, these disputations had nothing to do with
ethics or morality. They were not about deontic logic. Their exact purpose is still
uncertain.
6 There were also anonymous works of this kind, dating back to the twelfth century.
See De Rijk [17.29].
7 With these last three paragraphs, see Spade [17.50], especially pp. 187–8, and
references there. See also CHLMP, chs 12 and 16B.
8 For information on authors mentioned in this section, see CHLMP, pp. 855–92
(‘Biographies’).
9 On English logic as discussed in this section, see Ashworth and Spade [17.28]
and references there.
10 In the 1494 edition of Heytesbury, Hopton’s treatise is wrongly attributed to
Heytesbury himself.
11 On Angelo, see Spade [17.45] 49–52. For other authors mentioned in this
paragraph, see Maierù [17.34], 34–6.
12 There is potential for confusion here. In twentieth-century philosophy, a ‘natural’
language is one like English, in contrast to ‘artificial’ languages like Esperanto or
the ‘language’ of Principia Mathematica. In medieval usage, the latter would
likewise count as ‘artificial’ languages, but so would English; the only truly natural
language is mental language.
13 See Peter of Ailly [17.27] 9, 19–21, 36–7, and references there.
14 See Aristotle, De interpretatione, 16b 19–21.
15 Something a bears the ancestral of relation R to z if and only if a bears R to
something b that bears R to something c that…that bears R to z.
16 With this section, see CHLMP, ch. 9.
17 For Gregory and Peter, see Peter of Ailly [17.27].
18 Buridan’s theory does not imply this, and Peter of Ailly flatly denies it for
supposition.
19 With these last two paragraphs, see Spade [17.47].
20 See the reply to Geach in Trentman [17.51]. For a critique of Ockham’s strategy,
see Spade [17.47].
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21 See Peter of Ailly [17.27] 9 and 37–44, and references there.
22 A similar approach is used in Buridan’s discussion of opaque epistemic and doxastic
contexts. See Sophismata [17.16], IV, sophisms 9–14. With the remainder of this
section, see Ashworth and Spade [17.28].
23 Kretzmann [17.40]. See also Chapter 7 above, pp. 157–8.
24 With this section, see Spade [17.50], and CHLMP, ch. 9.
25 Spade [17.43]. In so far as such contexts can arise in mental language, this view
requires equivocation there. See Spade [17.47].
26 [17.47]. See also n. 18, above.
27 Spade [17.50] n. 78 and the Appendix. For Brinkley I am grateful to M.J.
Fitzgerald.
28 In the ‘adverbial’ sense of prepositional signification, described in section V above.
29 For qualifications and complications, see Spade [17.48].
30 Buridan’s name for connotation is appellatio or ‘appellation’ (Sophismata, IV).
31 With this last part of section VIII, see Ashworth and Spade [17.28] and references
there.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions
17.1 Albert of Saxony, Perutilis logica, Venice, 1522; repr.Olms, Hildesheim, 1974.
17.2 ——Sophismata, Paris, 1502; repr. Olms, Hildesheim, 1975.
17.3 Alessio, F. (ed.) Lamberto d’Auxerre: Logica (Summa Lamberti), Florence,
La nuova Italia editrice, 1971.
17.4 Boehner, B. (ed.) Walter Burley: De puritate artis logicae tractatus longior,
with a Revised Edition of the Tractatus Brevior, St Bonaventure, NY,
Franciscan Institute, 1955.
17.5 Brown, M.A. (ed.) Paul of Pergula: Logica and Tractatus de sensu composite
et diviso, St Bonaventure, NY, Franciscan Institute, 1961.
17.6 De Rijk, L.M. (ed.) Peter of Spain: Tractatus, Called Afterwards Summule
Logicales, Assen, Van Gorcum, 1972. (translated in [17.21])
17.7 Gál, G. et al. (eds) Guillelmi de Ockham: Opera philosophica et theologica,
17 vols, St Bonaventure, NY, Franciscan Institute, 1967–88. (OT=Opera
theologica; OP=Opera philosophica.)
17.8 Geach, P. and Kneale, W. (general editors) Pauli Veneti logica magna, Oxford,
Oxford University Press, 1978–. (Latin edition and English translation, in
several fascicles. Editors and translators vary.)
17.9 Grabmann, M. (ed.) Die Introductions in logicam des Wilhelm van
Shyreswood, Munich, Verlag der Bayerischen Adademie der
Wissenschaften, 1937. (translated in [17.26])
17.10 Gregory of Rimini, Super primum et secundum Sententiarum, Venice, 1522;
repr. Franciscan Institute, St Bonaventure, NY, 1955.
17.11 Heytesbury, W. Tractatus guilelmi Hentisberi de sensu composito et diviso,
Regulae ejusdem cum sophismatibus…, Venice, 1494.
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17.12 Hubien, H. (ed.) Johannis Buridani Tractatus de consequentiis, Louvain,
Publications Universitaires, 1976. (translated in [17.17])
17.13 Maierù, A. (ed.) ‘Lo Speculum puerorum sive Terminus est in quem di Riccardo
Billingham’, Studi Medievali (3rd series) 10.3 (1969): 297–397.
17.14 Paul of Venice, Logica (=Logica parva), Venice, 1484; repr. Olms, Hildesheim,
1970. (translated in [17.20])
17.15 Peter of Ailly, Conceptus et insolubilia, Paris, c. 1495. (translated in [17.27])
17.16 Scott, T.K. (ed.) Johannes Buridanus: Sophismata, Stuttgart, Fromman-
Holzboog, 1977. (translated in [17.18])
See also [17.19], [17.29] II, pt 2.
English Translations
17.17 John Buridan’s Logic: The Treatise on Supposition, the Treatise on
Consequences, trans. P.King, Dordrecht, Reidel, 1985.
17.18 John Buridan: Sophisms on Meaning and Truth, trans. T.K.Scott, New York,
Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1966. (translation of [17.16])
17.19 John Buridan on Self-Reference: Chapter Eight of Buridan’s ‘Sophismata’,
with a Translation, an Introduction, and a Philosophical Commentary,
trans. G. E.Hughes, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1982. (The
paperback edition omits the Latin text, and has different pagination and
subtitle.)
17.20 Paul of Venice: Logica parva, trans. A.R.Perreiah, Washington, DC, Catholic
University of America Press, and Munich, Philosophia Verlag, 1984.
(translation of [17.14])
17.21 Peter of Spain: Language in Dispute, trans. F.P.Dinneen, Amsterdam, J.
Benjamins, 1990. (translation of [17.6])
17.22 William Heytesbury, On ‘Insoluble’ Sentences: Chapter One of His Rules for
Solving Sophisms, trans. P.V.Spade, Toronto, Pontifical Institute of
Mediaeval Studies, 1979. (translated from [17.11])
17.23 William of Ockham: Ockham’s Theory of Propositions: Part II of the Summa
logicae, trans. A.J.Freddoso and H.Schuurman, Notre Dame, Ind.,
University of Notre Dame Press, 1980.
17.24 William of Ockham: Ockham’s Theory of Terms: Part 1 of the Summa logicae,
trans. M.J.Loux, Notre Dame, Ind., University of Notre Dame Press, 1974.
17.25 William of Ockham: Predestination, God’s Foreknowledge, and Future
Contingents, trans. M.M.Adams and N.Kretzmann, New York, Appleton-
Century-Crofts, 1969; 2nd edn, Indianapolis, Ind., Hackett, 1983.
17.26 William of Sherwood’s Introduction to Logic, trans. N.Kretzmann,
Minneapolis, Minn., University of Minnesota Press, 1966. (translation of
[17.9])
17.27 Peter of Ailly: Concepts and Insolubles, an Annotated Translation, trans.
P.V. Spade, Dordrecht, Reidel, 1980. (translation of [17.15])
See also [17.8].
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Collections of Articles, General Studies and Surveys
17.28 Ashworth, E.J. and Spade, P.V. ‘Logic in Late Medieval Oxford’, in The History
of the University of Oxford, vol. II, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1992.
17.29 De Rijk, L.M. Logica Modernorum, vol. I, On the Twelfth Century Theories
of Fallacy, Assen, Van Gorcum, 1962; vol. II, The Origin and Early
Development of the Theory of Supposition, Assen, Van Gorcum, 1967.
(Vol. II is bound in 2 parts: 1, De Rijk’s own discussion; 2, Latin texts and
indices.)
17.30 CHLMP.
17.31 Kretzmann, N. (ed.) Meaning and Inference in Medieval Philosophy: Studies
in Memory of Jan Pinborg, Dordrecht, Kluwer, 1988.
17.32 Lewry, P.O. (ed.) The Rise of British Logic: Acts of the Sixth European
Symposium on Medieval Logic and Semantics, Balliol College, Oxford,
19–24 June 1983, Toronto, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1983.
17.33 Maierù, A. (ed.) English Logic in Italy in the 14th and 15th Centuries: Acts
of the Fifth European Symposium on Medieval Logic and Semantics, Rome,
10–14 November 1980, Naples, Bibliopolis, 1982.
17.34 ——Terminologia logica della tarda scolastica, Rome, Edizioni dell’Ateneo,
1972.
17.35 Nuchelmans, G. Theories of the Proposition: Ancient and Medieval
Conceptions of the Bearers of Truth and Falsity, Amsterdam, North
Holland, 1973.
17.36 Pinborg, J. Die Entwicklung der Sprachtheorie im Mittelalter, Münster:
Aschendorff, 1967.
17.37 ——(ed.) The Logic of John Buridan: Acts of the Third European Symposium
on Medieval Logic and Semantics, Copenhagen, 16–21 November 1975,
Copenhagen, Museum Tusculanum, 1976.
Studies of Particular Topics
17.38 Gál, G. ‘Adam of Wodeham’s question on the ‘complexe significabile’ as the
immediate object of scientific knowledge’, Franciscan Studies 37 (1977):
66–102.
17.39 Geach, P. Mental Acts: Their Content and Their Objects, London, Routledge
& Kegan Paul, 1957. (Section 23 is on mental language.)
17.40 Kretzmann, N. ‘Medieval logicians on the meaning of the Propositio’, Journal
of Philosophy 67 (1970):767–87.
17.41 Pinborg, J. ‘The English contribution to logic before Ockham’, Synthese 40
(1979): 19–42.
17.42 Spade, P.V. ‘The origin of the mediaeval insolubilia literature’, Franciscan
Studies 33 (1973): 292–309.
17.43 ——‘Ockham’s rule of supposition: two conflicts in his theory’, Vivarium 12
(1974): 63–73.
17.44 ——‘Ockham’s distinction between absolute and connotative terms’, Vivarium
13 (1975): 55–75.
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17.45 ——The Mediaeval Liar: A Catalogue of the Insolubilia Literature, Toronto,
Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1975.
17.46 ——‘Some epistemological implications of the Burley-Ockham dispute’,
Franciscan Studies 35 (1975): 212–22.
17.47 ——‘Synonymy and equivocation in Ockham’s mental language’, Journal of
the History of Philosophy 18 (1980): 9–22.
17.48 ——‘Insolubilia and Bradwardine’s theory of signification’, Medioevo: Rivista
di storia della filosofia medievale 7 (1981): 115–34.
17.49 ——‘Five early theories in the mediaeval insolubilia literature’, Vivarium 25
(1987): 24–46.
17.50 ——‘The logic of the categorical: the medieval theory of descent and ascent’,
in [17.31] 187–224.
17.51 Trentman, J. ‘Ockham on mental’, Mind 79 (1970): 586–90.
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CHAPTER 18
Late medieval philosophy,
1350–1500
Zénon Kaluza
INTRODUCTION
No fact in philosophical or other history underlies the commonlymade
division of fourteenth-century philosophy around the year 1350, except
perhaps the Black Death of 1348–9, which overcame the Oxford
masters and destroyed an original style of thinking and doing
philosophy. Things happened differently on the Continent, at least in
1348–9, so that this division does not apply there. The great
philosophers of the Middle Ages who have a place in history were not
all dead before 1350; and some, indeed, continued to think and write
after this time. The chapter-division in this volume is, then, more than
anything a reflection of the state of knowledge of historians, who have
been more interested in the first half of the fourteenth century than in
the second, so that our knowledge of the years 1300–50 is surer than
that of the years 1350–1400. And since, as a general rule—to which
this chapter is an exception—historians prefer to speak of what they
know, they also adopt the breaks which indicate the limits of their
knowledge of the past: breaks which are ‘historical’ only by convention.
This applies also to the other limit of the period, the year 1500, the
rough textbook boundary between the Middle Ages and modern times.
Such text-book divisions exist to show that there is a moment when
every beginning comes to its end and makes way for a new beginning.
The period 1350–1500 is, then, little studied. This is true not only
of the philosophers and theologians, but also of the universities where
they taught. For speculation—what is called ‘medieval speculation’—
did not take place outside universities except to a very limited degree.
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It was always the work of clerics teaching in studia. The only important
exception is Italy, where the development of humanism began by
introducing philosophical thought into chancelleries and then later
made itself a place of its own—the academies. But that is another story
which, traditionally, does not belong to ‘medieval philosophy’.
The century and a half from 1350 is precisely the period of
development of the universities. It saw the foundations of several dozen
universities everywhere in Europe, especially in Central Europe, but
also in Italy, the south of France, Scandinavia and Scotland. Although
they are not entirely indistinguishable, the history of medieval
philosophy is also, at least in its origins, the history of the university as
an institution. That is why, before discussing doctrines, we must consider
the intellectual and institutional context of late medieval philosophy.
THE INSTITUTIONAL CONTEXT
After the tragic years of 1349–50, the University of Oxford became an
important centre for realist philosophy, where logicians (who were
already well known) worked alongside philosophers and theologians,
such as the two secular clerics, Nicholas Aston and Richard Billingham,
the Franciscan Richard Brinkley, the Carmelite Osbert Pockingham
and the Augustinian Hermit Godfrey Hardeby. The years 1360–80 are
notable for the intellectual activity of John Wyclif (c. 1328–84), the
author of various works in English and Latin, of logic, philosophy and
theology, politics, of sermons and of polemic. Pope Gregory XI
condemned a set of his political positions in 1377, but it was not until
1380 that the criticisms of his theological doctrines began in England.
In the following years, his positions and his writings would be
condemned several times at Oxford and London, at Prague and at the
Council of Constance. Among his critics we find several outstanding
and prolific philosophers and theologians, such as the two Carmelites,
Richard Lavenham (d. 1381/3) and Thomas Netter (in his Doctrinale
antiquitatum). To the same group belongs the Dominican Thomas
Claxton (d. 1430), a Thomist and member of the commission which
condemned the writings of Wyclif in 1411. With Netter and Claxton
we are already in the fifteenth century.1
John Wyclif has a decisive position in the intellectual history of
Europe for two reasons. First of all, he added weight to the attack on
nominalism, and his realism and reformism would profoundly influence
the new University of Prague. They underlie the Czech reform and all
its political and religious repercussions.2 Second, after the fairly universal
rejection of nominalism at the beginning of the fifteenth century, the
criticisms of Wyclif and his condemnation stimulated and perhaps
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accelerated the return to the great scholastic thinkers of the thirteenth
century. This return (which seems to us today to be the first version of
neoscholasticism) took place in England at the very time of the anti-
Wyclifite polemics. It was thus earlier than the parallel movement on
the Continent.
In Paris, the second half of the fourteenth century continued on the
path already set until the beginning of the Great Schism (1378–1414),
a period of political and doctrinal crisis for the university. After 1378
the influence of Oxford on Paris was diminished and relations between
the two universities, which had already been weakened by the Hundred
Years War, became openly hostile. Two schools engaged in explicit
polemic: the nominalists (the followers of John Buridan) and the
Scotists. A third, Thomism, was attacked brutally and publicly by Peter
d’Ailly. In the faculty of theology a number of doctrines were current,
and this led in the general direction of eclecticism. But the faculty of
arts was dominated by the nominalist school, which seemed to have
imposed its textbooks and methods. This position would change in
about 1395, the time when Pierre d’Ailly gave up the position of
Chancellor. From this date onwards, the realists—especially the
Thomists, but also the followers of Albert the Great—made up lost
ground and ended the nominalists’ monopoly. The 1339 prohibition
on teaching Ockham’s doctrines, which was considered in the fifteenth
century to be a ban on all forms of nominalism, would remain in force
until 1481, when Louis XI lifted the prohibition of books and doctrines
held to be nominalist.
Italian universities, sometimes older than those north of the Alps,
developed in a different way from other studia. This came about for
three main reasons. First, the great universities of Padua and Bologna
opened their theology faculties (the faculties in which doctrinal
speculation tended to be most developed) relatively late: Padua in 1363,
Bologna in 1364. Other theology faculties would be opened even later.
Without the natural support which theology gave it in the northern
universities, philosophy as practised in Italy did not succeed, in our
period, in producing doctrinal schools. But, for this very reason, the
most gifted philosophers, Francis of Marchia, Gregory of Rimini, John
of Ripa and many others, went to Paris and became famous there.
Second, in Italy the faculties of liberal arts prepared young people for
practical careers as physicians or lawyers and placed little emphasis on
philosophical speculation. In Italy philosophy consisted most of all in
the task of commenting on the writings of Aristotle and the set-books
of grammar, astronomy and optics. Indeed, the important Italian
philosophers of this period were often also medical doctors. All the
same, towards the end of the fourteenth century, a tradition was born,
and some people set themselves to studying English logicians and
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philosophers, then to studying Averroes, Aquinas and Duns Scotus,
whilst others were drawn to the novelty which is called ‘humanism’.
Humanism is the third important factor in the development of
philosophy in late medieval Italy. Everything which is most original
and productive in the intellectual life of the late Middle Ages belongs to
the broad movement of humanism, which Petrarch and an extraordinary
series of chancellors of Florence, beginning with Coluccio Salutati (1375–
1406) and Leonardo Bruni (1410–11, 1427–44), created and continued
([18.47]). These chancellors, assisted later by many ‘humanists’ (grammar
teachers), brought into being the movement which would finally change
the course of philosophy. They were attracted to a different sort of
philosophy from that of the universities. For, whereas the university
philosophers devoted themselves especially to logic, natural philosophy
and metaphysics, the humanists were particularly interested in moral
and political philosophy, ancient philosophy, literature and philology.
The fifteenth century witnessed at once scholastic resistance to humanism
and a mingling of the two currents of thought.3 Their exponents did
not always have friendly relations. Sometimes the humanists attacked
university philosophy, which was heavily influenced by the English,
complaining of Suissenicae quisquiliae, subtilitates Anglicanae and
barbari Britanni.4 Perhaps they were right, since not only the fourteenth
century, which finished with Peter of Mantua (d. 1400), but also the
fifteenth, which began with the teaching of Biagio Pelacani (d. 1416)
and Paul of Venice (Paolo Nicoletti, d. 1429), and continued with
Gaetano da Thiene, was very influenced by English logic and philosophy,
that of the calculatores and Merton College in particular. In the second
half of the fifteenth century, however, and later, humanist philology
also conquered the universities and did great service for philosophy,
encouraging work on texts, new translations and paraphrases and new
commentaries. To it Aristotelianism owed its vigorous revival.5
The situation with regard to philosophy was different in the Empire
and the countries bordering on it. The University of Prague, which
was established in 1347, developed normally until about 1400. Its
theologians were allowed great freedom and were influenced by the
Church Fathers and twelfth-century writers such as St Bernard, the
Victorines and Alan of Lille. Among the philosophers, who enjoyed a
similar liberty, John Buridan’s doctrines, equated with nominalism,
were popular; but, from 1390 to the early 1400s, Wyclif often replaced
Buridan as the model. Fairly soon, to Wyclifite philosophy there was
linked Wyclifite theology and various attempts at ecclesiastical reform.
The Wyclifites became a part of the reform movement and were linked
with nationalism. The statute of Kutná-Hora (1409), abolishing the
system of voting by nation, shook the university. Those who objected
to it—the Germans especially—left to teach and study in German
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universities, especially Leipzig (founded in 1409). After the
condemnation of Jan Hus and Jerome of Prague at the Council of
Constance and their burning at the stake (in 1415 and 1416), the
Hussite revolution broke out, destroying the economic base of the
university, the system of colleges and benefices. By cutting off the
university from the rest of Europe, it caused philosophy to disappear
from Prague for many years.
The University of Kracow, though established in 1364, only began
functioning properly in 1400, with masters trained at Prague. Students
of the following generations sometimes went to study at Cologne,
Erfurt or Leipzig. The University of Vienna, founded in 1365, and
refounded in 1384, was able to continue despite its difficult
beginnings, thanks to the untiring work of Albert of Saxony and of
the reorganizers of the university, Henry of Langenstein and Henry of
Oyta. All three had previously studied at Paris. At Kracow, Vienna
and in the new German universities of the fourteenth century—
Cologne, Heidelberg and Erfurt—John Buridan had become the
unchallenged authority in the faculty of philosophy. This nominalist
schola communis persisted for varying lengths of time from place to
place: in Paris until about 1395, at Cologne up until 1420/1, in
Heidelberg until the 1450s, in Vienna right up until almost the end of
the fifteenth century. Each of these schools made its own decision on
whether it should continue with this or that philosophy.6
ENGLISH PHILOSOPHY
The mainstream of English philosophy after 1350 was realist. Realist
philosophers looked to two points of reference in the recent past, which
they used in order to define their own identity: the philosophy of
William of Ockham and Thomas Bradwardine’s De causa Dei (In God’s
Defence). As a general rule, the writers rejected Ockham’s teaching.
Such, for instance, was the attitude of the Franciscan Richard Brinkley.
His summa of logic continues, in this respect, the pseudo-Campsall’s
tradition of anti-Ockhamist logic.7 For Wyclif, Ockham and his
followers would always be doctores signorum, masters whose teaching
is about words which signify things, but tells us nothing about the
things themselves. By contrast, Bradwardine’s masterpiece was criticized
only on points of detail, whilst it is very often a rich source of inspiration,
particularly in the cases of Thomas of Buckingham and Nicholas Aston.
Nicholas Aston, a theologian and philosopher, is interesting in a
number of ways. He read the Sentences between 1352 and 1354, and
then in 1358 he became a doctor of theology. He was Chancellor of
the university from 1358 or 1359 to 1361, and finally Dean of
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Chichester in 1362. Aston seems to have wanted to make theology
and philosophy subordinate to his logical concerns. His treatise on
insolubilia, which remains lost, is quoted in his commentary on the
Sentences (still unpublished). This commentary raises a good many
logical problems, such as the signification of affirmative and negative
propositions, the nature of contradictory, contingent and false
propositions, and the rules of inference. It is as a logician that he raised
the great question of God’s existence, since he believed that logic is the
only discipline accepted by everybody without reservation and that
the proof which it could provide would not depend on any philosophical
presuppositions. This is to say that he rejected the proofs of God which
had been devised previously. In particular, he criticized Bradwardine’s
proof, which is based on the concept of possibility (De causa Dei, I,1).
Yet Aston is also Bradwardine’s follower, especially in his critique of
Duns Scotus’s notion of impossibility and in his discussion of the view
that the propositional content Deum non esse (that God is not)
necessarily contains a contradiction (De causa Dei I, 13 and 14).8
Aston’s own demonstration of God’s existence is based on three
definitions, three suppositions and two principles, one of which is
important for us: ‘every false proposition is either contingent or includes
a contradiction’ (omnis propositio falsa est contingens vel
contradictionem includens). The main proof (called ‘Achilles’) takes
the following form:
1 If God exists, and if there is a proposition p which asserts that God
does not exist, then p contains a self-contradiction.
2 p contains a self-contradiction if it is the case that God does not
exist just as it does if it is the case that God does exist.
3 Therefore, in both cases, p is self-contradictory.
(2) is based on the principle that no change in things can prevent a self-
contradictory proposition from being self-contradictory. Aston proves
(1) in this way. Granted that God exists, suppose that the p, which
denies his existence, is not self-contradictory. It must then be false.
Now, according to the principle mentioned above, every false
proposition is either contingent or self-contradictory. But p is not
contingent because, by virtue of the definition of contingents, the
statement ‘God exists’ would equally be contingent and so God, what
is designated by the subject term, would be a contingent being. And so
the statement ‘God does not exist’ is and will always be self-
contradictory and so ‘impossible’.9
This proof—one which, to our eyes, shows as much, or more faith
in logic than in God—gave rise to lengthy discussion in England, France,
Bohemia and even in Italy. These discussions are interesting not for
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what they prove, but because of the subjects they touch on, the main
one of which is the definition of impossible and self-contradictory
propositions. This is, for example, the problem faced by the
Augustinian, Godfrey Hardeby, and the Franciscan, Brinkley. Brinkley
did not think that a ‘simple negative’ consisting of a subject and a
verb, could be self-contradictory, but merely true or false.10 In the final
years of the fourteenth century, Biagio Pelacani, an Italian physician
and philosopher, went on with the discussion of the same problem,
and now linked it to causality. He knew very well the English debates
about the statement ‘God does not exist’ ([18.40]). As far as we can
discern today, the discussions which took place at Paris seem to have
taken another direction. The scholars there tried to show the
contradictory character of ‘God does not exist’ in a more commonplace
way, by reference to the Neoplatonic definition of God as pure being
(esse purum), or by recourse to Anselm’s concept of the most perfect
being. In each case this being cannot not exist.
Brinkley’s discussion of the ‘logical proof of God’s existence was
just one of the reasons for the popularity in Paris of his commentary,
dating from 1350 to 1360. In fact the Parisian masters were also
interested just as much in problems about the first contingent being
(prima contingentia) and how contingent beings can be produced by a
necessary cause, and those about the status of theology as a science
and about the causes and nature of assent to the articles of faith. The
two first problems are linked. They concern the reply to the question
of whether the notion of creation is conceivable and, if so, whether the
contingency of the effect presupposes a certain contingency in its cause.
Bradwardine had followed others in putting this question. He had
replied that the first and highest freedom and contingency, which causes
all other freedom and contingency, is in the divine will (II, 5; 624B).
This position was taken up by the Franciscan, John of Ripa and his
disciple, Louis of Padua, but it was condemned in 1362 by the theology
faculty of Paris. But Brinkley had already rejected it. He held that
contingency derives from created things, not God: only being which
changes is contingent. To answer the question, however, Brinkley
presents God’s productive action in an original way—by noun and by
adverb: modo necessario and necessario (‘in a necessary way’,
‘necessarily’) modo contingenti and contingenter (‘in a contingent way’
and ‘contingently’). The noun modus implies and determines the nature
of the cause which acts. It cannot, therefore, be the case that God can
act modo contingenti because, being a necessary being, he always acts
modo necessario. By contrast, the adverb describes God’s action in
terms of its result, which is sometimes necessary (as in the persons of
the Trinity), sometimes contingent (as in created things). The two
assertions, that God acts modo necessario and that he acts contingenter
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are not concerned with the same thing and do not rule each other out.
Rather, they are complementary.
With regard to proving God’s existence, Richard Brinkley rejects
every sort of proof, whether a priori or a posteriori. Most frequently
he makes clear his differences from the tradition of Duns Scotus and
Ockham, in particular on whether passio can be demonstrated, rejecting
any formulation of the univocity of being and arguing against the
trinitarian theology of Scotus.11
Brinkley bases his semantics on two concepts: imposition and
subordination. To summarize it very briefly: Brinkley maintains that a
conventional sign (such as a word) signifies exactly the same thing as
the corresponding natural sign (a concept) does—that is to say, an
object outside the mind, not a concept. The only conventional signs
that signify concepts are those especially imposed to do this. Otherwise,
signification is immediate (sign natural/conventional>thing), so we can
move from language directly to the world of things. Since conventional
signs come after natural signs, their function as signifiers is based on a
temporal relationship (prius/posterius). Brinkley adds that no
conventional sign depends on any other conventional sign; and he rules
out any hierarchy of languages, since every language depends in the
same way on natural signs. The relations between mental, spoken and
written propositions are explained in the same way, and so is the concept
of truth. Brinkley’s view of imposition also affects his theory of
obligations.12
John Wyclif became a member of Merton College in 1356, a master
at Balliol in 1360 and a doctor of theology in 1372. A number of the
writings of this energetic polemicist are gathered in two collections,
the Summa de ente (Textbook on Entities) and the Summa theologiae
(Textbook of Theology). Wyclif considered himself close to the tradition
of Richard Fitzralph and Thomas Bradwardine, and he often described
himself as a ‘realist philosopher’, in this way marking his opposition
to the ‘doctors of signs’.
Wyclif’s metaphysics is founded on two principles, the one positive,
the other negative. The negative principle, ‘Nothing is and is not at the
same time’ (nihil simul esse et non esse) is one of the many variants of
the principle of non-contradiction. Wyclif considers it as a first and
pure negation. The positive principle, that being exists (ens esse), is the
first indubitable and indemonstrable truth. Being, the existence of which
is asserted by this principle, is taken in general (in communi). Being is
transcendent, and everything which exists participates in it. It exists,
then, in singular things: it is impossible to know transcendent being
without knowing a singular, and vice versa. Being is identical to entity,
one, the true and the good and it is the first object of knowledge
(primum cognitum) of our intellect. As the first object known, it is also
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the first signabile, that is to say, the first that is able to be designated by
a word, to be signified by an expression. Being is eternal, not because
the singulars which contain it are eternal, but by virtue of the first,
uncreated being and also by virtue of the universals which are ideal
reasons (rationes ydeales que vocantur universalia) and other eternal
truths, such as the future and past states of things, negations, distinctions
and numbers. This transcendent being is unique and the attributes which
apply to created things cannot be predicated of it except analogously.
It is not made of parts, but the human intellect is capable of
distinguishing six transcendental attributes: being, thing, something
(aliquid), one, true and good: the last three are ‘qualities of being’
(passiones entis).
It should, all the same, be emphasized that for Wyclif the notion of
analogous being has a special sense, derived from Augustine’s theology
of creation. He holds analogous being to have been created by a sudden
and simultaneous act of creation, and he defines it—looking to the
Book about Causes (Liber de causis) IV, 37 as the ‘first created being’
(esse primum creatum) or ‘first of created things’ (prima rerum
creatarum). When he created it, God placed in this being the models
and measures of the genera and species. Afterwards, all particular things
were made according to these models. This second act of creation is
called by Wyclif ‘administration’ (administratio). Wyclif’s two-stage
scheme of creation echoes Augustine’s distinction between ‘first
creation’ (prima conditio) and ‘administration’. For this reason it is
legitimate to think of the models contained in analogous being as
Wyclif’s version of the causal reasons (rationes seminales) discussed by
Augustine.13
The ideal reasons mentioned in the paragraph before last are just
one group among universals. In fact, universals are divided in two
different ways into three groups. Following Avicenna (Logica 3) and
Eustratius, Wyclif distinguishes between universals ante rem, the divine
ideas; universals in re, the common natures in singulars; and universals
post rem, concepts. In fourteenth-century fashion, he also distinguishes
universals by causality, by communication, and by representation. The
first way of dividing follows the universals’ way of being, whereas the
second mixes their way of being and their function. For instance, the
divine ideas are universals by causation, because they cause genera,
species and singular things, but they are also ante rem, for the very
reason that they precede everything of which they are the cause.14
Universals by communication are the common natures in which
singulars participate, although they are formally distinct from them.
Universals by representation are terms predicated in propositions.
Wyclif goes against tradition by identifying real universals with the
genera and species listed in Genesis—that is, roughly speaking, with
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natural kinds. In this way he combines the word of Scripture,
philosophical analysis and our everyday perception of biological
differences. Yet the point of his consideration of universals is simply to
gain fuller knowledge of the Bible and the mystery of the Trinity: ‘The
knowledge of universals is particularly useful because it enables the
literal sense of the scriptural passages which talk of universals to be
understood and it reveals the paralogisms which arise in talking about
the Trinity’.15 In fact the mystery of the Trinity is explained by using
the idea of formal distinction (that between the persons and the divine
essence) and of communication (the divine essence which communicates
itself to the persons). But Wyclif denies that there are any real
distinctions in God (so as not to make his essence plural) and that
what is common, the divine essence, is in any way prior to what is
individual (the persons)—although this priority is found in the theory
of universals. The formal nature of the distinction between God’s
essence and the divine persons is based on the epistemological idea of
the ‘first known’ or that which is ‘known principally’ (principaliter
intellectum) in God: at one moment this is essence (communicability),
at another a person (incommunicability); but the two remain unmixed
([18.6] XIV: 143, 149).
Wyclif’s doctrine of universals by causality was inspired by the
passages in St Augustine on divine ideas. These universals—also called
exemplars, ideas and archetypes—are in God. They are the very essence
of God, and so ‘essentially’ God, whilst formally they are the reason
by which God knows created things. The only distinctions between
themselves, and between themselves and God, are formal. Wyclif and
his followers used this opinion of St Augustine’s to show that, thanks
to the (universal) ideas, the action and the result of creation are
intelligible: without them God would have created something without
having knowledge of it. There is another way, too, in which universals
make the world intelligible. Granted the priority of what is common
and of the universal over the particular, we know a singular in so far as
we contemplate its intelligibility, its ‘passive intellection’, which is the
universal in God, placed in the Word, but present in the whole Trinity.16
As for the number of the ideas, Wyclif merely distinguishes between
ideas of singulars, those of universals and that of analogous being (the
ontological status of which is not easy to grasp). Every created thing is
singular in its existence, belongs to a natural kind, participates in being
and reflects in itself the ideal world of causal reasons. And, since the
causal chain is finite and infinite regress is impossible, there is no room
for talk of ideas of ideas ([18.5] I, c. X: 72).
Wyclif’s theory of universals must be clearly distinguished from the
ontology of forms devised by the Franciscan Francis of Meyronnes.
Whereas Wyclif identified the ideas in the mind of God, taken from
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Augustine, with universals, Francis left ideas in the mind of God to the
theologians, whilst as a philosopher keeping Platonic ideas. His theory
is, indeed, a new interpretation of Platonism—and a more philosophical
one than Wyclifs.17 Spurred by Duns Scotus and Avicenna, Meyronnes
imagines a world of formal quiddities, which gives the lie to Aristotle’s
caricature of Platonic ideas: ‘If they exist, they are monsters.’ Francis
argues that, in Plato’s view, essential predication, definition,
demonstration and division are all based on ideas, since all these
intellectual operations imply a specific nature which is unchangeable
and unmoveable and set apart from any material conditions. These
operations cannot even take place without there being formal quiddities:
if they are to be true and necessary, the links between the terms must
be made in the first instance outside the mind and not depend in any
way on its workings. These quiddities must be pure and separated
from everything which would determine them in a concrete being. For
this reason, they must be attributed the same sort of being as Avicenna’s
essences. And so, if it is necessary to posit ideas, they must be formally
separated from everything which has put them into an individual being:
place, duration, haecceitas (this-ness). To put it in another way: their
being is abstract by their nature, not as a result of an intellectual
operation. To the final question, ‘How can the esse in pluribus (being
in many) which defines universals fit with quiddities?’, Meyronnes has
a simple reply: accidit. It so happens that a universal is in particulars
or in our concept. But, from the point of view of its nature, it is there
by accident; whereas from the point of view of the particulars, it is
there by necessity.18
To return to Wyclif himself. Older views of the ‘extreme realism’ of
his philosophy are not justified, if such extremism is taken to embrace
the existence of genera and species outside singulars, and the existence
of divine ideas outside the divine essence or really distinct from it.
Wyclif rejects such a philosophy. On the question of universals, he
places himself between Thomas Aquinas and Walter Burley, and with
regard to ideas he accuses Aristotle of having been foolish to claim
that Plato thought that ideas were separate essences. Wyclif’s realism
is not, then, extreme. Its unwonted nature reflects its unusual source
of inspiration: it is a theological realism, because it derives from a literal
reading of the word of Scripture.
Several Oxford masters adopted Wyclif’s doctrine of universals, along
with the metaphysics and logic which underpinned it. They carried on
teaching a sort of Wyclifism until the 1420s, but they are hardly known
to us.19 At the same time, in the last decade of the fourteenth century,
the University of Prague provided excellent ground for the development
of Wyclifism, first in the person of Stanislas of Znaim (later the enemy
of Wyclif and Hus; d. 1414) and his followers, John Hus (d. 1415) and
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Stefan Palec (later the enemy of Wyclif and Hus; d. 1423), and later
still in Jerome of Prague (d. 1416), Jacobellus of Misa (d. after 1430)
and others.20 All of these men shared Wyclif’s teaching, especially his
doctrine of universals as being at once divine ideas, common forms
and terms or concepts. For the Wyclifites of Prague, however, universals
were of especial interest in their first function, as ideas. Znaim, Palec
and Jerome presented, as the basis of their teaching, a nourishing world
of ideas, which merited love and adoration because of their real identity
with God’s essence—a view once rejected by Duns Scotus. None the
less, only Znaim—so far as we know—set out to demonstrate at length
the existence of universals on the basis of Genesis (cf. [18.26] n. 795).
PHILOSOPHY IN PARIS
If, at Oxford, the second half of the fourteenth century and the fifteenth
century were dominated by realism, the situation was very different in
Paris, despite the ban on teaching Ockham’s doctrines. To consider
just the second half of the fourteenth century: the faculty of arts was
dominated by ‘Parisian nominalism’, or the school of Buridan, and
this went on to win over the other universities on the Continent. The
most famous masters of this school were Albert of Saxony (who went
on to become the first rector of the University of Vienna), Themo the
Jew, Dominic of Clavasio, Marsilius of Inghen (who became the first
rector of Heidelberg), Henry of Langenstein, Peter d’Ailly, Henry Totting
of Oyta and John Dorp, all of them famous in the history of science, or
the history of logic, or as theologians.21
Given the relative silence of the other schools, it was the disputes
between the ‘Ockhamists’ (hereditas filiorum Ocham) and the different
intellectual inheritors of Duns Scotus which were witnessed by the
faculty of theology. These ‘Scotists’ showed unceasing originality and
independence of mind in relation to their doctrinal master. The case of
a Spanish Dominican, Juan of Monzon, shows the sad state of Thomism
in Paris at the time. It also gave Peter d’Ailly, the future chancellor, a
better chance than he could have hoped to attack Aquinas’s teaching
publicly, at the university and at the court in Avignon. In the aftermath,
the Dominicans withdrew from the University of Paris (1388–1403).
The nominalist school in theology is not well known: we cannot
even be sure that it existed between the time of Gregory of Rimini and
Peter d’Ailly. True, a statute of Louis XI, dated 1474, forbidding
nominalism names as nominalist theologians Ockham, Wodeham, John
of Mirecourt, Gregory of Rimini and Peter d’Ailly. Yet, of the three
Parisians, Gregory and Peter are considered followers of Ockham, whilst
John was rather a realist, who followed English writings closely and
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plagiarized them energetically. All the same, since Peter d’Ailly also
seems to have been as much of a plagiarist, it is hard to speak of his
original ideas with confidence until there is a critical edition of his
writings and their sources have been established. None the less, for
our present purposes it is tempting to reconstruct the main decisions
taken by the university and the main disagreements between the schools,
since the first as much as the second affected the doctrinal teaching
and the institutional life of the University of Paris. We have arranged
them around three events which made apparent the situation of the
various doctrinal schools: the statutes of 1339 and 1340; Peter d’Ailly’s
fight against Thomism; and Gerson’s fight against the Scotists.
On 25 September 1339, the faculty of arts of Paris instituted a ban
on commenting in public or private on the writings of Ockham, and
on citing his opinions in disputations. This statute should not be taken,
as some scholars have exaggeratedly read it, as a decision made against
nominalism, but as a measure directed personally against Ockham, his
writings and his teachings. And, since the faculty did not take the statute
to go beyond these limits, nominalism was able to develop in Paris
better than elsewhere. It was during the doctrinal struggles of the
beginning of the fifteenth century, when Ockham was identified as the
father of nominalism, that the broader interpretation of the statute
was probably first entertained. Louis XI’s law of 1 March 1474, which
forbade all nominalist teaching and books, refers to the decision of
1339 as a prohibition of nominalism. Between 1339 and 1474 the
meanings of terms had slipped and coalesced, and Ockham, Ockhamism
and nominalism were considered one and the same. We should note,
all the same, finally that the same Louis XI, in 1481, gave permission
for nominalist doctrines to be taught, and, at the same time, removed
all the earlier prohibitions.
The statute of 29 December 1340 was not a condemnation of
Ockham and his own doctrine, nor a decision taken by the realists
against the interest of the nominalists. Rather, it was a faculty measure
taken against certain Parisian masters who said they were Ockhamists.
No other reading is possible, since the text of the statute follows the
letter and spirit of Ockham’s and Buridan’s doctrine.
The central problem in the statute, which occurs in four out of six
articles, is that of the distinction between two senses of a proposition:
the proper or literal sense (virtus sermonis, sensus proprius) and the
improper sense, which however is considered as proper when it fits the
imposition and use of the words, and when it is determined by a materia
subiecta, that is to say, according to Aristotle and his commentators, a
subject belonging to and treated in a determinate discipline.22 We can
call them ‘proper sense’ and ‘improper sense’ (which is ‘proper’ in a
given language). With these two possibilities in mind, the authors of
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the statute set out to consider every proposition in the light of two
rules:
1 If a proposition p is false in the proper sense but true in the improper
sense, it is accepted.
2 If a proposition p is true in the proper sense, but false in the improper
sense, it is rejected.
These rules were known to Buridan, but they were used especially in
theology by Peter d’Ailly and Gerson. They determine whether
propositions are accepted or rejected, since, by the statute, only those
propositions which accord with the first rule can be admitted, and all
those which fall under the second rule must be rejected and left to
‘sophists’.
The statute of 1340 can be judged as favouring nominalism. It derives
from fresh thought about the idea of ‘the force of speech’ (virtus
sermonis) and about the division of knowledge into disciplines, each
of which has its own language with its special characteristics. Altogether,
logic apart, the virtus sermonis exists only within a language determined
either by the subject being treated, or by the discipline to which the
language and the subject belong. By stressing, like Aristotle, the
importance of subject matter, the statute introduces another meaning
of the term ‘certainty’ besides the certainty of our act of knowing
(already the subject of epistemological discussion): the certainty of a
demonstration within a given discipline. In this way, the statute takes
the problem of certainty from the domain of epistemology and places
it within the context of questions about how we build up a scheme of
knowledge and about probability and evidence.
With these remarks in mind, we can see the position of the Parisian
Ockhamists. The statute criticizes them for having too rigid a view of
the proper meaning of terms, a meaning which can be verified always
and everywhere, especially using personal supposition, to which they
gave absolute priority. They limited themselves to this universal, logical
analysis probably because their interests did not go beyond signs, for
the simple reason that they thought that terms and propositions are
the only object of human knowledge. The School of Buridan answered
this ‘Ockhamist’ position by showing the flexibility of language and
adopting rules of analysis for the technical languages of the different
branches of knowledge.
What has come to be known as ‘the Monzon affair’ (1387–9) was
a dramatic series of events with important institutional repercussions.
The events are well known, but more often than not the institutional
repercussions are presented solely as the abandonment of the
University by the Dominicans. The subject of the dispute was the
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Immaculate Conception, in which Peter d’Ailly, his brilliant pupil
Gerson and the faculty of theology believed, but which Monzon and
the Dominicans rejected. The dispute acted as a pretext for a battle
between the theology faculty and the powerful Dominican Order, and
between nominalists and realists. Quickly, the Monzon affair came to
centre on Thomas Aquinas and his doctrine, and it was exactly this
development which made the Dominicans leave the university. The
decisive episode in the struggle took place at Avignon, before the
Pope, his court, some Dominican doctors and a delegation of Paris
theologians ([18.49] 197–8).
Peter d’Ailly’s long and skilful sermon raised a number of
fundamental problems for the Church and the Paris theology faculty:
in particular the question of the order of the jurisdiction of the various
different ecclesiastical authorities which are empowered to define
doctrine, and the hierarchical order of those who are allowed to teach
the Word. Here d’Ailly holds that Aquinas is at the bottom of the
hierarchy, placed after Peter the Lombard, among his commentators.
In the course of giving his answers to these questions, d’Ailly also
examines the value of the teaching of Aquinas itself. And it is here that
we can see the young theologian attacking the authority of the ‘holy
doctor’. He gives his views in two sets of three conclusions. The first
series gives a general estimation of the doctrine, and the second consists
of a wide-ranging demonstration of Aquinas’s errors. Conclusions 1–
3 state the following: although Aquinas’s doctrine might be accepted
as being useful and probable, we must not believe that it is true in
every part, nor that it is entirely without error or heresy. And
Conclusions 4–6: in the Summa contra Gentiles (II, 29–30), Aquinas’s
doctrine on the absolute necessity of created things is literally false (de
virtute sermonis), blemished with errors and in part suspect. Even if,
when understood correctly in accord with its author’s intention, it is
to a certain extent correct (aliqualiter vera), it should not be taught
without its correct meaning first being established.23 The final
conclusion has the air of a gratuitous concession, although it fits
perfectly with the first of the 1340 rules, which d’Ailly quotes and uses
in this very sermon. D’Ailly admits that he has been using the style of
the polemic, where one must show up an enemy’s weaknesses (de virtute
sermonis) and disguise his strong points: in the end, Aquinas’s thesis
can be taught when the distinction of the two senses of virtus sermonis
is made.
Peter d’Ailly was able to show at Avignon the errors and
contradictions of Thomism, and to make himself noticed. In the
aftermath of this victory, the faculty of theology succeeded in making
the Dominicans leave the university and the office of almoner, whilst
d’Ailly was given two appointments: first, to be the royal almoner, and
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second (on his nomination from Avignon) the chancellorship of the
university (1389). The Monzon affair took place, then, when the
university was dominated by the nominalists, and this would continue
until d’Ailly left the chancellorship in 1395. We know very little about
this period and we cannot talk about it with confidence. It seems very
likely, however, that the ban on commenting Aristotle following a realist
author, which is mentioned by John of Nova Domus (Maisonneuve) at
the beginning of the fifteenth century, could well have come between
1388 and 1395.
We know of several conflicts between theological schools, thanks
to the work of Ehrle on Peter of Candia. They are of interest to
historians of philosophy in so far as they concerned speculative
matters, and also because they afford a precious opportunity to trace
the divisions of schools as they were perceived and described by the
very participants in these disputes One of the rivalries, in the 1370s
and perhaps later, was between the nominalists and the formalizantes
mentioned above. Although there was some slowing down in the
production of Scotist books towards the end of the fourteenth century
and at the beginning of the next century, Gerson sustained this conflict
up to his death in 1429. He accused the Scotists and formalizantes
(formalists) of three errors. First, they introduced into theology a
principle of causality—‘from the same in so far as it is the same
nothing but the same can come’ (ab eodem in quantum idem non
provenit nisi idem)—which turns free creation into a necessary act.
Second, in order to safeguard the reality of our knowledge, they
asserted that a thing in the extramental world corresponds to each of
our concepts. Third, by distinguishing between the divine essence and
its attributes, they introduced a formal distinction within God.24 To
Gerson, the thinker principally responsible for these errors was John
of Ripa.
At this time, the Scotist school was not particularly important at
Paris. During the first half of the fourteenth century the school had
developed quickly (we need merely mention Francis of Meyronnes,
Nicholas Bonet and Peter Thomae); and at the end of the fifteenth it
would flourish again (in the treatises de formalitatibus by Stephen
Brulefer and Antonius Sirect, on which several commentaries were
written at Padua). But, during Gerson’s working life, Scotism was going
through a period of torpor. None the less, there were good reasons for
Gerson to criticize the Scotists. Their ontology of forms—especially
the priority of formalitates to the act of knowing them—contradicted
the bases of Gerson’s own thought, which owed much to the tradition
of Buridan and d’Ailly. Moreover, when eighteen articles of Louis of
Padua were condemned in 1362, this was also a condemnation of John
of Ripa. When they introduced formal distinction into the absolutely
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simple being of God, Louis and John had asserted, among other things,
that ‘something in God is his real being which is not his formal being’
and that ‘something intrinsic in God is contingent’.25 Finally, there was
the question of theological language, linked to Buridan’s idea that the
proper meaning of words is limited to a determinate discipline.
Throughout his work, Gerson held that the theological vocabulary of
Scotus and the Scotists (and that too of Raymond Lull) was improper
and had departed from the tradition of an Aristotelian way of speaking
([18.55] 39–40, 51).
CONCLUSION: FIFTEENTH-CENTURY
STAGNATION
In a letter which he wrote in 1400 to the young theologians of the
College of Navarre, Gerson advised his readers to study the great
scholastics of the thirteenth century. As for more recent theologians,
Gerson said that they were excellent in many ways, but beneath the
covering of theological language they had busied themselves with
problems of physics, metaphysics and logic ([18.1] II, n. 5). This call
for a return to classical scholasticism was in harmony both with
Gerson’s own underlying ideas and with the new intellectual tendencies
of his time. Faithful to the school of Buridan, to the 1340 statute and
to the programme which Pope Clement VI had given the university in
a letter of 1346, Gerson always fought against the mixing of disciplines
and their languages.
The revival of realism in Paris began in 1395–1400 (see [18.54] and
[18.76] 279–394). Here, as at Cologne, it took the form of a minor
intellectual rebellion against the obligation to study only nominalist
treatises, in particular those about the properties of terms. Among the
rebels there were also a good number of Thomists and Albertists. As
the conflict developed, three different ideas of university freedom came
into play. There was that of the conservative establishment, who upheld
the exclusive position of nominalism although they allowed the chance
for realist philosophers to be mentioned (Cologne, 1414). There was
that of the Albertist John of Nova Domus, who proposed confining
himself to the Christian—that is to say, Aristotelian—tradition, from
which he excluded the nominalists (Paris, before 1418). Finally, there
was that of the Cologne realists who allowed all the university traditions.
By contrast with the tradition of the school of Buridan, which
separated the disciplines and their principles, the realists put forward
the old model in which knowledge is unified: its basis is metaphysics,
from which all the particular disciplines derive. They also insisted on
the unity of the principles governing all philosophical and theological
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speculation. Clearest about this was the University of Cologne which,
in 1425, declared that the links binding philosophy and theology were
indissoluble, and took St Thomas for its model, because ‘in his two
Summae he uses the same principles as he does in expounding the
works of Aristotle’ (in omnibus Summis suis utitur eisdem principiis,
quibus usus est libros Philosophi exponendo).
The nominalists responded to this exaltation of the great thirteenth-
century scholastics by looking to the founders of their own school,
John Buridan and Marsilius of Inghen. Indeed, strange to say, round
about the year 1400 philosophers decided that they would no longer
do philosophy on their own account and no longer take any personal
responsibility for their philosophical positions. Rather, they spent the
whole of the fifteenth century fighting among themselves, with
prescriptions and prohibitions as their weapons, not in order to impose
on everybody their own thought, but that of their distant models:
Thomas Aquinas, Albert the Great, Duns Scotus, Giles of Rome and
Buridan. Universities passed statutes to remove undesirables and to
close themselves to new ideas. None of these decisions rose above the
level of factional in-fighting.
This upholding of traditions and the related and unceasing conflicts
(especially in the German universities) were institutional rather than
doctrinal in their basis. Historians describe them by the German word
Wegestreit. Sometimes by their violence and length these conflicts turned
universities into a battleground where scholars fought to re-establish
one of the old schools, whether realist or nominalist. The courses in
these universities were limited to the revival of the thought of one or
another great master of the past. Likewise, the practice of teaching
centred on the great names of the past. In England, Wyclif was attacked
in the name of St Thomas. In Paris, a predominantly Thomist realism
became the established doctrine by the last quarter of the century. In
Germany, the choice of doctrine was regulated by the statutes of the
different universities. Since this return to old scholasticism was the
first of a series of such deliberate returns, it is certainly right to call it
the first neoscholasticism. In Italy alone this type of institutional conflict
had no place: there philosophers at once followed the English tradition
of 1300–50 and the Parisian traditions of Averroism and Buridanism,
as well as the traditions of Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus.
(translated by John Marenbon)
NOTES
1 For a general picture, see Catto and Evans [18.37], Hoenan et al. [18.52], Robson
[18.72] and Courtenay [18.39] 327–80; 384–413, with bibliography. Richard
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Billingham’s theological writing has not yet been recovered; that of Nicolas Aston
is unpublished; that of Richard Brinkley is known only in abbreviated form; that of
Godfrey Hardeby, preserved in two manuscripts, has recently been identified by
A.Tabarroni [18.75] 341, 348–53. Thomas Netter’s Doctrinale antiquitatum fidei
ecclesiae catholicae (completed in 1437) has been printed several times: see Stegmüller
[18.27], n. 9055. Thomas Claxton was critical of Wyclif as well as of Ockham and
Duns Scotus. He wrote a commentary on the Sentences and a Quodlibet consisting
of seven questions (which is why it is—wrongly—called Quodlibeta); qq. V and VI
were edited by M. Grabmann in 1943: see Riva [18.71].
2 H.Kaminsky, A History of the Hussite Revolution, Berkeley and Los Angeles,
Calif, 1967; F.Smahel, La révolution hussite, une anomalie historique, Paris, 1985.
3 See, on the whole of the period 1350–1500, B.Nardi, Saggi sull’aristotelismo; A
Poppi, Introduzione, Padua, 1970; and the studies by Kristeller listed in the
bibliography. C.B.Schmitt has given especial attention to problems of methodology
in [18.73] and [18.74] ch. 1.
4 See Garin [18.45] 141–77; Vasoli [18.77] 9–27; Murdoch [18.69]. We should
remember, as Kristeller has pointed out, that these mocking comments were not
always taken in earnest.
5 For details, see notes 3 and 4; Maierù [18.67]; Garin [18.44]; Schmitt [18.73] ch.
3; Federici Vescovini [18.41].
6 Gabriel [18.42] 457–83. It seems that it was only in the faculties of arts that a via
(‘method’, later: ‘school’) had to be followed.
7 Fitzgerald [18.10] 18 n. 44, suggests ‘the possible identification of Richard Brinkley
with the author of the Logica contra Ockham’. But I have shown in my study of
Brinkley ([18.11] 266 n. 38, 269 n. 60) that this identification must be rejected.
8 Thomas Bradwardine, De causa Dei I, 13, 207C: ‘aliter et forte melius potest
dici, quod Deum non esse necessarissime contradictionem includit’; and I, 14,
209E–210A. The ground for this idea is prepared through a long discussion of
esse (being) and necesse esse (necessary being). But the doctrine as a whole and its
consequences rely on a type of metaphysics called by Etienne Gilson a ‘metaphysics
of Exodus’ (in reference to Exodus 3:14), where the primacy of esse is emphasized.
In accord with this metaphysics, Bradwardine defines the first necessary, affirmative
principle (ibid., I, 11–12). Thus it is the necessary divine being which makes its
negation a contradiction. Aston’s thought would leave metaphysics and examine
the question from the logical point of view. But the Parisian thinkers would return
to Bradwardine’s more congenial way of thinking.
9 Ms. Worcester, Cathedral Library, F 65, f. 46va; Oxford, Oriel College, 15, f. 221rb:
‘Aliter arguo quod Deum non esse contradictionem includit, et hoc argumentum
est mihi Achilles. Et arguo sic. Si Deus est, et aliqua propositio est significans praecise
Deum non esse, propositio sic praecise significans contradictionem includit; igitur,
sive Deus sit sive non sit, si aliqua propositio est significans praecise Deum non
esse, ipsa propositio praecise sic significans contradictionem includit. Primo probo
consequentiam. Propositio aliqualiter significans et contradictionem includens,
quacumque mutatione facta ex parte rei, dummodo ipsa sit semper eodem modo
significans praecise, ipsa semper erit contradictionem includens. Verbi gratia, ista
propositio “Rex sedet et nullus rex sedet” contradictionem includit rege existente;
consimiliter…rege non existente… Item probo antecendens…et arguo sic. Antecedens
est una consequentia, quae si non valeat, pono oppositum consequentis stare cum
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antecedente, utpote quod Deus est et quod propositio aliqua est significans praecise
Deum non esse, et tamen propositio sic praecise significans contradictionem non
includit…’ See Bender [18.32]; Courtenay [18.39] 343–6; Kaluza [18.54].
10 Godfrey Hardeby has been known for some time as the Augustinensis subtilis of
Oxford. A copy of his commentary of the Sentences is found in Paris, Bibl., nat.,
lat 16535, f. 75–110. Q. III: Utrum Deum non esse contradictionem inferat
manifestam, has been edited by L.A.Kennedy, ‘A fourteenth-century Oxford
Augustinian on the existence of God’, Augustiniana, 36 (1986):28–47. A.
Tabarroni has found a new manuscript of the commentary which has allowed
him to make the identification between Godfrey and Augustinensis subtilis (see
n. 1). On Richard Brinkley, cf. Kaluza [18.11] 230–2, 262–5, nn. 29–33.
11 For a general account, see Kaluza [18.11].
12 Gál and Wood [18.43]; Fitzgerald [18.10] 18–28; Ashworth [18.30] 15fF. We
summarize briefly here the Summa logicae, Treatise I and part of Treatise V, which
is still unpublished.
13 Wyclif [18.4] I, tr. I, c. 1–3. These three chapters are dependent on the On the
Nature of Genus c. 1, attributed to Thomas Aquinas; cf. S.Thomae Aquinatis
Opuscula philosophica, I, ed. J.Perrier, Paris, 1949, pp. 495–9. See also Catto
[18.37]. On double creation, see Augustine, Literal Commentary on Genesis, IV,
iii–xii and V, xx–xxiii; Wyclif [18.5] II, ch. 3 and [18.14] ch. 12, and Kaluza
[18.56], which also discusses univocity and analogy of being.
14 See especially [18.4], I, tr. 1, c. 4–5, and Tractatus de universalibus, passim. For
an account of the doctrine, cf. P.V.Spade, in the Introduction to the translation of
Wyclif’s On Universals [18.14] and A.D.Conti, in the doctrinal study following
his edition [18.2] 298–309. The second distinction is found here and there in the
fourteenth century. Most frequently, it is used to explain the word universale
(taken either as a noun or an adjective). For example, John Buridan recognizes a
causal universal, which he distinguished from the universal as a term: ‘Uno modo
aliquid dicitur universale secundum causalitatem, quia causa est multorum. Et sic
universalissimum in causando esset Deus, et consequenter intelligentiae, et corpora
caelestia… Alio modo docitur universale secundum praedicationem vel
significationem’ (In Metaphysics, I, q. 15, Paris 1518, f. 50va). Making the
distinction between universale and particulare, Ockham (Summa logicae, I, 14;
Opera philosophica, I, p. 49, 47–52) asserts: ‘Indeed, we call the sun a universal
cause, because it is the cause of several things.’ The origin of the distinction is
unknown. The shift in its meaning is also found in Wyclif: ‘From all this it is
clear—I think—that all envy or actual sin is caused by the lack of an ordered love
of universals,…because every such sin consists in a will preferring a lesser good to
a greater good, whereas in general the more universal goods are better’; [18.14]
3, p. 22, 145–50.
15 [18.4] I, tr. I, c. 5, p. 57, 17–20; cf. Conti [18.2] 298. For the whole discussion,
see the texts and studies cited in n. 14. A sign is called ‘universal’ by metaphor:
‘magis remote dicitur universale quam urina dicitur sana’; [18.4], p. 55, 3–6.
Wyclif recognizes three distinctions: essential, real and formal. Formal distinction
is not ‘by reason’ or ‘notional’ but by ‘formal reason’. Conti [18.2] 301–3, indicates
various difficulties raised by the relations between the three types of distinction.
Wyclif s English followers would abandon this part of his teaching.
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16 Wyclif [18.5] I, c. VIII–IX, p. 66, defines ‘idea’ thus: ‘ydea est essentialiter natura
divina, et formaliter ratio, secundum quam Deus intelligit creaturas’. The treatise
De ideis (part of the Summa philosophica) is still unpublished. It is probably with
the ‘ontological place’ of the ideas in the Word that Wyclif s partisans put into his
mouth the adage, Qui negat ideas, negat Filium Dei. The adage is almost always
attributed to Augustine and it was certainly coined before the time of Wyclif: it was
known by John of Paris, In I Sent., q. 119; by Master Eckhart, Expos. Gen., I, 5;
Thomas Aquinas, De ver., q. 3, a. 1, sed contra; Albert the Great, In II Sent., d. 35,
a. 7, n. 4; and William of Auxere, S. aur., II, tr. I, c. 1. The formalist ontology of
Francis Meyronnes presents an analogous case. Here the being of essence (the
quiddity, the idea) has a separate formal being, which can become concrete ‘by
chance’. Francis asserts that whoever denies the existence of quiddities must deny
the existence of everything (qui negat quidditates habet omnia negare), Quodl.,
q. 8.
17 Nicholas of Autrecourt provides a third example, but sadly only a sketch of it,
preserved on the last page of his unfinished Exigit ordo, is known.
18 For a general account, see Vignaux [18.78] 265–78, cited here.
19 Cf. Conti [18.2] 226–7, 309–17. The main figures are John Sharp (Rector in
1403), Robert Alyngton (d. 1398), William Milverley, John Tarteys, Roger
Whelpdale (d. 1423), several of whose works have been edited by Conti, and
William Penbygull (d. 1420). See also Hudson and Wilks, From Ockham to
Wyclif.
20 See Spunar [18.26], s.v., and Bartos and Spunar [18.16]. On Znaim, see also
Nuchelmans [18.70].
21 On the history of the school of Buridan, see Michael [18.68] 321–89.
22 Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, II, n. 1042. Art. 1: ‘nulli magistri, baccalari
vel scolares…audeant aliquam propositionem famosam illius actoris cuius librum
legunt dicere simpliciter esse falsam, vel falsam de virtute sermonis…; sed vel
concedant eam, vel sensum verum dividant a sensu falso…; cum sermones sint
recipiendi secundum materiam subiectam; art; 3: ‘nullus dicat quod nulla
propositio sit distinguenda’; art. 4: ‘nullus dicat propositionem nullam esse
concedendam, si non sit vera in eius sensu proprio’; ‘Magis igitur oportet in
affirmando vel negando sermones ad materiam subiectam attendere, quam ad
proprietatem sermonis’; art. 6: ‘nullus asserat absque distinctione vel expositione,
quod Socrates et Plato, vel Deus et creatura nihil sunt’. The distinction between
suppositions had been known and followed for a long time. What was new in the
1340 statute was the distinction in the sense of propositions according to their
‘matter’. Article 1 refers to the Nicomachean Ethics, II, 2, 1104a 3, but the problem
is in fact considered in Book I, c. 3. For the detailed interpretation of this text, see
Kaluza [18.57] 223–55.
23 Full edition in C.Du Plessis D’Argentré, Collectio judiciorum, I–2, Paris, 1728, p.
116a, concl. 1; 116b, concl. 2; 117a, concl. 3; 124a, concl. 4; 125a, concl. 5;
128b, concl. 6.
24 A.Combes, Gerson commentateur dionysien, pp. 305–11; 568–687; Kaluza
[18.55] 50–60; de Libera [18.65]. Gerson’s criticisms of John of Ripa sometimes
follow those of Peter d’Ailly. The formal distinction is also called a distinction ex
natura rei sed non realis, so as to differentiate it from a distinction ex natura rei,
which is not formal. Scotists made either three distinctions (rationis, formalis,
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realis), or five (adding a distinctio modalis and a distinctio essentialis), or eight
(adding distinctions: ex natura rei, se totis subiectiva and se totis obiectiva). A
formal distinction pertains between two formalities, that is to say two quiddities
or formal reasons, one of which does not belong to the essence of the other and
each of which is known by a distinct act of the thought—for instance, all the
quiddities, definable or indefinable, which are most specific (humanity),
subalternate (animality), most general (quantity) and transcendent (entity). These
formalities exist before they are known by the human intellect: ante omnem
operationem intellectus. It is for precisely this realism that Gerson criticizes the
Scotists.
25 A.Combes, p. 644ff.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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A.Kenny, with Introduction by P.V.Spade, Oxford, Oxford University Press,
1985.
18.15 (John Wyclif), Selections from English Wycliffite Writings, ed. A.Hudson,
Cambridge, 1978.
Richard Brinkley De significato propositions [18.10] contains an English
translation.
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18.17 Gabriel, A.L. Summary Bibliography of the History of the Universities of
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18.18 Guenée, S., Bibliographie de l’histoire des universités françaises des origines à
la Révolution, I: Paris, 1981; II: Paris, 1978.
18.19 Hoenen, M.J.F.M. ‘Einige Notizen über die Handschriften und Drucke des
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18.21 Lohr, C.H. Commentateurs d’Aristote au Moy ©en-Âge latin. Bibliographie
de la littérature secondaire récente, Fribourg, Switzerland, Editions
Universitaires; (Vestigia 2) Paris, Editions du Cerf, 1988.
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18.23 Markowski, M. ‘Katatog dziel Marsyliusza z Inghen z ewidencja rekopisów’,
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18.25 Schmitt, C.B. A Critical Survey and Bibliography of Studies on Renaissance
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18.26 Spunar, P. Repertorium auctorum Bohemorum provectum idearum post
Universitatem Pragensem conditam illustrans, I (Studia Copernicana 25),
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18.27 Stegmüller, F. Repertorium commentariorum in Sententias Petri Lombardi,
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18.28 Thomson, W.R. The Latin Writings of John Wyclif (Subsidia mediaevalia
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Studies
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University of Montreal, 1989.
18.31 L’Averroismo in Italia, in Atti dei Convegni Lincei 40, Rome, 1979
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18.33 Bernstein, A.E. Pierre d’Ailly and the Blanchard Affair, Leiden, 1978.
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II, Late Mediaeval Oxford, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1992.
18.37 Catto, J.I. ‘Wyclif and Wyclifism at Oxford 1356–1430’, in [18.37]
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18.52 Hoenen, M.J.F.M., Schneider, J.H.J. and Wieland, G. (eds) Philosophy and
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451
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CHAPTER 19
Suárez (and later
scholasticism)
Jorge Gracia
THE SILVER AGE OF SCHOLASTICISM
The golden age of scholasticism covered a period of roughly one hundred
years, from around 1250 to 1350. There were important scholastic
developments before 1250 and after 1350, but it is generally thought
that they cannot compare with the achievements of the years in between.
The sheer number of productive authors during this period and the
extraordinary originality and intellectual rigour of their thought makes
this one of the periods of highest achievement in the history of ideas.
The silver age of scholasticism came roughly one hundred and seventy-
five years later and also lasted for a period of about one hundred years,
from about 1525 to 1625. Again, there was an extraordinary level of
intellectual productivity in terms of both quantity and quality, but as a
whole the silver age cannot rival the golden age either philosophically
or historically. First, philosophically, because it depended to a great
extent on the achievements of the earlier period; thus the silver age
cannot be regarded as original as the golden age. Second, historically,
because the philosophy that followed it largely moved in a different
direction; while many of the thinkers who came after the golden age
looked back on it for inspiration, most thinkers who followed the silver
age looked away from it, rejecting much that characterized it.1
There are, however, remarkable similarities between the golden and
silver ages. Both ages were guided by the scholastic aim of understanding
the Christian faith. They exerted considerable effort in the defence of
that faith and of orthodox doctrine against actual or perceived threats.
Scholastics of both ages were heavily Aristotelian, giving ‘the Philosopher’
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a prominent place in matters philosophical, but relying on authoritative
patristic and scriptural sources for their theological doctrines. Both ages
followed or were concurrent with periods of translation during which
newly discovered works written in other languages were rendered into
Latin. The centre of activity in both cases was the university, and the
literary forms of expression used were largely a result of curricular activity.
Finally, most scholastics were members of religious orders and, thus,
had a strong commitment to the goals of those orders.
In spite of these points of similarity, there are profound differences
between the two periods. Although both periods had the same aim of
understanding the Christian faith, the overall theological emphasis that
inspired most activities of the earlier scholastics had decreased in the
sixteenth century. In theory and in some aspects of practice, philosophy
remained the servant of theology, but a progressive independence of
reason, as demonstrated by its increasing use apart from faith, developed
in the later period. The traditional scholastic format of argument, in
which both theologically authoritative sources and arguments based
on reason were given in support of the positions to be defended, ceased
to be the norm in non-theological works, and a greater emphasis was
put upon reason. Moreover, the political structure and ideological
situation of Europe during the silver age—and, in particular, the
discovery of the New World—raised new important philosophical and
legal issues of a secular nature that encouraged speculation independent
of theology. For example, matters that had to do with the rights of
conquered peoples produced a body of literature largely purged of
theological considerations. There were, of course, many issues discussed
by masters of arts and others in the earlier period that had nothing or
little to do with theology, and in the discussion of which theological
authorities were largely ignored. But the number of these secular issues
increased substantially in the later period.
With respect to the apologetic spirit of both periods, again there are
substantial differences. In the golden age the defence of Christian
doctrine was primarily directed against infidels, as illustrated by
Thomas’s Summa contra Gentiles, or against those who were thought
to have accepted too much of the thought of pagan philosophers, as is
evident from the list of doctrines officially condemned in Paris in 1277.
Yet there was no overall sense of urgency in the Church, nor was there
a unified and institutional effort to deal with the challenges to
orthodoxy. During the silver age, however, the situation was different.
The challenges to the Church came from two different sources within
the Christian community and one of them had considerable political
power. The first source was humanism. The discovery of new literary,
philosophical and artistic works from the ancient world had given rise
not only to a renewed interest in pagan ideas, but to a change of attitude
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in the intellectual community that seemed to many to pose a threat to
the integrity of the Christian faith. The second source was the
Reformation, a movement of rebellion against institutionalized
Christianity that gained considerable political support. As a result, a
sense of urgency among members of the hierarchy and an organized
Church-wide effort to meet these challenges developed, culminating in
the Council of Trent (1545–63). There was, therefore, much apologetic
literature written during this time, and its tone appears more urgent
and compelling than that produced in the golden age. Medieval
scholastics were fighting ideas, but scholastics from the silver age were
fighting not only ideas, but also worldly power.
There is, as noted, remarkable agreement in the sources of both
periods, with the later period depending heavily on the first as well. By
the sixteenth century, scholasticism had become parcelled out into three
traditions according to the author followed by each of them: Thomism,
Scotism and Ockhamism. Moreover, these traditions had become
identified with certain religious orders that looked upon the founders
of these traditions with proprietary interests. For example, Dominicans
were generally Thomistic, while Franciscans tended to follow Scotus
or Ockham. This sort of ideological alignment had already begun in
the thirteenth century, but it was not as rigid as it eventually became
during the silver age. Moreover, the influence of Thomas Aquinas
became increasingly pervasive in the silver age, particularly in the Iberian
peninsula, a fact which has led some scholars to speak of a school of
Spanish Thomism.
The heavy use of Aristotelian and medieval scholastic sources by
scholastics of the silver age points to another interesting difference
between the silver age and the golden age. While both ages coincided
with or followed periods of intense translation activity, in the golden
age the resulting translations helped shape the thought of the period
and were the immediate source of much of that thought.2 By contrast,
scholastics of the silver age largely ignored the new translations. There
may be many reasons for this relative neglect, but surely one of them
was the heavily Aristotelian character of scholasticism, which must
have found distasteful the overwhelmingly Platonic material being
translated.
The activity in both periods was concentrated in the university, but
again there is an important difference. In the golden age, Paris was the
unchallenged centre of both scholasticism and the intellectual life of
Europe; it was the ‘new Athens’. There were other important universities
such as Oxford, Cambridge, Bologna and Naples, but none rivalled
Paris. Moreover, an intellectual axis developed along a line which went
from Rome to Oxford, passing through Paris. By contrast, the
scholasticism of the silver age was most concentrated in the universities
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of the Iberian peninsula: Coimbra, Alcalá, and, above all, Salamanca.
There were significant places of learning in Italy too, but they were
much less influential than the Iberian universities. Intellectual
communication now extended from Coimbra, through Salamanca, and
ultimately to Rome. These are two other important points to note.
First, as in the earlier period, these strongholds of silver-age scholasticism
were not alone in promoting great intellectual ferment. Paris, Oxford
and Cambridge, for example, were also important, and there was
considerable work done in the Netherlands and Germany. Second, these
centres of silver-age scholasticism did not hold a monopoly on the
intellectual life of Europe. By the sixteenth century scholasticism had
become a regional, albeit powerful intellectual force—perhaps the most
powerful at the time—but it had ceased to be the only intellectual force
in Europe, as it had been during the golden age.
The scholastic literary genres favoured in the golden age, namely,
the summa, the quaestio, and the commentary, were also used in the
silver age, but with an important new development in this later period.
Iberian scholastics, particularly Fonseca and Suárez, helped develop a
new genre that became the standard form of expression among
scholastics after the sixteenth century: the systematic and comprehensive
treatise. There are plenty of examples of systematic and comprehensive
treatises produced in the Middle Ages. Indeed, medieval summae are
both systematic and comprehensive. But there are some important
differences between medieval summae and the treatises produced during
the silver age and thereafter. First, medieval summae tended to follow
the established arrangement of the discourse in whatever subject-matter
they explored. These patterns were derived from textual traditions going
back to original paradigmatic works or particular doctrines. Thus, for
example, the pattern of theological summae generally reflected an order
of progression from God to creatures and back to God, the Neoplatonic
exitus–reditus theme.
Second, the new type of literature differed from the medieval summae
in that it abandoned the quaestio format, which had been used very
frequently by earlier scholastics, in favour of an unbroken exposition
of topics. Finally, these treatises were put together and organized into
complete courses (cursus) of study that extended beyond particular
disciplines, and included logic, natural philosophy and other
philosophical disciplines. Sometimes these ‘courses’ were the result of
co-operative efforts, as was the case with the well-known Cursus
Conimbricensis, the main author of which was Fonseca. At other times,
they were the result of a single author’s effort (or that of his editors),
as was the case with John of St Thomas’s Cursus philosophicus.
The didactic advantages of the new genre should be obvious, for it
organized materials in a continuous, comprehensive and logical way
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which facilitated teaching and made these works ideal textbooks. On
the other hand, it introduced an element of dogmatism that was lacking
in most of the earlier literature, for it veered toward the expository
and away from the polemical, losing the sense of the controversial
character of the topics discussed. This was not the case with all the
philosophical treatises of the period; some still presented the status
questionis of the issues they discussed in a polemical or quasi-polemical
manner, but it certainly applied to a considerable portion of the
philosophical literature produced at the time. Moreover, the adoption
of the systematic and comprehensive format contributed to the neglect
of the commentary and, therefore, the further estrangement
of scholasticism from humanism. Primary sources were read in
conjunction with these secondary sources, resulting in the neglect of
the original authors and the frequent misunderstanding of their views
(cf. [19.40] 835–7).
Finally, although the most prominent members of both periods
belonged to religious orders, the leading order during the silver age
was the Society of Jesus, which had been founded by Ignacio de Loyola
in 1540 in response, first, to the challenges that the Reformation posed
to the Catholic Church and, second, to the need to convert the heathen.
The mission of the Jesuit order, then, was from the start an apologetic
one; and the order was organized like an army—a clear indication of
its aim. By contrast, the Franciscan and Dominican orders, which had
dominated the golden age, had less defined and militant missions. The
aim of the Franciscans was one of service, and the aim of the Dominicans
was instruction through preaching. The latter was in part a response
to the need to defend the faith against infidels and heretics—Domingo
de Guzmán was a Spaniard and was quite aware of the needs of a
frontier church—but the Dominican order was never intended to be
an army for the Church.
Understanding the similarities and differences between the golden
and silver ages of scholasticism should help us understand Suárez, for
he eminently displayed most of the characteristics of the scholasticism
of the silver age we have discussed. He pursued the medieval aim of
understanding faith, but granted philosophy a sphere of operation
separate from and largely independent of theology. As a theologian, he
was at the forefront of the defence of Catholic doctrine and the Catholic
Church against the attacks of the Reformation. He was aware of the
rigid conceptual traditions associated with the medieval religious orders
and moved easily within their frameworks, although he frequently tried
to break down the barriers among them. His thought was strongly
Aristotelian, ignoring to a great extent the recently produced translations
of non-Aristotelian works, but he showed extensive and firsthand
acquaintance with traditional Christian sources. Suárez spent his
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professional life almost entirely within the confines of the leading Iberian
universities of the period. He never taught at Paris, and most of his
exchanges took place with either Iberian or Italian authors. He was
the first to apply a systematic approach to metaphysics, and finally, as
a member of the Jesuit order, Suárez displayed some of the combative
traits associated with that order in several of his more polemical works.
In short, it would be hard to find among scholastics of his time one
that displayed more clearly the traits that characterized the silver age.
SUÁREZ’S LIFE, WORKS, AND INFLUENCE
Suárez was born in Granada, Spain, on 5 January 1548, at the height
of Spanish imperial power. Under Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of
Aragon, known as los Reyes Católicos (the Catholic Kings), a large
part of the Iberian peninsula had become unified (1479) and power
consolidated after the final defeat of the Moors at Granada (1492).
Also in 1492 America was discovered, opening up unheard-of resources
to the newly united kingdom. In a matter of fifty years, Spain became
the pre-eminent political and economic power in Europe. As a result,
artists and intellectuals flocked to Madrid, stimulating the development
of arts and letters. Indeed, the period that goes roughly from 1500 to
1650 is generally known as the Siglo de Oro of Spanish letters because
of the abundance and extraordinary quality of the literature produced.
Spain became an intellectual leader in Europe and the undisputed leader
of the Counter-Reformation. The Spanish mystics of the time, Teresa
of Avila, Juan de la Cruz and Fray Luis de León, were among the most
renowned anywhere. Antonio de Nebrija composed the first grammar
of any romance language in 1492. The music of Victoria, Cabezón
and other Spanish composers was played all over Europe. The theatre
flourished under the pens of Lope de Vega and Calderón de la Barca.
The novel reached new heights in the work of Cervantes. And Spanish
painting achieved international acclaim with Ribera, Zurbarán and
Velázquez.
Philosophy, of course, could not be left behind, and so we find a
score of Iberian figures of high rank. Among the most celebrated are
Juan Luis Vives (1492–1540), Francisco de Vitoria (1492/3–1546),
Domingo de Soto (1494–1560), Alonso de Castro (1495–1558),
Melchior Cano (1509–60), Pedro Fonseca (1528–99), Domingo Bañez
(1528–1604), Francisco Toletus (1532–96), Luis de Molina (1535–
1600), Juan de Mariana (1536–1624), Gabriel Vázquez (1549–1604)
and Juan de Santo Tomás (1589–1644). The greatest of the
philosophers, however, is Francisco Suárez (1548–1617). Indeed, his
work surpasses in depth, originality and comprehensiveness that of
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any other of these, and his influence, both in modern philosophy and
in subsequent scholastic thought, has been substantial.
Suárez decided early in life that he would pursue an ecclesiastical
career. Accordingly, he went to Salamanca to study canon law. While
engaged in his studies there, he requested admission into the Society of
Jesus. At first he was refused admission for reasons of health and what
was perceived as a lack of proper intellectual capacity. Insistence paid
off, however, and he was allowed to join the order in 1564. After
completing his studies, he began a teaching career that would last for
over fifty years, taking him to some of the most renowned institutions
of his time: Segovia, Valladolid, Rome, Alcalá, Salamanca and Coimbra.
Suárez died in Lisbon, at the age of 70, on 25 September 1617.
Suárez did not publish early in his life. His first work, De incarnatione
verbi, appeared in 1590 when he was 42. After this initial publication,
however, a steady stream of works followed. Suárez’s contributions
are important in three areas in particular: philosophy, law and theology.
From a philosophical standpoint his most important works are De
anima (On the Soul, 1621), which contains his psychology,
epistemology and philosophy of mind; De gratia (On Grace, 1619–
51), which deals with issues of philosophical theology involving free
will and determinism; and the monumental Disputationes metaphysicae
(Metaphysical Disputations, 1597). The last is undoubtedly one of the
great works of Western philosophy: the first systematic and
comprehensive treatise on metaphysics composed in the West that is
not a commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Furthermore, it
summarizes and evaluates medieval metaphysical thought and remains
the most complete exposition of Aristotelian metaphysics ever produced.
De legibus (1612) is Suárez’s most important work dealing with
legal and political theory. In it he explores in detail the nature of law
and of civil society. His views on ius gentium make him, together
with Vitoria and other Spanish authors of the time, a founder of
international law.
Suárez’s contributions to theology are contained in his numerous
books on the subject. He touched upon almost every aspect of sacred
doctrine, from the Trinity to questions pertaining to the spiritual life.
This has made his theological writings a standard source of Catholic
theology. Moreover, his role in helping to shape the response of the
Catholic Counter-Reformation to the rise of Protestantism guarantees
him a place in history.
Suárez’s position in the history of philosophy is frequently disputed.
Some historians locate him firmly in the medieval tradition, claiming
that he should be seen as perhaps the last world-class figure of that
tradition, before modern philosophy changed the philosophical
direction of the West. Others, however, see Suárez as providing the
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foundation for some of the views that came to form the core of
subsequent developments, and thus as a precursor of modern
philosophy.
There are bases for defending both of these interpretations. Indeed,
if one looks at Suárez carefully, it becomes evident that he is both the
last major medieval theologian and the first major modern philosopher.
This can be best illustrated, perhaps, with reference to the stated
intention and method of the Disputationes metaphysicae.
With respect to the intention of the work, we need to look no further
than the Preface to see that Suárez follows the theological emphasis of
the Middle Ages. His purpose is the same as that expressed by the
Anselmian saying: Fides quaerens intellectum (Faith seeking
understanding). Suárez tells us, first, that he deals with metaphysics
precisely because his aim is theological, for the good theologian will
set down the foundations of metaphysics before he goes on to theology.
Accordingly, he postponed his theological commentaries on Aquinas
until after he had finished the Disputationes in order to provide a proper
foundation for theology. Moreover, like Aquinas and other medieval
theologians before him, Suárez points out that he never loses sight of
Christian doctrine while he philosophizes and, indeed, that he intends
his philosophy to be both Christian and an instrument of theology.
This end is what guides not only the way he deals with the issues he
discusses, but also the very opinions and views he presents, leading
him to favour those that appear to him more useful for piety and
revealed doctrine. Finally, in strict medieval fashion, he closes the Preface
by hoping that the work will lead to God’s greater glory and be of use
to the Catholic Church.
From this, it appears quite conclusively that Suárez’s aim in the
Disputationes metaphysicae is theological rather than philosophical,
and that he fits squarely within the main medieval scholastic view in
which philosophy is seen as a handmaiden of theology. However, in
the very Preface to which reference has been made there are indications
of a different attitude at play as well. First, Suárez speaks of giving
back to metaphysics the place and position that rightly belongs to it,
and that place and position are interpreted as being separate from and
anterior to theology. Second, he states that his role as author of the
Disputationes is not that of the theologian, but of the philosopher.
And, third, he apologizes for the occasional digressions into theological
matters found in the work, even though he does not discuss theological
issues in depth, since that would certainly be beyond the bounds of the
subject-matter of the book. Indeed, even a superficial perusal of the
Disputationes reveals that, when theological topics come up, Suárez
generally suggests to the reader that they do not pertain to the subject-
matter and should be discussed, or are, in fact, discussed, elsewhere.
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All this indicates Suárez’s rigorous view of the distinction between
metaphysics and theology and of his role as philosopher and theologian.
The fact that he calls himself a philosopher, that in philosophy he avoids
arguments based on faith, and that he apologizes for dealing, even
incidentally, with theological matters in a work of philosophy should
be sufficient to make the point. Although many of the masters who
taught liberal arts in the Middle Ages were not theologians and taught
subjects independently of theology, the most famous scholastics of the
age considered themselves theologians and their philosophical views
were generally presented within theological works. Moreover, even
though many scholastics distinguished between theology and philosophy,
none of them would have apologized for the introduction of theological
matter in a philosophical context, and most of them used both faith
and reason to argue for both philosophical and theological views. But
such a procedure is abandoned in Suárez’s Disputationes.3 Occasionally,
he does bring up a theological point, but in such cases the aim is to
show the reader how to apply metaphysical principles to theology rather
than to use theology to prove philosophy. This secular emphasis in
metaphysics both sets Suárez apart from his medieval predecessors and
situates him at the beginning of the modern tradition.
Another point that sets him apart from medieval scholasticism is
the very structure and procedure he follows in the Disputationes. The
work does not adopt the standard medieval scholastic literary genres
used in works of metaphysics. Medieval authors generally presented
their metaphysical views in commentaries on Aristotle, which were
sometimes internally organized in quaestiones; or they presented them
in the course of theological works, such as theological summae or
commentaries on the Sentences of Peter Lombard. Occasionally, short
didactic or polemical tracts (opuscula) such as Thomas’s De ente et
essentia or De unitate intellectus contra Averroistas were also composed.
But no systematic and comprehensive metaphysical treatises were
produced. Suárez, however, adopted precisely this format. Nor did he
follow the popular custom of structuring works as quaestiones reflecting
current controversies and polemics. Rather, he adopted a logical
procedure in which metaphysical issues are discussed according to their
relation to overall topics. Suárez is the first to apply this procedure to
metaphysics. His originality in this is what distinguishes him from his
predecessors and points to modern philosophy.
In short, Suárez cannot be considered exclusively a medieval
scholastic or a modern philosopher. He has to be seen in context, as
restating the past and anticipating the future. His overall aims and
views go back to the Middle Ages, but some of his procedures point
toward the modern period. He should be seen as both a medieval
scholastic and a modern philosopher.
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Before concluding this section I should say something about Suárez’s
influence on the Catholic tradition, modern thought and Latin
American scholasticism. Along with Augustine, Aquinas and other
figures of similar stature, Suárez is one of the most influential figures
in Catholicism. He played a major role in the response to the growing
challenge of Protestantism and the secularizing impact of humanism.
Many of his theological ideas were considered highly original at the
time and have become part of the common stock of Catholic theology.
His analogical understanding of the doctrine of the Trinity, his position
concerning the motivation for the Incarnation, and his views on
morality have all played important roles in Catholic teaching. But
perhaps it is his doctrine of the relation between divine grace, merit
and human freedom that has most firmly established his influence
and most evidently contrasts him with the Protestant ideas of
the time.
Suárez’s influence, however, is not confined to the Catholic tradition.
Most early modern philosophers learned metaphysics from his
Disputationes, and many of their ideas can be traced to that work.
Among those most clearly influenced by Suárez are Jungius, Descartes,
Leibniz, Spinoza, Wolff, Berkeley, Schopenhauer and Vico, but echoes
of his language and views can be seen in many others, including Locke.4
Indeed, Suárez is often blamed for contributing to the development of
the mentalistic metaphysics characteristic of modern philosophy. Whether
this attribution is correct is a matter of debate, but what is clear is that
his terminology seeped into early modern philosophy and became a
part of the common philosophical way of speaking. In addition to his
metaphysics, moreover, his legal and political views had considerable
impact on modern legal theorists such as Holdsworth and Grotius.
Indeed, some consider Suárez’s thought in these areas to be as influential
and valuable as, if not more so than, his metaphysical views.
Finally, there is Suárez’s impact on Latin American thought. The
New World was discovered in 1492, and by the middle of the next
century, schools and universities teaching scholastic thought were already
functioning in Mexico and elsewhere. Thus, by the time Suárez’s
Disputationes metaphysicae was published in 1597, there was a ready
audience available for them. The result was to be expected: his
metaphysical and theological views established themselves as alternatives
to the already popular views of Aquinas, Scotus and Ockham.
SUÁREZ’S METAPHYSICS
The core of Suárez’s philosophical, theological and legal thought is
his metaphysics. The rest of this essay will therefore be devoted to the
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exploration of two key elements of Suárez’s metaphysical thought,
which illustrate both the transitional role it played between medieval
scholasticism and modern philosophy and the innovation within
traditional parameters that is so characteristic of it. These elements
are his conception of metaphysics and the doctrine of the
transcendentals.
Suárez’s Conception of Metaphysics
Most conceptions of metaphysics fall into one of two categories: views
that regard metaphysics as concerned with the real as opposed to the
mental, and views that conceive it as concerned with the mental rather
than the real. Aristotle (Metaphysics 1, 1–3) and his medieval
commentators are usually identified as proponents of the first view.
Metaphysics in this context is conceived as a science not very different
from other sciences, except for some peculiarities of the object it studies
and the method it employs. Like other sciences its aim is to describe
the world, noting its characteristics and the causal relationships that
hold among the entities that are part of it. There is, then, nothing
mental about the object that metaphysics studies; its object of study is
extramental reality, not concepts or other mental entities.
In contrast, the mentalistic conception of metaphysics is a favourite
in contemporary philosophical circles.5 According to it, metaphysics is
not concerned with the description of the extramental world or the
way it functions; it is concerned with our concepts about the world,
rather than the world itself. In that sense, metaphysics is not realistic
but mentalistic.
The mentalistic conception of metaphysics did not come about as a
result of a single drastic change in the history of philosophy. Descartes,
Hume, Kant and many others figure prominently in the slow process
that produced a change from realism to mentalism. Among the figures
that are often cited as having contributed to that process is Suárez.6
Suárez conceives metaphysics as a perfect and a priori science.
Something is perfect if it is complete, that is, if it lacks nothing for it to
be the sort of thing it is (Disputationes metaphysicae 10, 1, 15; [19.1]
25:333). Thus a perfect science is a science that lacks none of the
conditions required of sciences. Such conditions stipulate that sciences
provide certain and evident knowledge of the objects they study through
knowledge of the properties, principles, and causes of those objects (1,
3, 2, and 1, 1, 27; 25, 22 and 11). Moreover, since metaphysics is an a
priori science, such knowledge is not based on experience.
A property, in the Aristotelian context within which Suárez works,
is a feature of a thing which necessarily characterizes the members of
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the species to which the thing belongs but is not part of the essence of
the thing in question and thus does not appear in its definition (3, 1,
1; 25, 103). The capacity to laugh, for example, is a property of
human beings because it necessarily characterizes human beings,
although it is not part of the definition of human being. A property,
in contrast with an accident, always accompanies each member of a
species. The task of science, and therefore of metaphysics, is twofold:
first, to identify the properties of the object it studies and, second, to
demonstrate the necessary connection of those properties to the object
in question through an analysis of the principles and causes of that
object.
The object of metaphysics was a matter of intense discussion in the
Middle Ages. The origin of the debate can be traced back to Aristotle’s
Metaphysics, where he presents four different understandings of its
object: being qua being, substance, divine entities, and primary causes
and principles (Metaphysics 4, 1; 7, 1; 6, 1; 3, 2). Settling the issue
was important, for most medievals believed that the unity of a science
is derived from the unity of its object. Yet, the four objects that
Aristotle identified as objects of metaphysics were not easily collapsed
into one.
By the time Suárez was addressing this issue, the possible objects of
metaphysics had grown in number and certain precisions had been
introduced. Suárez considers and rejects six different opinions on the
object of metaphysics: (1) being taken most abstractly and generally so
that it includes not only all real beings, whether substantial or accidental,
but also mental beings; (2) only real being, leaving out mental beings,
so that its object includes both substantial and accidental beings; (3)
the supreme, real being, namely God; (4) immaterial being or substance;
(5) categorical being, namely, being as divided into the ten Aristotelian
categories; and (6) substance qua substance, that is substance considered
apart from whether it is material or immaterial, finite or infinite (1, 1,
2–18; 25, 2–8).
Suárez’s view is that the object of metaphysics is ‘being insofar as it
is real being’ (ens in quantum ens reale). As such, metaphysics includes
the study of God, immaterial substances, and the real accidents of
immaterial substances. It excludes, however, the study of purely mental
beings (entia rationis) and the study of beings which are completely
accidental, and abstracts from all matter (1, 1, 26; 25, 11).
If Suárez had said nothing else about the nature of metaphysics and
its object than what I have presented in summary so far, he could have
been interpreted only as having a realistic conception of metaphysics,
albeit a somewhat different one from those of his predecessors.
Moreover, it would have been very difficult to accuse him of having
moved in the direction of mentalistic metaphysics. After all, he clearly
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states that metaphysics deals with real being and only real being, and
argues against it having to do with mental being. However, Suárez did
not stop there. He went on to discuss the nature of the object
metaphysics studies. It is what he says on this matter in particular,
coupled with how his views were used by later philosophers, that has
given rise to speculation about his role in the history of metaphysics
and its development toward mentalism.
The view that Suárez contributed substantially to the mentalization
of metaphysics is based, first, on his conception of real being and,
second, on his statement that the object of metaphysics is the objective
concept of being. Real being for Suárez is not the same as actual being.
Actual being is the kind of being existing things have. Real being need
not be actual; it can be possible. Thus, real being encompasses both
actual being (e.g. my existing cat Minina and the colour of her fur)
and possible being (e.g. my non-existing cat Misifus and the colour of
his fur). The difference between non-real beings and possible beings is
that possible beings have an aptitude for existence, even though they
do not exist, whereas non-real beings do not. A possible being like
Misifus, has an aptitude such that it could exist even if it does not; but
a non-real being like a goatstag, lacks such an aptitude and neither
exists nor can exist (31, 2, 10; 26, 232).
Real being, then, includes possible, unactualized essences in addition
to actualized ones. This means that the object of science, and thus of
metaphysics, is not restricted to actually existing being, but extends to
and includes possible being (31, 2, 10; 26, 232). This conception of
metaphysics, as the study of not only actual essences but also possible
essences, has been identified as one of the sources of the mentalism of
modern philosophy; for possible being, so the argument goes, can be
nothing but mental, and thus the door is open to a conception of
metaphysics as a science of the mental.
This interpretation is disputable, however, for Suárez does not
identify possible being with mental being. He understands mental
being as ‘what has objective being only in the intellect or as what is
thought by the mind as a being, although it has no being in itself’,
that is, what has no being outside the mind (54, 1, 5; 26, 1016).
Blindness is a good example of a mental being, for blindness is a lack
of something rather than having something and, as such, has no reality
outside the mind.7
From this it follows that possible beings for Suárez are not the same
as mental beings. For possible beings, even though they do not exist,
have an aptitude for existence. But it is impossible for mental beings
ever to exist, so they cannot have an aptitude for existence.
Consequently, that metaphysics includes the study of possible beings
does not mean that it is concerned with mental entities.
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The second source of the charge that Suárez’s conception of
metaphysics contributed substantially to the mentalization of the
discipline is his claim that the object studied by metaphysics is the
objective concept of being (2, 1, 1; 25, 65). This claim may be
interpreted as implying mentalism because objective concepts, qua
concepts, presumably cannot be anything but mental; therefore, it
turns out that metaphysics studies something mental rather than
something real.
The notion of objective concept is one of two members of a
distinction widely used by later scholastics. The other member of the
distinction is the formal concept. The formal concept, according to
Suárez, is an act of our minds whereby we conceive something. As an
act of the mind, it is a quality and thus an accident of the mind. The
formal concept is called ‘formal’ because it informs the mind in the
way any form informs its subject, and it is the end of the process of
conception. Moreover, it is by means of the formal concept that the
mind knows an object, for the formal concept represents the thing
known to the mind (2, 1, 1; 25, 65).
The objective concept, on the other hand, is what is represented in
the act, or quality, which is the formal concept. The objective concept
is not a concept in the way a formal concept is, namely as a form that
modifies the mind, determining its conception. Indeed, it is called a
concept only derivatively because of the relation it has to the formal
concept. It is objective in so far as it is the object with which the formal
concept is concerned; it is not objective in the sense of being an image
or representation of something else ([19.42] 41). On the contrary, the
objective concept is what is represented by the formal concept and, as
Suárez states elsewhere, ‘the thing signified’ by it (29, 3, 34; 26, 59).
In short, we might say that the distinction between the objective
concept and the formal concept is the distinction between what I think
about (objective) and that through which I think it (formal). So, whereas
‘the formal concept cat’, for example, is the mental act whereby someone
thinks of ‘cat’, ‘the objective concept cat’ is whatever one thinks about
when one thinks of ‘cat’, namely cat.
Put this way, it does not look as if objective concepts are mental in
any way. As Suárez states, they are not concepts strictly speaking; they
are not representations or images; and they are not mental acts or
qualities. Instead, they are the objects of the (formal) concepts the mind
forms. This would seem to indicate that they are not mental at all.
This inference is corroborated by the fact that the being and unity
of objective concepts turn out to be the same being and unity of their
objects and, thus, that objective concepts can be mental or real
depending on those objects. Suárez makes quite clear that whereas the
formal concept is real, always ‘a true and positive thing’, the objective
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concept need not always be something real; it can be mental or real,
depending on the objective concept in question. If, for example, the
objective concept in question is ‘blindness’, what we have is a mental
being because blindness is not a real entity. If, on the other hand, the
objective concept in question is ‘humanity’, what we have is a real
being, namely an actual or possible substance (i.e. a human being).
Indeed, Suárez says that this is the case with the objective concept of
being (2, 3, 7; 25; 83).
From these considerations we must conclude that not all objective
concepts have only a mental status; some objective concepts exist in
reality. This entails, then, that to be an objective concept does not
necessarily imply mental existence alone. Whether that is the case
depends not on the nature of objective concepts as such, but on the
particular objective concept involved. In the case of ‘blindness’, it does
imply mental existence alone because blindness does not and cannot
exist outside the mind; but in the case of ‘humanity’, it does not because
human beings can and do exist outside the mind. This same point is
corroborated when we look at the unity of objective concepts.
Do objective concepts, qua objective concepts, have universal or
individual unity? Suárez’s answer is unequivocal. The formal concept
is always present in some mind that produces it and is, therefore,
individual. With respect to the objective concept, however, the case is
different, for an objective concept is universal or individual depending
on the particular objective concept involved (2,1,1; 25, 65). If the objective
concept in question is ‘man’ or ‘substance’, the objective concept is
universal. If, on the other hand, the objective concept in question is
something determinate, like ‘Socrates’, then the objective concept is
individual. From this it also follows that only those objective concepts
that are individual can exist extramentally and therefore be real, since
for Suárez universals have no such existence (5, 1, 4; 25, 146).
The situation with respect to the unity of objective concepts, then, is
quite similar to the one with respect to their being. Objective concepts
can be individual or universal; therefore, they cannot, qua objective
concepts, be one of these to the exclusion of the other. In cases where
there is an exclusion, as it happens with ‘blindness’, the exclusion arises
from the nature of the objective concept in question, not from the fact
that it is an objective concept.
The implication of what Suárez says concerning the being and unity
of objective concepts is that objective concepts have the ontological
status, that is, the being and unity, of their objects. We know, for
example, that the objective concept ‘blindness’ has the same ontological
status as blindness, and that the same applies to the objective concepts
‘humanity’ and ‘Minina’. The being and unity of the objective concept
of Minina is the being (real) and unity (individual) of Minina; the being
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SUÁREZ (AND LATER SCHOLASTICISM)
and unity of the objective concept of tree is the being (real) and unity
(universal) of tree; and the being and unity of the objective concept of
blindness is the being (mental) and unity (universal) of blindness. This
seems quite clear. Now, since the objective concept that metaphysics
studies is ‘real being’, the object of metaphysics cannot be anything
but real, and Suárez’s conception of metaphysics cannot be anything
but realistic.
The Transcendentals
Suárez’s conception of metaphysics prompts an interesting objection.
The function of science, as already noted, is to identity the properties
of its object, demonstrating their necessary connection with it through
an analysis of principles and causes. It follows, then, that metaphysics,
as a science of being qua being, must be concerned with identifying the
properties of being and demonstrating how those properties are
necessarily tied to being through an examination of the principles and
causes of being. The difficulty posed by this view is that being qua
being does not have any properties, for considered this abstractly, being
is common to every being and its properties. Thus it does not appear
that being qua being can have any properties which are peculiarly
its own.
Suárez is aware of this difficulty and gives an explicit answer to it
(1, 1, 28; 25, 11). The answer is important both philosophically and
historically. It is philosophically important because it makes clear that,
even though Suárez never explicitly says so, metaphysics for him turns
out to be the science of the transcendentals; it is historically important
because this conception of metaphysics may have served to prepare
the way for the growth of transcendentalism in later European
Continental philosophy.8
Suárez’s solution to the difficulty is to propose that, although being
qua being has no properties that are really distinct from it, it does have
properties that are conceptually distinct from it (1, 1, 28; 25, 11). These
properties are unity, truth and goodness. They are coextensional with
being because whatever is a being is also one, good and true, and
whatever is one, good or true is also a being.
It is the coextension of these properties with being that makes them
transcendental, for they are common to the ten categories into which
being is divided. These properties are not cointensional with being,
however, because their conceptual analyses do not coincide with that
of being or with those of each other. In short, although whatever is a
being is also one, good and true, to be and to be one, to be good, and
to be true are not the same.
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Metaphysics can be conceived as the study of being qua real being
so long as it is understood that it deals with properties of being that
are only intensionally distinct from it. Moreover, since what is
coextensional but not cointensional with being are precisely its
transcendental attributes (unity, truth, goodness), it turns out that what
metaphysics studies as principles and what it studies as properties of
being are the same. Under these circumstances, metaphysics turns out
to be the science of the transcendentals.
Suárez’s answer to the difficulty posed by the fact that being does not
appear to have any properties is to argue that indeed being has properties
even though they are not the same sort of property other things have.
According to Suárez, properties must fulfil several conditions: they must
be real, and really distinct from their subjects, and they must be
coextensional with their subjects but not included in their essences (3, 1,
1; 25, 103). The capacity to laugh, for example, fulfils all these conditions
with respect to human beings and thus is a property of them. But it is
obvious that none of the transcendental properties of being Suárez accepts,
namely, one, true, and good, fulfil all these conditions.
Suárez grants this conclusion (3, 1, 8; 25, 105), but he argues that
being can still have properties because it has some ‘attributes which
are not mere products of the mind, but are truly and really predicated
of it’ (3, 1, 10; 25, 106). But how, then, are these attributes related to
being? What kind of properties are they if they cannot be properties in
the usual way? Suárez’s answer is that these attributes add to being
negations, privations, or real extrinsic denominations taken from real
relations; unity adds a negation or privation, and truth and goodness
add real extrinsic denominations (3, 1, 11; 25, 106).
For Suárez, both negations and privations are lacks, but there is an
important difference between the two. Privations are lacks of what
things ought to have by virtue of their natures. Thus, a privation is a
lack or absence in a thing of what naturally belongs to it, such as
blindness in a human being. A negation, by contrast, is an absence of
what is not natural to a subject, such as the absence of wings in a
human being. The issue of what is or is not natural to a thing is
determined by a definition which specifies those features that make
the thing what it is (54, 5, 7; 26, 1036).
Strictly speaking, therefore, negations and privations are not real if
by real one means, as Suárez often does, actual or possible being, for
negations and privations are not beings at all, but lacks of being (31,
2, 10; 26, 232). Their only ontological status is as mental beings (entia
rationis).
Still, this does not entail that negations and privations are fictitious
constructs of the mind. The mind may arrive at truth or falsity regarding
reality through negations and privations, for ‘negations and privations
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SUÁREZ (AND LATER SCHOLASTICISM)
can be truly and absolutely predicated of a thing without involving any
kind of intellectual fictions’ (54, 5, 5; 26, 1032). A person X who concludes
that another person Y is blind has understood something true about Y if
Y is in fact blind and something false about Y if Y is not blind, even
though blindness is not something in the world. In either case, the truth
or falsity arrived at by X is not dependent on X’s understanding, but on
Y, that is, on reality, even if the truth is that Y lacks sight.
From this we may gather that ‘one’, which is predicated of being as
a negation of privation, is not real in the sense of being either an actual
or possible entity. Its reality lies only in that it is not a fictitious product
of the mind and thus can be truly predicated of being. Suárez is using
two senses of ‘real’, then, which allow him to say that unity is both
real (i.e. non-fictitious) and not real (i.e. neither actual nor possible)
without contradiction.
The other properties of being, namely truth and goodness, are not
conceived as negations and privations. Rather, they express real extrinsic
denominations based on real relations. For Suárez, real extrinsic
denominations have four terms: denomination, thing denominated,
denominating form, and relation founding the denomination (54, 2,
14; 26, 1021). In the case of a wall, for example, which is extrinsically
denominated as ‘seen’, the terms of the denomination break down as
follows:
denomination:
thing denominated:
denominating form:
founding relation:
seen
a wall
the act of seeing
relation of seeing the wall
Relations for Suárez also have four elements: relation, subject, term
and foundation. Consider the case of the relation of similarity of S, a
white “3×5” card, to T, another white “3×5” card. In this example, S
is what Suárez calls the subject; T is the term of the relation, the white
colour of S is the foundation of the relation; and the similarity of S to
T is the relation (47, 6, 1; 26, 809).
In a real relation, the subject, the term, and the foundation of the
relation must be, according to Suárez, real, and the term must also be
actual and really—or at least modally—distinct from the foundation
(47, 6–9; 26, 809–19). (It must be remembered that for Suárez real
being includes not only actual, but also possible being.) Thus, for the
relation of similarity of S to T to be real, S and the white colour of S
must be real, and T must actually exist. That does not entail, however,
that the relation is something really distinct from its foundation; the
relation and its foundation are only conceptually distinct (47, 8, 14;
26, 818). In the example given above, the white colour of S, a form in
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MEDIEVAL PHILOSOPHY
S which is the foundation of the relation, is not really distinct from the
similarity of S to T.
If any of these conditions is not met, that is, if some of the elements
of a relation are not real, or if the term is not actual, or if the distinction
between the term and the foundation is not at least modal, then the
relation is mental (54, 6, 2 and 47, 6–8; 26, 1039 and 808–18). The
reason is that in none of these cases would the relation describe
accurately the way things are, and thus would have to be considered,
at least in part, a mental construct.
A key difference between a real extrinsic denomination founded on a
relation and a real relation is that the real extrinsic denomination applies
to the term of the real relation on which the denomination is founded
and not to the subject of that relation. It could not be otherwise, for if it
were, a real extrinsic denomination would posit in the thing it denominates,
namely, in the subject of the relation, a form really distinct from it, which
is impossible according to Suárez (54, 2, 9; 26, 1020). That the real extrinsic
denomination applies to the term and not the subject of the real relation
becomes clear if we use the real relation of similarity of S to T as the basis
for a real extrinsic denomination. In this case, the thing denominated is
not S, the subject of the relation, but T, its term. Thus:
denomination
thing denominated:
denominating form:
founding relation:
subject of founding relation:
term of relation:
similar
T (the term of the relation)
the whiteness of S
similarity of S to T
S
T
Now let us apply what has been established concerning real extrinsic
denomination to being and its transcendental attributes true and good:
denomination:
thing denominated:
denominating form:
founding relation:
subject of founding relation:
term of relation:
true
being
act of intellect
understanding of
being by intellect
intellect
being
good
being
act of will
desiring of being
by will
will
being
Thus, we see what Suárez means when he says that being, true and
good are convertible in reality but not conceptually, for whatever is a
being is capable also of being the term of a real relation between an
intellect or a will and being itself. Such a relation does not affect being,
nor do the transcendental attributes true and good refer to a form in
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being really distinct from it. True and good express extrinsic
denominations of being founded on real relations between an intellect
or a will and being. The subjects of the relations are intellects and wills,
and the forms on which the relations are founded are the acts which
modify those intellects and wills. As such, therefore, true and good are
neither real properties of being, strictly speaking, nor real or mental
relations of being to something else. If they were real properties or real
relations, it would imply a kind of distinction between being and them,
or their foundation (in the case of real relations), which would be
impossible. If they were mental relations, it would imply that true and
good are the result of mental activity and, therefore, fictitious.
CONCLUSION
Suárez is, without a doubt, one of the key figures in the transition
from medieval thought to modern philosophy. He played a substantial
role in this transition in so far as he worked within a scholastic tradition
that went back to the thirteenth century and beyond but introduced
modifications in it that anticipated and prepared the way for modern
thought. Nowhere else is this more evident perhaps than in his
metaphysics. Indeed, his conception of both metaphysics and the
transcendentals illustrate well how he was able to introduce innovations
within the strict parameters of the tradition within which he worked,
thus serving to move Western thought out of the Middle Ages and into
the modern period.
This is evident in his conception of metaphysics in so far as he still
substantially adheres to the realistic conception of the discipline
defended by such medieval scholastics as Aquinas. But the extension
of the object of study of metaphysics to possible being and some of the
mentalistic language he uses to refer to such an object anticipates and
prepares the way for the mentalism so characteristic of modern
philosophy.
In the doctrine of the transcendentals, Suárez again works within
the parameters he inherits, but he introduces modifications in the
doctrine by understanding two of the transcendental properties of
being—true and good—as expressions of real extrinsic denominations
of being rather than as mental relations, the popular view among
scholastics. This understanding of the transcendentals opens the way
to interpretations that, again, pave the way for future developments.
In short, Suárez is a figure in whom both the scholastic past and the
modern future of philosophy meet and interact in interesting and
peculiar ways. From studying his works, one can learn much about
both the Middle Ages and modern philosophy.
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NOTES
1 There is wide disagreement as to how to refer to the scholasticism of the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries. Carlo Giacon has proposed the term ‘second scholastic’
[19.26]. But this expression seems to suggest a break between the scholasticism
of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and that of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, while, in fact, there is no such break. For a challenge to the general
view about the decline of scholasticism after 1350, see Chapter 18 above.
2 Cf. Bernard G.Dod, ‘Aristoteles latinus’ and C.H.Lohr, ‘The medieval
interpretations of Aristotle’, in CHLMP, pp. 45–98.
3 J.Marenbon, ‘The theoretical and practical autonomy of philosophy as a discipline
in the Middle Ages’, in Monika Asztalos et al. (eds) Knowledge and the Sciences
in Medieval Philosophy, Helsinki, Yliopistopaino, 1990, pp. 262–74, and JorgeJ.
E.Gracia, ‘Philosophy in the Middle Ages’, Diálogos 9 (1977):233–43.
4 See Cronin [19.18], Ferrater Mora [19.25], Iriarte [19.33], and others in the
bibliography.
5 Cf. P.F.Strawson, Individuals, London, Methuen, 1959, p. 9.
6 Cf. R.P.D.Dubarle, ‘Intervention’, Archives de Philosophie 42 (1979):274;
Courtine [19.16]; and Cronin [19.18], ch. 3.
7 For the details of Suárez’s doctrine of mental beings, see Doyle [19.23] (1).
8 This transcendentalism was given an epistemic turn in later thinkers that was not
intended by or present in Suárez. See Doyle [19.24].
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Original Language Editions of Suárez
19.1
19.2
19.3
19.4
19.5
Berton, C. (ed.) Opera omnia, 28 vols, Paris, Vivès, 1856–61. (Disputationes
metaphysicae, reprint of vols 25 and 26, Hildesheim, G.Olms, 1965.)
Castellote, Salvador (ed.) De anima, Madrid, Sociedad de Estudios y
Publicaciones, 1978–.
Pereña, L. et al. (eds) De legibus, 8 vols, Madrid, Consejo Superior de
Investigaciones Científicas, 1971–81.
Vicente, L.P. (ed.) De hello (De triplice virtute theologica, treatise 3, disputation
13), Madrid, Institute Francisco de Vitoria, 1954.
Elorduy, E. and Pereña, L. (eds) Defensio fidei III, Madrid, Consejo de
Investigaciones Científicas, 1965.
English Translations with Commentaries
19.6
Metaphysical Disputations X and XI and Selected Passages from Disputation
XXIII and Other Works, trans. Jorge J.E.Gracia and Douglas Davis, in
The Metaphysics of Good and Evil According to Suárez, Munich and
Vienna, Philosophia Verlag, 1989.
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SUÁREZ (AND LATER SCHOLASTICISM)
19.7 On the Essence of Finite Being as Such, trans. Norman Wells, Milwaukee,
Wis., Marquette University Press, 1983.
19.8 Metaphysical Disputation V: Individual Unity and its Principle, trans. Jorge
J. E.Gracia, in Suárez on Individuation, Milwaukee, Wis., Marquette
University Press, 1982.
19.9 On Formal and Universal Unity, trans. James F.Ross, Milwaukee, Wis.,
Marquette University Press, 1964.
19.10 On the Various Kinds of Distinctions, trans. Cyril Vollert, Milwaukee, Wis.,
Marquette University Press, 1947.
19.11 On Efficient Causality: Metaphysical Disputations 17–19, trans. Alfred J
Freddoso, New Haven, Conn., Yale University Press, 1994.
19.12 Selections from Three Works (De legibus, Defensio fidei catholicae, De triplici
virtute theologica), 2 vols, trans. G.W.Williams and James Brown Scott,
Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1944.
Studies
19.13 Adams, Robert M. ‘Middle knowledge and the problem of evil’, American
Philosophical Quarterly 14 (1977): 109–17.
19.14 Alejandro, J.M. La gnoseología del Doctor Eximio y la acusación nominalista,
Comillas, Universidad Pontificia, 1948.
19.15 Ashworth, E.J. ‘Traditional logic’, in CHRP, pp. 143–72.
19.16 Courtine, Jean-François ‘Le project suarécien de la métaphysique’, Archives
de Philosophie 42 (1979): 235–74.
19.17 ——Suárez et le système de la métaphysique, Paris, Presses Universitaires de
France, 1990.
19.18 Cronin, Timothy Objective Being in Descartes and Suárez, Rome, Gregorian
University Press, 1966; repr. New York and London, Garland Publishing,
1987.
19.19 Daniel, William The Purely Penal Law Theory in the Spanish Theologians
from Vittoria to Suárez, Rome, Gregorian University Press, 1968.
19.20 Doyle, John P. ‘Suárez and the reality of the possibles’, The Modern Schoolman
45 (1967): 29–48.
19.21 ——‘Suárez on the analogy of being’, (1) and (2), The Modern Schoolman 46
(1969): 219–49 and 323–41.
19.22 ——‘Prolegomena to a study of extrinsic denomination in the work of Francis
Suárez, SJ’, Vivarium 22 (1984): 121–60.
19.23 ——‘Suárez on beings of reason and truth’, (1) and (2), Vivarium 25 (1987):
47–75 and 26 (1988): 51–72.
19.24 ——‘“Extrinsic cognoscibility”: a seventeenth-century supertranscendental
notion’, The Modern Schoolman 68 (1990): 57–80.
19.25 Ferrater Mora, José ‘Suárez and modern philosophy’, Journal of the History
of Ideas 14 (1953): 528–47.
19.26 Giacon, Carol La seconda scolastica, 2 vols, Milan, Fratelli Bocca, 1946.
19.27 Gnemi, Angelo Ilfondamento metafisico: Analisi di struttura sulle
‘Disputationes metaphysicae’ di F.Suárez, Milan, Società Editrice Vita e
Pensiero, 1969.
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19.28 Gracia, Jorge J.E. ‘Evil and the transcendentality of goodness: Suárez’s solution
to the problem of positive evils’, in Scott MacDonald (ed.) Being and
Goodness: the Concept of the Good in Metaphysics and Philosophical
Theology, Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1991, pp. 151–78.
19.29 ——(ed.) Francisco Suárez, issue of American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly
64, 1 (1991). (Articles by Douglas P.Davis, John P.Doyle, Jorge J.E. Gracia,
John Kronen, Carlos Noreña, Thomas Sullivan and Jeremiah Reedy, and
John L.Treloar.)
19.30 ——‘Suárez on the transcendentals’, in Jorge, J.E.Gracia (ed.) The
Transcendentals in the Middle Ages, issue of Topoi 10 (1992): 121–33.
19.31 Hamilton, Bernice Political Thought in Sixteenth-century Spain, Oxford,
Oxford University Press, 1963.
19.32 Hellin, J. La analogía del ser y el conocimiento de Dios en Suárez, Madrid,
Editora Nacional, 1947.
19.33 Iriarte, J. ‘La proyección sobre Europa de una gran metafísica’, Razón y Fe
(1948): 229–65.
19.34 Iturrioz, J. Estudios sobre la metafísica de Francisco Suárez, SJ, Madrid, Fax,
1949.
19.35 Kronen, John D. ‘Essentialism old and new: Suárez and Brody’, The Modern
Schoolman (1991): 123–51.
19.36 Lohr, Charles H. ‘Metaphysics’, in CHRP, pp. 537–638.
19.37 Owens, Joseph ‘The number of terms in the Suárezian discussion on essence
and being’, The Modern Schoolman 34 (1957): 147–91.
19.38 Scorraille, R. de François Suárez de la Compagnie de Jésus, 2 vols, Paris,
Lethiellieux, 1912–13.
19.39 Scott, J.B. The Catholic Conception of International Law, Washington, DC,
Georgetown University Press, 1934.
19.40 Trentman, John A. ‘Scholasticism in the seventeenth century’, in CHLMP,
pp. 818–37.
19.41 Wells, Norman ‘Suárez on the Eternal Truths’, (1) and (2), The Modern
Schoolman 58 (1981): 73–104 and 159–74.
19.42 ——‘Objective reality of ideas in Descartes, Caterus, and Suárez’, Journal of
the History of Philosophy 28 (1990): 33–61.
19.43 Wilenius, Reijo The Social and Political Theory of Francisco Suárez, Helsinki,
Akateeminen Kirjakauppa, 1963.
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Glossary
The Glossary should be used in conjunction with the index, where
pages containing good introductory discussion of a term are printed in
bold. An ‘I’ after an entry here indicates where reference to such
discussions will be particularly useful.
absolute/connotative terms: according to Ockham, a term (such as
‘man’ or ‘whiteness’) that signifies something directly (a man,
the quality whiteness) is absolute, whereas a term that signifies
something obliquely, by means of indicating one of its attributes
(‘white (thing)’, which signifies the thing that is white by
indicating its attribute of whiteness) is connotative. The
distinction corresponds closely to that used earlier in the Middle
Ages between words for substances, differentiae and accidents
on the one hand (=absolute terms) and denominative words on
the other hand (=connotative terms). I
accident: a property which a substance could conceivably lose or have
added to it without ceasing to be the substance it is: wearing a
hat is an accident of Socrates; so too is having a snub nose
(although his nose is always this shape); see also categories.
actuality, in act (in actu)/potentiality, in potency (in potentia): Aristotle
was fond of contrasting what or how things actually are with
what or how they will or might be by using the pair ‘act/potency’.
An acorn is an oak tree in potency; when it grows up into a tree,
then it is a tree in act. A movable but still body is moving in
potency, and a cold body is hot in potency.
ampliation (ampliatio): the extension of the supposition (reference) of
a word brought about by the use of the past or future tense or
by words such as ‘possibly’.
analogy: when a word is used in connection with different sorts of things
in such a way that its different significations in each case, though
not the same, are related to each other, it is said to signify analogously.
Often, this similarity between analogous significations consists in
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their each bearing a different relation to the same thing. For instance,
‘healthy’ is used analogously of a person (i.e. he is in a healthy
state), of a medicine (i.e. it makes people healthy) and of a blood-
sample (i.e. it is a sign of health). I
apodictically: using a demonstration.
beatific vision: according to most Christian theologians, after death
the souls of the blessed will be separated from their bodies and
enjoy a vision of God which will make them completely happy.
‘Bertrand Russell’: Bertrand Russell was an English philosopher who
lived from 1872 to 1970. His name is used metonomously by
some historians to stand for any modern analytical philosopher
who values qualities they believe inappropriate to consider in
relation to medieval thinkers (for instance, clarity, precision and
cogency in argument).
categorematic/syncategorematic terms (categoremata/
syncategoremata): as used by medieval authors, this distinction
builds on the analysis of categorical statements as: Subject-
(copula)-Predicate. Strictly speaking, categorematic terms can
stand alone as the subject or the predicate (for instance, ‘homo’
(‘(the) man’), (‘currit’ (‘runs’); a syncategorematic term cannot
be used meaningfully in a statement without (at least) a subject
and a predicate (for instance, ‘si’ (‘if’), ‘non’ (‘not’). Logicians
often extended the class of syncategorematic terms to include
ones such as ‘begins’ (‘incipit’) which could be used
categorematically, but were usually used to modify the
signification of categorematic terms. One of the branches of the
logica modernorum was the study of those syncategorematic
terms, in this wider sense, which logicians found especially
interesting.
categories (categoriae, praedicamenta): in medieval discussions, these
are almost always the ten categories, or most general genera
distinguished by Aristotle in his Categories: substance/essence
(ousia (Greek), substantia, essentia) and the nine categories of
accident: quantity, quality, relation, place, time, posture, state,
action, being-acted-on. Whether Aristotle’s classification
concerned things, words, perceptions or some combination of
these three was a matter of controversy in late antiquity and the
Middle Ages.
causes, material/formal/efficient/final: following Aristotle, medieval
writers regularly distinguished between four types of ‘cause’:
the material cause of something is what it is made from, the
formal cause that which makes it the sort of thing it is, the efficient
cause that which makes it, and the final cause that for the sake
of which it is made. In the case of this table, then, the material
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cause is the wood it is made from, the formal cause the form of
being a table (which would have guided a carpenter when he
made the wood into a table, not a chair or a bench), the efficient
cause is the carpenter and the final cause my wish to have
something to write on.
complexly significable (complexe significabile): the term used by some
fourteenth-century writers, such as Adam Wodeham and Gregory
of Rimini, for what statements signify: the exact ontological
status of these significates was debated. I
composite/divided sense: a distinction used to define the scope of certain
logical operators. For example, ‘It is possible that the sitting
man is standing’ would be read in the composite sense to mean:
the following is possible, that the man is sitting and standing
(M(p & -p)). In the divided sense it would be read: the man is
sitting, and it is possible that he stands (p & M-p). A reading in
the composite was also called a ‘de dicto’ modality, and that in
the divided sense a ‘de re’ modality.
connotation/denotation: in modern usage, a word’s denotation is its
extension (the objects to which it refers) and its connotation is
its intension or abstract meaning, which provides the principle
by which its denotation is determined. Some writers, however,
use the distinction more loosely.
connotative terms: see absolute/connotative terms
consequences (consequential): either (1) ‘if…then…’ statements, or (2)
arguments consisting of a single (perhaps composite) premiss
and a conclusion (for example, (1) ‘if he’s a man, he’s rational’
or (2) ‘he’s a man; so he’s rational’). Medieval writers rarely
distinguished clearly between (1) and (2).
copula: ‘is’ (and its other forms) when used to link the subject and
predicate of a statement (e.g. ‘Socrates is white’). Most medieval
philosophers gave a three-part analysis of predication,
distinguishing between the subject (‘Socrates’), the predicate
(‘white’) and the copula. But some (for instance, Abelard) also
suggested a two-part analysis, closer to that used by logicians
today, in which the copula is part of the predicate: the logical
form of ‘Socrates is white’ is then ‘Socrates whites’ (in modern
terms, ‘Fa’, where ‘F’ stands for being white, and ‘a’ is a
designator for Socrates).
demonstration: in medieval usage, a demonstration is a logically valid
argument from premisses which are ‘necessary’ in the sense that
they state a truth about what is unchanging.
denomination: a word ‘d’ is ‘denominated’ from a word ‘w’ when (1)
the signification of ‘d’ is related to that of ‘w’ and (2) verbally
‘d’ is similar to, but not the same as, ‘w’. For example, ‘white’ is
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denominated from ‘whiteness’ and ‘virtuous’ from ‘Virtue’. As
these examples indicate, adjectives which can be predicated of
concrete objects often are denominated from nouns for the
abstract qualities which they attribute.
dialectic (dialectica): in medieval use (and that of modern historians
of medieval philosophy), ‘dialectic’ is usually just a synonym for
‘logic’.
emanation: if A emanates from B, A is produced by B without B’s
being in any way changed (as, for instance, light is produced by
a source of light). Neoplatonists described intelligible reality as
a series of emanations.
epistemology: the theory of knowledge.
equivocation (aequivocatio): a word is equivocal if it has two or more
different significations (e.g. ‘bank’ signifying a river bank and a
place where money is kept).
essence (essentia; from Greek ousia): minimally, something’s essence
is the formula which states the sort of thing it is. If ‘E’ is the
essence-formula for Socrates, then (1) Socrates is necessarily E
and (2) ‘E’ tells one what is centrally important in understanding
what Socrates is.
exponibles: a term t is exponible when a statement in which it occurs
can be clarified for logical purposes by analysing it into a
conjunction of statements (‘exponents’) which do not contain t.
For example, ‘it is beginning to’ is an exponible term in ‘Socrates
is beginning to run’, which is clarified by analysis into ‘Socrates
was not running a moment ago’ and ‘Socrates is now running’. I
form (forma): (1) in the period up to c. 1200, ‘forma’ often meant an
accident or a differentia; I (2) for writers influenced by Aristotle’s
metaphysics (directly after 1200, or indirectly before then) a
‘forma’ was an Aristotelian form which, with matter, makes a
concrete whole (Aristotle also considered whether some forms
could exist without matter; these were called ‘separate forms’);
(3) platonic Ideas were sometimes called formae.
formal distinction: according to Duns Scotus, two things, which are
not really distinct may be ‘formally distinct’. A formal distinction
is not merely a conceptual distinction (‘distinction of reason’)
since it obtains apart from its being considered by any intellect.
For instance, a thing’s singularity (or ‘haecceity’—a term which
has been resurrected in modern metaphysics), its existence and
its essence are formally distinct from each other. These formally
distinct aspects of a thing are usually called formalitates
(‘formalities’) by Scotus and his successors. I
genus and species: according to Aristotle, substances can be
hierarchically ordered according to a series of increasingly more
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general essential definitions which give their species and genera.
For instance, Socrates is a man, an animal, a living thing and a
bodily thing. Man, Animal, Living Thing and Bodily Thing are
species or genera: more precisely, Animal is the species of Living
Thing, but the genus of Man (and so on—‘genus’ and ‘species’
are used relatively). See also universals. I
gloss: medieval manuscripts often contained many glosses as well as
the main text. Glosses of one or a few words, written between
the lines, explain the meanings of difficult words or phrases.
Longer glosses, written in the margins of the manuscript and
often keyed to the text by reference letters or signs, paraphrase
or discuss the text or bring extra information.
homonymy: means the same as ‘equivocation’.
hylomorpnism: the doctrine that things consist of matter and form.
hypothetical statements/propositions, hypothetical syllogisms: a
hypothetical statement is a molecular statement: a statement
comprising two or more individual statements, linked by a
connective such as ‘and’, ‘when’ or ‘if…then’; a hypothetical
syllogism is a syllogism in which at least one of the premisses is
a molecular statement.
Ideas/Forms, Platonic (theory of): the view that universals are
independently really existing entities, graspable by the intellect.
illumination: some medieval philosophers (in the West usually under
the influence of Augustine) held that humans could not know
any proposition with certainty without receiving in each case an
‘illumination’ from God.
indexicals: words such as ‘now’, ‘then’, ‘I’, ‘there’, the reference of
which is determined by the context of its utterance.
insolubles (insolubilia): semantic paradoxes, such as the Liar Paradox
(e.g. ‘The sentence I am now saying is false.’). I
Intellect, potential and active: according to Aristotle in On the Soul,
the human intellect is a receptive capacity, which is put into
activity by receiving the universal forms of things. In an obscure
passage, he suggests that there is also an active intellect,
responsible for putting this potency into activity. Some
commentators in antiquity and the Middle Ages held that there
is just one agent intellect, others that each human being has an
active as well as a potential intellect. Christian thinkers sometimes
identified the single active intellect with God; Islamic thinkers
often considered that the active intellect was the Agent
Intelligence, the last of the series of Intelligences to be emanated.
Intelligences: according to the Neoplatonists, from the Intellect (nous)—
the Platonic World of Ideas—there comes, by a process of successive
emanations, a series of Intelligences, which are incorporeal, thinking
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beings. The last of these is the Agent Intelligence (see Intellect,
potential and active). The scheme of Intelligences was taken up by
many Islamic thinkers in their interpretation of Aristotle, and
through them it influenced Latin thinkers. I
intension/remission: an accidental form can have different grades of
intension or remission whilst remaining the same form. For
instance, when I put the kettle on the fire, the form of heat in the
water it contains becomes more intense; when I take it off the
flame, the form is remitted—the water cools. I
intentions, primary and second(ary) (intentiones primae/secundae):
primary intentions are the concepts we can apply directly to
reality: for instance, the concept of man, which is a concept we
apply directly to a certain sort of real thing—men. Second(ary)
intentions are concepts we use in thinking about primary
intentions: for instance, the concept of species, which we use in
order to distinguish one sort of primary intention (man, horse,
donkey) from others. I
intuitive cognition: discussed widely from Duns Scotus onwards,
intuitive cognition (which may be sensible or intellectual) is a
type of immediate cognition like sight (intueor=‘to see,
contemplate’) of a particular as existent and present. The exact
definition of ‘intuitive cognition’ was, however, debated.
kala-m: Islamic scholastic theology.
liberal arts: the seven subjects made up by the trivium and the
quadrivium.
logos: Greek for ‘word’, ‘reason’. Christian theologians often called
the second person of the Trinity, the Son, the logos or (as a Latin
equivalent) the verbum (‘word’) of God.
macrocosm, microcosm: the macrocosm is the greater (makros) world
(kosmos) (usually, the whole universe), the microcosm—literally
the small (mikros) world—the human being. Many ancient and
medieval authors drew parallels between the structure of the
macrocosm and the microcosm.
metaphysics: in medieval writing, metaphysics is the study of those
questions considered by Aristotle in his Metaphysics. These
were usually considered to centre around the study of being
as (qua) being, and especially around the attempt to arrive at
some general characterization of existing things which applies
to members of all the ten Aristotelian categories or most
general genera.
modism, modes: (1) see speculative grammar; (2) medieval writers also
use modus (‘mode’) in a different way, when they talk about the
intrinsic ‘modes of being’, by which they mean finite being or
infinite being. I
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Mu‘tazilites: one of the schools of kala-m.
Neoplatonism: the most influential philosophical school of late
antiquity. It was founded by Plotinus (205–c. 270 AD) who
claimed he was reviving Plato’s true thought. In fact, he and,
especially, successors such as his pupil, Porphyry, and the fifth-
century philosopher, Proclus, developed an elaborate system
strikingly different from anything Plato himself attempted.
Nestorians: the Christians who follow what Catholics consider to be
the heresy, first propounded by Nestorius, that Christ consisted
of two separate persons, one human, one divine.
noetic: of or appertaining to the intellect.
obligations: an argument-game, originating in the twelfth century,
but most important in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
One contestant, the ‘respondent’ obligated himself to
something—in positio, the most straightforward form of the
game, to maintaining the truth of a statement, the positum put
forward by the ‘opponent’. He also accepted, for the purpose
of the game, a certain statement of how things are in reality
(the casus). The opponent would then put forward a series of
sentences which the respondent would have to declare true or
false according to a set of strict rules. His object would be to
force the respondent into self-contradiction.
ontology: ontology is the discussion of what sorts of thing, according
to their broadest types, exist. For instance, are there universal
things as well as particulars? Are facts a sort of entity or not? To
ask what is a philosopher’s ontology is usually to enquire what
sorts of things that philosopher claims exist.
opaque contexts: are created by ‘necessarily’, ‘possibly’ and verbs such
as ‘know’, ‘believe’, ‘wish’. Normally if a and b are two words
which refer to the same thing, one may be substituted for the
other in a statement without altering its truth value (e.g. ‘Cicero
wrote this work’ is true; so ‘Tully wrote this work’ is also true).
This is not the case in certain opaque contexts (e.g. ‘he believes
that Cicero wrote this work’ is true, but ‘he believes that Tully
wrote this work’ is false, since he has never heard ‘Tully’ used as
a name for Cicero; ‘necessarily, 9 is greater than 7’ is true, but
not ‘necessarily, the number of the planets is greater than 7’.
Organon, Aristotle’s: Aristotle’s logical works. Organon is the Greek
for ‘tool’, and it became the name for these works because some
late ancient thinkers held that logic was not a part of philosophy,
but rather a tool used by it.
paronymy: means the same as ‘denomination’.
participation: particulars are said to ‘participate’ in universals when
universals are considered to exist independently, apart from
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particulars: on this view, if a is F, it is F in virtue of participating
in the form of F-ness.
potentiality: see actuality (etc.).
predicables: the five terms discussed in Porphyry’s Isagoge were known
as the five predicables: ‘genus’, ‘species’, ‘differentia’, ‘proprium’,
accident, (accidens). For some writers, these terms are words
which signify other words, not things; for others, they signify
things as well as words.
predication: the attribution of a property to something. In ‘Socrates is
white’, whiteness is predicated of Socrates. According to most
medieval analyses, the word ‘white’ would be regarded as the
‘predicate’, linked to ‘Socrates’ by the copula ‘is’; see also copula.
proposition (propositio): in medieval usage, a declarative sentence: truth
or falsehood is almost always attributed by medieval authors to
propositiones (although some would say that they are not the
primary bearers of truth and falsehood). A propositio is usually
understood as a token sentence rather than a type sentence: ‘I
am sitting’ said by me now is a different propositio from ‘I am
sitting’ said by me in a minute’s time, or said by you. The meaning
of propositio is therefore different from that of ‘proposition’
used in its modern sense, to designate that which is expressed by
a sentence. The nearest medieval equivalents to ‘proposition’ in
the modern sense are Abelard’s ‘dictum’ and the fourteenth-
century ‘complexly significable’.
quadrivium: the four mathematical arts: arithmetic, geometry, music
and astronomy.
quaestio: literally ‘question’. Texts based on university teaching were
usually written up in ‘quaestio-form’. A problem would be
phrased in the form of a yes-or-no question: ‘p or not-p’. Suppose
the author wished to argue that not-p. First a set of arguments
would be given for the view which the writer did not wish to
advance (for p), preceded by the qualification videtur (‘it seems
that’). Then arguments would be advanced for the opposite view
(for not-p), preceded by the comment sed contra (‘but against
this’). These might just consist of a single authoritative quotation.
There followed the ‘body’ of the quaestio, the author’s discussion
of his view (that not-p) along with his reasons for holding it,
preceded by the comment respondeo dicendum (‘I reply that it
ought to be said that…’). Finally, each of the arguments for p
would be answered in turn.
quiddity (quidditas): was used in the thirteenth century and later to
mean essence; sometimes the phrase quod quid est was used
with the same meaning. A ‘quidditative definition’ is an essential
definition.
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regent (master): in the medieval university system, a student became a
master of arts or of theology at the end of the arts or theology
course. He then taught as a master for a short period, usually one
or two years, during which he was a magister regens (‘regent master’)
before vacating his post for someone else. Most exceptionally (as
in the cases of Aquinas and Eckhart) a master was allowed a second
period of regency some years after his first one.
scholastics, scholasticism: the philosophers and theologians of the
universities of Latin Europe from the thirteenth to the fifteenth or
sixteenth centuries are often called ‘scholastics’ and their work
described as ‘scholasticism’. Sometimes eleventh- and twelfth-
century thinking is described as ‘early’ or ‘pre-scholasticism’, and
the age of ‘high scholasticism’ (roughly 1250–1300) is distinguished
from ‘late(r) scholasticism’. The value of these labels is doubtful.
science (Aristotelian): a branch of knowledge (for instance, geometry
or physics) with its own self-evident first principles. See also
subalternation.
semantics: the theory of meaning; see signification, supposition.
semiotic: that which pertains to the study of semiotics, which is the
study of symbolic systems in general. Language is one of these
symbolic systems.
Sentences: used in connection with medieval philosophy without further
qualification, ‘the Sentences’ almost always refers to the Liber
sententiarum of Peter the Lombard (written c. 1155). From the
early thirteenth century until the end of the Middle Ages, Peter
the Lombard’s Sentences and the Bible were the two textbooks
of university theology faculties. Commenting on all or part of
the Sentences was part of the requirements for becoming a master
of theology. These commentaries—among which are included
the most important works of Duns Scotus, Ockham and many
others—offered plenty of opportunity to develop philosophical
discussions only tenuously related to the Lombard’s text.
separate form: see form.
separated soul: the human soul in separation from the body after death.
signification (significatio): the broadest of terms used in medieval
discussions of semantics. Although ‘signifies’ could be given a
special meaning by qualification (e.g. ‘signify by nomination’),
usually a word’s signification is x if and only if x is that of which
it makes its hearers think.
singular/universal statements or propositions: a singular statement is
one about a particular thing (‘Socrates is white’); a universal
statement is one about all things of a sort (‘All men are rational’).
sophisms (sophismata): puzzle sentences (in logic, theology or natural
philosophy), often ambiguous ones which are true under one
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interpretation and false under another. Mediaeval interest in
sophisms seems to have been stimulated by study (from c. 1130
onwards) of Artistotle’s treatise on fallacies, On Sophistical
Refutations.
speculative grammar: the attempt by certain writers, especially in the
mid- and late-thirteenth century, to treat grammar as an
Aristotelian science. It involved analysing words in sentences
according to their various ‘modes of signifying’ (modi
significandi) and discussing the relation between modes of
signifying, modes of being and modes of understanding. Its
practitioners were therefore sometimes known as ‘modists’
(modisti). I
square of opposition: a diagrammatic way of representing the
relationship between statements of the forms (A) ‘All S are P’,
(E) ‘No S is P’, (I) ‘Some S is P’, (O) ‘Some S is not P’.
subalternation: every Aristotelian science (or branch of knowledge)
is based on first principles, which cannot themselves be
demonstrated within that science. Some sciences derive their
first principles from another science, to which they are then
said to be ‘subalternate’: for example, optics was considered
to be subalternate to geometry, whilst it was much disputed
whether theology, as practised by scholars here on earth, was
subalternate to the theology practised by the souls of the blessed,
enjoying the beatific vision.
substance (substantia): according to the Aristotelian view, generally
accepted in the Middle Ages, a substance is (1) a particular
member of a natural kind (particular substance) or (2) the species
or genus of some (1) (universal substance). Some medieval
thinkers denied, however, that there are in reality any substances
of type (2).
supposition (suppositio): the reference of a word within a sentence.
Supposition was classified into various types from the late twelfth
century onwards. This classification is sometimes called the
‘theory of the properties of terms’. I
syllogism: a syllogism has two premisses, each with two terms, one of
which is common to them both (the ‘middle (term)’): for instance,
‘All men are mortal’, ‘All philosophers are men’. From the
premisses there follows a conclusion in which the middle term
does not appear (‘All philosophers are mortal’).
syncategoremata: see categorematic…terms.
synonymy: means the same as ‘univocation’.
terminist logic: the work of those logicians who laid emphasis on the
theory of the properties of terms—the classification of the
different sorts of supposition. The most popular of terminist
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textbooks was Peter of Spain’s Tractatus (known as his Summule
logicales) (probably 1230–9).
Thomist: this term is usually applied to those nineteenth- and twentieth-
century philosophers and historians who have taken (an often
simplified view of) the ideas of Aquinas as an accurate guide to
the truth in philosophical and theological matters.
transcendentals: attributes which, it was believed, all things have. They
included being an existing thing (ens), truth, goodness, unity
and, according to some thinkers, beauty. I
trivium: the three linguistic arts: grammar, logic (dialectic) and rhetoric.
truth, correspondence theory of: a theory of truth which, at minimum,
requires that for a statement to be true it signify exactly what is
the case; it may or may not also treat what is the case as some
sort of real entity (e.g. a complexly significable).
universals: a word is universal if it is of a type suited to be predicated
of many things. ‘Man’, ‘white’, ‘animal’, ‘run(s)’ are all universals,
but not ‘Socrates’ or ‘Trinity College’. It was a matter of great
dispute throughout the Middle Ages whether there were not just
universal words and concepts, but also universals things: Man
the species as well as particular men, whiteness in general as
well as this or that white thing.
world soul: that which, according to Plato’s Timaeus, is responsible
for the movements and regularity of the universe.
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Index
The two indexes cover the text of all the chapters and the glossary, and
the notes in so far as they add material not discussed in the text. The
bibliographies are not indexed. The index nominum includes the names
of all writers and their works (but not e.g. kings or popes) and towns,
monasteries, convents and universities (but not countries). The index
rerum is a selective guide to the themes and ideas discussed in the book.
Details of individual manuscripts cited in the text and notes are given
in the index rerum under ‘manuscripts, individual’. In cross-references
between the two indexes, IN abbreviates index nominum, IR
abbreviates index rerum. SC abbreviates Sentence Commentary, i.e. a
commentary on all or part of the Sentences of Peter the Lombard. Page
numbers in bold indicate a detailed discussion dedicated to the author,
work or theme in question. Page numbers preceded by an asterisk are
those of the glossary-entry for the term indexed. The principles of
nomenclature and alphabetization followed are that (a) ancient authors
are referred to by their usual names (e.g. Boethius, Cicero); (b) post-
classical Latin or Western vernacular writers working before c. 1500
are referred to by Christian name first, almost always in English form
(e.g. Walter Burley, under ‘W’—not Gualterus Burlaeus, under ‘G’ or
‘B’), and connective particles, such as ‘of, are ignored in the ordering;
those working after c.1500 are referred to by surname first (e.g.
Descartes, Renée, under ‘D’) (c) Arabic and Jewish writers are referred
to by their last name first—often beginning with ‘al’ or ‘ibn’; the
commonly accepted Latin and English forms of the name are used for
Averroes, Avicenna and Maimonides but not otherwise; (d) names of
works are generally given as in the text, but often shortened; (e) a few
exceptions to these rules have been made where following them would
go against normal usage (e.g. Bonaventure is listed under this name,
not under John of Fidanza), but there are cross-references here and
elsewhere to avoid confusion.
486
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Index Nominum
Abbo of Fleury 97, 109
Abelard, see Peter Abelard
Abner of Burgos 89
Abraham, Isaac 92–3
Abraham, Judah 93
Abraham, son of Maimonides 84
Ab* Bishr Matt& 35
Acacius, Henotikon 15
Adalbold of Utrecht, Commentary on
Boethius, Consolation, III m. 9 111
Adam of Balsham (Parvipontanus)
174–5; Ars disserendi 175
Adam Wodeham 330, 333, 359, 381–3,
391, 393–5, 398, 404–5 477
Adams, Marilyn McCord 9, 334, 337,
342–3, 347, 349, 351–2, 357–8
Adelard of Bath 179
Adelelm, schoolmaster of Laon 102
Aegidius Romanus, see Giles of Rome
Ailred of Rielvaux 177
Alan of Lille 174, 179, 183, 429; Regulae
caelestis iuris 177–8
al-Baghd&d(, Abu’l Barak&t 76; Kit&b al-
Mu‘tabar 76
Alberic, opponent of Abelard 157, 175,
176
Albert the Great (Albertus Magnus) 212,
218, 225, 230–2, 233–5, 241, 271,
443; Commentaries on Aristotle, on
Book about Causes, on ps-Dionysius,
230; SC 230, 496
Albert of Saxony, 405, 437; Very Useful
Logic, 405; Sophismata 405
Albertists, 232, 428, 442
Albertus Magnus, see Albert the Great
Albo Joseph 92
Alcuin 97, 106, 108–9, 138; De
dialectica 108; On the Faith of the Holy
Trinity 108–9
Alexander Langeley 398
Alexander of Alexandria 294
Alexander of Aphrodisias 13, 78, 85, 281
Alexander of Hales 192, 194, 227, 263
al-F&r&b(, Ab* NaUr 35–8, 41, 44–5, 58,
77–8, 83, 85, 227; The Agreement of
the Two Sages, 37; The Attainment of
Happiness, etc., 37; Book of Letters, 35,
38; Book of Religion, 38; Book of Terms
used in Logic, 35–6; commentary on
Organon and Isagoge, 35; commentary
on Nicomachean Ethics, 84; The
Enumeration of the Sciences, 37; Letter
on how to dispel sadness, 34;Little
Book of Reasoning, 35; Principles of
the Citizens 37–8
Alféri P. 350
Alfred of Sareshel 188
al-Ghazz&l(, Ab* H. &mid 45, 49–52;
Incoherence of the Philosophers, 45,
56; Intentions of the Philosophers
56, 227, 230
al-Harizi, Judah 77, 227
al-Kind(, Ab* Y*suf 31–4, 39–2, 44–5,
71, 227; Letter on the Agent Cause,
34; Letter on Aristotle’s Book of
Numbers, 33; Letter on the farthest
prostration of the Body, 33; On the
First Philosophy 22m 32–3
al-Kirkis&n(, Ab* 67
al-Mubashshir, ibn F&tik 39
al-Muqaffa‘, ‘Abd All&h ibn 30–1
al-Muqammis, Dawud, ‘Ishrun Maqala
67
Alphonsus Varga of Toledo 387
al-R&z(, Ab* Bakr 34–5 38, 45; al-
H&w((Continens) 34
al-R&z(, Ab* H. &tim 35
al-Sijist&n(, Ab* 39
al-Suhraward(, Shihab 45
al-Tawh.(d(, Ab* 39
Alyngton, see Robert Alyngton
Ambrose 121, 127
487
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INDEX NOMINUM
America, discovery of 453, 457; Latin
American scholasticism 461
Ammonius 11–12, 371
Anatolio, Jacob 86
Andrew of St Victor 188
Angelo of Fossombrone 405–6; Insolubles
406
Anscombe, G.E.M. 341, 344
Anselm of Canterbury, 7, 96–7, 122–3,
25, 132–6, 137, 152–3, 205, 208,
265, 311, 432, 459; Cur Deus Homo
110, 123; On Free Will 122; De
grammatico 109, 123, 135, 144;
Monologion 122, 133, 135–6, 144,
177; Philosophical Fragments 123;
Proslogion 122–3, 134, 145, 263, 298
Anselm of Laon 104, 154, 167, 188
Antonius Andreas 294, 369
Antonius Sirect 441
Aosta 122
Apuleius, Perihermeneias 97, 99–100,
108
Aquinas, see Thomas Aquinas
Aristotle 11–15, 24, 31–2, 34, 39, 41–2,
49–50, 53–4, 66, 68, 83–85, 87, 90,
104, 109, 122, 125, 127, 131–2, 156,
179–80, 188, 193, 196, 198, 204–6,
208–9, 211, 216–20, 225–8, 230–1,
233, 241, 244–5, 255, 270, 281–3,
296, 306, 314, 332, 334, 345, 372–3,
392, 403, 417, 428, 436, 438, 440,
442, 452, 454, 456, 458, 460, 475,
478, 484; for commentaries (in
general), see Averroes, Avicenna;
Organon: (in general) 12, 30–1, 35, 52,
59, 191, 194, 226, 402, *481; for
commentaries, see al-F&r&b(, Avicenna,
Averroes; (individual books of),
Categories: 14, 99, 102–5, 109–10,
123, 132, 152–3, 159, 175–6, 191,
299, 322, 418, 476; for commentaries, see
Boethius, John Duns Scotus, Peter
Abelard, Walter Burley, William of
Ockham and see Ten Categories, ps.-
Augustinian; On Interpretation 102–3,
109–10, 124, 129, 144, 152, 175–6,
191, 337–8, 354, 371, 406;
anonymous glosses to 109; for
commentaries, see Boethius, John
Duns Scotus, Peter Abelard, Walter
Burley, William of Ockham; Posterior
Analytics 191, 195–6, 209, 226, 270; for
commentaries, see (?) Boethius,
Robert Grosseteste; Prior Analytics
191, 338; for commentary, see
Boethius; On Sophistical Refutations
176, 179, 191, 402, 416, 483; for
commentary, see John Duns Scotus;
Topics 14, 191, 270; (non-logical
works), On Generation and
Corruption, 226–7; On the Heavens
226; Metaphysics 32, 36, 41, 191,
200, 212, 270, 299, 320, 322, 372,
379, 462–3, 480; for commentaries,
see Albert the Great, John Buridan,
John Duns Scotus, Siger of Brabant;
Meteorologica, 41; Nicomachean
Ethics 59, 189, 191, 226–7, 231–2,
243, 270, 281, 356; for
commentaries, see Albert the Great,
Walter Burley; Physics 16, 191, 209,
226, 264–5, 270; for commentaries,
see Thomas Aquinas, Walter Burley,
William of Ockham; Poetics 35, 52,
226; Politics, 31–2, 58, 191, 226,
356; for commentaries, see Peter of
Auvergne, Thomas Aquinas, Walter
Burley; Rhetoric 35, 52; for
commentary, see Boethius of Dacia;
On the Soul 13, 41, 191, 226, 280;
for commentaries, see Albert the
Great, John Duns Scotus; see also
Theology of Aristotle, IR
Aristotelianism; prohibitions on
studying authors
Ars Meliduna 175–6
Asser, Life of King Alfred 107
Aston, see Nicholas Aston
Aufredo Gonteri Brito 388, 390
Augsburg 103
Augustine of Hippo 11, 20, 98–9, 108,
11, 121–2, 127–8, 134, 178, 192–3,
196, 199, 207, 217, 264–5, 292, 296,
303, 322, 340, 383, 434–6, 461, 479;
On Christian Doctrine 189–90;
Enchiridion 253; On Free Will, 383;
Literal Commentary on Genesis 121;
On the Morals of the Catholic Church
134; On Music (De Musica),
anonymous glosses to 132; On the
Trinity 134, 199–200 (ps-Augustine,
see Ten Categories, ps-Augustinian)
488
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INDEX NOMINUM
Augustinian Hermits 368, 381–2, 392,
394, 427, 432
Aureoli, see Peter Aureoli
Autrecourt, see Nicholas of Autrecourt
Auxerre, monastery of St. Germain of
100–2, 104, 106
Avencebrol 74, and see ibn Gabirol,
Solomon
Averroes (ibn Rushd) 1, 8, 49–64, 77–8,
179, 199, 227, 231, 244, 271,
278–9, 281–2, 286, 373, 429;
commentaries on Aristotle, 51, 58,
61, 78, 85, 192, 226–7, 375–6;
commentary on Plato’s Republic
58–60; The Harmony of Religion
and Philosophy(Fa7l al-Maql) 55;
The Incoherence of the Incoherence
56–8; Initiative of a Legist 60; for
commentaries (on his epitomes and
Middle Commentaries of Aristotle),
see Gersonides; and see (IR)
Averroism
Avicebron, 74, and see ibn Gabirol,
Solomon
Avicenna (ibn Sn) 8, 40–4, 45, 56–7,
76, 85, 179, 180, 199, 208, 231,
244, 271, 276, 281, 283, 299–302;
as commentator on Aristotle 41,
192; Book of Right Judgement 41;
The Cure (al-Shif’) 40, 226, 434;
encyclopaedias, 40; Logic of the
Easterners 41; short allegorical
treatises 44; and see IR
‘Avicennizing Augustinism’
Avignon 86, 330–1, 355–6, 369, 391,
438, 440–1
Babylon 67, 74
Bacon, Francis 219
Bacon, see Roger Bacon
Baconthorpe, see John Baconthorpe
Baghdad 29, 35
Bagnol-sur-Cèze 86
Bakhtin, Mikhail 127
Balderich, bishop of Utrecht 103
Balliol College, Oxford 433
Bañez, Domingo 457
Barcelona 74, 380, 387
bar-iyyah, Abraham 74
Barnes, Jonathan 25
Bartholomew of Salerno 189
Baudelaire, Charles 355
Bec, monastery of 122
Bede, On the Nature of Things 102;
works on time 102
ben Ali, Japheth 67
ben Eli, Samuel 79
ben Falaqera, Shem Tov 85
ben Judah, Joseph, 80
ben Maimon, Moses, see Maimonides
ben Solomon, Gerson, Sha‘ar ha
Shamayim 85
ben Tamin, Dunash 73
Berengar of Tours 97, 110, 112
Berkeley, George 461
Bernard of Chartres 152, 154, 167, 172,
177; (?) commentary on Timaeus 152
Bernard of Clairvaux 156, 167, 429
Bernard the Lombard 390
Bernard, scholasticus of Laon 102
Bernward, bishop of Hildesheim 107
Berthold of Moosburg, commentary on
Proclus Elements of Theology 235–6
Bessarion, Cardinal 392
Biagio Pelacani 429, 432
Bibago, Abraham 92
Billingham, see Richard Billingham
Bischoff, Bernhard 97
Black, M. 142
Boethius of Dacia 272, 273, 275, 278,
280, 282–7; commentary on
Aristotle’s Rhetoric 272;On the
Eternity of the World 272; On the
Highest Good 272
Boethius 8, 11–28, 104, 108, 122, 132,
153, 179, 191, 205–6, 274, 354, 373;
translations of Aristotle 12, 99–100,
102–3, 129, 132, 152, 191, 406; On
Arithmetic 127, 138; On Categorical
Syllogisms 14, 109, 132, 152, 176;
commentaries on Aristotelian logic (in
general) 12–13, 152; (individual
commentaries), on Categories 12, 123,
138, 191; on Isagoge 12, 100,
109—editio prima 25, 100, 132;on On
Interpretation 25, 129, 191—editio
prima 97; editio secunda 13;
(attributed) on Posterior Analytics 25;
(scholia) on Prior Analytics 12;
commentary on Cicero’s Topics 101,
105; On the Consolation of Philosophy
11–12, 17–24, 99, 103, 107, 110,
134, 179; for commentaries, see
489
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INDEX NOMINUM
Adalbold of Utrecht, Bovo of Corvey,
Remigius of Auxerre, William of
Conches; On Division 14, 132, 152,
157, 176; On Hypothetical Syllogisms
14, 132, 152, 176, 181; Theological
Treatises 15–17, 24, 109–10, 154,
167–8; anonymous commentaries on
(associated with Thierry of Chartres)
173–4; for commentary, and see also
Gilbert of Poitiers; On Topical
‘Differentiae’ 14–15, 24, 109–110,
154, 167–8
Boh, Ivan 183
Boler, John 360
Bologna, University of 188, 232, 387,
406, 428, 454; mendicant houses at
382, 396
Bonaventure (John of Fidanza) 9, 217,
225, 227–30, 231, 368; Breviloquium
227; Collationes on the Hexaemeron
227; Journey of the Mind to God 227,
229; Lenten Sermon 192–3; SC, 227
Bonet, see Nicholas Bonet
Book about Causes (Liber de causis) 179,
227, 230–1, 263, 281, 434; for
commentaries, see Siger of Brabant
Bovo of Corvey, commentary on
Consolation of Philosophy III, m. 9,
24, 91, 110–11
Bradwardine, see Thomas Bradwardine
Brinkley, see Richard Brinkley
Brito, see Radulphus Brito, Thierry of
Chartres
Brockie, Marian, Monasticon Scoticarum
293
Brothers of Purity, see Ikhw&n al-¬afa’
Brulefer, see Stephen Brulefer
Bruni, Leonardo, see Leonardo Bruni
Bruno of Cologne 103
Buckingham, see Thomas Buckingham
Bukhara 40
Buridan, see John Buridan
Burley, see Walter Burley
Cambridge, University of 293–4, 404–5,
454–5
Cana, Melchior 457
Candia, see Peter of Candia
Candidus Wizo 97
Capreolus, see John Capreolus
Carmelites 369, 379, 427
Carracciolo, see Landulph Carracciolo
Cassiodorus 24–5
Castro, Alonso de 457
Ceffons, see Peter Ceffons
Cervantes 457
Chalcedon, Council of 15
Chaldaean Oracles 46
Chartres 104, 154, 167, 173, 188
Chatton, see Walter Chatton
Chaucer 24
Chomsky, Noam 341–2
Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods 134;
Topics 14, 99, 101–2, 104, 179; for
commentary, see Boethius; translation
of Plato’s Timaeus 99
Claxton, see Thomas Claxton
Cluny, monastery of 105, 156
Coimbra, University of 454–5, 458
Cologne 103, 241, 294; Dominican
convent at 230, 234, 387; University
of 430, 442–3
Coluccio Salutati 429
Compendium logicae Porretanum 175–6
Constance, Council of 427, 430
Constantine the African, translation of
Art of Medicine 188
Constantinople 2
Corbeil 155
Corbie, monastery of 99–101, 104
Córdoba 49, 74, 77
Courtenay, William 390
Cousin, Victor 3
Crathorn, see William Crathorn
Crescas, Hasdaï 89–92; Light of God,
90–2
Crombie, A. 212, 215–6
Cairo 77
Calcidius, translation of Plato’s Timaeus
97, 99, 110, 138, 154, 227;
commentary on Plato’s Timaeus 98,
105, 154
Calderón de la Barca 457
Damascus 29
Damian, see Peter Damian
Dante Alighieri 7, 273
David of Dinant 179–80
Davidson, Donald 352
De la Mare, see William de la Mare
490
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INDEX NOMINUM
del Medigo, Elias 93
Derrida, Jacques 128
Descartes, René 3, 257, 259, 461–2; and
see IR dualism, Cartesian
Dietrich of Freiberg 233–4; On the
Intellect and the Intelligible 233; On
the Origin… 233–4
Dionysius the Areopagite, see pseudo-
Dionysius
Dionysius of Borgo San Sepolcro 390
Dominic of Clavasio 437
Dominic, St. (Domingo de Guzmán)
241, 456
Dominicans 189, 194, 225, 230, 232–4,
241, 264, 272, 294, 357, 368, 379,
427, 437, 440, 454, 456
Dominicus Gundissalinus (Gundisalvi)
179, 188, 226
Dummett, Michael 339, 351
Duns Scotus, see John Duns Scotus
Durandus of Saint-Pourçain 333
Echternach, monastery of 100
Eckhart, (Meister) 7, 234–5, 388;
commentary on Genesis 446; Parisian
Questions 234–5; Sermons 234–5;
Three-part Work 234
Ehrle, F. 441
Eichstatt, monastery of 103
Einhard 105
Empedocles 39
Erfurt, University of 232, 430
Erigena, see John Scottus Eriugena
Eustratius 434
Eutyches 15
Feribrigge, see Richard Feribrigge
Fernand of Córdoba 392
Ferrières, monastery of 99, 101
Fez 77
Fishacre, see Richard Fishacre
Fitzgerald, M. 444
Fitzralph, see Richard Fitzralph
Fland, see Robert Fland
Flasch, K. 7
Fleury, monastery of 100–1, 106
Fodor, J. 341
Fonseca, Pedro 455, 457; (with others),
Cursus Conimbricensis 455
Fossanova, abbey of 241
Fostat 77
Foxoles, see John Foxoles
Francesco della Rovere 392
Francesco Petrarca 155 429
Francis of Marchia 369, 381, 391–2,
395, 397, 428; SC, 390–1; Marchist
School 389
Francis of Meyronnes 330, 369, 381,
389, 391, 435–6, 441, 446; and see
Scotists, Meyronnists
Franciscans 189, 207, 218, 229, 293–5,
296, 329–31, 357, 389, 394, 427, 435,
437, 456
Fredegisus of Tours 97, 136
Frege, Gottlob 5, 139, 334, 336, 338,
344, 351, 360, 394; ‘On Sense and
Reference’ 144
Freising, monastery of 100
Fulbert of Chartres 104
Fulda, monastery of 111
Gadamer, H. 128
Gaetano da Thiene 406, 429
Galileo 212
Gaon, Haï 74
Gaon, see Saadiah ben Joseph Gaon
Garlandus of Besançon 152; Dialectica
152–3
Gaunilo of Marmoutiers 123
Geach, Peter 5, 261, 265, 334–5, 338,
344, 348, 421
Gensler, H. 332
Gentzen, G. 360
Gerard of Bologna 379, 381
Gerard of Cremona 188, 226–7
Gerard Odon 380, 391, 397
Gerard of Siena 369, 391
Gerbert of Aurillac 97, 103, 109, 132;
On ‘rational’, 132
Gerson, see John Gerson
Gersonides (Levi ben Gerson, Leo of
Bagnols) 86–9; commentaries on
Averroes 87; Wars of the Lord 87–9
Gerward of Lorsch 102
Giacon, C. 472
Gilbert of Poitiers (Gilbert Porretanus/
de la Porrée) 151, 166–71, 172, 174,
177–8, 180; biblical commentaries
167; commentary on Boethius’
491
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INDEX NOMINUM
Theological Treatises 167–71; Sentences
167; for followers, see Porretani
Gilebertini, see Porretani
Giles of Rome (Aegidius Romanus)
291–2, 296, 368–9, 382, 443
Gilson, Etienne 9, 242, 296
Goddu, A. 353
Godfrey Hardeby 427, 432; SC, 445
Godfrey of Fontaines 195–9, 291–2,
368–9; Quodlibets 195–6
Godinus, see William Peter Godinus
Gonsalvus of Spain 293–4
Gottschalk of Orbais 97, 111–12, 136
Granada 457
Gratian, Decretum 188
Gregory of Nyssa 121, 127
Gregory of Rimini (Gregorius
Ariminensis) 368, 381–3, 386–7,
390–2, 395–9, 405, 408–9, 418,
437–8, 477; SC, 200–1, 382–3, 387,
389, 392, 428
Grosseteste, see Robert Grosseteste
Grotius 461
ha-Cohen, Judah, Midrash ha-Hokhma
85
Hadoardus of Corbie 102
Halevi, Judah 74, 76; Kuzari 76, 85
Hamadh&n 40
Hamilton, Sir William 351
ha-Penini, Yehaya 86
Harran 25
Hauréau, Barthélémy 3
Haymo of Auxerre 102
Heal, Jane 341, 345
Heidegger, Martin 9
Heidelberg, University of 405, 430, 437
Heiric of Auxerre 100–2, 142
Heloise, wife of Peter Abelard 155–6
Henry Aristippus, translation of Plato’s
Meno and Phaedo 227
Henry Harclay 329, 352, 382, 388, 390;
SC, 388
Henry of Ghent (Henry Goethals)
196–9, 291–2, 296–307, 308–10,
311–16, 320–2, 368–9, 377–81;
Quodlibets 197–8, 292; Summa 292,
299–307
Henry Hopton 411; On Truth and
Falsehood 404, 410
Henry of Langenstein 437
Henry Totting of Oyta 396, 437
Henry of Zomeren 381
Hermann of Carinthia 173, 179
Hermes Trismegistus (writings attributed
to/associated with) 34, 46; On the God
of Gods 215
Hervaeus Natalis 379–81
Heytesbury, see William of Heytesbury
Hildesheim 107
Hilduin, abbot of St. Denis 121
Hincmar, archbishop of Rheims 111–12
Holcot, see Robert Holcot
Holdsworth, Winch 451
Holland, E. 355
Honorius Augustodunensis (of Autun)
143
Hrabanus Maurus 101, 111–21, 138
Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim 142
Hugh of Newcastle 369
Hugh of St Victor 104, 177, 188
Hugh Ripelin of Strasbourg,
Compendium 233
Hugolinus of Orvieto 369, 387, 398
Hume, David 52, 462
Huntman, see John Huntman
ibn al-Nad(m 31
ibn Bahr(z 30–1
ibn B&jjah 78, 85
ibn Daud, Abraham 74
ibn Ezra, Abraham 74
ibn Falaqera, Shem Tov 74
ibn Gabirol, Solomon (Avencebrol,
Avicebron) 74–6; Fons Vitae 74–6,
227–8
ibn H. aylan, Yuanna 35
ibn H. unayn, Isaq 30
ibn Ish. &q, H. unayn 30
ibn Kamm*nah 84
ibn Khald*n 31
ibn Miskawayh, Ab*, Eternal Wisdom
39–40
ibn Na‘lma 32
ibn Paqudah, Bah.y& 74, 85; Guide, 74
ibn Rushd, see Averroes
ibn Shemtob, Joseph 92
ibn S(n&, see Avicenna
ibn Tibbon, Judah 84
ibn Tibbon, Samuel 77, 85
492
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INDEX NOMINUM
ibn Z. addik, Joseph 74
Ikhw&n al-[af&’ (Brothers of Purity)
Letters 39, 41
Imbach, Ruedi 7
Introductions montane maiores 164, 166
Isidore of Seville 25, 129,215
Ism&‘(lites 35, 39, 41
Israeli, Isaac 71–3, 227
Jacobites 30
Jakobson, Roman 125, 341
James of Venice 191, 226
Jean Poinsot (John of St Thomas), Cursus
455, 457
Jerome of Prague 430, 437
Jerome 112–3
Jerusalem 76
Jesuits, see Society of Jesus
John Baconthorpe 369, 381, 387–9,
391–2, 394
John Blund De anima 180
John Buridan 288, 340, 386, 403, 405,
406, 408, 411, 414–6, 420, 428–30,
441–3; commentary on Metaphysics
445; Consequences 405; Sophismata
405, 422; Summa of Logic 405
John Capreolus 381
John of Denmark 280
John Dorp 437
John Duns Scotus (Duns Scotus, Scotus)
8, 156, 198–9, 201, 207, 291, 293–8,
300, 303, 306, 307–22, 329–31, 333,
346, 352–3, 355, 368–9, 378–81,
388, 391, 397, 407, 416, 454, 461,
483; Collationes 294; commentaries on
logica vetus and on On Sophistical
Refutations 294; commentary on
Metaphysics 294; commentary on
On the Soul 294; Quodlibets 294–5;
SC 307–21; (versions distinguished),
Lectura 295; Ordinatio (Opus
oxoniense) 293, 315–6, 319–20;
Reportationes 295, 368; Theoremata
294; Treatise on God as First Principle
294–5; and see Scotists
John of Fidanza, see Bonaventure
John Foxoles 389
John Gerson 439–42, 446–7
John Hitalingen of Basel 397–8; SC,
398
John Huntman 410; Logic 404
John of Jandun 232
John Lepage, SC 271
John Lutterell 329–31, 355–6
John of Nova Domus (Maisonneuve)
441–2
John of Paris 357, 446; SC, 398
John Philoponus 24–5, 34, 57
John of Pouilly 369; Quodlibets 369
John of Reading 331
John of Ripa 387, 397, 428, 441–2
John of Rodington 359; SC, 396
John of Salisbury 154, 172
John of Secheville 271; On the Principles of
Nature 271
John of St Thomas, see Jean Poinsot
John Scottus Eriugena (Scotus, Scotus
Eriugena, Scotus Erigena, Erigena) 7,
96–7, 100, 106, 109, 111, 120–2,
124, 125–32, 134, 136, 144;
commentary on Celestial Hierarchy
123, 138, 141; commentary on John
123; glosses on Martianus Capella
104, 120, 128; homily on John 123;
Periphyseon (On the Division of Nature)
121–2, 125–32; On Predestination
111–2, 120, 122
John Sharp 446
John Tarteys 446
John Wyclif (Wycliffe) 420, 427, 430,
433–7, 443–4; Logic 404; Summa
de Ente 433; Summa Theologiae
433; On Universals 445
Jolivet, Jean 153
Juan de la Cruz 457
Juan of Monzon 437, 439–40
Jungius 461
Kant, Immanuel 344, 462
Karaites 67
Kenny, Anthony 5, 242
Khur&s&n 41
Kilvington, see Richard Kilvington
Kilwardby, see Robert Kilwardby
Knowles, David 9, 368, 378
Knuuttila, Simo 9, 26, 171
Koran, see IR Qu’ran
Krakow, University of 232, 430
Kretzmann, Norman 5
Kripke, Saul 359
493
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INDEX NOMINUM
Kristeller, Oskar 444
Kristeva J. 127
Kutná-Hora 429
Lambert of Auxerre 403
Landulph Carracciolo 381, 388, 391,
394, 397
Lanfranc of Canterbury 97, 110, 112,
122
Laon 102, 104, 117, 188
Lavenham, see Richard Lavenham
Leibniz, G. 461
Leipzig, University of 430
Leo of Bagnols, see Gersonides
Leonardo Bruni 429
Levi ben Gerson, see Gersonides
Lewis, David 336–7, 344
Libelli sophistarum (Little Books for
Arguers) 404
Liber de Causis, see Book about Causes
Liber Sacratus (Sworn Book of Honorius)
215
Libera, Alain de 7, 230
Libri Carolini 108
Liège 103–4, 107, 272
Lindberg, D. 216
Locke, John 461
Lombard, The Lombard, see Peter the
Lombard
London 329–30, 380, 393–4, 427
Lope de Vega 457
Lorenzo Valla 273
Lorsch, monastery of 101
Louis of Padua 441–2
Louvain 381, 390
Loyola, Ignacio de 242, 456
Luis de León 457
Lull, see Raymond Lull
Lupus of Ferrières, 100–2; letter to
Einhard, 105–6
Lutterell, see John Lutterell
Lyons 98–9; second Council of 241
Macrobius, commentary on the Dream
of Scipio 99, 101, 110, 138, 173, 179;
for commentary, see William of
Conches
Madrid 457
Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon, Rabbi
Moyses) 8, 50, 65, 76, 77–84, 85–7,
90, 179; Guide of the Perplexed 77–86,
90, 227, 244, 246; Letter on the
Resurrection of the Dead 79; Milot-ha-
Higayon 77; Mishneh Torah 77–8, 83
Maisonneuve, see John of Nova Domus
Mallarmé, Stéphane 358
Manlevelt (Mauvelt), see Thomas
Manlevelt
Manno of St Ouen 106
Marenbon, John 98–100, 124–5, 131–2,
352
Mariana, Juan de 457
Marius Victorinus 25, 98; translation of
Porphyry’s Isagoge 100, 102; To
Candidus 138
Marius, On the Elements 143
Marsilius of Inghen 405, 437; Insolubles,
405
Marston, see Roger Marston
Martianus Cappella, On the Marriage of
Mercury and Philology 103, 105, 110,
127–8, 138, 139, 147, 179;
commentaries on 143 and see John
Scottus Eriugena
Martin of Dacia (Denmark), Modi
significandi 273, 275, 277
Martin of Laon 102 103
Martin, Christopher (of Auckland)
180–1
Massa, see Michael of Massa
Maurer, Armand 242
Maurus of Calabria 189
Maximus the Confessor 98, 121, 127–8;
Ambigua 138, 140
McGrade, Stephen 356
Melidunenses 175
Merton College, Oxford 404, 417–8,
429, 433
Meyr-Harting, Henry 107
Michael of Cesena 388
Michael of Massa 369, 389, 391–2, 397
Michael Scotus 188, 226–7
Mill, John Stuart 351
Milverley, see William Milverley
Moody, E. 5
Moerbeke, see William of Moerbeke
Mojsisch, Burkhard 7, 235
Molina, Luis de 457
Monachus Niger (i.e. a Benedictine
monk) 393
494
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INDEX NOMINUM
Monophysites 29
Montani 175
Monte Cassino, monastery of 100, 241
Montpellier, University of 189
Moses 65, 68, 70, 73, 81, 91, 229; law of
Moses, see law, of Moses
Mu‘tazilites, Mutakallimun 33, 38, 43,
50, 59, 67, 70, 81, *480
Muhammad 25
Munich 329
Munk, Solomon 74
Murbach, monastery of 102
Muretach 102
Naples 241; University of, 241, 454
Nebrija, Antonio de 457
Nestorius, Nestorians 15, 30, *481
Netter, see Thomas Netter
New World, see America
Nicholas Aston 398, 427, 430–2; SC,
431–2
Nicholas of Autrecourt 389–90, 395,
446
Nicholas Bonet 391–2, 441; Natural
Theology, 392; and see Scotism…
Bonetists
Nicholas of Paris 271
Nicholls, Stephen 333
Nicole Oresme 386
Nominales 174–7
Norwich 394
Notker Balbulus of St Gall 105
Notker III Labeo of St Gall 97, 102–3,
109, 132; translations 103; treatises on
arts and computus, 103
Ockham (village near London) 329
Ockham, see William of Ockham
Ockhamists 381, 395, 428, 437–8, 444,
454
Odo Rigaud 194–5
Offler, H. 355, 359
Ohtrich of Magdeburg 103
Orange 86
Orbais, monastery of 111
Oresme, see Nicole Oresme
Origen 122
Orvieto 241, 272
Osbert Pockingham 427
Oxford ‘calculators’ 386, 429
Oxford, University of 180, 189, 193–4,
204, 217, 241, 271, 273, 280, 293–6,
329–30, 353, 380, 386–99, 402,
404–5, 426–8, 431, 433, 454–5; and
see Balliol College; Merton College
Padua, University of 232, 396, 406, 428,
441; Augustinian convent at 382
Palec, see Stefan Palec
Paris 104, 150, 155, 167, 173–5, 177,
189; University of 180, 189, 191, 204,
293, 368–9, 377, 381–3, 386–99,
428, 432, 454–5, 457; (individual
faculties distinguished), arts faculty
150, 153, 192–3, 218, 225, 227,
269–88, 386, 395, 428; theology
faculty 194, 227, 230–1, 233–4, 241,
269–70, 291–5, 428, 437–442
Parvipontani 174–6
Paul of Pergula 406; Logic 406; On
Composite and Divided Senses 406
Paul of Perugia 387
Paul of Venice (Paolo Nicoletti) 352,
405–6, 416, 429; Big Logic 405,
418; Little Logic 405
Penbygull, see William Penbygull
Perugia 382, 396
Peter Abelard (Abaelard, Abailard,
Abélard) 150–3, 155–66, 167, 172,
174, 176, 178, 180, 402, 410–11,
477; Collationes 155, 163, 181;
commentaries on logic 155, 158–63;
commentary on Romans 155, 181;
letters 156; poem to Astralabius 164;
Rule, 164; Scito teipsum (Ethics) 155,
163–6, 181; Sententie 155, 181;
Sermons 156, 164; Theologia (in all
versions) 155, 181
Peter d’Ailly (Pierre d’Ailly, of Ailly) 396,
405, 408–9, 411, 418, 428, 437–441;
logical textbooks 405
Peter of Alvernia 370
Peter Aureoli 89, 198–201, 301, 329,
333, 352, 377–81, 383, 386, 388–95,
397–8, 390; SC 377, 387–8, 393–4
Peter of Auvergne 273; commentary on
Politics, 283
Peter of Candia 381, 396–7, 441; SC
201, 381
Peter of Corbeil 191
495
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INDEX NOMINUM
Peter Ceffons (Pierre Ceffons) 388, 394,
398
Peter Comestor, Scholastic History 194
Peter Damian 97; Letter on Divine
Omnipotence 110, 112–3, 152
Peter John Olivi 314
Peter the Lombard 104; Sentences 178,
188, 194, 200, 354, 440, *483;
commentaries on (in general) 11, 389,
396, 460
Peter of Mantua 429
Peter of Navarre 390; SC, 389
Peter Peregrin us of Maricourt 218
Peter of Poitiers (pupil of Peter the
Lombard) 178–9
Peter of Rivo 381, 392
Peter of Spain 403; Tractatus (Summule),
484
Peter Thomae 441; Questions on Being
380; SC 389
Peter the Venerable 156
Peter of Vienna (Poitiers), Summa
177
Peter Waldo 356
Petrarch, see Francesco Petrarca
Philip Bridlington 293
Philip the Chancellor 192
Philoponus, see John Philoponus
Pierce, Charles S. 140
Pierre Roger 389
Pike, Nelson 26
Pinborg, Jan 5
Pines, Shlomo 84
Plantinga, Alvin 265
Plato 11–13, 18, 31–2, 34, 39, 66, 83,
85, 104, 172–3, 188, 256, 264, 315;
Meno 227; Phaedo 227; Republic
58–60, 172; for commentary, see
Averroes; Timaeus 24, 97, 99, 104,
106, 110, 124, 127, 154, 172–4, 179,
227; Sophist 338; for commentaries,
see Bernard of Chartres, Calcidius,
William of Conches; and see IR Idea,
Platonic, Platonism, Neoplatonism
Pliny 128
Plotinus 11, 31, 216, 480
Pockingham, see Osbert Pockingham
Poitiers 167
Ponce, John 346
Porphyry 11, 34, 480; author (?) of
Theology of Aristotle 32; Isagoge 12–14,
31, 35, 97, 100, 102, 104–5, 109, 122,
191, 152–3, 156, 159–60, 175–6;
anonymous glosses to 109; for
commentaries, see al-F&r&b(, Boethius,
John Duns Scotus, Peter Abelard,
Walter Burley; and see IR Porphyry’s
tree
Prague, University of 427, 429–30, 436
Pre-Socratics 308
Priest, S. 350
Prior, Arthur 5, 345
Priscian, Institutiones grammaticae 154,
277, 373; anonymous glosses on
(Glosule) 136, 154, 172; for
commentaries, see Radulphus Brito,
Willam of Conches
Proclus 11, 121, 235, 282, 481; Elements
of Theology 179, 227, 230, 263, 281;
for commentary, see Berthold of
Moosburg
ps-Augustine, see Ten Categories, ps-
Augustinian
ps-Cicero, To Herennius 130, 141
pseudo-Dionysius (Dionysius the
Areopagite) 121, 127–8, 142, 235,
263, 304, 311–2; for commentary on
some or all of the corpus, see Albert
the Great, John Scottus Eriugena,
William of Lucca
Ptolemy 86
Pythagoras 39
Qu’ran, see IR
Quine, W.VO. 351
Quintilian 131
Radulphus Brito 276–7, 278–9;
commentaries on Aristotle and
Priscian 277; commentary on
Boethius 277, 282; sophismata 277
Ralph Strode 406, 416, 420
Ratramnus of Corbie 97, 99, 138
Raymond Lull 442
Ravenna 17, 101
Raymond Lull 442
Recanati, F. 344
Regensburg 103
Reichenau, monastery of 102, 111
496
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INDEX NOMINUM
Reichenbach 351
Remigius of Auxerre 97, 100, 102, 142;
commentary on Consolation of
Philosophy 103, 111; commentary on
Martianus Capella 103, 111
Rheims 99, 101–2, 104, 188; Council of
Rheims (1148) 167
Richard Billingham 404, 427; Youth’s
Mirror 404, 420
Richard Brinkley 404, 416, 427, 430,
432; Summa logicae 404, 445
Richard of Bury 369
Richard Campsall (pseudo-) 430
Richard Feribrigge 410; Consequences
404; Logic 404
Richard Fishacre 189–90
Richard Fitzralph 382, 398, 433
Richard Kilvington 382, 398, 404
Richard Lavenham 404, 427
Richard of St Victor 177, 188; De
trinitate 177
Richards, I.A. 131
Rimini, see Gregory of Rimini
Ripa, see John of Ripa
Robert Alyngton 405, 446
Robert de Courçon 191
Robert Fland 404
Robert Grosseteste 189 204–20;
translation of Nicomachean Ethics 189,
226; commentary on Posterior Analytics
189, 205–7, 209–13; Hexaemeron 215;
On the Liberal Arts 215; On Lines 217,
219; On the Nature of Place 217, 219,
221; On Truth 205–6, 208, 210
Robert of Halifax 382, 398
Robert Holcot 353
Robert Kilwardby 271, 280, 288
Robert of Melun 175
Robert Stonham 405
Roger Bacon 218–21, 271, 278, 345;
The Character of the Natural Sciences
218–20; Compendium of Theology
345; On the Multiplication of Species
218–9; Opus maius 218–20; Opus
tertium 218–20; On Signs 345
Roger Marston 296–7
Roger Whelpdale 446
Rome 17, 241, 454–5, 458
Roscelin of Compiègne 152–3, 155
Rubione, see William of Rubione
Russell, Bertrand 5, 124, 332, 336–8,
351, 476; ‘On Denoting’ 144; History
of Western Philosophy 242; Principia
Mathematica 242, 336, 421
Saadiah ben Joseph Gaon 67–71, 81, 85;
Book of Doctrines and Beliefs 67–71;
Commentary on Book of Creation 67
St Amand, monastery of 99
St Denis, monastery of 101, 155
St Gall, monastery of 100, 136
St Gildas, monastery of 155
St Vaast, monastery of 100
St Victor, school of, (Victorines) 189, 429
Salamanca, University of 454–5, 458
Salerno, University of 188–9
Salutati, see Coluccio Salutati
Saussure, Fernand 125, 139, 341; Cours
de linguistique, 129
Schopenhauer, A. 461
Scotists, Scotist School 369, 377, 397,
428, 437, 441–2, 447, 454; divided
into Bonetists, Meyronnists and pure
Scotists 389
Scotus, see John Duns Scotus, Michael
Scotus, John Scottus Eriugena
Segovia 458
Seneca 282; Letters 192; Natural
Questions 134
Sens, Council of (1140) 156; (1210),
191
Sharp, see John Sharp
Shir&z 39
Siger of Brabant 23, 270, 272–3, 278–81,
286–7; commentary on Book about
Causes 273; commentary on
Metaphysics 273, 286
Simon of Authie 191
Simon of Faversham 273, 282
Simplicius 25
Smiley, Timothy 358
Sober, E. 351
Society of Jesus (Jesuits) 456–8
Socrates 18, 34, 39, 242
Soissons, Council of (1121) 155–6
Southern, Richard 104
Spade, Paul Vincent 332, 334–5, 340,
342
Spinoza, Benedict 461
Stanislas of Znaim 436–7
497
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INDEX NOMINUM
Starobinski, A. 341
Steenberghen, Fernand van 9
Stefan Palec 437
Stephen Brulefer 441
Stephen of Provins 191
Stephen Tempier (Etienne Tempier)
269–70, 278, 280–1, 286, 291–2,
298, 303
Stoics 14, 129, 282
Stonham, see Robert Stonham
Strasbourg, see Thomas of Strasbourg
Strode, see Ralph Strode
Stump, Eleanor 332
Suárez, Francisco 455–71; De anima 458;
Disputationes metaphysicae 458–71,
De gratia 458; De incarnatione Verbi
458; De legibus 458
Symmachus 17, 101
Tachau, Katherine 393–5
Talmud 65, 67–8, 79, 81–2, 86, 90, 92
Tarski, A. 352
Tarteys, see John Tarteys
Tempier, see Stephen Tempier
Ten Categories, pseudo-Augustinian 97,
99–100, 108–9, 121, 127, 132, 137,
142; anonymous glosses to 100, 109
Terence 101
Teresa (St) of Avila 457
Themistius 14, 78, 85
Themo the Jew 437
Theo of Smyrna, Exposition 137–8
Theodulf of Orleans 108; and see Libri
Carolini
Theology of Aristotle 32, 41
Thierry of Chartres (Thierry Brito) 104,
151, 173–4, 180; commentaries on
Boethius’ Theological Treatises closely
linked with, 173
Thomas Aquinas (St Thomas) 3–4, 8,
77, 156, 195, 199, 218, 225, 228,
230–1, 234, 241–62, 270, 271, 273,
279–80, 286–7, 291–2, 296, 303,
321, 331, 340, 343, 348, 357, 368,
380–1, 388, 429, 436, 438, 440, 443,
459, 461, 467–8, 484; commentary
on On Interpretation 255; commentary
on Physics 264; commentary on Politics
273; De ente et essentia 460; On Evil
253–4, 265; lecture on Corinthians
259; On Power 254, 265; Summa
contra Gentiles 243–4, 248, 264–5,
440, 443, 453; Summa Theologiae
22–3, 92, 242–62, 443; On Truth 26,
263–5, 446; De unitate intellects 460;
and see Thomists
Thomas Bradwardine 383, 398, 417–8,
432; De causa Dei 354, 391, 430–1;
Insolubles 404
Thomas Buckingham 382, 398, 430; On
the Contingency of the Future 354
Thomas Claxton 427; Quodlibet 444; SC
444
Thomas of Erfurt, Novi modi significandi
277
Thomas Manlevelt (Mauvelt) 404
Thomas Netter 427
Thomas of Strasbourg 369, 387, 390,
394; SC 389
Thomas of Wales 388
Thomas Waleys 396
Thomas Wilton 369, 387, 392, 394
Thomists 124, 329, 427–8, 440, 442,
454, *484
Toledo 179, 188, 226–7
Toletus, Francisco 457
Torah, see IR Torah
Torre, B. de la 354
Tournai 291
Tov, Shem 92
Trent, Council of (1545–63) 454
Trier 107
Trubetzkoy, Nikolai 125
Ulrich of Strasbourg 233; On the Highest
Good 233
Urso of Calabria 189
Utrecht 103
Valla, see Lorenzo Valla
Valladolid 458
Van Steenberghen, see Steenberghen,
F.van
Vázquez, Gabriel 457
Vico, Giambattista 461
Victorines, see Andrew of St Victor,
Hugh of St Victor, Richard of St
Victor
Vienna, University of 405, 430, 437
Virgil 101, 127
498
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INDEX NOMINUM
Vitoria, Francisco de 457–8
Vives, Juan Luis 457
Walafrid Strabo 102–3, 106
Walter Burley 340–1, 369–77, 382, 387,
386–8, 396, 403, 406–8, 410, 412–7,
436; Commentary on Categories 375;
commentaries on On Interpretation
370–1; commentary on logica vetus
374; commentary on Nicomachean
Ethics 369; commentary on Politics
370; SC 369; exposition of Physics
369, 377; First Treatise 369; On the
Purity of the Art of Logic 369, 373;
Treatise on Forms 369; Treatise on
Supposition 370
Walter Chatton 330, 346, 348–9, 359,
372, 381, 383, 391, 393–4, 410; SC,
380, 394, 396, 399
Ware, see William Ware
Whelpdale, see Roger Whelpdale
William of Alnwick 295, 388, 396
William of Auvergne 204–19; On the
Soul 208–9, 213; On the Universe
205–8, 210–5
William of Auxerre 191, 194, 198, 200;
Summa aurea, 446
William of Champeaux 151, 153–4,
155–6, 177; Introduction (to logic)
153; Sentences 154
William of Conches 15, 151, 172–3,
180; commentaries on Boethius,
Macrobius and Priscian 172;
commentary on Timaeus 172–3;
Dragmaticon 173 De philosophia
mundi 173
William Crathorn 353, 411
William of Heytesbury 382, 398, 404,
406, 411, 418
William of Lucca, commentary on
pseudo-Dionysius 174; Summa
dialetice artis 174–5
William de la Mare 380
William Milverley 446
William of Moerbeke 226–7, 230
William of Ockham 7, 156, 201, 329–58,
369–77, 382–3, 386, 388, 391, 393,
395–6, 403, 406–7, 408–10, 412–20,
454, 461, 475, 483; commentary on
Categories 376; commentary on On
Interpretation 372, 408; I Dialogus
331; III Dialogus 332, 356; Discourse
on Tyrannical Government 356;
Expositio aurea (of Aristotle’s logic)
330; exposition of Physics Letter to
the Franciscans 331; On Royal and
Papal Power 361; SC, 330–1, 393–4,
396, 408; Summa logicae 330, 370,
373, 375–6, 386, 408, 412–20, 445,
454, 461, 475, 483; Work of Ninety
Days 331, 356; and see Ockhamists
William Penbygull 446
William Peter Godinus 294
William of Rubione 389; SC, 389, 392,
394–5
William of St Thierry 177
William of Sherwood 403
William Ware 405
Wilton, see Thomas Wilton
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, Philosophical
Investigations 350, 360; Tractatus
358
Wodeham, see Adam Wodeham
WolfF, Christian 461
Wolfson, H.A. 51
Wood, Rega 331
Wright, Crispin 347
Würzburg 103
Wyclif, see John Wyclif
Wyclifites 429
Zoroaster 46
Zwiefalten, monastery of 104
499
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Index Rerum
abegescheidenheit, see detachment
absolute power, see God, power of
absolute/connotative term 352, 372, 403,
406, 418–20, *475
abstraction 162, 277, 287–8, 296, 301,
304–6, 309, 321, 335, 341, 344, 436,
463, 467; and see cognition,
abstractive
Acacian schism 15, 17
accident 58, 109, 131, 137, 153,
159–62, 168, 170, 205–6, 261, 271,
283, 297, 299, 302, 317, 375, 418,
463, 465, *475, 476, 478, 480, 482
act (and potency) 41, 53, 57, 132, 169,
171, 245, 249–50, 258, 302, 316,
318, *475
action 34, 38, 57, 69, 81, 91, 123, 154,
157, 164–6, 252–6, 261, 341, 349,
353, 390, 409, 416, 432, 435; acting
under a description 165; political
action, 356; reluctant action 165; and
see God, action of
allegory 55–6, 66, 81, 128, 172, 229
ampliation, see supposition, ampliation
analogy 52, 126–7, 144, 190, 193, 200,
276, 297–9, 301–10, 313, 320–1,
344, 379–80, 434–5, 461, *475–6
analytical proposition/statement, see
proposition, analytical
angel 65, 71, 76, 129–30, 206, 229, 248,
250–1, 284, 296
annihilation 250, 279–80
anthropomorphism 69–70, 79, 82, 85
anti-realism/realism 347, 352–3; see also
entries under ‘universals’
appellation 135, 422
arguments for existence of God 122–3,
177, 301, 322; arguments from
motion (in general) 245, 296; from
motion of the heavens 53, 83, 90–1;
ontological arguments 123, 134, 296;
from reality of time 246; from
considering whether ‘God does not
exist’ is self-contradictory 244, 431–2;
all arguments for God’s existence
rejected 433
Arianism 17
Aristotelianism 30, 41, 54, 66, 236, 292,
296, 429
arts, faculties of (in general) 189, 269;
see also IN Paris, University of, arts
faculty; liberal arts 103, 120, 151,
189, 460, *480
authority, Aristotle as supreme human
230; of the Church 349; infallible
346, 349; papal 331, 356; state 357;
textual 134 356–7; truths which are
to be accepted on 78
Averroism, among Christians 51, 193,
232, 279, 281, 443; among Jews 51
‘Avicennizing Augustinism’ 296
beatific vision see vision, beatific
being 40, 126, 205–6, 230, 234, 247,
277, 283, 298–322, 359, 368,
379–80, 393, 433–5, 442, 463–71;
and becoming 53; being qua being
36, 463, 468, 480; conceptional
being 233; concrete being 436;
equality of being 174; esse
essentiae 322; first contingent
being 432; levels of being 41, 75,
129, 251, 259, 281–2, 289;
modus essendi (mode of being, but
not an intrinsic mode) 274–5, 278,
287–8; and see God, being of;
necessity, necessary being
belief 91, 262, 411; rational belief and
existence of God 243–4
500
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INDEX RERUM
Bible 66, 70, 73, 92, 177, 189–90,
195–201, 270, 286, 349–50, 356–7,
403, 435; different senses of 801,
87–8, 139; interpretation of 79–80,
99, 104–5, 111, 126, 131, 154, 194;
and see Torah
body, bodies (in general) 9, 71, 75, 80,
90, 129, 171, 173, 216, 247, 251,
258–60; celestial 87–8; human 168,
228, 256–61, 280
Byzantine philosophy, 9
cassatio (cancelling) 416; and see
insolubles
categorematic terms, categoremata 410,
*476; and see syncategorematic terms
categories, ten (Aristotelian) 32, 36, 106,
125, 127, 131, 141, 170, 233, 314–15,
332, 333–6, 379, 410, 463, 467,
*476, 480; and God 16, 69, 106–7,
121, 302–3; modes of category 276
cause (and effect) 32, 34, 42, 53, 57, 75,
91, 112, 126, 133, 141, 169, 179,
191, 200, 212, 217–19, 232–3, 243,
245–6, 250, 252–6, 281–2, 284–8,
297–9, 301, 304, 308, 310, 312–3,
319, 329, 340, 349, 394, 407, 432,
434–5, 441, 445, 462–3, *476–7; and
determinism 21–2, 255, 354;
primordial causes 121, 129, 137
certainty 72, 193, 195–7, 209, 212–3,
218, 308–10, 313–4, 350, 353, 393,
395, 439, 462, 479
change (motus), see motion
christology 15–16, 167
cognition, abstractive 333, 393–5;
intuitive 331, 333, 353, 357, 393–5,
419, *480
command 254; God’s commands 65–6,
70–1, 81, 90–2; divine command
ethics 357
complexly significable (complexe
significabile) 382, 395–6, 405, 411,
413, *477, 482, 485; and see dictum
conceivability 274; of God 17, 38, 42
concept 275, 278, 283, 287, 299–303,
305–16, 318–22, 334, 340–2, 368,
371–5, 377–80, 382, 408, 413, 419,
433–7, 441; formal concept, 465
conceptualism, see universals,
conceptualism
condemnations, of 1270 (Paris) 269; of
1277 (Paris) 193, 269–70, 271, 278,
281, 291–2, 298, 303, 368, 453; of
Eckhart, 234; of Jan Hus and Jerome
of Prague 430; of John of Ripa 441; of
Louis of Padua 441; of Peter Abelard
156; of Thomas Aquinas 241, 270
condition (habitus) 125, 137, 196–7,
199, 201, 317
conditional 14, 156–7, 175–7, 284; use
in natural science 212; subjunctive
conditionals 336, 350
connotation (as contrasted with
denotation) 127–8, 139, *477; and see
absolute/connotative term
conscience 166, 330
consent 165–6
consequence, notion of 75, 332, 402,
417, 431; and see conditionals
consequential *477; and see conditionals
contingency 20, 42, 254–5, 297, 382,
411, 420, 431–2, 442; future
contingents 86, 88–9, 354–5, 368,
380–1, 390–3, 395, 397
copula 36, 154, 157, 359, *477, 482
corruption see generation and corruption
councils, Church, see IN Chalcedon,
Constance, Lyons, Rheims, Sens,
Soissons, Trent
creation, creature 56–7, 68, 84, 121,
126, 130, 173, 177, 190, 192, 204,
208, 229, 235, 248–9, 251, 270, 278,
283, 285, 287, 292, 296–7, 300–16,
318–22, 378, 391, 395, 411, 434,
440, 455; ex nihilo 71–2, 122; that
which is uncreated, 235
de dicto/de re, see modality, de dicto/de re
death, see mortality/immortality
deconstruction 128, 136, 269, 333
definition 282, 436; difference by 163
demons 213–14
demonstration 55, 89, 208–9, 216, 219,
228, 244, 261–2, 281, 296, 436, 439,
467, 476, *477, 484; premises as non-
demonstrable 52, 244
denomination 123, 132, 168, 418, 475,
501
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INDEX RERUM
*477, 481; real extrinsic denomination
469–71
denotation, see connotation; reference
descriptions, definite 339
designator, rigid 182
desire 91, 286–7, 303; bodily desires 78
detachment (abegescheidenheit) 235
determinism 83, 88–9, 253, 353, 381,
392, 458; the knowledge brings
determinism argument 20–2
dialectic *478; dialectical reasoning 52
dictum (plural: dicta) 157–8, 163–4, 172,
382, 410, 482; and see complexly
significable
differentia (plural: differentiae; difference,
specific difference) 109, 126, 160–3,
168–9, 207, 310, 316–9, 475, 478,
481
distinction, essential 445–6; formal
distinction 207, 317, 318, 320, 435,
441, 445–7, *478; and see formalities,
haecceity; real distinction 445–6; and
see modality, modal distinction
dividual 169–71; and see individual
dualism, Cartesian 257
world denied 32–3, 45, 89, 231, 296;
eternity of world upheld 24, 35, 57,
181, 193
etymology 129–30, 132
evidence 195–6, 208, 212, 439, 462;
self-evidence 124, 134, 193, 232,
296; self-evident principles 195,
208–9
evil 112, 154–5, 163–4, 215
exegesis, biblical, see Bible, interpretation
of
existence 16–17, 32–3, 42, 81, 89, 130,
133, 154, 211, 234, 277, 283–4, 393,
395; = wojud 33, 43; arguments for
God’s existence, see God, existence;
distinction from essence, see essence,
distinguished from existence; and see
being; copula; essence; substance
experience 212–4, 219–20, 233, 244–5,
340, 346, 349, 353, 393
experientia, experimentum, see experience;
experimental method
experimental method 212–5, 219–20,
351
explanation 250; levels of 245
elements, four (fire, air, earth, water)
71–2, 89, 127, 173
emanation 35, 38, 42, 53, 71–3, 75,
173, 231, 281, *478
emotion 82
entailment see consequence
equivocation, equivocal 52, 109, 124–5,
132, 208, 277–8, 298–9, 313, 320,
339, 379, 408, 414, *478
essence (essentia) 15, 41–2, 58, 71, 81,
89, 121, 153, 205–7, 276, 283–4,
287, 298, 328, 339, 436, *478, 482;
distinguished from existence 43, 250,
476; distinction from existence
rejected 57, 296; ontology of essence
206–7; and see being; distinction,
essential; existence; nature, essential;
property, essential; substance
eternity 12, 113, 122, 126, 210, 279,
281, 434; eternal present 22–4;
eternal wisdom 40, 46; eternity of
world debated 68, 81, 83–4, 87–8,
192, 221, 228, 283–6; eternity of
fact, see reason, reasoned fact; state of
affairs
faith, articles of 194–201, 228, 261, 286,
296, 432, 452, 459; Judaism and
articles of faith 66, 78; object of faith
262; virtue of faith 261–2; implicit
faith, 154; and see revelation
fallacies, study of 270, 402, 416–7, 483;
and see IN Aristotle, On Sophistical
Refutations
fate 19, 23
fear, of God 90, 92
fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) 37, 49,
55
First Mover, see Mover, First
five ways (five arguments for existence
of God in Aquinas Summa Theologiae,
I, q.2, a.3), 244–7
form 53, 74–5, 86, 131, 133, 233, 235,
278, 317–8, 437, *478, 479–80; =
accident or differentia, 160, 168;
combination of forms 43; composite
or not 16, 228; corporeal/sensory
502
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INDEX RERUM
forms 53, 216, 231, 280–1;
Hjemslevian notion of form 125;
inherent forms 206; intelligible forms
38, 42, 208, 231; and see intellect;
form and matter 16, 42, 52, 57, 75,
154, 170, 173–4, 228, 232, 379–80;
first form and first matter 65, 71–2,
89; ontology of forms 41, 435, 441;
whole form 169–71; primary forms
distinguished from secondary forms
154, 173; pure forms, 89, 174;
substantial form, unity/plurality of
256–7, 279–80, 292; and see
concept, formal; Idea, Platonic
formalities (formalitates) 217, 441,
447, 478; ‘formalizantes’ 441; and
see distinction, formal; haecceity
free will, see will, free will
freedom, human 19–23, 71, 123, 253–6,
262, 357, 392, 461; of speech 56;
universal freedom 442; and see God,
freedom of,
functions 336, 338, 344
future contingent, see contingency, future
contingent
generation and corruption 72, 279, 281,
284
genus (and species) 109, 126, 153,
159–60, 169–70, 206–7, 248, 297,
310, 314–20, 322, 352, 413, 434,
436, *478–9, 481, 484; and see species
God, action of 81, 83, 173; identified
with Agent/active Intellect 231, 278;
arguments for existence of, see
arguments for existence of God;
attributes of 57, 69, 81, 89, 91, 122,
208, 292, 298, 313; attributes are
identical to essence of 69–70, 247–8,
313; attributes are distinct from
essence, of 441; predicating attributes
of 58, 125, 311, 313; being of
297–316, 318–22, 378; belief in
existence of 80; as creator 57, 69–72,
121–2, 126, 190, 193, 206, 216, 228,
231, 233, 235, 249, 251–6, 279, 286,
391, 395, 435, 441, 455; beatific
vision of, see vision, beatific; Christ
cannot be proved to be God 261;
‘created Glory of’ 69–70; essence of
133, 304, 435, 437; as the essence the
activity of which is thought 53;
essence and existence not distinguished
in 43, 250–1; eternity (timelessness) of
30, 200, 205, 210–11, 229, 354, 380;
etymology of 129; as form of forms
173–4; God of the Bible 65; God of
the Philosophers 52; goodness of 163,
208, 247, 305; immutability of 249,
252–3; incorporeality of 69, 71,
79–80, 82, 88; infinitude of 90–1,
301, 308, 311–2, 316, 319, 355, 378;
intellect/mind of 19, 22, 53, 82–3,
133, 135, 174, 210, 228–9, 233–5,
311; and see Idea, Platonic; joy of 89;
justice of 67; ‘adl, 70; God’s
knowledge, 57–8, 70, 87, 112, 122,
251; God’s knowledge is only of himself
193; knowledge of individuals, 58; life
of 58, 69, 261; omniscience/
prescience/providence of 19–24, 56,
122–3, 154, 247, 355, 368, 380–1,
390–2, 398, 435; names of 127, 130;
perfection of 71, 82, 89, 91, 122–3,
243, 247, 305, 311–3; maximal
perfection of 432; plurality of persons in
197; power of 58, 69, 72, 91, 208,
247, 355, 391; absolute power of 38,
331, 355; omnipotence of 79, 91,
112–3, 122, 163, 171, 178–9;
predestination of 20, 120, 126, 159,
398; prescience of see
omniscience...of; providence of, see
omniscience…of; simplicity of 307,
315, 318, 331, 442; triunity of see
Trinity, doctrine of the; unity of 32,
38, 42, 56, 58, 67, 69–70, 80–1, 89,
200, 331; as uncreated 249; will of 33,
58, 65, 70, 72, 75, 91, 126, 178, 193,
253, 255, 260, 285, 311, 355, 390–1;
freedom of will of 5, 252, 432;
wisdom of 69, 75, 305, 311–2; Word
of 126, 129, 135, 142, 200, 205, 234,
431, 440; word and action of (Amr
Ilahi) 76; and see anthropomorphism;
conceivability; knowledge, human
knowledge of God; law, God’s;
Trinity, doctrine of
goodness 12, 16–17, 68, 126, 130, 133,
163, 178, 243, 247, 255, 304–7,
503
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INDEX RERUM
312, 467–71, 485; common good
60, 172, 357; the good 38, 70, 91,
433–4; the highest good 18–19, 155,
282; substantial goods 16–17
grace 112, 123, 142, 229, 461
grammar, speculative, see speculative
grammar
grunt, see soul, basis/spark of
habitus, see condition (habitus)
haecceity 436, 478; and see formal
distinction, formalities
happiness 18–19, 92; of the city 38; not
possible for common people 56; of
heaven 44, 112, 283; and see vision,
beatific; to be had in this life not
another, 193; philosophers’ happiness
55–6, 60, 231–2, 281–3
h.aq(qah, see truth
heresy 78, 156, 167, 348–9
holism 341
homonymy, see equivocation
human beings, nature of 256–61
humanism 9, 150–1, 427, 429, 456, 461
huwiyya (substance, existence) 33, 43;
and see existence; substance
hylomorphism *479; and see form,
form and matter
Idea, Platonic (i.e. a form considered to
be independent of anything of which
it is the form, either belonging to a
world of Ideas, or existing in the mind
of God) 59, 121, 126–7, 133, 172–4,
182, 204–6, 228–9, 233, 249, 276,
296–7, 312, 322, 434–7, 478, *479
idealism 121, 233–4
identity 337–8, 343–4; and see intention,
intentional identity
ijm&‘(consensus) 55
illumination, knowledge by 197–8, 205,
208, 228–9, 296–7, 322, *479
image 82, 84, 162, 190, 248, 261
imagination 38, 54, 84, 249, 335, 406
Immaculate Conception 440
immortality, see mortality/immortality
implication 175, 332; strict implication
157
implicit faith, see faith, implicit
imposition 162, 275–6, 371, 433, 438
impression, on the mind 300; on the
senses 340; and see perception, sense-
perception
incarnation 122, 130, 199–200, 261,
349–50, 412, 461
indexicals 336, 344–5, 420, *479
individual (particular) 43, 58, 75, 131,
135, 137, 153, 159–63, 168, 170,
174, 207, 257, 271, 277, 283, 288,
304–5, 333, 340, 342–3, 345, 351,
373–4, 380, 382, 433, 435–6, 466,
480, 484; distinguished from singular
169–71; and see dividual,
individualism; individuation; singular
individualism 356–7
individuation 75, 167, 248–9, 279–80,
294, 306, 336, 342, 345, 352,
371
induction 213
infinity 24, 32, 57, 69, 75–6, 90–1, 170,
228, 245–6, 254, 281–2, 316–8, 397,
435
insolubles (insolubilia) 332, 402–3,
416–8, 432, *479; and see paradoxes
instants 89
instinct 254
intellect 41–2, 310, *479; acquired
intellect 54; adopted intellect, 232;
God’s, see God, intellect/mind of; =
grasp of truth without argument (i.e.
nous as in Nicomachean Ethics)
209; human (i.e. not separate from
individual humans), (in general) 34,
38, 42, 44, 68, 78, 176, 193, 205–7,
228–9, 233–5, 258–61, 275, 280,
282, 296, 313, 371, 433–4, 436,
447, 471; human active/agent
intellect 82–3, 231–2, 235, 278; first
object of human intellect 297, 301,
307, 314; divinization of human
intellect 232–5; human potential
intellect (possible intellect, intellectus
possibilis) 38, 44, 54, 231–2, 235,
278; modus intelligendi 274–5,
277–8, 288; separate, (in general)
53, 71–6, 278–9, 281; separate
agent intellect 38, 44, 54, 89, 208,
231–2, 278–9; separate potential/
material intellect (possible intellect,
intellectus possibilis) 54, 231; and
see Intelligences, celestial
504
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INDEX RERUM
intelligence 129, 229
Intelligences, celestial 38, 42–4, 49, 84,
231, 278, 284, *479
intension and remission 274, 317–19,
*480
intention, authorial 440; (in analysis of
thought and action) 76, 154, 299,
355–6; (in ethics) 164, 166;
intentional identity 335, 343; primary
and secondary intentions 287–90,
319–20, 348, 372, *480
jih&d, see war, holy
justification, epistemic, see warrant
kabbala 66, 86, 92–3
kal&m 38–9, *480; among Jews 66,
66–71
kinds, see natural kinds
knowledge 34, 152, 227, 261–2, 309,
345, 371, 411, 439, 462, 478;
axiomatized 270; of being 75; relation
to bodily things 258–9; criteria for
knowledge 204, 206, 212, 281–2,
332, 340; and God’s thought 53, 69;
human knowledge of God 82, 172,
177, 233, 282, 284–5, 297–8, 303–16,
318–22; contrasted with a good
guess 20; infused 213; of intelligible
things 91–2; potential, actualized by
Agent Intellect 54; scientific, see
science; and the soul 278; theoretical
231–2, 235, 281–2
language, ideal 409; logical 335; mental
131, 334–7, 340–3, 403, 405, 406–9,
413, 418–9; social view of 335;
natural/conventional properties of
406, 418; vernacular languages and
philosophy 1, 85, 90, 102–3, 106,
234, 355; and see metaphor;
polysemy; semantics; translation
law 357; God’s 92, 112, 166; Islamic,
see fiqh; of nations (ius gentium)
458; moral law 70; natural law 68,
83, 152, 166, 229, 357
liar paradox, see paradox, of the liar
liberal arts, see arts, liberal
life 126, 257–8
light 73–4, 130, 216–7, 219, 345;
metaphysics of, 72, 216; ‘middle
light’ 198
likeness, see similarity
logic, relation to Christian doctrine 11,
106, 110, 124, 190, 348; epistemic
404; medieval logic and its relation
to modern logic 5, 9, 333–53;
paraconsistent and deviant logic
350–1; and see language, logical
logica modernorum 176, 476
logica nova 176, 179, 191, 270, 402
logica vetus 179, 191, 270
love, of God 53, 90–2, 303; of Ideas
(=God) 437
macrocosm, see microcosm and
macrocosm
magic 214–15, 220–1
m&shiyyah, see quiddity
manuscripts (in general) 4, 7, 97–108;
marginalia in 13
manuscripts (individual, listed by library),
Berlin, Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Diez
B.Sant. 66:98, Cambridge, St John’s
College, 100:370, Laon, Bibliothèque
Municipale 444:102; 464:102;
468:102, Leiden, Voss. Lat. Q 79:101,
Lyons, Bibliothèque municipale
324:98, Munich, Bayerische
Staatsbibliothek, clm 6403: 100,
Oxford, Oriel College, 15:444, Paris,
Bibliothèque Nationale, lat. 2164:
97–9; 6370:100; 6441:380;
7099:101; 12958:100; 13955:100;
16535:445, Rome, Casa dei Padri
Maristi, A.II.1:97, 99, 106, St Gall,
Stiftsbibliothek 878:102, Vatican,
Biblioteca Apostolica, lat. 4949:101,
Vienna, Österreichische National-
bibliothek, 1439:391, Worcester,
Cathedral Library, F 65:444
matter 42, 68, 71, 216, 226, 248,
250–1, 256–7, 260, 280–1, 304,
306, 308, 339, 436, 463, 478;
intelligibility and incorporeality of
72; prime matter/First Matter 35,
52, 71; and see form, and matter
meaning 128, 152, 339, 347, 360, 439,
483; and see semantics; signification
memory 212, 333–5
505
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INDEX RERUM
mendicant orders 292; privileges of
387, 397; and see IN Augustinian
Hermits; Carmelites; Dominicans;
Franciscans
mereology, see part and whole
merit 71, 164, 461
metaphor 124–5, 130–1, 135–6, 276,
350, 359, 412
metaphysics 16, 192, 457, *480;
‘metaphysics of Exodus’ 449;
mentalistic 461–8; relation to other
disciplines 40, 285, 442; subject of
463–5; subject of is being 230, 299
microcosm/macrocosm 37, 75, 126,
*480
mind, see intellect; language, mental;
reason; soul
miracles 52, 70, 83, 91, 214, 220, 252–3,
333, 349
modality 123, 152, 157–9, 336, 347,
408, 414, 420; distinction between
modality de dicta and de re 158,
178–9, 477; modal distinction 317,
320; and see necessity; possibility
mode 274–8, 288–9, 403; meaning esse
aliqualiter (being somehow) 411;
intrinsic mode 317–20, 378, *411;
and see being, modus essendi; intellect,
modus intelligendi; signification,
modus significandi
monopsychism 49, 231, 279, 281
mortality/immortality 54, 70, 79, 84, 87,
89, 193, 228–9, 231, 259–61, 270,
279–81, 286
motion (change) 57, 90, 245–6, 249,
252–4, 257, 271, 283, 375–7, 380,
383, 475
Mover, First (or first cause) 42, 53, 57,
191, 245, 256, 282, 284–6
multiplication of species, see species,
multiplication of
mysticism 188, 234
names, logically proper names 344;
Ockham and 337–45, 372–3
nature 15–16, 29, 43, 75, 82, 125–7,
132, 137, 167–71, 179, 209, 216–7,
243, 248, 250–1, 256, 258–60, 265,
274, 282–3, 286, 298, 303–4, 310,
318, 320, 340–2, 346, 357, 418, 436;
common nature 276–7, 306, 373,
434; essential nature 212–3;
naturalistic explanation 173; natural
kinds 159, 161–2, 435, 484 law of
nature, see law, natural
necessity 20–3, 57, 132, 176–7, 195,
209, 211, 254–5, 283–4, 297, 346–7,
349, 382, 390–1, 411, 436, 440–1,
481; necessary being 42, 81, 122,
246, 250, 331, 346, 411, 432, 444;
necessary cause 432; necessity of
coercion 256; conditional/simple
necessity 20–3; of the
consequent/consequence 22, 391;
‘contingent necessity’ 337; and
demonstration 52; of present 21
negation (as distinct from privation)
468–9
negative theology 69–70, 81–2, 91, 121,
131, 234, 247–8, 296, 298, 303, 312
Neoplatonism 1–2, 11–13, 19, 24, 31–5,
39, 50, 53, 56, 66, 71–6, 86, 93, 121,
163, 205, 208, 210, 216–7, 227, 230,
236, 432, *480; pagan 23–5, 46; and
see Platonism; IN Plato; Porphyry;
Proclus
neoscholasticism 428, 443
nobility 235, 283
nominalism see unversals, nominalism
obligation 91, 205, 332
obligations (obligationes) 177, 332, 403,
433, *481
Ockham’s razor, see parsimony,
principle of
opaque contexts 411, *481
operators, sentence-forming 336
opinion (contrasted with knowledge)
195, 200
opposites 125–6, 311; and see square of
opposition
organ, bodily 259, 261
pain 163, 274, 277
paradox 175–7, 416; of the liar 405,
408 416, 419; and see insolubles
parsimony, principle of 343, 345–51,
357
part and whole 125–6, 130, 208, 339
particular, see individual
506
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INDEX RERUM
passions, subjugation of 34–5
perception 13, 152, 198, 208, 220, 244,
259, 333; sense-perception 129, 135,
213, 228–9, 244, 248–9, 260–1,
279, 287–8, 340, 395, 476
perfection 282–3, 301, 304, 306–7,
310–2, 316–20; degrees of 246–7;
and see God, perfection of
perspectivism 330, 345
philosophy, medieval views of ancient
155, 172; is Aquinas a philosopher?
242–3; medieval philosophy and
analytic philosophy 5–7, 9, 124,
333–53; historiography of medieval
philosophy 2–7, 186, 262; personified
in Boethius’ Consolation 18–19;
thirteenth-century conception of
282–3; transcription of word into
arabic 32
physics, non-Aristotelian 86, 90
place 35, 76, 90–1, 109, 126, 133, 141,
171, 252, 272, 274, 336, 379, 436
Platonism 7, 34, 38, 110–1, 124, 135,
143–4, 345, 436, 454; and see
Neoplatonism; IN Plato
pleasure 72
poetry, attitudes to 52, 59; philosophy
and 151
polysemy 125, 128–32, 135, 139–40
possibility (and impossibility) 123, 132,
154, 175–6, 255, 347, 392, 413,
431, 475, 477; actualization of
possibles/non-actualized possibles 38,
43, 58, 471, 484; logical possibility
(contrasted with physical possibility)
113, 336; synchronous alternative
possibilities 21, 58, 113, 158, 171,
354; possible worlds 21, 182, 336
potency, potentiality 158, 316, 318;
created things are potential (i.e. none
exists necessarily) 249; ‘substantive
potentiality’ 53; and see act (and
potency)
predestination, see God, predestination of
predicables 32, 36, 125, 314, 375,
*481–2
predication 168, 175, 206–7, 271, 344,
477, *482; predicate calculus 336,
339, 344, 347; essential predication
436; existence not a predicate 123;
extension of predication 132;
incompleteness of predicates 339, 353;
indexical predication 345; two-name
theory of 334–45, 350, 353; and see
copula; proposition, asymmetry of
subject and predicate in
privation 163, 378, 468–9
prohibition, divine 65–6, 71, 166, 254
prohibitions on studying authors/
doctrines/books, of Aristotle (Paris)
191–2; of nominalism 437; of
Ockham (Paris) 428, 437–9
property 109, 133–5, 153, 159, 248,
250, 271, 274, 337, 345, 462–3,
467–8, 475, 482; collected property
169; essential property 280, 310
prophecy 33, 38–41, 43–4, 65, 70, 73–6,
81, 87–8, 391, 428
proposition (propositio, statement) 36,
41, 207, 209–12, 262, 284–5, 333,
343, 346, 351, 371–2, 382, 408, 421,
431, 433, *482, 483; analysis of
propositions 280; analytical
propositions 277, 284; asymmetry of
subject and predicate in 337–45;
composite and divided senses of
178–9, 391, *477; exposition of 41–2,
*478; propositional functions 347;
future contingent propositions, see
contingency, future contingents;
hypothetical (molecular) 41, *479;
impersonal 157; of indefinite truth-
value 381, 390–2; mental 409;
modern view of 158, 404, 410; and
see dictum; complexly significable;
perpetuity of 210; proofs of 402,
404, 406, 420; proper and improper
senses of 38; and see signification, of
propositions
providence, see God, providence of
Qu’ran 29, 38, 44
quaestio-form 192, 194, 200, 292, 370,
455, 460, *482
quality 131, 332, 374–5, 476
quantification 108, 336–7, 339–40, 345,
348, 351, 415; into opaque contexts
335
quantity 375–6, 476
507
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INDEX RERUM
quiddity (whatness) 70, 249, 287, 316,
446–7, *482; formal 436; mahiyyah
43
quintessence 71
quo ests and quod ests 168–71
Razor, Ockham’s, see parsimony,
principle of
reason 22, 34, 38, 68, 71, 75, 85, 88, 124,
128, 132, 134–5, 208–9, 243, 246,
253–4, 258, 260–2, 280, 282, 285–6,
346–7, 349; reasoned fact (propter
quid) 216–17; and moral law 67, 70;
seminal reasons 121, 126, 434–5
reductionism 335, 348, 351–3
reference 127, 132, 153, 161–2, 206–7,
210–1, 276, 335, 337–45, 355, 377,
412–4, 484; distinguished from sense
124, 135, 139; self-reference 332, 416
Reformation (and Counter-Reformation)
454, 456, 458, 461
reincarnation 24, 35, 286
relation 125–6, 133, 137, 153, 159–61,
176, 204, 211, 235, 251, 254, 271,
275–7, 299, 309, 314, 318, 339, 341,
351–5, 374–5, 465, 469–71, 476
religion, considered in a political
perspective only 59–60; revealed; see
revelation, relation to philosophy
responsibility, moral 193
resurrection (of dead generally) 45, 79,
86, 260–1, 280
revelation, relation to philosophy 2,
33–40, 44–6, 49–52, 55, 70–2, 76,
81, 166, 190, 193, 195, 262, 281,
283, 285–7, 297
reward 79, 91–2
rights 357, 453
scepticism 309, 395
science (scientific knowledge) 199–201,
209, 211–2, 271, 275, 283–5, 288,
336, 372–3, 463, *483, 484; in
relation to religion 78, 85, 88, 90,
191, 286–7, 382, 432
self-evidence, see evidence, self-evidence
semantics 108–9, 122, 124–5, 128–36,
153–4, 156, 177, 180, 206–8, 211,
276, 335, 337–46, 349, 351–2,
402–3, 406–16, 430, 433, *483
sense (Sinn) 335; and see reference,
distinguished from sense
senses (bodily) 54, 231; and see
perception, sense-perception
separate substance, see substance, separate
Shi‘ism 29, 39, 45
signification 134–5, 206–8, 271, 284,
335, 340–3, 371–2, 34–6, 382–3,
407, 413, 416–9; modus significandi
273–8, 288, 403, 484; of propositions
404, 406
similarity 126, 170–1, 176, 229, 309,
333, 374–5; and see universals,
resemblance nominalism
sin 152, 164–6, 383, 445; original 142
singular, singularity 168–70, 207, 210,
302, 346, 371–2, 434, 435; and see
individual; supposition, descent
to/ascent from singulars
sophismata (sophisms, puzzle sentences)
396, 402, *483
soul 34, 37, 43–4, 69, 71, 73, 75, 79,
84, 91, 167, 173, 270, 278, 479, 484;
basis/spark of 235; and body 257–61;
vegetative, animal and rational 71–3,
87, 226, 231, 256, 279–80; separate
(disembodied) 73, 286, *483; and see
World Soul
space, see place
species 109, 126, 250, 257, 281–4,
287–8, 296, 317–18, 321, 371, 373;
multiplication of 217–19, 332, 345
speculation see knowledge, theoretical
speculative grammar 270, 273–8, 403,
480, *484
spheres, celestial 37–8, 42, 52–3, 71–2,
83–4, 206, 216
square of opposition 126, 137–8, 414,
*484
state (habitus), see condition; state of
affairs
state of affairs 158, 201, 337, 382, 410,
413
state, see condition (habitus)
statement, see proposition
statement, see proposition
subalternation 195–6, 216–8, 296,
*484
subsistence 15, 137, 257–9, 280, 304–5
substance 15–17, 53, 69, 75, 109, 121,
508
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INDEX RERUM
129, 131, 137, 159–63, 168–70, 174,
205, 207–8, 257, 261, 274, 279–80,
297, 299, 302, 332, 339, 373–4,
379, 411, 463, 475–6, *484; separate
substances 206, 232, 282, 284, 296;
and see being; essence; huwiyya;
subsistence; tahawwi; wuj*d
supposition 207, 210, 329, 339–43, 348,
370, 402–3, 408, 411–6, 446, 475,
*484; ampliation 402, 414, *475;
descent to/ascent from singulars 412,
415–6; improper/proper 412; material
342, 412–14; personal 342, 372–3,
412–16, 439; simple 340–2, 372–3,
412–14; and see appellation;
reference
syllogisms 14, 52, 109, 152, 209, 212,
288, 382, 402, 412, 420, 479, *484;
hypothetical 14, 152; topics providing
laws for 15
syncategorematic terms (syncategoremata)
177, 402, 410, *476; and see
categorematic terms
synderesis 229
synonymy, see univocation
tahawwi (being-made-to-exist) 33
tense 21–3, 113, 274, 333, 380–1, 390,
408, 414, 420, 475
terminism 210, 403, *484; theory of the
properties of terms 177, 402, 405,
411, 484
theology, Aristotelian 230–1; as
declarative discipline 199–201; relation
to philosophy 167–8, 262, 453, 456,
459–60; requirements for degree in
193–4; as a science 194–201, 296,
432; and see negative theology
theoretical knowledge, see knowledge,
theoretical
topics, logic of 14–15, 109, 152, 157,
402
Torah 65–8, 76, 82–3, 87, 92
transcendentals 17, 295, 297–9, 301,
304, 306, 314, 321–2, 350, 357, 379,
433, 447, 467–70, *485; transcendent
principles 126, 133
translations: into arabic from Greek (via
Syriac) 30–1, 35; into Old High
German from Latin 102–3; into Latin
from Arabic 179, 188, 225–7; into
Latin from Greek 11–12, 120–1,
225–7, 453
transumption, proportionate 167–8
Trinity, doctrine of 16, 122, 129, 137,
140, 177, 196, 199–200, 243, 292,
297, 348, 350–1, 412, 432–3, 435,
461, 480; known by ancient
philosophers 172
truth 52, 54, 60, 72, 126, 128, 136, 152,
193, 201, 208, 219, 228, 232, 248,
262, 270, 283, 285, 296, 312, 314,
333–4, 337–8, 347, 350–2, 354,
433–4, 436, 467–71, 477, 485; truth-
bearers distinguished from truth-
makers 158; coherence theory of 360;
truth-conditions 270, 333, 344, 347,
351, 360, 414–5; h.&qiqah 43; theories
of truth, (in general) 205–6, 209–12,
284; correspondence theory of 352,
358, 411, 417, *485; truth of a
conditional distinguished from validity
of an argument 157; truth-values 108,
411; lack of determinate truth-value
381, 390–2; and see verification
unity 42, 301, 314, 375–6, 378, 433–4,
463, 465–8, 485
universals 43, 75, 109, 131, 135, 137, 144,
153, 156–7, 168, 172, 175, 207, 210–3,
277–8, 287–8, 302, 304–6, 314–5,
329, 332, 340, 345, 371–4, 382, 383,
413, 434, 436, 466, *485; universals
ante rem, in re, post rem 434; universals
by causality 435, 445; God knows only
universals 42, 45; mental universals
338; theories of universals,
conceptualism 109, 348–50; nominalism,
(in general) 13, 59, 139, 153, 156, 159–
63, 208, 343, 348–50, 370, 372–3, 375,
377, 383, 413, 427–30, 442–5; fictum-
theory 436–7; resemblance nominalism
163; ‘Parisian nominalism’ 437–8, 440–
1; and see IN Nominales; realism, (in
general) 159, 369, 372–3, 376–7, 383, 410,
413, 427, 430, 433, 437, 440, 442;
essential essence realism 13, 153, 352;
communio-theory 176; theory
509
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INDEX RERUM
involving ens qua ens 170–1;
indifference realism 153; ‘theological
realism’ 436–7
universities 1, 188–9, 225, 427, 429,
442; Jews denied access to 85; new
German 388; and see IN Barcelona,
Bologna, Cambridge, Cologne,
Heidelberg, Kracow, Leipzig,
Montpellier, Naples, Oxford, Padua,
Paris, Salerno, Vienna
univocity 132, 134, 297–303, 305–10,
313–6, 318–22, 345, 368, 377–81,
433
validity 157, 348, 412
verification 213, 219, 283; and see truth
vernacular (languages), see language,
vernacular languages and philosophy
virtue 59–60, 155, 164–6, 297;
theological virtues, 229, 261
vision 393; beatific 19, 305, 387, *476;
to reveal future 88; internal 73, 76;
supernatural 70
vunke, see soul, basis/spark of
warrant 196, 261, 341
whole, see part and whole
will 91, 215, 253–4, 259–61, 296–7,
310–11, 471; distinguished from
consent 165–6; free will 12, 88, 91,
112, 152, 154, 253, 256, 285, 458;
and see God, will of
wisdom 126, 189–90, 193, 196, 310;
and see God, wisdom of
World Soul 24, 35, 127, 172, *485;
and see soul
wuju-d (substance, existence) 43
510